"A slight! but there can be no such thing as a slight between those who love perfectly—as we do. Are we not all in all to each other? Is not our happiness indivisible?"
"It is my pride and joy to believe so, my sweet Emily. I know in my own heart that the needle is not more true to the magnet than my thoughts and feelings are to you. It shall be the chief care of my life to save you from all uneasiness; but, Emily, I expect the same devotion I give: unkindness from you, of all the world, I could not and would not endure."
"Oh, Philip, Philip!" she said, half tenderly, half reproachfully, "why should you say this? I do not doubt you, dear Philip, for I judge your love by my own."
He looked into the truthful and affectionate eyes which were raised so trustingly to his face, and replied, in a voice tremulous with emotion, "Forgive me, Emily. I trust you entirely; but I had started an idea, the barest contemplation of which was insupportable—maddening, because of the very excess of my affection. In short, Emily, I know—that is, I suspect—your father looked for a higher match for you than I am. Report says that his prejudices are strong in favor of birth, and that he is very proud of his ancient blood; and the idea did cross me for a moment, that when you were with him he might influence you to despise me."
"My father is proud; but, dear Philip, is nobody proud but he? And notwithstanding his prejudices, as you call them, I can assure you, you are not more honorable yourself in every act and thought than he is. He has consented to our marriage, and therefore you need not fear him, even if you cannot trust me alone."
"Oh, Emily, pardon me! And so you think me proud. Well, perhaps I am; and it is better that you should know it, as you will bear with it, I know, for my sake, my best, my truest Emily; and I shall repay your goodness with the most fervent gratitude. Yes, I feel with you that no cloud can ever come between us two."
Emily Sherwood was the eldest daughter of Colonel Sherwood, a cadet of one of the proudest families in England; and which, though it had never been adorned with a title, looked down with something like contempt on the abundant growth of mushroom nobility which had sprung up around it, long after it had already obtained the dignity which, in the opinion of the Sherwoods, generations alone could bestow. Colonel Sherwood inherited all the pride of his race—nay, in him it had been increased by poverty; for poverty, except in minds of the highest class—that rare class who estimate justly the true value of human life, and the true nature of human dignity—is generally allied either with pride or meanness. Of course when I speak of poverty I mean comparative poverty—I allude to those who are poorer than their station. In a retired part of one of the eastern counties, Colonel Sherwood struggled upon his half-pay to support a wife and seven children, and as far as possible to keep up the appearance he considered due to his birth and rank in society. Emily had been for two seasons the belle of the country balls; and the admiration her beauty and manners had everywhere excited, had created in the hearts of her parents a hope that she was destined to form an alliance calculated to shed a lustre on the fading glory of the Sherwoods. But, alas! as Burns sings—
"The best laid schemes of mice and men
Gang aft ajee."
During a visit to some relatives in London, Emily became acquainted with Philip Hayforth; and his agreeable manners and person, his intelligent conversation and devotion to herself, had quickly made an impression upon feelings which, though susceptible, were fastidious, and therefore still untouched. Then, too, the romantic ardor with which his attachment was expressed, the enthusiasm he manifested for whatever was great, good, or beautiful, aroused in Emily all the latent poetry of her nature. Naturally imaginative, and full even of passionate tenderness, but diffident and sensitive, she had hitherto, from an instinctive consciousness that they would be misunderstood or disapproved, studiously concealed her deeper feelings. Hence had been generated in her character a degree of thoughtfulness and reserve unusual in one of her years. Now, however, that she beheld the ideas and aspirations she had so long deemed singular, perhaps reprehensible, shadowed forth more powerfully and definitely by a mind more mature and a spirit more daring than her own, her heart responded to its more vigorous counterpart; and at the magic touch of sympathy, the long pent-up waters flowed freely. She loved, was beloved, and asked no more of destiny. It was not, it may be supposed, without some reluctance that Colonel Sherwood consented to the demolition of the aerial castles of which his beautiful Emily had so long been the subject and the tenant, and made up his mind to see her the wife of a man who, though of respectable parentage, could boast neither title nor pedigree, and was only the junior partner in a mercantile firm. But then young Hayforth bore the most honorable character; his prospects were said to be good, and his manners unexceptionable; and, above all, Emily was evidently much attached to him; and remembering the days of his own early love, the father's heart of the aristocratic old colonel was fairly melted, and he consented to receive the young merchant as his son-in-law. The marriage, however, was not to take place till the spring of the following year. Meanwhile the lovers agreed to solace the period of their separation by long and frequent letters. Philip's last words to Emily, as he handed her into the postchaise in which she was to commence her homeward journey, were, "Now write to me very often, my own dearest Emily, for I shall never be happy but when hearing from you or writing to you; and if you are long answering my letters, I shall be miserable, and perhaps jealous." She could only answer by a mute sign, and the carriage drove away. Poor, agitated Emily, half happy, half sad, leaned back in it, and indulged in that feminine luxury—a hearty fit of tears. As for Philip, he took a few turns in the park, walking as if for a wager, and feeling sensible of a sort of coldness and dreariness about every object which he had never remarked before. Then he suddenly recollected that he must go to the counting-house, as he was "very busy." He did not, however, make much progress with his business that day, as somehow or other he fell into a reverie over every thing he attempted.
Nothing could exceed the regularity of the lovers' correspondence for the first two or three months, while their letters were written on the largest orthodox sheets to be had from the stationer's—post-office regulations in those days not admitting of the volumes of little notes now so much in vogue. At last Emily bethought herself of working a purse for Philip, in acknowledgment of a locket he had lately sent her from London. Generally speaking, Emily was not very fond of work; but somehow or other no occupation, not even the perusal of a favorite poem or novel, had ever afforded her half the pleasure that she derived from the manufacture of this purse. Each stitch she netted, each bead she strung, was a new source of delight—for she was working for Philip. Love is the true magic of life, effecting more strange metamorphoses than ever did the spells of Archimago, or the arts of Armida—the moral alchemy which can transmute the basest things into the most precious. It is true of all circumstances, as well as of personal qualities, that