It was perhaps some relief—as of one who faces the worst—to note in her diary each fresh incoming wave of sorrowful thought.
‘1882, August 6, Sunday. At church. A nice sermon on the parable of the Unjust Steward. Talk of Newman’s books. J. said A. had some. I, thinking of J. H. N., asked to borrow. [The book] proved to be by the brother, F. Newman.
‘Monday, August 7. Read some [of F. Newman’s book]. Pitied him much.
‘Tuesday, August 8. 6 A.M.-8, read more. Miserable. After breakfast walked alone. No letter. Could not go to dinner. Terrible neuralgia. Wept nearly all day.
‘Wednesday, August 9. Awake at 4 A.M. Not up to breakfast. Decided must write [my resignation]. All is dark. “Such clouds of nameless sorrow cross, All night before my darkened eyes.” The light has gone out of the heavens. Why [does] God leave us without one word, His children orphans? Can He have left us to delusions? Tears are my meat day and night. I cannot live an untrue life. If Jesus be what I once believed Him, He would not wish it. “Every one that is of the truth heareth My Voice.” Tried to pray harder. Woke [as] in a dreary pine forest with beautiful ferns. Felt there must be a presence behind them. Then the trouble revived once more.
‘Thursday, August 10. Wrote my resignation. May my children never know this sorrow. Christian teaching spiritualised, as I have seen it, is the holiest and purest. Their souls need not be orphaned as mine. [I] cannot stay [with them]. I could not play the hypocrite, I should hate myself. Without Christ, I should not be what I was. If I could attempt to go on, which I could not for a moment contemplate since it is untrue, think if I were found out, the moral blow for my children. They would think I had been false when teaching them my deepest faith,—the joy of my life,—that which made all the suffering bearable, and all gladness double, the love of Christ Jesus my Lord, for whom I would suffer the loss of all things if I might win Christ and be found in Him.
‘O Lord, Thou hast deceived me, and I was deceived.’
The immediate sequel to the story of these few days was told in a letter to a friend:—
‘August 1882.