THE BLOW FALLS
In October, during the second autumn of their married life, the blow
fell.
A letter came from David; very clear, very concise, very much to the
point; written in ink, in his small neat writing.
"MY DEAR WIFE--" wrote David, "I hope you will try to
understand what I am about to write and not think, for a
moment, that I under-value the pleasure and help I have
received from our correspondence, during the year and nine
months which have elapsed since my departure from England.
Your letters have been a greater cheer and blessing than
you can possibly know. Also it has been an untold help to
be able to write and share with you, all the little details
of my interests out here.
"I am afraid these undeniable facts will make it seem even
stranger to you, that I am now writing to ask that our
correspondence should cease.
"I daresay you have noticed that my letters lately have
been irregular, and often, I am afraid, short and
unsatisfactory. The fact is--I have required all my
remaining energy for the completion of my work out here.
"I want to bid you farewell, my wife, while I still have
strength to write hopefully of my present work, and
joyously of the future. I will not, now, hide from you,
Diana, that my time here is nearly over. Do you remember
how I said: 'I cannot _promise_ to die, you know'? I might
have promised, with a good grace, after all.
"This will be the last letter I shall write; and when you
have answered it, _do not write again_. I may be moved from
here, any day; and can give you no address.
"You must not suppose, my wife, that, owing to the ceasing
of our correspondence, you will be left in any uncertainty
as to when the merely nominal bond which has bound us
together is severed, leaving you completely free.
"I have written you a letter, which I carry, sealed and
addressed, in the breast pocket of my coat. It bears full
instructions that it is to be forwarded to you immediately
after my death. A copy of it is also in my despatch-box; so
that--in case of anything unforeseen happening to my
clothes--the letter would without fail be sent to you, so
soon as my belongings came into the hands of our Society.
"This letter is not, therefore, my final farewell; so I do
not make it anything of a good-bye; though it puts an end
to our regular correspondence. And may I ask you to believe
that there is a reason for this breaking off of our
correspondence; a reason which I cannot feel free to tell
you now; but which I have explained fully, in the letter
you will receive after my death? If you now find this step
somewhat difficult to understand, believe me, that when you
have read my other letter, you will at once admit that I
could not do otherwise. I would not give your generous
heart a moment's pain; even through a misunderstanding.
"And now, from the bottom of my heart, may I thank you for
all you have done for me and for my work? Any little
service I was able to render you, was as nothing compared
with all you have so generously done for me, and been to
me, since the Feast of Epiphany, nearly two years ago.
"Your help has meant simply everything to the work out
here. I am able to feel that I shall leave behind me a
fully established, flourishing, growing, eager young
Church. My colleague is a splendid fellow, keen, earnest,
and a good churchman. If you feel able to continue your
support, he will be most grateful, and I can vouch for him
as did the Jews of old, for the Roman centurion: 'He is
worthy, for whom thou shouldest do this thing.'
"And, oh, if some day, Diana, you yourself could visit the
Church of the Holy Star! Some day; but not yet.
"For this brings me to the closing request of my letter.
"I cannot but suspect that your kind and generous heart may
incline you--as soon as you receive this letter, and know
that I am dying--to come out here at once, in order to bid
a personal farewell to your friend.
"_Do not do so._ Do not leave England until you receive
word of my death. I have a reason, which you will
understand by and by, for laying special stress upon this
request; in fact it is my last wish and command, my wife.
(I have not had much opportunity for tyranny, have I?)
"How much your sympathy, and gay bright friendship, have
meant to me, in this somewhat lonely life, no words can
say.
"Just now I wrote of the time, so soon coming, when the
nominal bond between us would be severed, leaving you
completely free. You must not even feel yourself a widow,
Diana; because you will not really be one. I have called
you my 'wife,' I know; but it has just been a courtesy
title. Has n't it?
"Yet--may I say it?--I trust and believe the very perfect
friendship between us will be a lasting link, which even
death cannot sever. And there is a yet closer bond: One
Lord, one Faith, one Baptism. This is eternal.
"So--I say again as I said, with my hands on your bowed
head, on that Christmas night so long ago, before we knew
all that was to be between us:
"The Lord bless thee, and keep thee;
The Lord make His face shine upon thee, and be gracious unto thee;
The Lord lift up His countenance upon thee, and give thee peace."
"Good-bye, my wife.
"Yours ever,
"DAVID RIVERS."