LETTER LXIII.
To Mrs. Talbot.
Be not angry with me, dear Jane. Yet I am sure, when you
know my offence, you will feel a great deal of indignation.
You cannot be more angry with me than I am with myself.
I do not know how to disclose the very rash thing I have
done. If you knew my compunction, you would pity me.
Cartwright embarked on the day I mentioned, but remained
for some days wind-bound, at the Hook. Yesterday
he unexpectedly made his appearance in our apartment,
at the very moment when I was perusing your last letter.
I was really delighted to see him, and the images connected
with him, which your letter had just suggested, threw me
off my guard. Finding by whom the letter was written,
he solicited with the utmost eagerness the sight of it.
Can you forgive me? My heart overflowed with pity for
the excellent man. I knew the transport one part of your
letter would afford him. I thought that no injury but rather
happiness, would redound to yourself.
I now see that I was guilty of a most culpable breach of
confidence, in shewing him your delicate confession; but I
was bewitched, I think.
I can write of nothing else just now. Much as I dread
your displeasure, I could not rest till I had acknowledged
my fault and craved your pardon. Forgive, I beseech you,
your
