As soon as I could dry my eyes and compose my spirits afterreading the wife's pitiable and dreadful farewell, my firstthought was of Eustace--my first anxiety was to prevent him fromever reading what I had read.

Yes! to this end it had come. I had devoted my life to theattainment of one object; and that object I had gained. There, onthe table before me, lay the triumphant vindication of myhusband's innocence; and, in mercy to him, in mercy to the memoryof his dead wife, my one hope was that he might never see it! myone desire was to hide it from the public view!

I looked back at the strange circumstances under which the letterhad been discovered.

It was all my doing--as the lawyer had said. And yet, what I haddone, I had, so to speak, done blindfold. The merest accidentmight have altered the whole course of later events. I had overand over again interfered to check Ariel when she entreated theMaster to "tell her a story." If she had not succeeded, in spiteof my opposition, Miserrimus Dexter's last effort of memory mightnever have been directed to the tragedy at Gleninch. And, again,if I had only remembered to move my chair, and so to giveBenjamin the signal to leave off, he would never have writtendown the apparently senseless words which have led us to thediscovery of the truth.

Looking back at events in this frame of mind, the very sight ofthe letter sickened and horrified me. I cursed the day which haddisinterred the fragments of it from their foul tomb. Just at thetime when Eustace had found his weary way back to health andstrength; just at the time when we were united again and happyagain--when a month or two more might make us father and mother,as well as husband and wife--that frightful record of sufferingand sin had risen against us like an avenging spirit. There itfaced me on the table, threatening my husband's tranqu illity;nay, for all I knew (if he read it at the present critical stageof his recovery) even threatening his life!

The hour struck from the clock on the mantelpiece. It wasEustace's time for paying me his morning visit in my own littleroom. He might come in at any moment; he might see the letter; hemight snatch the letter out of my hand. In a frenzy of terror andloathing, I caught up the vile sheets of paper and threw theminto the fire.

It was a fortunate thing that a copy only had been sent to me. Ifthe original letter had been in its place, I believe I shouldhave burned the original at that moment.

The last morsel of paper had been barely consumed by the flameswhen the door opened, and Eustace came in.

He glanced at the fire. The black cinders of the burned paperwere still floating at the back of the grate. He had seen theletter brought to me at the breakfast-table. Did he suspect whatI had done? He said nothing--he stood gravely looking into thefire. Then he advanced and fixed his eyes on me. I suppose I wasvery pale. The first words he spoke were words which asked me ifI felt ill.

I was determined not to deceive him, even in the merest trifle.

"I am feeling a little nervous, Eustace," I answered; "that isall."

He looked at me again, as if he expected me to say somethingmore. I remained silent. He took a letter out of thebreast-pocket of his coat and laid it on the table beforeme--just where the Confession had lain before I destroyed it!

"I have had a letter too this morning," he said. "And _I,_Valeria, have no secrets from _you._"

I understood the reproach which my husband's last words conveyed;but I made no attempt to answer him.

"Do you wish me to read it?" was all I said pointing to theenvelope which he had laid on the table.

"I have already said that I have no secrets from you," herepeated. "The envelope is open. See for yourself what isinclosed in it."

I took out--not a letter, but a printed paragraph, cut from aScotch newspaper.

"Read it," said Eustace.

I read as follows:

"STRANGE DOINGS AT GLENINCH--A romance in real life seems to bein course of progress at Mr. Macallan's country-house. Privateexcavations are taking place--if our readers will pardon us theunsavory allusion--at the dust-heap, of all places in the world!Something has assuredly been discovered; but nobody knows what.This alone is certain: For weeks past two strangers from London(superintended by our respected fellow-citizen, Mr. Playmore)have been at work night and day in the library at Gleninch, withthe door locked. Will the secret ever be revealed? And will itthrow any light on a mysterious and shocking event which ourreaders have learned to associate with the past history ofGleninch? Perhaps when Mr. Macallan returns, he may be able toanswer these questions. In the meantime we can only awaitevents."

I laid the newspaper slip on the table, in no very Christianframe of mind toward the persons concerned in producing it. Somereporter in search of news had evidently been prying about thegrounds at Gleninch, and some busy-body in the neighborhood hadin all probability sent the published paragraph to Eustace.Entirely at a loss what to do, I waited for my husband to speak.He did not keep me in suspense--he questioned me instantly.

"Do you understand what it means, Valeria?"

I answered honestly--I owned that I understood what it meant.

He waited again, as if he expected me to say more. I still keptthe only refuge left to me--the refuge of silence.

"Am I to know no more than I know now?" he proceeded, after aninterval. "Are you not bound to tell me what is going on in myown house?"

It is a common remark that people, if they can think at all,think quickly in emergencies. There was but one way out of theembarrassing position in which my husband's last words had placedme. My instincts showed me the way, I suppose. At any rate, Itook it.

"You have promised to trust me," I began.

He admitted that he had promised.

"I must ask you, for your own sake, Eustace, to trust me for alittle while longer. I will satisfy you, if you will only give metime."

His face darkened. "How much longer must I wait?" he asked.

I saw that the time had come for trying some stronger form ofpersuasion than words.

"Kiss me," I said, "before I tell you!"

He hesitated (so like a husband!). And I persisted (so like awife!). There was no choice for him but to yield. Having given memy kiss (not over-graciously), he insisted once more on knowinghow much longer I wanted him to wait.

"I want you to wait," I answered, "until our child is born."

He started. My condition took him by surprise. I gently pressedhis hand, and gave him a look. He returned the look (warmlyenough, this time, to satisfy me). "Say you consent," Iwhispered.

He consented.

So I put off the day of reckoning once more. So I gained time toconsult again with Benjamin and Mr. Playmore.

While Eustace remained with me in the room, I was composed, andcapable of talking to him. But when he left me, after a time, tothink over what had passed between us, and to remember how kindlyhe had given way to me, my heart turned pityingly to those otherwives (better women, some of them, than I am), whose husbands,under similar circumstances, would have spoken hard words tothem--would perhaps even have acted more cruelly still. Thecontrast thus suggested between their fate and mine quiteovercame me. What had I done to deserve my happiness? What had_they_ done, poor souls, to deserve their misery? My nerves wereoverwrought, I dare says after reading the dreadful confession ofEustace's first wife. I burst out crying--and I was all thebetter for it afterward!