Note.—All the letters which follow were found lying loosely together. They only went to their destination after the writer's death.
LETTER LX.
To-day, dearest, a letter from you reached me: a fallen star which had lost its way. It lies dead in my bosom. It was the letter that lost itself in the post while I was traveling: it comes now with half a dozen postmarks, and signs of long waiting in one place. In it you say, "We have been engaged now for two whole months; I never dreamed that two moons could contain so much happiness." Nor I, dearest! We have now been separated for three; and till now I had not dreamed that time could so creep, to such infinitely small purpose, as it has in carrying me from the moment when I last saw you.
You were so dear to me, Beloved; that you ever are! Time changes nothing in you as you seemed to me then. Oh, I am sick to touch your hands: all my thoughts run to your service: they seem to hear you call, only to find locked doors.
If you could see me now I think you would open the door for a little while.
If they came and told me—"You are to see him just for five minutes, and then part again"—what should I be wanting most to say to you? Nothing—only "Speak, speak!" I would have you fill my heart with your voice the whole time: five minutes more of you to fold my life round. It would matter very little what you said, barring the one thing that remains never to be said.
Oh, could all this silence teach me the one thing I am longing to know!—why am I unworthy of you? If I cannot be your wife, why cannot I see you still,—serve you if possible? I would be grateful.
You meant to be generous; and wishing not to wound me, you said that "there was no fault" in me. I realize now that you would not have said that to the woman you still loved. And now I am never to know what part in me is hateful to you. I must live with it because you would not tell me the truth!