I begin, and yet that I know I
had best leave; for of what good is looking to the past now? Why vex you
or myself by reverting to it? Does not every day bring its own duty and
task, and are these not enough to occupy one? What a fright you must
have had with my little goddaughter! Thank heaven she is well now, and
restored to you. You and your husband I know do not think it essential,
but I do, most essential, and am very grateful that she was taken to
church before her illness.

"Is Mr. Pendennis proceeding with his canvass? I try and avoid a certain
subject, but it will come. You know who is canvassing against us here.
My poor uncle has met with very considerable success amongst the lower
classes. He makes them rambling speeches at which my brother and his
friends laugh, but which the people applaud. I saw him only yesterday,
on the balcony of the King's Arms, speaking to a great mob, who were
cheering vociferously below. I had met him before. He would not even
stop and give his Ethel of old days his hand. I would have given him I
don't know what, for one kiss, for one kind word; but he passed on and
would not answer me. He thinks me--what the world thinks me, worldly and
heartless; what I was. But at least, dear Laura, you know that I
always truly loved him, and do now, although he is our enemy, though he
believes and utters the most cruel things against Barnes, though he
says that Barnes Newcome, my father's son, my brother, Laura, is not
an honest man. Hard, selfish, worldly, I own my poor brother to be, and
pray Heaven to amend him; but dishonest! and to be so maligned by the
person one loves best in the world! This is a hard trial. I pray a proud
heart may be bettered by it.

"And I have seen my cousin; once at a lecture which poor Barnes gave,
and who seemed very much disturbed on perceiving Clive; once afterwards
at good old Mrs. Mason's, whom I have always continued to visit for
uncle's sake. The poor old woman, whose wits are very nearly gone, held
both our hands, and asked when we were going to be married? and laughed,
poor old thing! I cried out to her that Mr. Clive had a wife at home,
a young dear wife, I said. He gave a dreadful sort of laugh, and turned
away into the window. He looks terribly ill, pale, and oldened.

"I asked him a great deal about his wife, whom I remember a very pretty,
sweet-looking girl indeed, at my Aunt Hobson's, but with a not agreeable
mother as I thought then. He answered me