(_Miss Armstrong writes with a calm heart_.)
I have but a minute before I must go down to meet _him_. Then it will
be settled. I can hear his voice now and mother's. I must be quick.
So you tested me and found me wanting in "inevitableness." I was too
much clay, it seems, and "pagan." What a strange word that is! You mean
I love to enjoy; and, perhaps you are right, that I need my little
world. Who knows? One cannot read the whole story--even you, dear
master--until we are dead. We can never tell whether I am only
frivolous and sensuous, or merely a woman who takes the best substitute
at hand for life. I do not protest, and I think I never shall. I, too,
am very sure--_now_. You have pointed out the path and I shall follow
it to the end.
But one must have other moments, not of regret, but of wonder. Did you
have too little faith? Am I so cheap and weak? Before you read this it
will all be over.... Now and then it seems I want only a dress for my
back, a bit of food, rest, and your smile. But you have judged
otherwise, and perhaps you are right. At any rate, I will think so.
Only I know that the hours will come when I shall wish that I might lie
among those little white gravestones above the beach.
CHICAGO, November, 1893.