THE LETTER
“Paul—for I think I may call you so now—I know not how to answer you. Your letter gave me great joy; but it gave me pain, too. I can not—will not doubt what you say; I believe that you love me better than I deserve to be loved, and I know that I am not worthy of all your kind praises. But it is not this that pains me; for I know that you have a generous heart, and would forgive, as you always have forgiven, any weakness of mine. I am proud, too, very proud, to have won your love; but it pains me—more, perhaps, than you will believe—to think that I can not write back to you as I would wish to write—alas, never.”
Here I dash the letter upon the floor, and with my hand upon my forehead sit gazing upon the glowing coals, and breathing quick and loud. The dream, then, is broken!
Presently I read again:
—“You know that my father died before we had ever met. He had an old friend, who had come from England, and who in early life had done him some great service which made him seem like a brother. This old gentleman was my god-father, and called me daughter. When my father died he drew me to his side and said: ‘Carry, I shall leave you, but my old friend will be your father,’ and he put my hand in his and said: ‘I give you my daughter.’
“This old gentleman had a son, older than myself; but we were much together, and grew up as brother and sister. I was proud of him, for he was tall and strong, and every one called him handsome. He was as kind, too, as a brother could be, and his father was like my own father. Every one said, and believed, that we would one day be married, and my mother and my new father spoke of it openly. So did Laurence, for that is my friend’s name.
“I do not need to tell you any more, Paul; for when I was still a girl we had promised that we would one day be man and wife. Laurence has been much in England, and I believe he is there now. The old gentleman treats me still as a daughter, and talks of the time when I shall come and live with him. The letters of Laurence are very kind, and though he does not talk so much of our marriage as he did, it is only, I think, because he regards it as so certain.
“I have wished to tell you all this before, but I have feared to tell you; I am afraid I have been too selfish to tell you. And now, what can I say? Laurence seems most to me like a brother—and you, Paul—but I must not go on. For if I marry Laurence, as fate seems to have decided, I will try and love him better than all the world.