* * * * *
February 5, 1837.
I have been alone in the library from morning to night every day. How
foolish all the books look! There is nothing in them which can do me any
good. He is _not_: what is there which can alter that fact? Had he died
later I could have borne it better. I am only fifty years old, and may
have long to wait. I always knew I loved him devotedly; now I see how
much I depended on him. I had become so knit up with him that I imagined
his strength to be mine. His support was so continuous and so soft that
I was unconscious of it. How clear-headed and resolute he was in
difficulty and danger! You do not remember the great fire? We were
waked up out of our sleep; the flames spread rapidly; a mob filled the
street, shouting and breaking open doors. The man in charge of the
engines lost his head, but your father was perfectly cool. He got on
horseback, directed two or three friends to do the same; they galloped
into the town and drove the crowd away. He controlled all the operations
and saved many lives and many thousands of pounds. Is there any
happiness in the world like that of the woman who hangs on such a
husband?
* * * * *
February 10, 1837.
I feel as if my heart would break if I do not see you, but I cannot come
to your Aunt’s house just now. She is very kind, but she would be
unbearable to me. Have patience: the sea air is doing you good; you will
soon be able to walk, and then you can return. O, to feel your head upon
my neck! I have many friends, but I have always needed a human being to
whom I was everything. To your father I believe I was everything, and
that thought was perpetual heaven to me. My love for him did not make me
neglect other people. On the contrary, it gave them their proper value.
Without it I should have put them by. When a man is dying for want of
water he cares for nothing around him. Satisfy his thirst, and he can
then enjoy other pleasures. I was his first love, he was my first, and
we were lovers to the end. I know the world would be dark to you also
were I to leave it. Perhaps it is wicked of me to rejoice that you would
suffer so keenly. I cannot tell how much of me is pure love and how much
of me is selfishness. I remember my uncle’s death. For ten days or so
afterwards everybody in the house looked solemn, and occasionally there
was a tear, but at the end of a fortnight there was smiling and at the
end of a month there was laughter. I was but a child then, but I thought
much about the ease and speed with which the gap left by death was
closed.
* * * * *
February 20, 1837.
In a fortnight you will be here? The doctor really believes you will be
able to travel? I am glad you can get out and taste the sea air. I
count the hours which must pass till I see you. A short week, and
then—“the day after to-morrow, and the day after to-morrow of that day,”
and so I shall be able to reach forward to the Monday. It is strange
that the nearer Monday comes the more impatient I am.
* * * * *
March 3, 1837.
With what sickening fear I opened your letter! I was sure it contained
some dreadful news. You have decided not to come till Wednesday, because
your cousin Tom can accompany you on that day. I _know_ you are quite
right. It is so much better, as you are not strong, that Tom should look
after you, and it would be absurd that you should make the journey two
days before him. I should have reproved you seriously if you had done
anything so foolish. But those two days are hard to bear. I shall not
meet you at the coach, nor shall I be downstairs. Go straight to the
library; I shall be there by myself.
* * * * *