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.




LETTER XXVIII.