’But you, Alice; you who are so noble, so pure, so lofty-minded, you would not soil yourself by giving way to such a sentiment.  Write! you will write, and tell me that what I saw in vision was a lie, an abominable lie!  Nay, you do not love Mr. Harding.  You will not marry him; surely you will not.  Oh! to be left here alone, never to see you again—­I could not bear it, I should die.  You will not leave me to die, Alice dear, you will not; write and tell me you will not.  And what grieves me doubly is that it must seem to you, dear, that I am only thinking of myself.  I am not; I think of you, I wish to save you from what must be a life of misery and, worse still, of degradation; for every man is a degradation when he approaches a woman.  I know you couldn’t bear up against this; you are too refined, too pure—­I can sympathize with you.  I know, poor little cripple though I be, the horrors of married life.  I know what men are—­you smile your own kind, sweet smile; I see it as I write; but you are wrong:  I know nothing of men in particular, but I know what the sex is—­I know nothing of individuals, but I know what life is.  The very fact of being forced to live apart has helped me to realize how horrible life is, and how the passions of men make it vile and abominable.  All their tender little words and attentions are but lust in disguise.  I hate them!  I could whip, I could beat, I would torture them; and when I had done my worst I should not have done enough to punish them for the wrongs they have done to my sex.

’I know, Alice dear, I am writing violently, that I am letting my temper get the better of me, and this is very wrong; you have often told me it is very wrong; but I cannot help it, my darling, when I think of the danger you are in.  I cannot tell you how, but I do know you are in danger; something, some instinct has put me in communication with you:  there are moments when I see you, yes, see you sitting by that man—­I see you now:—­the scene is a long blue drawing-room all aglow with gold mirrors and wax candles—­he is sitting by you, I see you smiling upon him—­my blood boils, Alice—­I fear I am going mad; my head drops on the table, and I strive to shut out the odious sight, but I cannot, I cannot, I cannot. . . .

’I am calmer now:  you will forgive me, Alice dear?  I know I am wrong to write to you in this way, but there are moments when I realize things with such horrible vividness that I am, as it were, maddened with pain.  Sometimes I awake in the night, and then I see life in all its hideous nakedness, revealed, as it were, by a sudden flash of lightning.  Oh, it is terrible to think we are thus.  Good-bye, dear, I know you will forgive me, and I hope you will write at once, and will not leave me in suspense:  that is the worst torture.  With love to our friends Olive, May, and Violet, believe me, darling Alice,
’Yours affectionately,
‘CECILIA CULLEN.’

She read steadily, word by word, and then let the letter fall.