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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Law and the Lady + +Author: Wilkie Collins + +Release Date: October 15, 2008 [EBook #1622] +[Last updated: June 25, 2019] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAW AND THE LADY *** + + + + +Produced by John Hamm, James Rusk, Janet Blenkinship and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + THE LAW AND THE LADY + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + by Wilkie Collins + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> NOTE: </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> <b>THE LAW AND THE LADY.</b> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART1"> <b>PART I. PARADISE LOST.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. THE BRIDE’S MISTAKE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. THE BRIDE’S THOUGHTS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. RAMSGATE SANDS. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV. ON THE WAY HOME. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. THE LANDLADY’S DISCOVERY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. MY OWN DISCOVERY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. ON THE WAY TO THE MAJOR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. THE FRIEND OF THE WOMEN. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. THE DEFEAT OF THE MAJOR. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. THE SEARCH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI. THE RETURN TO LIFE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII. THE SCOTCH VERDICT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII. THE MAN’S DECISION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV. THE WOMAN’S ANSWER. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART2"> <b>PART II. PARADISE REGAINED.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV. THE STORY OF THE TRIAL. THE + PRELIMINARIES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI. FIRST QUESTION—DID THE WOMAN + DIE POISONED? </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII. SECOND QUESTION—WHO + POISONED HER? </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII. THIRD QUESTION—WHAT WAS + HIS MOTIVE? </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER XIX. THE EVIDENCE FOR THE DEFENSE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER XX. THE END OF THE TRIAL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER XXI. I SEE MY WAY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER XXII. THE MAJOR MAKES DIFFICULTIES. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER XXIII </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER XXIV. MISERRIMUS DEXTER—FIRST + VIEW. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER XXV. MISERRIMUS DEXTER—SECOND + VIEW </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER XXVI. MORE OF MY OBSTINACY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER XXVII. MR. DEXTER AT HOME. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER XXVIII. IN THE DARK. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER XXIX. IN THE LIGHT. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER XXX. THE INDICTMENT OF MRS. BEAULY. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER XXXI. THE DEFENSE OF MRS. BEAULY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER XXXII. A SPECIMEN OF MY WISDOM. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER XXXIII. A SPECIMEN OF MY FOLLY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER XXXIV. GLENINCH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER XXXV. MR. PLAYMORE’S PROPHECY. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER XXXVI. ARIEL. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER XXXVII. AT THE BEDSIDE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER XXXVIII. ON THE JOURNEY BACK. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER XXXIX. ON THE WAY TO DEXTER. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER XL. NEMESIS AT LAST. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER XLI. MR. PLAYMORE IN A NEW CHARACTER. + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER XLII. MORE SURPRISES. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER XLIII. AT LAST! </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER XLIV. OUR NEW HONEYMOON. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0045"> CHAPTER XLV. THE DUST-HEAP DISTURBED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0046"> CHAPTER XLVI. THE CRISIS DEFERRED. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0047"> CHAPTER XLVII. THE WIFE’S CONFESSION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0048"> CHAPTER XLVIII. WHAT ELSE COULD I DO? </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0049"> CHAPTER XLIX. PAST AND FUTURE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0050"> CHAPTER L. </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NOTE: + </h2> + <p> + ADDRESSED TO THE READER. + </p> + <p> + IN offering this book to you, I have no Preface to write. I have only to + request that you will bear in mind certain established truths, which + occasionally escape your memory when you are reading a work of fiction. Be + pleased, then, to remember (First): That the actions of human beings are + not invariably governed by the laws of pure reason. (Secondly): That we + are by no means always in the habit of bestowing our love on the objects + which are the most deserving of it, in the opinions of our friends. + (Thirdly and Lastly): That Characters which may not have appeared, and + Events which may not have taken place, within the limits of our own + individual experience, may nevertheless be perfectly natural Characters + and perfectly probable Events, for all that. Having said these few words, + I have said all that seems to be necessary at the present time, in + presenting my new Story to your notice. + </p> + <p> + W. C. + </p> + <p> + LONDON, February 1, 1875. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + THE LAW AND THE LADY. + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART1" id="link2H_PART1"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART I. PARADISE LOST. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. THE BRIDE’S MISTAKE. + </h2> + <p> + “FOR after this manner in the old time the holy women also who trusted in + God adorned themselves, being in subjection unto their own husbands; even + as Sarah obeyed Abraham, calling him lord; whose daughters ye are as long + as ye do well, and are not afraid with any amazement.” + </p> + <p> + Concluding the Marriage Service of the Church of England in those + well-known words, my uncle Starkweather shut up his book, and looked at me + across the altar rails with a hearty expression of interest on his broad, + red face. At the same time my aunt, Mrs. Starkweather, standing by my + side, tapped me smartly on the shoulder, and said, + </p> + <p> + “Valeria, you are married!” + </p> + <p> + Where were my thoughts? What had become of my attention? I was too + bewildered to know. I started and looked at my new husband. He seemed to + be almost as much bewildered as I was. The same thought had, as I believe, + occurred to us both at the same moment. Was it really possible—in + spite of his mother’s opposition to our marriage—that we were Man + and Wife? My aunt Starkweather settled the question by a second tap on my + shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Take his arm!” she whispered, in the tone of a woman who had lost all + patience with me. + </p> + <p> + I took his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Follow your uncle.” + </p> + <p> + Holding fast by my husband’s arm, I followed my uncle and the curate who + had assisted him at the marriage. + </p> + <p> + The two clergymen led us into the vestry. The church was in one of the + dreary quarters of London, situated between the City and the West End; the + day was dull; the atmosphere was heavy and damp. We were a melancholy + little wedding party, worthy of the dreary neighborhood and the dull day. + No relatives or friends of my husband’s were present; his family, as I + have already hinted, disapproved of his marriage. Except my uncle and my + aunt, no other relations appeared on my side. I had lost both my parents, + and I had but few friends. My dear father’s faithful old clerk, Benjamin, + attended the wedding to “give me away,” as the phrase is. He had known me + from a child, and, in my forlorn position, he was as good as a father to + me. + </p> + <p> + The last ceremony left to be performed was, as usual, the signing of the + marriage register. In the confusion of the moment (and in the absence of + any information to guide me) I committed a mistake—ominous, in my + aunt Starkweather’s opinion, of evil to come. I signed my married instead + of my maiden name. + </p> + <p> + “What!” cried my uncle, in his loudest and cheeriest tones, “you have + forgotten your own name already? Well, well! let us hope you will never + repent parting with it so readily. Try again, Valeria—try again.” + </p> + <p> + With trembling fingers I struck the pen through my first effort, and wrote + my maiden name, very badly indeed, as follows: + </p> + <p> + Valeria Brinton + </p> + <p> + When it came to my husband’s turn I noticed, with surprise, that his hand + trembled too, and that he produced a very poor specimen of his customary + signature: + </p> + <p> + Eustace Woodville + </p> + <p> + My aunt, on being requested to sign, complied under protest. “A bad + beginning!” she said, pointing to my first unfortunate signature with the + feather end of her pen. “I hope, my dear, you may not live to regret it.” + </p> + <p> + Even then, in the days of my ignorance and my innocence, that curious + outbreak of my aunt’s superstition produced a certain uneasy sensation in + my mind. It was a consolation to me to feel the reassuring pressure of my + husband’s hand. It was an indescribable relief to hear my uncle’s hearty + voice wishing me a happy life at parting. The good man had left his + north-country Vicarage (my home since the death of my parents) expressly + to read the service at my marriage; and he and my aunt had arranged to + return by the mid-day train. He folded me in his great strong arms, and he + gave me a kiss which must certainly have been heard by the idlers waiting + for the bride and bridegroom outside the church door. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you health and happiness, my love, with all my heart. You are old + enough to choose for yourself, and—no offense, Mr. Woodville, you + and I are new friends—and I pray God, Valeria, it may turn out that + you have chosen well. Our house will be dreary enough without you; but I + don’t complain, my dear. On the contrary, if this change in your life + makes you happier, I rejoice. Come, come! don’t cry, or you will set your + aunt off—and it’s no joke at her time of life. Besides, crying will + spoil your beauty. Dry your eyes and look in the glass there, and you will + see that I am right. Good-by, child—and God bless you!” + </p> + <p> + He tucked my aunt under his arm, and hurried out. My heart sank a little, + dearly as I loved my husband, when I had seen the last of the true friend + and protector of my maiden days. + </p> + <p> + The parting with old Benjamin came next. “I wish you well, my dear; don’t + forget me,” was all he said. But the old days at home came back on me at + those few words. Benjamin always dined with us on Sundays in my father’s + time, and always brought some little present with him for his master’s + child. I was very near to “spoiling my beauty” (as my uncle had put it) + when I offered the old man my cheek to kiss, and heard him sigh to + himself, as if he too were not quite hopeful about my future life. + </p> + <p> + My husband’s voice roused me, and turned my mind to happier thoughts. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we go, Valeria?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + I stopped him on our way out to take advantage of my uncle’s advice; in + other words, to see how I looked in the glass over the vestry fireplace. + </p> + <p> + What does the glass show me? + </p> + <p> + The glass shows a tall and slender young woman of three-and-twenty years + of age. She is not at all the sort of person who attracts attention in the + street, seeing that she fails to exhibit the popular yellow hair and the + popular painted cheeks. Her hair is black; dressed, in these later days + (as it was dressed years since to please her father), in broad ripples + drawn back from the forehead, and gathered into a simple knot behind (like + the hair of the Venus de Medicis), so as to show the neck beneath. Her + complexion is pale: except in moments of violent agitation there is no + color to be seen in her face. Her eyes are of so dark a blue that they are + generally mistaken for black. Her eyebrows are well enough in form, but + they are too dark and too strongly marked. Her nose just inclines toward + the aquiline bend, and is considered a little too large by persons + difficult to please in the matter of noses. The mouth, her best feature, + is very delicately shaped, and is capable of presenting great varieties of + expression. As to the face in general, it is too narrow and too long at + the lower part, too broad and too low in the higher regions of the eyes + and the head. The whole picture, as reflected in the glass, represents a + woman of some elegance, rather too pale, and rather too sedate and serious + in her moments of silence and repose—in short, a person who fails to + strike the ordinary observer at first sight, but who gains in general + estimation on a second, and sometimes on a third view. As for her dress, + it studiously conceals, instead of proclaiming, that she has been married + that morning. She wears a gray cashmere tunic trimmed with gray silk, and + having a skirt of the same material and color beneath it. On her head is a + bonnet to match, relieved by a quilling of white muslin with one deep red + rose, as a morsel of positive color, to complete the effect of the whole + dress. + </p> + <p> + Have I succeeded or failed in describing the picture of myself which I see + in the glass? It is not for me to say. I have done my best to keep clear + of the two vanities—the vanity of depreciating and the vanity of + praising my own personal appearance. For the rest, well written or badly + written, thank Heaven it is done! + </p> + <p> + And whom do I see in the glass standing by my side? + </p> + <p> + I see a man who is not quite so tall as I am, and who has the misfortune + of looking older than his years. His forehead is prematurely bald. His big + chestnut-colored beard and his long overhanging mustache are prematurely + streaked with gray. He has the color in the face which my face wants, and + the firmness in his figure which my figure wants. He looks at me with the + tenderest and gentlest eyes (of a light brown) that I ever saw in the + countenance of a man. His smile is rare and sweet; his manner, perfectly + quiet and retiring, has yet a latent persuasiveness in it which is (to + women) irresistibly winning. He just halts a little in his walk, from the + effect of an injury received in past years, when he was a soldier serving + in India, and he carries a thick bamboo cane, with a curious crutch handle + (an old favorite), to help himself along whenever he gets on his feet, in + doors or out. With this one little drawback (if it is a drawback), there + is nothing infirm or old or awkward about him; his slight limp when he + walks has (perhaps to my partial eyes) a certain quaint grace of its own, + which is pleasanter to see than the unrestrained activity of other men. + And last and best of all, I love him! I love him! I love him! And there is + an end of my portrait of my husband on our wedding-day. + </p> + <p> + The glass has told me all I want to know. We leave the vestry at last. + </p> + <p> + The sky, cloudy since the morning, has darkened while we have been in the + church, and the rain is beginning to fall heavily. The idlers outside + stare at us grimly under their umbrellas as we pass through their ranks + and hasten into our carriage. No cheering; no sunshine; no flowers strewn + in our path; no grand breakfast; no genial speeches; no bridesmaids; no + fathers or mother’s blessing. A dreary wedding—there is no denying + it—and (if Aunt Starkweather is right) a bad beginning as well! + </p> + <p> + A <i>coup</i> has been reserved for us at the railway station. The + attentive porter, on the look-out for his fee pulls down the blinds over + the side windows of the carriage, and shuts out all prying eyes in that + way. After what seems to be an interminable delay the train starts. My + husband winds his arm round me. “At last!” he whispers, with love in his + eyes that no words can utter, and presses me to him gently. My arm steals + round his neck; my eyes answer his eyes. Our lips meet in the first long, + lingering kiss of our married life. + </p> + <p> + Oh, what recollections of that journey rise in me as I write! Let me dry + my eyes, and shut up my paper for the day. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. THE BRIDE’S THOUGHTS. + </h2> + <p> + WE had been traveling for a little more than an hour when a change passed + insensibly over us both. + </p> + <p> + Still sitting close together, with my hand in his, with my head on his + shoulder, little by little we fell insensibly into silence. Had we already + exhausted the narrow yet eloquent vocabulary of love? Or had we determined + by unexpressed consent, after enjoying the luxury of passion that speaks, + to try the deeper and finer rapture of passion that thinks? I can hardly + determine; I only know that a time came when, under some strange + influence, our lips were closed toward each other. We traveled along, each + of us absorbed in our own reverie. Was he thinking exclusively of me—as + I was thinking exclusively of him? Before the journey’s end I had my + doubts; at a little later time I knew for certain that his thoughts, + wandering far away from his young wife, were all turned inward on his own + unhappy self. + </p> + <p> + For me the secret pleasure of filling my mind with him, while I felt him + by my side, was a luxury in itself. + </p> + <p> + I pictured in my thoughts our first meeting in the neighborhood of my + uncle’s house. + </p> + <p> + Our famous north-country trout stream wound its flashing and foaming way + through a ravine in the rocky moorland. It was a windy, shadowy evening. A + heavily clouded sunset lay low and red in the west. A solitary angler + stood casting his fly at a turn in the stream where the backwater lay + still and deep under an overhanging bank. A girl (myself) standing on the + bank, invisible to the fisherman beneath, waited eagerly to see the trout + rise. + </p> + <p> + The moment came; the fish took the fly. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes on the little level strip of sand at the foot of the bank, + sometimes (when the stream turned again) in the shallower water rushing + over its rocky bed, the angler followed the captured trout, now letting + the line run out and now winding it in again, in the difficult and + delicate process of “playing” the fish. Along the bank I followed to watch + the contest of skill and cunning between the man and the trout. I had + lived long enough with my uncle Starkweather to catch some of his + enthusiasm for field sports, and to learn something, especially, of the + angler’s art. Still following the stranger, with my eyes intently fixed on + every movement of his rod and line, and with not so much as a chance + fragment of my attention to spare for the rough path along which I was + walking, I stepped by chance on the loose overhanging earth at the edge of + the bank, and fell into the stream in an instant. + </p> + <p> + The distance was trifling, the water was shallow, the bed of the river was + (fortunately for me) of sand. Beyond the fright and the wetting I had + nothing to complain of. In a few moments I was out of the water and up + again, very much ashamed of myself, on the firm ground. Short as the + interval was, it proved long enough to favor the escape of the fish. The + angler had heard my first instinctive cry of alarm, had turned, and had + thrown aside his rod to help me. We confronted each other for the first + time, I on the bank and he in the shallow water below. Our eyes + encountered, and I verily believe our hearts encountered at the same + moment. This I know for certain, we forgot our breeding as lady and + gentleman: we looked at each other in barbarous silence. + </p> + <p> + I was the first to recover myself. What did I say to him? + </p> + <p> + I said something about my not being hurt, and then something more, urging + him to run back and try if he might not yet recover the fish. + </p> + <p> + He went back unwillingly. He returned to me—of course without the + fish. Knowing how bitterly disappointed my uncle would have been in his + place, I apologized very earnestly. In my eagerness to make atonement, I + even offered to show him a spot where he might try again, lower down the + stream. + </p> + <p> + He would not hear of it; he entreated me to go home and change my wet + dress. I cared nothing for the wetting, but I obeyed him without knowing + why. + </p> + <p> + He walked with me. My way back to the Vicarage was his way back to the + inn. He had come to our parts, he told me, for the quiet and retirement as + much as for the fishing. He had noticed me once or twice from the window + of his room at the inn. He asked if I were not the vicar’s daughter. + </p> + <p> + I set him right. I told him that the vicar had married my mother’s sister, + and that the two had been father and mother to me since the death of my + parents. He asked if he might venture to call on Doctor Starkweather the + next day, mentioning the name of a friend of his, with whom he believed + the vicar to be acquainted. I invited him to visit us, as if it had been + my house; I was spell-bound under his eyes and under his voice. I had + fancied, honestly fancied, myself to have been in love often and often + before this time. Never in any other man’s company had I felt as I now + felt in the presence of <i>this</i> man. Night seemed to fall suddenly + over the evening landscape when he left me. I leaned against the Vicarage + gate. I could not breathe, I could not think; my heart fluttered as if it + would fly out of my bosom—and all this for a stranger! I burned with + shame; but oh, in spite of it all, I was so happy! + </p> + <p> + And now, when little more than a few weeks had passed since that first + meeting, I had him by my side; he was mine for life! I lifted my head from + his bosom to look at him. I was like a child with a new toy—I wanted + to make sure that he was really my own. + </p> + <p> + He never noticed the action; he never moved in his corner of the carriage. + Was he deep in his own thoughts? and were they thoughts of Me? + </p> + <p> + I laid down my head again softly, so as not to disturb him. My thoughts + wandered backward once more, and showed me another picture in the golden + gallery of the past. + </p> + <p> + The garden at the Vicarage formed the new scene. The time was night. We + had met together in secret. We were walking slowly to and fro, out of + sight of the house, now in the shadowy paths of the shrubbery, now in the + lovely moonlight on the open lawn. + </p> + <p> + We had long since owned our love and devoted our lives to each other. + Already our interests were one; already we shared the pleasures and the + pains of life. I had gone out to meet him that night with a heavy heart, + to seek comfort in his presence and to find encouragement in his voice. He + noticed that I sighed when he first took me in his arms, and he gently + turned my head toward the moonlight to read my trouble in my face. How + often he had read my happiness there in the earlier days of our love! + </p> + <p> + “You bring bad news, my angel,” he said, lifting my hair tenderly from my + forehead as he spoke. “I see the lines here which tell me of anxiety and + distress. I almost wish I loved you less dearly, Valeria.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I might give you back your freedom. I have only to leave this place, and + your uncle would be satisfied, and you would be relieved from all the + cares that are pressing on you now.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t speak of it, Eustace! If you want me to forget my cares, say you + love me more dearly than ever.” + </p> + <p> + He said it in a kiss. We had a moment of exquisite forgetfulness of the + hard ways of life—a moment of delicious absorption in each other. I + came back to realities fortified and composed, rewarded for all that I had + gone through, ready to go through it all over again for another kiss. Only + give a woman love, and there is nothing she will not venture, suffer, and + do. + </p> + <p> + “No, they have done with objecting. They have remembered at last that I am + of age, and that I can choose for myself. They have been pleading with me, + Eustace, to give you up. My aunt, whom I thought rather a hard woman, has + been crying—for the first time in my experience of her. My uncle, + always kind and good to me, has been kinder and better than ever. He has + told me that if I persist in becoming your wife, I shall not be deserted + on my wedding-day. Wherever we may marry, he will be there to read the + service, and my aunt will go to the church with me. But he entreats me to + consider seriously what I am doing—to consent to a separation from + you for a time—to consult other people on my position toward you, if + I am not satisfied with his opinion. Oh, my darling, they are as anxious + to part us as if you were the worst instead of the best of men!” + </p> + <p> + “Has anything happened since yesterday to increase their distrust of me?” + he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “You remember referring my uncle to a friend of yours and of his?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. To Major Fitz-David.” + </p> + <p> + “My uncle has written to Major Fitz-David.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + He pronounced that one word in a tone so utterly unlike his natural tone + that his voice sounded quite strange to me. + </p> + <p> + “You won’t be angry, Eustace, if I tell you?” I said. “My uncle, as I + understood him, had several motives for writing to the major. One of them + was to inquire if he knew your mother’s address.” + </p> + <p> + Eustace suddenly stood still. + </p> + <p> + I paused at the same moment, feeling that I could venture no further + without the risk of offending him. + </p> + <p> + To speak the truth, his conduct, when he first mentioned our engagement to + my uncle, had been (so far as appearances went) a little flighty and + strange. The vicar had naturally questioned him about his family. He had + answered that his father was dead; and he had consented, though not very + readily, to announce his contemplated marriage to his mother. Informing us + that she too lived in the country, he had gone to see her, without more + particularly mentioning her address. In two days he had returned to the + Vicarage with a very startling message. His mother intended no disrespect + to me or my relatives, but she disapproved so absolutely of her son’s + marriage that she (and the members of her family, who all agreed with her) + would refuse to be present at the ceremony, if Mr. Woodville persisted in + keeping his engagement with Dr. Starkweather’s niece. Being asked to + explain this extraordinary communication, Eustace had told us that his + mother and his sisters were bent on his marrying another lady, and that + they were bitterly mortified and disappointed by his choosing a stranger + to the family. This explanation was enough for me; it implied, so far as I + was concerned, a compliment to my superior influence over Eustace, which a + woman always receives with pleasure. But it failed to satisfy my uncle and + my aunt. The vicar expressed to Mr. Woodville a wish to write to his + mother, or to see her, on the subject of her strange message. Eustace + obstinately declined to mention his mother’s address, on the ground that + the vicar’s interference would be utterly useless. My uncle at once drew + the conclusion that the mystery about the address indicated something + wrong. He refused to favor Mr. Woodville’s renewed proposal for my hand, + and he wrote the same day to make inquiries of Mr. Woodville’s reference + and of his own friend Major Fitz-David. + </p> + <p> + Under such circumstances as these, to speak of my uncle’s motives was to + venture on very delicate ground. Eustace relieved me from further + embarrassment by asking a question to which I could easily reply. + </p> + <p> + “Has your uncle received any answer from Major Fitz-David?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. + </p> + <p> + “Were you allowed to read it?” His voice sank as he said those words; his + face betrayed a sudden anxiety which it pained me to see. + </p> + <p> + “I have got the answer with me to show you,” I said. + </p> + <p> + He almost snatched the letter out of my hand; he turned his back on me to + read it by the light of the moon. The letter was short enough to be soon + read. I could have repeated it at the time. I can repeat it now. + </p> + <p> + “DEAR VICAR—Mr. Eustace Woodville is quite correct in stating to you + that he is a gentleman by birth and position, and that he inherits (under + his deceased father’s will) an independent fortune of two thousand a year. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Always yours, + + “LAWRENCE FITZ-DAVID.” + </pre> + <p> + “Can anybody wish for a plainer answer than that?” Eustace asked, handing + the letter back to me. + </p> + <p> + “If <i>I</i> had written for information about you,” I answered, “it would + have been plain enough for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it not plain enough for your uncle?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “What does he say?” + </p> + <p> + “Why need you care to know, my darling?” + </p> + <p> + “I want to know, Valeria. There must be no secret between us in this + matter. Did your uncle say anything when he showed you the major’s + letter?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What was it?” + </p> + <p> + “My uncle told me that his letter of inquiry filled three pages, and he + bade me observe that the major’s answer contained one sentence only. He + said, ‘I volunteered to go to Major Fitz-David and talk the matter over. + You see he takes no notice of my proposal. I asked him for the address of + Mr. Woodville’s mother. He passes over my request, as he has passed over + my proposal—he studiously confines himself to the shortest possible + statement of bare facts. Use your common-sense, Valeria. Isn’t this + rudeness rather remarkable on the part of a man who is a gentleman by + birth and breeding, and who is also a friend of mine?’” + </p> + <p> + Eustace stopped me there. + </p> + <p> + “Did you answer your uncle’s question?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “No,” I replied. “I only said that I did not understand the major’s + conduct.” + </p> + <p> + “And what did your uncle say next? If you love me, Valeria, tell me the + truth.” + </p> + <p> + “He used very strong language, Eustace. He is an old man; you must not be + offended with him.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not offended. What did he say?” + </p> + <p> + “He said, ‘Mark my words! There is something under the surface in + connection with Mr. Woodville, or with his family, to which Major + Fitz-David is not at liberty to allude. Properly interpreted, Valeria, + that letter is a warning. Show it to Mr. Woodville, and tell him (if you + like) what I have just told you—‘” + </p> + <p> + Eustace stopped me again. + </p> + <p> + “You are sure your uncle said those words?” he asked, scanning my face + attentively in the moonlight. + </p> + <p> + “Quite sure. But I don’t say what my uncle says. Pray don’t think that!” + </p> + <p> + He suddenly pressed me to his bosom, and fixed his eyes on mine. His look + frightened me. + </p> + <p> + “Good-by, Valeria!” he said. “Try and think kindly of me, my darling, when + you are married to some happier man.” + </p> + <p> + He attempted to leave me. I clung to him in an agony of terror that shook + me from head to foot. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” I asked, as soon as I could speak. “I am yours and + yours only. What have I said, what have I done, to deserve those dreadful + words?” + </p> + <p> + “We must part, my angel,” he answered, sadly. “The fault is none of yours; + the misfortune is all mine. My Valeria! how can you marry a man who is an + object of suspicion to your nearest and dearest friends? I have led a + dreary life. I have never found in any other woman the sympathy with me, + the sweet comfort and companionship, that I find in you. Oh, it is hard to + lose you! it is hard to go back again to my unfriended life! I must make + the sacrifice, love, for your sake. I know no more why that letter is what + it is than you do. Will your uncle believe me? will your friends believe + me? One last kiss, Valeria! Forgive me for having loved you—passionately, + devotedly loved you. Forgive me—and let me go!” + </p> + <p> + I held him desperately, recklessly. His eyes, put me beside myself; his + words filled me with a frenzy of despair. + </p> + <p> + “Go where you may,” I said, “I go with you! Friends—reputation—I + care nothing who I lose, or what I lose! Oh, Eustace, I am only a woman—don’t + madden me! I can’t live without you. I must and will be your wife!” + </p> + <p> + Those wild words were all I could say before the misery and madness in me + forced their way outward in a burst of sobs and tears. + </p> + <p> + He yielded. He soothed me with his charming voice; he brought me back to + myself with his tender caresses. He called the bright heaven above us to + witness that he devoted his whole life to me. He vowed—oh, in such + solemn, such eloquent words!—that his one thought, night and day, + should be to prove himself worthy of such love as mine. And had he not + nobly redeemed the pledge? Had not the betrothal of that memorable night + been followed by the betrothal at the altar, by the vows before God! Ah, + what a life was before me! What more than mortal happiness was mine! + </p> + <p> + Again I lifted my head from his bosom to taste the dear delight of seeing + him by my side—my life, my love, my husband, my own! + </p> + <p> + Hardly awakened yet from the absorbing memories of the past to the sweet + realities of the present, I let my cheek touch his cheek, I whispered to + him softly, “Oh, how I love you! how I love you!” + </p> + <p> + The next instant I started back from him. My heart stood still. I put my + hand up to my face. What did I feel on my cheek? (<i>I</i> had not been + weeping—I was too happy.) What did I feel on my cheek? A tear! + </p> + <p> + His face was still averted from me. I turned it toward me, with my own + hands, by main force. + </p> + <p> + I looked at him—and saw my husband, on our wedding-day, with his + eyes full of tears. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. RAMSGATE SANDS. + </h2> + <p> + EUSTACE succeeded in quieting my alarm. But I can hardly say that he + succeeded in satisfying my mind as well. + </p> + <p> + He had been thinking, he told me, of the contrast between his past and his + present life. Bitter remembrance of the years that had gone had risen in + his memory, and had filled him with melancholy misgivings of his capacity + to make my life with him a happy one. He had asked himself if he had not + met me too late—if he were not already a man soured and broken by + the disappointments and disenchantments of the past? Doubts such as these, + weighing more and more heavily on his mind, had filled his eyes with the + tears which I had discovered—tears which he now entreated me, by my + love for him, to dismiss from my memory forever. + </p> + <p> + I forgave him, comforted him, revived him; but there were moments when the + remembrance of what I had seen troubled me in secret, and when I asked + myself if I really possessed my husband’s full confidence as he possessed + mine. + </p> + <p> + We left the train at Ramsgate. + </p> + <p> + The favorite watering-place was empty; the season was just over. Our + arrangements for the wedding tour included a cruise to the Mediterranean + in a yacht lent to Eustace by a friend. We were both fond of the sea, and + we were equally desirous, considering the circumstances under which we had + married, of escaping the notice of friends and acquaintances. With this + object in view, having celebrated our marriage privately in London, we had + decided on instructing the sailing-master of the yacht to join us at + Ramsgate. At this port (when the season for visitors was at an end) we + could embark far more privately than at the popular yachting stations + situated in the Isle of Wight. + </p> + <p> + Three days passed—days of delicious solitude, of exquisite + happiness, never to be forgotten, never to be lived over again, to the end + of our lives! + </p> + <p> + Early on the morning of the fourth day, just before sunrise, a trifling + incident happened, which was noticeable, nevertheless, as being strange to + me in my experience of myself. + </p> + <p> + I awoke, suddenly and unaccountably, from a deep and dreamless sleep with + an all-pervading sensation of nervous uneasiness which I had never felt + before. In the old days at the Vicarage my capacity as a sound sleeper had + been the subject of many a little harmless joke. From the moment when my + head was on the pillow I had never known what it was to awake until the + maid knocked at my door. At all seasons and times the long and + uninterrupted repose of a child was the repose that I enjoyed. + </p> + <p> + And now I had awakened, without any assignable cause, hours before my + usual time. I tried to compose myself to sleep again. The effort was + useless. Such a restlessness possessed me that I was not even able to lie + still in the bed. My husband was sleeping soundly by my side. In the fear + of disturbing him I rose, and put on my dressing-gown and slippers. + </p> + <p> + I went to the window. The sun was just rising over the calm gray sea. For + a while the majestic spectacle before me exercised a tranquilizing + influence on the irritable condition of my nerves. But ere long the old + restlessness returned upon me. I walked slowly to and fro in the room, + until I was weary of the monotony of the exercise. I took up a book, and + laid it aside again. My attention wandered; the author was powerless to + recall it. I got on my feet once more, and looked at Eustace, and admired + him and loved him in his tranquil sleep. I went back to the window, and + wearied of the beautiful morning. I sat down before the glass and looked + at myself. How haggard and worn I was already, through awaking before my + usual time! I rose again, not knowing what to do next. The confinement to + the four walls of the room began to be intolerable to me. I opened the + door that led into my husband’s dressing-room, and entered it, to try if + the change would relieve me. + </p> + <p> + The first object that I noticed was his dressing-case, open on the + toilet-table. + </p> + <p> + I took out the bottles and pots and brushes and combs, the knives and + scissors in one compartment, the writing materials in another. I smelled + the perfumes and pomatums; I busily cleaned and dusted the bottles with my + handkerchief as I took them out. Little by little I completely emptied the + dressing-case. It was lined with blue velvet. In one corner I noticed a + tiny slip of loose blue silk. Taking it between my finger and thumb, and + drawing it upward, I discovered that there was a false bottom to the case, + forming a secret compartment for letters and papers. In my strange + condition—capricious, idle, inquisitive—it was an amusement to + me to take out the papers, just as I had taken out everything else. + </p> + <p> + I found some receipted bills, which failed to interest me; some letters, + which it is needless to say I laid aside after only looking at the + addresses; and, under all, a photograph, face downward, with writing on + the back of it. I looked at the writing, and saw these words: + </p> + <p> + “To my dear son, Eustace.” + </p> + <p> + His mother! the woman who had so obstinately and mercilessly opposed + herself to our marriage! + </p> + <p> + I eagerly turned the photograph, expecting to see a woman with a stern, + ill-tempered, forbidding countenance. To my surprise, the face showed the + remains of great beauty; the expression, though remarkably firm, was yet + winning, tender, and kind. The gray hair was arranged in rows of little + quaint old-fashioned curls on either side of the head, under a plain lace + cap. At one corner of the mouth there was a mark, apparently a mole, which + added to the characteristic peculiarity of the face. I looked and looked, + fixing the portrait thoroughly in my mind. This woman, who had almost + insulted me and my relatives, was, beyond all doubt or dispute, so far as + appearances went, a person possessing unusual attractions—a person + whom it would be a pleasure and a privilege to know. + </p> + <p> + I fell into deep thought. The discovery of the photograph quieted me as + nothing had quieted me yet. + </p> + <p> + The striking of a clock downstairs in the hall warned me of the flight of + time. I carefully put back all the objects in the dressing-case (beginning + with the photograph) exactly as I had found them, and returned to the + bedroom. As I looked at my husband, still sleeping peacefully, the + question forced itself into my mind, What had made that genial, gentle + mother of his so sternly bent on parting us? so harshly and pitilessly + resolute in asserting her disapproval of our marriage? + </p> + <p> + Could I put my question openly to Eustace when he awoke? No; I was afraid + to venture that length. It had been tacitly understood between us that we + were not to speak of his mother—and, besides, he might be angry if + he knew that I had opened the private compartment of his dressing-case. + </p> + <p> + After breakfast that morning we had news at last of the yacht. The vessel + was safely moored in the inner harbor, and the sailing-master was waiting + to receive my husband’s orders on board. + </p> + <p> + Eustace hesitated at asking me to accompany him to the yacht. It would be + necessary for him to examine the inventory of the vessel, and to decide + questions, not very interesting to a woman, relating to charts and + barometers, provisions and water. He asked me if I would wait for his + return. The day was enticingly beautiful, and the tide was on the ebb. I + pleaded for a walk on the sands; and the landlady at our lodgings, who + happened to be in the room at the time, volunteered to accompany me and + take care of me. It was agreed that we should walk as far as we felt + inclined in the direction of Broadstairs, and that Eustace should follow + and meet us on the sands, after having completed his arrangements on board + the yacht. + </p> + <p> + In half an hour more the landlady and I were out on the beach. + </p> + <p> + The scene on that fine autumn morning was nothing less than enchanting. + The brisk breeze, the brilliant sky, the flashing blue sea, the sun-bright + cliffs and the tawny sands at their feet, the gliding procession of ships + on the great marine highway of the English Channel—it was all so + exhilarating, it was all so delightful, that I really believe if I had + been by myself I could have danced for joy like a child. The one drawback + to my happiness was the landlady’s untiring tongue. She was a forward, + good-natured, empty-headed woman, who persisted in talking, whether I + listened or not, and who had a habit of perpetually addressing me as “Mrs. + Woodville,” which I thought a little overfamiliar as an assertion of + equality from a person in her position to a person in mine. + </p> + <p> + We had been out, I should think, more than half an hour, when we overtook + a lady walking before us on the beach. + </p> + <p> + Just as we were about to pass the stranger she took her handkerchief from + her pocket, and accidentally drew out with it a letter, which fell + unnoticed by her, on the sand. I was nearest to the letter, and I picked + it up and offered it to the lady. + </p> + <p> + The instant she turned to thank me, I stood rooted to the spot. There was + the original of the photographic portrait in the dressing-case! there was + my husband’s mother, standing face to face with me! I recognized the + quaint little gray curls, the gentle, genial expression, the mole at the + corner of the mouth. No mistake was possible. His mother herself! + </p> + <p> + The old lady, naturally enough, mistook my confusion for shyness. With + perfect tact and kindness she entered into conversation with me. In + another minute I was walking side by side with the woman who had sternly + repudiated me as a member of her family; feeling, I own, terribly + discomposed, and not knowing in the least whether I ought or ought not to + assume the responsibility, in my husband’s absence, of telling her who I + was. + </p> + <p> + In another minute my familiar landlady, walking on the other side of my + mother-in-law, decided the question for me. I happened to say that I + supposed we must by that time be near the end of our walk—the little + watering-place called Broadstairs. “Oh no, Mrs. Woodville!” cried the + irrepressible woman, calling me by my name, as usual; “nothing like so + near as you think!” + </p> + <p> + I looked with a beating heart at the old lady. + </p> + <p> + To my unutterable amazement, not the faintest gleam of recognition + appeared in her face. Old Mrs. Woodville went on talking to young Mrs. + Woodville just as composedly as if she had never heard her own name before + in her life! + </p> + <p> + My face and manner must have betrayed something of the agitation that I + was suffering. Happening to look at me at the end of her next sentence, + the old lady started, and said, in her kindly way, + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid you have overexerted yourself. You are very pale—you + are looking quite exhausted. Come and sit down here; let me lend you my + smelling-bottle.” + </p> + <p> + I followed her, quite helplessly, to the base of the cliff. Some fallen + fragments of chalk offered us a seat. I vaguely heard the voluble + landlady’s expressions of sympathy and regret; I mechanically took the + smelling-bottle which my husband’s mother offered to me, after hearing my + name, as an act of kindness to a stranger. + </p> + <p> + If I had only had myself to think of, I believe I should have provoked an + explanation on the spot. But I had Eustace to think of. I was entirely + ignorant of the relations, hostile or friendly, which existed between his + mother and himself. What could I do? + </p> + <p> + In the meantime the old lady was still speaking to me with the most + considerate sympathy. She too was fatigued, she said. She had passed a + weary night at the bedside of a near relative staying at Ramsgate. Only + the day before she had received a telegram announcing that one of her + sisters was seriously ill. She was herself thank God, still active and + strong, and she had thought it her duty to start at once for Ramsgate. + Toward the morning the state of the patient had improved. “The doctor + assures me ma’am, that there is no immediate danger; and I thought it + might revive me, after my long night at the bedside, if I took a little + walk on the beach.” + </p> + <p> + I heard the words—I understood what they meant—but I was still + too bewildered and too intimidated by my extraordinary position to be able + to continue the conversation. The landlady had a sensible suggestion to + make—the landlady was the next person who spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Here is a gentleman coming,” she said to me, pointing in the direction of + Ramsgate. “You can never walk back. Shall we ask him to send a chaise from + Broadstairs to the gap in the cliff?” + </p> + <p> + The gentleman advanced a little nearer. + </p> + <p> + The landlady and I recognized him at the same moment. It was Eustace + coming to meet us, as we had arranged. The irrepressible landlady gave the + freest expression to her feelings. “Oh, Mrs. Woodville, ain’t it lucky? + here is Mr. Woodville himself.” + </p> + <p> + Once more I looked at my mother-in-law. Once more the name failed to + produce the slightest effect on her. Her sight was not so keen as ours; + she had not recognized her son yet. He had young eyes like us, and he + recognized his mother. For a moment he stopped like a man thunderstruck. + Then he came on—his ruddy face white with suppressed emotion, his + eyes fixed on his mother. + </p> + <p> + “You here!” he said to her. + </p> + <p> + “How do you do, Eustace?” she quietly rejoined. “Have <i>you</i> heard of + your aunt’s illness too? Did you know she was staying at Ramsgate?” + </p> + <p> + He made no answer. The landlady, drawing the inevitable inference from the + words that she had just heard, looked from me to my mother-in-law in a + state of amazement, which paralyzed even her tongue. I waited with my eyes + on my husband, to see what he would do. If he had delayed acknowledging me + another moment, the whole future course of my life might have been altered—I + should have despised him. + </p> + <p> + He did <i>not</i> delay. He came to my side and took my hand. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know who this is?” he said to his mother. + </p> + <p> + She answered, looking at me with a courteous bend of her head: + </p> + <p> + “A lady I met on the beach, Eustace, who kindly restored to me a letter + that I dropped. I think I heard the name” (she turned to the landlady): + “Mrs. Woodville, was it not?” + </p> + <p> + My husband’s fingers unconsciously closed on my hand with a grasp that + hurt me. He set his mother right, it is only just to say, without one + cowardly moment of hesitation. + </p> + <p> + “Mother,” he said to her, very quietly, “this lady is my wife.” + </p> + <p> + She had hitherto kept her seat. She now rose slowly and faced her son in + silence. The first expression of surprise passed from her face. It was + succeeded by the most terrible look of mingled indignation and contempt + that I ever saw in a woman’s eyes. + </p> + <p> + “I pity your wife,” she said. + </p> + <p> + With those words and no more, lifting her hand she waved him back from + her, and went on her way again, as we had first found her, alone. