When I heard your voice on the ’phone this morning, telling me what had
happened, I didn’t know how to believe it. It all seemed so strange. And
when I hung the receiver up, I had to pinch myself to be sure it wasn’t
a dream. I went upstairs, and there was the girl in her dressing-gown on
the landing. She must have been hanging over the stairs, for she said,
“Oh, ma’am. Whatever’s happened? I heard the telephone a-ringing and
looked out and heard you talking. Has there been an accident, ma’am?” I
said, “Yes; a dreadful accident. Mr. Harrison’s dead.” She stared at me,
and I said, “He’s poisoned himself with eating some of those nasty
toadstools.” She began to cry, “I knew he would! Oh, ma’am, what an
awful thing. Such a nice gentleman as he was.” That seemed to make it
real, somehow. “A nice gentleman”—well, she wasn’t married to him. She
couldn’t know how I was feeling. That was just as well, wasn’t it,
Petra? She hung about and brought me some tea, sniffing and sobbing over
it. I couldn’t say anything, but that was all right. She thought I was
stunned with grief, I suppose. I did feel stunned. I can’t realise, even
now—though I’ve just seen it in the paper. Fancy that! People keep on
calling, but I’ve said I can’t see them. I want to be alone with my
freedom.
Oh, Petra—didn’t I tell you that God was on our side? Our love is so
beautiful, so _right_—He had to make a miracle happen to save it. Isn’t
it wonderful—without our doing anything at all! That shows how right it
was. I am so glad, now, that we didn’t do anything of the terrible
things we thought about. It would have been so dangerous—and we
might—I don’t know—we might have wondered afterwards. It would have
been like living over a volcano. And now, Heaven has stepped in and made
everything all right for ever and ever.
How glad I am you weren’t there when it happened. That seems like a
special providence, too, doesn’t it? Because you would have had to go
for a doctor, and then he might have recovered. And besides people might
have thought you had something to do with it—if they ever found out
about you and me, I mean. Doesn’t it seem like a judgment on him, Petra?
And I used to be so angry about his cooking and his toadstool book and
everything—and all the while he was digging a pit for himself to fall
into, like the wicked man in the Bible! It was all planned out from the
beginning, to set us free for our beautiful life together. What was that
thing people used to say—something in Latin about when God wishes to
destroy anybody He first makes him mad. He _was_ mad about the
toadstools and things, you know. Sometimes, when he had those dreadful
fits of temper, I used to think he was really and truly mad. I was
afraid of him then, but I see now there was nothing to be afraid of. It
was all meant to help us in the end.
And Petra—that other thing I was afraid of—you know—it’s all right!
Nothing is going to happen! It was just a mistake. Isn’t that splendid?
Because now we shan’t have to get married in such a hurry. That might
have made people talk, you know. We only have to wait a little bit
now—just a little patience, my sweetheart, and then—oh, Petra! Think
of the happiness! Everything has come right at once, hasn’t it, my
darling? All the clouds cleared away and the sun shining.
Well, now, darling—you won’t mind if I talk just a little bit of
business? It seems horrid to think of it, when our love ought to be the
one thing in our minds, but we must be a little bit practical. Of
course, I had to send for the lawyer this morning and he showed me the
will. There will be about £15,000 when it is all cleared up. Half of
this goes to his son, Paul, straight away, and I get the other half for
my lifetime, after which it would all go to my children—his and
mine—that is, if there were any, and failing them, it goes to Paul when
I die. So you see, I shall only be bringing you a small income, dear,
but you are making money now, so we shan’t be so badly off, shall we?
It’s funny—I suppose if you and I had really had a child, the law would
have presumed it was _his_ (think of that!), and then it would have
inherited the money! But I think perhaps it is better as it is. It might
not have seemed quite honourable to profit by anything that wasn’t quite
true, and I should like to feel that everything about our love was
absolutely clear and honourable, and that we had nothing to reproach
ourselves about. Of course, narrow-minded people might think our love
itself was wicked—but one can’t help loving, can one, darling? One
might as well tell the sun not to rise. Because you and I belong to one
another, and nothing in all the world can alter that. So you won’t mind
about the money, will you, Petra? I was afraid he might have made some
mean condition about my not marrying again, but I suppose he didn’t
think of that.
You will have to stay for the inquest, of course. Shall I have to go? I
don’t like the idea of standing up with everybody looking at me.
Besides, I can’t tell them anything, can I? Do you think he ought to be
buried down there or brought back to London? I want to do whatever you
think would look right. I have cabled to Paul, but he is so far away in
the wilds, I don’t know whether I shall get an answer in time. All these
things are so absurd and hateful. We surround death with such a lot of
hypocrisy and formality. It ought to be made just simple and beautiful,
like the leaves falling. I shall have to order mourning and a widow’s
veil—think of wearing black clothes when one is happy. I should like a
robe made of the rainbow—I’m wearing it in my heart, darling—all for
you!
Write quickly, dearest, and tell me what to do. And tell me that you are
as glad as I am and that you love me, love me, love me as I love you!