"Entreat Lady Harry not to write to me. She will be tempted to do so,
when she hears that there is good hope of Mr. Mountjoy's recovery. But,
even from that loving and generous heart, I must not accept expressions
of gratitude which would only embarrass me. All that I have done, as a
nurse, and all that I may yet hope to do, is no more than an effort to
make amends for my past life. Iris has my heart's truest wishes for her
happiness. Until I can myself write to her without danger, let this be
enough."
In those terms, dearest of women, your friend has sent your message to
me. My love respects as well as admires you; your wishes are commands
to me. At the same time, I may find some relief from the fears of the
future that oppress me, if I can confide them to friendly ears. May I
not harmlessly write to you, if I only write of my own poor self?
Try, dear, to remember those pleasant days when you were staying with
us, in our honeymoon time, at Paris.
You warned me, one evening when we were alone, to be on my guard
against any circumstances which might excite my husband's jealousy.
Since then, the trouble that you foresaw has fallen on me; mainly, I am
afraid, through my own want of self-control. It is so hard for a woman,
when she really loves a man, to understand a state of mind which can
make him doubt her.
I have discovered that jealousy varies. Let me tell you what I mean.
Lord Harry was silent and sullen (ah, how well I knew what that meant!)
while the life of our poor Hugh was in jeopardy. When I read the good
news which told me that he was no longer in danger, I don't know
whether there was any change worth remarking in myself--but, there was
a change in my husband, delightful to see. His face showed such sweet
sympathy when he looked at me, he spoke so kindly and nicely of Hugh,
that I could only express my pleasure by kissing him. You will hardly
believe me, when I tell you that his hateful jealousy appeared again,
at that moment. He looked surprised, he looked suspicious--he looked, I
declare, as if he doubted whether I meant it with all my heart when I
kissed him! What incomprehensible creatures men are! We read in novels
of women who are able to manage their masters. I wish I knew how to
manage mine.
We have been getting into debt. For some weeks past, this sad state of
things has been a burden on my mind. Day after day I have been
expecting him to speak of our situation, and have found him obstinately
silent. Is his mind entirely occupied with other things? Or is he
unwilling to speak of our anxieties because the subject humiliates him?
Yesterday, I could bear it no longer.