It was a long letter. I bewailed my hasty severance of the old
relations between us, and asked her to have pity on my sad fate. I
poured out all the flood of feeling which had deluged my breast since we
had parted at the party. I begged, I implored her not to desert me at
her mother's bidding.
My letter I posted, so that it should not be stopped en route, and
returned to me unread by my darling, whom I asked to write to me, if
only one line, to tell me that she had really received my appeal
safely--requesting her, also, to reply to me at my office that I might
get her answer in the soonest possible time.
I dreamt of her subsequently, the whole night through:--it was a
horrible dream!
A third day of torture in my governmental mill. Six mortal hours more
of dreary misery; and, helpless boredom at the hands of Smith, Brown,
Jones, and Robinson!
And, then, I got my reply.
It was "only a line." Very short, very sweet, very bitter, very
pointed; and yet, I value that little letter so highly that I would not
exchange it for the world! The words are stained with tear-drops that,
I know, fell from loving, grey eyes; while, its sense, though painful,
is sweet to me from its outspoken truthfulness:--I value it so highly,
that I could not deem it more precious, if it were written on a golden
tablet in characters set with diamonds--were it the longest letter
maiden ever wrote, the sweetest billet lover ever received!
"_Frank! I cannot, I must not grant your request. Do not wring my
heart by writing to me again, or speaking to me; for, I have promised,
and we are not to see each other any more. I am breaking my word in
writing to you now, but, oh! do not think badly of me. Indeed,
indeed, I am not heartless, Frank. It has not been my fault, believe
me. I shall pray for you always, always! I must not say any more_.
"_Minnie Clyde_."
That was all the little note contained; but, it was quite enough.
Was it not?
When I had read it and read it, over and over again, I was almost beside
myself,--with a grief that was mixed up with feelings of intense anger
and rage against her whom I looked upon as the author of my sufferings--
Mrs Clyde.
Min had been again sent down to the country, the very day on which I
received her heart-breaking letter. This I heard from my old friend,
dear little Miss Pimpernell, who tried vainly to console me. She
endeavoured to make me believe that "all would come right in the end,"
as she had prophesied before; but, I refused to be comforted. I could
not share her faith. I would not be sanguine any more; no, never any
more!
I saw Mrs Clyde at church the very next Sunday. I went there in the
hope that my darling might have returned, and that I would see her--not
from any religious feeling.
There was only her mother there, however.