She did not, indeed, doubt that the letter
was from her father's hand; for every line and stroke, and even many of
its phrases, were familiar to her. Her apprehension was, that his
misfortunes, of what nature soever they were, had affected his intellect,
and that, under such an influence, he had commanded her to take a step
which nothing less than such a command could justify. Ellen did not,
however, remain long in this opinion; for when she reperused the letter,
and considered the firm, regular characters, and the style,--calm and
cold, even in requesting such a sacrifice,--she felt that there was
nothing like insanity here. In fine, she came gradually to the belief that
there were strong reasons, though incomprehensible by her, for the secrecy
that her father had enjoined.
Having arrived at this conviction, her decision lay plain before her. Her
affection for Mr. Langton was not, indeed,--nor was it possible,--so
strong as that she would have felt for a parent who had watched over her
from her infancy. Neither was the conception she had unavoidably formed of
his character such as to promise that in him she would find an equivalent
for all she must sacrifice. On the contrary, her gentle nature and loving
heart, which otherwise would have rejoiced in a new object of affection,
now shrank with something like dread from the idea of meeting her father,
--stately, cold, and stern as she could not but imagine him.
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