A LETTER.
A cool soft breeze went through the curtains of my couch, and I awoke.
The blooms of the peasant-briars and the court-roses were waving together
over my head. The sigh of the wind had breathed itself out over the far
heath, and ere it died in my fairy forest of lowly plants and bushes, had
found and fanned the cheeks that lay down hot and athirst for air. It
gave me new life, and I rose refreshed. Something fluttered to the
ground. I thought it was a leaf from a white rose above me, but I looked.
At my feet lay a piece of paper. I took it up. It had been folded very
hastily, and had no address, but who could have a better right to unfold
it than I! It might be nothing; it might be a letter. Should I open it?
Should I not rather seize the opportunity of setting things right between
my heart and my uncle by taking it to him unopened? Only, if it were
indeed--I dared hardly even in thought complete the supposition--might it
not be a wrong to the youth? Might not the paper contain a confidence?
might it not be the messenger of a heart that trusted me before even it
knew my name? Would I inaugurate our acquaintance with an act of
treachery, or at least distrust? Right or wrong, thus my heart reasoned,
and to its reasoning I gave heed. “It will,” I said, “be time enough to
resolve, when I know concerning what!” This, I now see, was juggling; for
the question was whether I should be open with my uncle or not. “It might
be,” I said to myself, “that, the moment I knew the contents of the
paper, I should reproach myself that I had not read it at once!” I sat
down on a bush of heather, and unfolded it. This is what I found, written
with a pencil:--
“I am the man to whom you talked so kindly over your garden wall
yesterday. I fear you may think me presuming and impertinent. Presuming I
may be, but impertinent, surely not! If I were, would not my heart tell
me so, seeing it is all on your side?
“My name is John Day; I do not yet know yours. I have not dared to
inquire after it, lest I should hear of some impassable gulf between us.
The fear of such a gulf haunts me. I can think of nothing but the face I
saw over the wall through the clusters of lilac: the wall seems to keep
rising and rising, as if it would hide you for ever.
“Is it wrong to think thus of you without your leave? If one may not love
the loveliest, then is the world but a fly-trap hung in the great heaven,
to catch and ruin souls!
“If I am writing nonsense--I cannot tell whether I am or not--it is
because my wits wander with my eyes to gaze at you through the leaves of
the wild white rose under which you are asleep. Loveliest of faces, may
no gentlest wind of thought ripple thy perfect calm, until I have said
what I must, and laid it where she will find it!
“I live at Rising, the manor-house over the heath. I am the son of Lady
Cairnedge by a former marriage. I am twenty years of age, and have just
ended my last term at Oxford. May I come and see you? If you will not see
me, why then did you walk into my quiet house, and turn everything upside
down? I shall come to-night, in the dusk, and wait in the heather,
outside the fence. If you come, thank God! if you do not, I shall believe
you could not, and come again and again and again, till hope is dead. But
I warn you I am a terrible hoper.
“It would startle, perhaps offend you, to wake and see me; but I cannot
bear to leave you asleep. Something might come too near you. I will write
until you move, and then make haste to go.
“My heart swells with words too shy to go out. Surely a Will has brought
us together! I believe in fate, never in chance!
“When we see each other again, will the wall be down between us, or shall
I know it will part us all our mortal lives? Longer than that it cannot.
If you say to me, 'I must not see you, but I will think of you,' not one
shall ever know I have other than a light heart. Even now I begin the
endeavour to be such that, when we meet at last, as meet we must, you
shall not say, 'Is this the man, alas, who dared to love me!'
“I love you as one might love a woman-angel who, at the merest breath
going to fashion a word unfit, would spread her wings and soar. Do not, I
pray you, fear to let me come! There are things that must be done in
faith, else they never have being: let this be one of them.--You stir.”
As I came to these last words, hurriedly written, I heard behind me, over
the height, the quick gallop of a horse, and knew the piece of firm turf
he was crossing. The same moment I was there in spirit, and the
imagination was almost vision. I saw him speeding away--“to come again!”
said my heart, solemn with gladness.
