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.
