New dejection succeeded, but was
now produced by contemplating my late behavior. Surely that
passion is worthy to be abhorred which obscures our understanding
and urges us to the commission of injustice. What right had I to
expect his attendance? Had I not demeaned myself like one
indifferent to his happiness, and as having bestowed my regards
upon another? His absence might be prompted by the love which I
considered his absence as a proof that he wanted. He came not
because the sight of me, the spectacle of my coldness or aversion,
contributed to his despair. Why should I prolong, by hypocrisy or
silence, his misery as well as my own? Why not deal with him
explicitly, and assure him of the truth?
You will hardly believe that, in obedience to this suggestion, I
rose for the purpose of ordering a light, that I might instantly
make this confession in a letter. A second thought showed me the
rashness of this scheme, and I wondered by what infirmity of mind I
could be betrayed into a momentary approbation of it. I saw with
the utmost clearness that a confession like that would be the most
remediless and unpardonable outrage upon the dignity of my sex, and
utterly unworthy of that passion which controlled me.
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