GRAYSMILL, February 19th.
Beloved, we wrote you a few lines together this afternoon, but I
must write again, I alone, to thank you for your letter and tell you
all you ask to know. Yet, indeed, I know not what to tell you. I am
happy; the sun is in my heart. I tried to write to you before, but
the words failed me; besides--my own self is a stranger to me. This
marvel of marvels, a perfectly happy woman, has nothing in common
with Emilia Fletcher, as you and I have known her.
I believe that Lethe was Joy's well. The past has floated from me
like a bank of mist, I stand flooded in light. And if I look behind
me I see nothing. Two phantoms merely,--my love for my mother, my
love for you,--all else is gone. Where are they now, the clouds that
pressed so close upon me? Three words, and lo! the sky is clear. I
have even forgotten what it felt like to stand there in the gloom
with breaking heart.
We have made no plans yet; that is to say, we have made so many that
choice between them is impossible. Still, although we build fresh
castles in the air each time we meet, they all float towards Italy,
in the springtime, halting a while where Constance is. If, indeed,
there be a cloud remaining in my heaven, it is that you two, my
soul's monarchs, know each other only through the medium of my love.
My eyes long to hold you both; I want to walk in the body, as I do
in the spirit, clasping a hand of each.
And to think that she is dead! Shall I tell you something very
strange, almost inconceivable? I cannot help feeling as if she knew.
Surely, Death cannot wholly part a mother from her child.
Good night, my dear little one.