Through the day, and through the night, I feel a misery that never leaves me--I mean the misery of fear.
I am trying to find out some harmless means of employing myself, which will keep evil remembrances from me. If I don't succeed, my fears tell me what will happen. I shall be in danger of going mad.
I dare not confide in any living creature. I don't know what other persons might think of me, or how soon I might find myself perhaps in an asylum. In this helpless condition, doubt and fright seem to be driving me back to my journal. I wonder whether I shall find harmless employment here.
I have heard of old people losing their memories. What would I not give to be old! I remember, oh, how I remember! One day after another I see Philip, I see Helena, as I first saw them when I was among the trees in the park. My sweetheart's arms, that once held me, hold my sister now. She kisses him, kisses him, kisses him.
Is there no way of making myself see something else? I want to get back to remembrances that do not burn in my head, and tear at my heart. How is this to be done?
I have tried books--no! I have tried going out to look at the shops--no! I have tried saying my prayers-- no! And now I am making my last effort--trying my pen. My black letters fall from it and take their places on the white paper. Will my black letters help me? Where can I find something consoling to write down? Where? Where?
Selina--poor Selina, so fond of me, so sorry for me. When I was happy she was happy, too. It was always amusing to hear her talk. Oh, my memory, be good to me! Save me from Philip and Helena. I want to remember the pleasant days when my little friend and, I used to gossip in the garden.
No; the days in the garden won't come back. What else can I think of?
. . . . . . . . .