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. ON THE WAY HOME. + </h2> + <p> + LEFT by ourselves, there was a moment of silence among us. Eustace spoke + first. + </p> + <p> + “Are you able to walk back?” he said to me. “Or shall we go on to + Broadstairs, and return to Ramsgate by the railway?” + </p> + <p> + He put those questions as composedly, so far as his manner was concerned, + as if nothing remarkable had happened. But his eyes and his lips betrayed + him. They told me that he was suffering keenly in secret. The + extraordinary scene that had just passed, far from depriving me of the + last remains of my courage, had strung up my nerves and restored my + self-possession. I must have been more or less than woman if my + self-respect had not been wounded, if my curiosity had not been wrought to + the highest pitch, by the extraordinary conduct of my husband’s mother + when Eustace presented me to her. What was the secret of her despising + him, and pitying me? Where was the explanation of her incomprehensible + apathy when my name was twice pronounced in her hearing? Why had she left + us, as if the bare idea of remaining in our company was abhorrent to her? + The foremost interest of my life was now the interest of penetrating these + mysteries. Walk? I was in such a fever of expectation that I felt as if I + could have walked to the world’s end, if I could only keep my husband by + my side, and question him on the way. + </p> + <p> + “I am quite recovered,” I said. “Let us go back, as we came, on foot.” + </p> + <p> + Eustace glanced at the landlady. The landlady understood him. + </p> + <p> + “I won’t intrude my company on you, sir,” she said, sharply. “I have some + business to do at Broadstairs, and, now I am so near, I may as well go on. + Good-morning, Mrs. Woodville.” + </p> + <p> + She laid a marked emphasis on my name, and she added one significant look + at parting, which (in the preoccupied state of my mind at that moment) I + entirely failed to comprehend. There was neither time nor opportunity to + ask her what she meant. With a stiff little bow, addressed to Eustace, she + left us as his mother had left us taking the way to Broadstairs, and + walking rapidly. + </p> + <p> + At last we were alone. + </p> + <p> + I lost no time in beginning my inquiries; I wasted no words in prefatory + phrases. In the plainest terms I put the question to him: + </p> + <p> + “What does your mother’s conduct mean?” + </p> + <p> + Instead of answering, he burst into a fit of laughter—loud, coarse, + hard laughter, so utterly unlike any sound I had ever yet heard issue from + his lips, so strangely and shockingly foreign to his character as <i>I</i> + understood it, that I stood still on the sands and openly remonstrated + with him. + </p> + <p> + “Eustace! you are not like yourself,” I said. “You almost frighten me.” + </p> + <p> + He took no notice. He seemed to be pursuing some pleasant train of thought + just started in his mind. + </p> + <p> + “So like my mother!” he exclaimed, with the air of a man who felt + irresistibly diverted by some humorous idea of his own. “Tell me all about + it, Valeria!” + </p> + <p> + “Tell <i>you</i>!” I repeated. “After what has happened, surely it is your + duty to enlighten <i>me</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t see the joke,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I not only fail to see the joke,” I rejoined, “I see something in your + mother’s language and your mother’s behavior which justifies me in asking + you for a serious explanation.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Valeria, if you understood my mother as well as I do, a serious + explanation of her conduct would be the last thing in the world that you + would expect from me. The idea of taking my mother seriously!” He burst + out laughing again. “My darling, you don’t know how you amuse me.” + </p> + <p> + It was all forced: it was all unnatural. He, the most delicate, the most + refined of men—a gentleman in the highest sense of the word—was + coarse and loud and vulgar! My heart sank under a sudden sense of + misgiving which, with all my love for him, it was impossible to resist. In + unutterable distress and alarm I asked myself, “Is my husband beginning to + deceive me? is he acting a part, and acting it badly, before we have been + married a week?” I set myself to win his confidence in a new way. He was + evidently determined to force his own point of view on me. I determined, + on my side, to accept his point of view. + </p> + <p> + “You tell me I don’t understand your mother,” I said, gently. “Will you + help me to understand her?” + </p> + <p> + “It is not easy to help you to understand a woman who doesn’t understand + herself,” he answered. “But I will try. The key to my poor dear mother’s + character is, in one word—Eccentricity.” + </p> + <p> + If he had picked out the most inappropriate word in the whole dictionary + to describe the lady whom I had met on the beach, “Eccentricity” would + have been that word. A child who had seen what I saw, who had heard what I + heard would have discovered that he was trifling—grossly, recklessly + trifling—with the truth. + </p> + <p> + “Bear in mind what I have said,” he proceeded; “and if you want to + understand my mother, do what I asked you to do a minute since—tell + me all about it. How came you to speak to her, to begin with?” + </p> + <p> + “Your mother told you, Eustace. I was walking just behind her, when she + dropped a letter by accident—” + </p> + <p> + “No accident,” he interposed. “The letter was dropped on purpose.” + </p> + <p> + “Impossible!” I exclaimed. “Why should your mother drop the letter on + purpose?” + </p> + <p> + “Use the key to her character, my dear. Eccentricity! My mother’s odd way + of making acquaintance with you.” + </p> + <p> + “Making acquaintance with me? I have just told you that I was walking + behind her. She could not have known of the existence of such a person as + myself until I spoke to her first.” + </p> + <p> + “So you suppose, Valeria.” + </p> + <p> + “I am certain of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me—you don’t know my mother as I do.” + </p> + <p> + I began to lose all patience with him. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to tell me,” I said, “that your mother was out on the sands + to-day for the express purpose of making acquaintance with Me?” + </p> + <p> + “I have not the slightest doubt of it,” he answered, coolly. + </p> + <p> + “Why, she didn’t even recognize my name!” I burst out. “Twice over the + landlady called me Mrs. Woodville in your mother’s hearing, and twice + over, I declare to you on my word of honor, it failed to produce the + slightest impression on her. She looked and acted as if she had never + heard her own name before in her life.” + </p> + <p> + “‘Acted’ is the right word,” he said, just as composedly as before. “The + women on the stage are not the only women who can act. My mother’s object + was to make herself thoroughly acquainted with you, and to throw you off + your guard by speaking in the character of a stranger. It is exactly like + her to take that roundabout way of satisfying her curiosity about a + daughter-in-law she disapproves of. If I had not joined you when I did, + you would have been examined and cross-examined about yourself and about + me, and you would innocently have answered under the impression that you + were speaking to a chance acquaintance. There is my mother all over! She + is your enemy, remember—not your friend. She is not in search of + your merits, but of your faults. And you wonder why no impression was + produced on her when she heard you addressed by your name! Poor innocent! + I can tell you this—you only discovered my mother in her own + character when I put an end to the mystification by presenting you to each + other. You saw how angry she was, and now you know why.” + </p> + <p> + I let him go on without saying a word. I listened—oh! with such a + heavy heart, with such a crushing sense of disenchantment and despair! The + idol of my worship, the companion, guide, protector of my life—had + he fallen so low? could he stoop to such shameless prevarication as this? + </p> + <p> + Was there one word of truth in all that he had said to me? Yes! If I had + not discovered his mother’s portrait, it was certainly true that I should + not have known, not even have vaguely suspected, who she really was. Apart + from this, the rest was lying, clumsy lying, which said one thing at least + for him, that he was not accustomed to falsehood and deceit. Good Heavens! + if my husband was to be believed, his mother must have tracked us to + London, tracked us to the church, tracked us to the railway station, + tracked us to Ramsgate! To assert that she knew me by sight as the wife of + Eustace, and that she had waited on the sands and dropped her letter for + the express purpose of making acquaintance with me, was also to assert + every one of these monstrous probabilities to be facts that had actually + happened! + </p> + <p> + I could say no more. I walked by his side in silence, feeling the + miserable conviction that there was an abyss in the shape of a family + secret between my husband and me. In the spirit, if not in the body, we + were separated, after a married life of barely four days. + </p> + <p> + “Valeria,” he asked, “have you nothing to say to me?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you not satisfied with my explanation?” + </p> + <p> + I detected a slight tremor in his voice as he put that question. The tone + was, for the first time since we had spoken together, a tone that my + experience associated with him in certain moods of his which I had already + learned to know well. Among the hundred thousand mysterious influences + which a man exercises over a woman who loves him, I doubt if there is any + more irresistible to her than the influence of his voice. I am not one of + those women who shed tears on the smallest provocation: it is not in my + temperament, I suppose. But when I heard that little natural change in his + tone my mind went back (I can’t say why) to the happy day when I first + owned that I loved him. I burst out crying. + </p> + <p> + He suddenly stood still, and took me by the hand. He tried to look at me. + </p> + <p> + I kept my head down and my eyes on the ground. I was ashamed of my + weakness and my want of spirit. I was determined not to look at him. + </p> + <p> + In the silence that followed he suddenly dropped on his knees at my feet, + with a cry of despair that cut through me like a knife. + </p> + <p> + “Valeria! I am vile—I am false—I am unworthy of you. Don’t + believe a word of what I have been saying—lies, lies, cowardly, + contemptible lies! You don’t know what I have gone through; you don’t know + how I have been tortured. Oh, my darling, try not to despise me! I must + have been beside myself when I spoke to you as I did. You looked hurt; you + looked offended; I didn’t know what to do. I wanted to spare you even a + moment’s pain—I wanted to hush it up, and have done with it. For + God’s sake don’t ask me to tell you any more! My love! my angel! it’s + something between my mother and me; it’s nothing that need disturb you; + it’s nothing to anybody now. I love you, I adore you; my whole heart and + soul are yours. Be satisfied with that. Forget what has happened. You + shall never see my mother again. We will leave this place to-morrow. We + will go away in the yacht. Does it matter where we live, so long as we + live for each other? Forgive and forget! Oh, Valeria, Valeria, forgive and + forget!” + </p> + <p> + Unutterable misery was in his face; unutterable misery was in his voice. + Remember this. And remember that I loved him. + </p> + <p> + “It is easy to forgive,” I said, sadly. “For your sake, Eustace, I will + try to forget.” + </p> + <p> + I raised him gently as I spoke. He kissed my hands with the air of a man + who was too humble to venture on any more familiar expression of his + gratitude than that. The sense of embarrassment between us as we slowly + walked on again was so unendurable that I actually cast about in my mind + for a subject of conversation, as if I had been in the company of a + stranger! In mercy to <i>him</i>, I asked him to tell me about the yacht. + </p> + <p> + He seized on the subject as a drowning man seizes on the hand that rescues + him. + </p> + <p> + On that one poor little topic of the yacht he talked, talked, talked, as + if his life depended upon his not being silent for an instant on the rest + of the way back. To me it was dreadful to hear him. I could estimate what + he was suffering by the violence which he—ordinarily a silent and + thoughtful man—was now doing to his true nature, and to the + prejudices and habits of his life. With the greatest difficulty I + preserved my self-control until we reached the door of our lodgings. There + I was obliged to plead fatigue, and ask him to let me rest for a little + while in the solitude of my own room. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we sail to-morrow?” he called after me suddenly, as I ascended the + stairs. + </p> + <p> + Sail with him to the Mediterranean the next day? Pass weeks and weeks + absolutely alone with him, in the narrow limits of a vessel, with his + horrible secret parting us in sympathy further and further from each other + day by day? I shuddered at the thought of it. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow is rather a short notice,” I said. “Will you give me a little + longer time to prepare for the voyage?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes—take any time you like,” he answered, not (as I thought) + very willingly. “While you are resting—there are still one or two + little things to be settled—I think I will go back to the yacht. Is + there anything I can do for you, Valeria, before I go?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing—thank you, Eustace.” + </p> + <p> + He hastened away to the harbor. Was he afraid of his own thoughts, if he + were left by himself in the house. Was the company of the sailing-master + and the steward better than no company at all? + </p> + <p> + It was useless to ask. What did I know about him or his thoughts? I locked + myself into my room. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. THE LANDLADY’S DISCOVERY. + </h2> + <p> + I SAT down, and tried to compose my spirits. Now or never was the time to + decide what it was my duty to my husband and my duty to myself to do next. + </p> + <p> + The effort was beyond me. Worn out in mind and body alike, I was perfectly + incapable of pursuing any regular train of thought. I vaguely felt—if + I left things as they were—that I could never hope to remove the + shadow which now rested on the married life that had begun so brightly. We + might live together, so as to save appearances. But to forget what had + happened, or to feel satisfied with my position, was beyond the power of + my will. My tranquillity as a woman—perhaps my dearest interests as + a wife—depended absolutely on penetrating the mystery of my + mother-in-law’s conduct, and on discovering the true meaning of the wild + words of penitence and self-reproach which my husband had addressed to me + on our way home. + </p> + <p> + So far I could advance toward realizing my position—and no further. + When I asked myself what was to be done next, hopeless confusion, + maddening doubt, filled my mind, and transformed me into the most listless + and helpless of living women. + </p> + <p> + I gave up the struggle. In dull, stupid, obstinate despair, I threw myself + on my bed, and fell from sheer fatigue into a broken, uneasy sleep. + </p> + <p> + I was awakened by a knock at the door of my room. + </p> + <p> + Was it my husband? I started to my feet as the idea occurred to me. Was + some new trial of my patience and my fortitude at hand? Half nervously, + half irritably, I asked who was there. + </p> + <p> + The landlady’s voice answered me. + </p> + <p> + “Can I speak to you for a moment, if you please?” + </p> + <p> + I opened the door. There is no disguising it—though I loved him so + dearly, though I had left home and friends for his sake—it was a + relief to me, at that miserable time, to know that Eustace had not + returned to the house. + </p> + <p> + The landlady came in, and took a seat, without waiting to be invited, + close by my side. She was no longer satisfied with merely asserting + herself as my equal. Ascending another step on the social ladder, she took + her stand on the platform of patronage, and charitably looked down on me + as an object of pity. + </p> + <p> + “I have just returned from Broadstairs,” she began. “I hope you will do me + the justice to believe that I sincerely regret what has happened.” + </p> + <p> + I bowed, and said nothing. + </p> + <p> + “As a gentlewoman myself,” proceeded the landlady—“reduced by family + misfortunes to let lodgings, but still a gentlewoman—I feel sincere + sympathy with you. I will even go further than that. I will take it on + myself to say that I don’t blame <i>you</i>. No, no. I noticed that you + were as much shocked and surprised at your mother-in-law’s conduct as I + was; and that is saying a great deal—a great deal indeed. However, I + have a duty to perform. It is disagreeable, but it is not the less a duty + on that account. I am a single woman; not from want of opportunities of + changing my condition—I beg you will understand that—but from + choice. Situated as I am, I receive only the most respectable persons into + my house. There must be no mystery about the positions of <i>my</i> + lodgers. Mystery in the position of a lodger carries with it—what + shall I say? I don’t wish to offend you—I will say, a certain Taint. + Very well. Now I put it to your own common-sense. Can a person in my + position be expected to expose herself to—Taint? I make these + remarks in a sisterly and Christian spirit. As a lady yourself—I + will even go the length of saying a cruelly used lady—you will, I am + sure, understand—” + </p> + <p> + I could endure it no longer. I stopped her there. + </p> + <p> + “I understand,” I said, “that you wish to give us notice to quit your + lodgings. When do you want us to go?” + </p> + <p> + The landlady held up a long, lean, red hand, in a sorrowful and sisterly + protest. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said. “Not that tone; not those looks. It’s natural you should + be annoyed; it’s natural you should be angry. But do—now do please + try and control yourself. I put it to your own common-sense (we will say a + week for the notice to quit)—why not treat me like a friend? You + don’t know what a sacrifice, what a cruel sacrifice, I have made—entirely + for your sake. + </p> + <p> + “You?” I exclaimed. “What sacrifice?” + </p> + <p> + “What sacrifice?” repeated the landlady. “I have degraded myself as a + gentlewoman. I have forfeited my own self-respect.” She paused for a + moment, and suddenly seized my hand in a perfect frenzy of friendship. + “Oh, my poor dear!” cried this intolerable person. “I have discovered + everything. A villain has deceived you. You are no more married than I + am!” + </p> + <p> + I snatched my hand out of hers, and rose angrily from my chair. + </p> + <p> + “Are you mad?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + The landlady raised her eyes to the ceiling with the air of a person who + had deserved martyrdom, and who submitted to it cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said. “I begin to think I <i>am</i> mad—mad to have + devoted myself to an ungrateful woman, to a person who doesn’t appreciate + a sisterly and Christian sacrifice of self. Well, I won’t do it again. + Heaven forgive me—I won’t do it again!” + </p> + <p> + “Do what again?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Follow your mother-in-law,” cried the landlady, suddenly dropping the + character of a martyr, and assuming the character of a vixen in its place. + “I blush when I think of it. I followed that most respectable person every + step of the way to her own door.” + </p> + <p> + Thus far my pride had held me up. It sustained me no longer. I dropped + back again into my chair, in undisguised dread of what was coming next. + </p> + <p> + “I gave you a look when I left you on the beach,” pursued the landlady, + growing louder and louder and redder and redder as she went on. “A + grateful woman would have understood that look. Never mind! I won’t do it + again I overtook your mother-in-law at the gap in the cliff. I followed + her—oh, how I feel the disgrace of it <i>now!</i>—I followed + her to the station at Broadstairs. She went back by train to Ramsgate. <i>I</i> + went back by train to Ramsgate. She walked to her lodgings. <i>I</i> + walked to her lodgings. Behind her. Like a dog. Oh, the disgrace of it! + Providentially, as I then thought—I don’t know what to think of it + now—the landlord of the house happened to be a friend of mine, and + happened to be at home. We have no secrets from each other where lodgers + are concerned. I am in a position to tell you, madam, what your + mother-in-law’s name really is. She knows nothing about any such person as + Mrs. Woodville, for an excellent reason. Her name is <i>not</i> Woodville. + Her name (and consequently her son’s name) is Macallan—Mrs. + Macallan, widow of the late General Macallan. Yes! your husband is <i>not</i> + your husband. You are neither maid, wife, nor widow. You are worse than + nothing, madam, and you leave my house!” + </p> + <p> + I stopped her as she opened the door to go out. She had roused <i>my</i> + temper by this time. The doubt that she had cast on my marriage was more + than mortal resignation could endure. + </p> + <p> + “Give me Mrs. Macallan’s address,” I said. + </p> + <p> + The landlady’s anger receded into the background, and the landlady’s + astonishment appeared in its place. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t mean to tell me you are going to the old lady herself?” she + said. + </p> + <p> + “Nobody but the old lady can tell me what I want to know,” I answered. + “Your discovery (as you call it) may be enough for <i>you</i>; it is not + enough for <i>me</i>. How do we know that Mrs. Macallan may not have been + twice married? and that her first husband’s name may not have been + Woodville?” + </p> + <p> + The landlady’s astonishment subsided in its turn, and the landlady’s + curiosity succeeded as the ruling influence of the moment. Substantially, + as I have already said of her, she was a good-natured woman. Her fits of + temper (as is usual with good-natured people) were of the hot and the + short-lived sort, easily roused and easily appeased. + </p> + <p> + “I never thought of that,” she said. “Look here! if I give you the + address, will you promise to tell me all about it when you come back?” + </p> + <p> + I gave the required promise, and received the address in return. + </p> + <p> + “No malice,” said the landlady, suddenly resuming all her old familiarity + with me. + </p> + <p> + “No malice,” I answered, with all possible cordiality on my side. + </p> + <p> + In ten minutes more I was at my mother-in-law’s lodgings. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. MY OWN DISCOVERY. + </h2> + <p> + FORTUNATELY for me, the landlord did not open the door when I rang. A + stupid maid-of-all-work, who never thought of asking me for my name, let + me in. Mrs. Macallan was at home, and had no visitors with her. Giving me + this information, the maid led the way upstairs, and showed me into the + drawing-room without a word of announcement. + </p> + <p> + My mother-in-law was sitting alone, near a work-table, knitting. The + moment I appeared in the doorway she laid aside her work, and, rising, + signed to me with a commanding gesture of her hand to let her speak first. + </p> + <p> + “I know what you have come here for,” she said. “You have come here to ask + questions. Spare yourself, and spare me. I warn you beforehand that I will + not answer any questions relating to my son.” + </p> + <p> + It was firmly, but not harshly said. I spoke firmly in my turn. + </p> + <p> + “I have not come here, madam, to ask questions about your son,” I + answered. “I have come, if you will excuse me, to ask you a question about + yourself.” + </p> + <p> + She started, and looked at me keenly over her spectacles. I had evidently + taken her by surprise. + </p> + <p> + “What is the question?” she inquired. + </p> + <p> + “I now know for the first time, madam, that your name is Macallan,” I + said. “Your son has married me under the name of Woodville. The only + honorable explanation of this circumstance, so far as I know, is that my + husband is your son by a first marriage. The happiness of my life is at + stake. Will you kindly consider my position? Will you let me ask you if + you have been twice married, and if the name of your first husband was + Woodville?” + </p> + <p> + She considered a little before she replied. + </p> + <p> + “The question is a perfectly natural one in your position,” she said. “But + I think I had better not answer it.” + </p> + <p> + “May I ask why?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. If I answered you, I should only lead to other questions, and + I should be obliged to decline replying to them. I am sorry to disappoint + you. I repeat what I said on the beach—I have no other feeling than + a feeling of sympathy toward <i>you.</i> If you had consulted me before + your marriage, I should willingly have admitted you to my fullest + confidence. It is now too late. You are married. I recommend you to make + the best of your position, and to rest satisfied with things as they are.” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, madam,” I remonstrated. “As things are, I don’t know that I <i>am</i> + married. All I know, unless you enlighten me, is that your son has married + me under a name that is not his own. How can I be sure whether I am or am + not his lawful wife?” + </p> + <p> + “I believe there can be no doubt that you are lawfully my son’s wife,” + Mrs. Macallan answered. “At any rate it is easy to take a legal opinion on + the subject. If the opinion is that you are <i>not</i> lawfully married, + my son (whatever his faults and failings may be) is a gentleman. He is + incapable of willfully deceiving a woman who loves and trusts him. He will + do you justice. On my side, I will do you justice, too. If the legal + opinion is adverse to your rightful claims, I will promise to answer any + questions which you may choose to put to me. As it is, I believe you to be + lawfully my son’s wife; and I say again, make the best of your position. + Be satisfied with your husband’s affectionate devotion to you. If you + value your peace of mind and the happiness of your life to come, abstain + from attempting to know more than you know now.” + </p> + <p> + She sat down again with the air of a woman who had said her last word. + </p> + <p> + Further remonstrance would be useless; I could see it in her face; I could + hear it in her voice. I turned round to open the drawing-room door. + </p> + <p> + “You are hard on me, madam,” I said at parting. “I am at your mercy, and I + must submit.” + </p> + <p> + She suddenly looked up, and answered me with a flush on her kind and + handsome old face. + </p> + <p> + “As God is my witness, child, I pity you from the bottom of my heart!” + </p> + <p> + After that extraordinary outburst of feeling, she took up her work with + one hand, and signed to me with the other to leave her. + </p> + <p> + I bowed to her in silence, and went out. + </p> + <p> + I had entered the house far from feeling sure of the course I ought to + take in the future. I left the house positively resolved, come what might + of it, to discover the secret which the mother and son were hiding from + me. As to the question of the name, I saw it now in the light in which I + ought to have seen it from the first. If Mrs. Macallan <i>had</i> been + twice married (as I had rashly chosen to suppose), she would certainly + have shown some signs of recognition when she heard me addressed by her + first husband’s name. Where all else was mystery, there was no mystery + here. Whatever his reasons might be, Eustace had assuredly married me + under an assumed name. + </p> + <p> + Approaching the door of our lodgings, I saw my husband walking backward + and forward before it, evidently waiting for my return. If he asked me the + question, I decided to tell him frankly where I had been, and what had + passed between his mother and myself. + </p> + <p> + He hurried to meet me with signs of disturbance in his face and manner. + </p> + <p> + “I have a favor to ask of you, Valeria,” he said. “Do you mind returning + with me to London by the next train?” + </p> + <p> + I looked at him. In the popular phrase, I could hardly believe my own + ears. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a matter of business,” he went on, “of no interest to any one but + myself, and it requires my presence in London. You don’t wish to sail just + yet, as I understand? I can’t leave you here by yourself. Have you any + objection to going to London for a day or two?” + </p> + <p> + I made no objection. I too was eager to go back. + </p> + <p> + In London I could obtain the legal opinion which would tell me whether I + were lawfully married to Eustace or not. In London I should be within + reach of the help and advice of my father’s faithful old clerk. I could + confide in Benjamin as I could confide in no one else. Dearly as I loved + my uncle Starkweather, I shrank from communicating with him in my present + need. His wife had told me that I made a bad beginning when I signed the + wrong name in the marriage register. Shall I own it? My pride shrank from + acknowledging, before the honeymoon was over, that his wife was right. + </p> + <p> + In two hours more we were on the railway again. Ah, what a contrast that + second journey presented to the first! On our way to Ramsgate everybody + could see that we were a newly wedded couple. On our way to London nobody + noticed us; nobody would have doubted that we had been married for years. + </p> + <p> + We went to a private hotel in the neighborhood of Portland Place. + </p> + <p> + After breakfast the next morning Eustace announced that he must leave me + to attend to his business. I had previously mentioned to him that I had + some purchases to make in London. He was quite willing to let me go out + alone, on the condition that I should take a carriage provided by the + hotel. + </p> + <p> + My heart was heavy that morning: I felt the unacknowledged estrangement + that had grown up between us very keenly. My husband opened the door to go + out, and came back to kiss me before he left me by myself. That little + after-thought of tenderness touched me. Acting on the impulse of the + moment, I put my arm round his neck, and held him to me gently. + </p> + <p> + “My darling,” I said, “give me all your confidence. I know that you love + me. Show that you can trust me too.” + </p> + <p> + He sighed bitterly, and drew back from me—in sorrow, not in anger. + </p> + <p> + “I thought we had agreed, Valeria, not to return to that subject again,” + he said. “You only distress yourself and distress me.” + </p> + <p> + He left the room abruptly, as if he dare not trust himself to say more. It + is better not to dwell on what I felt after this last repulse. I ordered + the carriage at once. I was eager to find a refuge from my own thoughts in + movement and change. + </p> + <p> + I drove to the shops first, and made the purchases which I had mentioned + to Eustace by way of giving a reason for going out. Then I devoted myself + to the object which I really had at heart. I went to old Benjamin’s little + villa, in the by-ways of St. John’s Wood. + </p> + <p> + As soon as he had got over the first surprise of seeing me, he noticed + that I looked pale and care-worn. I confessed at once that I was in + trouble. We sat down together by the bright fireside in his little library + (Benjamin, as far as his means would allow, was a great collector of + books), and there I told my old friend, frankly and truly, all that I have + told here. + </p> + <p> + He was too distressed to say much. He fervently pressed my hand; he + fervently thanked God that my father had not lived to hear what he had + heard. Then, after a pause, he repeated my mother-in-law’s name to himself + in a doubting, questioning tone. “Macallan?” he said. “Macallan? Where + have I heard that name? Why does it sound as if it wasn’t strange to me?” + </p> + <p> + He gave up pursuing the lost recollection, and asked, very earnestly, what + he could do for me. I answered that he could help me, in the first place, + to put an end to the doubt—an unendurable doubt to <i>me</i>—whether + I were lawfully married or not. His energy of the old days when he had + conducted my father’s business showed itself again the moment I said those + words. + </p> + <p> + “Your carriage is at the door, my dear,” he answered. “Come with me to my + own lawyer, without wasting another moment.” + </p> + <p> + We drove to Lincoln’s Inn Fields. + </p> + <p> + At my request Benjamin put my case to the lawyer as the case of a friend + in whom I was interested. The answer was given without hesitation. I had + married, honestly believing my husband’s name to be the name under which I + had known him. The witnesses to my marriage—my uncle, my aunt, and + Benjamin—had acted, as I had acted, in perfect good faith. Under + those circumstances, there was no doubt about the law. I was legally + married. Macallan or Woodville, I was his wife. + </p> + <p> + This decisive answer relieved me of a heavy anxiety. I accepted my old + friend’s invitation to return with him to St. John’s Wood, and to make my + luncheon at his early dinner. + </p> + <p> + On our way back I reverted to the one other subject which was now + uppermost in my mind. I reiterated my resolution to discover why Eustace + had not married me under the name that was really his own. + </p> + <p> + My companion shook his head, and entreated me to consider well beforehand + what I proposed doing. His advice to me—so strangely do extremes + meet!—was my mother-in-law’s advice, repeated almost word for word. + “Leave things as they are, my dear. In the interest of your own peace of + mind be satisfied with your husband’s affection. You know that you are his + wife, and you know that he loves you. Surely that is enough?” + </p> + <p> + I had but one answer to this. Life, on such conditions as my good friend + had just stated, would be simply unendurable to me. Nothing could alter my + resolution—for this plain reason, that nothing could reconcile me to + living with my husband on the terms on which we were living now. It only + rested with Benjamin to say whether he would give a helping hand to his + master’s daughter or not. + </p> + <p> + The old man’s answer was thoroughly characteristic of him. + </p> + <p> + “Mention what you want of me, my dear,” was all he said. + </p> + <p> + We were then passing a street in the neighborhood of Portman Square. I was + on the point of speaking again, when the words were suspended on my lips. + I saw my husband. + </p> + <p> + He was just descending the steps of a house—as if leaving it after a + visit. His eyes were on the ground: he did not look up when the-carriage + passed. As the servant closed the door behind him, I noticed that the + number of the house was Sixteen. At the next corner I saw the name of the + street. It was Vivian Place. + </p> + <p> + “Do you happen to know who lives at Number Sixteen Vivian Place?” I + inquired of my companion. + </p> + <p> + Benjamin started. My question was certainly a strange one, after what he + had just said to me. + </p> + <p> + “No,” he replied. “Why do you ask?” + </p> + <p> + “I have just seen Eustace leaving that house.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, my dear, and what of that?” + </p> + <p> + “My mind is in a bad way, Benjamin. Everything my husband does that I + don’t understand rouses my suspicion now.” + </p> + <p> + Benjamin lifted his withered old hands, and let them drop on his knees + again in mute lamentation over me. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you again,” I went on, “my life is unendurable to me. I won’t + answer for what I may do if I am left much longer to live in doubt of the + one man on earth whom I love. You have had experience of the world. + Suppose you were shut out from Eustace’s confidence, as I am? Suppose you + were as fond of him as I am, and felt your position as bitterly as I feel + it—what would you do?” + </p> + <p> + The question was plain. Benjamin met it with a plain answer. + </p> + <p> + “I think I should find my way, my dear, to some intimate friend of your + husband’s,” he said, “and make a few discreet inquiries in that quarter + first.” + </p> + <p> + Some intimate friend of my husband’s? I considered with myself. There was + but one friend of his whom I knew of—my uncle’s correspondent, Major + Fitz-David. My heart beat fast as the name recurred to my memory. Suppose + I followed Benjamin’s advice? Suppose I applied to Major Fitz-David? Even + if he, too, refused to answer my questions, my position would not be more + helpless than it was now. I determined to make the attempt. The only + difficulty in the way, so far, was to discover the Major’s address. I had + given back his letter to Doctor Starkweather, at my uncle’s own request. I + remembered that the address from which the Major wrote was somewhere in + London—and I remembered no more. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, old friend; you have given me an idea already,” I said to + Benjamin. “Have you got a Directory in your house?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my dear,” he rejoined, looking very much puzzled. “But I can easily + send out and borrow one.” + </p> + <p> + We returned to the villa. The servant was sent at once to the nearest + stationer’s to borrow a Directory. She returned with the book just as we + sat down to dinner. Searching for the Major’s name under the letter F, I + was startled by a new discovery. + </p> + <p> + “Benjamin!” I said. “This is a strange coincidence. Look here!” + </p> + <p> + He looked where I pointed. Major Fitz-David’s address was Number Sixteen + Vivian Place—the very house which I had seen my husband leaving as + we passed in the carriage! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. ON THE WAY TO THE MAJOR. + </h2> + <p> + “YES,” said Benjamin. “It <i>is</i> a coincidence certainly. Still—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped and looked at me. He seemed a little doubtful how I might + receive what he had it in his mind to say to me next. + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Still, my dear, I see nothing suspicious in what has happened,” he + resumed. “To my mind it is quite natural that your husband, being in + London, should pay a visit to one of his friends. And it’s equally natural + that we should pass through Vivian Place on our way back here. This seems + to be the reasonable view. What do <i>you</i> say?” + </p> + <p> + “I have told you already that my mind is in a bad way about Eustace,” I + answered. “<i>I</i> say there is some motive at the bottom of his visit to + Major Fitz-David. It is not an ordinary call. I am firmly convinced it is + not an ordinary call!” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose we get on with our dinner?” said Benjamin, resignedly. “Here is a + loin of mutton, my dear—an ordinary loin of mutton. Is there + anything suspicious in <i>that?</i> Very well, then. Show me you have + confidence in the mutton; please eat. There’s the wine, again. No mystery, + Valeria, in that claret—I’ll take my oath it’s nothing but innocent + juice of the grape. If we can’t believe in anything else, let’s believe in + juice of the grape. Your good health, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + I adapted myself to the old man’s genial humor as readily as I could. We + ate and we drank, and we talked of by-gone days. For a little while I was + almost happy in the company of my fatherly old friend. Why was I not old + too? Why had I not done with love, with its certain miseries, its + transient delights, its cruel losses, its bitterly doubtful gains? The + last autumn flowers in the window basked brightly in the last of the + autumn sunlight. Benjamin’s little dog digested his dinner in perfect + comfort on the hearth. The parrot in the next house screeched his vocal + accomplishments cheerfully. I don’t doubt that it is a great privilege to + be a human being. But may it not be the happier destiny to be an animal or + a plant? + </p> + <p> + The brief respite was soon over; all my anxieties came back. I was once + more a doubting, discontented, depressed creature when I rose to say + good-by. + </p> + <p> + “Promise, my dear, you will do nothing rash,” said Benjamin, as he opened + the door for me. + </p> + <p> + “Is it rash to go to Major Fitz-David?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—if you go by yourself. You don’t know what sort of man he is; + you don’t know how he may receive you. Let me try first, and pave the way, + as the saying is. Trust my experience, my dear. In matters of this sort + there is nothing like paving the way.” + </p> + <p> + I considered a moment. It was due to my good friend to consider before I + said No. + </p> + <p> + Reflection decided me on taking the responsibility, whatever it might be, + upon my own shoulders. Good or bad, compassionate or cruel, the Major was + a man. A woman’s influence was the safest influence to trust with him, + where the end to be gained was such an end as I had in view. It was not + easy to say this to Benjamin without the danger of mortifying him. I made + an appointment with the old man to call on me the next morning at the + hotel, and talk the matter over again. Is it very disgraceful to me to add + that I privately determined (if the thing could be accomplished) to see + Major Fitz-David in the interval? + </p> + <p> + “Do nothing rash, my dear. In your own interests, do nothing rash!” + </p> + <p> + Those were Benjamin’s last words when we parted for the day. + </p> + <p> + I found Eustace waiting for me in our sitting-room at the hotel. His + spirits seemed to have revived since I had seen him last. He advanced to + meet me cheerfully, with an open sheet of paper in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “My business is settled, Valeria, sooner than I had expected,” he began, + gayly. “Are your purchases all completed, fair lady? Are <i>you</i> free + too?” + </p> + <p> + I had learned already (God help me!) to distrust his fits of gayety. I + asked, cautiously, + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean free for to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “Free for to-day, and to-morrow, and next week, and next month—and + next year too, for all I know to the contrary,” he answered, putting his + arm boisterously round my waist. “Look here!” + </p> + <p> + He lifted the open sheet of paper which I had noticed in his hand, and + held it for me to read. It was a telegram to the sailing-master of the + yacht, informing him that we had arranged to return to Ramsgate that + evening, and that we should be ready to sail for the Mediterranean with + the next tide. + </p> + <p> + “I only waited for your return,” said Eustace, “to send the telegram to + the office.” + </p> + <p> + He crossed the room as he spoke to ring the bell. I stopped him. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid I can’t go to Ramsgate to-day,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” he asked, suddenly changing his tone, and speaking sharply. + </p> + <p> + I dare say it will seem ridiculous to some people, but it is really true + that he shook my resolution to go to Major Fitz-David when he put his arm + round me. Even a mere passing caress from <i>him</i> stole away my heart, + and softly tempted me to yield. But the ominous alteration in his tone + made another woman of me. I felt once more, and felt more strongly than + ever, that in my critical position it was useless to stand still, and + worse than useless to draw back. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry to disappoint you,” I answered. “It is impossible for me (as I + told you at Ramsgate) to be ready to sail at a moment’s notice. I want + time.” + </p> + <p> + “What for?” + </p> + <p> + Not only his tone, but his look, when he put that second question, jarred + on every nerve in me. He roused in my mind—I can’t tell how or why—an + angry sense of the indignity that he had put upon his wife in marrying her + under a false name. Fearing that I should answer rashly, that I should say + something which my better sense might regret, if I spoke at that moment, I + said nothing. Women alone can estimate what it cost me to be silent. And + men alone can understand how irritating my silence must have been to my + husband. + </p> + <p> + “You want time?” he repeated. “I ask you again—what for?” + </p> + <p> + My self-control, pushed to its extremest limits, failed me. The rash reply + flew out of my lips, like a bird set free from a cage. + </p> + <p> + “I want time,” I said, “to accustom myself to my right name.” + </p> + <p> + He suddenly stepped up to me with a dark look. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by your ‘right name?’” + </p> + <p> + “Surely you know,” I answered. “I once thought I was Mrs. Woodville. I + have now discovered that I am Mrs. Macallan.” + </p> + <p> + He started back at the sound of his own name as if I had struck him—he + started back, and turned so deadly pale that I feared he was going to drop + at my feet in a swoon. Oh, my tongue! my tongue! Why had I not controlled + my miserable, mischievous woman’s tongue! + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t mean to alarm you, Eustace,” I said. “I spoke at random. Pray + forgive me.” + </p> + <p> + He waved his hand impatiently, as if my penitent words were tangible + things—ruffling, worrying things, like flies in summer—which + he was putting away from him. + </p> + <p> + “What else have you discovered?” he asked, in low, stern tones. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing, Eustace.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing?” He paused as he repeated the word, and passed his hand over his + forehead in a weary way. “Nothing, of course,” he resumed, speaking to + himself, “or she would not be here.” He paused once more, and looked at me + searchingly. “Don’t say again what you said just now,” he went on. “For + your own sake, Valeria, as well as for mine.” He dropped into the nearest + chair, and said no more. + </p> + <p> + I certainly heard the warning; but the only words which really produced an + impression on my mind were the words preceding it, which he had spoken to + himself. He had said: “Nothing, of course, <i>or she could not be here.”</i> + If I had found out some other truth besides the truth about the name, + would it have prevented me from ever returning to my husband? Was that + what he meant? Did the sort of discovery that he contemplated mean + something so dreadful that it would have parted us at once and forever? I + stood by his chair in silence, and tried to find the answer to those + terrible questions in his face. It used to speak to me so eloquently when + it spoke of his love. It told me nothing now. + </p> + <p> + He sat for some time without looking at me, lost in his own thoughts. Then + he rose on a sudden and took his hat. + </p> + <p> + “The friend who lent me the yacht is in town,” he said. “I suppose I had + better see him, and say our plans are changed.” He tore up the telegram + with an air of sullen resignation as he spoke. “You are evidently + determined not to go to sea with me,” he resumed. “We had better give it + up. I don’t see what else is to be done. Do you?” + </p> + <p> + His tone was almost a tone of contempt. I was too depressed about myself, + too alarmed about <i>him,</i> to resent it. + </p> + <p> + “Decide as you think best, Eustace,” I said, sadly. “Every way, the + prospect seems a hopeless one. As long as I am shut out from your + confidence, it matters little whether we live on land or at sea—we + cannot live happily.” + </p> + <p> + “If you could control your curiosity,” he answered, sternly, “we might + live happily enough. I thought I had married a woman who was superior to + the vulgar failings of her sex. A good wife should know better than to pry + into affairs of her husband’s with which she had no concern.” + </p> + <p> + Surely it was hard to bear this? However, I bore it. + </p> + <p> + “Is it no concern of mine?” I asked, gently, “when I find that my husband + has not married me under his family name? Is it no concern of mine when I + hear your mother say, in so many words, that she pities your wife? It is + hard, Eustace, to accuse me of curiosity because I cannot accept the + unendurable position in which you have placed me. Your cruel silence is a + blight on my happiness and a threat to my future. Your cruel silence is + estranging us from each other at the beginning of our married life. And + you blame me for feeling this? You tell me I am prying into affairs which + are yours only? They are <i>not</i> yours only: I have my interest in them + too. Oh, my darling, why do you trifle with our love and our confidence in + each other? Why do you keep me in the dark?” + </p> + <p> + He answered with a stern and pitiless brevity, + </p> + <p> + “For your own good.” + </p> + <p> + I turned away from him in silence. He was treating me like a child. + </p> + <p> + He followed me. Putting one hand heavily on my shoulder, he forced me to + face him once more. + </p> + <p> + “Listen to this,” he said. “What I am now going to say to you I say for + the first and last time. Valeria! if you ever discover what I am now + keeping from your knowledge—from that moment you live a life of + torture; your tranquillity is gone. Your days will be days of terror; your + nights will be full of horrid dreams—through no fault of mine, mind! + through no fault of mine! Every day of your life you will feel some new + distrust, some growing fear of me, and you will be doing me the vilest + injustice all the time. On my faith as a Christian, on my honor as a man, + if you stir a step further in this matter, there is an end to your + happiness for the rest of your life! Think seriously of what I have said + to you; you will have time to reflect. I am going to tell my friend that + our plans for the Mediterranean are given up. I shall not be back before + the evening.” He sighed, and looked at me with unutterable sadness. “I + love you, Valeria,” he said. “In spite of all that has passed, as God is + my witness, I love you more dearly than ever.” + </p> + <p> + So he spoke. So he left me. + </p> + <p> + I must write the truth about myself, however strange it may appear. I + don’t pretend to be able to analyze my own motives; I don’t pretend even + to guess how other women might have acted in my place. It is true of me, + that my husband’s terrible warning—all the more terrible in its + mystery and its vagueness—produced no deterrent effect on my mind: + it only stimulated my resolution to discover what he was hiding from me. + He had not been gone two minutes before I rang the bell and ordered the + carriage, to take me to Major Fitz-David’s house in Vivian Place. + </p> + <p> + Walking to and fro while I was waiting—I was in such a fever of + excitement that it was impossible for me to sit still—I accidentally + caught sight of myself in the glass. + </p> + <p> + My own face startled me, it looked so haggard and so wild. Could I present + myself to a stranger, could I hope to produce the necessary impression in + my favor, looking as I looked at that moment? For all I knew to the + contrary, my whole future might depend upon the effect which I produced on + Major Fitz-David at first sight. I rang the bell again, and sent a message + to one of the chambermaids to follow me to my room. + </p> + <p> + I had no maid of my own with me: the stewardess of the yacht would have + acted as my attendant if we had held to our first arrangement. It mattered + little, so long as I had a woman to help me. The chambermaid appeared. I + can give no better idea of the disordered and desperate condition of my + mind at that time than by owning that I actually consulted this perfect + stranger on the question of my personal appearance. She was a middle-aged + woman, with a large experience of the world and its wickedness written + legibly on her manner and on her face. I put money into the woman’s hand, + enough of it to surprise her. She thanked me with a cynical smile, + evidently placing her own evil interpretation on my motive for bribing + her. + </p> + <p> + “What can I do for you, ma’am?” she asked, in a confidential whisper. + “Don’t speak loud! there is somebody in the next room.” + </p> + <p> + “I want to look my best,” I said, “and I have sent for you to help me.” + </p> + <p> + “I understand, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you understand?” + </p> + <p> + She nodded her head significantly, and whispered to me again. “Lord bless + you, I’m used to this!” she said. “There is a gentleman in the case. Don’t + mind me, ma’am. It’s a way I have. I mean no harm.” She stopped, and + looked at me critically. “I wouldn’t change my dress if I were you,” she + went on. “The color becomes you.” + </p> + <p> + It was too late to resent the woman’s impertinence. There was no help for + it but to make use of her. Besides, she was right about the dress. It was + of a delicate maize-color, prettily trimmed with lace. I could wear + nothing which suited me better. My hair, however, stood in need of some + skilled attention. The chambermaid rearranged it with a ready hand which + showed that she was no beginner in the art of dressing hair. She laid down + the combs and brushes, and looked at me; then looked at the toilet-table, + searching for something which she apparently failed to find. + </p> + <p> + “Where do you keep it?