intelligibly as they do at present? I could not then have mistaken
them. Why, till now, has she seemed to regard me with that sweet
amenity which was so flattering to hope?

Perhaps, in the distraction of my thoughts, I am unjust to her. And
shall I, pretending as I do to love so pure, shall I become her
accuser? What if she meant no more than that commerce of grateful
kindness, which knits together human society, and renders it
delightful?

Yet this sudden change! So evidently intentional! The smiles too which
she bestows on the brother of Louisa, and the haughty airs of triumph
which he assumes, what can these be? Confident in himself, ardent in
his desires, unchecked by those fears which are the offspring of true
delicacy, his passions violent, and his pride almost insufferable, he
thinks he loves. But he is ignorant of the alarms, the tremors, the
'fitful fevers' of love.

I cannot endure my present torture. I must seek a desperate end to it,
by explanation. Why do I delay? Coward that I am! What worse can happen
than despair? And is not despair itself preferable to that worst of
fiends, suspense? What do I mean by despair? Would I, being rejected,
desert my duty, sink into self, and poorly linger in wretchedness; or
basely put an end to existence? Violently end that which ought to be
devoted to the good of others?--How did so infernal a thought enter my
mind?--Can I be so very lost a thing?--No!--Despair is something
confused, something horrid: I know not what. It may intrude upon me, at
black and dismal intervals; but it shall not overwhelm me. I will shake
it off. I will meet my destiny.