TER XLVIII. WHAT ELSE COULD I DO?

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was a fortunate thing that a copy only had been sent to me. If the
original le