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Look at your complexion, ma’am. You will frighten him if he sees you like + that. A touch of color you <i>must</i> have. Where do you keep it? What! + you haven’t got it? you never use it? Dear, dear, dear me!” + </p> + <p> + For a moment surprise fairly deprived her of her self-possession. + Recovering herself, she begged permission to leave me for a minute. I let + her go, knowing what her errand was. She came back with a box of paint and + powders; and I said nothing to check her. I saw, in the glass, my skin + take a false fairness, my cheeks a false color, my eyes a false brightness—and + I never shrank from it. No! I let the odious conceit go on; I even admired + the extraordinary delicacy and dexterity with which it was all done. + “Anything” (I thought to myself, in the madness of that miserable time) + “so long as it helps me to win the Major’s confidence! Anything, so long + as I discover what those last words of my husband’s really mean!” + </p> + <p> + The transformation of my face was accomplished. The chambermaid pointed + with her wicked forefinger in the direction of the glass. + </p> + <p> + “Bear in mind, ma’am, what you looked like when you sent for me,” she + said. “And just see for yourself how you look now. You’re the prettiest + woman (of your style) in London. Ah what a thing pearl-powder is, when one + knows how to use it!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. THE FRIEND OF THE WOMEN. + </h2> + <p> + I FIND it impossible to describe my sensations while the carriage was + taking me to Major Fitz-David’s house. I doubt, indeed, if I really felt + or thought at all, in the true sense of those words. + </p> + <p> + From the moment when I had resigned myself into the hands of the + chambermaid I seemed in some strange way to have lost my ordinary identity—to + have stepped out of my own character. At other times my temperament was of + the nervous and anxious sort, and my tendency was to exaggerate any + difficulties that might place themselves in my way. At other times, having + before me the prospect of a critical interview with a stranger, I should + have considered with myself what it might be wise to pass over, and what + it might be wise to say. Now I never gave my coming interview with the + Major a thought; I felt an unreasoning confidence in myself, and a blind + faith in <i>him</i>. Now neither the past nor the future troubled me; I + lived unreflectingly in the present. I looked at the shops as we drove by + them, and at the other carriages as they passed mine. I noticed—yes, + and enjoyed—the glances of admiration which chance foot-passengers + on the pavement cast on me. I said to myself, “This looks well for my + prospect of making a friend of the Major!” When we drew up at the door in + Vivian Place, it is no exaggeration to say that I had but one anxiety—anxiety + to find the Major at home. + </p> + <p> + The door was opened by a servant out of livery, an old man who looked as + if he might have been a soldier in his earlier days. He eyed me with a + grave attention, which relaxed little by little into sly approval. I asked + for Major Fitz-David. The answer was not altogether encouraging: the man + was not sure whether his master were at home or not. + </p> + <p> + I gave him my card. My cards, being part of my wedding outfit, necessarily + had the false name printed on them—<i>Mrs. Eustace Woodville</i>. + The servant showed me into a front room on the ground-floor, and + disappeared with my card in his hand. + </p> + <p> + Looking about me, I noticed a door in the wall opposite the window, + communicating with some inner room. The door was not of the ordinary kind. + It fitted into the thickness of the partition wall, and worked in grooves. + Looking a little nearer, I saw that it had not been pulled out so as + completely to close the doorway. Only the merest chink was left; but it + was enough to convey to my ears all that passed in the next room. + </p> + <p> + “What did you say, Oliver, when she asked for me?” inquired a man’s voice, + pitched cautiously in a low key. + </p> + <p> + “I said I was not sure you were at home, sir,” answered the voice of the + servant who had let me in. + </p> + <p> + There was a pause. The first speaker was evidently Major Fitz-David + himself. I waited to hear more. + </p> + <p> + “I think I had better not see her, Oliver,” the Major’s voice resumed. + </p> + <p> + “Very good, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Say I have gone out, and you don’t know when I shall be back again. Beg + the lady to write, if she has any business with me.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Stop, Oliver!” + </p> + <p> + Oliver stopped. There was another and longer pause. Then the master + resumed the examination of the man. + </p> + <p> + “Is she young, Oliver?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “And—pretty?” + </p> + <p> + “Better than pretty, sir, to my thinking.” + </p> + <p> + “Aye? aye? What you call a fine woman—eh, Oliver?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Tall?” + </p> + <p> + “Nearly as tall as I am, Major.” + </p> + <p> + “Aye? aye? aye? A good figure?” + </p> + <p> + “As slim as a sapling, sir, and as upright as a dart.” + </p> + <p> + “On second thoughts, I am at home, Oliver. Show her in! show her in!” + </p> + <p> + So far, one thing at least seemed to be clear. I had done well in sending + for the chambermaid. What would Oliver’s report of me have been if I had + presented myself to him with my colorless cheeks and my ill-dressed hair? + </p> + <p> + The servant reappeared, and conducted me to the inner room. Major + Fitz-David advanced to welcome me. What was the Major like? + </p> + <p> + Well, he was like a well-preserved old gentleman of, say, sixty years old, + little and lean, and chiefly remarkable by the extraordinary length of his + nose. After this feature, I noticed next his beautiful brown wig; his + sparkling little gray eyes; his rosy complexion; his short military + whisker, dyed to match his wig; his white teeth and his winning smile; his + smart blue frock-coat, with a camellia in the button-hole; and his + splendid ring, a ruby, flashing on his little finger as he courteously + signed to me to take a chair. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Mrs. Woodville, how very kind of you this is! I have been longing to + have the happiness of knowing you. Eustace is an old friend of mine. I + congratulated him when I heard of his marriage. May I make a confession?—I + envy him now I have seen his wife.” + </p> + <p> + The future of my life was perhaps in this man’s hands. I studied him + attentively: I tried to read his character in his face. + </p> + <p> + The Major’s sparkling little gray eyes softened as they looked at me; the + Major’s strong and sturdy voice dropped to its lowest and tenderest tones + when he spoke to me; the Major’s manner expressed, from the moment when I + entered the room, a happy mixture of admiration and respect. He drew his + chair close to mine, as if it were a privilege to be near me. He took my + hand and lifted my glove to his lips, as if that glove were the most + delicious luxury the world could produce. “Dear Mrs. Woodville,” he said, + as he softly laid my hand back on my lap, “bear with an old fellow who + worships your enchanting sex. You really brighten this dull house. It is + <i>such</i> a pleasure to see you!” + </p> + <p> + There was no need for the old gentleman to make his little confession. + Women, children, and dogs proverbially know by instinct who the people are + who really like them. The women had a warm friend—perhaps at one + time a dangerously warm friend—in Major Fitz-David. I knew as much + of him as that before I had settled myself in my chair and opened my lips + to answer him. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Major, for your kind reception and your pretty compliment,” I + said, matching my host’s easy tone as closely as the necessary restraints + on my side would permit. “You have made your confession. May I make mine?” + </p> + <p> + Major Fitz-David lifted my hand again from my lap and drew his chair as + close as possible to mine. I looked at him gravely and tried to release my + hand. Major Fitz-David declined to let go of it, and proceeded to tell me + why. + </p> + <p> + “I have just heard you speak for the first time,” he said. “I am under the + charm of your voice. Dear Mrs. Woodville, bear with an old fellow who is + under the charm! Don’t grudge me my innocent little pleasures. Lend me—I + wish I could say <i>give</i> me—this pretty hand. I am such an + admirer of pretty hands! I can listen so much better with a pretty hand in + mine. The ladies indulge my weakness. Please indulge me too. Yes? And what + were you going to say?” + </p> + <p> + “I was going to say, Major, that I felt particularly sensible of your kind + welcome because, as it happens, I have a favor to ask of you.” + </p> + <p> + I was conscious, while I spoke, that I was approaching the object of my + visit a little too abruptly. But Major Fitz-David’s admiration rose from + one climax to another with such alarming rapidity that I felt the + importance of administering a practical check to it. I trusted to those + ominous words, “a favor to ask of you,” to administer the check, and I did + not trust in vain. My aged admirer gently dropped my hand, and, with all + possible politeness, changed the subject. + </p> + <p> + “The favor is granted, of course!” he said. “And now, tell me, how is our + dear Eustace?” + </p> + <p> + “Anxious and out of spirits.” I answered. + </p> + <p> + “Anxious and out of spirits!” repeated the Major. “The enviable man who is + married to You anxious and out of spirits? Monstrous! Eustace fairly + disgusts me. I shall take him off the list of my friends.” + </p> + <p> + “In that case, take me off the list with him, Major. I am in wretched + spirits too. You are my husband’s old friend. I may acknowledge to <i>you</i> + that our married life is just now not quite a happy one.” + </p> + <p> + Major Fitz-David lifted his eyebrows (dyed to match his whiskers) in + polite surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Already!” he exclaimed. “What can Eustace be made of? Has he no + appreciation of beauty and grace? Is he the most insensible of living + beings?” + </p> + <p> + “He is the best and dearest of men,” I answered. “But there is some + dreadful mystery in his past life—” + </p> + <p> + I could get no further; Major Fitz-David deliberately stopped me. He did + it with the smoothest politeness, on the surface. But I saw a look in his + bright little eyes which said, plainly, “If you <i>will</i> venture on + delicate ground, madam, don’t ask me to accompany you.” + </p> + <p> + “My charming friend!” he exclaimed. “May I call you my charming friend? + You have—among a thousand other delightful qualities which I can see + already—a vivid imagination. Don’t let it get the upper hand. Take + an old fellow’s advice; don’t let it get the upper hand! What can I offer + you, dear Mrs. Woodville? A cup of tea?” + </p> + <p> + “Call me by my right name, sir,” I answered, boldly. “I have made a + discovery. I know as well as you do that my name is Macallan.” + </p> + <p> + The Major started, and looked at me very attentively. His manner became + grave, his tone changed completely, when he spoke next. + </p> + <p> + “May I ask,” he said, “if you have communicated to your husband the + discovery which you have just mentioned to me?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly!” I answered. “I consider that my husband owes me an + explanation. I have asked him to tell me what his extraordinary conduct + means—and he has refused, in language that frightens me. I have + appealed to his mother—and <i>she</i> has refused to explain, in + language that humiliates me. Dear Major Fitz-David, I have no friends to + take my part: I have nobody to come to but you! Do me the greatest of all + favors—tell me why your friend Eustace has married me under a false + name!” + </p> + <p> + “Do <i>me</i> the greatest of all favors;” answered the Major. “Don’t ask + me to say a word about it.” + </p> + <p> + He looked, in spite of his unsatisfactory reply, as if he really felt for + me. I determined to try my utmost powers of persuasion; I resolved not to + be beaten at the first repulse. + </p> + <p> + “I <i>must</i> ask you,” I said. “Think of my position. How can I live, + knowing what I know—and knowing no more? I would rather hear the + most horrible thing you can tell me than be condemned (as I am now) to + perpetual misgiving and perpetual suspense. I love my husband with all my + heart; but I cannot live with him on these terms: the misery of it would + drive me mad. I am only a woman, Major. I can only throw myself on your + kindness. Don’t—pray, pray don’t keep me in the dark!” + </p> + <p> + I could say no more. In the reckless impulse of the moment I snatched up + his hand and raised it to my lips. The gallant old gentleman started as if + I had given him an electric shock. + </p> + <p> + “My dear, dear lady!” he exclaimed, “I can’t tell you how I feel for you! + You charm me, you overwhelm me, you touch me to the heart. What can I say? + What can I do? I can only imitate your admirable frankness, your fearless + candor. You have told me what your position is. Let me tell you, in my + turn, how I am placed. Compose yourself—pray compose yourself! I + have a smelling-bottle here at the service of the ladies. Permit me to + offer it.” + </p> + <p> + He brought me the smelling-bottle; he put a little stool under my feet; he + entreated me to take time enough to compose myself. “Infernal fool!” I + heard him say to himself, as he considerately turned away from me for a + few moments. “If <i>I</i> had been her husband, come what might of it, I + would have told her the truth!” + </p> + <p> + Was he referring to Eustace? And was he going to do what he would have + done in my husband’s place?—was he really going to tell me the + truth? + </p> + <p> + The idea had barely crossed my mind when I was startled by a loud and + peremptory knocking at the street door. The Major stopped and listened + attentively. In a few moments the door was opened, and the rustling of a + woman’s dress was plainly audible in the hall. The Major hurried to the + door of the room with the activity of a young man. He was too late. The + door was violently opened from the outer side, just as he got to it. The + lady of the rustling dress burst into the room. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. THE DEFEAT OF THE MAJOR. + </h2> + <p> + MAJOR FITZ-DAVID’S visitor proved to be a plump, round-eyed overdressed + girl, with a florid complexion and straw colored hair. After first fixing + on me a broad stare of astonishment, she pointedly addressed her apologies + for intruding on us to the Major alone. The creature evidently believed me + to be the last new object of the old gentleman’s idolatry; and she took no + pains to disguise her jealous resentment on discovering us together. Major + Fitz-David set matters right in his own irresistible way. He kissed the + hand of the overdressed girl as devotedly as he had kissed mine; he told + her she was looking charmingly. Then he led her, with his happy mixture of + admiration and respect, back to the door by which she had entered—a + second door communicating directly with the hall. + </p> + <p> + “No apology is necessary, my dear,” he said. “This lady is with me on a + matter of business. You will find your singing-master waiting for you + upstairs. Begin your lesson; and I will join you in a few minutes. <i>Au + revoir</i>, my charming pupil—<i>au revoir.</i>” + </p> + <p> + The young lady answered this polite little speech in a whisper—with + her round eyes fixed distrustfully on me while she spoke. The door closed + on her. Major Fitz-David was at liberty to set matters right with me, in + my turn. + </p> + <p> + “I call that young person one of my happy discoveries;” said the old + gentleman, complacently. “She possesses, I don’t hesitate to say, the + finest soprano voice in Europe. Would you believe it, I met with her at + the railway station. She was behind the counter in a refreshment-room, + poor innocent, rinsing wine-glasses, and singing over her work. Good + Heavens, such singing! Her upper notes electrified me. I said to myself; + ‘Here is a born prima donna—I will bring her out!’ She is the third + I have brought out in my time. I shall take her to Italy when her + education is sufficiently advanced, and perfect her at Milan. In that + unsophisticated girl, my dear lady, you see one of the future Queens of + Song. Listen! She is beginning her scales. What a voice! Brava! Brava! + Bravissima!” + </p> + <p> + The high soprano notes of the future Queen of Song rang through the house + as he spoke. Of the loudness of the young lady’s voice there could be no + sort of doubt. The sweetness and the purity of it admitted, in my opinion, + of considerable dispute. + </p> + <p> + Having said the polite words which the occasion rendered necessary, I + ventured to recall Major Fitz-David to the subject in discussion between + us when his visitor had entered the room. The Major was very unwilling to + return to the perilous topic on which we had just touched when the + interruption occurred. He beat time with his forefinger to the singing + upstairs; he asked me about <i>my</i> voice, and whether I sang; he + remarked that life would be intolerable to him without Love and Art. A man + in my place would have lost all patience, and would have given up the + struggle in disgust. Being a woman, and having my end in view, my + resolution was invincible. I fairly wore out the Major’s resistance, and + compelled him to surrender at discretion. It is only justice to add that, + when he did make up his mind to speak to me again of Eustace, he spoke + frankly, and spoke to the point. + </p> + <p> + “I have known your husband,” he began, “since the time when he was a boy. + At a certain period of his past life a terrible misfortune fell upon him. + The secret of that misfortune is known to his friends, and is religiously + kept by his friends. It is the secret that he is keeping from You. He will + never tell it to you as long as he lives. And he has bound <i>me</i> not + to tell it, under a promise given on my word of honor. You wished, dear + Mrs. Woodville, to be made acquainted with my position toward Eustace. + There it is!” + </p> + <p> + “You persist in calling me Mrs. Woodville,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Your husband wishes me to persist,” the Major answered. “He assumed the + name of Woodville, fearing to give his own name, when he first called at + your uncle’s house. He will now acknowledge no other. Remonstrance is + useless. You must do what we do—you must give way to an unreasonable + man. The best fellow in the world in other respects: in this one matter as + obstinate and self-willed as he can be. If you ask me my opinion, I tell + you honestly that I think he was wrong in courting and marrying you under + his false name. He trusted his honor and his happiness to your keeping in + making you his—wife. Why should he not trust the story of his + troubles to you as well? His mother quite shares my opinion in this + matter. You must not blame her for refusing to admit you into her + confidence after your marriage: it was then too late. Before your marriage + she did all she could do—without betraying secrets which, as a good + mother, she was bound to respect—to induce her son to act justly + toward you. I commit no indiscretion when I tell you that she refused to + sanction your marriage mainly for the reason that Eustace refused to + follow her advice, and to tell you what his position really was. On my + part I did all I could to support Mrs. Macallan in the course that she + took. When Eustace wrote to tell me that he had engaged himself to marry a + niece of my good friend Doctor Starkweather, and that he had mentioned me + as his reference, I wrote back to warn him that I would have nothing to do + with the affair unless he revealed the whole truth about himself to his + future wife. He refused to listen to me, as he had refused to listen to + his mother; and he held me at the same time to my promise to keep his + secret. When Starkweather wrote to me, I had no choice but to involve + myself in a deception of which I thoroughly disapproved, or to answer in a + tone so guarded and so brief as to stop the correspondence at the outset. + I chose the last alternative; and I fear I have offended my good old + friend. You now see the painful position in which I am placed. To add to + the difficulties of that situation, Eustace came here this very day to + warn me to be on my guard, in case of your addressing to me the very + request which you have just made! He told me that you had met with his + mother, by an unlucky accident, and that you had discovered the family + name. He declared that he had traveled to London for the express purpose + of speaking to me personally on this serious subject. ‘I know your + weakness,’ he said, ‘where women are concerned. Valeria is aware that you + are my old friend. She will certainly write to you; she may even be bold + enough to make her way into your house. Renew your promise to keep the + great calamity of my life a secret, on your honor and on your oath. ‘Those + were his words, as nearly as I can remember them. I tried to treat the + thing lightly; I ridiculed the absurdly theatrical notion of ‘renewing my + promise,’ and all the rest of it. Quite useless! He refused to leave me; + he reminded me of his unmerited sufferings, poor fellow, in the past time. + It ended in his bursting into tears. You love him, and so do I. Can you + wonder that I let him have his way? The result is that I am doubly bound + to tell you nothing, by the most sacred promise that a man can give. My + dear lady, I cordially side with you in this matter; I long to relieve + your anxieties. But what can I do?” + </p> + <p> + He stopped, and waited—gravely waited—to hear my reply. + </p> + <p> + I had listened from beginning to end without interrupting him. The + extraordinary change in his manner, and in his way of expressing himself, + while he was speaking of Eustace, alarmed me as nothing had alarmed me + yet. How terrible (I thought to myself) must this untold story be, if the + mere act of referring to it makes light-hearted Major Fitz-David speak + seriously and sadly, never smiling, never paying me a compliment, never + even noticing the singing upstairs! My heart sank in me as I drew that + startling conclusion. For the first time since I had entered the house I + was at the end of my resources; I knew neither what to say nor what to do + next. + </p> + <p> + And yet I kept my seat. Never had the resolution to discover what my + husband was hiding from me been more firmly rooted in my mind than it was + at that moment! I cannot account for the extraordinary inconsistency in my + character which this confession implies. I can only describe the facts as + they really were. + </p> + <p> + The singing went on upstairs. Major Fitz-David still waited impenetrably + to hear what I had to say—to know what I resolved on doing next. + </p> + <p> + Before I had decided what to say or what to do, another domestic incident + happened. In plain words, another knocking announced a new visitor at the + house door. On this occasion there was no rustling of a woman’s dress in + the hall. On this occasion only the old servant entered the room, carrying + a magnificent nosegay in his hand. “With Lady Clarinda’s kind regards. To + remind Major Fitz-David of his appointment.” Another lady! This time a + lady with a title. A great lady who sent her flowers and her messages + without condescending to concealment. The Major—first apologizing to + me—wrote a few lines of acknowledgment, and sent them out to the + messenger. When the door was closed again he carefully selected one of the + choicest flowers in the nosegay. “May I ask,” he said, presenting the + flower to me with his best grace, “whether you now understand the delicate + position in which I am placed between your husband and yourself?” + </p> + <p> + The little interruption caused by the appearance of the nosegay had given + a new impulse to my thoughts, and had thus helped, in some degree, to + restore me to myself. I was able at last to satisfy Major Fitz-David that + his considerate and courteous explanation had not been thrown away upon + me. + </p> + <p> + “I thank you, most sincerely, Major,” I said “You have convinced me that I + must not ask you to forget, on my account, the promise which you have + given to my husband. It is a sacred promise, which I too am bound to + respect—I quite understand that.” + </p> + <p> + The Major drew a long breath of relief, and patted me on the shoulder in + high approval of what I had said to him. + </p> + <p> + “Admirably expressed!” he rejoined, recovering his light-hearted looks and + his lover-like ways all in a moment. “My dear lady, you have the gift of + sympathy; you see exactly how I am situated. Do you know, you remind me of + my charming Lady Clarinda. <i>She</i> has the gift of sympathy, and sees + exactly how I am situated. I should so enjoy introducing you to each + other,” said the Major, plunging his long nose ecstatically into Lady + Clarinda’s flowers. + </p> + <p> + I had my end still to gain; and, being (as you will have discovered by + this time) the most obstinate of living women, I still kept that end in + view. + </p> + <p> + “I shall be delighted to meet Lady Clarinda,” I replied. “In the meantime—” + </p> + <p> + “I will get up a little dinner,” proceeded the Major, with a burst of + enthusiasm. “You and I and Lady Clarinda. Our young prima donna shall come + in the evening, and sing to us. Suppose we draw out the <i>menu?</i> My + sweet friend, what is your favorite autumn soup?” + </p> + <p> + “In the meantime,” I persisted, “to return to what we were speaking of + just now—” + </p> + <p> + The Major’s smile vanished; the Major’s hand dropped the pen destined to + immortalize the name of my favorite autumn soup. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Must</i> we return to that?” he asked, piteously. + </p> + <p> + “Only for a moment,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “You remind me,” pursued Major Fitz-David, shaking his head sadly, “of + another charming friend of mine—a French friend—Madame + Mirliflore. You are a person of prodigious tenacity of purpose. Madame + Mirliflore is a person of prodigious tenacity of purpose. She happens to + be in London. Shall we have her at our little dinner?” The Major + brightened at the idea, and took up the pen again. “Do tell me,” he said, + “what <i>is</i> your favorite autumn soup?” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me,” I began, “we were speaking just now—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, dear me!” cried Major Fitz-David. “Is this the other subject?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—this is the other subject.” + </p> + <p> + The Major put down his pen for the second time, and regretfully dismissed + from his mind Madame Mirliflore and the autumn soup. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” he said, with a patient bow and a submissive smile. “You were going + to say—” + </p> + <p> + “I was going to say,” I rejoined, “that your promise only pledges you not + to tell the secret which my husband is keeping from me. You have given no + promise not to answer me if I venture to ask you one or two questions.” + </p> + <p> + Major Fitz-David held up his hand warningly, and cast a sly look at me out + of his bright little gray eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” he said. “My sweet friend, stop there! I know where your questions + will lead me, and what the result will be if I once begin to answer them. + When your husband was here to-day he took occasion to remind me that I was + as weak as water in the hands of a pretty woman. He is quite right. I <i>am</i> + as weak as water; I can refuse nothing to a pretty woman. Dear and + admirable lady, don’t abuse your influence! don’t make an old soldier + false to his word of honor!” + </p> + <p> + I tried to say something here in defense of my motives. The Major clasped + his hands entreatingly, and looked at me with a pleading simplicity + wonderful to see. + </p> + <p> + “Why press it?” he asked. “I offer no resistance. I am a lamb—why + sacrifice me? I acknowledge your power; I throw myself on your mercy. All + the misfortunes of my youth and my manhood have come to me through women. + I am not a bit better in my age—I am just as fond of the women and + just as ready to be misled by them as ever, with one foot in the grave. + Shocking, isn’t it? But how true! Look at this mark!” He lifted a curl of + his beautiful brown wig, and showed me a terrible scar at the side of his + head. “That wound (supposed to be mortal at the time) was made by a pistol + bullet,” he proceeded. “Not received in the service of my country—oh + dear, no! Received in the service of a much-injured lady, at the hands of + her scoundrel of a husband, in a duel abroad. Well, she was worth it.” He + kissed his hand affectionately to the memory of the dead or absent lady, + and pointed to a water-color drawing of a pretty country-house hanging on + the opposite wall. “That fine estate,” he proceeded, “once belonged to me. + It was sold years and years since. And who had the money? The women—God + bless them all!—the women. I don’t regret it. If I had another + estate, I have no doubt it would go the same way. Your adorable sex has + made its pretty playthings of my life, my time, and my money—and + welcome! The one thing I have kept to myself is my honor. And now <i>that</i> + is in danger. Yes, if you put your clever little questions, with those + lovely eyes and with that gentle voice, I know what will happen. You will + deprive me of the last and best of all my possessions. Have I deserved to + be treated in that way, and by you, my charming friend?—by you, of + all people in the world? Oh, fie! fie!” + </p> + <p> + He paused and looked at me as before—the picture of artless + entreaty, with his head a little on one side. I made another attempt to + speak of the matter in dispute between us, from my own point of view. + Major Fitz-David instantly threw himself prostrate on my mercy more + innocently than ever. + </p> + <p> + “Ask of me anything else in the wide world,” he said; “but don’t ask me to + be false to my friend. Spare me <i>that</i>—and there is nothing I + will not do to satisfy you. I mean what I say, mind!” he went on, bending + closer to me, and speaking more seriously than he had spoken yet “I think + you are very hardly used. It is monstrous to expect that a woman, placed + in your situation, will consent to be left for the rest of her life in the + dark. No! no! if I saw you, at this moment, on the point of finding out + for yourself what Eustace persists in hiding from you, I should remember + that my promise, like all other promises, has its limits and reserves. I + should consider myself bound in honor not to help you—but I would + not lift a finger to prevent you from discovering the truth for yourself.” + </p> + <p> + At last he was speaking in good earnest: he laid a strong emphasis on his + closing words. I laid a stronger emphasis on them still by suddenly + leaving my chair. The impulse to spring to my feet was irresistible. Major + Fitz-David had started a new idea in my mind. + </p> + <p> + “Now we understand each other!” I said. “I will accept your own terms, + Major. I will ask nothing of you but what you have just offered to me of + your own accord.” + </p> + <p> + “What have I offered?” he inquired, looking a little alarmed. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing that you need repent of,” I answered; “nothing which is not easy + for you to grant. May I ask a bold question? Suppose this house was mine + instead of yours?” + </p> + <p> + “Consider it yours,” cried the gallant old gentleman. “From the garret to + the kitchen, consider it yours!” + </p> + <p> + “A thousand thanks, Major; I will consider it mine for the moment. You + know—everybody knows—that one of a woman’s many weaknesses is + curiosity. Suppose my curiosity led me to examine everything in my new + house?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose I went from room to room, and searched everything, and peeped in + everywhere? Do you think there would be any chance—” + </p> + <p> + The quick-witted Major anticipated the nature of my question. He followed + my example; he too started to his feet, with a new idea in his mind. + </p> + <p> + “Would there be any chance,” I went on, “of my finding my own way to my + husband’s secret in this house? One word of reply, Major Fitz-David! Only + one word—Yes or No?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t excite yourself!” cried the Major. + </p> + <p> + “Yes or No?” I repeated, more vehemently than ever. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said the Major, after a moment’s consideration. + </p> + <p> + It was the reply I had asked for; but it was not explicit enough, now I + had got it, to satisfy me. I felt the necessity of leading him (if + possible) into details. + </p> + <p> + “Does ‘Yes’ mean that there is some sort of clew to the mystery?” I asked. + “Something, for instance, which my eyes might see and my hands might touch + if I could only find it?” + </p> + <p> + He considered again. I saw that I had succeeded in interesting him in some + way unknown to myself; and I waited patiently until he was prepared to + answer me. + </p> + <p> + “The thing you mention,” he said, “the clew (as you call it), might be + seen and might be touched—supposing you could find it.” + </p> + <p> + “In this house?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + The Major advanced a step nearer to me, and answered— + </p> + <p> + “In this room.” + </p> + <p> + My head began to swim; my heart throbbed violently. I tried to speak; it + was in vain; the effort almost choked me. In the silence I could hear the + music-lesson still going on in the room above. The future prima donna had + done practicing her scales, and was trying her voice now in selections + from Italian operas. At the moment when I first heard her she was singing + the beautiful air from the <i>Somnambula,</i> “Come per me sereno.” I + never hear that delicious melody, to this day, without being instantly + transported in imagination to the fatal back-room in Vivian Place. + </p> + <p> + The Major—strongly affected himself by this time—was the first + to break the silence. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down again,” he said; “and pray take the easy-chair. You are very + much agitated; you want rest.” + </p> + <p> + He was right. I could stand no longer; I dropped into the chair. Major + Fitz-David rang the bell, and spoke a few words to the servant at the + door. + </p> + <p> + “I have been here a long time,” I said, faintly. “Tell me if I am in the + way.” + </p> + <p> + “In the way?” he repeated, with his irresistible smile. “You forget that + you are in your own house!” + </p> + <p> + The servant returned to us, bringing with him a tiny bottle of champagne + and a plateful of delicate little sugared biscuits. + </p> + <p> + “I have had this wine bottled expressly for the ladies,” said the Major. + “The biscuits came to me direct from Paris. As a favor to <i>me,</i> you + must take some refreshment. And then—” He stopped and looked at me + very attentively. “And then,” he resumed, “shall I go to my young prima + donna upstairs and leave you here alone?” + </p> + <p> + It was impossible to hint more delicately at the one request which I now + had it in my mind to make to him. I took his hand and pressed it + gratefully. + </p> + <p> + “The tranquillity of my whole life to come is at stake,” I said. “When I + am left here by myself, does your generous sympathy permit me to examine + everything in the room?” + </p> + <p> + He signed to me to drink the champagne and eat a biscuit before he gave + his answer. + </p> + <p> + “This is serious,” he said. “I wish you to be in perfect possession of + yourself. Restore your strength—and then I will speak to you.” + </p> + <p> + I did as he bade me. In a minute from the time when I drank it the + delicious sparkling wine had begun to revive me. + </p> + <p> + “Is it your express wish,” he resumed, “that I should leave you here by + yourself to search the room?” + </p> + <p> + “It is my express wish,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + “I take a heavy responsibility on myself in granting your request. But I + grant it for all that, because I sincerely believe—as you believe—that + the tranquillity of your life to come depends on your discovering the + truth.” Saying those words, he took two keys from his pocket. “You will + naturally feel a suspicion,” he went on, “of any locked doors that you may + find here. The only locked places in the room are the doors of the + cupboards under the long book-case, and the door of the Italian cabinet in + that corner. The small key opens the book-case cupboards; the long key + opens the cabinet door.” + </p> + <p> + With that explanation, he laid the keys before me on the table. + </p> + <p> + “Thus far,” he said, “I have rigidly respected the promise which I made to + your husband. I shall continue to be faithful to my promise, whatever may + be the result of your examination of the room. I am bound in honor not to + assist you by word or deed. I am not even at liberty to offer you the + slightest hint. Is that understood?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly!” + </p> + <p> + “Very good. I have now a last word of warning to give you—and then I + have done. If you do by any chance succeed in laying your hand on the + clew, remember this—<i>the discovery which follows will be a + terrible one.</i> If you have any doubt about your capacity to sustain a + shock which will strike you to the soul, for God’s sake give up the idea + of finding out your husband’s secret at once and forever!” + </p> + <p> + “I thank you for your warning, Major. I must face the consequences of + making the discovery, whatever they may be.” + </p> + <p> + “You are positively resolved?” + </p> + <p> + “Positively.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. Take any time you please. The house, and every person in it, + are at your disposal. Ring the bell once if you want the man-servant. Ring + twice if you wish the housemaid to wait on you. From time to time I shall + just look in myself to see how you are going on. I am responsible for your + comfort and security, you know, while you honor me by remaining under my + roof.” + </p> + <p> + He lifted my hand to his lips, and fixed a last attentive look on me. + </p> + <p> + “I hope I am not running too great a risk,” he said—more to himself + than to me. “The women have led me into many a rash action in my time. + Have <i>you</i> led me, I wonder, into the rashest action of all?” + </p> + <p> + With those ominous last words he bowed gravely and left me alone in the + room. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. THE SEARCH. + </h2> + <p> + THE fire burning in the grate was not a very large one; and the outer air + (as I had noticed on my way to the house) had something of a wintry + sharpness in it that day. + </p> + <p> + Still, my first feeling, when Major Fitz-David left me, was a feeling of + heat and oppression, with its natural result, a difficulty in breathing + freely. The nervous agitation of the time was, I suppose, answerable for + these sensations. I took off my bonnet and mantle and gloves, and opened + the window for a little while. Nothing was to be seen outside but a paved + courtyard, with a skylight in the middle, closed at the further end by the + wall of the Major’s stables. A few minutes at the window cooled and + refreshed me. I shut it down again, and took my first step on the way of + discovery. In other words, I began my first examination of the four walls + around me, and of all that they inclosed. + </p> + <p> + I was amazed at my own calmness. My interview with Major Fitz-David had, + perhaps, exhausted my capacity for feeling any strong emotion, for the + time at least. It was a relief to me to be alone; it was a relief to me to + begin the search. Those were my only sensations so far. + </p> + <p> + The shape of the room was oblong. Of the two shorter walls, one contained + the door in grooves which I have already mentioned as communicating with + the front room; the other was almost entirely occupied by the broad window + which looked out on the courtyard. + </p> + <p> + Taking the doorway wall first, what was there, in the shape of furniture, + on either side of it? There was a card-table on either side. Above each + card-table stood a magnificent china bowl placed on a gilt and carved + bracket fixed to the wall. + </p> + <p> + I opened the card-tables. The drawers beneath contained nothing but cards, + and the usual counters and markers. With the exception of one pack, the + cards in both tables were still wrapped in their paper covers exactly as + they had come from the shop. I examined the loose pack, card by card. No + writing, no mark of any kind, was visible on any one of them. Assisted by + a library ladder which stood against the book-case, I looked next into the + two china bowls. Both were perfectly empty. Was there anything more to + examine on that side of the room? In the two corners there were two little + chairs of inlaid wood, with red silk cushions. I turned them up and looked + under the cushions, and still I made no discoveries. When I had put the + chairs back in their places my search on one side of the room was + complete. So far I had found nothing. + </p> + <p> + I crossed to the opposite wall, the wall which contained the window. + </p> + <p> + The window (occupying, as I have said, almost the entire length and height + of the wall) was divided into three compartments, and was adorned at their + extremity by handsome curtains of dark red velvet. The ample heavy folds + of the velvet left just room at the two corners of the wall for two little + upright cabinets in buhl, containing rows of drawers, and supporting two + fine bronze productions (reduced in size) of the Venus Milo and the Venus + Callipyge. I had Major Fitz-David’s permission to do just what I pleased. + I opened the six drawers in each cabinet, and examined their contents + without hesitation. + </p> + <p> + Beginning with the cabinet in the right-hand corner, my investigations + were soon completed. All the six drawers were alike occupied by a + collection of fossils, which (judging by the curious paper inscriptions + fixed on some of them) were associated with a past period of the Major’s + life when he had speculated, not very successfully in mines. After + satisfying myself that the drawers contained nothing but the fossils and + their inscriptions, I turned to the cabinet in the left-hand corner next. + </p> + <p> + Here a variety of objects was revealed to view, and the examination + accordingly occupied a much longer time. + </p> + <p> + The top drawer contained a complete collection of carpenter’s tools in + miniature, relics probably of the far-distant time when the Major was a + boy, and when parents or friends had made him a present of a set of toy + tools. The second drawer was filled with toys of another sort—presents + made to Major Fitz-David by his fair friends. Embroidered braces, smart + smoking-caps, quaint pincushions, gorgeous slippers, glittering purses, + all bore witness to the popularity of the friend of the women. The + contents of the third drawer were of a less interesting sort: the entire + space was filled with old account-books, ranging over a period of many + years. After looking into each book, and opening and shaking it uselessly, + in search of any loose papers which might be hidden between the leaves, I + came to the fourth drawer, and found more relics of past pecuniary + transactions in the shape of receipted bills, neatly tied together, and + each inscribed at the back. Among the bills I found nearly a dozen loose + papers, all equally unimportant. The fifth drawer was in sad confusion. I + took out first a loose bundle of ornamental cards, each containing the + list of dishes at past banquets given or attended by the Major in London + or Paris; next, a box full of delicately tinted quill pens (evidently a + lady’s gift); next, a quantity of old invitation cards; next, some + dog’s-eared French plays and books of the opera; next, a pocket-corkscrew, + a bundle of cigarettes, and a bunch of rusty keys; lastly, a passport, a + set of luggage labels, a broken silver snuff-box, two cigar-cases, and a + torn map of Rome. “Nothing anywhere to interest me,” I thought, as I + closed the fifth, and opened the sixth and last drawer. + </p> + <p> + The sixth drawer was at once a surprise and a disappointment. It literally + contained nothing but the fragments of a broken vase. + </p> + <p> + I was sitting, at the time, opposite to the cabinet, in a low chair. In + the momentary irritation caused by my discovery of the emptiness of the + last drawer, I had just lifted my foot to push it back into its place, + when the door communicating with the hall opened, and Major Fitz-David + stood before me. + </p> + <p> + His eyes, after first meeting mine, traveled downward to my foot. The + instant he noticed the open drawer I saw a change in his face. It was only + for a moment; but in that moment he looked at me with a sudden suspicion + and surprise—looked as if he had caught me with my hand on the clew. + </p> + <p> + “Pray don’t let me disturb you,” said Major Fitz-David. “I have only come + here to ask you a question.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Major?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you met with any letters of mine in the course of your + investigations?” + </p> + <p> + “I have found none yet,” I answered. “If I do discover any letters, I + shall, of course, not take the liberty of examining them.” + </p> + <p> + “I wanted to speak to you about that,” he rejoined. “It only struck me a + moment since, upstairs, that my letters might embarrass you. In your place + I should feel some distrust of anything which I was not at liberty to + examine. I think I can set this matter right, however, with very little + trouble to either of us. It is no violation of any promises or pledges on + my part if I simply tell you that my letters will not assist the discovery + which you are trying to make. You can safely pass them over as objects + that are not worth examining from your point of view. You understand me, I + am sure?” + </p> + <p> + “I am much obliged to you, Major—I quite understand.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you feeling any fatigue?” + </p> + <p> + “None whatever, thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “And you still hope to succeed? You are not beginning to be discouraged + already?” + </p> + <p> + “I am not in the least discouraged. With your kind leave, I mean to + persevere for some time yet.” + </p> + <p> + I had not closed the drawer of the cabinet while we were talking, and I + glanced carelessly, as I answered him, at the fragments of the broken + vase. By this time he had got his feelings under perfect command. He, too, + glanced at the fragments of the vase with an appearance of perfect + indifference. I remembered the look of suspicion and surprise that had + escaped him on entering the room, and I thought his indifference a little + overacted. + </p> + <p> + “<i>That</i> doesn’t look very encouraging,” he said, with a smile, + pointing to the shattered pieces of china in the drawer. + </p> + <p> + “Appearances are not always to be trusted,” I replied. “The wisest thing I + can do in my present situation is to suspect everything, even down to a + broken vase.” + </p> + <p> + I looked hard at him as I spoke. He changed the subject. + </p> + <p> + “Does the music upstairs annoy you?