“Dearest Arthur: Sounds strange, does it not, or, perhaps, no sound escapes your lips as your eyes scan this letter. I write you; you are surprised, I know, but you should not be, for stranger things than this have happened. My reasons for writing, I say reasons because they are numerous, will be divulged either by statements from my pen or by a critical reading between the lines.
“You asked me to write, though why you should have done so is more than I am able to determine. I am sure it was not all love which prompted you to make the request. I feel that you did at one time love me. No, a man of your force of character cannot love truly and allow that love to die while the object of his devotion lives. If you ever loved, you still love. The only question that remains unanswered is, ‘Am I the only one to whom your whole heart has gone out?’ Be that as it may, I have concluded that, wise or unwise, right or wrong, the same untiring love which has inspired me to worship you, day by day and the long night through, since first we met, must live on until the words, ‘Dust to dust’ have echoed through the tall pines and rolling mounds of our Southern city of the dead, while the clods fall heavily on the rough box that contains my casket. I feel I could court even death while reveling in the sunshine of your beauteous love, and smilingly challenge the chords of life to snap and precipitate me into that unknown beyond, with the memory of your dear kisses on my cold, blue lips.
“I feel that way now, when so many leagues separate us, but I presume that should I be blessed with one smile from you, I should want to live always. I think one slight token of recognition, one little sign of memory of the old days, spreading over your features would be food and drink to me ever. But such joys do not spread themselves on my table of anticipation. I know not love. I only know what it is to love. I have hesitated about writing you as I shall before I close.
“I have wondered if by holding open the bleeding wounds of my breast, the breast you have made love to, the breast that gave life and strength to your child, while the thrills of motherhood overcame me even to tears of joy, would pain you. I have summed it all up and have concluded that nothing will pain you, so will not hesitate to show to you the every heart-beat as it forces the blood through the veins which your heartless acts have drained. Forgive me, darling, if I inflict any injury upon your feelings by any reference to the past, but then you know your short note said, ‘Do not conceal a single thought nor withhold one particle of the emotion with which your voluptuous body abounds.’ I will pour out the soul that you have penned up. I will account to you for the acts which you refer to as unladylike. I will bring to your mind new fancies, born of reflection. I will accuse you of no wrong, for you in your exalted goodness and influential position must know right from wrong. If I am wrong, God is just. If He allowed you to misjudge me, I beseech Him to prevent you from branding another woman with the same iron. While I have been writing one day has died and another been born. With the passing of the hour I have passed another milepost. I am now one year older. My birthday and my baby are the only things I can claim without dispute as to title.
“I have been to his bed, the baby’s bed, and shall I tell you—his father—how sweetly he sleeps, how my burning kisses did not startle him? You will know whether or not these lips of mine will arouse a man to his greatest efforts. You, and you alone, have tasted the sweets that I longed to lavish upon you until satiety was a far away and unknown thing.
“You said: ‘Write. I am interested in your welfare.’
“I believe you, for you fear me as the bleating lamb fears the ravenous wolf; but fear not, oh, god of mine; you are my child’s father, and for the gracious act of begetting me an image of thine own self I shall always be devoted to you.
“Oh, that I could live on and on into the ages that are only obscured by oblivion. But no. Face to face with a world, I must accept death as a charm to enduring existence. You must know, dearest, that I love you, have always loved you and shall always love you. As I sit and look into the fire which from great red flames has sunk to an ember glow, I liken it to your love; for in the manliness of your youthfulness you loved me with a passion that was all consuming. I bathed your soul in the divine worship and devotion such as only a pure woman can pour out on a man whom she extols above all others. In your letter there appears not one allusion to love. Is it possible that you do not love me? You who have held me so close while spasms of delight have shaken your stalwart frame, and the flame of passion has reddened your otherwise placid brow, while exclamations of joy poured forth from your lips between the spasmodic kisses which held my lips as in a vice. You, a man of equal parts, do not mention love; you may remain silent on that subject, but if you tell yourself that you do not love you lie, and your heart bears witness to it.
“You can love; I know you can, for I can love with a wild desire to die in your arms, and I am a student of no school but your own.