Why can’t I put an end to all this?  Why can’t I go to him and say, I love you, tell me the truth?  I know it,—­the truth,—­he does not love me; and yet, until I hear his lips say it, a false hope that reason cannot kill will linger on in my heart,—­linger on, I know it, even when I have placed time and space between him and me.

Only one life, and there we stand, two spirits under the sky, two that believe in Truth and Freedom, parted by insincerity.  The vile weed has crept up around us; we are parted by falsehood, even we.  Goodnight.  Perhaps I shall not write again.  I shall send you a telegram before I start, on Monday.

Come to me, dear, as soon as you can.

Emilia.

LETTER XXVIII.

February 13th.

Dearest, I have had a strange, wonderful dream.  To-morrow morning, when I awake, I shall find it was not true.  Shall I tell it you?

I handle it as some frail treasure that I fear to touch.  I keep wondering on which side to turn it, so that, when I hold it up, you may see it shine.  The earth is very beautiful to-night; from my window I see the moon and a mighty host of glittering worlds,—­even Emilia is beautiful to-night!  I went to the glass just now, to look upon the face of happiness, and, instead of myself I saw—­Oh, but why say all this?  Why not tell you?  I cannot; words are weak, but I think you can feel it, Constance.  Oh, sweetest, I think you can, I think you know.  I am half mad to-night; that is why I write so queerly.  But now I will set it down.  I wonder what it looks like, written down.  I shall write it very neatly; it will look pretty.  Gabriel loves me.  Do you see?  Gabriel loves me.  I think I shall write it again,—­Gabriel loves me.  I never wrote anything that pleased me so well, and my heart sings it within me unceasingly.  Oh, of course it is not true; it is just a dream.  I think this is how the dream went.

I sat in the study at the Thatched Cottage; we were all four there; I had not spoken for a while; the thing I had to say weighed me down.  I said it suddenly, “I am going back to Florence; I shall leave Graysmill on Monday.”

Richard Norton cried, “What?” and Jane cried, “Emilia!” It was only Gabriel that said nothing.

He sprang up, and looked at me in silence.  Thank Heaven, my back was to the window, for I could not take my eyes away from his.  I thought he grew a little pale; I even thought his lips moved a little.  Then he spoke.

“No, no; who said that?  We cannot spare you.  Emilia, Emilia, you must never leave us!”

That is how the dream goes.  I put my head down on the table.

“God knows,” I said, “I do not want to leave you.”

There was a long silence; I sat there bowed, struggling with my tears; I think I heard footsteps and a closing door.  Then a hand was laid upon my shoulder,—­I knew whose hand it was, and I shook beneath it.