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Not in the least, Major.” + </p> + <p> + “It will soon be over now. The singing-master is going, and the Italian + master has just arrived. I am sparing no pains to make my young prima + donna a most accomplished person. In learning to sing she must also learn + the language which is especially the language of music. I shall perfect + her in the accent when I take her to Italy. It is the height of my + ambition to have her mistaken for an Italian when she sings in public. Is + there anything I can do before I leave you again? May I send you some more + champagne? Please say yes!” + </p> + <p> + “A thousand thanks, Major. No more champagne for the present.” + </p> + <p> + He turned at the door to kiss his hand to me at parting. At the same + moment I saw his eyes wander slyly toward the book-case. It was only for + an instant. I had barely detected him before he was out of the room. + </p> + <p> + Left by myself again, I looked at the book-case—looked at it + attentively for the first time. + </p> + <p> + It was a handsome piece of furniture in ancient carved oak, and it stood + against the wall which ran parallel with the hall of the house. Excepting + the space occupied in the upper corner of the room by the second door, + which opened into the hall, the book-case filled the whole length of the + wall down to the window. The top was ornamented by vases, candelabra, and + statuettes, in pairs, placed in a row. Looking along the row, I noticed a + vacant space on the top of the bookcase at the extremity of it which was + nearest to the window. The opposite extremity, nearest to the door, was + occupied by a handsome painted vase of a very peculiar pattern. Where was + the corresponding vase, which ought to have been placed at the + corresponding extremity of the book-case? I returned to the open sixth + drawer of the cabinet, and looked in again. There was no mistaking the + pattern on the fragments when I examined them now. The vase which had been + broken was the vase which had stood in the place now vacant on the top of + the book-case at the end nearest to the window. + </p> + <p> + Making this discovery, I took out the fragments, down to the smallest + morsel of the shattered china, and examined them carefully one after + another. + </p> + <p> + I was too ignorant of the subject to be able to estimate the value of the + vase or the antiquity of the vase, or even to know whether it were of + British or of foreign manufacture. The ground was of a delicate + cream-color. The ornaments traced on this were wreaths of flowers and + Cupids surrounding a medallion on either side of the vase. Upon the space + within one of the medallions was painted with exquisite delicacy a woman’s + head, representing a nymph or a goddess, or perhaps a portrait of some + celebrated person—I was not learned enough to say which. The other + medallion inclosed the head of a man, also treated in the classical style. + Reclining shepherds and shepherdesses in Watteau costume, with their dogs + and their sheep, formed the adornments of the pedestal. Such had the vase + been in the days of its prosperity, when it stood on the top of the + book-case. By what accident had it become broken? And why had Major + Fitz-David’s face changed when he found that I had discovered the remains + of his shattered work of art in the cabinet drawer? + </p> + <p> + The remains left those serious questions unanswered—the remains told + me absolutely nothing. And yet, if my own observation of the Major were to + be trusted, the way to the clew of which I was in search lay, directly or + indirectly, through the broken vase. + </p> + <p> + It was useless to pursue the question, knowing no more than I knew now. I + returned to the book-case. + </p> + <p> + Thus far I had assumed (without any sufficient reason) that the clew of + which I was in search must necessarily reveal itself through a written + paper of some sort. It now occurred to me—after the movement which I + had detected on the part of the Major—that the clew might quite as + probably present itself in the form of a book. + </p> + <p> + I looked along the lower rows of shelves, standing just near enough to + them to read the titles on the backs of the volumes. I saw Voltaire in red + morocco, Shakespeare in blue, Walter Scott in green, the “History of + England” in brown, the “Annual Register” in yellow calf. There I paused, + wearied and discouraged already by the long rows of volumes. How (I + thought to myself) am I to examine all these books? And what am I to look + for, even if I do examine them all? + </p> + <p> + Major Fitz-David had spoken of a terrible misfortune which had darkened my + husband’s past life. In what possible way could any trace of that + misfortune, or any suggestive hint of something resembling it, exist in + the archives of the “Annual Register” or in the pages of Voltaire? The + bare idea of such a thing seemed absurd The mere attempt to make a serious + examination in this direction was surely a wanton waste of time. + </p> + <p> + And yet the Major had certainly stolen a look at the book-case. And again, + the broken vase had once stood on the book-case. Did these circumstances + justify me in connecting the vase and the book-case as twin landmarks on + the way that led to discovery? The question was not an easy one to decide + on the spur of the moment. + </p> + <p> + I looked up at the higher shelves. + </p> + <p> + Here the collection of books exhibited a greater variety. The volumes were + smaller, and were not so carefully arranged as on the lower shelves. Some + were bound in cloth, some were only protected by paper covers; one or two + had fallen, and lay flat on the shelves. Here and there I saw empty spaces + from which books had been removed and not replaced. In short, there was no + discouraging uniformity in these higher regions of the book-case. The + untidy top shelves looked suggestive of some lucky accident which might + unexpectedly lead the way to success. I decided, if I did examine the + book-case at all, to begin at the top. + </p> + <p> + Where was the library ladder? + </p> + <p> + I had left it against the partition wall which divided the back room from + the room in front. Looking that way, I necessarily looked also toward the + door that ran in grooves—the imperfectly closed door through which I + heard Major Fitz-David question his servant on the subject of my personal + appearance when I first entered the house. No one had moved this door + during the time of my visit. Everybody entering or leaving the room had + used the other door, which led into the hall. + </p> + <p> + At the moment when I looked round something stirred in the front room. The + movement let the light in suddenly through the small open space left by + the partially closed door. Had somebody been watching me through the + chink? I stepped softly to the door, and pushed it back until it was wide + open. There was the Major, discovered in the front room! I saw it in his + face—he had been watching me at the book-case! + </p> + <p> + His hat was in his hand. He was evidently going out; and he dexterously + took advantage of that circumstance to give a plausible reason for being + so near the door. + </p> + <p> + “I hope I didn’t frighten you,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “You startled me a little, Major.” + </p> + <p> + “I am so sorry, and so ashamed! I was just going to open the door, and + tell you that I am obliged to go out. I have received a pressing message + from a lady. A charming person—I should so like you to know her. She + is in sad trouble, poor thing. Little bills, you know, and nasty + tradespeople who want their money, and a husband—oh, dear me, a + husband who is quite unworthy of her! A most interesting creature. You + remind me of her a little; you both have the same carriage of the head. I + shall not be more than half an hour gone. Can I do anything for you? You + are looking fatigued. Pray let me send for some more champagne. No? + Promise to ring when you want it. That’s right! <i>Au revoir</i>, my + charming friend—<i>au revoir!</i>” + </p> + <p> + I pulled the door to again the moment his back was turned, and sat down + for a while to compose myself. + </p> + <p> + He had been watching me at the book-case! The man who was in my husband’s + confidence, the man who knew where the clew was to be found, had been + watching me at the book-case! There was no doubt of it now. Major + Fitz-David had shown me the hiding-place of the secret in spite of + himself! + </p> + <p> + I looked with indifference at the other pieces of furniture, ranged + against the fourth wall, which I had not examined yet. I surveyed, without + the slightest feeling of curiosity, all the little elegant trifles + scattered on the tables and on the chimney-piece, each one of which might + have been an object of suspicion to me under other circumstances. Even the + water-color drawings failed to interest me in my present frame of mind. I + observed languidly that they were most of them portraits of ladies—fair + idols, no doubt, of the Major’s facile adoration—and I cared to + notice no more. <i>My</i> business in that room (I was certain of it now!) + began and ended with the book-case. I left my seat to fetch the library + ladder, determining to begin the work of investigation on the top shelves. + </p> + <p> + On my way to the ladder I passed one of the tables, and saw the keys lying + on it which Major Fitz-David had left at my disposal. + </p> + <p> + The smaller of the two keys instantly reminded me of the cupboards under + the bookcase. I had strangely overlooked these. A vague distrust of the + locked doors a vague doubt of what they might be hiding from me, stole + into my mind. I left the ladder in its place against the wall, and set + myself to examine the contents of the cupboards first. + </p> + <p> + The cupboards were three in number. As I opened the first of them the + singing upstairs ceased. For a moment there was something almost + oppressive in the sudden change from noise to silence. I suppose my nerves + must have been overwrought. The next sound in the house—nothing more + remarkable than the creaking of a man’s boots descending the stairs—made + me shudder all over. The man was no doubt the singing-master, going away + after giving his lesson. I heard the house door close on him, and started + at the familiar sound as if it were something terrible which I had never + heard before. Then there was silence again. I roused myself as well as I + could, and began my examination of the first cupboard. + </p> + <p> + It was divided into two compartments. + </p> + <p> + The top compartment contained nothing but boxes of cigars, ranged in rows, + one on another. The under compartment was devoted to a collection of + shells. They were all huddled together anyhow, the Major evidently setting + a far higher value on his cigars than on his shells. I searched this lower + compartment carefully for any object interesting to me which might be + hidden in it. Nothing was to be found in any part of it besides the + shells. + </p> + <p> + As I opened the second cupboard it struck me that the light was beginning + to fail. + </p> + <p> + I looked at the window: it was hardly evening yet. The darkening of the + light was produced by gathering clouds. Rain-drops pattered against the + glass; the autumn wind whistled mournfully in the corners of the + courtyard. I mended the fire before I renewed my search. My nerves were in + fault again, I suppose. I shivered when I went back to the book-case. My + hands trembled: I wondered what was the matter with me. + </p> + <p> + The second cupboard revealed (in the upper division of it) some really + beautiful cameos—not mounted, but laid on cotton-wool in neat + cardboard trays. In one corner, half hidden under one of the trays, there + peeped out the white leaves of a little manuscript. I pounced on it + eagerly, only to meet with a new disappointment: the manuscript proved to + be a descriptive catalogue of the cameos—nothing more! + </p> + <p> + Turning to the lower division of the cupboard, I found more costly + curiosities in the shape of ivory carvings from Japan and specimens of + rare silk from China. I began to feel weary of disinterring the Major’s + treasures. The longer I searched, the farther I seemed to remove myself + from the one object that I had it at heart to attain. After closing the + door of the second cupboard, I almost doubted whether it would be worth my + while to proceed farther and open the third and last door. + </p> + <p> + A little reflection convinced me that it would be as well, now that I had + begun my examination of the lower regions of the book-case, to go on with + it to the end. I opened the last cupboard. + </p> + <p> + On the upper shelf there appeared, in solitary grandeur, one object only—a + gorgeously bound book. + </p> + <p> + It was of a larger size than usual, judging of it by comparison with the + dimensions of modern volumes. The binding was of blue velvet, with clasps + of silver worked in beautiful arabesque patterns, and with a lock of the + same precious metal to protect the book from prying eyes. When I took it + up, I found that the lock was not closed. + </p> + <p> + Had I any right to take advantage of this accident, and open the book? I + have put the question since to some of my friends of both sexes. The women + all agree that I was perfectly justified, considering the serious + interests that I had at stake, in taking any advantage of any book in the + Major’s house. The men differ from this view, and declare that I ought to + have put back the volume in blue velvet unopened, carefully guarding + myself from any after-temptation to look at it again by locking the + cupboard door. I dare say the men are right. + </p> + <p> + Being a woman, however, I opened the book without a moment’s hesitation. + </p> + <p> + The leaves were of the finest vellum, with tastefully designed + illuminations all round them. And what did these highly ornamental pages + contain? To my unutterable amazement and disgust, they contained locks of + hair, let neatly into the center of each page, with inscriptions beneath, + which proved them to be love-tokens from various ladies who had touched + the Major’s susceptible heart at different periods of his life. The + inscriptions were written in other languages besides English, but they + appeared to be all equally devoted to the same curious purpose, namely, to + reminding the Major of the dates at which his various attachments had come + to an untimely end. Thus the first page exhibited a lock of the lightest + flaxen hair, with these lines beneath: “My adored Madeline. Eternal + constancy. Alas, July 22, 1839!” The next page was adorned by a darker + shade of hair, with a French inscription under it: “Clemence. Idole de mon + âme. Toujours fidele. Helas, 2me Avril, 1840.” A lock of red hair + followed, with a lamentation in Latin under it, a note being attached to + the date of dissolution of partnership in this case, stating that the lady + was descended from the ancient Romans, and was therefore mourned + appropriately in Latin by her devoted Fitz-David. More shades of hair and + more inscriptions followed, until I was weary of looking at them. I put + down the book, disgusted with the creatures who had assisted in filling + it, and then took it up again, by an afterthought. Thus far I had + thoroughly searched everything that had presented itself to my notice. + Agreeable or not agreeable, it was plainly of serious importance to my own + interests to go on as I had begun, and thoroughly to search the book. + </p> + <p> + I turned over the pages until I came to the first blank leaf. Seeing that + they were all blank leaves from this place to the end, I lifted the volume + by the back, and, as a last measure of precaution, shook it so as to + dislodge any loose papers or cards which might have escaped my notice + between the leaves. + </p> + <p> + This time my patience was rewarded by a discovery which indescribably + irritated and distressed me. + </p> + <p> + A small photograph, mounted on a card, fell out of the book. A first + glance showed me that it represented the portraits of two persons. + </p> + <p> + One of the persons I recognized as my husband. + </p> + <p> + The other person was a woman. + </p> + <p> + Her face was entirely unknown to me. She was not young. The picture + represented her seated on a chair, with my husband standing behind, and + bending over her, holding one of her hands in his. The woman’s face was + hard-featured and ugly, with the marking lines of strong passions and + resolute self-will plainly written on it. Still, ugly as she was, I felt a + pang of jealousy as I noticed the familiarly affectionate action by which + the artist (with the permission of his sitters, of course) had connected + the two figures in a group. Eustace had briefly told me, in the days of + our courtship, that he had more than once fancied himself to be in love + before he met with me. Could this very unattractive woman have been one of + the early objects of his admiration? Had she been near enough and dear + enough to him to be photographed with her hand in his? I looked and looked + at the portraits until I could endure them no longer. Women are strange + creatures—mysteries even to themselves. I threw the photograph from + me into a corner of the cupboard. I was savagely angry with my husband; I + hated—yes, hated with all my heart and soul!—the woman who had + got his hand in hers—the unknown woman with the self-willed, + hard-featured face. + </p> + <p> + All this time the lower shelf of the cupboard was still waiting to be + looked over. + </p> + <p> + I knelt down to examine it, eager to clear my mind, if I could, of the + degrading jealousy that had got possession of me. + </p> + <p> + Unfortunately, the lower shelf contained nothing but relics of the Major’s + military life, comprising his sword and pistols, his epaulets, his sash, + and other minor accouterments. None of these objects excited the slightest + interest in me. My eyes wandered back to the upper shelf; and, like the + fool I was (there is no milder word that can fitly describe me at that + moment), I took the photograph out again, and enraged myself uselessly by + another look at it. This time I observed, what I had not noticed before, + that there were some lines of writing (in a woman’s hand) at the back of + the portraits. The lines ran thus: + </p> + <p> + “To Major Fitz-David, with two vases. From his friends, S. and E. M.” + </p> + <p> + Was one of those two vases the vase that had been broken? And was the + change that I had noticed in Major Fitz-David’s face produced by some past + association in connection with it, which in some way affected me? It might + or might not be so. I was little disposed to indulge in speculation on + this topic while the far more serious question of the initials confronted + me on the back of the photograph. + </p> + <p> + “S. and E. M.?” Those last two letters might stand for the initials of my + husband’s name—his true name—Eustace Macallan. In this case + the first letter (“S.”) in all probability indicated <i>her</i> name. What + right had she to associate herself with him in that manner? I considered a + little—my memory exerted itself—I suddenly called to mind that + Eustace had sisters. He had spoken of them more than once in the time + before our marriage. Had I been mad enough to torture myself with jealousy + of my husband’s sister? It might well be so; “S.” might stand for his + sister’s Christian name. I felt heartily ashamed of myself as this new + view of the matter dawned on me. What a wrong I had done to them both in + my thoughts! I turned the photograph, sadly and penitently, to examine the + portraits again with a kinder and truer appreciation of them. + </p> + <p> + I naturally looked now for a family likeness between the two faces. There + was no family likeness; on the contrary, they were as unlike each other in + form and expression as faces could be. <i>Was</i> she his sister, after + all? I looked at her hands, as represented in the portrait. Her right hand + was clasped by Eustace; her left hand lay on her lap. On the third finger, + distinctly visible, there was a wedding-ring. Were any of my husband’s + sisters married? I had myself asked him the question when he mentioned + them to me, and I perfectly remembered that he had replied in the + negative. + </p> + <p> + Was it possible that my first jealous instinct had led me to the right + conclusion after all? If it had, what did the association of the three + initial letters mean? What did the wedding-ring mean? Good Heavens! was I + looking at the portrait of a rival in my husband’s affections—and + was that rival his Wife? + </p> + <p> + I threw the photograph from me with a cry of horror. For one terrible + moment I felt as if my reason was giving way. I don’t know what would have + happened, or what I should have done next, if my love for Eustace had not + taken the uppermost place among the contending emotions that tortured me. + That faithful love steadied my brain. That faithful love roused the + reviving influences of my better and nobler sense. Was the man whom I had + enshrined in my heart of hearts capable of such base wickedness as the + bare idea of his marriage to another woman implied? No! Mine was the + baseness, mine the wickedness, in having even for a moment thought it of + him! + </p> + <p> + I picked up the detestable photograph from the floor, and put it back in + the book. I hastily closed the cupboard door, fetched the library ladder, + and set it against the book-case. My one idea now was the idea of taking + refuge in employment of any sort from my own thoughts. I felt the hateful + suspicion that had degraded me coming back again in spite of my efforts to + repel it. The books! the books! my only hope was to absorb myself, body + and soul, in the books. + </p> + <p> + I had one foot on the ladder, when I heard the door of the room open—the + door which communicated with the hall. + </p> + <p> + I looked around, expecting to see the Major. I saw instead the Major’s + future prima donna standing just inside the door, with her round eyes + steadily fixed on me. + </p> + <p> + “I can stand a good deal,” the girl began, coolly, “but I can’t stand <i>this</i> + any longer?” + </p> + <p> + “What is it that you can’t stand any longer?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “If you have been here a minute, you have been here two good hours,” she + went on. “All by yourself in the Major’s study. I am of a jealous + disposition—I am. And I want to know what it means.” She advanced a + few steps nearer to me, with a heightening color and a threatening look. + “Is he going to bring <i>you</i> out on the stage?” she asked, sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not.” + </p> + <p> + “He ain’t in love with you, is he?” + </p> + <p> + Under other circumstances I might have told her to leave the room. In my + position at that critical moment the mere presence of a human creature was + a positive relief to me. Even this girl, with her coarse questions and her + uncultivated manners, was a welcome intruder on my solitude: she offered + me a refuge from myself. + </p> + <p> + “Your question is not very civilly put,” I said. “However, I excuse you. + You are probably not aware that I am a married woman.” + </p> + <p> + “What has that got to do with it?” she retorted. “Married or single, it’s + all one to the Major. That brazen-faced hussy who calls herself Lady + Clarinda is married, and she sends him nosegays three times a week! Not + that I care, mind you, about the old fool. But I’ve lost my situation at + the railway, and I’ve got my own interests to look after, and I don’t know + what may happen if I let other women come between him and me. That’s where + the shoe pinches, don’t you see? I’m not easy in my mind when I see him + leaving you mistress here to do just what you like. No offense! I speak + out—I do. I want to know what you are about all by yourself in this + room? How did you pick up with the Major? I never heard him speak of you + before to-day.” + </p> + <p> + Under all the surface selfishness and coarseness of this strange girl + there was a certain frankness and freedom which pleaded in her favor—to + my mind, at any rate. I answered frankly and freely on my side. + </p> + <p> + “Major Fitz-David is an old friend of my husband’s,” I said, “and he is + kind to me for my husband’s sake. He has given me permission to look in + this room—” + </p> + <p> + I stopped, at a loss how to describe my employment in terms which should + tell her nothing, and which should at the same time successfully set her + distrust of me at rest. + </p> + <p> + “To look about in this room—for what?” she asked. Her eye fell on + the library ladder, beside which I was still standing. “For a book?” she + resumed. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” I said, taking the hint. “For a book.” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you found it yet?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + She looked hard at me, undisguisedly considering with herself whether I + were or were not speaking the truth. + </p> + <p> + “You seem to be a good sort,” she said, making up her mind at last. + “There’s nothing stuck-up about you. I’ll help you if I can. I have + rummaged among the books here over and over again, and I know more about + them than you do. What book do you want?” + </p> + <p> + As she put that awkward question she noticed for the first time Lady + Clarinda’s nosegay lying on the side-table where the Major had left it. + Instantly forgetting me and my book, this curious girl pounced like a fury + on the flowers, and actually trampled them under her feet! + </p> + <p> + “There!” she cried. “If I had Lady Clarinda here I’d serve her in the same + way.” + </p> + <p> + “What will the Major say?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “What do I care? Do you suppose I’m afraid of <i>him?</i> Only last week I + broke one of his fine gimcracks up there, and all through Lady Clarinda + and her flowers!” + </p> + <p> + She pointed to the top of the book-case—to the empty space on it + close by the window. My heart gave a sudden bound as my eyes took the + direction indicated by her finger. <i>She</i> had broken the vase! Was the + way to discovery about to reveal itself to me through this girl? Not a + word would pass my lips; I could only look at her. + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” she said. “The thing stood there. He knows how I hate her flowers, + and he put her nosegay in the vase out of my way. There was a woman’s face + painted on the china, and he told me it was the living image of <i>her</i> + face. It was no more like her than I am. I was in such a rage that I up + with the book I was reading at the time and shied it at the painted face. + Over the vase went, bless your heart, crash to the floor. Stop a bit! I + wonder whether <i>that’s</i> the book you have been looking after? Are you + like me? Do you like reading Trials?” + </p> + <p> + Trials? Had I heard her aright? Yes: she had said Trials. + </p> + <p> + I answered by an affirmative motion of my head. I was still speechless. + The girl sauntered in her cool way to the fire-place, and, taking up the + tongs, returned with them to the book-case. + </p> + <p> + “Here’s where the book fell,” she said—“in the space between the + book-case and the wall. I’ll have it out in no time.” + </p> + <p> + I waited without moving a muscle, without uttering a word. + </p> + <p> + She approached me with the tongs in one hand and with a plainly bound + volume in the other. + </p> + <p> + “Is that the book?” she said. “Open it, and see.” + </p> + <p> + I took the book from her. + </p> + <p> + “It is tremendously interesting,” she went on. “I’ve read it twice over—I + have. Mind you, <i>I</i> believe he did it, after all.” + </p> + <p> + Did it? Did what? What was she talking about? I tried to put the question + to her. I struggled—quite vainly—to say only these words: + “What are you talking about?” + </p> + <p> + She seemed to lose all patience with me. She snatched the book out of my + hand, and opened it before me on the table by which we were standing side + by side. + </p> + <p> + “I declare, you’re as helpless as a baby!” she said, contemptuously. + “There! <i>Is</i> that the book?” + </p> + <p> + I read the first lines on the title-page— + </p> + <p> + A COMPLETE REPORT OF THE TRIAL OF EUSTACE MACALLAN. + </p> + <p> + I stopped and looked up at her. She started back from me with a scream of + terror. I looked down again at the title-page, and read the next lines— + </p> + <p> + FOR THE ALLEGED POISONING OF HIS WIFE. + </p> + <p> + There, God’s mercy remembered me. There the black blank of a swoon + swallowed me up. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XI. THE RETURN TO LIFE. + </h2> + <p> + My first remembrance when I began to recover my senses was the remembrance + of Pain—agonizing pain, as if every nerve in my body were being + twisted and torn out of me. My whole being writhed and quivered under the + dumb and dreadful protest of Nature against the effort to recall me to + life. I would have given worlds to be able to cry out—to entreat the + unseen creatures about me to give me back to death. How long that + speechless agony held me I never knew. In a longer or shorter time there + stole over me slowly a sleepy sense of relief. I heard my own labored + breathing. I felt my hands moving feebly and mechanically, like the hands + of a baby. I faintly opened my eyes and looked round me—as if I had + passed through the ordeal of death, and had awakened to new senses in a + new world. + </p> + <p> + The first person I saw was a man—a stranger. He moved quietly out of + my sight; beckoning, as he disappeared, to some other person in the room. + </p> + <p> + Slowly and unwillingly the other person advanced to the sofa on which I + lay. A faint cry of joy escaped me; I tried to hold out my feeble hands. + The other person who was approaching me was my husband! + </p> + <p> + I looked at him eagerly. He never looked at me in return. With his eyes on + the ground, with a strange appearance of confusion and distress in his + face, he too moved away out of my sight. The unknown man whom I had first + noticed followed him out of the room. I called after him faintly, + “Eustace!” He never answered; he never returned. With an effort I moved my + head on the pillow, so as to look round on the other side of the sofa. + Another familiar face appeared before me as if in a dream. My good old + Benjamin was sitting watching me, with the tears in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + He rose and took my hand silently, in his simple, kindly way. + </p> + <p> + “Where is Eustace?” I asked. “Why has he gone away and left me?” + </p> + <p> + I was still miserably weak. My eyes wandered mechanically round the room + as I put the question. I saw Major Fitz-David, I saw the table on which + the singing girl had opened the book to show it to me. I saw the girl + herself, sitting alone in a corner, with her handkerchief to her eyes as + if she were crying. In one mysterious moment my memory recovered its + powers. The recollection of that fatal title-page came back to me in all + its horror. The one feeling that it roused in me now was a longing to see + my husband—to throw myself into his arms, and tell him how firmly I + believed in his innocence, how truly and dearly I loved him. I seized on + Benjamin with feeble, trembling hands. “Bring him back to me!” I cried, + wildly. “Where is he? Help me to get up!” + </p> + <p> + A strange voice answered, firmly and kindly: “Compose yourself, madam. Mr. + Woodville is waiting until you have recovered, in a room close by.” + </p> + <p> + I looked at him, and recognized the stranger who had followed my husband + out of the room. Why had he returned alone? Why was Eustace not with me, + like the rest of them? I tried to raise myself, and get on my feet. The + stranger gently pressed me back again on the pillow. I attempted to resist + him—quite uselessly, of course. His firm hand held me as gently as + ever in my place. + </p> + <p> + “You must rest a little,” he said. “You must take some wine. If you exert + yourself now you will faint again.” + </p> + <p> + Old Benjamin stooped over me, and whispered a word of explanation. + </p> + <p> + “It’s the doctor, my dear. You must do as he tells you.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor! They had called the doctor in to help them! I began dimly to + understand that my fainting fit must have presented symptoms far more + serious than the fainting fits of women in general. I appealed to the + doctor, in a helpless, querulous way, to account to me for my husband’s + extraordinary absence. + </p> + <p> + “Why did you let him leave the room?” I asked. “If I can’t go to him, why + don’t you bring him here to me?” + </p> + <p> + The doctor appeared to be at a loss how to reply to me. He looked at + Benjamin, and said, “Will you speak to Mrs. Woodville?” + </p> + <p> + Benjamin, in his turn, looked at Major Fitz-David, and said, “Will <i>you?</i>” + The Major signed to them both to leave us. They rose together, and went + into the front room, pulling the door to after them in its grooves. As + they left us, the girl who had so strangely revealed my husband’s secret + to me rose in her corner and approached the sofa. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose I had better go too?” she said, addressing Major Fitz-David. + </p> + <p> + “If you please,” the Major answered. + </p> + <p> + He spoke (as I thought) rather coldly. She tossed her head, and turned her + back on him in high indignation. “I must say a word for myself!” cried + this strange creature, with a hysterical outbreak of energy. “I must say a + word, or I shall burst!” + </p> + <p> + With that extraordinary preface, she suddenly turned my way and poured out + a perfect torrent of words on me. + </p> + <p> + “You hear how the Major speaks to me?” she began. “He blames me—poor + Me—for everything that has happened. I am as innocent as the + new-born babe. I acted for the best. I thought you wanted the book. I + don’t know now what made you faint dead away when I opened it. And the + Major blames Me! As if it was my fault! I am not one of the fainting sort + myself; but I feel it, I can tell you. Yes! I feel it, though I don’t + faint about it. I come of respectable parents—I do. My name is + Hoighty—Miss Hoighty. I have my own self-respect; and it’s wounded. + I say my self-respect is wounded, when I find myself blamed without + deserving it. You deserve it, if anybody does. Didn’t you tell me you were + looking for a book? And didn’t I present it to you promiscuously, with the + best intentions? I think you might say so yourself, now the doctor has + brought you to again. I think you might speak up for a poor girl who is + worked to death with singing and languages and what not—a poor girl + who has nobody else to speak for her. I am as respectable as you are, if + you come to that. My name is Hoighty. My parents are in business, and my + mamma has seen better days, and mixed in the best of company.” + </p> + <p> + There Miss Hoighty lifted her handkerchief again to her face, and burst + modestly into tears behind it. + </p> + <p> + It was certainly hard to hold her responsible for what had happened. I + answered as kindly as I could, and I attempted to speak to Major + Fitz-David in her defense. He knew what terrible anxieties were oppressing + me at that moment; and, considerately refusing to hear a word, he took the + task of consoling his young prima donna entirely on himself. What he said + to her I neither heard nor cared to hear: he spoke in a whisper. It ended + in his pacifying Miss Hoighty, by kissing her hand, and leading her (as he + might have led a duchess) out of the room. + </p> + <p> + “I hope that foolish girl has not annoyed you—at such a time as + this,” he said, very earnestly, when he returned to the sofa. “I can’t + tell you how grieved I am at what has happened. I was careful to warn you, + as you may remember. Still, if I could only have foreseen—” + </p> + <p> + I let him proceed no further. No human forethought could have provided + against what had happened. Besides, dreadful as the discovery had been, I + would rather have made it, and suffered under it, as I was suffering now, + than have been kept in the dark. I told him this. And then I turned to the + one subject that was now of any interest to me—the subject of my + unhappy husband. + </p> + <p> + “How did he come to this house?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “He came here with Mr. Benjamin shortly after I returned,” the Major + replied. + </p> + <p> + “Long after I was taken ill?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I had just sent for the doctor—feeling seriously alarmed about + you.” + </p> + <p> + “What brought him here? Did he return to the hotel and miss me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He returned earlier than he had anticipated, and he felt uneasy at + not finding you at the hotel.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he suspect me of being with you? Did he come here from the hotel?” + </p> + <p> + “No. He appears to have gone first to Mr. Benjamin to inquire about you. + What he heard from your old friend I cannot say. I only know that Mr. + Benjamin accompanied him when he came here.” + </p> + <p> + This brief explanation was quite enough for me—I understood what had + happened. Eustace would easily frighten simple old Benjamin about my + absence from the hotel; and, once alarmed, Benjamin would be persuaded + without difficulty to repeat the few words which had passed between us on + the subject of Major Fitz-David. My husband’s presence in the Major’s + house was perfectly explained. But his extraordinary conduct in leaving + the room at the very time when I was just recovering my senses still + remained to be accounted for. Major Fitz-David looked seriously + embarrassed when I put the question to him. + </p> + <p> + “I hardly know how to explain it to you,” he said. “Eustace has surprised + and disappointed me.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke very gravely. His looks told me more than his words: his looks + alarmed me. + </p> + <p> + “Eustace has not quarreled with you?” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Oh no!” + </p> + <p> + “He understands that you have not broken your promise to him?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. My young vocalist (Miss Hoighty) told the doctor exactly what + had happened; and the doctor in her presence repeated the statement to + your husband.” + </p> + <p> + “Did the doctor see the Trial?” + </p> + <p> + “Neither the doctor nor Mr. Benjamin has seen the Trial. I have locked it + up; and I have carefully kept the terrible story of your connection with + the prisoner a secret from all of them. Mr. Benjamin evidently has his + suspicions. But the doctor has no idea, and Miss Hoighty has no idea, of + the true cause of your fainting fit. They both believe that you are + subject to serious nervous attacks, and that your husband’s name is really + Woodville. All that the truest friend could do to spare Eustace I have + done. He persists, nevertheless, in blaming me for letting you enter my + house. And worse, far worse than this, he persists in declaring the event + of to-day has fatally estranged you from him. ‘There is an end of our + married life,’ he said to me, ‘now she knows that I am the man who was + tried at Edinburgh for poisoning my wife!”’ + </p> + <p> + I rose from the sofa in horror. + </p> + <p> + “Good God!” I cried, “does Eustace suppose that I doubt his innocence?” + </p> + <p> + “He denies that it is possible for you or for anybody to believe in his + innocence,” the Major replied. + </p> + <p> + “Help me to the door,” I said. “Where is he? I must and will see him!” + </p> + <p> + I dropped back exhausted on the sofa as I said the words. Major Fitz-David + poured out a glass of wine from the bottle on the table, and insisted on + my drinking it. + </p> + <p> + “You shall see him,” said the Major. “I promise you that. The doctor has + forbidden him to leave the house until you have seen him. Only wait a + little! My poor, dear lady, wait, if it is only for a few minutes, until + you are stronger.” + </p> + <p> + I had no choice but to obey him. Oh, those miserable, helpless minutes on + the sofa! I cannot write of them without shuddering at the recollection—even + at this distance of time. + </p> + <p> + “Bring him here!” I said. “Pray, pray bring him here!” + </p> + <p> + “Who is to persuade him to come back?” asked the Major, sadly. “How can I, + how can anybody, prevail with a man—a madman I had almost said!—who + could leave you at the moment when you first opened your eyes on him? I + saw Eustace alone in the next room while the doctor was in attendance on + you. I tried to shake his obstinate distrust of your belief in his + innocence and of my belief in his innocence by every argument and every + appeal that an old friend could address to him. He had but one answer to + give me. Reason as I might, and plead as I might, he still persisted in + referring me to the Scotch Verdict.” + </p> + <p> + “The Scotch Verdict?” I repeated. “What is that?” + </p> + <p> + The Major looked surprised at the question. + </p> + <p> + “Have you really never heard of the Trial?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Never.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought it strange,” he went on, “when you told me you had found out + your husband’s true name, that the discovery appeared to have suggested no + painful association to your mind. It is not more than three years since + all England was talking of your husband. One can hardly wonder at his + taking refuge, poor fellow, in an assumed name. Where could you have been + at the time?” + </p> + <p> + “Did you say it was three years ago?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I can explain my strange ignorance of what was so well known to + every one else. Three years since my father was alive. I was living with + him in a country-house in Italy—up in the mountains, near Sienna. We + never saw an English newspaper or met with an English traveler for weeks + and weeks together. It is just possible that there might have been some + reference made to the Trial in my father’s letters from England. If there + were, he never told me of it. Or, if he did mention the case, I felt no + interest in it, and forgot it again directly. Tell me—what has the + Verdict to do with my husband’s horrible doubt of us? Eustace is a free + man. The Verdict was Not Guilty, of course?” + </p> + <p> + Major Fitz-David shook his head sadly. + </p> + <p> + “Eustace was tried in Scotland,” he said. “There is a verdict allowed by + the Scotch law, which (so far as I know) is not permitted by the laws of + any other civilized country on the face of the earth. When the jury are in + doubt whether to condemn or acquit the prisoner brought before them, they + are permitted, in Scotland, to express that doubt by a form of compromise. + If there is not evidence enough, on the one hand, to justify them in + finding a prisoner guilty, and not evidence enough, on the other hand, to + thoroughly convince them that a prisoner is innocent, they extricate + themselves from the difficulty by finding a verdict of Not Proven.” + </p> + <p> + “Was that the Verdict when Eustace was tried?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “The jury were not quite satisfied that my husband was guilty? and not + quite satisfied that my husband was innocent? Is that what the Scotch + Verdict means?” + </p> + <p> + “That is what the Scotch Verdict means. For three years that doubt about + him in the minds of the jury who tried him has stood on public record.” + </p> + <p> + Oh, my poor darling! my innocent martyr! I understood it at last. The + false name in which he had married me; the terrible words he had spoken + when he had warned me to respect his secret; the still more terrible doubt + that he felt of me at that moment—it was all intelligible to my + sympathies, it was all clear to my understanding, now. I got up again from + the sofa, strong in a daring resolution which the Scotch Verdict had + suddenly kindled in me—a resolution at once too sacred and too + desperate to be confided, in the first instance, to any other than my husband’s + ear. + </p> + <p> + “Take me to Eustace!” I cried. “I am strong enough to bear anything now.” + </p> + <p> + After one searching look at me, the Major silently offered me his arm, and + led me out of the room. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XII. THE SCOTCH VERDICT. + </h2> + <p> + We walked to the far end of the hall. Major Fitz-David opened the door of + a long, narrow room built out at the back of the house as a smoking-room, + and extending along one side of the courtyard as far as the stable wall. + </p> + <p> + My husband was alone in the room, seated at the further end of it, near + the fire-place. He started to his feet and faced me in silence as I + entered. The Major softly closed the door on us and retired. Eustace never + stirred a step to meet me. I ran to him, and threw my arms round his neck + and kissed him. The embrace was not returned; the kiss was not returned. + He passively submitted—nothing more. + </p> + <p> + “Eustace!” I said, “I never loved you more dearly than I love you at this + moment! I never felt for you as I feel for you now!” + </p> + <p> + He released himself deliberately from my arms. He signed to me with the + mechanical courtesy of a stranger to take a chair. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Valeria,” he answered, in cold, measured tones. “You could say + no less to me, after what has happened; and you could say no more. Thank + you.” + </p> + <p> + We were standing before the fire-place. He left me, and walked away slowly + with his head down, apparently intending to leave the room. + </p> + <p> + I followed him—I got before him—I placed myself between him + and the door. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you leave me?” I said. “Why do you speak to me in this cruel way? + Are you angry, Eustace? My darling, if you <i>are</i> angry, I ask you to + forgive me.” + </p> + <p> + “It is I who ought to ask <i>your</i> pardon,” he replied. “I beg you to + forgive me, Valeria, for having made you my wife.” + </p> + <p> + He pronounced those words with a hopeless, heart-broken humility dreadful + to see. I laid my hand on his bosom. I said, “Eustace, look at me.” + </p> + <p> + He slowly lifted his eyes to my face—eyes cold and clear and + tearless—looking at me in steady resignation, in immovable despair. + In the utter wretchedness of that moment, I was like him; I was as quiet + and as cold as my husband. He chilled, he froze me. + </p> + <p> + “Is it possible,” I said, “that you doubt my belief in your innocence?” + </p> + <p> + He left the question unanswered. He sighed bitterly to himself. “Poor + woman!” he said, as a stranger might have said, pitying me. “Poor woman!” + </p> + <p> + My heart swelled in me as if it would burst. I lifted my hand from his + bosom, and laid it on his shoulder to support myself. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t ask you to pity me, Eustace; I ask you to do me justice. You are + not doing me justice. If you had trusted me with the truth in the days + when we first knew that we loved each other—if you had told me all, + and more than all that I know now—as God is my witness I would still + have married you! <i>Now</i> do you doubt that I believe you are an + innocent man!” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t doubt it,” he said. “All your impulses are generous, Valeria. You + are speaking generously and feeling generously. Don’t blame me, my poor + child, if I look on further than you do: if I see what is to come—too + surely to come—in the cruel future.” + </p> + <p> + “The cruel future!” I repeated. “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “You believe in my innocence, Valeria. The jury who tried me doubted it—and + have left that doubt on record. What reason have <i>you</i> for believing, + in the face of the Verdict, that I am an innocent man?” + </p> + <p> + “I want no reason! I believe in spite of the jury—in spite of the + Verdict.” + </p> + <p> + “Will your friends agree with you? When your uncle and aunt know what has + happened—and sooner or later they must know it—what will they + say? They will say, ‘He began badly; he concealed from our niece that he + had been wedded to a first wife; he married our niece under a false name. + He may say he is innocent; but we have only his word for it. When he was + put on his Trial, the Verdict was Not Proven. Not Proven won’t do for us. + If the jury have done him an injustice—if he <i>is</i> innocent—let + him prove it.’ That is what the world thinks and says of me. That is what + your friends will think and say of me. The time is coming, Valeria, when + you—even You—will feel that your friends have reason to appeal + to on their side, and that you have no reason on yours.” + </p> + <p> + “That time will never come!” I answered, warmly. “You wrong me, you insult + me, in thinking it possible!” + </p> + <p> + He put down my hand from him, and drew back a step, with a bitter smile. + </p> + <p> + “We have only been married a few days, Valeria. Your love for me is new + and young. Time, which wears away all things, will wear away the first + fervor of that love.” + </p> + <p> + “Never! never!” + </p> + <p> + He drew back from me a little further still. + </p> + <p> + “Look at the world around you,” he said. “The happiest husbands and wives + have their occasional misunderstandings and disagreements; the brightest + married life has its passing clouds. When those days come for <i>us,</i> + the doubts and fears that you don’t feel now will find their way to you + then. When the clouds rise in <i>our</i> married life—when I say my + first harsh word, when you make your first hasty reply—then, in the + solitude of your own room, in the stillness of the wakeful night, you will + think of my first wife’s miserable death. You will remember that I was + held responsible for it, and that my innocence was never proved. You will + say to yourself, ‘Did it begin, in <i>her</i> time, with a harsh word from + him and with a hasty reply from her? Will it one day end with me as the + jury half feared that it ended with her?’ Hideous questions for a wife to + ask herself! You will stifle them; you will recoil from them, like a good + woman, with horror. But when we meet the next morning you will be on your + guard, and I shall see it, and know in my heart of hearts what it means. + Imbittered by that knowledge, my next harsh word may be harsher still. + Your next thoughts of me may remind you more vividly and more boldly that + your husband was once tried as a poisoner, and that the question of his + first wife’s death was never properly cleared up. Do you see what + materials for a domestic hell are mingling for us here? Was it for nothing + that I warned you, solemnly warned you, to draw back, when I found you + bent on discovering the truth? Can I ever be at your bedside now, when you + are ill, and not remind you, in the most innocent things I do, of what + happened at that other bedside, in the time of that other woman whom I + married first? If I pour out your medicine, I commit a suspicious action—they + say I poisoned <i>her</i> in her medicine. If I bring you a cup of tea, I + revive the remembrance of a horrid doubt—they said I put the arsenic + in <i>her</i> cup of tea. If I kiss you when I leave the room, I remind + you that the prosecution accused me of kissing <i>her,</i> to save + appearances and produce an effect on the nurse. Can we live together on + such terms as these? No mortal creatures could support the misery of it. + This very day I said to you, ‘If you stir a step further in this matter, + there is an end of your happiness for the rest of your life.’ You have + taken that step and the end has come to your happiness and to mine. The + blight that cankers and kills is on you and on me for the rest of our + lives!” + </p> + <p> + So far I had forced myself to listen to him. At those last words the + picture of the future that he was placing before me became too hideous to + be endured. I refused to hear more. + </p> + <p> + “You are talking horribly,” I said. “At your age and at mine, have we done + with love and done with hope? It is blasphemy to Love and Hope to say it!” + </p> + <p> + “Wait till you have read the Trial,” he answered. “You mean to read it, I + suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Every word of it! With a motive, Eustace, which you have yet to know.” + </p> + <p> + “No motive of yours, Valeria, no love and hope of yours, can alter the + inexorable facts. My first wife died poisoned; and the verdict of the jury + has not absolutely acquitted me of the guilt of causing her death. As long + as you were ignorant of that the possibilities of happiness were always + within our reach. Now you know it, I say again—our married life is + at an end.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” I said. “Now I know it, our married life has begun—begun with + a new object for your wife’s devotion, with a new reason for your wife’s + love!” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + I went near to him again, and took his hand. + </p> + <p> + “What did you tell me the world has said of you?” I asked. “What did you + tell me my friends would say of you? ‘Not Proven won’t do for us. If the + jury have done him an injustice—if he <i>is</i> innocent—let + him prove it.’ Those were the words you put into the mouths of my friends. + I adopt them for mine! I say Not Proven won’t do for <i>me.