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“R. D.”
Margaret to Daunt.
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“I cannot come back, Richard. I cannot even explain to you why. Don’t humiliate me by writing me for reasons. You would not understand me. What good would it do to explain, when I can hardly explain it to myself? I only feel, and I am wretched.
“You must forget that afternoon! I am trying to do the right thing—the thing that seems right to myself. I must believe in my instinct; that is all a woman has. I know this letter doesn’t tell you anything—I can’t—there is no use—I can’t!
“You know one thing. You must know that that last day, when I kissed you, I did not think of this. I did not intend to go away then. That was all afterward. I had no idea of hurting or wronging you—not the slightest!
“I know this is incoherent. I read over what I have written and the lines get all jumbled up. Somehow it seems to mean nothing. And yet it means so much—oh, so horribly much!—to me.
“M.”
Daunt to Margaret.
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“Dearest:—Please, please let me reason with you. Don’t think me ungenerous; bear with me a little. I must make you see it my way! I cheat myself with such endless guessing. Can I have grieved you or disappointed you? Have I shocked those beautiful white ideals of yours in any way? If that walk on the shore had been a month ago, if we had been together since, I might believe this; but we have not. That was the last, and you loved me then! I brought my naked heart to you that afternoon—it had been yours for long!—and laid it in your hand. You took it and kissed me, and I went away without it. Have you weighed it in the balance and found it wanting? Do you doubt what it could give you? Dear, let it try!