; do you tell me it is Nature to come to you in spite of everything,
and so, that it must be right? I think you would; but can it be Nature
to do something which will hurt terribly one whom I love and who loves
me? If it is--Nature is cruel. Is that one of the 'lessons of life'?
Is that what Aunt Constance means when she says: 'If life were not
a paradox, we could not get on at all'? I am beginning to see that
everything has its dark side; I never believed that before.

"Uncle Nic dreads the life for me; he doesn't understand (how should
he?--he has always had money) how life can be tolerable without
money--it is horrible that the accident of money should make such
difference in our lives. I am sometimes afraid myself, and I can't
outface that fear in him; he sees the shadow of his fear in me--his eyes
seem to see everything that is in me now; the eyes of old people are the
saddest things in the world. I am writing like a wretched coward, but
you will never see this letter I suppose, and so it doesn't matter; but
if you do, and I pray that you may--well, if I am only worth taking at
my best, I am not worth taking at all. I want you to know the worst of
me--you, and no one else.

"With Uncle Nic it is not as with my stepfather; his opposition only
makes me angry, mad, ready to do anything, but with Uncle Nic I feel so
bruised--so sore. He said: 'It is not so much the money, because there
is always mine.' I could never do a thing he cannot bear, and take his
money, and you would never let me. One knows very little of anything in
the world till trouble comes. You know how it is with flowers and trees;
in the early spring they look so quiet and self-contained; then all in a
moment they change--I think it must be like that with the heart. I used
to think I knew a great deal, understood why and how things came about;
I thought self-possession and reason so easy; now I know nothing. And
nothing in the world matters but to see you and hide away from that look
in Uncle Nic's eyes. Three months ago I did not know you, now I write
like this. Whatever I look at, I try to see as you would see; I feel,
now you are away even more than when you were with me, what your
thoughts would be, how you would feel about this or that. Some things
you have said seem always in my mind like lights--"

A slanting drift of rain was striking the veranda tiles with a cold,
ceaseless hissing. Christian shut the window, and went into her uncle's
room.