Now this was really too bad.—for him to suppose she could think of another, and to take her acceptance as a matter of course,—and such another, too, as Lord Merton: mortification lent a helping hand to vexation.
Lorraine was Merton's friend. Pray, was it that which gave such pleasant piquancy to Emily's bitter and contemptuous denial of all wish for Merton's hand or heart? Certainly he had not remembered till then, what a pity that such a sweet creature should be so utterly thrown away. The human heart is like Pandora's box—only it is hatred, not hope, that lies curled up at the bottom. It is well we are little in the habit of analysing our common and passing sensations,—we should be horror-struck at our own quantity of hate.
The next day brought a letter from Mr. Arundel,—for the first time he urged his niece's return.
"I miss," said the letter, "your light step, and your dear smile, more and more every hour. You have many days of life before you,—I but a few. I can spare you no longer, dearest Emily. You are not happy,—none of your letters breathe the buoyant spirit of your age.
