These messages are erratic--fitful. I have now waited for weeks for a
renewal of these strange communications and there is nothing. But in the
midst of this, a distracting love for you seems to unnerve and torment
me. I beg you to wait until those days may come when I can show you all
the devotion I yearn now to give you, but must not, for every moment
that voice may reach me from beyond the grave, and I would be recreant
to the most sacred obligations, and deep responsibilities that seem now
to shape themselves before me, to our common humanity, if I forfeited an
instant of inattention. I beg you to remember all this and wait, wait,
until the depthless power of my love for you can be made clear."
I would have sunk upon my knees in the abasement and passion of my
desire for her, had she not suddenly drawn me to her, flung her arms
about my neck and placed her head where--well, I am no connoisseur in
love scenes--but that day Agnes Dodan, without a syllable of sound gave
her heart to me.
We passed back in silence, and when she left me the fluttering
handkerchief that had so often waved back its salutation on the winding
distant road was now in my hands, and its signals sent by me came to her
from the plateau. It was the simple pledge of our mutual love, a pledge
that even now as I prepare these last pages of a manuscript that is a
testament to the world, soothes my pain and renews the happiness of that
day, forever and forever lost.
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