The minutes pass; the half-hour longer strikes from the clock on the chimney-piece; and at last I hear him! He knocks softly, and opens the door.
He is deadly pale: I fancy I can detect traces of tears on his cheeks. But no outward signs of agitation escape him as he takes his seat by my side. I can see that he has waited until he could control himself--for my sake.
He takes my hand, and kisses me tenderly.
"Valeria!" he says; "let me once more ask you to forgive what I said and did in the bygone time. If I understand nothing else, my love, I understand this: The proof of my innocence has been found; and I owe it entirely to the courage and the devotion of my wife!"
I wait a little, to enjoy the full luxury of hearing him say those words--to revel in the love and the gratitude that moisten his dear eyes as they look at me. Then I rouse my resolution, and put the momentous question on which our future depends.
"Do you wish to see the letter, Eustace?"
Instead of answering directly, he questions me in his turn.
"Have you got the letter here?"
"Yes."
"Sealed up?"
"Sealed up."
He waits a little, considering what he is going to say next before he says it,
"Let me be sure that I know exactly what it is I have to decide," he proceeds. "Suppose I insist on reading the letter--?"
There I interrupt him. I know it is my duty to restrain myself. But I cannot do my duty.
"My darling, don't talk of reading the letter! Pray, pray spare yourself--"
He holds up his hand for silence.
"I am not thinking of myself," he says. "I am thinking of my dead wife. If I give up the public vindication of my innocence, in my own lifetime--if I leave the seal of the letter unbroken--do you say, as Mr. Playmore says, that I shall be acting mercifully and tenderly toward the memory of my wife?"
"Oh, Eustace, there cannot be the shadow of a doubt of it!"
"Shall I be making some little atonement for any pain that I may have thoughtlessly caused her to suffer in her lifetime?"
"Yes! yes!"
"And, Valeria--shall I please You?"
"My darling, you will enchant me!"
"Where is the letter?"
"In your son's hand, Eustace."
He goes around to the other side of the bed, and lifts the baby's little pink hand to his lips. For a while he waits so, in sad and secret communion with himself. I see his mother softly open the door, and watch him as I am watching him. In a moment more our suspense is at an end. With a heavy sigh, he lays the child's hand back again on the sealed letter; and by that one little action says (as if in words) to his son--"I leave it to You!"
And so it ended! Not as I thought it would end; not perhaps as you thought it would end. What do we know of our own lives? What do we know of the fulfillment of our dearest wishes? God knows--and that is best.
Must I shut up the paper? Yes. There is nothing more for you to read or for me to say.
Except this--as a postscript. Don't bear hardly, good people, on the follies and the errors of my husband's life. Abuse me as much as you please. But pray think kindly of Eustace for my sake.