The Wings of Icarus： Being the Life of one Emilia Fletcher
Letter 22
Laurence Alma-Tadema
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_ LETTER XXII
GRAYSMILL, December 29th.
You must hear from me once again this year, my Constance. Oh, dearest, dearest, it has only come to me of late, when my love for you has shone dimly compared to another, what it is worth to me, your love. I cannot express myself; I am all entangled, hopeless. But what I mean is this: you have been one long joy to me, a sun that has had no setting. I would I were as I used to be, untouched by the knowledge that love can be hard pain. My sweet dear, you were enough; why have I learned this bitter knowledge? Oh, how I laugh of a night, thinking of myself six months ago, thinking of what I then mistook for love!
Eleven days since I saw him. I have been conscious of every hour. We were busy here; there is much to do at Christmas time. I wrote to him that I could take no more lessons nor even walk with him for the present, as I must devote myself entirely to the Christmas work, and he has written to me twice. He would have me think that he sits there forlorn, cursing Yule-tide and charity; he says in the letter I received this morning, that it is time my charity were turned in his direction. I think I shall go to the cottage this afternoon; there is an end to all endurance. Or shall I wait until New Year's day? Perhaps that were best. I like to try my strength, to see how much can be borne.
I can write no more now; I must try to get through a few other letters. I have sent no cards to Florence. What a worm I am!
Your words of love have helped me through these days; I carry the three dear letters, along with his, in my pocket.
Good-bye, dearest; blessings upon you. I think I shall set forth in search of you very soon. May the New Year be kind to us all!
Yours in deepest love,
EMILIA. _