at she wrote is all I need read to
you:

"I could not, at first, be certain that this was meant for me. If I
were to explain to you why I have not written for so long a time, I
might give you one of the few clews which I insist on keeping in my own
hands. In your public capacity, you have been (so far as a woman may
judge) upright, independent, wholly manly: in your relations with other
men I learn nothing of you that is not honorable: toward women you are
kind, chivalrous, no doubt, overflowing with the _usual_ social
refinements, but--Here, again, I run hard upon the absolute necessity
of silence. The way to me, if you care to traverse it, is so simple, so
very simple! Yet, after what I have written, I can not even wave my
hand in the direction of it, without certain self-contempt. When I feel
free to tell you, we shall draw apart and remain unknown forever.

"You desire to write? I do not prohibit it. I have heretofore made no
arrangement for hearing from you, in turn, because I could not discover
that any advantage would accrue from it. But it seems only fair, I
confess, and you dare not think me capricious. So, three days hence, at
six o'clock in the evening, a trusty messenger of mine will call at
your door. If you have anything to give her for me, the act of giving
it must be the sign of a compact on your part that you will allow her
to leave immediately, unquestioned and unfollowed."

You look puzzled, I see: you don't catch the real drift of her words?
Well, that's a melancholy encouragement. Neither did I, at the time: it
was plain that I had disappointed her in some way, and my intercourse
with or manner toward women had something to do with it. In vain I ran
over as much of my later social life as I could recall. There had been
no special attention, nothing to mislead a susceptible heart; on the
other side, certainly no rudeness, no want of "chivalrous" (she used
the word!) respect and attention. What, in the name of all the gods,
was the matter?

In spite of all my efforts to grow clearer, I was obliged to write my
letter in a rather muddled state of mind. I had _so_ much to say!
sixteen folio pages, I was sure, would only suffice for an introduction
to the case; yet, when the creamy vellum lay before me and the moist
pen drew my fingers toward it, I sat stock dumb for half an hour. I
wrote, finally, in a half-desperate mood, without regard to coherency
or logic. Here's a rough draft of a part of the le