Not daring and not caring to open it immediately, she put on her hat and went out to walk far past the end of the planks down into the green country. She thought that she knew every tree and every field all the long way to the Harrison Homestead.
Opening the letter at last, she read:
“My Friend,—I suppose you know all the truth. I wrung it out of Dr. Greyson to-day after you left me. You may have known it all the time. Father has known it, but not Laura. I shall never be what I once was; I know it better than any physician can tell me. If I live to forget every thing else (and I may), I think that I shall never forget that night. But I shall not let my mind go without a struggle; I shall read, I shall write, I shall travel, when I am able. I have been reading Macaulay to-day. I shall be a burden to father and Laura, and to any who may nurse me for wages. But I shall not be a burden to you. I know that you meant that you would never break our covenant, when you said: ‘Promises are made to be kept,’ but I will break it. I am breaking it now. You did belong to me when you last said good-by and laid your young, strong hand over my poor fingers; but you do not belong to me as you read this. As I can not know the exact moment when you read it, I can never know when you cease to belong to me. Laura and father intend to take me away; do not come to me until I return. No one knows. In all my ravings, I never spoke your name; it was on my mind that I had promised not to speak of it, and I never once forgot. But your presence was in every wild and horrible dream; you were being scalped and drowned and burned alive, and often and often you sat beside me holding my hand; many many times you came to me and said, ‘I will keep my word,’ but something took you away; you never went of your own accord. I have asked them all what I raved about and every name that I spoke, but no one has answered ‘Tessa.’ Write to me this once, and never again, and tell me that you agree, that you are willing to break the bond that held us together such a little while. I am a man, and a selfish one at that, therefore I rejoice that you were mine. You can have but one answer to give. I will not accept any devotion from you that may hinder your becoming the happy wife of a good man. Do not be too sorry for me. Laura will expect you to write to her, but I pray you, do not write; I should look for your letters and they would take away the little fortitude I have. Be a good girl; love somebody by and by. You have burned a great many letters that I have written. This is the last.”
“F. W. H.”
Again and again she read it, pausing over each simple, full utterance. He could never say to her again, “You have spoiled my life.” She had done her best to atone for the sorrow that she had so unwittingly caused him, and it had not been accepted by Him who had planned all her life. There was nothing more for her to do. The letter was like him. She remembered his kindly, gracious ways; his eagerness to be kind to her, how he would sit or stand near her to watch her as she talked or worked; how timidly he would touch her dress or her hand; how his face would change if she chanced to look up at him; how his pale green eyes would glitter when she preferred the society of Gus Hammerton or any other of the Dunellen boys, ever so long ago, as they were boys and girls together; almost as long ago as when she was a little girl and he a big boy and he would bring her fruit and flowers! On their Saturday excursions after nuts or berries or wild flowers, how he would fall behind the others when she did and catch her hand if they heard a noise in the woods or lost themselves for half a minute among a new clump of trees.
In the long, happy weeks that she had passed at the Homestead, in the days when his mother was alive, how thoughtful he had been of her comfort, how he had tried to please her in work or play! One evening after they had all been sitting together on the porch and telling stories, she had heard his mother say to his father: “Tessa has great influence over Felix, I hope that she will marry him.”
“I won’t,” her rebellious little heart had replied. And at bedtime she had told Laura that she meant to marry a beautiful young man with dark eyes who must know every thing and wear a cloak. “And Felix has light eyes,” she had added.
She laughed and then sighed over the foolish, innocent days when girlhood and womanhood had meant only wonderful good times like the good times in fairy tales and Bible stories.
Then for the last time she read his letter and tore it into morsels, scattering them hither and thither as she walked.
She had done all she could do; he could not keep hold of her hand any longer.