John had waited for the New Year by the cedar parlour fire. The room was so filled with the radiance of Amaryllis that he liked being there.
And he, too, was thinking of what their new life would be should he chance to come through. The ache in his heart would gradually subside, he supposed, but how would he bear the long years, knowing that Amaryllis was thinking of Denzil—and longing for him—and if fate made them meet—what then?
How could he endure to know that these two beings were suffering?
There seemed no clear outlook ahead. But, as he knew only too well death could hardly fail to intervene, and if it should claim Denzil, then he must console Amaryllis' grief. But if happily it could be he who were taken, then their future path would be clear.
He could not forget the third eventuality, that he and Denzil might both be killed. He thought and thought over them all, and at last he decided to add a letter to his will. If he should be killed he would ask Denzil to marry Amaryllis immediately, without waiting for the conventional year. The times were too strenuous, and she must not be left unprotected—alone with the child.
He got up and began the letter to his lawyer, and so the instructions ran:
"I request my cousin Denzil Benedict Ardayre to marry Amaryllis, my wife, as soon as possible after my death, if he can get leave and is still alive. I confide her to his care and ask them both not to let any conventional idea of mourning stand in the way of these, my urgent last commands. And I ask my cousin Denzil, if he lives through the war, to take great care of the bringing up of the child."
He read thus far, and when he came to "the child" he scratched it out and wrote "my child" deliberately, and then he went on to add his wishes for its education, should it be a boy. The will had already amply provided for Amaryllis, so that she would be a rich woman for the rest of her days.
When all this was clearly copied out and sealed up in an envelope addressed to his lawyer, the clock struck twelve.
The silence in the old house was complete; there was no revelry for the first time for many years, even the servants far off in their wing had gone to rest.