Young Writers Society

Miss ______,

I know that from you of all people, I deserve no good will. In this incident, I have wronged many, yet no one more so than you. Over the past few months I have done all I can to repent, I have asked for forgiveness, and received it from all—except from one who’s pardon I wish for more than any one else’s. I know that it is wrong for me to say this, and perhaps it will add more to your bad feelings towards me, but what care I for the forgiveness of others? If I do not have yours— all is naught.

Yes, you will hate me for what I have written above. Contrary to the two-faced coward you have known me to be, I have resolved to be completely honest with you. It is not an excuse for what I have done, but truth can be as painful to the one who speaks as to the one who listens. In the past I have lied because the truth was too much to bear, but here, in this letter, I give relief to my own feelings and will tell you the truth, and I am afraid only because I know it will pain you to read it.

In September, I made efforts to acquaint myself with you not because (as you now know) your aunt wanted us to marry. It was an effort on my part to be acquainted with another young lady—an heiress. It was through you that Anna and I were introduced. I courted her in a majestic way, doing all to make her love me—assuring her that I loved her. You knew nothing of this because I wooed quietly, assuring myself of the conquest without her mother advising her against me. At the same time, you and I became good friends. Believe me, I beg of you. To everyone I have been false, but towards you, always, always true.

No laughter issued from my lips when I was with you was false; no smile tempted by your ways was rehearsed. That night, when you had told me—when you gave me your heart—I did not walk away from you because I did not love you. I walked away because I could never deserve you.

My pretense at wooing Anna ended before Christmas. His father will not have her marry an impoverished and worthless man. I thought that I would be devastated at finding myself hopelessly poor but dropping the act was such a relief for me that I had forgotten about my accounts. Anna and all her family has forgiven me. They only forgive because I had not done any irreparable damage to Anna. She did not love me. If she had loved me—I would have ruined a good girl.

But, as I have said at the beginning of my letter, and it will mark me indelibly as a selfish, heartless man, I care nothing for their forgiveness. Yes, I am glad, relieved by my conscience that I had not hurt Anna tremendously but I had hurt you tremendously. I have been forgiven for scratches that leave no mark on their skin; I know I will never be forgiven for the wounds that have left scars upon yours.

Though I desire it above all, I cannot and will not ask you to forgive me. But, if I may, I do ask this of you: please, have a little faith in me. I deserve none of it and all my life I will toil to deserve your forgiveness, your good will, your smile, and may I hope? Your heart. But now I ask you to simply believe in me. It is your faith in me that gives me faith in myself. Without your trust, I cannot trust myself. It is too much, I know, to ask you to put your faith and trust in a fraud, but I beg you, have a little faith in me.

M. N.