GRAYSMILL, March 20th.
My beloved Constance, I am glad your letter of this morning has made
me a little unhappy; I have been a selfish brute, thinking of none
but myself, and him. I little thought, whilst I lay basking in the
sun, that you stood there shrouded in densest fog. I wish I had
written every day, you poor sweet!
But now I have evolved a plan, and Gabriel thinks with me that it is
a good one. You will find me rather prosaic, yet indeed, sweetheart,
I think you cannot be well; these doleful dumps have nothing in
common with your nature. You are not well, you have no friend to
cheer you, and this melancholy is the result.
Come to us! Gabriel and I are the most undecided beings in creation;
ten days ago he threw up his poem in disgust; there was nothing for
it but to get married at once and start for Italy. A few days later,
inspiration set in, and now he is again so deep in his verse that we
shall stay here until the poem is finished. Come to us! You will
find us excellent company. Yes, dearest, you must do this; who knows
when we may be together again? Besides, there would be a blank in
your knowledge of my life, had you never seen me in this home, grown
dear to me beyond all expectation, through my great happiness.
Besides, I want you and Gabriel to know each other.
Mrs. Rayner--if you _must_ bring her--will find enough society at
Graysmill to keep her busy for a month or two; I think she would get
on splendidly with Uncle George and his people.
You and I, my darling, will be happy together as of old. I have told
grandmamma and Aunt Caroline that I have invited the pretty friend
whose photographs they admire so much, to come and stay with me;
they ask me to add their importunities to mine.
Come, dearest, and without delay, for your own sake and mine. Come,
and let us be happy together whilst I am still your lover of old
years.