Taunton, FebruaryDear David:A terrible thing has happened. My head is in a whirl—oh, my poor lovely Mademoiselle Duvernoy! How shall I tell you? I’m afraid I’m so upset by it all that I shan’t be able to write you anything coherently. I still can’t understand. It all happened so suddenly to-night, only a few hours ago.We had a member of the visiting French Commission in for dinner,—quite informally. Father telephoned at the last minute he was bringing him and I had forgotten to mention it (Mademoiselle Duvernoy has always been unwilling to come down when guests were present). I was in the salon, alone with General de Villers-Costa—that is his name and a very distinguished and handsome officer he is—when Mademoiselle Duvernoy came abruptly in, humming to herself. We were so placed that she did not see the General until she was almost on him, and then,—I thought she was going to fall. As for him, he looked as though he had seen a ghost!David, they recognized each other! I heard them cry,“Bernoline—Mademoiselle de Saint Omer—vous ici!”“Jacques—pour l’amour de Dieu, pas un mot!”Then they stood together for a moment, talking very low and rapidly, and, at the end, Mademoiselle Duvernoy went by me without seeing me and up to her room, and General de Villers-Costa stood at the window a long while, while I waited, feeling as though the sky had fallen on me. Whenhe turned he came directly towards me, his eyes very red, in a terrible state of excitement, and said:“Mademoiselle Brinsmade, as you are a true and loyal woman, I beg you to forget what you have seen and heard.”I nodded. I couldn’t say a word and I think tears were in my eyes.“Mademoiselle” (in his nervousness he kept pulling at his handkerchief), “did you hear the name I pronounced?”“Yes, Monsieur.”This seemed to overwhelm him completely, for it was a long moment before he could continue.“Mademoiselle—will you believe me that it is all a mistake—an astounding mistake—and will you, in charity—I ask of you—forget it?”“I love Mademoiselle Duvernoy,” I said. “I never could do anything to hurt her.”At that moment the others came in. I hurried upstairs, but she was not in her room. I ran out in the garden, and, at the end of the walk, I found her sitting, and oh, David,—the look on her face! I flung my arms about her and wept as though my heart would break and, for the first time, tears came to her too, and we clung to each other. She has told me nothing, though I know she loves me dearly, but just goes about staring in a numbed sort of way. David, what does it mean? What awful tragedy is in her life,—in the life of that dear little saint! David, I looked up her name in the Almanach de Gotha, and there is only one family of that name, the Duc Henri Plessis de Saint Omer: four sons, and—Bernoline Marie Renée Plessis de Saint Omer! Is it possiblethat—*****David, just as I was writing, she came into my room, and oh, David, she has told me all. There have been times when I suspected but I am overwhelmed. I must try to set it down as it happened, for she wishes me to write to you.I was so buried in my letter that I had not heard her entrance until I felt her hand on my shoulder and looked upto see her at my side. My face, I know, went red, and involuntarily I tried to cover up my letter.“You have written it to David!” she said, looking into my eyes.And then I guessed! All that I have merely wondered at—put out of my mind as impossible, as fantastic, flashed back. I knew, and she knew that I knew, for she said swiftly:“He is the man that I have loved as I have never loved any one in my life.”I write it to you, as she said it, as you have the right to know.“And whom I shall never see again,” she added. “It is better that you should write it, dear child.”I flung myself in her arms and begged her forgiveness, not knowing what I did. I won’t tell you all she said, David, only that I know now how you love her, for who could help loving her.LaterThe terrible, terrible thing is that she is going away. I have pleaded with her to stay as my friend: think what it must have been to her pride all these months—but nothing can move her. There is something mysterious under it all, something dreadful—I don’t dare ask—that I feel no one has a right to know.*****That night, she came down to dinner. I was so broken up when I saw her enter that I couldn’t look at her, and the General stopped short and then began to talk rapidly. She came to me presently, and, in the same quiet tone, said:“Anne, dear, I count on your help to-night. Be calm, dear, and after dinner,—I must speak to General de Villers-Costa.”Her control was absolute, yet I wonder that every one did not see the change, for it was no longer Mademoiselle Duvernoy who was in the room, but Bernoline, daughter of the Duke de St. Omer. Beyond that there was not a trace of emotion in face or manner. She must have a will of iron!Dinner over, I managed to signal the General, and the three of us went into the garden together until we were well hidden from the house.