How dared she defend you, and to me!
I said: “My father was above ordinary men. He knew—he could see farther than we short-sighted mortals.”
She seemed a little chidden, and I was glad. Then she asked me if I would see—him.
“I can see, poor fellow! that he had no idea of this, he seems quite overwhelmed,” she said.
The white-hot shame of that scorched me. I stood there and—oh, father!—suffered an agony, to describe which there are no words—no words!
She called him “poor fellow!” Pityingly, she said “he had no idea of that, that he was quite overwhelmed.” Oh! my shame, my shame! And I never dreamt that I was good enough for him. I had never aspired, never should have aspired to being even his friend, much less his wife. Your goodness in overrating your child has covered her with a pall—a pall of shame—under which she will lie buried till the end of time—if, indeed, there should be such a thing as the end of time—which seems absurd.
I said, “To-morrow.” I would see him to-morrow. And I begged for solitude. I have had it—utter, complete.
October —.
[“Two days later” is written in another handwriting on the margin of the page.]
For once, I must try and communicate with you, dear father, before I begin the new life you cannot blame me for living, for you willed it so.