You will believe me fully, when I say that the idea of obtaining your love never entered my head--it will soothe me in my most lonely and melancholy hours to think that you considered me worthy of it. I have written this sad record somewhat roughly--I fear, too, somewhat incoherently; much that must have wearied you might have been omitted, and yet, much remains untold. Alas! you have had to learn not so much the history of my _sorrow_, as of my _disgrace_. Yes, _disgrace_--my misfortunes have been greater than my faults, yet, in justice to others, I would not have you account me blameless. I believe, if I had the courage at first to tell my mother that I never could love Lyle as I ought to do, she would not have urged me to marry him. But I was passive in her hands--indeed, I was bewildered. I cannot tell you what it has cost me to write this. While others sleep, my brain aches with conflicting emotions. I pace my room again; I take up my pen, scrawl a few lines, then erase them, and again commence my restless walk. Sometimes, overcome with hours of anxiety and unrest, I try to sleep, but my thoughts sway to and fro like a sea, and I fall into that visionary state between waking and sleeping, when the real and the imaginary are so blended together, that no effort of our own can separate them. Lo, then, I see you for a moment, standing upon a sun-lit shore, with arms outstretched towards me, then dark clouds arise between us, I strive to reach the strand; but heavy booming waves engulph and toss me to and fro, and next my husband's face looks up from the surge, and his horrible laugh awakens me. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ When I heard of his death, deploring it as I did for his sake, since I fear he had no time for repentance, I did dream that fresh hopes _might_ spring from such an event--hopes of security and peace in the bosom of my own family. Alas! having known you, I feel all the bitterness of my lot with double force. But what an apprenticeship I have served to anguish! In time I may learn to bear even your loss, and shall find consolation in the _memory_ of your regard. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ I cannot revise what I have written, though I dread lest what I have said may impress you with a sense of my inferiority. I have asked myself this question often--"Will he despise or pity me?" Both, perhaps. Your reason will induce something of contempt--but your _heart_ will teach you to pity the unfortunate Eleanor. There were many erasures in the manuscript; it was unlike the ladies' love-letters described as written in "fair Italian characters," but albeit the style was irregular, the writer's purpose was clear and decided.