"You are spoiled by the world," Blanche wrote; "you do not love your
poor Blanche as she would be loved, or you would not offer thus
lightly to take her or leave her. No, Arthur, you love me not--a man
of the world, you have given me your plighted troth, and are ready to
redeem it; but that entire affection, that love whole and abiding,
where--where is that vision of my youth? I am but a pastime of your
life, and I would be its all;--but a fleeting thought, and I would be
your whole soul. I would have our two hearts one; but ah, my Arthur,
how lonely yours is! how little you give me of it! You speak of our
parting, with a smile on your lip; of our meeting, and you care not to
hasten it! Is life but a disillusion, then, and are the flowers of our
garden faded away? I have wept--I have prayed--I have passed sleepless
hours--I have shed bitter, bitter tears over your letter! To you I
bring the gushing poesy of my being--the yearnings of the soul that
longs to be loved--that pines for love, love, love, beyond all!--that
flings itself at your feet, and cries, Love me, Arthur! Your heart
beats no quicker at the kneeling appeal of my love!--your proud eye is
dimmed by no tear of sympathy!--you accept my soul's treasure as
though 'twere dross! not the pearls from the unfathomable deeps of
affection! not the diamonds from the caverns of the heart.
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