VII
He got the box, and opened it.
Inside was a long envelope, and written on that were the words:
“To be opened by my husband only after my death.”
That time had come!
Within the envelope was a letter. It was dated on the day of his return from his western trip, a few months before. He read:
“Dick, I love you!
“Does it seem strange to you that I should write it down?
“Listen, Dickie dear—I had to write it! I couldn't tell you when I was alive—but I just had to tell you, too. And now that I am dead, what I say will come to you with all of its sweetness increased; and all of its bitterness left out! It will, now that I am dead—or if you die first, you will never see this. This is from beyond the grave to you, Dickie dear, to make all your life good to you afterwards!
“Now, listen, dear, and don't be hard on me.
“When I married you, Dickie, I didn't love you! You were wild about me. But I only liked you very much. It wasn't really love. It wasn't what you deserved. But I was only a girl, and you were the first man, and I didn't know things; I didn't know what I should have felt.
“Later, when I realized how very much you cared, I was ashamed of myself. I grew to see that I had done wrong in marrying you. Wrong to both of us. For no woman should marry a man she doesn't love. And I was ashamed, and worried about it. You were so good to me! So sweet—and you never suspected that I didn't care like I should. And because you were so good and sweet to me, I felt worse. And I made up my mind you should never know! That I would be everything to you any woman could be. I tried to be a good wife. Wasn't I, Dickie, even then?
“But I prayed and prayed and prayed. 'O God,' I used to say, 'let me love him like he loves me!' It was five years, Dickie, and I liked you more, and admired you more, and saw more in you that was worth while, every week; but still, no miracle happened.
“And then one morning a miracle did happen!
“It was when you were on that trip West. I had gone to bed thinking how kind and dear you were. I missed you, Dickie dear, and needed you. And when I woke up, there was a change over the world. I felt so different, somehow. It had come! Wasn't it wonderful, Dickie?—it had come! And I sang all that day for joy. I could hardly wait for you to come home so that I could tell you. I loved you, loved you, loved you, Dickie, as you deserved! My prayers had been answered, somehow—or maybe it was what any woman would do just living near you and being with you.
“And then I saw I couldn't tell you, after all!
“For if I told you I loved you now, that would be to tell you that for five years I hadn't loved you, Dickie!
“And how would that make you feel? Wouldn't that have been like a knife, Dickie?
“Oh, I wanted you to know! How I wanted you to know! But, you see, I couldn't tell you, could I, dear, without telling the other, too? I just had to save you from that! And I just had to make you feel it, somehow or other. And I will make you feel it, Dickie!
“But I can't tell you. Who knows what ideas you might get into your head about those five years, if I told you now? Men are so queer, and they can be so stupid sometimes! And I can't bear to think of losing one smallest bit of your love... not now! It would kill me!
“But I want you to know, sometime. And so I'm writing you—it's my first love letter—the first real one, Dickie. If you die first, I'll tell you in Heaven. And if I die first, you'll understand!
“Agnes.”