“And now, Anne, dear, thank you, and may I ask you to wait for us here just a moment. Monsieur de Villers-Costa, will you walk with me a little ahead?”It must have been at least ten minutes before they returned, and the General was so evidently upset that he could not say a word as we came back. At the terrace Mademoiselle de Saint Omer turned and said, with the gracious smile which is hers alone,“In this sad day I am fortunate in having two such loyal friends in whom I have perfect trust.”Wasn’t that fine of her: not a question of our promising,—just trust! Then she went into the house, but as I started to follow her, the General stopped me.“Mademoiselle—I beg of you—just a moment. I haven’t that strength—a moment to get hold of myself.”“I, too,” I said hastily, and we went and leaned over the balustrade, without a word.“Thank you,” he said, at last, drawing himself up. “I can go in, now.” And he added, with a little touch of pride I loved, “Such are our women, Mademoiselle,—do you wonder that we fight on?”*****She left to-day. Every one is terribly broken up,—even the servants, who, I think, instinctively felt her quality. She is returning to the convent in New York, but I think her intention is to sail for France. I feel so helpless, and so alone.*****I could not write you last night and had to put my pen down. I don’t know when I have been so completely broken up. It seems all so hideously unjust. She told me that she had written you, for the last time, but I cannot believe that. Surely, there must be some way out; life can’t be so cruel as that. David, my dear friend, will you believe me that I have thought of you all these days and that my heart goes out to you?The shock must have been terrible to her, for everything about her seemed absolutely petrified and her eyes looked at you with such a dry, such a burning heat. She never seemed to know she was talking to us or to be aware of what was around her. Her whole mind is concentrated on some fixed resolve. That is the terrible part,—with all my love, I cannot help her!I shall not forget her last words when I caught her hands and implored her a last time not to go.“I have failed: and this is my punishment.”Whatever can she mean, David, and what is it she is planning to do?New YorkJust a last line. I am sailing next week for France. I have enlisted for the war in the Red Cross as a hospital assistant. Father has arranged all for me, like the dear that he is,—without a single objection. And what do you think: I have seen Mademoiselle Duvernoy, and we are going over on the same boat! I know that this will be some comfort to you, for, David, I, too, love her, and I know she loves me, and is glad that I am to be with her. My address in Paris is below: it is quicker, they tell me, than the Red Cross. If you are in Paris before I go to my post, do come to me, David.Anne.
Taunton, February
Dear David:
A terrible thing has happened. My head is in a whirl—oh, my poor lovely Mademoiselle Duvernoy! How shall I tell you? I’m afraid I’m so upset by it all that I shan’t be able to write you anything coherently. I still can’t understand. It all happened so suddenly to-night, only a few hours ago.
We had a member of the visiting French Commission in for dinner,—quite informally. Father telephoned at the last minute he was bringing him and I had forgotten to mention it (Mademoiselle Duvernoy has always been unwilling to come down when guests were present). I was in the salon, alone with General de Villers-Costa—that is his name and a very distinguished and handsome officer he is—when Mademoiselle Duvernoy came abruptly in, humming to herself. We were so placed that she did not see the General until she was almost on him, and then,—I thought she was going to fall. As for him, he looked as though he had seen a ghost!
David, they recognized each other! I heard them cry,
“Bernoline—Mademoiselle de Saint Omer—vous ici!”
“Jacques—pour l’amour de Dieu, pas un mot!”
Then they stood together for a moment, talking very low and rapidly, and, at the end, Mademoiselle Duvernoy went by me without seeing me and up to her room, and General de Villers-Costa stood at the window a long while, while I waited, feeling as though the sky had fallen on me. Whenhe turned he came directly towards me, his eyes very red, in a terrible state of excitement, and said:
“Mademoiselle Brinsmade, as you are a true and loyal woman, I beg you to forget what you have seen and heard.”
