|Here, between the locked leaves of my journal, I keep the first
letter I ever had from Max.
It came early in the morning, the morning after that evening which
will always seem to us two, I think, something like what we read of,
that “the evening and the morning were the first day.” It was indeed
like the first day of a new world.
When the letter arrived, I was still fast asleep, for I had not gone
and lain awake all night, which, under the circumstances, (as I told
Max) it was a young lady's duty to have done: I only laid my head down
with a feeling of ineffable rest--rest in heaven's kindness, which
had brought all things to this end--and rest in his love, from which
nothing could ever thrust me, and in the thought of which I went to
sleep, as safe as a tired child; knowing I should be safe for all my
life long, with him--my Max--my husband.
“Lover” was a word that did not seem to suit him--grave as he was,
and so much older than I: I never expected from him anything like the
behaviour of a lover--indeed, should hardly like to see him in that
character; it would not look natural. But from the hour he said, “Is
this my wife?” I have ever and only thought of him as “my husband.”
My dear Max! Here is his letter--which lay before my eyes in the dim
dawn; it did not come by post--he must have left it himself: and the
maid brought it in; no doubt thinking it a professional epistle. And
I take great credit to myself for the composed matter-of-fact way in
which I said “it was all right, and there was no answer,” put down my
letter, and made believe to go to sleep again.
Let me laugh--it is not wrong; and I laugh still as much as ever I
can; it is good for me and good for Max. He says scarcely anything in
the world does him so much good as to see me merry.
It felt very strange at first to open his letter and see my name
written in his hand.
_Saturday night_.
My dear Theodora,
|I do not say “dearest,” because there is no one to put in comparison
with you: you are to me the one woman in the world.
My dear Theodora;--let me write it over again to assure myself that it
may be written at all, which perhaps it ought not to be till you have
read this letter.
Last night I left you so soon, or it seemed soon, and we said so
little, that I never told you some things which you ought to have been
made aware of at once; even before you were allowed to answer that
question of mine. Forgive me. In my own defence let me say, that when
I visited you yesterday, I meant only to have the sight of you--the
comfort of your society--all I hoped or intended to win for years to
come. But I was shaken out of all self-control--first by the terror of
losing you, and then by a look in your sweet eyes. You know! It was to
be, and it was. Theodora--gift of God!--may He bless you for shewing,
just for that one moment, what there was in your heart towards me.
My feelings towards you, you can guess--a little: the rest you must
believe in. I cannot write about them..
The object of this letter is to tell you something which you ought to
be told before I see you again.
You may remember my once saying it was not likely I should ever marry.
Such, indeed, was long my determination, and the reason was this. When
I was a mere boy--just before Dallas died--there happened to me an
event so awful, both in itself and its results, that it changed my
whole character, darkened my life, turned me from a lively, careless,
high-spirited lad, into a morbid and miserable man, whose very
existence was a burthen to him for years. And though gradually, thank
God! I recovered from this state, so as not to have an altogether
useless life; still I never was myself again--never knew happiness,
till I knew you. You came to me as unforeseen a blessing as if you
had fallen from the clouds: first you interested, then you cheered me,
then, in various ways, you brought light into my darkness, hope to my
despair. And then I loved you.
The same cause, which I cannot now fully explain, because I must first
take a journey, but you shall know everything within a week or ten
days--the same cause which has oppressed my whole life prevented my
daring to win you. I always believed that a man circumstanced as I
was, had no right ever to think of marriage. Some words of yours led
me of late to change this opinion. I resolved, at some future time, to
lay my whole history before you--as to a mere friend--to ask you the
question whether or not, under the circumstances, I was justified in
seeking any woman for my wife, and on your answer to decide either to
try and make you love me, or only to love you, as I should have loved
and shall for ever.
What I then meant to tell you is still to be told. I do not dread the
revelation as I once did: all things seem different to me.
I am hardly the same man that I was twelve hours ago. Twelve hours
ago I had never told you what you are to me--never had you in my
arms--never read the love in your dear eyes--oh, child, do not ever be
afraid or ashamed of letting me see you love me, unworthy as I am.
If you had not loved me, I should have drifted away into perdition--I
mean, I might have lost myself altogether, so far as regards this
world.
