lost its way. It lies dead in my bosom. It was the letter that lost itself
in the post while I was traveling: it comes now with half a dozen
postmarks, and signs of long waiting in one place. In it you say, "We have
been engaged now for two whole months; I never dreamed that two moons
could contain so much happiness." Nor I, dearest! We have now been
separated for three; and till now I had not dreamed that time could so
creep, to such infinitely small purpose, as it has in carrying me from the
moment when I last saw you.
You were so dear to me, Beloved; that you ever are! Time changes
nothing in you as you seemed to me then. Oh, I am sick to touch your
hands: all my thoughts run to your service: they seem to hear you call,
only to find locked doors.
If you could see me now I think you would open the door for a little
while.
If they came and told me "You are to see him just for five minutes, and
then part again" what should I be wanting most to say to you? Nothing
only "Speak, speak!" I would have you fill my heart with your voice the
whole time: five minutes more of you to fold my life round. It would
matter very little what you said, barring the one thing that remains never
to be said.
Oh, could all this silence teach me the one thing I am longing to know!
why am I unworthy of you? If I cannot be your wife, why cannot I see you
still, serve you if possible? I would be grateful.
You meant to be generous; and wishing not to wound me, you said that
"there was no fault" in me. I realize now that you would not have said
that to the woman you still loved. And now I am never to know what part
in me is hateful to you. I must live with it because you would not tell
me the truth!
Every day tells me I am different from the thing I wish to be your
love, the woman you approve.
I love you, I love you! Can I get no nearer to you ever for all this
straining? If I love you so much, I must be moving toward what you would
have me be. In our happiest days my heart had its growing pains, growing
to be as you wished it.
Dear, even the wisest make mistakes, and the tenderest may be hard
without knowing: I do not think I am unworthy of you, if you knew all.
Writing to you now seems weakness: yet it seemed peace to come in here
and cry to you. And when I go about I have still strength left, and try
to be cheerful. Nobody knows, I think nobody knows. No one in the house
is made downcast because of me. How dear they are, and how little I can
thank them! Except to you, dearest, I have not shown myself selfish.
I love you too much, too much: I cannot write it.
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