</i> Prove your + right, Eustace, to a verdict of Not Guilty. Why have you let three years + pass without doing it? Shall I guess why? You have waited for your wife to + help you. Here she is, my darling, ready to help you with all her heart + and soul. Here she is, with one object in life—to show the world and + to show the Scotch Jury that her husband is an innocent man!” + </p> + <p> + I had roused myself; my pulses were throbbing, my voice rang through the + room. Had I roused <i>him</i>? What was his answer? + </p> + <p> + “Read the Trial.” That was his answer. + </p> + <p> + I seized him by the arm. In my indignation and my despair I shook him with + all my strength. God forgive me, I could almost have struck him for the + tone in which he had spoken and the look that he had cast on me! + </p> + <p> + “I have told you that I mean to read the Trial,” I said. “I mean to read + it, line by line, with you. Some inexcusable mistake has been made. + Evidence in your favor that might have been found has not been found. + Suspicious circumstances have not been investigated. Crafty people have + not been watched. Eustace! the conviction of some dreadful oversight, + committed by you or by the persons who helped you, is firmly settled in my + mind. The resolution to set that vile Verdict right was the first + resolution that came to me when I first heard of it in the next room. We + <i>will</i> set it right! We <i>must</i> set it right—for your sake, + for my sake, for the sake of our children if we are blessed with children. + Oh, my own love, don’t look at me with those cold eyes! Don’t answer me in + those hard tones! Don’t treat me as if I were talking ignorantly and madly + of something that can never be!” + </p> + <p> + Still I never roused him. His next words were spoken compassionately + rather than coldly—that was all. + </p> + <p> + “My defense was undertaken by the greatest lawyers in the land,” he said. + “After such men have done their utmost, and have failed—my poor + Valeria, what can you, what can I, do? We can only submit.” + </p> + <p> + “Never!” I cried. “The greatest lawyers are mortal men; the greatest + lawyers have made mistakes before now. You can’t deny that.” + </p> + <p> + “Read the Trial.” For the third time he said those cruel words, and said + no more. + </p> + <p> + In utter despair of moving him—-feeling keenly, bitterly (if I must + own it), his merciless superiority to all that I had said to him in the + honest fervor of my devotion and my love—I thought of Major + Fitz-David as a last resort. In the disordered state of my mind at that + moment, it made no difference to me that the Major had already tried to + reason with him, and had failed. In the face of the facts I had a blind + belief in the influence of his old friend, if his old friend could only be + prevailed upon to support my view. + </p> + <p> + “Wait for me one moment,” I said. “I want you to hear another opinion + besides mine.” + </p> + <p> + I left him, and returned to the study. Major Fitz-David was not there. I + knocked at the door of communication with the front room. It was opened + instantly by the Major himself. The doctor had gone away. Benjamin still + remained in the room. + </p> + <p> + “Will you come and speak to Eustace?” I began. “If you will only say what + I want you to say—” + </p> + <p> + Before I could add a word more I heard the house door opened and closed. + Major Fitz-David and Benjamin heard it too. They looked at each other in + silence. + </p> + <p> + I ran back, before the Major could stop me, to the room in which I had + seen Eustace. It was empty. My husband had left the house. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIII. THE MAN’S DECISION. + </h2> + <p> + MY first impulse was the reckless impulse to follow Eustace—openly + through the streets. + </p> + <p> + The Major and Benjamin both opposed this hasty resolution on my part. They + appealed to my own sense of self-respect, without (so far as I remember + it) producing the slightest effect on my mind. They were more successful + when they entreated me next to be patient for my husband’s sake. In mercy + to Eustace, they begged me to wait half an hour. If he failed to return in + that time, they pledged themselves to accompany me in search of him to the + hotel. + </p> + <p> + In mercy to Eustace I consented to wait. What I suffered under the forced + necessity for remaining passive at that crisis in my life no words of mine + can tell. It will be better if I go on with my narrative. + </p> + <p> + Benjamin was the first to ask me what had passed between my husband and + myself. + </p> + <p> + “You may speak freely, my dear,” he said. “I know what has happened since + you have been in Major Fitz-David’s house. No one has told me about it; I + found it out for myself. If you remember, I was struck by the name of + ‘Macallan,’ when you first mentioned it to me at my cottage. I couldn’t + guess why at the time. I know why now.” + </p> + <p> + Hearing this, I told them both unreservedly what I had said to Eustace, + and how he had received it. To my unspeakable disappointment, they both + sided with my husband, treating my view of his position as a mere dream. + They said it, as he had said it, “You have not read the Trial.” + </p> + <p> + I was really enraged with them. “The facts are enough for <i>me,</i>” I + said. “We know he is innocent. Why is his innocence not proved? It ought + to be, it must be, it shall be! If the Trial tell me it can’t be done, I + refuse to believe the Trial. Where is the book, Major? Let me see for + myself if his lawyers have left nothing for his wife to do. Did they love + him as I love him? Give me the book!” + </p> + <p> + Major Fitz-David looked at Benjamin. + </p> + <p> + “It will only additionally shock and distress her if I give her the book,” + he said. “Don’t you agree with me?” + </p> + <p> + I interposed before Benjamin could answer. + </p> + <p> + “If you refuse my request,” I said, “you will oblige me, Major, to go to + the nearest bookseller and tell him to buy the Trial for me. I am + determined to read it.” + </p> + <p> + This time Benjamin sided with me. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing can make matters worse than they are, sir,” he said. “If I may be + permitted to advise, let her have her own way.” + </p> + <p> + The Major rose and took the book out of the Italian cabinet, to which he + had consigned it for safe-keeping. + </p> + <p> + “My young friend tells me that she informed you of her regrettable + outbreak of temper a few days since,” he said as he handed me the volume. + “I was not aware at the time what book she had in her hand when she so far + forgot herself as to destroy the vase. When I left you in the study, I + supposed the Report of the Trial to be in its customary place on the top + shelf of the book-case, and I own I felt some curiosity to know whether + you would think of examining that shelf. The broken vase—it is + needless to conceal it from you now—was one of a pair presented to + me by your husband and his first wife only a week before the poor woman’s + terrible death. I felt my first presentiment that you were on the brink of + discovery when I found you looking at the fragments, and I fancy I + betrayed to you that something of the sort was disturbing me. You looked + as if you noticed it.” + </p> + <p> + “I did notice it, Major. And I too had a vague idea that I was on the way + to discovery. Will you look at your watch? Have we waited half an hour + yet?” + </p> + <p> + My impatience had misled me. The ordeal of the half-hour was not yet at an + end. + </p> + <p> + Slowly and more slowly the heavy minutes followed each other, and still + there were no signs of my husband’s return. We tried to continue our + conversation, and failed. Nothing was audible; no sounds but the ordinary + sounds of the street disturbed the dreadful silence. Try as I might to + repel it, there was one foreboding thought that pressed closer and closer + on my mind as the interval of waiting wore its weary way on. I shuddered + as I asked myself if our married life had come to an end—if Eustace + had really left me. + </p> + <p> + The Major saw what Benjamin’s slower perception had not yet discovered—that + my fortitude was beginning to sink under the unrelieved oppression of + suspense. + </p> + <p> + “Come!” he said. “Let us go to the hotel.” + </p> + <p> + It then wanted nearly five minutes to the half-hour. I <i>looked</i> my + gratitude to Major Fitz-David for sparing me those last minutes: I could + not speak to him or to Benjamin. In silence we three got into a cab and + drove to the hotel. + </p> + <p> + The landlady met us in the hall. Nothing had been seen or heard of + Eustace. There was a letter waiting for me upstairs on the table in our + sitting-room. It had been left at the hotel by a messenger only a few + minutes since. + </p> + <p> + Trembling and breathless, I ran up the stairs, the two gentlemen following + me. The address of the letter was in my husband’s handwriting. My heart + sank in me as I looked at the lines; there could be but one reason for his + writing to me. That closed envelope held his farewell words. I sat with + the letter on my lap, stupefied, incapable of opening it. + </p> + <p> + Kind-hearted Benjamin attempted to comfort and encourage me. The Major, + with his larger experience of women, warned the old man to be silent. + </p> + <p> + “Wait!” I heard him whisper. “Speaking to her will do no good now. Give + her time.” + </p> + <p> + Acting on a sudden impulse, I held out the letter to him as he spoke. Even + moments might be of importance, if Eustace had indeed left me. To give me + time might be to lose the opportunity of recalling him. + </p> + <p> + “You are his old friend,” I said. “Open his letter, Major, and read it for + me.” + </p> + <p> + Major Fitz-David opened the letter and read it through to himself. When he + had done he threw it on the table with a gesture which was almost a + gesture of contempt. + </p> + <p> + “There is but one excuse for him,” he said. “The man is mad.” + </p> + <p> + Those words told me all. I knew the worst; and, knowing it, I could read + the letter. It ran thus: + </p> + <p> + “MY BELOVED VALERIA—When you read these lines you read my farewell + words. I return to my solitary unfriended life—my life before I knew + you. + </p> + <p> + “My darling, you have been cruelly treated. You have been entrapped into + marrying a man who has been publicly accused of poisoning his first wife—and + who has not been honorably and completely acquitted of the charge. And you + know it! + </p> + <p> + “Can you live on terms of mutual confidence and mutual esteem with me when + I have committed this fraud, and when I stand toward you in this position? + It was possible for you to live with me happily while you were in + ignorance of the truth. It is <i>not</i> possible, now you know all. + </p> + <p> + “No! the one atonement I can make is—to leave you. Your one chance + of future happiness is to be disassociated, at once and forever, from my + dishonored life. I love you, Valeria—truly, devotedly, passionately. + But the specter of the poisoned woman rises between us. It makes no + difference that I am innocent even of the thought of harming my first + wife. My innocence has not been proved. In this world my innocence can + never be proved. You are young and loving, and generous and hopeful. Bless + others, Valeria, with your rare attractions and your delightful gifts. + They are of no avail with <i>me.</i> The poisoned woman stands between us. + If you live with me now, you will see her as I see her. <i>That</i> + torture shall never be yours. I love you. I leave you. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think me hard and cruel? Wait a little, and time will change that + way of thinking. As the years go on you will say to yourself, ‘Basely as + he deceived me, there was some generosity in him. He was man enough to + release me of his own free will.’ + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Valeria, I fully, freely release you. If it be possible to annul our + marriage, let it be done. Recover your liberty by any means that you may + be advised to employ; and be assured beforehand of my entire and implicit + submission. My lawyers have the necessary instructions on this subject. + Your uncle has only to communicate with them, and I think he will be + satisfied of my resolution to do you justice. The one interest that I have + now left in life is my interest in your welfare and your happiness in the + time to come. Your welfare and your happiness are no longer to be found in + your union with Me. + </p> + <p> + “I can write no more. This letter will wait for you at the hotel. It will + be useless to attempt to trace me. I know my own weakness. My heart is all + yours: I might yield to you if I let you see me again. + </p> + <p> + “Show these lines to your uncle, and to any friends whose opinions you may + value. I have only to sign my dishonored name, and every one will + understand and applaud my motive for writing as I do. The name justifies—amply + justifies—the letter. Forgive and forget me. Farewell. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “EUSTACE MACALLAN.” + </pre> + <p> + In those words he took his leave of me. We had then been married—six + days. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIV. THE WOMAN’S ANSWER. + </h2> + <p> + THUS far I have written of myself with perfect frankness, and, I think I + may fairly add, with some courage as well. My frankness fails me and my + courage fails me when I look back to my husband’s farewell letter, and try + to recall the storm of contending passions that it roused in my mind. No! + I cannot tell the truth about myself—I dare not tell the truth about + myself—at that terrible time. Men! consult your observation of + women, and imagine what I felt; women! look into your own hearts, and see + what I felt, for yourselves. + </p> + <p> + What I <i>did,</i> when my mind was quiet again, is an easier matter to + deal with. I answered my husband’s letter. My reply to him shall appear in + these pages. It will show, in some degree, what effect (of the lasting + sort) his desertion of me produced on my mind. It will also reveal the + motives that sustained me, the hopes that animated me, in the new and + strange life which my next chapters must describe. + </p> + <p> + I was removed from the hotel in the care of my fatherly old friend, + Benjamin. A bedroom was prepared for me in his little villa. There I + passed the first night of my separation from my husband. Toward the + morning my weary brain got some rest—I slept. + </p> + <p> + At breakfast-time Major Fitz-David called to inquire about me. He had + kindly volunteered to go and speak for me to my husband’s lawyers on the + preceding day. They had admitted that they knew where Eustace had gone, + but they declared at the same time that they were positively forbidden to + communicate his address to any one. In other respects their “instructions” + in relation to the wife of their client were (as they were pleased to + express it) “generous to a fault.” I had only to write to them, and they + would furnish me with a copy by return of post. + </p> + <p> + This was the Major’s news. He refrained, with the tact that distinguished + him, from putting any questions to me beyond questions relating to the + state of my health. These answered, he took his leave of me for that day. + He and Benjamin had a long talk together afterward in the garden of the + villa. + </p> + <p> + I retired to my room and wrote to my uncle Starkweather, telling him + exactly what had happened, and inclosing him a copy of my husband’s + letter. This done, I went out for a little while to breathe the fresh air + and to think. I was soon weary, and went back again to my room to rest. My + kind old Benjamin left me at perfect liberty to be alone as long as I + pleased. Toward the afternoon I began to feel a little more like my old + self again. I mean by this that I could think of Eustace without bursting + out crying, and could speak to Benjamin without distressing and + frightening the dear old man. + </p> + <p> + That night I had a little more sleep. The next morning I was strong enough + to confront the first and foremost duty that I now owed to myself—the + duty of answering my husband’s letter. + </p> + <p> + I wrote to him in these words: + </p> + <p> + “I am still too weak and weary, Eustace, to write to you at any length. + But my mind is clear. I have formed my own opinion of you and your letter; + and I know what I mean to do now you have left me. Some women, in my + situation, might think that you had forfeited all right to their + confidence. I don’t think that. So I write and tell you what is in my mind + in the plainest and fewest words that I can use. + </p> + <p> + “You say you love me—and you leave me. I don’t understand loving a + woman and leaving her. For my part, in spite of the hard things you have + said and written to me, and in spite of the cruel manner in which you have + left me, I love you—and I won’t give you up. No! As long as I live I + mean to live your wife. + </p> + <p> + “Does this surprise you? It surprises <i>me.</i> If another woman wrote in + this manner to a man who had behaved to her as you have behaved, I should + be quite at a loss to account for her conduct. I am quite at a loss to + account for my own conduct. I ought to hate you, and yet I can’t help + loving you. I am ashamed of myself; but so it is. + </p> + <p> + “You need feel no fear of my attempting to find out where you are, and of + my trying to persuade you to return to me. I am not quite foolish enough + to do that. You are not in a fit state of mind to return to me. You are + all wrong, all over, from head to foot. When you get right again, I am + vain enough to think that you will return to me of your own accord. And + shall I be weak enough to forgive you? Yes! I shall certainly be weak + enough to forgive you. + </p> + <p> + “But how are you to get right again? + </p> + <p> + “I have puzzled my brains over this question by night and by day, and my + opinion is that you will never get right again unless I help you. + </p> + <p> + “How am I to help you? + </p> + <p> + “That question is easily answered. What the Law has failed to do for you, + your Wife must do for you. Do you remember what I said when we were + together in the back room at Major Fitz-David’s house? I told you that the + first thought that came to me, when I heard what the Scotch jury had done, + was the thought of setting their vile Verdict right. Well! Your letter has + fixed this idea more firmly in my mind than ever. The only chance that I + can see of winning you back to me, in the character of a penitent and + loving husband, is to change that underhand Scotch Verdict of Not Proven + into an honest English Verdict of Not Guilty. + </p> + <p> + “Are you surprised at the knowledge of the law which this way of writing + betrays in an ignorant woman? I have been learning, my dear: the Law and + the Lady have begun by understanding one another. In plain English, I have + looked into Ogilvie’s ‘Imperial Dictionary,’ and Ogilvie tells me, ‘A + verdict of Not Proven only indicates that, in the opinion of the jury, + there is a deficiency in the evidence to convict the prisoner. A verdict + of Not Guilty imports the jury’s opinion that the prisoner is innocent.’ + Eustace, that shall be the opinion of the world in general, and of the + Scotch jury in particular, in your case. To that one object I dedicate my + life to come, if God spare me! + </p> + <p> + “Who will help me, when I need help, is more than I yet know. There was a + time when I had hoped that we should go hand in hand together in doing + this good work. That hope is at an end. I no longer expect you, or ask + you, to help me. A man who thinks as you think can give no help to anybody—it + is his miserable condition to have no hope. So be it! I will hope for two, + and will work for two; and I shall find some one to help me—never + fear—if I deserve it. + </p> + <p> + “I will say nothing about my plans—I have not read the Trial yet. It + is quite enough for me that I know you are innocent. When a man is + innocent, there <i>must</i> be a way of proving it: the one thing needful + is to find the way. Sooner or later, with or without assistance, I shall + find it. Yes! before I know any single particular of the Case, I tell you + positively—I shall find it! + </p> + <p> + “You may laugh over this blind confidence on my part, or you may cry over + it. I don’t pretend to know whether I am an object for ridicule or an + object for pity. Of one thing only I am certain: I mean to win you back, a + man vindicated before the world, without a stain on his character or his + name—thanks to his wife. + </p> + <p> + “Write to me, sometimes, Eustace; and believe me, through all the + bitterness of this bitter business, your faithful and loving + </p> + <p> + “VALERIA.” + </p> + <p> + There was my reply! Poor enough as a composition (I could write a much + better letter now), it had, if I may presume to say so, one merit. It was + the honest expression of what I really meant and felt. + </p> + <p> + I read it to Benjamin. He held up his hands with his customary gesture + when he was thoroughly bewildered and dismayed. “It seems the rashest + letter that ever was written,” said the dear old man. “I never heard, + Valeria, of a woman doing what you propose to do. Lord help us! the new + generation is beyond my fathoming. I wish your uncle Starkweather was + here: I wonder what he would say? Oh, dear me, what a letter from a wife + to a husband! Do you really mean to send it to him?” + </p> + <p> + I added immeasurably to my old friend’s surprise by not even employing the + post-office. I wished to see the “instructions” which my husband had left + behind him. So I took the letter to his lawyers myself. + </p> + <p> + The firm consisted of two partners. They both received me together. One + was a soft, lean man, with a sour smile. The other was a hard, fat man, + with ill-tempered eyebrows. I took a great dislike to both of them. On + their side, they appeared to feel a strong distrust of me. We began by + disagreeing. They showed me my husband’s “instructions,” providing, among + other things, for the payment of one clear half of his income as long as + he lived to his wife. I positively refused to touch a farthing of his + money. + </p> + <p> + The lawyers were unaffectedly shocked and astonished at this decision. + Nothing of the sort had ever happened before in the whole course of their + experience. They argued and remonstrated with me. The partner with the + ill-tempered eyebrows wanted to know what my reasons were. The partner + with the sour smile reminded his colleague satirically that I was a lady, + and had therefore no reasons to give. I only answered, “Be so good as to + forward my letter, gentlemen,” and left them. + </p> + <p> + I have no wish to claim any credit to myself in these pages which I do not + honestly deserve. The truth is that my pride forbade me to accept help + from Eustace, now that he had left me. My own little fortune (eight + hundred a year) had been settled on myself when I married. It had been + more than I wanted as a single woman, and I was resolved that it should be + enough for me now. Benjamin had insisted on my considering his cottage as + my home. Under these circumstances, the expenses in which my determination + to clear my husband’s character might involve me were the only expenses + for which I had to provide. I could afford to be independent, and + independent I resolved that I would be. + </p> + <p> + While I am occupied in confessing my weakness and my errors, it is only + right to add that, dearly as I still loved my unhappy, misguided husband, + there was one little fault of his which I found it not easy to forgive. + </p> + <p> + Pardoning other things, I could not quite pardon his concealing from me + that he had been married to a first wife. Why I should have felt this so + bitterly as I did, at certain times and seasons, I am not able to explain. + Jealousy was at the bottom of it, I suppose. And yet I was not conscious + of being jealous—especially when I thought of the poor creature’s + miserable death. Still, Eustace ought not to have kept <i>that</i> secret + from me, I used to think to myself, at odd times when I was discouraged + and out of temper. What would <i>he</i> have said if I had been a widow, + and had never told him of it? + </p> + <p> + It was getting on toward evening when I returned to the cottage. Benjamin + appeared to have been on the lookout for me. Before I could ring at the + bell he opened the garden gate. + </p> + <p> + “Prepare yourself for a surprise, my dear,” he said. “Your uncle, the + Reverend Doctor Starkweather, has arrived from the North, and is waiting + to see you. He received your letter this morning, and he took the first + train to London as soon as he had read it.” + </p> + <p> + In another minute my uncle’s strong arms were round me. In my forlorn + position, I felt the good vicar’s kindness, in traveling all the way to + London to see me, very gratefully. It brought the tears into my eyes—tears, + without bitterness, that did me good. + </p> + <p> + “I have come, my dear child, to take you back to your old home,” he said. + “No words can tell how fervently I wish you had never left your aunt and + me. Well! well! we won’t talk about it. The mischief is done, and the next + thing is to mend it as well as we can. If I could only get within + arm’s-length of that husband of yours, Valeria—There! there! God + forgive me, I am forgetting that I am a clergyman. What shall I forget + next, I wonder? By-the-by, your aunt sends you her dearest love. She is + more superstitious than ever. This miserable business doesn’t surprise her + a bit. She says it all began with your making that mistake about your name + in signing the church register. You remember? Was there ever such stuff? + Ah, she’s a foolish woman, that wife of mine! But she means well—a + good soul at bottom. She would have traveled all the way here along with + me if I would have let her. I said, ‘No; you stop at home, and look after + the house and the parish, and I’ll bring the child back.’ You shall have + your old bedroom, Valeria, with the white curtains, you know, looped up + with blue! We will return to the Vicarage (if you can get up in time) by + the nine-forty train to-morrow morning.” + </p> + <p> + Return to the Vicarage! How could I do that? How could I hope to gain what + was now the one object of my existence if I buried myself in a remote + north-country village? It was simply impossible for me to accompany Doctor + Starkweather on his return to his own house. + </p> + <p> + “I thank you, uncle, with all my heart,” I said. “But I am afraid I can’t + leave London for the present.” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t leave London for the present?” he repeated. “What does the girl + mean, Mr. Benjamin?” Benjamin evaded a direct reply. + </p> + <p> + “She is kindly welcome here, Doctor Starkweather,” he said, “as long as + she chooses to stay with me.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s no answer,” retorted my uncle, in his rough-and-ready way. He + turned to me. “What is there to keep you in London?” he asked. “You used + to hate London. I suppose there is some reason?” + </p> + <p> + It was only due to my good guardian and friend that I should take him into + my confidence sooner or later. There was no help for it but to rouse my + courage, and tell him frankly what I had it in my mind to do. The vicar + listened in breathless dismay. He turned to Benjamin, with distress as + well as surprise in his face, when I had done. + </p> + <p> + “God help her!” cried the worthy man. “The poor thing’s troubles have + turned her brain!” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you would disapprove of it, sir,” said Benjamin, in his mild + and moderate way. “I confess I disapprove of it myself.” + </p> + <p> + “‘Disapprove of it’ isn’t the word,” retorted the vicar. “Don’t put it in + that feeble way, if you please. An act of madness—that’s what it is, + if she really means what she says.” He turned my way, and looked as he + used to look at the afternoon service when he was catechising an obstinate + child. “You don’t mean it,” he said, “do you?” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry to forfeit your good opinion, uncle,” I replied. “But I must + own that I do certainly mean it.” + </p> + <p> + “In plain English,” retorted the vicar, “you are conceited enough to think + that you can succeed where the greatest lawyers in Scotland have failed. + <i>They</i> couldn’t prove this man’s innocence, all working together. And + <i>you</i> are going to prove it single-handed? Upon my word, you are a + wonderful woman,” cried my uncle, suddenly descending from indignation to + irony. “May a plain country parson, who isn’t used to lawyers in + petticoats, be permitted to ask how you mean to do it?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean to begin by reading the Trial, uncle.” + </p> + <p> + “Nice reading for a young woman! You will be wanting a batch of nasty + French novels next. Well, and when you have read the Trial—what + then? Have you thought of that?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, uncle; I have thought of that. I shall first try to form some + conclusion (after reading the Trial) as to the guilty person who really + committed the crime. Then I shall make out a list of the witnesses who + spoke in my husband’s defense. I shall go to those witnesses, and tell + them who I am and what I want. I shall ask all sorts of questions which + grave lawyers might think it beneath their dignity to put. I shall be + guided, in what I do next, by the answers I receive. And I shall not be + discouraged, no matter what difficulties are thrown in my way. Those are + my plans, uncle, so far as I know them now.” + </p> + <p> + The vicar and Benjamin looked at each other as if they doubted the + evidence of their own senses. The vicar spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to tell me,” he said, “that you are going roaming about the + country to throw yourself on the mercy of strangers, and to risk whatever + rough reception you may get in the course of your travels? You! A young + woman! Deserted by your husband! With nobody to protect you! Mr. Benjamin, + do you hear her? And can you believe your ears? I declare to Heaven <i>I</i> + don’t know whether I am awake or dreaming. Look at her—just look at + her! There she sits as cool and easy as if she had said nothing at all + extraordinary, and was going to do nothing out of the common way! What am + I to do with her?—that’s the serious question—what on earth am + I to do with her?” + </p> + <p> + “Let me try my experiment, uncle, rash as it may look to you,” I said. + “Nothing else will comfort and support me; and God knows I want comfort + and support. Don’t think me obstinate. I am ready to admit that there are + serious difficulties in my way.” + </p> + <p> + The vicar resumed his ironical tone. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” he said. “You admit that, do you? Well, there is something gained, + at any rate.” + </p> + <p> + “Many another woman before me,” I went on, “has faced serious + difficulties, and has conquered them—for the sake of the man she + loved.” + </p> + <p> + Doctor Starkweather rose slowly to his feet, with the air of a person + whose capacity of toleration had reached its last limits. + </p> + <p> + “Am I to understand that you are still in love with Mr. Eustace Macallan?” + he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + “The hero of the great Poison Trial?” pursued my uncle. “The man who has + deceived and deserted you? You love him?” + </p> + <p> + “I love him more dearly than ever.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Benjamin,” said the vicar, “if she recover her senses between this + and nine o’clock to-morrow morning, send her with her luggage to Loxley’s + Hotel, where I am now staying. Good-night, Valeria. I shall consult with + your aunt as to what is to be done next. I have no more to say.” + </p> + <p> + “Give me a kiss, uncle, at parting.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes, I’ll give you a kiss. Anything you like, Valeria. I shall be + sixty-five next birthday; and I thought I knew something of women, at my + time of life. It seems I know nothing. Loxley’s Hotel is the address, Mr. + Benjamin. Good-night.” + </p> + <p> + Benjamin looked very grave when he returned to me after accompanying + Doctor Starkweather to the garden gate. + </p> + <p> + “Pray be advised, my dear,” he said. “I don’t ask you to consider <i>my</i> + view of this matter, as good for much. But your uncle’s opinion is surely + worth considering?” + </p> + <p> + I did not reply. It was useless to say any more. I made up my mind to be + misunderstood and discouraged, and to bear it. “Good-night, my dear old + friend,” was all I said to Benjamin. Then I turned away—I confess + with the tears in my eyes—and took refuge in my bedroom. + </p> + <p> + The window-blind was up, and the autumn moonlight shone brilliantly into + the little room. + </p> + <p> + As I stood by the window, looking out, the memory came to me of another + moonlight night, when Eustace and I were walking together in the Vicarage + garden before our marriage. It was the night of which I have written, many + pages back, when there were obstacles to our union, and when Eustace had + offered to release me from my engagement to him. I saw the dear face again + looking at me in the moonlight; I heard once more his words and mine. + “Forgive me,” he had said, “for having loved you—passionately, + devotedly loved you. Forgive me, and let me go.” + </p> + <p> + And I had answered, “Oh, Eustace, I am only a woman—don’t madden me! + I can’t live without you. I must and will be your wife!” And now, after + marriage had united us, we were parted! Parted, still loving each as + passionately as ever. And why? Because he had been accused of a crime that + he had never committed, and because a Scotch jury had failed to see that + he was an innocent man. + </p> + <p> + I looked at the lovely moonlight, pursuing these remembrances and these + thoughts. A new ardor burned in me. “No!” I said to myself. “Neither + relations nor friends shall prevail on me to falter and fail in my + husband’s cause. The assertion of his innocence is the work of my life; I + will begin it to-night.” + </p> + <p> + I drew down the blind and lighted the candles. In the quiet night, alone + and unaided, I took my first step on the toilsome and terrible journey + that lay before me. From the title-page to the end, without stopping to + rest and without missing a word, I read the Trial of my husband for the + murder of his wife. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART2" id="link2H_PART2"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PART II. PARADISE REGAINED. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XV. THE STORY OF THE TRIAL. THE PRELIMINARIES. + </h2> + <p> + LET me confess another weakness, on my part, before I begin the Story of + the Trial. I cannot prevail upon myself to copy, for the second time, the + horrible title-page which holds up to public ignominy my husband’s name. I + have copied it once in my tenth chapter. Let once be enough. + </p> + <p> + Turning to the second page of the Trial, I found a Note, assuring the + reader of the absolute correctness of the Report of the Proceedings. The + compiler described himself as having enjoyed certain special privileges. + Thus, the presiding Judge had himself revised his charge to the jury. And, + again, the chief lawyers for the prosecution and the defense, following + the Judge’s example, had revised their speeches for and against the + prisoner. Lastly, particular care had been taken to secure a literally + correct report of the evidence given by the various witnesses. It was some + relief to me to discover this Note, and to be satisfied at the outset that + the Story of the Trial was, in every particular, fully and truly given. + </p> + <p> + The next page interested me more nearly still. It enumerated the actors in + the Judicial Drama—the men who held in their hands my husband’s + honor and my husband’s life. Here is the List: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + THE LORD JUSTICE CLERK,} + LORD DRUMFENNICK, }Judges on the Bench. + LORD NOBLEKIRK, } + + THE LORD ADVOCATE (Mintlaw), } DONALD DREW, Esquire + (Advocate-Depute).} Counsel for the Crown. + + MR. JAMES ARLISS, W. S., Agent for the Crown. + + THE DEAN OF FACULTY (Farmichael), } Counsel for the Panel + ALEXANDER CROCKET, Esquire (Advocate),} (otherwise the Prisoner) + + MR. THORNIEBANK, W. S.,} + MR. PLAYMORE, W. S., } Agents for the Panel. +</pre> + <p> + The Indictment against the prisoner then followed. I shall not copy the + uncouth language, full of needless repetitions (and, if I know anything of + the subject, not guiltless of bad grammar as well), in which my innocent + husband was solemnly and falsely accused of poisoning his first wife. The + less there is of that false and hateful Indictment on this page, the + better and truer the page will look, to <i>my</i> eyes. + </p> + <p> + To be brief, then, Eustace Macallan was “indicted and accused, at the + instance of David Mintlaw, Esquire, Her Majesty’s Advocate, for Her + Majesty’s interest,” of the Murder of his Wife by poison, at his residence + called Gleninch, in the county of Mid-Lothian. The poison was alleged to + have been wickedly and feloniously given by the prisoner to his wife Sara, + on two occasions, in the form of arsenic, administered in tea, medicine, + “or other article or articles of food or drink, to the prosecutor + unknown.” It was further declared that the prisoner’s wife had died of the + poison thus administered by her husband, on one or other, or both, of the + stated occasions; and that she was thus murdered by her husband. The next + paragraph asserted that the said Eustace Macallan, taken before John + Daviot, Esquire, advocate, Sheriff-Substitute of Mid-Lothian, did in his + presence at Edinburgh (on a given date, viz., the 29th of October), + subscribe a Declaration stating his innocence of the alleged crime: this + Declaration being reserved in the Indictment—together with certain + documents, papers and articles, enumerated in an Inventory—to be + used in evidence against the prisoner. The Indictment concluded by + declaring that, in the event of the offense charged against the prisoner + being found proven by the Verdict, he, the said Eustace Macallan, “ought + to be punished with the pains of the law, to deter others from committing + like crimes in all time coming.” + </p> + <p> + So much for the Indictment! I have done with it—and I am rejoiced to + be done with it. + </p> + <p> + An Inventory of papers, documents, and articles followed at great length + on the next three pages. This, in its turn, was succeeded by the list of + the witnesses, and by the names of the jurors (fifteen in number) balloted + for to try the case. And then, at last, the Report of the Trial began. It + resolved itself, to my mind, into three great Questions. As it appeared to + me at the time, so let me present it here. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVI. FIRST QUESTION—DID THE WOMAN DIE POISONED? + </h2> + <p> + THE proceedings began at ten o’clock. The prisoner was placed at the Bar, + before the High Court of Justiciary, at Edinburgh. He bowed respectfully + to the Bench, and pleaded Not Guilty, in a low voice. + </p> + <p> + It was observed by every one present that the prisoner’s face betrayed + traces of acute mental suffering. He was deadly pale. His eyes never once + wandered to the crowd in the Court. When certain witnesses appeared + against him, he looked at them with a momentary attention. At other times + he kept his eyes on the ground. When the evidence touched on his wife’s + illness and death, he was deeply affected, and covered his face with his + hands. It was a subject of general remark and general surprise that the + prisoner, in this case (although a man), showed far less self-possession + than the last prisoner tried in that Court for murder—a woman, who + had been convicted on overwhelming evidence. There were persons present (a + small minority only) who considered this want of composure on the part of + the prisoner to be a sign in his favor. Self-possession, in his dreadful + position, signified, to their minds, the stark insensibility of a + heartless and shameless criminal, and afforded in itself a presumption, + not of innocence, but of guilt. + </p> + <p> + The first witness called was John Daviot, Esquire, Sheriff-Substitute of + Mid-Lothian. He was examined by the Lord Advocate (as counsel for the + prosecution); and said: + </p> + <p> + “The prisoner was brought before me on the present charge. He made and + subscribed a Declaration on the 29th of October. It was freely and + voluntarily made, the prisoner having been first duly warned and + admonished.” + </p> + <p> + Having identified the Declaration, the Sheriff-Substitute—being + cross-examined by the Dean of Faculty (as counsel for the defense)—continued + his evidence in these words: + </p> + <p> + “The charge against the prisoner was Murder. This was communicated to him + before he made the Declaration. The questions addressed to the prisoner + were put partly by me, partly by another officer, the procurator-fiscal. + The answers were given distinctly, and, so far as I could judge, without + reserve. The statements put forward in the Declaration were all made in + answer to questions asked by the procurator-fiscal or by myself.” + </p> + <p> + A clerk in the Sheriff-Clerk’s office then officially produced the + Declaration, and corroborated the evidence of the witness who had preceded + him. + </p> + <p> + The appearance of the next witness created a marked sensation in the + Court. This was no less a person than the nurse who had attended Mrs. + Macallan in her last illness—by name Christina Ormsay. + </p> + <p> + After the first formal answers, the nurse (examined by the Lord Advocate) + proceeded to say: + </p> + <p> + “I was first sent for to attend the deceased lady on the 7th of October. + She was then suffering from a severe cold, accompanied by a rheumatic + affection of the left knee-joint. Previous to this I understood that her + health had been fairly good. She was not a very difficult person to nurse + when you got used to her, and understood how to manage her. The main + difficulty was caused by her temper. She was not a sullen person; she was + headstrong and violent—easily excited to fly into a passion, and + quite reckless in her fits of anger as to what she said or did. At such + times I really hardly think she knew what she was about. My own idea is + that her temper was made still more irritable by unhappiness in her + married life. She was far from being a reserved person. Indeed, she was + disposed (as I thought) to be a little too communicative about herself and + her troubles with persons like me who were beneath her in station. She did + not scruple, for instance, to tell me (when we had been long enough + together to get used to each other) that she was very unhappy, and fretted + a good deal about her husband. One night, when she was wakeful and + restless, she said to me—” + </p> + <p> + The Dean of Faculty here interposed, speaking on the prisoner’s behalf. He + appealed to the Judges to say whether such loose and unreliable evidence + as this was evidence which could be received by the Court. + </p> + <p> + The Lord Advocate (speaking on behalf of the Crown) claimed it as his + right to produce the evidence. It was of the utmost importance in this + case to show (on the testimony of an unprejudiced witness) on what terms + the husband and wife were living. The witness was a most respectable + woman. She had won, and deserved, the confidence of the unhappy lady whom + she attended on her death-bed. + </p> + <p> + After briefly consulting together, the Judges unanimously decided that the + evidence could not be admitted. What the witness had herself seen and + observed of the relations between the husband and wife was the only + evidence that they could receive. + </p> + <p> + The Lord Advocate thereupon continued his examination of the witness. + Christina Ormsay resumed her evidence as follows: + </p> + <p> + “My position as nurse led necessarily to my seeing more of Mrs. Macallan + than any other person in the house. I am able to speak from experience of + many things not known to others who were only in her room at intervals. + </p> + <p> + “For instance, I had more than one opportunity of personally observing + that Mr. and Mrs. Macallan did not live together very happily. I can give + you an example of this, not drawn from what others told me, but from what + I noticed for myself. + </p> + <p> + “Toward the latter part of my attendance on Mrs. Macallan, a young widow + lady named Mrs. Beauly—a cousin of Mr. Macallan’s—came to stay + at Gleninch. Mrs. Macallan was jealous of this lady; and she showed it in + my presence only the day before her death, when Mr. Macallan came into her + room to inquire how she had passed the night. ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘never mind + how <i>I</i> have slept! What do you care whether I sleep well or ill? How + has Mrs. Beauly passed the night? Is she more beautiful than ever this + morning? Go back to her—pray go back to her! Don’t waste your time + with me!’ Beginning in that manner, she worked herself into one of her + furious rages. I was brushing her hair at the time; and feeling that my + presence was an impropriety under the circumstances, I attempted to leave + the room. She forbade me to go. Mr. Macallan felt, as I did, that my duty + was to withdraw, and he said so in plain words. Mrs. Macallan insisted on + my staying in language so insolent to her husband that he said, ‘If you + cannot control yourself, either the nurse leaves the room or I do.’ She + refused to yield even then. ‘A good excuse,’ she said, ‘for getting back + to Mrs. Beauly. Go!’ He took her at her word, and walked out of the room. + He had barely closed the door before she began reviling him to me in the + most shocking manner. She declared, among other things she said of him, + that the news of all others which he would be most glad to hear would be + the news of her death. I ventured, quite respectfully, on remonstrating + with her. She took up the hair-brush and threw it at me, and then and + there dismissed me from my attendance on her. I left her, and waited below + until her fit of passion had worn itself out. Then I returned to my place + at the bedside, and for a while things went on again as usual. + </p> + <p> + “It may not be amiss to add a word which may help to explain Mrs. + Macallan’s jealousy of her husband’s cousin. Mrs. Macallan was a very + plain woman. She had a cast in one of her eyes, and (if I may use the + expression) one of the most muddy, blotchy complexions it was ever my + misfortune to see in a person’s face. Mrs. Beauly, on the other hand, was + a most attractive lady. Her eyes were universally admired, and she had a + most beautifully clear and delicate color. Poor Mrs. Macallan said of her, + most untruly, that she painted. + </p> + <p> + “No; the defects in the complexion of the deceased lady were not in any + way attributable to her illness. I should call them born and bred defects + in herself. + </p> + <p> + “Her illness, if I am asked to describe it, I should say was troublesome—nothing + more. Until the last day there were no symptoms in the least degree + serious about the malady that had taken her. Her rheumatic knee was + painful, of course—acutely painful, if you like—when she moved + it; and the confinement to bed was irksome enough, no doubt. But otherwise + there was nothing in the lady’s condition, before the fatal attack came, + to alarm her or anybody about her. She had her books and her writing + materials on an invalid table, which worked on a pivot, and could be + arranged in any position most agreeable to her. At times she read and + wrote a good deal. At other times she lay quiet, thinking her own + thoughts, or talking with me, and with one or two lady friends in the + neighborhood who came regularly to see her. + </p> + <p> + “Her writing, so far as I knew, was almost entirely of the poetical sort. + She was a great hand at composing poetry. On one occasion only she showed + me some of her poems. I am no judge of such things. Her poetry was of the + dismal kind, despairing about herself, and wondering why she had ever been + born, and nonsense like that. Her husband came in more than once for some + hard hits at his cruel heart and his ignorance of his wife’s merits. In + short, she vented her discontent with her pen as well as with her tongue. + There were times—and pretty often too—when an angel from + heaven would have failed to have satisfied Mrs. Macallan. + </p> + <p> + “Throughout the period of her illness the deceased lady occupied the same + room—a large bedroom situated (like all the best bedrooms) on the + first floor of the house. + </p> + <p> + “Yes: the plan of the room now shown to me is quite accurately taken, + according to my remembrance of it. One door led into the great passage, or + corridor, on which all the doors opened. A second door, at one side + (marked B on the plan), led to Mr. Macallan’s sleeping-room. A third door, + on the opposite side (marked C on the plan), communicated with a little + study, or book-room, used, as I was told, by Mr. Macallan’s mother when + she was staying at Gleninch, but seldom or never entered by any one else. + Mr. Macallan’s mother was not at Gleninch while I was there. The door + between the bedroom and this study was locked, and the key was taken out. + I don’t know who had the key, or whether there were more keys than one in + existence. The door was never opened to my knowledge. I only got into the + study, to look at it along with the housekeeper, by entering through a + second door that opened on to the corridor. + </p> + <p> + “I beg to say that I can speak from my own knowledge positively about Mrs. + Macallan’s illness, and about the sudden change which ended in her death. + By the doctor’s advice I made notes at the time of dates and hours, and + such like. I looked at my notes before coming here. + </p> + <p> + “From the 7th of October, when I was first called in to nurse her, to the + 20th of the same month, she slowly but steadily improved in health. Her + knee was still painful, no doubt; but the inflammatory look of it was + disappearing. As to the other symptoms, except weakness from lying in bed, + and irritability of temper, there was really nothing the matter with her. + She slept badly, I ought perhaps to add. But we remedied this by means of + composing draughts prescribed for that purpose by the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “On the morning of the 21st, at a few minutes past six, I got my first + alarm that something was going wrong with Mrs. Macallan. + </p> + <p> + “I was awoke at the time I have mentioned by the ringing of the hand-bell + which she kept on her bed-table. Let me say for myself that I had only + fallen asleep on the sofa in the bedroom at past two in the morning from + sheer fatigue. Mrs. Macallan was then awake. She was in one of her bad + humors with me. I had tried to prevail on her to let me remove her + dressing-case from her bed-table, after she had used it in making her + toilet for the night. It took up a great deal of room; and she could not + possibly want it again before the morning. But no; she insisted on my + letting it be. There was a glass inside the case; and, plain as she was, + she never wearied of looking at herself in that glass. I saw that she was + in a bad state of temper, so I gave her her way, and let the dressing-case + be. Finding that she was too sullen to speak to me after that, and too + obstinate to take her composing draught from me when I offered it, I laid + me down on the sofa at her bed foot, and fell asleep, as I have said. + </p> + <p> + “The moment her bell rang I was up and at the bedside, ready to make + myself useful. + </p> + <p> + “I asked what was the matter with her. She complained of faintness and + depression, and said she felt sick. I inquired if she had taken anything + in the way of physic or food while I had been asleep. She answered that + her husband had come in about an hour since, and, finding her still + sleepless, had himself administered the composing draught. Mr. Macallan + (sleeping in the next room) joined us while she was speaking. He too had + been aroused by the bell. He heard what Mrs. Macallan said to me about the + composing draught, and made no remark upon it. It seemed to me that he was + alarmed at his wife’s faintness. I suggested that she should take a little + wine, or brandy and water. She answered that she could swallow nothing so + strong as wine or brandy, having a burning pain in her stomach already. I + put my hand on her stomach—quite lightly. She screamed when I + touched her. + </p> + <p> + “This symptom alarmed us. We went to the village for the medical man who + had attended Mrs. Macallan during her illness: one Mr. Gale. + </p> + <p> + “The doctor seemed no better able to account for the change for the worse + in his patient than we were. Hearing her complain of thirst, he gave her + some milk. Not long after taking it she was sick. The sickness appeared to + relieve her. She soon grew drowsy and slumbered. Mr. Gale left us, with + strict injunctions to send for him instantly if she was taken ill again. