NO. XIV. THAT OTHER WORLD.
(Miss Armstrong writes with a calm heart.)
I have but a minute before I must go down to meet him. Then it will be settled. I can hear his voice now and mother's. I must be quick.
So you tested me and found me wanting in "inevitableness." I was too much clay, it seems, and "pagan." What a strange word that is! You mean I love to enjoy; and, perhaps you are right, that I need my little world. Who knows? One cannot read the whole story—even you, dear master—until we are dead. We can never tell whether I am only frivolous and sensuous, or merely a woman who takes the best substitute at hand for life. I do not protest, and I think I never shall. I, too, am very sure—now. You have pointed out the path and I shall follow it to the end.
But one must have other moments, not of regret, but of wonder. Did you have too little faith? Am I so cheap and weak? Before you read this it will all be over…. Now and then it seems I want only a dress for my back, a bit of food, rest, and your smile. But you have judged otherwise, and perhaps you are right. At any rate, I will think so. Only I know that the hours will come when I shall wish that I might lie among those little white gravestones above the beach.
CHICAGO, November, 1893.