March 3, 1837.
With what sickening fear I opened your letter!
I was sure it contained some dreadful news.
You have decided not to come till Wednesday, because
your cousin Tom can accompany you on that day.
I know you are quite right. It is so much
better, as you are not strong, that Tom should look
after you, and it would be absurd that you should make
the journey two days before him. I should have
reproved you seriously if you had done anything so
foolish. But those two days are hard to bear.
I shall not meet you at the coach, nor shall I be downstairs.
Go straight to the library; I shall be there by myself.
January 1, 1838.—Three days ago she died.
Henceforth there is no living creature to whom my
existence is of any real importance. Crippled
as she was, she could never have married. I might
have held her as long as she lived. She could
have expected no love but mine. God forgive me!
Perhaps I did unconsciously rejoice in that disabled
limb because it kept her closer to me. Now He
has taken her from me. I may have been wicked,
but has He no mercy? “I would speak to
the Almighty, and I desire to reason with God.”
An answer in anger could better be borne than this
impregnable silence.
January 3rd.—A day of snow and bitter wind.
There were very few at the grave, and I should have
been better pleased if there had been none. What
claim had they to be there? I have come home
alone, and they no doubt are comforting themselves
with the reflection that it is all over except the
half-mourning. Her death makes me hate them.
Mr. Maxwell, our rector, told me when my child was
ill to remember that I had no right to her.
“Right!” what did he mean by that stupid
word? How trouble tries words! All I can
say is that from her birth I had owned her, and that
now, when I want her most, I am dispossessed.
“Self, self”—I know the reply,
but it is unjust, for I would have stood up cheerfully
to be shot if I could have saved her pain. Doubly
unjust, for my passion for her was a blessing to her
as well as to me.
January 6th.—Henceforth I suppose I shall
have to play with people, to pretend to take an interest
in their clothes and their parties, or, with the superior
sort, to discuss politics or books. I care nothing
for their rags or their gossip, for Lord Melbourne,
Sir Robert Peel, or Mr. James Montgomery. I
must learn how to take the tip of a finger instead
of a hand, and to accept with gratitude comfits when
I hunger for bread--I, who have known—but
I dare say nothing even to myself of my hours with
him—I, who have heard Sophy cry out in the
night for me; I, who have held her hand and have prayed
by her bedside.
