its destination: it was lost--a rare occurrence
certainly, but, as most of us are aware from our own experience, not
unknown. And now began with Philip Hayforth the same agony which Emily
was enduring--nay, a greater agony; for there was not only the same
disappointed affection, the same heart-sickness, the same weary
expectation, but there was the stronger suffering of a more passionate
and less disciplined temper; and, above all, there was the incessant
struggle between pride and love--the same fearful strife which, we are
told, once made war in Heaven.

Sometimes he thought that Emily might be ill; but then that did not seem
likely, as her health was generally good; and she was, when she had last
written, perfectly well, and apparently in excellent spirits. Should he
write to her again? No, she owed him a letter, and if she loved him,
would doubtless answer it as soon as circumstances would permit; and he
'would let that haughty old aristocrat, her father, see that Philip
Hayforth, the merchant, had more of the spirit of a man in him than to
cringe to the proudest blood in England. And as for Emily, she was his
betrothed bride--the same as his wife; and if he was not more to her
than any father on earth, she was unworthy of the love he had given her.
Let her only be true to him, and he was ready to devote his life to
her--to die for her.' As the time wore slowly away, he became more and
more exasperated, fevered, wretched. Sometimes it seemed to him that he
could no longer endure such torment; that life itself was a burthen too
intolerable to be borne. But here pride came to the aid of a better
principle. His cheek tinged at the thought of being spoken of as the
slighted lover, and his blood boiled at the bare idea of Colonel
Sherwood's contemptuous pity for the vain plebeian who had dared to
raise his thoughts to an alliance with his beautiful, high-born
daughter. He 'would show the world that he was no love-sick, despairing
swain; and Miss Sherwood's vanity should never be gratified by the
display of the wounds her falsehood had inflicted. He would very soon,
he knew, forget the fair coquette who had trampled thus upon his most
sacred feelings.' So he tried to persuade himself, but his heart misgave
him. No: he could not forget her--it was in vain to attempt it; but the
more his feelings acknowledged her power, even the more the pride she
had wounded in its tenderest point rose up in wrath against her; and he
chaf