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing of the sort happened; no change took place for the next three + hours or more. She roused up toward half-past nine and inquired about her + husband. I informed her that he had returned to his own room, and asked if + I should send for him. She said ‘No.’ I asked next if she would like + anything to eat or drink. She said ‘No’ again, in rather a vacant, + stupefied way, and then told me to go downstairs and get my breakfast. On + my way down I met the housekeeper. She invited me to breakfast with her in + her room, instead of in the servants’ hall as usual. I remained with the + housekeeper but a short time—certainly not more than half an hour. + </p> + <p> + “Coming upstairs again, I met the under-housemaid sweeping on one of the + landings. + </p> + <p> + “The girl informed me that Mrs. Macallan had taken a cup of tea during my + absence in the housekeeper’s room. Mr. Macallan’s valet had ordered the + tea for his mistress by his master’s directions. The under-housemaid made + it, and took it upstairs herself to Mrs. Macallan’s room. Her master, she + said, opened the door when she knocked, and took the tea-cup from her with + his own hand. He opened the door widely enough for her to see into the + bedroom, and to notice that nobody was with Mrs. Macallan but himself. + </p> + <p> + “After a little talk with the under-housemaid, I returned to the bedroom. + No one was there. Mrs. Macallan was lying perfectly quiet, with her face + turned away from me on the pillow. Approaching the bedside, I kicked + against something on the floor. It was a broken tea-cup. I said to Mrs. + Macallan, ‘How comes the tea-cup to be broken, ma’am?’ She answered, + without turning toward me, in an odd, muffled kind of voice, ‘I dropped + it.’ ‘Before you drank your tea, ma’am?’ I asked. ‘No,’ she said; ‘in + handing the cup back to Mr. Macallan, after I had done.’ I had put my + question, wishing to know, in case she had spilled the tea when she + dropped the cup, whether it would be necessary to get her any more. I am + quite sure I remember correctly my question and her answer. I inquired + next if she had been long alone. She said, shortly, ‘Yes; I have been + trying to sleep.’ I said, ‘Do you feel pretty comfortable?’ She answered, + ‘Yes,’ again. All this time she still kept her face sulkily turned from me + toward the wall. Stooping over her to arrange the bedclothes, I looked + toward her table. The writing materials which were always kept on it were + disturbed, and there was wet ink on one of the pens. I said, ‘Surely you + haven’t been writing, ma’am?’ ‘Why not?’ she said; ‘I couldn’t sleep.’ + ‘Another poem?’ I asked. She laughed to herself—a bitter, short + laugh. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘another poem.’ ‘That’s good,’ I said; ‘it looks + as if you were getting quite like yourself again. We shan’t want the + doctor any more to-day.’ She made no answer to this, except an impatient + sign with her hand. I didn’t understand the sign. Upon that she spoke + again, and crossly enough, too—‘I want to be alone; leave me.’ + </p> + <p> + “I had no choice but to do as I was told. To the best of my observation, + there was nothing the matter with her, and nothing for the nurse to do. I + put the bell-rope within reach of her hand, and I went downstairs again. + </p> + <p> + “Half an hour more, as well as I can guess it, passed. I kept within + hearing of the bell; but it never rang. I was not quite at my ease—without + exactly knowing why. That odd, muffled voice in which she had spoken to me + hung on my mind, as it were. I was not quite satisfied about leaving her + alone for too long a time together—and then, again, I was unwilling + to risk throwing her into one of her fits of passion by going back before + she rang for me. It ended in my venturing into the room on the + ground-floor called the Morning-Room, to consult Mr. Macallan. He was + usually to be found there in the forenoon of the day. + </p> + <p> + “On this occasion, however, when I looked into the Morning-Room it was + empty. + </p> + <p> + “At the same moment I heard the master’s voice on the terrace outside. I + went out, and found him speaking to one Mr. Dexter, an old friend of his, + and (like Mrs. Beauly) a guest staying in the house. Mr. Dexter was + sitting at the window of his room upstairs (he was a cripple, and could + only move himself about in a chair on wheels), and Mr. Macallan was + speaking to him from the terrace below. + </p> + <p> + “‘Dexter!’ I heard Mr. Macallan say. ‘Where is Mrs. Beauly? Have you seen + anything of her?’ + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Dexter answered, in his quick, off-hand way of speaking, ‘Not I. I + know nothing about her.’ + </p> + <p> + “Then I advanced, and, begging pardon for intruding, I mentioned to Mr. + Macallan the difficulty I was in about going back or not to his wife’s + room without waiting until she rang for me. Before he could advise me in + the matter, the footman made his appearance and informed me that Mrs. + Macallan’s bell was then ringing—and ringing violently. + </p> + <p> + “It was then close on eleven o’clock. As fast as I could mount the stairs + I hastened back to the bedroom. + </p> + <p> + “Before I opened the door I heard Mrs. Macallan groaning. She was in + dreadful pain; feeling a burning heat in the stomach and in the throat, + together with the same sickness which had troubled her in the early + morning. Though no doctor, I could see in her face that this second attack + was of a far more serious nature than the first. After ringing the bell + for a messenger to send to Mr. Macallan, I ran to the door to see if any + of the servants happened to be within call. + </p> + <p> + “The only person I saw in the corridor was Mrs. Beauly. She was on her way + from her own room, she said, to inquire after Mrs. Macallan’s health. I + said to her, ‘Mrs. Macallan is seriously ill again, ma’am. Would you + please tell Mr. Macallan, and send for the doctor?’ She ran downstairs at + once to do as I told her. + </p> + <p> + “I had not been long back at the bedside when Mr. Macallan and Mrs. Beauly + both came in together. Mrs. Macallan cast a strange look on them (a look I + cannot at all describe), and bade them leave her. Mrs. Beauly, looking + very much frightened, withdrew immediately. Mr. Macallan advanced a step + or two nearer to the bed. His wife looked at him again in the same strange + way, and cried out—half as if she was threatening him, half as if + she was entreating him—‘Leave me with the nurse. Go!’ He only waited + to say to me in a whisper, ‘The doctor is sent for,’ and then he left the + room. + </p> + <p> + “Before Mr. Gale arrived Mrs. Macallan was violently sick. What came from + her was muddy and frothy, and faintly streaked with blood. When Mr. Gale + saw it he looked very serious. I heard him say to himself, ‘What does this + mean?’ He did his best to relieve Mrs. Macallan, but with no good result + that I could see. After a time she seemed to suffer less. Then more + sickness came on. Then there was another intermission. Whether she was + suffering or not, I observed that her hands and feet (whenever I touched + them) remained equally cold. Also, the doctor’s report of her pulse was + always the same—‘very small and feeble.’ I said to Mr. Gale, ‘What + is to be done, sir?’ And Mr. Gale said to me, ‘I won’t take the + responsibility on myself any longer; I must have a physician from + Edinburgh.’ + </p> + <p> + “The fastest horse in the stables at Gleninch was put into a dog-cart, and + the coachman drove away full speed to Edinburgh to fetch the famous Doctor + Jerome. + </p> + <p> + “While we were waiting for the physician, Mr. Macallan came into his + wife’s room with Mr. Gale. Exhausted as she was, she instantly lifted her + hand and signed to him to leave her. He tried by soothing words to + persuade her to let him stay. No! She still insisted on sending him out of + her room. He seemed to feel it—at such a time, and in the presence + of the doctor. Before she was aware of him, he suddenly stepped up to the + bedside and kissed her on the forehead. She shrank from him with a scream. + Mr. Gale interfered, and led him out of the room. + </p> + <p> + “In the afternoon Doctor Jerome arrived. + </p> + <p> + “The great physician came just in time to see her seized with another + attack of sickness. He watched her attentively, without speaking a word. + In the interval when the sickness stopped, he still studied her, as it + were, in perfect silence. I thought he would never have done examining + her. When he was at last satisfied, he told me to leave him alone with Mr. + Gale. ‘We will ring,’ he said, ‘when we want you here again.’ + </p> + <p> + “It was a long time before they rang for me. The coachman was sent for + before I was summoned back to the bedroom. He was dispatched to Edinburgh + for the second time, with a written message from Dr. Jerome to his head + servant, saying that there was no chance of his returning to the city and + to his patients for some hours to come. Some of us thought this looked + badly for Mrs. Macallan. Others said it might mean that the doctor had + hopes of saving her, but expected to be a long time in doing it. + </p> + <p> + “At last I was sent for. On my presenting myself in the bedroom, Doctor + Jerome went out to speak to Mr. Macallan, leaving Mr. Gale along with me. + From that time as long as the poor lady lived I was never left alone with + her. One of the two doctors was always in her room. Refreshments were + prepared for them; but still they took it in turns to eat their meal, one + relieving the other at the bedside. If they had administered remedies to + their patient, I should not have been surprised by this proceeding. But + they were at the end of their remedies; their only business the seemed to + be to keep watch. I was puzzled to account for this. Keeping watch was the + nurse’s business. I thought the conduct of the doctors very strange. + </p> + <p> + “By the time that the lamp was lighted in the sick-room I could see that + the end was near. Excepting an occasional feeling of cramp in her legs, + she seemed to suffer less. But her eyes looked sunk in her head; her skin + was cold and clammy; her lips had turned to a bluish paleness. Nothing + roused her now—excepting the last attempt made by her husband to see + her. He came in with Doctor Jerome, looking like a man terror-struck. She + was past speaking; but the moment she saw him she feebly made signs and + sounds which showed that she was just as resolved as ever not to let him + come near her. He was so overwhelmed that Mr. Gale was obliged to help him + out of the room. No other person was allowed to see the patient. Mr. + Dexter and Mrs. Beauly made their inquiries outside the door, and were not + invited in. As the evening drew on the doctors sat on either side of the + bed, silently watching her, silently waiting for her death. + </p> + <p> + “Toward eight o’clock she seemed to have lost the use of her hands and + arms: they lay helpless outside the bed-clothes. A little later she sank + into a sort of dull sleep. Little by little the sound of her heavy + breathing grew fainter. At twenty minutes past nine Doctor Jerome told me + to bring the lamp to the bedside. He looked at her, and put his hand on + her heart. Then he said to me, ‘You can go downstairs, nurse: it is all + over.’ He turned to Mr. Gale. ‘Will you inquire if Mr. Macallan can see + us?’ he said. I opened the door for Mr. Gale, and followed him out. Doctor + Jerome called me back for a moment, and told me to give him the key of the + door. I did so, of course; but I thought this also very strange. When I + got down to the servants’ hall I found there was a general feeling that + something was wrong. We were all uneasy—without knowing why. + </p> + <p> + “A little later the two doctors left the house. Mr. Macallan had been + quite incapable of receiving them and hearing what they had to say. In + this difficulty they had spoken privately with Mr. Dexter, as Mr. + Macallan’s old friend, and the only gentleman then staying at Gleninch. + </p> + <p> + “Before bed-time I went upstairs to prepare the remains of the deceased + lady for the coffin. The room in which she lay was locked, the door + leading into Mr. Macallan’s room being secured, as well as the door + leading into the corridor. The keys had been taken away by Mr. Gale. Two + of the men-servants were posted outside the bedroom to keep watch. They + were to be relieved at four in the morning—that was all they could + tell me. + </p> + <p> + “In the absence of any explanations or directions, I took the liberty of + knocking at the door of Mr. Dexter’s room. From his lips I first heard the + startling news. Both the doctors had refused to give the usual certificate + of death! There was to be a medical examination of the body the next + morning.” + </p> + <p> + There the examination of the nurse, Christina Ormsay, came to an end. + </p> + <p> + Ignorant as I was of the law, I could see what impression the evidence (so + far) was intended to produce on the minds of the jury. After first showing + that my husband had had two opportunities of administering the poison—once + in the medicine and once in the tea—the counsel for the Crown led + the jury to infer that the prisoner had taken those opportunities to rid + himself of an ugly and jealous wife, whose detestable temper he could no + longer endure. + </p> + <p> + Having directed his examination to the attainment of this object, the Lord + Advocate had done with the witness. The Dean of Faculty—acting in + the prisoner’s interests—then rose to bring out the favorable side + of the wife’s character by cross-examining the nurse. If he succeeded in + this attempt, the jury might reconsider their conclusion that the wife was + a person who had exasperated her husband beyond endurance. In that case, + where (so far) was the husband’s motive for poisoning her? and where was + the presumption of the prisoner’s guilt? + </p> + <p> + Pressed by this skillful lawyer, the nurse was obliged to exhibit my + husband’s first wife under an entirely new aspect. Here is the substance + of what the Dean of Faculty extracted from Christina Ormsay: + </p> + <p> + “I persist in declaring that Mrs. Macallan had a most violent temper. But + she was certainly in the habit of making amends for the offense that she + gave by her violence. When she was quiet again she always made her excuses + to me, and she made them with a good grace. Her manners were engaging at + such times as these. She spoke and acted like a well-bred lady. Then, + again, as to her personal appearance. Plain as she was in face, she had a + good figure; her hands and feet, I was told, had been modeled by a + sculptor. She had a very pleasant voice, and she was reported when in + health to sing beautifully. She was also (if her maid’s account was to be + trusted) a pattern in the matter of dressing for the other ladies in the + neighborhood. Then, as to Mrs. Beauly, though she was certainly jealous of + the beautiful young widow, she had shown at the same time that she was + capable of controlling that feeling. It was through Mrs. Macallan that + Mrs. Beauly was in the house. Mrs. Beauly had wished to postpone her visit + on account of the state of Mrs. Macallan’s health. It was Mrs. Macallan + herself—not her husband—who decided that Mrs. Beauly should + not be disappointed, and should pay her visit to Gleninch then and there. + Further, Mrs. Macallan (in spite of her temper) was popular with her + friends and popular with her servants. There was hardly a dry eye in the + house when it was known she was dying. And, further still, in those little + domestic disagreements at which the nurse had been present, Mr. Macallan + had never lost his temper, and had never used harsh language: he seemed to + be more sorry than angry when the quarrels took place.”—Moral for + the jury: Was this the sort of woman who would exasperate a man into + poisoning her? And was this the sort of man who would be capable of + poisoning his wife? + </p> + <p> + Having produced this salutary counter-impression, the Dean of Faculty sat + down; and the medical witnesses were called next. + </p> + <p> + Here the evidence was simply irresistible. + </p> + <p> + Dr. Jerome and Mr. Gale positively swore that the symptoms of the illness + were the symptoms of poisoning by arsenic. The surgeon who had performed + the post-mortem examination followed. He positively swore that the + appearance of the internal organs proved Doctor Jerome and Mr. Gale to be + right in declaring that their patient had died poisoned. Lastly, to + complete this overwhelming testimony, two analytical chemists actually + produced in Court the arsenic which they had found in the body, in a + quantity admittedly sufficient to have killed two persons instead of one. + In the face of such evidence as this, cross-examination was a mere form. + The first Question raised by the Trial—Did the Woman Die Poisoned?—was + answered in the affirmative, and answered beyond the possibility of doubt. + </p> + <p> + The next witnesses called were witnesses concerned with the question that + now followed—the obscure and terrible question, Who Poisoned Her? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVII. SECOND QUESTION—WHO POISONED HER? + </h2> + <p> + THE evidence of the doctors and the chemists closed the proceedings on the + first day of the Trial. + </p> + <p> + On the second day the evidence to be produced by the prosecution was + anticipated with a general feeling of curiosity and interest. The Court + was now to hear what had been seen and done by the persons officially + appointed to verify such cases of suspected crime as the case which had + occurred at Gleninch. The Procurator-Fiscal—being the person + officially appointed to direct the preliminary investigations of the law—was + the first witness called on the second day of the Trial. + </p> + <p> + Examined by the Lord Advocate, the Fiscal gave his evidence, as follows: + </p> + <p> + “On the twenty-sixth of October I received a communication from Doctor + Jerome, of Edinburgh, and from Mr. Alexander Gale, medical practitioner, + residing in the village or hamlet of Dingdovie, near Edinburgh. The + communication related to the death, under circumstances of suspicion, of + Mrs. Eustace Macallan, at her husband’s house, hard by Dingdovie, called + Gleninch. There were also forwarded to me, inclosed in the document just + mentioned, two reports. One described the results of a postmortem + examination of the deceased lady, and the other stated the discoveries + made after a chemical analysis of certain of the interior organs of her + body. The result in both instances proved to demonstration that Mrs. + Eustace Macallan had died of poisoning by arsenic. + </p> + <p> + “Under these circumstances, I set in motion a search and inquiry in the + house at Gleninch and elsewhere, simply for the purpose of throwing light + on the circumstances which had attended the lady’s death. + </p> + <p> + “No criminal charge in connection with the death was made at my office + against any person, either in the communication which I received from the + medical men or in any other form. The investigations at Gleninch and + elsewhere, beginning on the twenty-sixth of October, were not completed + until the twenty-eighth. Upon this latter date—acting on certain + discoveries which were reported to me, and on my own examination of + letters and other documents brought to my office—I made a criminal + charge against the prisoner, and obtained a warrant for his apprehension. + He was examined before the Sheriff on the twenty-ninth of October, and was + committed for trial before this Court.” + </p> + <p> + The Fiscal having made his statement, and having been cross-examined (on + technical matters only), the persons employed in his office were called + next. These men had a story of startling interest to tell. Theirs were the + fatal discoveries which had justified the Fiscal in charging my husband + with the murder of his wife. The first of the witnesses was a sheriff’s + officer. He gave his name as Isaiah Schoolcraft. + </p> + <p> + Examined by Mr. Drew—Advocate-Depute, and counsel for the Crown, + with the Lord Advocate—Isaiah Schoolcraft said: + </p> + <p> + “I got a warrant on the twenty-sixth of October to go to the country-house + near Edinburgh called Gleninch. I took with me Robert Lorrie, assistant to + the Fiscal. We first examined the room in which Mrs. Eustace Macallan had + died. On the bed, and on a movable table which was attached to it, we + found books and writing materials, and a paper containing some unfinished + verses in manuscript, afterward identified as being in the handwriting of + the deceased. We inclosed these articles in paper, and sealed them up. + </p> + <p> + “We next opened an Indian cabinet in the bedroom. Here we found many more + verses on many more sheets of paper in the same hand-writing. We also + discovered, first some letters, and next a crumpled piece of paper thrown + aside in a corner of one of the shelves. On closer examination, a + chemist’s printed label was discovered on this morsel of paper. We also + found in the folds of it a few scattered grains of some white powder. The + paper and the letters were carefully inclosed, and sealed up as before. + </p> + <p> + “Further investigation of the room revealed nothing which could throw any + light on the purpose of our inquiry. We examined the clothes, jewelry, and + books of the deceased. These we left under lock and key. We also found her + dressing-case, which we protected by seals, and took away with us to the + Fiscal’s office, along with all the other articles that we had discovered + in the room. + </p> + <p> + “The next day we continued our examination in the house, having received + in the interval fresh instructions from the Fiscal. We began our work in + the bedroom communicating with the room in which Mrs. Macallan had died. + It had been kept locked since the death. Finding nothing of any importance + here, we went next to another room on the same floor, in which we were + informed the prisoner was then lying ill in bed. + </p> + <p> + “His illness was described to us as a nervous complaint, caused by the + death of his wife, and by the proceedings which had followed it. He was + reported to be quite incapable of exerting himself, and quite unfit to see + strangers. We insisted nevertheless (in deference to our instructions) on + obtaining admission to his room. He made no reply when we inquired whether + he had or had not removed anything from the sleeping-room next to his late + wife’s, which he usually occupied, to the sleeping-room in which he now + lay. All he did was to close his eyes, as if he were too feeble to speak + to us or to notice us. Without further disturbing him, we began to examine + the room and the different objects in it. + </p> + <p> + “While we were so employed, we were interrupted by a strange sound. We + likened it to the rumbling of wheels in the corridor outside. + </p> + <p> + “The door opened, and there came swiftly in a gentleman—a cripple—wheeling + himself along in a chair. He wheeled his chair straight up to a little + table which stood by the prisoner’s bedside, and said something to him in + a whisper too low to be overheard. The prisoner opened his eyes, and + quickly answered by a sign. We informed the crippled gentleman, quite + respectfully, that we could not allow him to be in the room at this time. + He appeared to think nothing of what we said. He only answered, ‘My name + is Dexter. I am one of Mr. Macallan’s old friends. It is you who are + intruding here—not I.’ We again notified to him that he must leave + the room; and we pointed out particularly that he had got his chair in + such a position against the bedside table as to prevent us from examining + it. He only laughed. ‘Can’t you see for yourselves,’ he said, ‘that it is + a table, and nothing more?’ In reply to this we warned him that we were + acting under a legal warrant, and that he might get into trouble if he + obstructed us in the execution of our duty. Finding there was no moving + him by fair means, I took his chair and pulled it away, while Robert + Lorrie laid hold of the table and carried it to the other end of the room. + The crippled gentleman flew into a furious rage with me for presuming to + touch his chair. ‘My chair is Me,’ he said: ‘how dare you lay hands on + Me?’ I first opened the door, and then, by way of accommodating him, gave + the chair a good push behind with my stick instead of my hand, and so sent + it and him safely and swiftly out of the room. + </p> + <p> + “Having locked the door, so as to prevent any further intrusion, I joined + Robert Lorrie in examining the bedside table. It had one drawer in it, and + that drawer we found secured. + </p> + <p> + “We asked the prisoner for the key. + </p> + <p> + “He flatly refused to give it to us, and said we had no right to unlock + his drawers. He was so angry that he even declared it was lucky for us he + was too weak to rise from his bed. I answered civilly that our duty + obliged us to examine the drawer, and that if he still declined to produce + the key, he would only oblige us to take the table away and have the lock + opened by a smith. + </p> + <p> + “While we were still disputing there was a knock at the door of the room. + </p> + <p> + “I opened the door cautiously. Instead of the crippled gentleman, whom I + had expected to see again, there was another stranger standing outside. + The prisoner hailed him as a friend and neighbor, and eagerly called upon + him for protection from us. We found this second gentleman pleasant enough + to deal with. He informed us readily that he had been sent for by Mr. + Dexter, and that he was himself a lawyer, and he asked to see our warrant. + Having looked at it, he at once informed the prisoner (evidently very much + to the prisoner’s surprise) that he must submit to have the drawer + examined, under protest. And then, without more ado, he got the key, and + opened the table drawer for us himself. + </p> + <p> + “We found inside several letters, and a large book with a lock to it, + having the words ‘My Diary’ inscribed on it in gilt letters. As a matter + of course, we took possession of the letters and the Diary, and sealed + them up, to be given to the Fiscal. At the same time the gentleman wrote + out a protest on the prisoner’s behalf, and handed us his card. The card + informed us that he was Mr. Playmore, now one of the Agents for the + prisoner. The card and the protest were deposited, with the other + documents, in the care of the Fiscal. No other discoveries of any + importance were made at Gleninch. + </p> + <p> + “Our next inquiries took us to Edinburgh—to the druggist whose label + we had found on the crumpled morsel of paper, and to other druggists + likewise whom we were instructed to question. On the twenty-eighth of + October the Fiscal was in possession of all the information that we could + collect, and our duties for the time being came to an end.” + </p> + <p> + This concluded the evidence of Schoolcraft and Lorrie. It was not shaken + on cross-examination, and it was plainly unfavorable to the prisoner. + </p> + <p> + Matters grew worse still when the next witnesses were called. The druggist + whose label had been found on the crumpled bit of paper now appeared on + the stand, to make the position of my unhappy husband more critical than + ever. + </p> + <p> + Andrew Kinlay, druggist, of Edinburgh, deposed as follows: + </p> + <p> + “I keep a special registry book of the poisons sold by me. I produce the + book. On the date therein mentioned the prisoner at the bar, Mr. Eustace + Macallan, came into my shop, and said that he wished to purchase some + arsenic. I asked him what it was wanted for. He told me it was wanted by + his gardener, to be used, in solution, for the killing of insects in the + greenhouse. At the same time he mentioned his name—Mr. Macallan, of + Gleninch. I at once directed my assistant to put up the arsenic (two + ounces of it), and I made the necessary entry in my book. Mr. Macallan + signed the entry, and I signed it afterward as witness. He paid for the + arsenic, and took it away with him wrapped up in two papers, the outer + wrapper being labeled with my name and address, and with the word ‘Poison’ + in large letters—exactly like the label now produced on the piece of + paper found at Gleninch.” + </p> + <p> + The next witness, Peter Stockdale (also a druggist of Edinburgh), + followed, and said: + </p> + <p> + “The prisoner at the bar called at my shop on the date indicated on my + register, some days later than the date indicated in the register of Mr. + Kinlay. He wished to purchase sixpenny-worth of arsenic. My assistant, to + whom he had addressed himself, called me. It is a rule in my shop that no + one sells poisons but myself. I asked the prisoner what he wanted the + arsenic for. He answered that he wanted it for killing rats at his house, + called Gleninch. I said, ‘Have I the honor of speaking to Mr. Macallan, of + Gleninch?’ He said that was his name. I sold him the arsenic—about + an ounce and a half—and labeled the bottle in which I put it with + the word ‘Poison’ in my own handwriting. He signed the register, and took + the arsenic away with him, after paying for it.” + </p> + <p> + The cross-examination of the two men succeeded in asserting certain + technical objections to their evidence. But the terrible fact that my + husband himself had actually purchased the arsenic in both cases remained + unshaken. + </p> + <p> + The next witnesses—the gardener and the cook at Gleninch—wound + the chain of hostile evidence around the prisoner more mercilessly still. + </p> + <p> + On examination the gardener said, on his oath: + </p> + <p> + “I never received any arsenic from the prisoner, or from any one else, at + the date to which you refer, of at any other date. I never used any such + thing as a solution of arsenic, or ever allowed the men working under me + to use it, in the conservatories or in the garden at Gleninch. I + disapprove of arsenic as a means of destroying noxious insects infesting + flowers and plants.” + </p> + <p> + The cook, being called next, spoke as positively as the gardener: + </p> + <p> + “Neither my master nor any other person gave me any arsenic to destroy + rats at any time. No such thing was wanted. I declare, on my oath, that I + never saw any rats in or about the house, or ever heard of any rats + infesting it.” + </p> + <p> + Other household servants at Gleninch gave similar evidence. Nothing could + be extracted from them on cross-examination except that there might have + been rats in the house, though they were not aware of it. The possession + of the poison was traced directly to my husband, and to no one else. That + he had bought it was actually proved, and that he had kept it was the one + conclusion that the evidence justified. + </p> + <p> + The witnesses who came next did their best to press the charge against the + prisoner home to him. Having the arsenic in his possession, what had he + done with it? The evidence led the jury to infer what he had done with it. + </p> + <p> + The prisoner’s valet deposed that his master had rung for him at twenty + minutes to ten on the morning of the day on which his mistress died, and + had ordered a cup of tea for her. The man had received the order at the + open door of Mrs. Macallan’s room, and could positively swear that no + other person but his master was there at the time. + </p> + <p> + The under-housemaid, appearing next, said that she had made the tea, and + had herself taken it upstairs before ten o’clock to Mrs. Macallan’s room. + Her master had received it from her at the open door. She could look in, + and could see that he was alone in her mistress’s room. + </p> + <p> + The nurse, Christina Ormsay, being recalled, repeated what Mrs. Macallan + had said to her on the day when that lady was first taken ill. She had + said (speaking to the nurse at six o’clock in the morning), “Mr. Macallan + came in about an hour since; he found me still sleepless, and gave me my + composing draught.” This was at five o’clock in the morning, while + Christina Ormsay was asleep on the sofa. The nurse further swore that she + had looked at the bottle containing the composing mixture, and had seen by + the measuring marks on the bottle that a dose had been poured out since + the dose previously given, administered by herself. + </p> + <p> + On this occasion special interest was excited by the cross-examination. + The closing questions put to the under-housemaid and the nurse revealed + for the first time what the nature of the defense was to be. + </p> + <p> + Cross-examining the under-housemaid, the Dean of Faculty said: + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever notice when you were setting Mrs. Eustace Macallan’s room to + rights whether the water left in the basin was of a blackish or bluish + color?” The witness answered, “I never noticed anything of the sort.” + </p> + <p> + The Dean of Faculty went on: + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever find under the pillow of the bed, or in any other hiding + place in Mrs. Macallan’s room, any books or pamphlets telling of remedies + used for improving a bad complexion?” The witness answered, “No.” + </p> + <p> + The Dean of Faculty persisted: + </p> + <p> + “Did you ever hear Mrs. Macallan speak of arsenic, taken as a wash or + taken as a medicine, as a good thing to improve the complexion?” The + witness answered, “Never.” + </p> + <p> + Similar questions were next put to the nurse, and were all answered by + this witness also in the negative. + </p> + <p> + Here, then, in spite of the negative answers, was the plan of the defense + made dimly visible for the first time to the jury and to the audience. By + way of preventing the possibility of a mistake in so serious a matter, the + Chief Judge (the Lord Justice Clerk) put this plain question, when the + witnesses had retired, to the Counsel for the defense: + </p> + <p> + “The Court and the jury,” said his lordship, “wish distinctly to + understand the object of your cross-examination of the housemaid and the + nurse. Is it the theory of the defense that Mrs. Eustace Macallan used the + arsenic which her husband purchased for the purpose of improving the + defects of her complexion?” + </p> + <p> + The Dean of Faculty answered: + </p> + <p> + “That is what we say, my lord, and what we propose to prove as the + foundation of the defense. We cannot dispute the medical evidence which + declares that Mrs. Macallan died poisoned. But we assert that she died of + an overdose of arsenic, ignorantly taken, in the privacy of her own room, + as a remedy for the defects—the proved and admitted defects—of + her complexion. The prisoner’s Declaration before the Sheriff expressly + sets forth that he purchased the arsenic at the request of his wife.” + </p> + <p> + The Lord Justice Clerk inquired upon this if there were any objection on + the part of either of the learned counsel to have the Declaration read in + Court before the Trial proceeded further. + </p> + <p> + To this the Dean of Faculty replied that he would be glad to have the + Declaration read. If he might use the expression, it would usefully pave + the way in the minds of the jury for the defense which he had to submit to + them. + </p> + <p> + The Lord Advocate (speaking on the other side) was happy to be able to + accommodate his learned brother in this matter. So long as the mere + assertions which the Declaration contained were not supported by proof, he + looked upon that document as evidence for the prosecution, and he too was + quite willing to have it read. + </p> + <p> + Thereupon the prisoner’s Declaration of his innocence—on being + charged before the Sheriff with the murder of his wife—was read, in + the following terms: + </p> + <p> + “I bought the two packets of arsenic, on each occasion at my wife’s own + request. On the first occasion she told me the poison was wanted by the + gardener for use in the conservatories. On the second occasion she said it + was required by the cook for ridding the lower part of the house of rats. + </p> + <p> + “I handed both packets of arsenic to my wife immediately on my return + home. I had nothing to do with the poison after buying it. My wife was the + person who gave orders to the gardener and cook—not I. I never held + any communication with either of them. + </p> + <p> + “I asked my wife no questions about the use of the arsenic, feeling no + interest in the subject. I never entered the conservatories for months + together; I care little about flowers. As for the rats, I left the killing + of them to the cook and the other servants, just as I should have left any + other part of the domestic business to the cook and the other servants. + </p> + <p> + “My wife never told me she wanted the arsenic to improve her complexion. + Surely I should be the last person admitted to the knowledge of such a + secret of her toilet as that? I implicitly believed what she told me; + viz., that the poison was wanted for the purposes specified by the + gardener and the cook. + </p> + <p> + “I assert positively that I lived on friendly terms with my wife, + allowing, of course, for the little occasional disagreements and + misunderstandings of married life. Any sense of disappointment in + connection with my marriage which I might have felt privately I conceived + it to be my duty as a husband and a gentleman to conceal from my wife. I + was not only shocked and grieved by her untimely death—I was filled + with fear that I had not, with all my care, behaved affectionately enough + to her in her lifetime. + </p> + <p> + “Furthermore, I solemnly declare that I know no more of how she took the + arsenic found in her body than the babe unborn. I am innocent even of the + thought of harming that unhappy woman. I administered the composing + draught exactly as I found it in the bottle. I afterward gave her the cup + of tea exactly as I received it from the under-housemaid’s hand. I never + had access to the arsenic after I placed the two packages in my wife’s + possession. I am entirely ignorant of what she did with them or of where + she kept them. I declare before God I am innocent of the horrible crime + with which I am charged.” + </p> + <p> + With the reading of those true and touching words the proceedings on the + second day of the Trial came to an end. + </p> + <p> + So far, I must own, the effect on me of reading the Report was to depress + my spirits and to lower my hopes. The whole weight of the evidence at the + close of the second day was against my unhappy husband. Woman as I was, + and partisan as I was, I could plainly see that. + </p> + <p> + The merciless Lord Advocate (I confess I hated him!) had proved (1) that + Eustace had bought the poison; (2) that the reason which he had given to + the druggists for buying the poison was not the true reason; (3) that he + had had two opportunities of secretly administering the poison to his + wife. On the other side, what had the Dean of Faculty proved? As yet—nothing. + The assertions in the prisoner’s Declaration of his innocence were still, + as the Lord Advocate had remarked, assertions not supported by proof. Not + one atom of evidence had been produced to show that it was the wife who + had secretly used the arsenic, and used it for her complexion. + </p> + <p> + My one consolation was that the reading of the Trial had already revealed + to me the helpful figures of two friends on whose sympathy I might surely + rely. The crippled Mr. Dexter had especially shown himself to be a + thorough good ally of my husband’s. My heart warmed to the man who had + moved his chair against the bedside table—the man who had struggled + to the last to defend Eustace’s papers from the wretches who had seized + them. I decided then and there that the first person to whom I would + confide my aspirations and my hopes should be Mr. Dexter. If he felt any + difficulty about advising me, I would then apply next to the agent, Mr. + Playmore—the second good friend, who had formally protested against + the seizure of my husband’s papers. + </p> + <p> + Fortified by this resolution, I turned the page, and read the history of + the third day of the Trial. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XVIII. THIRD QUESTION—WHAT WAS HIS MOTIVE? + </h2> + <p> + THE first question (Did the Woman Die Poisoned?) had been answered, + positively. The second question (Who Poisoned Her?) had been answered, + apparently. There now remained the third and final question—What was + His Motive? The first evidence called in answer to that inquiry was the + evidence of relatives and friends of the dead wife. + </p> + <p> + Lady Brydehaven, widow of Rear-Admiral Sir George Brydehaven, examined by + Mr. Drew (counsel for the Crown with the Lord Advocate), gave evidence as + follows: + </p> + <p> + “The deceased lady (Mrs. Eustace Macallan) was my niece. She was the only + child of my sister, and she lived under my roof after the time of her + mother’s death. I objected to her marriage, on grounds which were + considered purely fanciful and sentimental by her other friends. It is + extremely painful to me to state the circumstances in public, but I am + ready to make the sacrifice if the ends of justice require it. + </p> + <p> + “The prisoner at the bar, at the time of which I am now speaking, was + staying as a guest in my house. He met with an accident while he was out + riding which caused a serious injury to one of his legs. The leg had been + previously hurt while he was serving with the army in India. This + circumstance tended greatly to aggravate the injury received in the + accident. He was confined to a recumbent position on a sofa for many weeks + together; and the ladies in the house took it in turns to sit with him, + and while away the weary time by reading to him and talking to him. My + niece was foremost among these volunteer nurses. She played admirably on + the piano; and the sick man happened—most unfortunately, as the + event proved—to be fond of music. + </p> + <p> + “The consequences of the perfectly innocent intercourse thus begun were + deplorable consequences for my niece. She became passionately attached to + Mr. Eustace Macallan, without awakening any corresponding affection on his + side. + </p> + <p> + “I did my best to interfere, delicately and usefully, while it was still + possible to interfere with advantage. Unhappily, my niece refused to place + any confidence in me. She persistently denied that she was actuated by any + warmer feeling toward Mr. Macallan than a feeling of friendly interest. + This made it impossible for me to separate them without openly + acknowledging my reason for doing so, and thus producing a scandal which + might have affected my niece’s reputation. My husband was alive at that + time; and the one thing I could do under the circumstances was the thing I + did. I requested him to speak privately to Mr. Macallan, and to appeal to + his honor to help us out of the difficulty without prejudice to my niece. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Macallan behaved admirably. He was still helpless. But he made an + excuse for leaving us which it was impossible to dispute. In two days + after my husband had spoken to him he was removed from the house. + </p> + <p> + “The remedy was well intended; but it came too late, and it utterly + failed. The mischief was done. My niece pined away visibly; neither + medical help nor change of air and scene did anything for her. In course + of time—after Mr. Macallan had recovered from the effects of his + accident—I found that she was carrying on a clandestine + correspondence with him by means of her maid. His letters, I am bound to + say, were most considerately and carefully written. Nevertheless, I felt + it my duty to stop the correspondence. + </p> + <p> + “My interference—what else could I do but interfere?—brought + matters to a crisis. One day my niece was missing at breakfast-time. The + next day we discovered that the poor infatuated creature had gone to Mr. + Macallan’s chambers in London, and had been found hidden in his bedroom by + some bachelor friends who came to visit him. + </p> + <p> + “For this disaster Mr. Macallan was in no respect to blame. Hearing + footsteps outside, he had only time to take measures for saving her + character by concealing her in the nearest room—and the nearest room + happened to be his bedchamber. The matter was talked about, of course, and + motives were misinterpreted in the vilest manner. My husband had another + private conversation with Mr. Macallan. He again behaved admirably. He + publicly declared that my niece had visited him as his betrothed wife. In + a fortnight from that time he silenced scandal in the one way that was + possible—he married her. + </p> + <p> + “I was alone in opposing the marriage. I thought it at the time what it + has proved to be since—a fatal mistake. + </p> + <p> + “It would have been sad enough if Mr. Macallan had only married her + without a particle of love on his side. But to make the prospect more + hopeless still, he was at that very time the victim of a misplaced + attachment to a lady who was engaged to another man. I am well aware that + he compassionately denied this, just as he compassionately affected to be + in love with my niece when he married her. But his hopeless admiration of + the lady whom I have mentioned was a matter of fact notorious among his + friends. It may not be amiss to add that <i>her</i> marriage preceded <i>his</i> + marriage. He had irretrievably lost the woman he really loved—he was + without a hope or an aspiration in life—when he took pity on my + niece. + </p> + <p> + “In conclusion, I can only repeat that no evil which could have happened + (if she had remained a single woman) would have been comparable, in my + opinion, to the evil of such a marriage as this. Never, I sincerely + believe, were two more ill-assorted persons united in the bonds of + matrimony than the prisoner at the bar and his deceased wife.” + </p> + <p> + The evidence of this witness produced a strong sensation among the + audience, and had a marked effect on the minds of the jury. + Cross-examination forced Lady Brydehaven to modify some of her opinions, + and to acknowledge that the hopeless attachment of the prisoner to another + woman was a matter of rumor only. But the facts in her narrative remained + unshaken, and, for that one reason, they invested the crime charged + against the prisoner with an appearance of possibility, which it had + entirely failed to assume during the earlier part of the Trial. + </p> + <p> + Two other ladies (intimate friends of Mrs. Eustace Macallan) were called + next. They differed from Lady Brydehaven in their opinions on the + propriety of the marriage but on all the material points they supported + her testimony, and confirmed the serious impression which the first + witness had produced on every person in Court. + </p> + <p> + The next evidence which the prosecution proposed to put in was the silent + evidence of the letters and the Diary found at Gleninch. + </p> + <p> + In answer to a question from the Bench, the Lord Advocate stated that the + letters were written by friends of the prisoner and his deceased wife, and + that passages in them bore directly on the terms on which the two + associated in their married life. The Diary was still more valuable as + evidence. It contained the prisoner’s daily record of domestic events, and + of the thoughts and feelings which they aroused in him at the time. + </p> + <p> + A most painful scene followed this explanation. + </p> + <p> + Writing, as I do, long after the events took place, I still cannot prevail + upon myself to describe in detail what my unhappy husband said and did at + this distressing period of the Trial. Deeply affected while Lady + Brydehaven was giving her evidence, he had with difficulty restrained + himself from interrupting her. He now lost all control over his feelings. + In piercing tones, which rang through the Court, he protested against the + contemplated violation of his own most sacred secrets and his wife’s most + sacred secrets. “Hang me, innocent as I am!” he cried, “but spare me <i>that!</i>” + The effect of this terrible outbreak on the audience is reported to have + been indescribable. Some of the women present were in hysterics. The + Judges interfered from the Bench, but with no good result. Quiet was at + length restored by the Dean of Faculty, who succeeded in soothing the + prisoner, and who then addressed the Judges, pleading for indulgence to + his unhappy client in most touching and eloquent language. The speech, a + masterpiece of impromptu oratory, concluded with a temperate yet strongly + urged protest against the reading of the papers discovered at Gleninch. + </p> + <p> + The three Judges retired to consider the legal question submitted to them. + The sitting was suspended for more than half an hour. + </p> + <p> + As usual in such cases, the excitement in the Court communicated itself to + the crowd outside in the street. The general opinion here—led, as it + was supposed, by one of the clerks or other inferior persons connected + with the legal proceedings—was decidedly adverse to the prisoner’s + chance of escaping a sentence of death. “If the letters and the Diary are + read,” said the brutal spokesman of the mob, “the letters and the Diary + will hang him.” + </p> + <p> + On the return of the Judges into Court, it was announced that they had + decided, by a majority of two to one, on permitting the documents in + dispute to be produced in evidence. Each of the Judges, in turn, gave his + reasons for the decision at which he had arrived. This done, the Trial + proceeded. The reading of the extracts from the letters and the extracts + from the Diary began. + </p> + <p> + The first letters produced were the letters found in the Indian cabinet in + Mrs. Eustace Macallan’s room. They were addressed to the deceased lady by + intimate (female) friends of hers, with whom she was accustomed to + correspond. Three separate extracts from letters written by three + different correspondents were selected to be read in Court. + </p> + <p> + FIRST CORRESPONDENT: “I despair, my dearest Sara, of being able to tell + you how your last letter has distressed me. Pray forgive me if I own to + thinking that your very sensitive nature exaggerates or misinterprets, + quite unconsciously, of course, the neglect that you experience at the + hands of your husband. I cannot say anything about <i>his</i> + peculiarities of character, because I am not well enough acquainted with + him to know what they are. But, my dear, I am much older than you, and I + have had a much longer experience than yours of what somebody calls ‘the + lights and shadows of married life.’ Speaking from that experience, I must + tell you what I have observed. Young married women, like you, who are + devotedly attached to their husbands, are apt to make one very serious + mistake. As a rule, they all expect too much from their husbands. Men, my + poor Sara, are not like <i>us.</i> Their love, even when it is quite + sincere, is not like our love. It does not last as it does with us. It is + not the one hope and one thought of their lives, as it is with us. We have + no alternative, even when we most truly respect and love them, but to make + allowance for this difference between the man’s nature and the woman’s. I + do not for one moment excuse your husband’s coldness. He is wrong, for + example, in never looking at you when he speaks to you, and in never + noticing the efforts that you make to please him. He is worse than wrong—he + is really cruel, if you like—in never returning your kiss when you + kiss him. But, my dear, are you quite sure that he is always <i>designedly</i> + cold and cruel? May not his conduct be sometimes the result of troubles + and anxieties which weigh on his mind, and which are troubles and + anxieties that you cannot share? If you try to look at his behavior in + this light, you will understand many things which puzzle and pain you now. + Be patient with him, my child. Make no complaints, and never approach him + with your caresses at times when his mind is preoccupied or his temper + ruffled. This may be hard advice to follow, loving him as ardently as you + do. But, rely on it, the secret of happiness for us women is to be found + (alas! only too often) in such exercise of restraint and resignation as + your old friend now recommends. Think, my dear, over what I have written, + and let me hear from you again.” + </p> + <p> + SECOND CORRESPONDENT: “How can you be so foolish, Sara, as to waste your + love on such a cold-blooded brute as your husband seems to be? To be sure, + I am not married yet, or perhaps I should not be so surprised at you. But + I shall be married one of these days, and if my husband ever treat me as + Mr. Macallan treats you, I shall insist on a separation. I declare, I + think I would rather be actually beaten, like the women among the lower + orders, than be treated with the polite neglect and contempt which you + describe. I burn with indignation when I think of it. It must be quite + insufferable. Don’t bear it any longer, my poor dear. Leave him, and come + and stay with me. My brother is a lawyer, as you know. I read to him + portions of your letter, and he is of opinion that you might get what he + calls a judicial separation. Come and consult him.” + </p> + <p> + THIRD CORRESPONDENT: “YOU know, my dear Mrs. Macallan, what <i>my</i> + experience of men has been. Your letter does not surprise me in the least. + Your husband’s conduct to you points to one conclusion. He is in love with + some other woman. There is Somebody in the dark, who gets from him + everything that he denies to you. I have been through it all—and I + know! Don’t give way. Make it the business of your life to find out who + the creature is. Perhaps there may be more than one of them. It doesn’t + matter. One or many, if you can only discover them, you may make his + existence as miserable to him as he makes your existence to you. If you + want my experience to help you, say the word, and it is freely at your + service. I can come and stay with you at Gleninch any time after the + fourth of next month.” + </p> + <p> + With those abominable lines the readings from the letters of the women + came to an end. The first and longest of the Extracts produced the most + vivid impression in Court. Evidently the writer was in this case a worthy + and sensible person. It was generally felt, however, that all three of the + letters, no matter how widely they might differ in tone, justified the + same conclusion. The wife’s position at Gleninch (if the wife’s account of + it were to be trusted) was the position of a neglected and an unhappy + woman. + </p> + <p> + The correspondence of the prisoner, which had been found, with his Diary, + in the locked bed-table drawer, was produced next. The letters in this + case were with one exception all written by men. Though the tone of them + was moderation itself as compared with the second and third of the women’s + letters, the conclusion still pointed the same way. The life of the + husband at Gleninch appeared to be just as intolerable as the life of the + wife. + </p> + <p> + For example, one of the prisoner’s male friends wrote inviting him to make + a yacht voyage around the world. Another suggested an absence of six + months on the Continent. A third recommended field-sports and fishing. The + one object aimed at by all the writers was plainly to counsel a + separation, more or less plausible and more or less complete, between the + married pair. + </p> + <p> + The last letter read was addressed to the prisoner in a woman’s + handwriting, and was signed by a woman’s Christian name only. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my poor Eustace, what a cruel destiny is ours!” the letter began. + “When I think of your life, sacrificed to that wretched woman, my heart + bleeds for you. If <i>we</i> had been man and wife—if it had been <i>my</i> + unutterable happiness to love and cherish the best, the dearest of men—what + a paradise of our own we might have lived in! what delicious hours we + might have known! But regret is vain; we are separated in this life—separated + by ties which we both mourn, and yet which we must both respect. My + Eustace, there is a world beyond this. There our souls will fly to meet + each other, and mingle in one long heavenly embrace—in a rapture + forbidden to us on earth. The misery described in your letter—oh, + why, why did you marry her?—has wrung this confession of feeling + from me. Let it comfort you, but let no other eyes see it. Burn my rashly + written lines, and look (as I look) to the better life which you may yet + share with your own + </p> + <p> + “HELENA.” + </p> + <p> + The reading of this outrageous letter provoked a question from the Bench. + One of the Judges asked if the writer had attached any date or address to + her letter. + </p> + <p> + In answer to this the Lord Advocate stated that neither the one nor the + other appeared. The envelope showed that the letter had been posted in + London. “We propose,” the learned counsel continued, “to read certain + passages from the prisoner’s Diary, in which the name signed at the end of + the letter occurs more than once; and we may possibly find other means of + identifying the writer, to the satisfaction of your lordships, before the + Trial is over.” + </p> + <p> + The promised passages from my husband’s private Diary were now read. The + first extract related to a period of nearly a year before the date of Mrs. + Eustace Macallan’s death. It was expressed in these terms: + </p> + <p> + “News, by this morning’s post, which has quite overwhelmed me. Helena’s + husband died suddenly two days since of heart-disease. She is free—my + beloved Helena is free! And I? + </p> + <p> + “I am fettered to a woman with whom I have not a single feeling in common. + Helena is lost to me, by my own act. Ah! I can understand now, as I never + understood before, how irresistible temptation can be, and how easily + sometimes crime may follow it. I had better shut up these leaves for the + night. It maddens me to no purpose to think of my position or to write of + it.” + </p> + <p> + The next passage, dated a few days later, dwelt on the same subject. + </p> + <p> + “Of all the follies that a man can commit, the greatest is acting on + impulse. I acted on impulse when I married the unfortunate creature who is + now my wife. + </p> + <p> + “Helena was then lost to me, as I too hastily supposed. She had married + the man to whom she rashly engaged herself before she met with me. He was + younger than I, and, to all appearance, heartier and stronger than I. So + far as I could see, my fate was sealed for life. Helena had written her + farewell letter, taking leave of me in this world for good. My prospects + were closed; my hopes had ended. I had not an aspiration left; I had no + necessity to stimulate me to take refuge in work. A chivalrous action, an + exertion of noble self-denial, seemed to be all that was left to me, all + that I was fit for. + </p> + <p> + “The circumstances of the moment adapted themselves, with a fatal + facility, to this idea. The ill-fated woman who had become attached to me + (Heaven knows—without so much as the shadow of encouragement on my + part!) had, just at that time, rashly placed her reputation at the mercy + of the world. It rested with me to silence the scandalous tongues that + reviled her. With Helena lost to me, happiness was not to be expected. All + women were equally indifferent to me. A generous action would be the + salvation of this woman. Why not perform it? I married her on that impulse—married + her just as I might have jumped into the water and saved her if she had + been drowning; just as I might have knocked a man down if I had seen him + ill-treating her in the street! + </p> + <p> + “And now the woman for whom I have made this sacrifice stands between me + and my Helena—my Helena, free to pour out all the treasures of her + love on the man who adores the earth that she touches with her foot! + </p> + <p> + “Fool! madman! Why don’t I dash out my brains against the wall that I see + opposite to me while I write these lines? + </p> + <p> + “My gun is there in the corner. I have only to tie a string to the trigger + and to put the muzzle to my mouth—No! My mother is alive; my + mother’s love is sacred. I have no right to take the life which she gave + me. I must suffer and submit. Oh, Helena! Helena!” + </p> + <p> + The third extract—one among many similar passages—had been + written about two months before the death of the prisoner’s wife. + </p> + <p> + “More reproaches addressed to me! There never was such a woman for + complaining; she lives in a perfect atmosphere of ill-temper and + discontent. + </p> + <p> + “My new offenses are two in number: I never ask her to play to me now; and + when she puts on a new dress expressly to please me, I never notice it. + Notice it! Good Heavens! The effort of my life is <i>not</i> to notice her + in anything she does or says. How could I keep my temper, unless I kept as + much as possible out of the way of private interviews with her? And I do + keep my temper. I am never hard on her; I never use harsh language to her. + She has a double claim on my forbearance—-she is a woman, and the + law has made her my wife. I remember this; but I am human. The less I see + of her—except when visitors are present—the more certain I can + feel of preserving my self-control. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder what it is that makes her so utterly distasteful to me? She is a + plain woman; but I have seen uglier women than she whose caresses I could + have endured without the sense of shrinking that comes over me when I am + obliged to submit to <i>her</i> caresses. I keep the feeling hidden from + her. She loves me, poor thing—and I pity her. I wish I could do + more; I wish I could return in the smallest degree the feeling with which + she regards me. But no—I can only pity her. If she would be content + to live on friendly terms with me, and never to exact demonstrations of + tenderness, we might get on pretty well. But she wants love. Unfortunate + creature, she wants love! + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my Helena! I have no love to give her. My heart is yours. + </p> + <p> + “I dreamed last night that this unhappy wife of mine was dead. The dream + was so vivid that I actually got out of my bed and opened the door of her + room and listened. + </p> + <p> + “Her calm, regular breathing was distinctly audible in the stillness of + the night. She was in a deep sleep: I closed the door again and lighted my + candle and read. Helena was in all my thoughts; it was hard work to fix my + attention on the book. But anything was better than going to bed again, + and dreaming perhaps for the second time that I too was free. + </p> + <p> + “What a life mine is! what a life my wife’s is! If the house were to take + fire, I wonder whether I should make an effort to save myself or to save + her?” + </p> + <p> + The last two passages read referred to later dates still. + </p> + <p> + “A gleam of brightness has shone over this dismal existence of mine at + last. + </p> + <p> + “Helena is no longer condemned to the seclusion of widowhood. Time enough + has passed to permit of her mixing again in society. She is paying visits + to friends in our part of Scotland; and, as she and I are cousins, it is + universally understood that she cannot leave the North without also + spending a few days at my house. She writes me word that the visit, + however embarrassing it may be to us privately, is nevertheless a visit + that must be made for the sake of appearances. Blessings on appearances! I + shall see this angel in my purgatory—and all because Society in + Mid-Lothian would think it strange that my cousin should be visiting in my + part of Scotland and not visit Me! + </p> + <p> + “But we are to be very careful. Helena says, in so many words, ‘I come to + see you, Eustace, as a sister. You must receive me as a brother, or not + receive me at all. I shall write to your wife to propose the day for my + visit. I shall not forget—do you not forget—that it is by your + wife’s permission that I enter your house.’ + </p> + <p> + “Only let me see her! I will submit to anything to obtain the unutterable + happiness of seeing her!” + </p> + <p> + The last extract followed, and consisted of these lines only: + </p> + <p> + “A new misfortune! My wife has fallen ill. She has taken to her bed with a + bad rheumatic cold, just at the time appointed for Helena’s visit to + Gleninch. But on this occasion (I gladly own it!) she has behaved + charmingly. She has written to Helena to say that her illness is not + serious enough to render a change necessary in the arrangements, and to + make it her particular request that my cousin’s visit shall take place + upon the day originally decided on. + </p> + <p> + “This is a great sacrifice made to me on my wife’s part. Jealous of every + woman under forty who comes near me, she is, of course, jealous of Helena—and + she controls herself, and trusts me! + </p> + <p> + “I am bound to show my gratitude for this and I will show it. From this + day forth I vow to live more affectionately with my wife. I tenderly + embraced her this very morning, and I hope, poor soul, she did not + discover the effort that it cost me.” + </p> + <p> + There the readings from the Diary came to an end. + </p> + <p> + The most unpleasant pages in the whole Report of the Trial were—to + me—the pages which contained the extracts from my husband’s Diary. + There were expressions here and there which not only pained me, but which + almost shook Eustace’s position in my estimation. I think I would have + given everything I possessed to have had the power of annihilating certain + lines in the Diary. As for his passionate expressions of love for Mrs. + Beauly, every one of them went through me like a sting. He had whispered + words quite as warm into my ears in the days of his courtship. I had no + reason to doubt that he truly and dearly loved me. But the question was, + Had he just as truly and dearly loved Mrs. Beauly before me? Had she or I—won + the first love of his heart? He had declared to me over and over again + that he had only fancied himself to be in love before the day when we met. + I had believed him then. I determined to believe him still. I did believe + him. But I hated Mrs. Beauly! + </p> + <p> + As for the painful impression produced in Court by the readings from the + letters and the Diary, it seemed to be impossible to increase it. + Nevertheless it <i>was</i> perceptibly increased. In other words, it was + rendered more unfavorable still toward the prisoner by the evidence of the + next and last witness called on the part of the prosecution. + </p> + <p> + William Enzie, under-gardener at Gleninch, was sworn, and deposed as + follows: + </p> + <p> + On the twentieth of October, at eleven o’clock in the forenoon, I was sent + to work in the shrubbery, on the side next to the garden called the Dutch + Garden. There was a summer-house in the Dutch Garden, having its back set + toward the shrubbery. The day was wonderfully fine and—warm for the + time of year. + </p> + <p> + “Passing to my work, I passed the back of the summer-house. I heard voices + inside—a man’s voice and a lady’s voice. The lady’s voice was + strange to me. The man’s voice I recognized as the voice of my master. The + ground in the shrubbery was soft, and my curiosity was excited. I stepped + up to the back of the summer-house without being heard, and I listened to + what was going on inside. + </p> + <p> + “The first words I could distinguish were spoken in my master’s voice. He + said, ‘If I could only have foreseen that you might one day be free, what + a happy man I might have been!’ The lady’s voice answered, ‘Hush! you must + not talk so.’ My master said upon that, ‘I must talk of what is in my + mind; it is always in my mind that I have lost you.’ He stopped a bit + there, and then he said on a sudden, ‘Do me one favor, my angel! Promise + me not to marry again.’ The lady’s voice spoke out thereupon sharply + enough, ‘What do you mean?’ My master said, ‘I wish no harm to the unhappy + creature who is a burden on my life; but suppose—’ ‘Suppose + nothing,’ the lady said; ‘come back to the house.’ + </p> + <p> + “She led the way into the garden, and turned round, beckoning my master to + join her. In that position I saw her face plainly, and I knew it for the + face of the young widow lady who was visiting at the house. She was + pointed out to me by the head-gardener when she first arrived, for the + purpose of warning me that I was not to interfere if I found her picking + the flowers. The gardens at Gleninch were shown to tourists on certain + days, and we made a difference, of course, in the matter of the flowers + between strangers and guests staying in the house. I am quite certain of + the identity of the lady who was talking with my master. Mrs. Beauly was a + comely person—and there was no mistaking her for any other than + herself. She and my master withdrew together on the way to the house. I + heard nothing more of what passed between them.” + </p> + <p> + This witness was severely cross-examined as to the correctness of his + recollection of the talk in the summer-house, and as to his capacity for + identifying both the speakers. On certain minor points he was shaken. But + he firmly asserted his accurate remembrance of the last words exchanged + between his master and Mrs. Beauly; and he personally described the lady + in terms which proved that he had corruptly identified her. + </p> + <p> + With this the answer to the third question raised by the Trial—the + question of the prisoner’s motive for poisoning his wife—came to an + end. + </p> + <p> + The story for the prosecution was now a story told. The staunchest friends + of the prisoner in Court were compelled to acknowledge that the evidence + thus far pointed clearly and conclusively against him. He seemed to feel + this himself. When he withdrew at the close of the third day of the Trial + he was so depressed and exhausted that he was obliged to lean on the arm + of the governor of the jail. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XIX. THE EVIDENCE FOR THE DEFENSE. + </h2> + <p> + THE feeling of interest excited by the Trial was prodigiously increased on + the fourth day. The witnesses for the defense were now to be heard, and + first and foremost among them appeared the prisoner’s mother. She looked + at her son as she lifted her veil to take the oath. He burst into tears. + At that moment the sympathy felt for the mother was generally extended to + the unhappy son. + </p> + <p> + Examined by the Dean of Faculty, Mrs. Macallan the elder gave her answers + with remarkable dignity and self-control. + </p> + <p> + Questioned as to certain private conversations which had passed between + her late daughter-in-law and herself, she declared that Mrs. Eustace + Macallan was morbidly sensitive on the subject of her personal appearance. + She was devotedly attached to her husband; the great anxiety of her life + was to make herself as attractive to him as possible. The imperfections in + her personal appearance—and especially in her complexion—were + subjects to her of the bitterest regret. The witness had heard her say, + over and over again (referring to her complexion), that there was no risk + she would not run, and no pain she would not suffer, to improve it. “Men” + (she had said) “are all caught by outward appearances: my husband might + love me better if I had a better color.” + </p> + <p> + Being asked next if the passages from her son’s Diary were to be depended + on as evidence—that is to say, if they fairly represented the + peculiarities in his character, and his true sentiments toward his wife—Mrs. + Macallan denied it in the plainest and strongest terms. + </p> + <p> + “The extracts from my son’s Diary are a libel on his character,” she said. + “And not the less a libel because they happen to be written by himself. + Speaking from a mother’s experience of him, I know that he must have + written the passages produced in moments of uncontrollable depression and + despair. No just person judges hastily of a man by the rash words which + may escape him in his moody and miserable moments. Is my son to be so + judged because he happens to have written <i>his</i> rash words, instead + of speaking them? His pen has been his most deadly enemy, in this case—it + has presented him at his very worst. He was not happy in his marriage—I + admit that. But I say at the same time that he was invariably considerate + toward his wife. I was implicitly trusted by both of them; I saw them in + their most private moments. I declare—in the face of what she + appears to have written to her friends and correspondents—that my + son never gave his wife any just cause to assert that he treated her with + cruelty or neglect.” + </p> + <p> + The words, firmly and clearly spoken, produced a strong impression. The + Lord Advocate—evidently perceiving that any attempt to weaken that + impression would not be likely to succeed—confined himself, in + cross-examination, to two significant questions. + </p> + <p> + “In speaking to you of the defects in her complexion,” he said, “did your + daughter-in-law refer in any way to the use of arsenic as a remedy?” + </p> + <p> + The answer to this was, “No.” + </p> + <p> + The Lord Advocate proceeded: + </p> + <p> + “Did you yourself ever recommend arsenic, or mention it casually, in the + course of the private conversations which you have described?” + </p> + <p> + The answer to this was, “Never.” + </p> + <p> + The Lord Advocate resumed his seat. Mrs. Macallan the elder withdrew. + </p> + <p> + An interest of a new kind was excited by the appearance of the next + witness. This was no less a person than Mrs. Beauly herself. The Report + describes her as a remarkably attractive person; modest and lady-like in + her manner, and, to all appearance, feeling sensitively the public + position in which she was placed. + </p> + <p> + The first portion of her evidence was almost a recapitulation of the + evidence given by the prisoner’s mother—with this difference, that + Mrs. Beauly had been actually questioned by the deceased lady on the + subject of cosmetic applications to the complexion. Mrs. Eustace Macallan + had complimented her on the beauty of her complexion, and had asked what + artificial means she used to keep it in such good order. Using no + artificial means, and knowing nothing whatever of cosmetics, Mrs. Beauly + had resented the question, and a temporary coolness between the two ladies + had been the result. + </p> + <p> + Interrogated as to her relations with the prisoner, Mrs. Beauly + indignantly denied that she or Mr. Macallan had ever given the deceased + lady the slightest cause for jealousy. It was impossible for Mrs. Beauly + to leave Scotland, after visiting at the houses of her cousin’s neighbors, + without also visiting at her cousin’s house. To take any other course + would have been an act of downright rudeness, and would have excited + remark. She did not deny that Mr. Macallan had admired her in the days + when they were both single people. But there was no further expression of + that feeling when she had married another man, and when he had married + another woman. From that time their intercourse was the innocent + intercourse of a brother and sister. Mr. Macallan was a gentleman: he knew + what was due to his wife and to Mrs. Beauly—she would not have + entered the house if experience had not satisfied her of that. As for the + evidence of the under-gardener, it was little better than pure invention. + The greater part of the conversation which he had described himself as + overhearing had never taken place. The little that was really said (as the + man reported it) was said jestingly; and she had checked it immediately—as + the witness had himself confessed. For the rest, Mr. Macallan’s behavior + toward his wife was invariably kind and considerate. He was constantly + devising means to alleviate her sufferings from the rheumatic affection + which confined her to her bed; he had spoken of her, not once but many + times, in terms of the sincerest sympathy. When she ordered her husband + and witness to leave the room, on the day of her death, Mr. Macallan said + to witness afterward, “We must bear with her jealousy, poor soul: we know + that we don’t deserve it.” In that patient manner he submitted to her + infirmities of temper from first to last. + </p> + <p> + The main interest in the cross-examination of Mrs. Beauly centered in a + question which was put at the end. After reminding her that she had given + her name, on being sworn, as “Helena Beauly,” the Lord Advocate said: + </p> + <p> + “A letter addressed to the prisoner, and signed ‘Helena,’ has been read in + Court. Look at it, if you please. Are you the writer of that letter?” + </p> + <p> + Before the witness could reply the Dean of Faculty protested against the + question. The Judges allowed the protest, and refused to permit the + question to be put. Mrs. Beauly thereupon withdrew. She had betrayed a + very perceptible agitation on hearing the letter referred to, and on + having it placed in her hands. This exhibition of feeling was variously + interpreted among the audience. Upon the whole, however, Mrs. Beauly’s + evidence was considered to have aided the impression which the mother’s + evidence had produced in the prisoner’s favor. + </p> + <p> + The next witnesses—both ladies, and both school friends of Mrs. + Eustace Macallan—created a new feeling of interest in Court. They + supplied the missing link in the evidence for the defense. + </p> + <p> + The first of the ladies declared that she had mentioned arsenic as a means + of improving the complexion in conversation with Mrs. Eustace Macallan. + She had never used it herself, but she had read of the practice of eating + arsenic among the Styrian peasantry for the purpose of clearing the color, + and of producing a general appearance of plumpness and good health. She + positively swore that she had related this result of her reading to the + deceased lady exactly as she now related it in Court. + </p> + <p> + The second witness, present at the conversation already mentioned, + corroborated the first witness in every particular; and added that she had + procured the book relating to the arsenic-eating practices of the Styrian + peasantry, and their results, at Mrs. Eustace Macallan’s own request. This + book she had herself dispatched by post to Mrs. Eustace Macallan at + Gleninch. + </p> + <p> + There was but one assailable point in this otherwise conclusive evidence. + The cross-examination discovered it. + </p> + <p> + Both the ladies were asked, in turn, if Mrs. Eustace Macallan had + expressed to them, directly or indirectly, any intention of obtaining + arsenic, with a view to the improvement of her complexion. In each case + the answer to that all-important question was, No. Mrs. Eustace Macallan + had heard of the remedy, and had received the book. But of her own + intentions in the future she had not said one word. She had begged both + the ladies to consider the conversation as strictly private—and + there it had ended. + </p> + <p> + It required no lawyer’s eye to discern the fatal defect which was now + revealed in the evidence for the defense. Every intelligent person present + could see that the prisoner’s chance of an honorable acquittal depended on + tracing the poison to the possession of his wife—or at least on + proving her expressed intention to obtain it. In either of these cases the + prisoner’s Declaration of his innocence would claim the support of + testimony, which, however indirect it might be, no honest and intelligent + men would be likely to resist. Was that testimony forthcoming? Was the + counsel for the defense not at the end of his resources yet? + </p> + <p> + The crowded audience waited in breathless expectation for the appearance + of the next witness. A whisper went round among certain well-instructed + persons that the Court was now to see and hear the prisoner’s old friend—already + often referred to in the course of the Trial as “Mr. Dexter.” + </p> + <p> + After a brief interval of delay there was a sudden commotion among the + audience, accompanied by suppressed exclamations of curiosity and + surprise. At the same moment the crier summoned the new witness by the + extraordinary name of + </p> + <p> + “MISERRIMUS DEXTER” <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XX. THE END OF THE TRIAL. + </h2> + <p> + THE calling of the new witness provoked a burst of laughter among the + audience due partly, no doubt, to the strange name by which he had been + summoned; partly, also, to the instinctive desire of all crowded + assemblies, when their interest is painfully excited, to seize on any + relief in the shape of the first subject of merriment which may present + itself. A severe rebuke from the Bench restored order among the audience. + The Lord Justice Clerk declared that he would “clear the Court” if the + interruption to the proceedings were renewed. + </p> + <p> + During the silence which followed this announcement the new witness + appeared. + </p> + <p> + Gliding, self-propelled in his chair on wheels, through the opening made + for him among the crowd, a strange and startling creature—literally + the half of a man—revealed himself to the general view. A coverlet + which had been thrown over his chair had fallen off during his progress + through the throng. The loss of it exposed to the public curiosity the + head, the arms, and the trunk of a living human being: absolutely deprived + of the lower limbs. To make this deformity all the more striking and all + the more terrible, the victim of it was—as to his face and his body—an + unusually handsome and an unusually well-made man. His long silky hair, of + a bright and beautiful chestnut color, fell over shoulders that were the + perfection of strength and grace. His face was bright with vivacity and + intelligence. His large clear blue eyes and his long delicate white hands + were like the eyes and hands of a beautiful woman. He would have looked + effeminate but for the manly proportions of his throat and chest, aided in + their effect by his flowing beard and long mustache, of a lighter chestnut + shade than the color of his hair. Never had a magnificent head and body + been more hopelessly ill-bestowed than in this instance! Never had Nature + committed a more careless or a more cruel mistake than in the making of + this man! + </p> + <p> + He was sworn, seated, of course, in his chair. Having given his name, he + bowed to the Judges and requested their permission to preface his evidence + with a word of explanation. + </p> + <p> + “People generally laugh when they first hear my strange Christian name,” + he said, in a low, clear, resonant voice which penetrated to the remotest + corners of the Court. “I may inform the good people here that many names, + still common among us, have their significations, and that mine is one of + them. ‘Alexander,’ for instance, means, in the Greek, ‘a helper of men.’ + ‘David’ means, in Hebrew, ‘well-beloved.’ ‘Francis’ means, in German, + ‘free.’ My name, ‘Miserrimus,’ means, in Latin, ‘most unhappy.’ It was + given to me by my father, in allusion to the deformity which you all see—the + deformity with which it was my misfortune to be born. You won’t laugh at + ‘Miserrimus’ again, will you?” He turned to the Dean of Faculty, waiting + to examine him for the defense. “Mr. Dean. I am at your service. I + apologize for delaying, even for a moment, the proceedings of the Court.” + </p> + <p> + He delivered his little address with perfect grace and good-humor. + Examined by the Dean, he gave his evidence clearly, without the slightest + appearance of hesitation or reserve. + </p> + <p> + “I was staying at Gleninch as a guest in the house at the time of Mrs. + Eustace Macallan’s death,” he began. “Doctor Jerome and Mr. Gale desired + to see me at a private interview—the prisoner being then in a state + of prostration which made it impossible for him to attend to his duties as + master of the house. At this interview the two doctors astonished and + horrified me by declaring that Mrs. Eustace Macallan had died poisoned. + They left it to me to communicate the dreadful news to her husband, and + they warned me that a post-mortem examination must be held on the body. + </p> + <p> + “If the Fiscal had seen my old friend when I communicated the doctors’ + message, I doubt if he would have ventured to charge the prisoner with the + murder of his wife. To my mind the charge was nothing less than an + outrage. I resisted the seizure of the prisoner’s Diary and letters, + animated by that feeling. Now that the Diary has been produced, I agree + with the prisoner’s mother in denying that it is fair evidence to bring + against him. A Diary (when it extends beyond a bare record of facts and + dates) is nothing but an expression of the poorest and weakest side in the + character of the person who keeps it. It is, in nine cases out of ten, the + more or less contemptible outpouring of vanity and conceit which the + writer dare not exhibit to any mortal but himself. I am the prisoner’s + oldest friend. I solemnly declare that I never knew he could write + downright nonsense until I heard his Diary read in this Court! + </p> + <p> + “<i>He</i> kill his wife! <i>He</i> treat his wife with neglect and + cruelty! I venture to say, from twenty years’ experience of him, that + there is no man in this assembly who is constitutionally more incapable of + crime and more incapable of cruelty than the man who stands at the Bar. + While I am about it, I go further still. I even doubt whether a man + capable of crime and capable of cruelty could have found it in his heart + to do evil to the woman whose untimely death is the subject of this + inquiry. + </p> + <p> + “I have heard what the ignorant and prejudiced nurse, Christina Ormsay, + has said of the deceased lady. From my own personal observation, I + contradict every word of it. Mrs. Eustace Macallan—granting her + personal defects—was nevertheless one of the most charming women I + ever met with. She was highly bred, in the best sense of the word. I never + saw in any other person so sweet a smile as hers, or such grace and beauty + of movement as hers. If you liked music, she sang beautifully; and few + professed musicians had such a touch on the piano as hers. If you + preferred talking, I never yet met with the man (or even the woman, which + is saying a great deal more) whom her conversation could not charm. To say + that such a wife as this could be first cruelly neglected, and then + barbarously murdered, by the man—no! by the martyr—who stands + there, is to tell me that the sun never shines at noonday, or that the + heaven is not above the earth. + </p> + <p> + “Oh yes! I know that the letters of her friends show that she wrote to + them in bitter complaint of her husband’s conduct to her. But remember + what one of those friends (the wisest and the best of them) says in reply. + ‘I own to thinking,’ she writes, ‘that your sensitive nature exaggerates + or misinterprets the neglect that you experience at the hands of your + husband.’ There, in that one sentence, is the whole truth! Mrs. Eustace + Macallan’s nature was the imaginative, self-tormenting nature of a poet. + No mortal love could ever have been refined enough for <i>her.</i> Trifles + which women of a coarser moral fiber would have passed over without + notice, were causes of downright agony to that exquisitely sensitive + temperament. There are persons born to be unhappy. That poor lady was one + of them. When I have said this, I have said all. + </p> + <p> + “No! There is one word more still to be added. + </p> + <p> + “It may be as well to remind the prosecution that Mrs. Eustace Macallan’s + death was in the pecuniary sense a serious loss to her husband. He had + insisted on having the whole of her fortune settled on herself, and on her + relatives after her, when he married. Her income from that fortune helped + to keep in splendor the house and grounds at Gleninch. The prisoner’s own + resources (aided even by his mother’s jointure) were quite inadequate + fitly to defray the expenses of living at his splendid country-seat. + Knowing all the circumstances, I can positively assert that the wife’s + death has deprived the husband of two-thirds of his income. And the + prosecution, viewing him as the basest and cruelest of men, declares that + he deliberately killed her—with all his pecuniary interests pointing + to the preservation of her life! + </p> + <p> + “It is useless to ask me whether I noticed anything in the conduct of the + prisoner and Mrs. Beauly which might justify a wife’s jealousy. I never + observed Mrs. Beauly with any attention, and I never encouraged the + prisoner in talking to me about her. He was a general admirer of pretty + women—so far as I know, in a perfectly innocent way. That he could + prefer Mrs. Beauly to his wife is inconceivable to me, unless he were out + of his senses. I never had any reason to believe that he was out of his + senses. + </p> + <p> + “As to the question of the arsenic—I mean the question of tracing + that poison to the possession of Mrs. Eustace Macallan—I am able to + give evidence which may, perhaps, be worthy of the attention of the Court. + </p> + <p> + “I was present in the Fiscal’s office during the examination of the + papers, and of the other objects discovered at Gleninch. The dressing-case + belonging to the deceased lady was shown to me after its contents had been + officially investigated by the Fiscal himself. I happen to have a very + sensitive sense of touch. In handling the lid of the dressing-case, on the + inner side I felt something at a certain place which induced me to examine + the whole structure of the lid very carefully. The result was the + discovery of a private repository concealed in the space between the outer + wood and the lining. In that repository I found the bottle which I now + produce.” + </p> + <p> + The further examination of the witness was suspended while the hidden + bottle was compared with the bottles properly belonging to the + dressing-case. + </p> + <p> + These last were of the finest cut glass, and of a very elegant form—entirely + unlike the bottle found in the private repository, which was of the + commonest manufacture, and of the shape ordinarily in use among chemists. + Not a drop of liquid, not the smallest atom of any solid substance, + remained in it. No smell exhaled from it—and, more unfortunately + still for the interests of the defense, no label was found attached to the + bottle when it had been discovered. + </p> + <p> + The chemist who had sold the second supply of arsenic to the prisoner was + recalled and examined. He declared that the bottle was exactly like the + bottle in which he had placed the arsenic. It was, however, equally like + hundreds of other bottles in his shop. In the absence of the label (on + which he had himself written the word “Poison”), it was impossible for him + to identify the bottle. The dressing-case and the deceased lady’s bedroom + had been vainly searched for the chemist’s missing label—on the + chance that it might have become accidentally detached from the mysterious + empty bottle. In both instances the search had been without result. + Morally, it was a fair conclusion that this might be really the bottle + which had contained the poison. Legally, there was not the slightest proof + of it. + </p> + <p> + Thus ended the last effort of the defense to trace the arsenic purchased + by the prisoner to the possession of his wife. The book relating the + practices of the Styrian peasantry (found in the deceased lady’s room) had + been produced. But could the book prove that she had asked her husband to + buy arsenic for her? The crumpled paper, with the grains of powder left in + it, had been identified by the chemist, and had been declared to contain + grains of arsenic. But where was the proof that Mrs. Eustace Macallan’s + hand had placed the packet in the cabinet, and had emptied it of its + contents? No direct evidence anywhere! Nothing but conjecture! + </p> + <p> + The renewed examination of Miserrimus Dexter touched on matters of no + general interest. The cross-examination resolved itself, in substance, + into a mental trial of strength between the witness and the Lord Advocate; + the struggle terminating (according to the general opinion) in favor of + the witness. One question and one answer only I will repeat here. They + appeared to me to be of serious importance to the object that I had in + view in reading the Trial. + </p> + <p> + “I believe, Mr. Dexter,” the Lord Advocate remarked, in his most ironical + manner, “that you have a theory of your own, which makes the death of Mrs. + Eustace Macallan no mystery to <i>you?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “I may have my own ideas on that subject, as on other subjects,” the + witness replied. “But let me ask their lordships, the Judges: Am I here to + declare theories or to state facts?” + </p> + <p> + I made a note of that answer. Mr. Dexter’s “ideas” were the ideas of a + true friend to my husband, and of a man of far more than average ability. + They might be of inestimable value to me in the coming time—if I + could prevail on him to communicate them. + </p> + <p> + I may mention, while I am writing on the subject, that I added to this + first note a second, containing an observation of my own. In alluding to + Mrs. Beauly, while he was giving his evidence, Mr. Dexter had spoken of + her so slightingly—so rudely, I might almost say—as to suggest + he had some strong private reasons for disliking (perhaps for distrusting) + this lady. Here, again, it might be of vital importance to me to see Mr. + Dexter, and to clear up, if I could, what the dignity of the Court had + passed over without notice. + </p> + <p> + The last witness had been now examined. The chair on wheels glided away + with the half-man in it, and was lost in a distant corner of the Court. + The Lord Advocate rose to address the Jury for the prosecution. + </p> + <p> + I do not scruple to say that I never read anything so infamous as this + great lawyer’s speech. He was not ashamed to declare, at starting, that he + firmly believed the prisoner to be guilty. What right had he to say + anything of the sort? Was it for <i>him</i> to decide? Was he the Judge + and Jury both, I should like to know? Having begun by condemning the + prisoner on his own authority, the Lord Advocate proceeded to pervert the + most innocent actions of that unhappy man so as to give them as vile an + aspect as possible. Thus: When Eustace kissed his poor wife’s forehead on + her death-bed, he did it to create a favorable impression in the minds of + the doctor and the nurse! Again, when his grief under his bereavement + completely overwhelmed him, he was triumphing in secret, and acting a + part! If you looked into his heart, you would see there a diabolical + hatred for his wife and an infatuated passion for Mrs. Beauly! In + everything he had said he had lied; in everything he had done he had acted + like a crafty and heartless wretch! So the chief counsel for the + prosecution spoke of the prisoner, standing helpless before him at the + Bar. In my husband’s place, if I could have done nothing more, I would + have thrown something at his head. As it was, I tore the pages which + contained the speech for the prosecution out of the Report and trampled + them under my feet—and felt all the better too for having done it. + At the same time I feel a little ashamed of having revenged myself on the + harmless printed leaves now. + </p> + <p> + The fifth day of the Trial opened with the speech for the defense. Ah, + what a contrast to the infamies uttered by the Lord Advocate was the grand + burst of eloquence by the Dean of Faculty, speaking on my husband’s side! + </p> + <p> + This illustrious lawyer struck the right note at starting. + </p> + <p> + “I yield to no one,” he began, “in the pity I feel for the wife. But I + say, the martyr in this case, from first to last, is the husband. Whatever + the poor woman may have endured, that unhappy man at the Bar has suffered, + and is now suffering, more. If he had not been the kindest of men, the + most docile and most devoted of husbands, he would never have occupied his + present dreadful situation. A man of a meaner and harder nature would have + felt suspicions of his wife’s motives when she asked him to buy poison—would + have seen through the wretchedly commonplace excuses she made for wanting + it—and would have wisely and cruelly said, ‘No.’ The prisoner is not + that sort of man. He is too good to his wife, too innocent of any evil + thought toward her, or toward any one, to foresee the inconveniences and + the dangers to which his fatal compliance may expose him. And what is the + result? He stands there, branded as a murderer, because he was too + high-minded and too honorable to suspect his wife.” + </p> + <p> + Speaking thus of the husband, the Dean was just as eloquent and just as + unanswerable when he came to speak of the wife. + </p> + <p> + “The Lord Advocate,” he said, “has asked, with the bitter irony for which + he is celebrated at the Scottish Bar, why we have failed entirely to prove + that the prisoner placed the two packets of poison in the possession of + his wife. I say, in answer, we have proved, first, that the wife was + passionately attached to the husband; secondly, that she felt bitterly the + defects in her personal appearance, and especially the defects in her + complexion; and, thirdly, that she was informed of arsenic as a supposed + remedy for those defects, taken internally. To men who know anything of + human nature, there is proof enough. Does my learned friend actually + suppose that women are in the habit of mentioning the secret artifices and + applications by which they improve their personal appearance? Is it in his + experience of the sex that a woman who is eagerly bent on making herself + attractive to a man would tell that man, or tell anybody else who might + communicate with him, that the charm by which she hoped to win his heart—say + the charm of a pretty complexion—had been artificially acquired by + the perilous use of a deadly poison? The bare idea of such a thing is + absurd. Of course nobody ever heard Mrs. Eustace Macallan speak of + arsenic. Of course nobody ever surprised her in the act of taking arsenic. + It is in the evidence that she would not even confide her intention to try + the poison to the friends who had told her of it as a remedy, and who had + got her the book. She actually begged them to consider their brief + conversation on the subject as strictly private. From first to last, poor + creature, she kept her secret; just as she would have kept her secret if + she had worn false hair, or if she had been indebted to the dentist for + her teeth. And there you see her husband, in peril of his life, because a + woman acted <i>like</i> a woman—as your wives, gentlemen of the + Jury, would, in a similar position, act toward You.” + </p> + <p> + After such glorious oratory as this (I wish I had room to quote more of + it!), the next, and last, speech delivered at the Trial—that is to + say, the Charge of the Judge to the Jury—is dreary reading indeed. + </p> + <p> + His lordship first told the Jury that they could not expect to have direct + evidence of the poisoning. Such evidence hardly ever occurred in cases of + poisoning. They must be satisfied with the best circumstantial evidence. + All quite true, I dare say. But, having told the Jury they might accept + circumstantial evidence, he turned back again on his own words, and warned + them against being too ready to trust it! “You must have evidence + satisfactory and convincing to your own minds,” he said, “in which you + find no conjectures—but only irresistible and just inferences.” Who + is to decide what is a just inference? And what is circumstantial evidence + <i>but</i> conjecture? + </p> + <p> + After this specimen, I need give no further extracts from the summing up. + The Jury, thoroughly bewildered no doubt, took refuge in a compromise. + They occupied an hour in considering and debating among themselves in + their own room. (A jury of women would not have taken a minute!) Then they + returned into Court, and gave their timid and trimming Scotch Verdict in + these words: + </p> + <p> + “Not Proven.” + </p> + <p> + Some slight applause followed among the audience, which was instantly + checked. The prisoner was dismissed from the Bar. He slowly retired, like + a man in deep grief: his head sunk on his breast—not looking at any + one, and not replying when his friends spoke to him. He knew, poor fellow, + the slur that the Verdict left on him. “We don’t say you are innocent of + the crime charged against you; we only say there is not evidence enough to + convict you.” In that lame and impotent conclusion the proceedings ended + at the time. And there they would have remained for all time—but for + Me. