He went to her writing-table, and she followed him to light the little taper in its silver stand and to place the sealing wax before him when he had sat down. He melted it slowly and spread a broad patch upon the overlapping point of the envelope, working the wax neatly round and round till it stiffened, and then putting on more with a little flame, and working it over till the patch softened again.
‘Your seal is not ready,’ said Maria, glancing at the ring on his finger. ‘The wax will get cold.’
He said nothing, but when he was ready he took her own seal, which lay beside the taper-stand, and pressed it upon the wax. When he lifted it, there was a clear impression of Maria’s simple monogram, the doubled letter that began both her names, encircled by a little belt, on which were engraved the words ‘Risurgi e Vinci’—meaning ‘Rise again and overcome.’ They are from the Paradiso of Dante.
Once more her eyes grew dim with gratitude, for she knew what he meant by using her seal; there was not to be even the possibility of a doubt in her mind that he might ever open the packet.
He took her pen and wrote on the back, in his stiff and formal handwriting.
‘In case of my death, to be given to my wife at once.’
‘Then you will burn it, my dear,’ he said, showing her what he had written.
As she stood beside him her hand pressed hard upon his thin shoulder, for she was very much touched. He looked up, smiling, slipped the sealed envelope into his pocket and rose.
‘That is done,’ he said, ‘and we need never think of it again.’
‘You know what I feel,’ she answered softly. ‘I cannot say it.’