wholly to blame,
wholly in the wrong. I am no actress but I have been acting a
part--the part of a happy woman. My effort has deceived many--Papa,
Mamma, and, I believe, you among them. Dear Beauclerk, you will
think me ungrateful, false, weak. I don't excuse myself. As I have
said, the blame is all mine, and the punishment must be all mine.

When you receive this I shall have left England with Mr. Rennes. He
had arranged to go to the East for a long time. (This will show you
how little he anticipated any change in _my_ plans.) When I
realised that I should have to say goodbye to him, probably for
ever, I found myself unequal to the trial. I could not let him go
alone. It is bad for me to dwell too much on my feelings. I ought
to admit, however, that I have known all along, in a sort of way,
that I should have to give in _if he put the matter before me_. I
dislike the talk one hears so often about inevitability--much of it
is made an excuse for appalling selfishness. At the same time, I
understand what is meant and feel strongly, that, while I am using
my own will--I cannot use it, _with a good conscience_, otherwise.
Can you follow this? In reality, I was disloyal to Mr. Rennes when
I became engaged to you. I was impatient, wilful, blind. I did you
both an irreparable--yes, an irreparable injustice. He must always
think me fickle, and you will always condemn my weakness. I dare
not ask you to forgive me. I dare not hope for contentment after
such a bad beginning. One of Papa's favourite texts rings in my
ears--"_Is it a small thing for you to weary men, but will ye weary
my God also?_" I mustn't be insincere with God. But I do want you
to see that my affection for Mr. Rennes has taken such a hold of my
life that I simply cannot fight against it. I am not sentimental,
as you know: I can be quite as sensible as other people about life
and its obligations. I don't expect romance or joy. Had I, by any
misfortune, met Mr. Rennes _after_ my marriage with you, I cannot
bear to think what might have happened. It isn't nice of me to say
this. It is a painful, humiliating reflection, and you won't like
to think that you ever cared--even a little--for any one so
unworthy. In your kindness you will say that this isn't like me.
But indeed it is the real me. Yo