‘Revenge may have her own;

Roused discipline aloud proclaims their cause,

And injured navies urge their broken laws.’

BYRON.

Margaret began to wonder whether all offers were as unexpected beforehand — as distressing¹ at the time of their occurrence, as the two she had had. An involuntary comparison between Mr. Lennox and Mr. Thornton arose in her mind. She had been sorry, that an expression of any other feeling than friendship had been lured² out by circumstances from Henry Lennox. That regret was the predominant feeling, on the first occasion of her receiving a proposal. She had not felt so stunned³ — so impressed as she did now, when echoes of Mr. Thornton’s voice yet lingered about the room. In Lennox’s case, he seemed for a moment to have slid over the boundary between friendship and love; and the instant afterwards, to regret it nearly as much as she did, although for different reasons. In Mr. Thornton’s case, as far as Margaret knew, there was no intervening stage of friendship. Their intercourse⁴ had been one continued series of opposition⁵. Their opinions clashed; and indeed, she had never perceived that he had cared for her opinions, as belonging to her, the individual. As far as they defied his rock-like power of character, his passion-strength, he seemed to throw them off from him with contempt, until she felt the weariness of the exertion⁷ of making useless protests; and now, he had come, in this strange wild passionate⁸ way, to make known his love For, although at first it had struck her, that his offer was forced and goaded⁹ out of him by sharp compassion¹⁰ for the exposure she had made of herself — which he, like others, might misunderstand — yet, even before he left the room — and certainly, not five minutes after, the clear conviction dawned upon her, shined bright upon her, that he did love her; that he had loved her; that he would love her. And she shrank and

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