was a short one--better than had
been anticipated. For the first few days that followed, the purer air of
the country seemed, in some degree, to revive me. But the deadly sense
of weakness, the slow sinking of the vital power in me, returned as the
time drew near for the marriage. The ceremony was performed at night.
Only Susan and her mother were present. No persons in the house but
ourselves had the faintest suspicion of what had happened.

I signed my new will (the priest and Mrs. Rymer being the witnesses)
in my bed that night. It left everything that I possessed, excepting a
legacy to Mrs. Mozeen, to my wife.

Obliged, it is needless to say, to preserve appearances, Susan remained
at the lodge as usual. But it was impossible to resist her entreaty to
be allowed to attend on me, for a few hours daily, as assistant to the
regular nurse. When she was alone with me, and had no inquisitive eyes
to dread, the poor girl showed a depth of feeling, which I was unable to
reconcile with the motives that could alone have induced her (as I then
supposed) to consent to the mockery of our marriage. On occasions when
I was so far able to resist the languor that oppressed me as to observe
what was passing at my bedside--I saw Susan look at me as if there were
thoughts in her pressing for utterance which she hesitated to express.
Once, she herself acknowledged this. "I have so much to say to you," she
owned, "when you are stronger and fitter to hear me." At other times,
her nerves seemed to be shaken by the spectacle of my sufferings. Her
kind hands trembled and made mistakes, when they had any nursing duties
to perform near me. The servants, noticing her, used to say, "That
pretty girl seems to be the most awkward person in the house." On the
day that followed the ceremony in the chapel, this want of self-control
brought about an accident which led to serious results.

In removing the small chest which held my medicines from the shelf
on which it was placed, Susan let it drop on the floor. The two
full bottles still left were so completely shattered that not even a
teaspoonful of the contents was saved.

Shocked at what she had done, the poor girl volunteered to go herself to
my chemist in London by the first train. I refused to allow it. What did
it matter to me now, if my death from exhaustion was hastened by a day
or two? Why need my life be prolonged artificially by drugs, when I had
nothing left to live for? An excuse for