LETTER LX.
To-day, dearest, a letter from you reached me: a fallen star which had
lost its way. It lies dead in my bosom. It was the letter that lost itself
in the post while I was traveling: it comes now with half a dozen
postmarks, and signs of long waiting in one place. In it you say, "We have
been engaged now for two whole months; I never dreamed that two moons
could contain so much happiness." Nor I, dearest! We have now been
separated for three; and till now I had not dreamed that time could so
creep, to such infinitely small purpose, as it has in carrying me from the
moment when I last saw you.
You were so dear to me, Beloved; _that_ you ever are! Time changes
nothing in you as you seemed to me then. Oh, I am sick to touch your
hands: all my thoughts run to your service: they seem to hear you call,
only to find locked doors.
If you could see me now I think you would open the door for a little
while.
If they came and told me--"You are to see him just for five minutes, and
then part again"--what should I be wanting most to say to you? Nothing--
only "Speak, speak!" I would have you fill my heart with your voice the
whole time: five minutes more of you to fold my life round. It would
matter very little what you said, barring the one thing that remains never
to be said.
Oh, could all this silence teach me the one thing I am longing to know!--
why am I unworthy of you? If I cannot be your wife, why cannot I see you
still,--serve you if possible? I would be grateful.
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