FLETCHER'S HALL, GRAYSMILL,
July 18th.
_Dear and Beloved Constance_,--What shall I say to you? Here I sit,
in a strange room, in a strange land,--and my life lies behind me.
It is close upon midnight, and very dark. I can see nothing out of
window. The air is hot and heavy, the moths flutter round my candle;
I cannot save them all. I am trying to write you a letter--do you
understand? Oh, but I have no thoughts, only visions! Three there
are that rise before me, sometimes separately, sometimes all
together.
I see you, Mrs. Norris. We are standing on the platform, side by
side; people leaning out of window in my night-gown, watching the
mists rise in the valley. The air is very sweet here in England; I
see oceans of trees, great stretches of heath and meadow. Surely,
surely one ought to be happy in this beautiful world! I shall dress
quickly and go out. This letter, such as it is, shall go to you by
the first post, and to-night I shall write again, when I myself know
something of my surroundings. Good-bye then for the present, my best
and dearest.