Pecuniary remuneration is offered to me--with the want of
feeling peculiar to the rich. I am to re-open wounds that Time
has barely closed; I am to recall the most intensely painful
remembrances--and this done, I am to feel myself compensated by a new
laceration, in the shape of Mr. Blake's cheque. My nature is weak. It
cost me a hard struggle, before Christian humility conquered sinful
pride, and self-denial accepted the cheque.
Without my diary, I doubt--pray let me express it in the grossest
terms!--if I could have honestly earned my money. With my diary, the
poor labourer (who forgives Mr. Blake for insulting her) is worthy
of her hire. Nothing escaped me at the time I was visiting dear Aunt
Verinder. Everything was entered (thanks to my early training) day by
day as it happened; and everything down to the smallest particular,
shall be told here. My sacred regard for truth is (thank God) far above
my respect for persons. It will be easy for Mr. Blake to suppress what
may not prove to be sufficiently flattering in these pages to the person
chiefly concerned in them. He has purchased my time, but not even HIS
wealth can purchase my conscience too.
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