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 forever 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!