ake me with you, when I wanted so much to
go. I know that, after what happened, you and your mother think you were
fully justified in what you did; but, Richard, you are mistaken. The
very means you took to avert a catastrophe hastened it instead. The
cruel disappointment and terrible homesickness which I endured hastened
our baby's birth, and cost its little life. Had it lived, Richard, I
should have been a better woman from what I am now. It would have been
something for me to love, and oh, my heart did ache so for an object on
which to fasten. I did not love you when I became your wife, but I was
learning to do so. When you came home from Washington I was so glad to
see you, and I used to listen for your step when you went to Olney and
it was time for you to return. Just in proportion as I was drawn toward
you, Frank fell in my estimation, and I wanted to tell you all about it,
and begin anew. I was going to do so in that letter commenced the night
I was taken so ill, and two or three times afterwards I thought I would
do it. Do you remember that night of our return from St. Paul? I found a
letter from Aunt Van Buren, and asked if you would like to hear it. You
seemed so indifferent and amost cross about it, that the good angel left
me, and your chance was lost again. There was something in that letter
about Frank and me--something which would have called forth questions
from you, and I meant to explain if you would let me. Think, Richard.
You will remember the night. You lay upon the sofa, and I sat down
beside you, and smoothed your hair. I was nearer to loving you then than
I ever was before; but you put me off, and the impulse did not come
again--that is, the impulse of confession. A little more consideration
on your part for what you call my airs and high notions would have won
me to you, for I am not insensible to your many sterling virtues, and I
do believe that you did love me once. But all that is over now. I made a
great mistake when I came to you, and perhaps I am making a greater one
in going from you. But I think not. We are better apart, especially
after the indignities of last night. Where I am going it does not
matter to you. Pursuit will be useless, inasmuch as I shall have the
start of a week. Neither do I think you will search for me much. You
will he happier without me, and it is better that I should go. You will
give the accompanying note to Andy. Dear Andy, my heart aches to its
very core when I t