After arranging everything else, I sat down to write my farewell
letters, commencing with one to Philip, and being very careful to allow
no tears to fall upon the paper.
'DEAR PHILIP--I ought to have told you what I am about to
write, when I bade you farewell this morning; but I wanted our
parting to be, as it was, a happy one. Had I had the courage to
tell you, instead of writing, I know you would not have yielded
to me; perhaps you would not even have listened. When you read
this, your blame cannot reach me; and until you can forgive me,
we shall not meet again. Dear Philip, I cannot be your wife.
I must bear all the blame of not making it known to you until
now, as best I may; but I cannot marry you. The conviction has
only become absolutely clear to me since you so much pressed me
to make no longer delay.'
'Ah Philip, may you never suspect _how_ it was made clear to
me!' I mentally ejaculated, breaking down for a few moments in
an agony of suffering. But I sternly called myself to order,
and was presently bending to my task again.
'I have chosen a different life, and only delay explaining what
that life is, and why it now seems more congenial to me than
being a wife' (to the man who loves another woman, was in my
thoughts), 'until you have quite forgiven me. Indeed, it is the
belief that that time will come, which gives me the courage to
act as I am doing. But there is one way, and only one, by which
you can prove that your forgiveness is sincere, and give me the
comfort of believing that I have not shadowed your life. If I
hear that you are able, by-and-by, to find some other woman
more appreciative than I'----
I dropped the pen, and bowed my face upon my hands again in the
bitterness of grief. 'More appreciative than I!' But I forced
myself to my task again, and left the words as they were. If
he once suspected that it was a sacrifice, would he accept it,
however willingly it were offered? Loved he not honour more?
Besides, this must be a letter which he could shew to Lilian;
at anyrate by-and-by, and no suspicion of the truth must reach
her.
'If that time comes, and I earnestly desire that it may, I
shall be able perhaps to justify myself to my own conscience.
I know only one whom I should consider worthy of you, one not
to be easily won, but worth the labour of a lifetime to win.
I dare not name her--I am almost afraid to write of her. But,
dear Philip, if it could be--if she whom I love above all other
women could be in time won to make up to you for the loss of
me, I shall have nothing to regret. I can only repeat that
nothing but the knowledge of your happiness will give me the
courage to hope for your forgiveness and to meet you again.
Meantime, I can only beg you to try to believe in your loving
sister