Volume 2 — CHAPTER IX
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A letter from the country made it necessary for me, again, to address Mr Harley, to make some enquiries which respected business of his mother's. It may be, that I felt a mixture of other motives;—it is certain, that when I wrote, I spoke of more than business.
'I had hoped,' I told him, 'ere this, to have received the promised letter—Yet, I do not take up my pen,' said I, 'either to complain of, or to importune, you. If I have already expressed myself with bitterness, let the harrassed state of my mind be my excuse. My own conduct has been too erroneous, too eccentric, to enable me to judge impartially of your's. Forgive me, if by placing you in an embarrassing situation, I have exposed you to consequent mistake or uneasiness. I feel, that whatever errors we may either of us have committed, originated only with myself, and I am content to suffer all the consequences. It is true, had you reposed in me an early, generous, confidence, much misery would have been avoided—I had not been wounded
"There, where the human heart most exquisitely feels!"
'You had been still my friend, and I had been comparatively happy. Every passion is, in a great measure, the growth of indulgence: all our desires are, in their commencement, easily suppressed, when there appears no probability of attaining their object; but when strengthened, by time and reflection, into habit, in endeavouring to eradicate them, we tear away part of the mind. In my attachments there is a kind of savage tenacity—they are of an elastic nature, and, being forced back, return with additional violence.
'I seek not to extenuate any part of my conduct—I confess that it has been wild, extravagant, romantic—I confess, that, even for your errors, I am justly blameable—and yet I am unable to bear, because I feel they would be unjust, your hatred and contempt. I cherish no resentment—my spirit is subdued and broken—your unkindness sinks into my soul.
'Emma.'