I nodded. I couldn’t say a word and I think tears were in my eyes.
“Mademoiselle” (in his nervousness he kept pulling at his handkerchief), “did you hear the name I pronounced?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
This seemed to overwhelm him completely, for it was a long moment before he could continue.
“Mademoiselle—will you believe me that it is all a mistake—an astounding mistake—and will you, in charity—I ask of you—forget it?”
“I love Mademoiselle Duvernoy,” I said. “I never could do anything to hurt her.”
At that moment the others came in. I hurried upstairs, but she was not in her room. I ran out in the garden, and, at the end of the walk, I found her sitting, and oh, David,—the look on her face! I flung my arms about her and wept as though my heart would break and, for the first time, tears came to her too, and we clung to each other. She has told me nothing, though I know she loves me dearly, but just goes about staring in a numbed sort of way. David, what does it mean? What awful tragedy is in her life,—in the life of that dear little saint! David, I looked up her name in the Almanach de Gotha, and there is only one family of that name, the Duc Henri Plessis de Saint Omer: four sons, and—Bernoline Marie Renée Plessis de Saint Omer! Is it possiblethat—
*****
David, just as I was writing, she came into my room, and oh, David, she has told me all. There have been times when I suspected but I am overwhelmed. I must try to set it down as it happened, for she wishes me to write to you.
I was so buried in my letter that I had not heard her entrance until I felt her hand on my shoulder and looked upto see her at my side. My face, I know, went red, and involuntarily I tried to cover up my letter.
“You have written it to David!” she said, looking into my eyes.
And then I guessed! All that I have merely wondered at—put out of my mind as impossible, as fantastic, flashed back. I knew, and she knew that I knew, for she said swiftly:
“He is the man that I have loved as I have never loved any one in my life.”
I write it to you, as she said it, as you have the right to know.
“And whom I shall never see again,” she added. “It is better that you should write it, dear child.”
I flung myself in her arms and begged her forgiveness, not knowing what I did. I won’t tell you all she said, David, only that I know now how you love her, for who could help loving her.
Later
The terrible, terrible thing is that she is going away. I have pleaded with her to stay as my friend: think what it must have been to her pride all these months—but nothing can move her. There is something mysterious under it all, something dreadful—I don’t dare ask—that I feel no one has a right to know.
*****
That night, she came down to dinner. I was so broken up when I saw her enter that I couldn’t look at her, and the General stopped short and then began to talk rapidly. She came to me presently, and, in the same quiet tone, said:
“Anne, dear, I count on your help to-night. Be calm, dear, and after dinner,—I must speak to General de Villers-Costa.”
Her control was absolute, yet I wonder that every one did not see the change, for it was no longer Mademoiselle Duvernoy who was in the room, but Bernoline, daughter of the Duke de St. Omer. Beyond that there was not a trace of emotion in face or manner. She must have a will of iron!
Dinner over, I managed to signal the General, and the three of us went into the garden together until we were well hidden from the house.
“And now, Anne, dear, thank you, and may I ask you to wait for us here just a moment. Monsieur de Villers-Costa, will you walk with me a little ahead?”
It must have been at least ten minutes before they returned, and the General was so evidently upset that he could not say a word as we came back. At the terrace Mademoiselle de Saint Omer turned and said, with the gracious smile which is hers alone,
“In this sad day I am fortunate in having two such loyal friends in whom I have perfect trust.”
Wasn’t that fine of her: not a question of our promising,—just trust! Then she went into the house, but as I started to follow her, the General stopped me.
“Mademoiselle—I beg of you—just a moment. I haven’t that strength—a moment to get hold of myself.”
“I, too,” I said hastily, and we went and leaned over the balustrade, without a word.
“Thank you,” he said, at last, drawing himself up. “I can go in, now.” And he added, with a little touch of pride I loved, “Such are our women, Mademoiselle,—do you wonder that we fight on?”
*****
She left to-day. Every one is terribly broken up,—even the servants, who, I think, instinctively felt her quality. She is returning to the convent in New York, but I think her intention is to sail for France. I feel so helpless, and so alone.
