To others it may be but the tenth of January. To me
it is the day of days. Oh, tenth of January! Oh, Monday. Oh, day of my
awakning!
It is now late at night, and around me my schoolmates are sleeping the
sleep of the young and Heart free. Lights being off, I am writing by the
faint luminocity of a candle. Propped up in bed, my mackinaw coat over
my ROBE DE NUIT for warmth, I sit and dream. And as I dream I still hear
in my ears his final words: "My darling. My woman!"
How wonderfull to have them said to one Night after Night, the while
being in his embrase, his tender arms around one! I refer to the heroine
in the play, to whom he says the above raptureous words.
Coming home from the theater tonight, still dazed with the revelation of
what I am capable of, once aroused, I asked Miss Everett if her couzin
had said anything about Mr. Egleston being in love with the Leading
Character. She observed:
"No. But he may be. She is very pretty."
"Possably," I remarked. "But I should like to see her in the morning,
when she gets up."
All the girls were perfectly mad about Mr. Egleston, although pretending
merely to admire his Art. But I am being honest, as I agreed at the
start, and now I know, as I sit here with the soft, although chilly
breeses of the night blowing on my hot brow, now I know that this thing
that has come to me is Love. Morover, it is the Love of my Life. He will
never know it, but I am his. He is exactly my Ideal, strong and tall and
passionate.
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