The Kempton-Wace Letters

piness. It is not what you do; it is the motive to your acts, and Hester would know that she has left you unmoved. You re­spect the function of motherhood, but you do not love Hester. Tell her this, and prevent her from entering a union in which she must feel herself half useful, half wifely, half happy, and therefore all unhappy.

drives far. I looked upon the days that came tripping toward you out of the blue-white horizon of time and saw them gray for a dear woman, gray and silent as the tomb over a dead love, and heavy hearted for a man who is my son.

me. I am glad I walked to-day. The view from the hills was beautiful. (You see I am not unhappy!) I stood on a rock and looked about me, thinking of you, of Barbara, – I feel I know her, – and of Herbert. He and I had often come to these spots. Oh, the hungry memories! Yet what were we but a young man and a young woman, who, without being battered into apa­thy by misfortune, without being wearied or ill, were taking each other for better or for worse because they seemed com­patible? We were doing just that, to Herbert’s certain knowl­edge! I failed him; he hoped for more complaisance. Marriage is a hazard, Mr. Kempton, confess it is, and a man does much when he binds himself to make a woman the mother of his children – nay, the grandmother of theirs, even that. What else and what more? I would never have been wholly in my husband’s life, comrade and fellow to it. Herbert knew this clearly, and I vaguely but I acted with clearness on my vague­ness. It was hard to do. It has left me breathless and a little afraid to be myself, – as if I had killed a dear thing, – and tear­ful, too, and spasmodic for your sympathy and sanction.