God forgive me if I murmur! I am not young; my life is slipping away—my life, which is owed. Oh! that I might live long enough to teach her to say, “Max, I love you!”
Enough. The last minutes of this year—this blessed year! shall not be wasted in moans.
Already the streets are growing quiet. People do not seem to keep this festival here as we do, north of the Tweed; they think more of Christmas. Most likely she will have forgotten all about the day, and be peacefully sleeping the old year out and the new year in—this little English girl. Well, I am awake, and that will do for both.
My letter to Treherne—could you have seen it? I suppose you did. It made no excuses for not coming at Christmas, because I intended to come and see you as to-morrow.
I mean to wish you a happy New Year, on this, the first since I knew you, since I was aware of there being such a little creature existing in the world.
Also, I mean to come and see you every New Year, if possible. The word possible, implying so far as my own will can control circumstances. I desire to see you; it is life to me to see you, and see you I will. Not often, for I dare not, but as often as I dare. And—for I have faith in anniversaries, always on the anniversary of the day I first saw you, and on New Year's Day.
One—two—three; I waited for the clock to cease striking, and now all the bells are ringing from every church-tower. Is this an English custom? I must ask you tomorrow, that is, to-day, for it is morning—it is the New Year.
My day-dawn, my gift of God, my little English girl, a happy New Year!
Max Urquhart.