Your loving
Mina
Tell me all the news when you write. You have
not told me anything for a long time. I hear
rumours, and especially of a tall, handsome, curly-haired
man???
17, Chatham Street
Wednesday
My dearest Mina,
I must say you tax me very unfairly with being a bad
correspondent. I wrote you twice since we parted,
and your last letter was only your second. Besides,
I have nothing to tell you. There is really
nothing to interest you.
Town is very pleasant just now, and we go a great
deal to picture-galleries and for walks and rides
in the park. As to the tall, curly-haired man,
I suppose it was the one who was with me at the last
Pop. Someone has evidently been telling tales.
That was Mr. Holmwood. He often comes to see
us, and he and Mamma get on very well together, they
have so many things to talk about in common.
We met some time ago a man that would just do for
you, if you were not already engaged to Jonathan.
He is an excellent parti, being handsome, well off,
and of good birth. He is a doctor and really
clever. Just fancy! He is only nine-and
twenty, and he has an immense lunatic asylum all under
his own care. Mr. Holmwood introduced him to
me, and he called here to see us, and often comes
now. I think he is one of the most resolute men
I ever saw, and yet the most calm. He seems
absolutely imperturbable. I can fancy what a
wonderful power he must have over his patients.
He has a curious habit of looking one straight in
the face, as if trying to read one’s thoughts.
He tries this on very much with me, but I flatter
myself he has got a tough nut to crack. I know
that from my glass.
Do you ever try to read your own face? I do,
and I can tell you it is not a bad study, and gives
you more trouble than you can well fancy if you have
never tried it.
He says that I afford him a curious psychological
study, and I humbly think I do. I do not, as
you know, take sufficient interest in dress to be
able to describe the new fashions. Dress is a
bore. That is slang again, but never mind.
Arthur says that every day.
There, it is all out, Mina, we have told all our secrets
to each other since we were children. We have
slept together and eaten together, and laughed and
cried together, and now, though I have spoken, I would
like to speak more. Oh, Mina, couldn’t
you guess? I love him. I am blushing as
I write, for although I think he loves me, he has
not told me so in words. But, oh, Mina, I love
him. I love him! There, that does me good.
I wish I were with you, dear, sitting by the fire
undressing, as we used to sit, and I would try to
tell you what I feel. I do not know how I am
writing this even to you. I am afraid to stop,
or I should tear up the letter, and I don’t
want to stop, for I do so want to tell you all.
Let me hear from you at once, and tell me all that
you think about it. Mina, pray for my happiness.
