I have for a while suppressed the tumult
in my soul, to give you this shocking
letter.
O my Cecilia! what a wretched lot is
thy unhappy friend's! To be neglected,
forsaken, despised, by a husband that I
love! Yet I could bear that: but to be
suspected, accused too! to be at once the
miserable object of jealousy and scorn!
Surely they know nothing of the human
heart, who say that jealousy cannot subsist
without affection; I have a fatal proof to
the contrary. Mr. Arnold loves me not,
yet doubts my honour. Cruel, mean,
detestable suspicion! Oh that vile woman!
'tis she has done this; like a persecuting
daemon, she urges on the ruin which she
set on foot.
What can I do? Whither can I fly? I
cannot remain here any longer; my presence
banishes Mr. Arnold from his home.
If I go to my mother under such circumstances,
it will break her heart; yet she
must know it. I must not wait to be
turned out of my own doors. That
thought is not to be borne. I will go this
instant, no matter whither.
