It covered six pages of note-paper,
in a small feminine hand. It was a letter Mary Isona had written to
her, Margaret Kempton, the night before she died, more than thirty
years ago. The writer recounted the many harsh circumstances of her
life; but they would all have been bearable, she said, save for one
great and terrible secret. She had fallen in love with a man who was
scarcely conscious of her existence; she, a little obscure Italian
music teacher, had fallen in love with Theodore Vellan. It was as if
she had fallen in love with an inhabitant of another planet: the
worlds they respectively belonged to were so far apart She loved
him--she loved him--and she knew her love was hopeless, and she could
not bear it. Oh, yes; she met him sometimes, here and there, at houses
she went to to play, to give lessons. He was civil to her: he was more
than civil--he was kind; he talked to her about literature and music.
'He is so gentle, so strong, so wise; but he has never thought of me
as a woman--a woman who could love, who could be loved. Why should he?
If the moth falls in love with the star, the moth must suffer.... I am
cowardly; I am weak; I am what you will; but I have more than I can
bear. Life is too hard--too hard. To-morrow I shall be dead. You will
be the only person to know why I died, and you will keep my secret.
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