*****
I could not write you last night and had to put my pen down. I don’t know when I have been so completely broken up. It seems all so hideously unjust. She told me that she had written you, for the last time, but I cannot believe that. Surely, there must be some way out; life can’t be so cruel as that. David, my dear friend, will you believe me that I have thought of you all these days and that my heart goes out to you?
The shock must have been terrible to her, for everything about her seemed absolutely petrified and her eyes looked at you with such a dry, such a burning heat. She never seemed to know she was talking to us or to be aware of what was around her. Her whole mind is concentrated on some fixed resolve. That is the terrible part,—with all my love, I cannot help her!
I shall not forget her last words when I caught her hands and implored her a last time not to go.
“I have failed: and this is my punishment.”
Whatever can she mean, David, and what is it she is planning to do?
New York
Just a last line. I am sailing next week for France. I have enlisted for the war in the Red Cross as a hospital assistant. Father has arranged all for me, like the dear that he is,—without a single objection. And what do you think: I have seen Mademoiselle Duvernoy, and we are going over on the same boat! I know that this will be some comfort to you, for, David, I, too, love her, and I know she loves me, and is glad that I am to be with her. My address in Paris is below: it is quicker, they tell me, than the Red Cross. If you are in Paris before I go to my post, do come to me, David.
Anne.
St. Rosa’s Convent,New YorkDavid:I am here with the good sisters. In a week I sail for France. This must be my last letter to you, and I shrink from the pain that it must bring you. Anne has written you what happened at Taunton. She knows only who I am, and my cousin, General de Villers-Costa, whatever he may suspect, knows no more. He is of my blood, and he is an absolutely loyal gentleman. His lips are sealed. To you alone I must tell everything. Better for us both if I had done so in the beginning. I couldn’t. You will understand why.David, I have told only two deliberate lies in my life, and each has been followed by a dreadful calamity: the first to save the life of a soldier of France; and the second to you, when you asked me if I were married. I did it because I thought I was doing it for your sake, because I was tried beyond my strength, because I no longer knew what to do, and because, David, I couldn’t bear to leave in your heart a memory that would haunt you. I tell you now because it is inevitable.David, I have failed, and God has seen fit to punish me. For months I have been tortured by remorse, for months I have refused to bear the full burden of my cross, and no one will ever know—not even you—the agony of my indecision. Now, my way is clear. I know what I must do, and I shall do it.David, it is so hard to tell you, for as you know now, I am of an old and proud race, that guards its honor with its life; and, David, I am a woman who loves you. Forgive me, if you can, in my weakness. My family thinks me dead. For their sake, for the honor of my family, of my brother, whom you know now is at your side, I am and must remain dead. When I tried to escape from my destiny it was for their sake and their sake alone. Only one other person in this world besides you knows the truth, and that is Marianne, my old nurse, whom you saw at Bordeaux, and who has in her keeping my baby.I cannot tell you in detail; that would be too horrible, and all the courage that I have built up would not be proof against that hideous memory.You know that my mother and I were caught in the first German rush through Luxemburg. Our château was but a few kilometers from the border. It was taken and retaken, again and again. We stayed, as a duty to our peasants, to our old men and to our poor women and children. We believed in our pride that the authority of our name and presence could save them from torture and worse than torture. How little we knew the beasts with whom we were dealing! We thought we were safe, for the German commander was anacquaintance of my brothers,—had visited us in our home in the years before the war! For we knew many Germans and we trusted in the honor of a gentleman of noble descent!David, it is so hard to write it down. I can only do it by moments. Twice we were accused of signaling to the French,—twice imprisoned and threatened with execution,—we who gave our days and nights to but one thought,—the comforting of the dying, friend and enemy. We saw our home battered to pieces, everything we loved destroyed, everything we owned in the world wiped out, and yet, despite every agony, we stayed on, trusting in our sacred mission, to protect and aid those we loved.And then came the lie. He was a littlepoilu, hardly more than a boy, who had been left behind, too wounded to carry away. We hid him in our own apartment, my mother and I, and to do it we lied. God forgive me, I would do it again! For discovery meant death: he was an Alsatian and for them the Boches know no pity. For three long weeks we were able to conceal his presence,—until he was able to make a try at escape. They caught him and all was discovered. Andthen—They tore my mother from me and sent her off somewhere into the interior, to work in the fields. She was spared the worst,—the knowledge of what happened to me. She died. And to me came worse than death,—but oh, the ferocity of it, the brutality