I shall be able to write as
well as other ladies do when I am Oscar's wife.
[Note.--She is easily satisfied, poor dear. Her improved handwriting is
sadly crooked. Some of the letters embrace each other at close quarters
like dear friends; and some start asunder like bitter enemies. This is
not to reflect on Lucilla--but to excuse myself, if I make any mistakes
in transcribing the Journal. Now let her go on.--P.]
Oscar's wife! when shall I be Oscar's wife? I have not so much as seen
him yet. Something--I am afraid a difficulty with his brother--still
keeps him on the Continent. The tone in which he writes continues to have
a certain reserve in it which disquiets and puzzles me. Am I quite as
happy as I expected to be when I recovered my sight? Not yet!
It is not Oscar's fault, if I am out of spirits every now and then. It is
my own fault. I have offended my father; and I sometimes fear I have not
acted justly towards Madame Pratolungo. These things vex me.
It seems to be my fate to be always misunderstood. My sudden flight from
the rectory meant no disrespect to my father. I left as I did, because I
was quite incapable of facing the woman whom I had once dearly
loved--thinking of her as I think now. It is so unendurable to feel that
your confidence is lost in a person whom you once trusted without limit,
and to go on meeting that person every hour in the day with a smooth
face, as if nothing had happened! The impulse to escape more meetings
(when I discovered that she had left the house for a walk) was
irresistible.
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