else. I don't want to put myself in opposition
to him, and I certainly do not want to oppose her."

"They can't change their candidate in that way at a day's notice.
You would be throwing Gresham over, and, if you ask me, I think
that is a thing you have no right to do. This objection of yours is
sentimental, and there is nothing of which a man should be so much
in dread as sentimentalism. It is not your fault that you oppose
Mr. Lopez. You were in the field first, and you must go on with it."
John Fletcher, when he spoke in this way, was, at Longbarns, always
supposed to be right; and on the present occasion he, as usual,
prevailed. Then Arthur Fletcher wrote his letter to the lady. He
would not have liked to have had it known that the composition and
copying of that little note had cost him an hour. He had wished that
she should understand his feelings, and yet it was necessary that
he should address her in words that should be perfectly free from
affection or emotion. He must let her know that, though he wrote to
her, the letter was for her husband as well as for herself, and he
must do this in a manner which would not imply any fear that his
writing to her would be taken amiss. The letter when completed was at
any rate simple and true; and yet, as we know, it was taken very much
amiss.

Arthur Fletcher had by no means recovered from the blow he had
received that day when Emily had told him everything down by the
river side; but then, it must be said of him, that he had no
intention of recovery. He was as a man who, having taken a burden
on his back, declares to himself that he will, for certain reasons,
carry it throughout his life. The man knows that with the burden he
cannot walk as men walk who are unencumbered, but for those reasons
of his he has chosen to lade himself, and having done so he abandons
regret and submits to his circumstances. So had it been with him.
He would make no attempt to throw off the load. It was now far back
in his life, as much at least as three years, since he had first
assured himself of his desire to make Emily Wharton the companion
of his life. From that day she had been the pivot on which his whole
existence had moved. She had refused his offers more than once, but
had done so with so much tender kindness, that, though he had found
himself to be wounded and bruised, he had never abandoned his object.
Her father and all his own friends encouraged him. He was continually
told that