That is not likely now. You will save me, and I shall be so happy that
I shall be able to make you happy. We will never be two again--only
one. Already you feel like a part of me: and it seems as natural to
write to you thus as if you had been mine for years. Mine. Some day
you will find out all that is sealed up in the heart of a man of my
age and of my disposition--when the seal is once broken.
Since, until I have taken my journey I cannot speak to your father, it
seems right that my next visit to you should be only that of a friend.
Whether after having read this letter, which at once confesses so much
and so little, you think me worthy even of that title, your first look
will decide. I shall find out, without need of your saying one word.
I shall probably come on Monday, and then not again; to meet you
only as a friend, used to be sufficiently hard; to meet you with this
uncertainty overhanging me, would be all but impossible. Besides,
honour to your father compels this absence and silence, until my
explanations are made.
Will you forgive me? Will you trust me? I think you will.
I hope you have minded my “orders,” rested all evening and retired
early? I hope on Monday I may see a rose on your cheeks--a tiny,
delicate, winter-rose? That poor little thin cheek, it grieves my
heart. You _must_ get strong.
If by your manner you show that this letter has changed your opinion
of me, that you desire yesterday to be altogether forgotten, I shall
understand it, and obey.
Remember, whatever happens, whether you are ever my own or not, that
you are the only woman I ever wished for my wife; the only one I shall
ever marry.
Yours,
Max. Urquhart.
I read his letter many times over.
Then I rose and dressed myself, carefully, as if it had been my
marriage morning. He loved me; I was the only woman he had ever wished
for his wife. It was in truth my marriage morning.
Coming downstairs, Mrs. Granton met me, all delight at my having risen
so soon.
“Such an advance! we must be sure and tell Dr. Urquhart. By the bye,
did he not leave a note or message early this morning?”
“Yes; he will probably call on Monday.”
She looked surprised that I did not produce the note, but made no
remark. And I, two days before, I should have been scarlet and
tongue-tied; but now things were quite altered. I was his chosen, his
wife; there was neither hypocrisy nor deceit in keeping a secret
between him and me. We belonged to one another, and the rest of the
world had nothing to do with us.
Nevertheless, my heart felt running over with tenderness towards
the dear old lady;--as it did towards my father and my sisters, and
everything belonging to me in this wide world. When Mrs. Granton went
to church, I sat for a long time in the west parlour, reading the
Bible, all alone; at least as much alone as I ever can be in this world
again, after knowing that Max loves me.
It being such an exceedingly mild and warm day--wonderful for the
first day of February, an idea came into my head, which was indeed
strictly according to “orders;” only I never yet had had the courage
to obey. Now, I thought I would. It would please him so, and Mrs.
Granton too.
So I put on my out-door gear, and actually walked, all by myself,
to the hill-top, a hundred yards or more. There I sat down on the
familiar bench, and looked round on the well-known view. Ah me! for
how many years and under how many various circumstances, have I come
and sat on that bench and looked at that view!
It was very beautiful to-day, though almost death-like in its
supernatural sunshiny calm: such as one only sees in these accidental
fine days which come in early winter, or sometimes as a kind of
spectral anti-type of spring. Such utter stillness, everywhere. The
sole thing that seemed alive or moving in the whole landscape was a
wreath of grey smoke, springing from some invisible cottage behind
the fir-wood, and curling away upwards till if lost itself in the opal
air. Hill, moorland, wood and sky, lay still as a picture, and fair as
the Land of Beulah, the Celestial Country. It would hardly have been
strange to see spirits walking there, or to have turned and found
sitting on the bench beside me, my mother and my halfbrother Harry,
who died so long ago, and whose faces in the Celestial country I shall
first recognise.
My mother.--Never till now did I feel the want of her. It seems only
her--only a mother--to whom I could tell, “Max loves me--I am going to
be Max's wife.”
And Harry--poor Harry, whom also I never knew--whose life was so
wretched, and whose death so awful; he might have been a better man,
if he had only known my Max. I am forgetting, though, how old he would
have been now; and how Max must have been a mere boy when my brother
died.
I do not often think of Harry. It would be hardly natural that I
should; all happened so long ago that his memory has never been
more than a passing shadow across the family lives. But to-day, when
everyone of my own flesh and blood seemed to grow nearer to me, I
thought of him more than once; tried to recall the circumstances
of his dreadful end; and then to think of him only as a glorified,
purified spirit, walking upon those hills of Beulah. Perhaps now
looking down upon me, “baby” that was, whom he was once reported, in
one of his desperate visits home, to have snatched out of the cradle
and kissed; knowing all that had lately happened to me, and wishing me
a happy life with my dear Max.
