August First | Page 8

out--all of us poor things would come out--into gloriousness
some time. I would hate to have queered myself, you know, by going
off at half-cock. But would it queer me? What do you know about it?
How can you tell? I might be put back a few laps--I'm not being
flippant, I simply don't know how to say it--and then, anyhow, I'd be
outside the "box," wouldn't I? And in the freedom--and I could catch up,
maybe. Yet, it might be the other way; I might have shown an
"unforgiveable contempt" for my life. Unforgiveable--by whom? You
say God forgives forever--well, I know He must, if He's a God worth
worshipping. So I don't know what you mean by "unforgiveable." And
you don't know if it's my "single, glorious chance" at life. How can you
know? On the other hand, I don't know but that it is--that's the risk, I
suppose--and it is a hideous risk. I suppose likely you mean that. You
see, when it gets down below Sunday-school lessons and tradition, I
don't know much what I do believe. I'd rather believe in God because
everything seems to fly to pieces in an uncomfortable way if one
doesn't. But is that any belief? As to "faith," that sounds rather
nonsense to me. What on earth is faith if it isn't shutting your eyes and
playing you believe what you really don't believe? Likely I'm an
idiot--I suspect that--but I'd gladly have it proved. And here I am away
off from the point and arguing about huge things that I can't even see
across, much less handle. I beg your pardon; I beg your pardon for all
the time I'm taking and the bother I'm making. Still, I'm going on living
till I get your next letter--I promise, as you ask. I'm glad to promise
because of the first letter, and of the glimpse down a vista, and the
breath of strange, fresh air it seemed to bring. I have an idea that I
stumbled on rather a wonderful person that day I missed the rector. Or
is it possibly just the real belief in a wonderful thing that shines through
you? But then, you're clever besides; I'm clever enough to know that.
Only, don't digress so; don't write a lot of lovely English about clocks
and getting up early. That's not to the point. That irritates me. I suppose

it's because you see things covered with sunlight and wonder, and you
just have to tell about it as you go along. All right, if you must. But if
you digress too much, I'll go and shoot, and that will finish the
correspondence.
Indeed I know that this is a most extraordinary and unconventional
letter to send a man whom I have seen once. But you are not human to
me; you are a spirit of the thunder-storm of August first. I cannot even
remember how you look. Your voice--I'd recognize that. It has a quality
of--what is it? Atmosphere, vibration, purity, roundness--no, I can't get
it. You see I may be unconventional, I may be impertinent, I may be
personal, because I am not a person, only Yours gratefully, AUGUST
FIRST.
FOREST GATE, August 10th.
MY DEAR MR. MCBIRNEY--
This is just a word to tell you that you must answer rather quickly, or I
might not keep my promise. Last night I was frightened; I had a
hideous evening. Alec was here--the man I'm to marry if nothing saves
me--and it was bad. He won't release me, and I won't break my word
unless he does. And after he was gone I went through a queer time; I
think a novel would call it an obsession. Almost without my will,
almost as if I were another person, I tried to get the pistol. And your
letter guarded it. My first personality couldn't lift your letter off to get
the pistol. Did you hypnotize me? It's like the queer things one reads in
psychological books. I couldn't get past that letter. Of course, I'm in
some strained, abnormal condition, and that's all, but send me another
letter, for if one is a barricade two should be a fortress. And I nearly
broke down the barricade; Number Two did, that is.
Is it hot in Warchester? It is so heavenly here this morning that I wish I
could send you a slice of it--coolness and birds singing and trees
rustling. I think of you going up and down tenement stairs in the
heat--and I know you hate heat--I took that in. This house stands in big
grounds and the lake, seventy-five miles long, you know, roars up on
the beach below it. I wish I could send you a slice. Write me,

please--and you so busy! I am a selfish person.