“If you cannot, I must not see you again. I know myself, and I know you. I cannot see you without having all of you, all to the last breath of your being. I know that would be your destruction and mine, it’s not natural, it would make you hate me at the last. It can’t be, it mustn’t be. I could not go through again what I went through this afternoon, without bringing that destruction upon you and upon myself. There are limits—I know my own. If I once saw you again I couldn’t stop myself. I should go with the tide and carry you with me. It mustn’t be, I love you too much, but it is hard. I daren’t stay within reach of you.
“If I do not have a word from you by 11 o’clock on Saturday morning, I leave for Singapore by the P. and O. steamship Rangoon. She touches at Malta, Brindisi, and Port Said. She will be at the last place on the 17th. In the enclosed paper are addresses which will find me. A word from you will bring me from the end of the world.
“My darling, have pity on me. You are so young, and the world is very big and beautiful, and time very merciful. Can’t you come to me? If you love me, think of yourself, think of everything it must mean to you.
“Send me a word of hope! Tell me to wait. I love you so. The world is empty without you, the sun has no light, and there is no air....”
The letter ended abruptly with those words. He made a fair copy of it, and read it through. While writing it he had had a certain feeling of satisfaction. He was at any rate doing something. But now, reading it, he thought “It is cold: It will never move her.”
He sealed and addressed it, and as he did so he felt a great disgust with it and with himself. He stood with one foot on the grate holding it in his hand. The dying fire glowed with a sombre redness. He dropped the letter suddenly on the table with a groan, bent his forehead against the mantelpiece, and stared into the grate. Let it go! He could do no more. He looked at his watch, it was already ten o’clock. He felt very cold. There was still some brandy left and he drank it. With sudden energy he undressed, and got into bed. He thought, “I’ll be done with it all; I’ll get away to the East, there’s always something going on there. Lots to see and do.” He had a momentary glow in his heart; then he thought: “Without her! O God! Without her! It’s all empty!” And he turned his face to the wall.
. . . . . . . .
The next morning he sent Jacopo with his letter, telling him to give it into Miss Ley’s own hands, and knowing that he would be obeyed. The boy came back about noon.
“What did she say?” Giles asked.
“She thanked me, Signore.”