I took out Max's letter, and read it over again, in the sunshine and
open air.
O the happiness of knowing that one can make another happy--entirely
happy! O how good I ought to grow!
For the events which have caused him so much pain, and which he has
yet to tell papa and me--they did not weigh much on my mind. Probably
there is no family in which there is not some such painful revelation
to be made; we also have to tell him about poor Harry. But these
things are purely accidental and external. His fear that I should
“change my opinion of him” made me smile. “Max,” I said, out loud,
addressing myself to the neighbouring heather-bush, which might be
considered a delicate compliment to the land where he was born, “Oh,
Max, what nonsense you do talk!' While you are you, and I am myself,
you and I are one.”
Descending the hill-top, I pressed all these my happy thoughts deep
down into my heart, covered them up, and went back in the world again.
Mrs. Granton and I spent a quiet day; the quieter, that I afterwards
paid for my feats on the hill-top by hours of extreme exhaustion.
It was my own folly, I told her, and tried to laugh at it, saying, I
should be better to-morrow.
But many a time the thought came, what if I should not be better
to-morrow, nor any to-morrow? What if, after all, I should have to go
away and leave him with no one to make him happy? And then I learned
how precious life had grown, and tasted, in degree, what is meant by
“the bitterness of death.”
But it did not last. And by this I know that our love is holy: that I
can now think of either his departure or my own, without either terror
or despair. I know that even death itself can never part Max and me.
Monday came. I was really better, and went about the house with Mrs.
Granton all the forenoon. She asked me what time Doctor Urquhart had
said he should be here; with various other questions about him. All
of which I answered without confusion or hesitation; it seemed as if
I had now belonged to him for a long time. But when, at last, his
ring came to the hall-door, all the blood rushed to my heart, and back
again into my face--and Mrs. Granton saw it.
What was I to do? to try and “throw dust” into those keen, kind eyes,
to tell or act a falsehood, as if I were ashamed of myself or him? I
could not. So I simply sat silent, and let her think what she chose.
Whatever she thought, the good old lady said nothing. She sighed--ah,
it went to my conscience that sigh--and yet I had done no wrong either
to her or Colin; then, making some excuse, she slipped out of the
room, and the four walls only beheld Max and me when we met.
After we had shaken hands, we sat down in silence. Then I asked him
what he had been doing with himself all yesterday, and he told me he
had spent it with the poor Ansdells.
“They wished this, and I thought it was best to go.”
“Yes; I am very glad you went.”
Doctor Urquhart (of course I shall go on calling him “Doctor
Urquhart,” to people in general; nobody but me has any business with
his Christian name), Doctor Urquhart looked at me and smiled; then he
began telling me about these friends of his; and how brokenhearted
the old mother was, having lost both daughters in a few months--did
I remember the night of the camp concert, and young Ansdell who sung
there?
I remembered some young man being called for, as Doctor Urquhart
wanted him.
“Yes--I had to summon him home; his eldest sister had suddenly died.
Only a cold and fever--such as you yourself might have caught that
night--you thoughtless girl. You little knew how angry you made me.”
“Did I? Something was amiss with you--I did not know what--but I saw
it in your looks.”
“Could you read my looks even then, little lady?”
It was idle to deny it--and why should I, when it made him happy?
Radiantly happy his face was now--the sharp lines softened, the
wrinkles smoothed out. He looked ten years younger; ah! I am glad I am
only a girl still; in time I shall actually make him young.
Here, the hall-bell sounded--and though visitors are never admitted
to this special little parlour, still Max turned restless, and said he
must go.
“Why?”
He hesitated--then said hastily:--
“I will tell you the truth; I am happier out of your sight than in it,
just at present.”
I made no answer.
“To-night, I mean to start--on that journey I told you of.” Which was
to him a very painful one, I perceived.
“Go then, and get it over. You will come back to me soon.”
“God grant it.” He was very much agitated.
The only woman he had ever wished for his wife. This, I was. And
I felt like a wife. Talk of Penelope's long courtship--Lisabel's
marriage--it was I that was, in heart and soul, the real _wife_; ay,
though Max and I were never more to one another than now; though I
lived as Theodora Johnston to the end of my days.
