You must help me, you must urge your father to set me free. Tell him--indeed I have told him--that he need dread no disgrace to the family, or to him who is no more. I shall state nothing of Henry Johnston excepting his name, and my own confession will be sufficient and sole evidence against me. As to the possible result of my trial, I have not overlooked it. It was just, if only for my dear love's sake, that I should gain some idea of the chances against me. Little as I understand of the law, and especially English law, it seems to me very unlikely that the verdict will be wilful murder, nor shall I plead, guilty to that. God and my own conscience are witness that I did _not_ commit murder, but unpremeditated manslaughter. The punishment for this is, I believe, sometimes transportation, sometimes imprisonment for a long term of years. If it were death--which perhaps it might as well be to a man of my age, I must face it. The remainder of my days, be they few or many, must be spent in peace. If I do not hear within two days' post from Rockmount, I shall conclude your father makes no opposition to my determination, and go at once to surrender myself at Salisbury. _You_ need not write; it might compromise you; it would be almost a relief to me to hear nothing of or from you, until all was over. And now farewell. My personal effects here I leave in charge of the chaplain, with a sealed envelope, containing the name and address of the friend to whom they are to be sent in case of my death, or any other emergency. This is yourself. In my will, I have given you, as near as the law allows, every right that you would have had, as my wife. My wife--my wife in the sight of God, farewell! That is, until such time as I dare write again. Take good care of yourself--be patient and have hope. In whatever he commands--he is too just a man to command an injustice--obey your father. Forget me not--but you never will. If I could have seen you once more, have felt you close to my heart--but perhaps it is better as it is. Only a week's suspense for you, and it will be over. Let us trust in God; and farewell! Remember how I loved you, my child! Max Urquhart. CHAPTER XI. HIS STORY. |My dear Theodora,-- By this time you will have known all.--Thank God, it is over. My dear, dear love--my own faithful girl--it is over! When I was brought back to prison tonight, I found your letters; but I had heard of you the day before, from Colin Granton. Do not regret the chance which made Mr. Johnston detain my letter to you, instead of forwarding it at once to the Cedars. These sort of things never seem to me as accidental; all was for good. In any case, I could not have done otherwise than I did; but it would have been painful to have done it in direct opposition to your father. The only thing I regret is, that my poor child should have had the shock of first seeing these hard tidings of my surrender to the magistrate, and my public confession, in a newspaper.