This is wrong; I am ashamed of my own cowardice. Yet would there not be something terrifying in a formal appointment, to tell him what it seems must be told?—Yes, Louisa, must—And is there not danger he should think me severe; nay unjust?—Would it were over!—I hope he will not think so of me!—It must be done!—Must!—Must!—
Indeed, Louisa, I could be a very woman—But I will not!—No, no!—It is passed—I have put my handkerchief to my eyes and it is gone—I have repressed an obstinate heaving of the heart—
Let her blame me, if I deserve it, but my Louisa must see me as I am—Yet I will conquer—Be sure I will—But I must not sing his song any more!
A. W. ST. IVES
LETTER XXXIX
Frank Henley to Oliver Trenchard.
Chateau de Villebrun
Oh, my friend, my heart is torn! I am on the rack! My thoughts are all tumult! My passions rebel! I seem to have yielded up the best prerogative of man, reason; and to have admitted revolt, anarchy, and desolation!
Her manner is changed! Wholly! She is become cold, reserved; has marked me out for neglect; smiles on me no more; not a sigh escapes her. And why? What have I done? I am unconscious. Have I been too presuming? Perhaps so. But why did her looks never till now speak her meaning as intelligibly as they do at present? I could not then have mistaken them. Why, till now, has she seemed to regard me with that sweet amenity which was so flattering to hope?
Perhaps, in the distraction of my thoughts, I am unjust to her. And shall I, pretending as I do to love so pure, shall I become her accuser? What if she meant no more than that commerce of grateful kindness, which knits together human society, and renders it delightful?