muring avenue treads the vision of a dryad, a woman; and as
she moves the waving boughs bend down and whisper: "Jessica, sweet
Jessica, he loves you; and when our leaves appear and all things awake
into life, he will come to gather your sweetness unto himself."

.la begin XLII

JESSICA TO PHILIP

MY DEAR MR. TOWERS:

It seems unnatural for me to address you in this manner--as if I had cast
off the dearer part of myself by the formality. But no other course is
open to me after what has happened.

After praying and fasting till I really feared for his reason, father
thinks he received a direct answer from Heaven concerning his duty toward
us. He declares it has been made absolutely clear to him that if he
deliberately gives his daughter in marriage to one who will corrupt and
destroy her soul with "heathen mysticism," his own must pay the forfeit,
and not only is his personal damnation imminent, but his ministry will
become as sounding brass and tinkling cymbals of insincerity. He is
entirely convinced of the divine inspiration of this revelation, and I am
sure madness would follow any resistance I might make. I have therefore
been obliged to promise him that I will break our engagement and end this
correspondence, and I beg that you will not make it harder for me by any
protest, either in person or letter. No appeal can ever be made against a
fanatic's decision, because it is based not upon reason, but upon
superstition, a sort of spiritual insanity that becomes violent when
opposed.

And father insists upon keeping Jack for the same reason he preserves me
from your corrupting influence. He thinks the boy is another little brand
he has snatched from your burning. And I hope you will consent to his
remaining with us, for he is a great comfort now to my sad heart. He will
write to you, of course, for father cannot but recognise that you have in
a way a prior authority over him.

Nothing more is to be said now that I have the right to say. I have tried
to take refuge in the biologist's definition of love,--that it is
essentially a fleeting emotion, a phantom experience. It is like the
blossoms in May; to-day they are all about us, making the whole earth an
epic in colours, to-morrow they are scattered in the dust, lost in the
gale. Just so I try to wish that I may lose some memories, some tenderness
out of my heart. But I have not the strength yet to take leave of all my
glory and happiness, nor can I say that I wis