Woking, June 7th.

My Own Dearest Maude,--How I wish you were here, for I have been
down, down, down, in the deepest state of despondency all day. I
have longed to hear the sound of your voice, or to feel the touch of
your hand! How can I be despondent, when in three weeks I shall be
the husband of the dearest girl in England? That is what I ask
myself, and then the answer comes that it is just exactly on that
account that my wretched conscience is gnawing at me. I feel that I
have not used you well; I owe you reparation, and I don't know what
to do.

In your last dear letter you talk about being frivolous. YOU have
never been frivolous. But I have been frivolous--for ever since I
have learned to love you, I have been so wrapped up in my love, with
my happiness gilding everything about me, that I have never really
faced the prosaic facts of life or discussed with you what our
marriage will really necessitate. And now, at this eleventh hour, I
realise that I have led you on in ignorance to an act which will
perhaps take a great deal of the sunshine out of your life. What
have I to offer you in exchange for the sacrifice which you will make
for me? Myself, my love, and all that I have--but how little it all
amounts to! You are a girl in a thousand, in ten thousand--bright,
beautiful, sweet, the dearest lady in all the land. And I an average
man--or perhaps hardly that--with little to boast of in the past, and
vague ambitions for the future. It is a poor bargain for you, a most
miserable bargain. You have still time. Count the cost, and if it
be too great, then draw back even now without fear of one word or
inmost thought of reproach from me. Your whole life is at stake.