_ LETTER XXVII
February 12th.
Could you meet me a little sooner, perhaps, and not wait until the twenty-third? I must leave Graysmill at once. I shall go to the Cottage to-morrow afternoon, and tell them. I shall tell the others tonight, and on Monday I shall leave Graysmill forever. If you think you cannot reach Florence by Wednesday or Thursday, never mind, you will join me as soon as you can; only send me a telegram. I can go and stay with Marianna until you come.
I can bear it no longer! The world holds but one thought; the day and the night are lost in the constant reiteration of every word he ever said to me, in the resuscitation of every glance, every touch. And, poring over these in my memory, I try to read between the lines the words that are not there, to read "I love you."
Oh, I am very weak, yet, believe me, it is all against my will. I have fought this folly, I despise myself utterly, and yet now I am swept away by the flood, I can struggle no more. I shall die of this, or run mad.
I met him out to-day. We had not arranged to meet; but, as I went out at the blue door, there he stood. We went a little way together; then I left him; it was unbearable. It was so beautiful once to be with him, when we could talk freely of all that is best and noblest in life. I cannot talk to him now, sometimes I cannot even hear what he says to me. I cannot see the sky, the broad white earth; I see him only. I cannot hear the life-sounds about me; I only hear his footfall in the snow. It is all pain, all dreadful pain, dreadful, unbearable longing.
Why can't I put an end to all this? Why can't I go to him and say, I love you, tell me the truth? I know it,--the truth,--he does not love me; and yet, until I hear his lips say it, a false hope that reason cannot kill will linger on in my heart,--linger on, I know it, even when I have placed time and space between him and me.
Only one life, and there we stand, two spirits under the sky, two that believe in Truth and Freedom, parted by insincerity. The vile weed has crept up around us; we are parted by falsehood, even we. Goodnight. Perhaps I shall not write again. I shall send you a telegram before I start, on Monday.
Come to me, dear, as soon as you can.
EMILIA. _