What is she doing now, I wonder? Probably vanishing, lamp in hand, as I have often watched her, up the stair into her own wee room—where she shuts the door and remembers me.
Yes, remember me—but not with pain. Believe that I am happy—that whatever now befalls me, I shall always be happy.
Tell your father—No, tell him nothing. He surely knows all. Or he will know it—when, this life having passed away like a vapour, he and I stand together before the One God—who is also the Redeemer of sinners.
Write to me, but do not come and see me. Hitherto, your name has been kept clear out of everything; it must be still, at any sacrifice to both of us. I count on this from you. You know, you once said, laughing, you had already taken in your heart the marriage vow of “obedience,” if I chose to exact it.
I never did, but I do now. Unless I send for you—which I solemnly promise to do if illness or any other cause makes it necessary—obey me, your husband: do not come and see me.
Three months will pass quickly. Then? But let us not look forward.
My love, good-night.
Max Urquhart.