of it, the stamping of a weak woman with the rage of the victor; and he who did it was the one, above all, who by every tradition of chivalry, by every instinct of race, religion andhonor—*****David, my religion, my faith was all that was left me. What was I to do? To take one’s life is to us a mortal sin; even that escape was denied me. And the horror when I knew that my shame was eternally fastened upon me! For the first months I sought death as only I had the right to seek it, praying for the mercy of a quick end, exposing myself in every bombardment, seeking every post of danger. Men were killed at my side—a child that ran to me was blown to pieces—and I lived.Then, for the sixth time, our little village was retaken, and I escaped that night into France. A faithful soul gave out the report that I had been killed, and so, thank God, for the honor of my name, I am dead to-day.The rest? I found my old nurse, Marianne, who concealed my identity and placed the baby (I have never been able to call it mine) with her family. I rebelled against it—God forgive me for that sin, as He in His high righteousness has seen fit to punish me. David, what those months were only a woman can know.I had not meant to write you like this: but I cannot write it calmly. I have never rebelled against God,—only sometimes, I have not been able to understand. I have tried to think of His stern and equal justice. I have tried to think of all the other women,—yes, of those who have suffered more hideously than I. There was a girl—a child—but no, I cannot even write it. I try to say to myself that it is right that we too, the proud women of France, should suffer with the humblest.David, where I was wrong was in trying to escape from what was in the will of God. It was my baby, and I forsook it. Night and day, that remorse, that conflict has been in my heart. And now, that through His justice, God has opened my eyes, I know my duty. I am going back to him,—my baby. I shall disappear from the world. No one shall ever know from now on what has become of me. But, since this is my cross, and since life in this world is not for me, I shall take up that cross, and, little by little, I shall learn no longer to rebel. The Holy Virgin, Mother of Sorrows, will watch over me and give me that courage. The child of hate is still an immortal soul and I, its mother, must save it for eternity.David, I had thought that to write all this to you would break me. It has not. I feel as though something had purified my spirit, and I feel all at once a clarity of vision, a courage that is calm and will not falter. The truth,mon ami, cannot weaken us. It is only when we refuse to face it that we are weak. I feel this so strongly. Share this knowledgewith me, and do not suffer for me. I am no longer of this world.David, it is only of you I think now. Now that the moment has come to say farewell, I can tell you all the love that is in my heart for you, has always been, will always be. David, how little you guessed what was in my heart, for I think I loved you from the first moment our eyes met,—when I saw in yours that look of sympathy—there on the dock. When you came to me that night on the deck, out of the night, and stood by my side, I knew that if I did not fight against it with all my will, I should love you and bring sorrow into your life. And how I fought against you! But in the moment when I felt the strongest I would see a look in your eyes, a wounded, uncomprehending look, and all my strength would go. At times it was all I could do to keep back the tears from my eyes! If only I had not seen all the need of a woman’s love in your life!And then, one night, after long sleepless hours, I had such a strange dream. I dreamed that I was on a rock in the midst of a great sea that rose and swirled about me, and, all at once I looked down and saw your face in the waters, and you were struggling towards me. I ran down to the edge and stretched out my hands and caught you and drew you up to safety, all wet and limp in my arms. And, ever since, this has haunted me, and at times I have seen in it a sign of your struggling to find your true self and that I, in some mysterious way, was meant to give you strength. I was so torn by differing impulses. I passed such long hours in my little berth, praying to the dear Virgin to help me to struggle, to be strong for your sake. But the moment I came into your presence, the moment I met your eyes,mon ami, I was just a woman, a weak, helpless woman, whose whole being went to you in the longing to love and be loved.David, may God forgive me if I have done wrong by you; forgive me, too,—for I have loved you with every thought and every impulse of my life, with an intensity beyond my strength. I love you as only those can love, who have known the depths of sorrow and suffering; as those who need love intheir lives. If it had only been possible, what happiness I could have given thee, David, to you, who were so gentle and so strong! I know I haven’t the right to say this, but I must! Just for these minutes, I am what I was born to be. Don’t utterly forget me, David,—or rather, yes, utterly forget me, for your sake. I do not know any longer what I am saying, and to end is the end of all. Forget me. It is right and your duty. You must, for your sake, for my sake: but, afterwards, long years afterwards,—when you can do so calmly, remember that somewhere in this world, just as the dusk comes in over the world,—I shall be kneeling and praying for your happiness.B.