Rising-manor was the house to which the lady took me that dread night
when first I knew what it was to be alone in darkness and silence and
space. Was that lady his mother? Had she rescued me for her son? I was
not willing to believe it, though I had never actually seen her. The way
was mostly dark, and during the latter portion of it, I was much too
weary to look up where she sat on her great horse. I had never to my
knowledge heard who lived at Rising. I was not born inquisitive, and
there were miles between us.
I sat still, without impulse to move a finger. I lived essentially. Now I
knew what had come to me. It was no merely idiosyncratic experience, for
the youth had the same: it was love! How otherwise could we thus be drawn
together from both sides! Verily it seemed also good enough to be that
wondrous thing ever on the lips of poets and tale-weaving magicians! Was
it not far beyond any notion of it their words had given me?
But my uncle! There lay bitterness! Was I indeed false to him, that now
the thought of him was a pain? Had I begun a new life apart from him? To
tell him would perhaps check the terrible separation! But how was I to
tell him? For the first time I knew that I had no mother! Would Mr. Day's
mother be my mother too, and help me? But from no woman save my own
mother, hardly even from her, would I ask mediation with the uncle I had
loved and trusted all my life and with my whole heart. I had never known
father or mother, save as he had been father and mother and everybody to
me! What was I to do? Gladly would I have hurried to some desert place,
and there waited for the light I needed. That I was no longer in any
uncertainty as to the word that described my condition, did not, I found,
make it easy to use the word. “Perhaps,” I argued, struggling in the
toils of my new liberty, “my uncle knows nothing of this kind of love,
and would be unable to understand me! Suppose I confessed to him what I
felt toward a man I had spoken to but once, and then only to tell him the
way to Dumbleton, would he not think me out of my mind?”
At length I bethought me that, so long as I did not know what to do, I
was not required to do anything; I must wait till I did know what to do.
But with the thought came suffering enough to be the wages of any sin
that, so far as I knew, I had ever committed. For the conviction awoke
that already the love that had hitherto been the chief joy of my being,
had begun to pale and fade. Was it possible I was ceasing to love my
uncle? What could any love be worth if mine should fail my uncle! Love
itself must be a mockery, and life but a ceaseless sliding down to the
death of indifference! Even if I never ceased to love him, it was just as
bad to love him less! Had he not been everything to me?--and this man,
what had he ever done for me? Doubtless we are to love even our enemies;
but are we to love them as tenderly as we love our friends? Or are we to
love the friend of yesterday, of whom we know nothing though we may
believe everything, as we love those who have taken all the trouble to
make true men and women of us? “What can be the matter with my soul?” I
said. “Can that soul be right made, in which one love begins to wither
the moment another begins to grow? If I be so made, I cannot help being
worthless!”
It was then first, I think, that I received a notion--anything like a
true notion, that is, of my need of a God--whence afterward I came to
see the one need of the whole race. Of course, not being able to make
ourselves, it needed a God to make us; but that making were a small thing
indeed, if he left us so unfinished that we could come to nothing
right;--if he left us so that we could think or do or be nothing
right;--if our souls were created so puny, for instance, that there was
not room in them to love as they could not help loving, without ceasing
to love where they were bound by every obligation to love right heartily,
and more and more deeply! But had I not been growing all the time I had
been in the world? There must then be the possibility of growing still!
If there was not room in me, there must be room in God for me to become
larger! The room in God must be made room in me! God had not done making
me, in fact, and I sorely needed him to go on making me; I sorely needed
to be made out! What if this new joy and this new terror had come, had
been sent, in order to make me grow? At least the doors were open; I
could go out and forsake myself! If a living power had caused me--and
certainly I did not cause myself--then that living power knew all about
me, knew every smallness that distressed me! Where should I find him? He
could not be so far that the misery of one of his own children could not
reach him! I turned my face into the grass, and prayed as I had never
prayed before. I had always gone to church, and made the responses
attentively, while I knew that was not praying, and tried to pray better
than that; but now I was really asking from God something I sorely
wanted. “Father in heaven,” I said, “I am so miserable! Please, help me!”
I rose, went into the house, and up to the study, took a sock I was
knitting for my uncle, and sat down to wait what would come. I could
think no more; I could only wait.