In justice to Susan, in justice to Rothsay, I insisted on silence. "No more of it!" I said. "Take care how you provoke me. Don't you see that I am ill? don't you see that you are irritating me to no purpose?"
She altered her tone. "I'll wait," she said, quietly, "while you compose yourself."
With those words, she walked to the window, and stood there with her back toward me. Was the wretch taking advantage of my helpless condition? I stretched out my hand to ring the bell, and have her sent away--and hesitated to degrade Susan's mother, for Susan's sake. In my state of prostration, how could I arrive at a decision? My mind was dreadfully disturbed; I felt the imperative necessity of turning my thoughts to some other subject. Looking about me, the letters on the table attracted my attention. Mechanically, I took them up; mechanically I put them down again. Two of them slipped from my trembling fingers; my eyes fell on the uppermost of the two. The address was in the handwriting of the good friend with whom Rothsay was sailing.
Just as I had been speaking of Rothsay, here was the news of him for which I had been waiting.
I opened the letter and read these words:
"There is, I fear, but little hope for our friend--unless this girl on whom he has set his heart can (by some lucky change of circumstances) become his wife. He has tried to master his weakness; but his own infatuation is too much for him. He is really and truly in a state of despair. Two evenings since--to give you a melancholy example of what I mean--I was in my cabin, when I heard the alarm of a man overboard. The man was Rothsay. My sailing-master, seeing that he was unable to swim, jumped into the sea and rescued him, as I got on deck. Rothsay declares it to have been an accident; and everybody believes him but myself. I know the state of his mind. Don't be alarmed; I will have him well looked after; and I won't give him up just yet. We are still bound southward, with a fair wind. If the new scenes which I hope to show him prove to be of no avail, I must reluctantly take him back to England. In that case, which I don't like to contemplate, you may see him again--perhaps in a month's time."
He might return in a month's time--return to hear of the death of the one friend, on whose power and will to help him he might have relied. If I failed to employ in his interests the short interval of life still left to me, could I doubt (after what I had just read) what the end would be? How could I help him? Oh, God! how could I help him?
Mrs. Rymer left the window, and returned to the chair which she had occupied when I first received her.
"Are you quieter in your mind now?" she asked.
I neither answered her nor looked at her.
Still determined to reach her end, she tried again to force her unhappy daughter on me. "Will you consent," she persisted, "to see Susan?"
If she had been a little nearer to me, I am afraid I should have struck her. "You wretch!" I said, "do you know that I am a dying man?"
"While there's life there's hope," Mrs. Rymer remarked.
I ought to have controlled myself; but it was not to be done.
"Hope of your daughter being my rich widow?" I asked.
Her bitter answer followed instantly.
"Even then," she said, "Susan wouldn't marry Rothsay."
A lie! If circumstances favored her, I knew, on Rothsay's authority, what Susan would do.
The thought burst on my mind, like light bursting on the eyes of a man restored to sight. If Susan agreed to go through the form of marriage with a dying bridegroom, my rich widow could (and would) become Rothsay's wife. Once more, the remembrance of the play at Rome returned, and set the last embers of resolution, which sickness and suffering had left to me, in a flame. The devoted friend of that imaginary story had counted on death to complete his generous purpose in vain: he had been condemned by the tribunal of man, and had been reprieved. I--in his place, and with his self-sacrifice in my mind--might found a firmer trust in the future; for I had been condemned by the tribunal of God.
Encouraged by my silence, the obstinate woman persisted. "Won't you even send a message to Susan?" she asked.
Rashly, madly, without an instant's hesitation, I answered:
"Go back to Susan, and say I leave it to her."
Mrs. Rymer started to her feet. "You leave it to Susan to be your wife, if she likes?"
"I do."
"And if she consents?"
"I consent."
In two weeks and a day from that time, the deed was done. When Rothsay returned to England, he would ask for Susan--and he would find my virgin-widow rich and free.
SEVENTH EPOCH.
WHATEVER may be thought of my conduct, let me say this in justice to myself--I was resolved that Susan should not be deceived.
Half an hour after Mrs. Rymer had left my house, I wrote to her daughter, plainly revealing the motive which led me to offer marriage, solely in the future interest of Rothsay and herself. "If you refuse," 1 said in conclusion, "you may depend on my understanding you and feeling for you. But, if you consent--then I have a favor to ask Never let us speak to one another of the profanation that we have agreed to commit, for your faithful lover's sake."
I had formed a high opinion of Susan--too high an opinion as it seemed. Her reply surprised and disappointed me. In other words, she gave her consent.
I stipulated that the marriage should be kept strictly secret, for a certain period. In my own mind I decided that the interval should be held to expire, either on the day of my death, or on the day when Rothsay returned.
My next proceeding was to write in confidence to the priest whom I have already mentioned, in an earlier part of these pages. He has reasons of his own for not permitting me to disclose the motive which induced him to celebrate my marriage privately in the chapel at Lord Lepel's house. My uncle's desire that I should try change of air, as offering a last chance of recovery, was known to my medical attendant, and served as a sufficient reason (although he protested against the risk) for my removal to the country.