St. Rosa’s Convent,New York
David:
I am here with the good sisters. In a week I sail for France. This must be my last letter to you, and I shrink from the pain that it must bring you. Anne has written you what happened at Taunton. She knows only who I am, and my cousin, General de Villers-Costa, whatever he may suspect, knows no more. He is of my blood, and he is an absolutely loyal gentleman. His lips are sealed. To you alone I must tell everything. Better for us both if I had done so in the beginning. I couldn’t. You will understand why.
David, I have told only two deliberate lies in my life, and each has been followed by a dreadful calamity: the first to save the life of a soldier of France; and the second to you, when you asked me if I were married. I did it because I thought I was doing it for your sake, because I was tried beyond my strength, because I no longer knew what to do, and because, David, I couldn’t bear to leave in your heart a memory that would haunt you. I tell you now because it is inevitable.
David, I have failed, and God has seen fit to punish me. For months I have been tortured by remorse, for months I have refused to bear the full burden of my cross, and no one will ever know—not even you—the agony of my indecision. Now, my way is clear. I know what I must do, and I shall do it.
David, it is so hard to tell you, for as you know now, I am of an old and proud race, that guards its honor with its life; and, David, I am a woman who loves you. Forgive me, if you can, in my weakness. My family thinks me dead. For their sake, for the honor of my family, of my brother, whom you know now is at your side, I am and must remain dead. When I tried to escape from my destiny it was for their sake and their sake alone. Only one other person in this world besides you knows the truth, and that is Marianne, my old nurse, whom you saw at Bordeaux, and who has in her keeping my baby.
I cannot tell you in detail; that would be too horrible, and all the courage that I have built up would not be proof against that hideous memory.
You know that my mother and I were caught in the first German rush through Luxemburg. Our château was but a few kilometers from the border. It was taken and retaken, again and again. We stayed, as a duty to our peasants, to our old men and to our poor women and children. We believed in our pride that the authority of our name and presence could save them from torture and worse than torture. How little we knew the beasts with whom we were dealing! We thought we were safe, for the German commander was anacquaintance of my brothers,—had visited us in our home in the years before the war! For we knew many Germans and we trusted in the honor of a gentleman of noble descent!
David, it is so hard to write it down. I can only do it by moments. Twice we were accused of signaling to the French,—twice imprisoned and threatened with execution,—we who gave our days and nights to but one thought,—the comforting of the dying, friend and enemy. We saw our home battered to pieces, everything we loved destroyed, everything we owned in the world wiped out, and yet, despite every agony, we stayed on, trusting in our sacred mission, to protect and aid those we loved.
And then came the lie. He was a littlepoilu, hardly more than a boy, who had been left behind, too wounded to carry away. We hid him in our own apartment, my mother and I, and to do it we lied. God forgive me, I would do it again! For discovery meant death: he was an Alsatian and for them the Boches know no pity. For three long weeks we were able to conceal his presence,—until he was able to make a try at escape. They caught him and all was discovered. Andthen—
They tore my mother from me and sent her off somewhere into the interior, to work in the fields. She was spared the worst,—the knowledge of what happened to me. She died. And to me came worse than death,—but oh, the ferocity of it, the brutality of it, the stamping of a weak woman with the rage of the victor; and he who did it was the one, above all, who by every tradition of chivalry, by every instinct of race, religion andhonor—
*****
David, my religion, my faith was all that was left me. What was I to do? To take one’s life is to us a mortal sin; even that escape was denied me. And the horror when I knew that my shame was eternally fastened upon me! For the first months I sought death as only I had the right to seek it, praying for the mercy of a quick end, exposing myself in every bombardment, seeking every post of danger. Men were killed at my side—a child that ran to me was blown to pieces—and I lived.
