What a very curious letter this is to write!—the most curious letter I think, that I have ever written to anyone, and a kind, of course, that—so long as I am successful in my plans!—I am likely never to be obliged to write a second time.I wish that I could make it very clever.
I wish you will not hate or pity me, for what I am about to do. There is a part of me that hates myself—that knows that this will bring disgrace on Mother, on Stephen and on Pris. I wish you will only regret my going from you, not cry out against the manner of it. I wish you will remember me with kindness, not with pain. Your pain will not help me, where I am going. But your kindness will help my mother, and my brother, as it helped them once before.
I wish that, if anyone should look for faults in this, then they will find them with me, with me and my queer nature, that set me so at odds with the world and all its ordinary rules, I could not find a place in it to live and be content. That this has always been true—well, you of course know that, better than anyone. But you cannot know the glimpses I have had, you cannot know there is another, dazzling place, that seems to welcome me! I have been led to it, Helen, by someone marvellous and strange. You won`t know this. They will tell you of her, and they will make her seem squalid and ordinary, they will turn my passion into something gross and wrong. You will know, that it is neither of those things. It is only love, Helen—only that.
I cannot live, and not be at her side!
Mother used to think me wilfu. She will think this wilfulness. But how could it be that? I am not willing this to happen, I am surrendering! I am giving up one life, to gain a new and better one. I am going far from here, as I was meant to—I think—always. I am
...hastening to get nearer to the sun, Where men sleep better.
I am glad for you, Helen, that my brother is kind.