So I took courage--and since it was not allowed me to comfort him
in any other way, I just stole my hand inside his, which clasped
instantly and tightly round it. That was all, and that was enough.
Thus we sat side by side, when the door opened--and in walked papa.
How strangely the comic and the serious are mixed up together in life,
and even in one's own nature. While writing this, I have gone off into
a hearty fit of laughter, at the recollection of papa's face when he
saw us sitting there.
Though at the time it was no laughing matter. For a moment he was dumb
with astonishment--then he said severely:--
“Doctor Urquhart, I suppose I must conclude--indeed, I can only
conclude one thing. But you might have spoken to me, before addressing
yourself to my daughter.”
Max did not answer immediately--when he did, his voice absolutely made
me start.
“Sir, I have been very wrong--but I will make amends--you shall know
all. Only first--as my excuse,” here he spoke out passionately, and
told papa all that I was to him, all that we were to one another.
Poor papa! it must have reminded him of his own young days--I have
heard he was very fond of his first wife, Harry's mother--for when
I hung about his neck, mine were not the only tears. He held out his
hand to Max.
“Doctor, I forgive you; and there is not a man alive on whom I would
so gladly bestow this little girl, as you.”
And here Max tried me--as I suppose people not yet quite familiar will
be sure to try one another at first. Without saying a word, or even
accepting papa's hand, he walked straight out of the room.
It was not right--even if he were ever so much unnerved; why should he
be too proud to show it? and it might have seriously offended papa.
I softened matters as well as I could, by explaining that he had not
wished to ask me of papa till a week hence, when he should be able
fully to enter into his circumstances.
“My dear,” papa interrupted, “go and tell him he may communicate
them at whatever time he chooses. When such a man as Doctor Urquhart
honestly comes and asks me for my daughter, you may be sure the very
last question I should ask him, would be about his circumstances.”
With my heart brimful at papa's kindness, I went to explain this to
Max. I found him alone in the library, standing motionless at the
window. I touched him on the arm, with some silly coquettish speech
about how he could think of letting me run after him in this fashion.
He turned round.
“Oh, Max, what is the matter? Oh, Max!--” I could say no more.
“My child!”--He soothed me by calling me that and several other fond
names, but all these things are between him and me alone.--“Now,
good-bye. I must bid you good-bye at once.”
I tried to make him understand there was no necessity--that papa
desired to hear nothing, only wished him to stay with us till evening.
That indeed, looking as wretched as he did, I could not and would not
let him go. But in vain.
“I cannot stay. I cannot be a hypocrite. Do not ask it. Let me go--oh!
my child, let me go.”
And he might have gone--being very obstinate, and not in the least
able to see what is good for him or for me either--had it not
fortunately happened that, overpowered with the excitement of the last
ten minutes, my small strength gave way. I felt myself falling--tried
to save 'myself by catching hold of Max's arm, and fell. When I awoke,
I was lying on the sofa, with papa and Mrs. Gran-ton beside me..
Also Max--though I did not at first see him. He had taken his rights,
or they had been tacitly yielded to him; I do not know how it was, but
my head was on my betrothed husband's breast.
So he stayed. Nobody asked any questions, and he himself explained
nothing. He only sat by me, all afternoon, taking care of me, watching
me with his eyes of love--the love that is to last me my whole life. I
know it will.
Therefore, in the evening, it was I who was the first to say, “Now,
Max, you must go.
“You are quite better?”
“Yes, and it is almost dark--it will be very dark across the moors.
You must go.”
He rose, and shook hands mechanically with papa and Mrs. Granton. He
was going to do the same by me, but I loosed my hands and clasped them
round his neck. I did not care for what anybody might say or think; he
was mine and I was his--they were all welcome to know it. And I
wished him to know and feel that, through everything, and in spite of
everything, I--his own--loved him and would love him to the last.
So he went away.
That is more than a week ago, and I have had no letter; but he did not
say he would write. He would rather come, I think. Thus, any moment I
may hear his ring at the door.
They--papa and Penelope--think I take things quietly. Penelope,
indeed, hardly believes I care for him at all! But they do not know;
oh, Max, they do not know! _You_ know, or you will know, some day.