Then, for the sixth time, our little village was retaken, and I escaped that night into France. A faithful soul gave out the report that I had been killed, and so, thank God, for the honor of my name, I am dead to-day.
The rest? I found my old nurse, Marianne, who concealed my identity and placed the baby (I have never been able to call it mine) with her family. I rebelled against it—God forgive me for that sin, as He in His high righteousness has seen fit to punish me. David, what those months were only a woman can know.
I had not meant to write you like this: but I cannot write it calmly. I have never rebelled against God,—only sometimes, I have not been able to understand. I have tried to think of His stern and equal justice. I have tried to think of all the other women,—yes, of those who have suffered more hideously than I. There was a girl—a child—but no, I cannot even write it. I try to say to myself that it is right that we too, the proud women of France, should suffer with the humblest.
David, where I was wrong was in trying to escape from what was in the will of God. It was my baby, and I forsook it. Night and day, that remorse, that conflict has been in my heart. And now, that through His justice, God has opened my eyes, I know my duty. I am going back to him,—my baby. I shall disappear from the world. No one shall ever know from now on what has become of me. But, since this is my cross, and since life in this world is not for me, I shall take up that cross, and, little by little, I shall learn no longer to rebel. The Holy Virgin, Mother of Sorrows, will watch over me and give me that courage. The child of hate is still an immortal soul and I, its mother, must save it for eternity.
David, I had thought that to write all this to you would break me. It has not. I feel as though something had purified my spirit, and I feel all at once a clarity of vision, a courage that is calm and will not falter. The truth,mon ami, cannot weaken us. It is only when we refuse to face it that we are weak. I feel this so strongly. Share this knowledgewith me, and do not suffer for me. I am no longer of this world.
David, it is only of you I think now. Now that the moment has come to say farewell, I can tell you all the love that is in my heart for you, has always been, will always be. David, how little you guessed what was in my heart, for I think I loved you from the first moment our eyes met,—when I saw in yours that look of sympathy—there on the dock. When you came to me that night on the deck, out of the night, and stood by my side, I knew that if I did not fight against it with all my will, I should love you and bring sorrow into your life. And how I fought against you! But in the moment when I felt the strongest I would see a look in your eyes, a wounded, uncomprehending look, and all my strength would go. At times it was all I could do to keep back the tears from my eyes! If only I had not seen all the need of a woman’s love in your life!
And then, one night, after long sleepless hours, I had such a strange dream. I dreamed that I was on a rock in the midst of a great sea that rose and swirled about me, and, all at once I looked down and saw your face in the waters, and you were struggling towards me. I ran down to the edge and stretched out my hands and caught you and drew you up to safety, all wet and limp in my arms. And, ever since, this has haunted me, and at times I have seen in it a sign of your struggling to find your true self and that I, in some mysterious way, was meant to give you strength. I was so torn by differing impulses. I passed such long hours in my little berth, praying to the dear Virgin to help me to struggle, to be strong for your sake. But the moment I came into your presence, the moment I met your eyes,mon ami, I was just a woman, a weak, helpless woman, whose whole being went to you in the longing to love and be loved.
David, may God forgive me if I have done wrong by you; forgive me, too,—for I have loved you with every thought and every impulse of my life, with an intensity beyond my strength. I love you as only those can love, who have known the depths of sorrow and suffering; as those who need love intheir lives. If it had only been possible, what happiness I could have given thee, David, to you, who were so gentle and so strong! I know I haven’t the right to say this, but I must! Just for these minutes, I am what I was born to be. Don’t utterly forget me, David,—or rather, yes, utterly forget me, for your sake. I do not know any longer what I am saying, and to end is the end of all. Forget me. It is right and your duty. You must, for your sake, for my sake: but, afterwards, long years afterwards,—when you can do so calmly, remember that somewhere in this world, just as the dusk comes in over the world,—I shall be kneeling and praying for your happiness.
B.