October 12.—
How the scene is changed,
my Sister! What a melancholy reverse
is here, to my late prospect of domestic
happiness! I pass my nights in tears and
bitter reflections on my dismal situation.
My days are spent in a painful constraint,
to conceal the anguish of my own heart,
that I may not aggravate that of my poor
mother. My endeavours to be chearful,
I perceive, have a good effect on her: she
is much more composed, and seems resigned
to our fate, patiently waiting for a
change. I think too she is rather better
in her health; she has had the advice of
a physician of eminent skill; the medicines
prescribed, he gives us hopes, will
keep her disorder at least from gaining
ground; and that she may hold out for
some years.
I have prevailed on her not to give Sir
George an account of my unhappy story,
till I hear that Mr. Faulkland has left
him; because I know my brother would
conceal nothing from him; and, if possible,
I would have Mr. Arnold's suspicions
of Him concealed. I have many
reasons for this; my own delicacy would
receive a wound by it; for who knows
what judgment Mr. Faulkland might
form on this knowledge? But my most
material objection is, should he attempt
to vindicate his own honour, what might
be the consequence! I shudder to think
of it. I know Mr. Faulkland is rash,
when provoked. Rather let my sufferings
and my disgrace lie wrapped in oblivion,
than bring any disaster on the father
of my children.
