GRAYSMILL, October 5th.
Three several times have I begun to write to you, but I came to the
conclusion that it is better not to write at all than to give vent
to such feelings as mine. Besides, I had nothing, positively
nothing, to tell you. Furthermore, you did not deserve a letter.
However, as it is all too long since you honoured me with a
communication, Mrs. Norris, I feel I must write and remind you of my
existence. I am well, thank you, but the world's a dull place.
Grandmamma and Aunt Caroline--perhaps myself, who knows?--are in a
great state of excitement to-day because a niece of theirs is coming
here on a visit. I heard of her existence for the first time last
week, and immediately decided to invite her to Fletcher's Hall. For,
Constance, let me whisper it, the old ladies--bless their
hearts!--are killing me. This person, Ida Seymour by name, is a
spinster of some forty winters, a kind of roving, charitable star,
from what I gather, who spends her life visiting from place to place
with a trunkful of fancy work, pious books, and innocent sources of
amusement,--a fairy godmother to old ladies, pauper children, and
bazaars. My vanity has run its course, and I shall gladly yield the
place of honour to this worthy soul. May she stay long!
That is absolutely all the news I have for you, and, indeed, it is
more than you deserve; for you are about as lazy as you are sweet,
which is saying a good deal. If I don't get a letter to-morrow, I
shall be on the brink of despair. At the approach of post time, I am
nearly ill with anticipation, and afterwards fall headlong into
deepest melancholy.
Your ill-used
EMILIA.