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXI. I SEE MY WAY. + </h2> + <p> + IN the gray light of the new morning I closed the Report of my husband’s + Trial for the Murder of his first Wife. + </p> + <p> + No sense of fatigue overpowered me. I had no wish, after my long hours of + reading and thinking, to lie down and sleep. It was strange, but it was + so. I felt as if I <i>had</i> slept, and had now just awakened—a new + woman, with a new mind. + </p> + <p> + I could now at last understand Eustace’s desertion of me. To a man of his + refinement it would have been a martyrdom to meet his wife after she had + read the things published of him to all the world in the Report. I felt + that as he would have felt it. At the same time I thought he might have + trusted Me to make amends to him for the martyrdom, and might have come + back. Perhaps it might yet end in his coming back. In the meanwhile, and + in that expectation, I pitied and forgave him with my whole heart. + </p> + <p> + One little matter only dwelt on my mind disagreeably, in spite of my + philosophy. Did Eustace still secretly love Mrs. Beauly? or had I + extinguished that passion in him? To what order of beauty did this lady + belong? Were we by any chance, the least in the world like one another? + </p> + <p> + The window of my room looked to the east. I drew up the blind, and saw the + sun rising grandly in a clear sky. The temptation to go out and breathe + the fresh morning air was irresistible. I put on my hat and shawl, and + took the Report of the Trial under my arm. The bolts of the back door were + easily drawn. In another minute I was out in Benjamin’s pretty little + garden. + </p> + <p> + Composed and strengthened by the inviting solitude and the delicious air, + I found courage enough to face the serious question that now confronted me—the + question of the future. + </p> + <p> + I had read the Trial. I had vowed to devote my life to the sacred object + of vindicating my husband’s innocence. A solitary, defenseless woman, I + stood pledged to myself to carry that desperate resolution through to an + end. How was I to begin? + </p> + <p> + The bold way of beginning was surely the wise way in such a position as + mine. I had good reasons (founded, as I have already mentioned, on the + important part played by this witness at the Trial) for believing that the + fittest person to advise and assist me was—Miserrimus Dexter. He + might disappoint the expectations that I had fixed on him, or he might + refuse to help me, or (like my uncle Starkweather) he might think I had + taken leave of my senses. All these events were possible. Nevertheless, I + held to my resolution to try the experiment. If he were in the land of the + living, I decided that my first step at starting should take me to the + deformed man with the strange name. + </p> + <p> + Supposing he received me, sympathized with me, understood me? What would + he say? The nurse, in her evidence, had reported him as speaking in an + off-hand manner. He would say, in all probability, “What do you mean to + do? And how can I help you to do it?” + </p> + <p> + Had I answers ready if those two plain questions were put to me? Yes! if I + dared own to any human creature what was at that very moment secretly + fermenting in my mind. Yes! if I could confide to a stranger a suspicion + roused in me by the Trial which I have been thus far afraid to mention + even in these pages! + </p> + <p> + It must, nevertheless, be mentioned now. My suspicion led to results which + are part of my story and part of my life. + </p> + <p> + Let me own, then, to begin with, that I closed the record of the Trial + actually agreeing in one important particular with the opinion of my enemy + and my husband’s enemy—the Lord Advocate! He had characterized the + explanation of Mrs. Eustace Macallan’s death offered by the defense as a + “clumsy subterfuge, in which no reasonable being could discern the + smallest fragment of probability.” Without going quite so far as this, I, + too, could see no reason whatever in the evidence for assuming that the + poor woman had taken an overdose of the poison by mistake. I believed that + she had the arsenic secretly in her possession, and that she had tried, or + intended to try, the use of it internally, for the purpose of improving + her complexion. But further than this I could not advance. The more I + thought of it, the more plainly justified the lawyers for the prosecution + seemed to me to be in declaring that Mrs. Eustace Macallan had died by the + hand of a poisoner—although they were entirely and certainly + mistaken in charging my husband with the crime. + </p> + <p> + My husband being innocent, somebody else, on my own showing, must be + guilty. Who among the persons inhabiting the house at the time had + poisoned Mrs. Eustace Macallan? My suspicion in answering that question + pointed straight to a woman. And the name of that woman was—Mrs. + Beauly! + </p> + <p> + Yes! To that startling conclusion I had arrived. It was, to my mind, the + inevitable result of reading the evidence. + </p> + <p> + Look back for a moment to the letter produced in court, signed “Helena,” + and addressed to Mr. Macallan. No reasonable person can doubt (though the + Judges excused her from answering the question) that Mrs. Beauly was the + writer. Very well. The letter offers, as I think, trustworthy evidence to + show the state of the woman’s mind when she paid her visit to Gleninch. + </p> + <p> + Writing to Mr. Macallan, at a time when she was married to another man—a + man to whom she had engaged herself before she met with Mr. Macallan what + does she say? She says, “When I think of your life sacrificed to that + wretched woman, my heart bleeds for you.” And, again, she says, “If it had + been my unutterable happiness to love and cherish the best, the dearest of + men, what a paradise of our own we might have lived in, what delicious + hours we might have known!” + </p> + <p> + If this is not the language of a woman shamelessly and furiously in love + with a man—not her husband—what is? She is so full of him that + even her idea of another world (see the letter) is the idea of “embracing” + Mr. Macallan’s “soul.” In this condition of mind and morals, the lady one + day finds herself and her embraces free, through the death of her husband. + As soon as she can decently visit she goes visiting; and in due course of + time she becomes the guest of the man whom she adores. His wife is ill in + her bed. The one other visitor at Gleninch is a cripple, who can only move + in his chair on wheels. The lady has the house and the one beloved object + in it all to herself. No obstacle stands between her and “the unutterable + happiness of loving and cherishing the best, the dearest of men” but a + poor, sick, ugly wife, for whom Mr. Macallan never has felt, and never can + feel, the smallest particle of love. + </p> + <p> + Is it perfectly absurd to believe that such a woman as this, impelled by + these motives, and surrounded by these circumstances, would be capable of + committing a crime—if the safe opportunity offered itself? + </p> + <p> + What does her own evidence say? + </p> + <p> + She admits that she had a conversation with Mrs. Eustace Macallan, in + which that lady questioned her on the subject of cosmetic applications to + the complexion. Did nothing else take place at that interview? Did Mrs. + Beauly make no discoveries (afterward turned to fatal account) of the + dangerous experiment which her hostess was then trying to improve her ugly + complexion? All we know is that Mrs. Beauly said nothing about it. + </p> + <p> + What does the under-gardener say? + </p> + <p> + He heard a conversation between Mr. Macallan and Mrs. Beauly, which shows + that the possibility of Mrs. Beauly becoming Mrs. Eustace Macallan had + certainly presented itself to that lady’s mind, and was certainly + considered by her to be too dangerous a topic of discourse to be pursued. + Innocent Mr. Macallan would have gone on talking. Mrs. Beauly is discreet + and stops him. + </p> + <p> + And what does the nurse (Christina Ormsay) tell us? + </p> + <p> + On the day of Mrs. Eustace Macallan’s death, the nurse is dismissed from + attendance, and is sent downstairs. She leaves the sick woman, recovered + from her first attack of illness, and able to amuse herself with writing. + The nurse remains away for half an hour, and then gets uneasy at not + hearing the invalid’s bell. She goes to the Morning-Room to consult Mr. + Macallan, and there she hears that Mrs. Beauly is missing. Mr. Macallan + doesn’t know where she is, and asks Mr. Dexter if he has seen her. Mr. + Dexter had not set eyes on her. At what time does the disappearance of + Mrs. Beauly take place? At the very time when Christina Ormsay had left + Mrs. Eustace Macallan alone in her room! + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile the bell rings at last—rings violently. The nurse goes + back to the sick-room at five minutes to eleven, or thereabouts, and finds + that the bad symptoms of the morning have returned in a gravely aggravated + form. A second dose of poison—larger than the dose administered in + the early morning—has been given during the absence of the nurse, + and (observe) during the disappearance also of Mrs. Beauly. The nurse + looking out into the corridor for help, encounters Mrs. Beauly herself, + innocently on her way from her own room—just up, we are to suppose, + at eleven in the morning!—to inquire after the sick woman. + </p> + <p> + A little later Mrs. Beauly accompanies Mr. Macallan to visit the invalid. + The dying woman casts a strange look at both of them, and tells them to + leave her. Mr. Macallan understands this as the fretful outbreak of a + person in pain, and waits in the room to tell the nurse that the doctor is + sent for. What does Mrs. Beauly do? + </p> + <p> + She runs out panic-stricken the instant Mrs. Eustace Macallan looks at + her. Even Mrs. Beauly, it seems, has a conscience! + </p> + <p> + Is there nothing to justify suspicion in such circumstances as these—circumstances + sworn to on the oaths of the witnesses? + </p> + <p> + To me the conclusion is plain. Mrs. Beauly’s hand gave that second dose of + poison. Admit this; and the inference follows that she also gave the first + dose in the early morning. How could she do it? Look again at the + evidence. The nurse admits that she was asleep from past two in the + morning to six. She also speaks of a locked door of communication with the + sickroom, the key of which had been removed, nobody knew by whom. Some + person must have stolen that key. Why not Mrs. Beauly? + </p> + <p> + One word more, and all that I had in my mind at that time will be honestly + revealed. + </p> + <p> + Miserrimus Dexter, under cross-examination, had indirectly admitted that + he had ideas of his own on the subject of Mrs. Eustace Macallan’s death. + At the same time he had spoken of Mrs. Beauly in a tone which plainly + betrayed that he was no friend to that lady. Did <i>he</i> suspect her + too? My chief motive in deciding to ask his advice before I applied to any + one else was to find an opportunity of putting that question to him. If he + really thought of her as I did, my course was clear before me. The next + step to take would be carefully to conceal my identity—and then to + present myself, in the character of a harmless stranger, to Mrs. Beauly. + </p> + <p> + There were difficulties, of course, in my way. The first and greatest + difficulty was to obtain an introduction to Miserrimus Dexter. + </p> + <p> + The composing influence of the fresh air in the garden had by this time + made me readier to lie down and rest than to occupy my mind in reflecting + on my difficulties. Little by little I grew too drowsy to think—then + too lazy to go on walking. My bed looked wonderfully inviting as I passed + by the open window of my room. + </p> + <p> + In five minutes more I had accepted the invitation of the bed, and had + said farewell to my anxieties and my troubles. In five minutes more I was + fast asleep. + </p> + <p> + A discreetly gentle knock at my door was the first sound that aroused me. + I heard the voice of my good old Benjamin speaking outside. + </p> + <p> + “My dear! I am afraid you will be starved if I let you sleep any longer. + It is half-past one o’clock; and a friend of yours has come to lunch with + us.” + </p> + <p> + A friend of mine? What friends had I? My husband was far away; and my + uncle Starkweather had given me up in despair. + </p> + <p> + “Who is it?” I cried out from my bed, through the door. + </p> + <p> + “Major Fitz-David,” Benjamin answered, by the same medium. + </p> + <p> + I sprang out of bed. The very man I wanted was waiting to see me! Major + Fitz-David, as the phrase is, knew everybody. Intimate with my husband, he + would certainly know my husband’s old friend—Miserrimus Dexter. + </p> + <p> + Shall I confess that I took particular pains with my toilet, and that I + kept the luncheon waiting? The woman doesn’t live who would have done + otherwise—when she had a particular favor to ask of Major + Fitz-David. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXII. THE MAJOR MAKES DIFFICULTIES. + </h2> + <p> + As I opened the dining-room door the Major hastened to meet me. He looked + the brightest and the youngest of living elderly gentlemen, with his smart + blue frock-coat, his winning smile, his ruby ring, and his ready + compliment. It was quite cheering to meet the modern Don Juan once more. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t ask after your health,” said the old gentleman; “your eyes answer + me, my dear lady, before I can put the question. At your age a long sleep + is the true beauty-draught. Plenty of bed—there is the simple secret + of keeping your good looks and living a long life—plenty of bed!” + </p> + <p> + “I have not been so long in my bed, Major, as you suppose. To tell the + truth, I have been up all night, reading.” + </p> + <p> + Major Fitz-David lifted his well-painted eyebrows in polite surprise. + </p> + <p> + “What is the happy book which has interested you so deeply?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “The book,” I answered, “is the Trial of my husband for the murder of his + first wife.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t mention that horrid book!” he exclaimed. “Don’t speak of that + dreadful subject! What have beauty and grace to do with Trials, + Poisonings, Horrors? Why, my charming friend, profane your lips by talking + of such things? Why frighten away the Loves and the Graces that lie hid in + your smile. Humor an old fellow who adores the Loves and the Graces, and + who asks nothing better than to sun himself in your smiles. Luncheon is + ready. Let us be cheerful. Let us laugh and lunch.” + </p> + <p> + He led me to the table, and filled my plate and my glass with the air of a + man who considered himself to be engaged in one of the most important + occupations of his life. Benjamin kept the conversation going in the + interval. + </p> + <p> + “Major Fitz-David brings you some news, my dear,” he said. “Your + mother-in-law, Mrs. Macallan, is coming here to see you to-day.” + </p> + <p> + My mother-in-law coming to see me! I turned eagerly to the Major for + further information. + </p> + <p> + “Has Mrs. Macallan heard anything of my husband?” I asked. “Is she coming + here to tell me about him?” + </p> + <p> + “She has heard from him, I believe,” said the Major, “and she has also + heard from your uncle the vicar. Our excellent Starkweather has written to + her—to what purpose I have not been informed. I only know that on + receipt of his letter she has decided on paying you a visit. I met the old + lady last night at a party, and I tried hard to discover whether she were + coming to you as your friend or your enemy. My powers of persuasion were + completely thrown away on her. The fact is,” said the Major, speaking in + the character of a youth of five-and-twenty making a modest confession, “I + don’t get on well with old women. Take the will for the deed, my sweet + friend. I have tried to be of some use to you and have failed.” + </p> + <p> + Those words offered me the opportunity for which I was waiting. I + determined not to lose it. + </p> + <p> + “You can be of the greatest use to me,” I said, “if you will allow me to + presume, Major, on your past kindness. I want to ask you a question; and I + may have a favor to beg when you have answered me.” + </p> + <p> + Major Fitz-David set down his wine-glass on its way to his lips, and + looked at me with an appearance of breathless interest. + </p> + <p> + “Command me, my dear lady—I am yours and yours only,” said the + gallant old gentleman. “What do you wish to ask me?” + </p> + <p> + “I wish to ask if you know Miserrimus Dexter.” + </p> + <p> + “Good Heavens!” cried the Major; “that <i>is</i> an unexpected question! + Know Miserrimus Dexter? I have known him for more years than I like to + reckon up. What <i>can</i> be your object—” + </p> + <p> + “I can tell you what my object is in two words,” I interposed. “I want you + to give me an introduction to Miserrimus Dexter.” + </p> + <p> + My impression is that the Major turned pale under his paint. This, at any + rate, is certain—his sparkling little gray eyes looked at me in + undisguised bewilderment and alarm. + </p> + <p> + “You want to know Miserrimus Dexter?” he repeated, with the air of a man + who doubted the evidence of his own senses. “Mr. Benjamin, have I taken + too much of your excellent wine? Am I the victim of a delusion—or + did our fair friend really ask me to give her an introduction to + Miserrimus Dexter?” + </p> + <p> + Benjamin looked at me in some bewilderment on his side, and answered, + quite seriously, + </p> + <p> + “I think you said so, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “I certainly said so,” I rejoined. “What is there so very surprising in my + request?” + </p> + <p> + “The man is mad!” cried the Major. “In all England you could not have + picked out a person more essentially unfit to be introduced to a lady—to + a young lady especially—than Dexter. Have you heard of his horrible + deformity?” + </p> + <p> + “I have heard of it—and it doesn’t daunt me.” + </p> + <p> + “Doesn’t daunt you? My dear lady, the man’s mind is as deformed as his + body. What Voltaire said satirically of the character of his countrymen in + general is literally true of Miserrimus Dexter. He is a mixture of the + tiger and the monkey. At one moment he would frighten you, and at the next + he would set you screaming with laughter. I don’t deny that he is clever + in some respects—brilliantly clever, I admit. And I don’t say that + he has ever committed any acts of violence, or ever willingly injured + anybody. But, for all that, he is mad, if ever a man were mad yet. Forgive + me if the inquiry is impertinent. What can your motive possibly be for + wanting an introduction to Miserrimus Dexter?” + </p> + <p> + “I want to consult him?” + </p> + <p> + “May I ask on what subject?” + </p> + <p> + “On the subject of my husband’s Trial.” + </p> + <p> + Major Fitz-David groaned, and sought a momentary consolation in his friend + Benjamin’s claret. + </p> + <p> + “That dreadful subject again!” he exclaimed. “Mr. Benjamin, why does she + persist in dwelling on that dreadful subject?” + </p> + <p> + “I must dwell on what is now the one employment and the one hope of my + life,” I said. “I have reason to hope that Miserrimus Dexter can help me + to clear my husband’s character of the stain which the Scotch Verdict has + left on it. Tiger and monkey as he may be, I am ready to run the risk of + being introduced to him. And I ask you again—rashly and obstinately + as I fear you will think—to give me the introduction. It will put + you to no inconvenience. I won’t trouble you to escort me; a letter to Mr. + Dexter will do.” + </p> + <p> + The Major looked piteously at Benjamin, and shook his head. Benjamin + looked piteously at the Major, and shook <i>his</i> head. + </p> + <p> + “She appears to insist on it,” said the Major. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Benjamin. “She appears to insist on it.” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t take the responsibility, Mr. Benjamin, of sending her alone to + Miserrimus Dexter.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I go with her, sir?” + </p> + <p> + The Major reflected. Benjamin, in the capacity of protector, did not + appear to inspire our military friend with confidence. After a moment’s + consideration a new idea seemed to strike him. He turned to me. + </p> + <p> + “My charming friend,” he said, “be more charming than ever—consent + to a compromise. Let us treat this difficulty about Dexter from a social + point of view. What do you say to a little dinner?” + </p> + <p> + “A little dinner?” I repeated, not in the least understanding him. + </p> + <p> + “A little dinner,” the Major reiterated, “at my house. You insist on my + introducing you to Dexter, and I refuse to trust you alone with that + crack-brained personage. The only alternative under the circumstances is + to invite him to meet you, and to let you form your own opinion of him—under + the protection of my roof. Who shall we have to meet you besides?” pursued + the Major, brightening with hospitable intentions. “We want a perfect + galaxy of beauty around the table, as a species of compensation when we + have got Miserrimus Dexter as one the guests. Madame Mirliflore is still + in London. You would be sure to like her—she is charming; she + possesses your firmness, your extraordinary tenacity of purpose. Yes, we + will have Madame Mirliflore. Who else? Shall we say Lady Clarinda? Another + charming person, Mr. Benjamin! You would be sure to admire her—she + is so sympathetic, she resembles in so many respects our fair friend here. + Yes, Lady Clarinda shall be one of us; and you shall sit next to her, Mr. + Benjamin, as a proof of my sincere regard for you. Shall we have my young + prima donna to sing to us in the evening? think so. She is pretty; she + will assist in obscuring the deformity of Dexter. Very well; there is our + party complete! I will shut myself up this evening and approach the + question of dinner with my cook. Shall we say this day week,” asked the + Major, taking out his pocketbook, “at eight o’clock?” + </p> + <p> + I consented to the proposed compromise—but not very willingly. With + a letter of introduction, I might have seen Miserrimus Dexter that + afternoon. As it was, the “little dinner” compelled me to wait in absolute + inaction through a whole week. However, there was no help for it but to + submit. Major Fitz-David, in his polite way, could be as obstinate as I + was. He had evidently made up his mind; and further opposition on my part + would be of no service to me. + </p> + <p> + “Punctually at eight, Mr. Benjamin,” reiterated the Major. “Put it down in + your book.” + </p> + <p> + Benjamin obeyed—with a side look at me, which I was at no loss to + interpret. My good old friend did not relish meeting a man at dinner who + was described as “half tiger, half monkey;” and the privilege of sitting + next to Lady Clarinda rather daunted than delighted him. It was all my + doing, and he too had no choice but to submit. “Punctually at eight, sir,” + said poor old Benjamin, obediently recording his formidable engagement. + “Please to take another glass of wine.” + </p> + <p> + The Major looked at his watch, and rose—with fluent apologies for + abruptly leaving the table. + </p> + <p> + “It is later than I thought,” he said. “I have an appointment with a + friend—a female friend; a most attractive person. You a little + remind me of her, my dear lady—you resemble her in complexion: the + same creamy paleness. I adore creamy paleness. As I was saying, I have an + appointment with my friend; she does me the honor to ask my opinion on + some very remarkable specimens of old lace. I have studied old lace. I + study everything that can make me useful or agreeable to your enchanting + sex. You won’t forget our little dinner? I will send Dexter his invitation + the moment I get home.” He took my hand and looked at it critically, with + his head a little on one side. “A delicious hand,” he said; “you don’t + mind my looking at it—you don’t mind my kissing it, do you? A + delicious hand is one of my weaknesses. Forgive my weaknesses. I promise + to repent and amend one of these days.” + </p> + <p> + “At your age, Major, do you think you have much time to lose?” asked a + strange voice, speaking behind us. + </p> + <p> + We all three looked around toward the door. There stood my husband’s + mother, smiling satirically, with Benjamin’s shy little maid-servant + waiting to announce her. + </p> + <p> + Major Fitz-David was ready with his answer. + </p> + <p> + The old soldier was not easily taken by surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Age, my dear Mrs. Macallan, is a purely relative expression,” he said. + “There are some people who are never young, and there are other people who + are never old. I am one of the other people. <i>Au revoir!</i>” + </p> + <p> + With that answer the incorrigible Major kissed the tips of his fingers to + us and walked out. Benjamin, bowing with his old-fashioned courtesy, threw + open the door of his little library, and, inviting Mrs. Macallan and + myself to pass in, left us together in the room. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIII + </h2> + <p> + MY MOTHER-IN-LAW SURPRISES ME. + </p> + <p> + I TOOK a chair at a respectful distance from the sofa on which Mrs. + Macallan seated herself. The old lady smiled, and beckoned to me to take + my place by her side. Judging by appearances, she had certainly not come + to see me in the character of an enemy. It remained to be discovered + whether she were really disposed to be my friend. + </p> + <p> + “I have received a letter from your uncle the vicar,” she began. “He asks + me to visit you, and I am happy—for reasons which you shall + presently hear—to comply with his request. Under other circumstances + I doubt very much, my dear child—strange as the confession may + appear—whether I should have ventured into your presence. My son has + behaved to you so weakly, and (in my opinion) so inexcusably, that I am + really, speaking as his mother, almost ashamed to face you.” + </p> + <p> + Was she in earnest? I listened to her and looked at her in amazement. + </p> + <p> + “Your uncle’s letter,” pursued Mrs. Macallan, “tells me how you have + behaved under your hard trial, and what you propose to do now Eustace has + left you. Doctor Starkweather, poor man, seems to be inexpressibly shocked + by what you said to him when he was in London. He begs me to use my + influence to induce you to abandon your present ideas, and to make you + return to your old home at the Vicarage. I don’t in the least agree with + your uncle, my dear. Wild as I believe your plans to be—you have not + the slightest chance of succeeding in carrying them out—I admire + your courage, your fidelity, your unshaken faith in my unhappy son, after + his unpardonable behavior to you. You are a fine creature, Valeria, and I + have come here to tell you so in plain words. Give me a kiss, child. You + deserve to be the wife of a hero, and you have married one of the weakest + of living mortals. God forgive me for speaking so of my own son; but it’s + in my mind, and it must come out!” + </p> + <p> + This way of speaking of Eustace was more than I could suffer, even from + his mother. I recovered the use of my tongue in my husband’s defense. + </p> + <p> + “I am sincerely proud of your good opinion, dear Mrs. Macallan,” I said. + “But you distress me—forgive me if I own it plainly—when I + hear you speak so disparagingly of Eustace. I cannot agree with you that + my husband is the weakest of living mortals.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not!” retorted the old lady. “You are like all good women—you + make a hero of the man you love,—whether he deserve it or not. Your + husband has hosts of good qualities, child—and perhaps I know them + better than you do. But his whole conduct, from the moment when he first + entered your uncle’s house to the present time, has been, I say again, the + conduct of an essentially weak man. What do you think he has done now by + way of climax? He has joined a charitable brotherhood; and he is off to + the war in Spain with a red cross on his arm, when he ought to be here on + his knees, asking his wife to forgive him. I say that is the conduct of a + weak man. Some people might call it by a harder name.” + </p> + <p> + This news startled and distressed me. I might be resigned to his leaving + me for a time; but all my instincts as a woman revolted at his placing + himself in a position of danger during his separation from his wife. He + had now deliberately added to my anxieties. I thought it cruel of him—but + I would not confess what I thought to his mother. I affected to be as cool + as she was; and I disputed her conclusions with all the firmness that I + could summon to help me. The terrible old woman only went on abusing him + more vehemently than ever. + </p> + <p> + “What I complain of in my son,” proceeded Mrs. Macallan, “is that he has + entirely failed to understand you. If he had married a fool, his conduct + would be intelligible enough. He would have done wisely to conceal from a + fool that he had been married already, and that he had suffered the horrid + public exposure of a Trial for the murder of his wife. Then, again, he + would have been quite right, when this same fool had discovered the truth, + to take himself out of her way before she could suspect him of poisoning + her—for the sake of the peace and quiet of both parties. But you are + not a fool. I can see that, after only a short experience of you. Why + can’t he see it too? Why didn’t he trust you with his secret from the + first, instead of stealing his way into your affections under an assumed + name? Why did he plan (as he confessed to me) to take you away to the + Mediterranean, and to keep you abroad, for fear of some officious friends + at home betraying him to you as the prisoner of the famous Trial? What is + the plain answer to all these questions? What is the one possible + explanation of this otherwise unaccountable conduct? There is only one + answer, and one explanation. My poor, wretched son—he takes after + his father; he isn’t the least like me!—is weak: weak in his way of + judging, weak in his way of acting, and, like all weak people, headstrong + and unreasonable to the last degree. There is the truth! Don’t get red and + angry. I am as fond of him as you are. I can see his merits too. And one + of them is that he has married a woman of spirit and resolution—so + faithful and so fond of him that she won’t even let his own mother tell + her of his faults. Good child! I like you for hating me!” + </p> + <p> + “Dear madam, don’t say that I hate you!” I exclaimed (feeling very much as + if I did hate her, though, for all that). “I only presume to think that + you are confusing a delicate-minded man with a weak-minded man. Our dear + unhappy Eustace—” + </p> + <p> + “Is a delicate-minded man,” said the impenetrable Mrs. Macallan, finishing + my sentence for me. “We will leave it there, my dear, and get on to + another subject. I wonder whether we shall disagree about that too?” + </p> + <p> + “What is the subject, madam?” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t tell you if you call me madam. Call me mother. Say, ‘What is the + subject, mother?’” + </p> + <p> + “What is the subject, mother?” + </p> + <p> + “Your notion of turning yourself into a Court of Appeal for a new Trial of + Eustace, and forcing the world to pronounce a just verdict on him. Do you + really mean to try it?” + </p> + <p> + “I do!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Macallan considered for a moment grimly with herself. + </p> + <p> + “You know how heartily I admire your courage, and your devotion to my + unfortunate son,” she said. “You know by this time that <i>I</i> don’t + cant. But I cannot see you attempt to perform impossibilities; I cannot + let you uselessly risk your reputation and your happiness without warning + you before it is too late. My child, the thing you have got it in your + head to do is not to be done by you or by anybody. Give it up.” + </p> + <p> + “I am deeply obliged to you, Mrs. Macallan—” + </p> + <p> + “‘Mother!’” + </p> + <p> + “I am deeply obliged to you, mother, for the interest that you take in me, + but I cannot give it up. Right or wrong, risk or no risk, I must and I + will try it!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Macallan looked at me very attentively, and sighed to herself. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, youth, youth!” she said to herself, sadly. “What a grand thing it is + to be young!” She controlled the rising regret, and turned on me suddenly, + almost fiercely, with these words: “What, in God’s name, do you mean to + do?” + </p> + <p> + At the instant when she put the question, the idea crossed my mind that + Mrs. Macallan could introduce me, if she pleased, to Miserrimus Dexter. + She must know him, and know him well, as a guest at Gleninch and an old + friend of her son. + </p> + <p> + “I mean to consult Miserrimus Dexter,” I answered, boldly. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Macallan started back from me with a loud exclamation of surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Are you out of your senses?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + I told her, as I had told Major Fitz-David, that I had reason to think Mr. + Dexter’s advice might be of real assistance to me at starting. + </p> + <p> + “And I,” rejoined Mrs. Macallan, “have reason to think that your whole + project is a mad one, and that in asking Dexter’s advice on it you + appropriately consult a madman. You needn’t start, child! There is no harm + in the creature. I don’t mean that he will attack you, or be rude to you. + I only say that the last person whom a young woman, placed in your painful + and delicate position, ought to associate herself with is Miserrimus + Dexter.” + </p> + <p> + Strange! Here was the Major’s warning repeated by Mrs. Macallan, almost in + the Major’s own words. Well! It shared the fate of most warnings. It only + made me more and more eager to have my own way. + </p> + <p> + “You surprise me very much,” I said. “Mr. Dexter’s evidence, given at the + Trial, seems as clear and reasonable as evidence can be.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course it is!” answered Mrs. Macallan. “The shorthand writers and + reporters put his evidence into presentable language before they printed + it. If you had heard what he really said, as I did, you would have been + either very much disgusted with him or very much amused by him, according + to your way of looking at things. He began, fairly enough, with a modest + explanation of his absurd Christian name, which at once checked the + merriment of the audience. But as he went on the mad side of him showed + itself. He mixed up sense and nonsense in the strangest confusion; he was + called to order over and over again; he was even threatened with fine and + imprisonment for contempt of Court. In short, he was just like himself—a + mixture of the strangest and the most opposite qualities; at one time + perfectly clear and reasonable, as you said just now; at another breaking + out into rhapsodies of the most outrageous kind, like a man in a state of + delirium. A more entirely unfit person to advise anybody, I tell you + again, never lived. You don’t expect Me to introduce you to him, I hope?” + </p> + <p> + “I did think of such a thing,” I answered. “But after what you have said, + dear Mrs. Macallan, I give up the idea, of course. It is not a great + sacrifice—it only obliges me to wait a week for Major Fitz-David’s + dinner-party. He has promised to ask Miserrimus Dexter to meet me.” + </p> + <p> + “There is the Major all over!” cried the old lady. “If you pin your faith + on that man, I pity you. He is as slippery as an eel. I suppose you asked + him to introduce you to Dexter?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly! Dexter despises him, my dear. He knows as well as I do that + Dexter won’t go to his dinner. And he takes that roundabout way of keeping + you apart, instead of saying No to you plainly, like an honest man.” + </p> + <p> + This was bad news. But I was, as usual, too obstinate to own myself + defeated. + </p> + <p> + “If the worst comes to the worst,” I said, “I can but write to Mr. Dexter, + and beg him to grant me an interview.” + </p> + <p> + “And go to him by yourself, if he does grant it?” inquired Mrs. Macallan. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. By myself.” + </p> + <p> + “You really mean it?” + </p> + <p> + “I do, indeed.” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t allow you to go by yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “May I venture to ask, ma’am how you propose to prevent me?” + </p> + <p> + “By going with you, to be sure, you obstinate hussy! Yes, yes—I can + be as headstrong as you are when I like. Mind! I don’t want to know what + your plans are. I don’t want to be mixed up with your plans. My son is + resigned to the Scotch Verdict. I am resigned to the Scotch Verdict. It is + you who won’t let matters rest as they are. You are a vain and foolhardy + young person. But, somehow, I have taken a liking to you, and I won’t let + you go to Miserrimus Dexter by yourself. Put on your bonnet!” + </p> + <p> + “Now?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly! My carriage is at the door. And the sooner it’s over the + better I shall be pleased. Get ready—and be quick about it!” + </p> + <p> + I required no second bidding. In ten minutes more we were on our way to + Miserrimus Dexter. + </p> + <p> + Such was the result of my mother-in-law’s visit! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIV. MISERRIMUS DEXTER—FIRST VIEW. + </h2> + <p> + WE had dawdled over our luncheon before Mrs. Macallan arrived at + Benjamin’s cottage. The ensuing conversation between the old lady and + myself (of which I have only presented a brief abstract) lasted until + quite late in the afternoon. The sun was setting in heavy clouds when we + got into the carriage, and the autumn twilight began to fall around us + while we were still on the road. + </p> + <p> + The direction in which we drove took us (as well as I could judge) toward + the great northern suburb of London. + </p> + <p> + For more than an hour the carriage threaded its way through a dingy brick + labyrinth of streets, growing smaller and smaller and dirtier and dirtier + the further we went. Emerging from the labyrinth, I noticed in the + gathering darkness dreary patches of waste ground which seemed to be + neither town nor country. Crossing these, we passed some forlorn outlying + groups of houses with dim little scattered shops among them, looking like + lost country villages wandering on the way to London, disfigured and + smoke-dried already by their journey. Darker and darker and drearier and + drearier the prospect drew, until the carriage stopped at last, and Mrs. + Macallan announced, in her sharply satirical way, that we had reached the + end of our journey. “Prince Dexter’s Palace, my dear,” she said. “What do + you think of it?” + </p> + <p> + I looked around me, not knowing what to think of it, if the truth must be + told. + </p> + <p> + We had got out of the carriage, and we were standing on a rough half-made + gravel-path. Right and left of me, in the dim light, I saw the + half-completed foundations of new houses in their first stage of + existence. Boards and bricks were scattered about us. At places gaunt + scaffolding poles rose like the branchless trees of the brick desert. + Behind us, on the other side of the high-road, stretched another plot of + waste ground, as yet not built on. Over the surface of this second desert + the ghostly white figures of vagrant ducks gleamed at intervals in the + mystic light. In front of us, at a distance of two hundred yards or so as + well as I could calculate, rose a black mass, which gradually resolved + itself, as my eyes became accustomed to the twilight, into a long, low, + and ancient house, with a hedge of evergreens and a pitch-black paling in + front of it. The footman led the way toward the paling through the boards + and the bricks, the oyster shells and the broken crockery, that strewed + the ground. And this was “Prince Dexter’s Palace!” + </p> + <p> + There was a gate in the pitch-black paling, and a bell-handle—discovered + with great difficulty. Pulling at the handle, the footman set in motion, + to judge by the sound produced, a bell of prodigious size, fitter for a + church than a house. + </p> + <p> + While we were waiting for admission, Mrs. Macallan pointed to the low, + dark line of the old building. + </p> + <p> + “There is one of his madnesses,” she said. “The speculators in this new + neighborhood have offered him I don’t know how many thousand pounds for + the ground that house stands on. It was originally the manor-house of the + district. Dexter purchased it many years since in one of his freaks of + fancy. He has no old family associations with the place; the walls are all + but tumbling about his ears; and the money offered would really be of use + to him. But no! He refused the proposal of the enterprising speculators by + letter in these words: ‘My house is a standing monument of the picturesque + and beautiful, amid the mean, dishonest, and groveling constructions of a + mean, dishonest, and groveling age. I keep my house, gentlemen, as a + useful lesson to you. Look at it while you are building around me, and + blush, if you can, for your work.’ Was there ever such an absurd letter + written yet? Hush! I hear footsteps in the garden. Here comes his cousin. + His cousin is a woman. I may as well tell you that, or you might mistake + her for a man in the dark.” + </p> + <p> + A rough, deep voice, which I should certainly never have supposed to be + the voice of a woman, hailed us from the inner side of the paling. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s there?” + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Macallan,” answered my mother-in-law. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “We want to see Dexter.” + </p> + <p> + “You can’t see him.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “What did you say your name was?” + </p> + <p> + “Macallan. Mrs. Macallan. Eustace Macallan’s mother. <i>Now</i> do you + understand?” + </p> + <p> + The voice muttered and grunted behind the paling, and a key turned in the + lock of the gate. + </p> + <p> + Admitted to the garden, in the deep shadow of the shrubs, I could see + nothing distinctly of the woman with the rough voice, except that she wore + a man’s hat. Closing the gate behind us, without a word of welcome or + explanation, she led the way to the house. Mrs. Macallan followed her + easily, knowing the place; and I walked in Mrs. Macallan’s footsteps as + closely as I could. “This is a nice family,” my mother-in-law whispered to + me. “Dexter’s cousin is the only woman in the house—and Dexter’s + cousin is an idiot.” + </p> + <p> + We entered a spacious hall with a low ceiling, dimly lighted at its + further end by one small oil-lamp. I could see that there were pictures on + the grim, brown walls, but the subjects represented were invisible in the + obscure and shadowy light. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Macallan addressed herself to the speechless cousin with the man’s + hat. + </p> + <p> + “Now tell me,” she said. “Why can’t we see Dexter?” + </p> + <p> + The cousin took a sheet of paper off the table, and handed it to Mrs. + Macallan. + </p> + <p> + “The Master’s writing,” said this strange creature, in a hoarse whisper, + as if the bare idea of “the Master” terrified her. “Read it. And stay or + go, which you please.” + </p> + <p> + She opened an invisible side door in the wall, masked by one of the + pictures—disappeared through it like a ghost—and left us + together alone in the hall. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Macallan approached the oil-lamp, and looked by its light at the + sheet of paper which the woman had given to her. I followed and peeped + over her shoulder without ceremony. The paper exhibited written + characters, traced in a wonderfully large and firm handwriting. Had I + caught the infection of madness in the air of the house? Or did I really + see before me these words? + </p> + <p> + “NOTICE.—My immense imagination is at work. Visions of heroes unroll + themselves before me. I reanimate in myself the spirits of the departed + great. My brains are boiling in my head. Any persons who disturb me, under + existing circumstances, will do it at the peril of their lives.—DEXTER.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Macallan looked around at me quietly with her sardonic smile. + </p> + <p> + “Do you still persist in wanting to be introduced to him?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + The mockery in the tone of the question roused my pride. I determined that + I would not be the first to give way. + </p> + <p> + “Not if I am putting you in peril of your life, ma’am,” I answered, pertly + enough, pointing to the paper in her hand. + </p> + <p> + My mother-in-law returned to the hall table, and put the paper back on it + without condescending to reply. She then led the way to an arched recess + on our right hand, beyond which I dimly discerned a broad flight of oaken + stairs. + </p> + <p> + “Follow me,” said Mrs. Macallan, mounting the stairs in the dark. “I know + where to find him.” + </p> + <p> + We groped our way up the stairs to the first landing. The next flight of + steps, turning in the reverse direction, was faintly illuminated, like the + hall below, by one oil-lamp, placed in some invisible position above us. + Ascending the second flight of stairs and crossing a short corridor, we + discovered the lamp, through the open door of a quaintly shaped circular + room, burning on the mantel-piece. Its light illuminated a strip of thick + tapestry, hanging loose from the ceiling to the floor, on the wall + opposite to the door by which we had entered. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Macallan drew aside the strip of tapestry, and, signing me to follow + her, passed behind it. + </p> + <p> + “Listen!” she whispered. + </p> + <p> + Standing on the inner side of the tapestry, I found myself in a dark + recess or passage, at the end of which a ray of light from the lamp showed + me a closed door. I listened, and heard on the other side of the door a + shouting voice, accompanied by an extraordinary rumbling and whistling + sound, traveling backward and forward, as well as I could judge, over a + great space. Now the rumbling and the whistling would reach their climax + of loudness, and would overcome the resonant notes of the shouting voice. + Then again those louder sounds gradually retreated into distance, and the + shouting voice made itself heard as the more audible sound of the two. The + door must have been of prodigious solidity. Listen as intently as I might, + I failed to catch the articulate words (if any) which the voice was + pronouncing, and I was equally at a loss to penetrate the cause which + produced the rumbling and whistling sounds. + </p> + <p> + “What can possibly be going on,” I whispered to Mrs. Macallan, “on the + other side of that door?” + </p> + <p> + “Step softly,” my mother-in-law answered, “and come and see.” + </p> + <p> + She arranged the tapestry behind us so as completely to shut out the light + in the circular room. Then noiselessly turning the handle, she opened the + heavy door. + </p> + <p> + We kept ourselves concealed in the shadow of the recess, and looked + through the open doorway. + </p> + <p> + I saw (or fancied I saw, in the obscurity) a long room with a low ceiling. + The dying gleam of an ill-kept fire formed the only light by which I could + judge of objects and distances. Redly illuminating the central portion of + the room, opposite to which we were standing, the fire-light left the + extremities shadowed in almost total darkness. I had barely time to notice + this before I heard the rumbling and whistling sounds approaching me. A + high chair on wheels moved by, through the field of red light, carrying a + shadowy figure with floating hair, and arms furiously raised and lowered + working the machinery that propelled the chair at its utmost rate of + speed. “I am Napoleon, at the sunrise of Austerlitz!” shouted the man in + the chair as he swept past me on his rumbling and whistling wheels, in the + red glow of the fire-light. “I give the word, and thrones rock, and kings + fall, and nations tremble, and men by tens of thousands fight and bleed + and die!” The chair rushed out of sight, and the shouting man in it became + another hero. “I am Nelson!” the ringing voice cried now. “I am leading + the fleet at Trafalgar. I issue my commands, prophetically conscious of + victory and death. I see my own apotheosis, my public funeral, my nation’s + tears, my burial in the glorious church. The ages remember me, and the + poets sing my praise in immortal verse!” The strident wheels turned at the + far end of the room and came back. The fantastic and frightful apparition, + man and machinery blended in one—the new Centaur, half man, half + chair—flew by me again in the dying light. “I am Shakespeare!” cried + the frantic creature now. “I am writing ‘Lear,’ the tragedy of tragedies. + Ancients and moderns, I am the poet who towers over them all. Light! + light! the lines flow out like lava from the eruption of my volcanic mind. + Light! light! for the poet of all time to write the words that live + forever!” He ground and tore his way back toward the middle of the room. + As he approached the fire-place a last morsel of unburned coal (or wood) + burst into momentary flame, and showed the open doorway. In that moment he + saw us! The wheel-chair stopped with a shock that shook the crazy old + floor of the room, altered its course, and flew at us with the rush of a + wild animal. We drew back, just in time to escape it, against the wall of + the recess. The chair passed on, and burst aside the hanging tapestry. The + light of the lamp in the circular room poured in through the gap. The + creature in the chair checked his furious wheels, and looked back over his + shoulder with an impish curiosity horrible to see. + </p> + <p> + “Have I run over them? Have I ground them to powder for presuming to + intrude on me?” he said to himself. As the expression of this amiable + doubt passed his lips his eyes lighted on us. His mind instantly veered + back again to Shakespeare and King Lear. “Goneril and Regan!” he cried. + “My two unnatural daughters, my she-devil children come to mock at me!” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing of the sort,” said my mother-in-law, as quietly as if she were + addressing a perfectly reasonable being. “I am your old friend, Mrs. + Macallan; and I have brought Eustace Macallan’s second wife to see you.” + </p> + <p> + The instant she pronounced those last words, “Eustace Macallan’s second + wife,” the man in the chair sprang out of it with a shrill cry of horror, + as if she had shot him. For one moment we saw a head and body in the air, + absolutely deprived of the lower limbs. The moment after, the terrible + creature touched the floor as lightly as a monkey, on his hands. The + grotesque horror of the scene culminated in his hopping away on his hands, + at a prodigious speed, until he reached the fire-place in the long room. + There he crouched over the dying embers, shuddering and shivering, and + muttering, “Oh, pity me, pity me!” dozens and dozens of times to himself. + </p> + <p> + This was the man whose advice I had come to ask—who assistance I had + confidently counted on in my hour of need. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXV. MISERRIMUS DEXTER—SECOND VIEW + </h2> + <p> + THOROUGHLY disheartened and disgusted, and (if I must honestly confess it) + thoroughly frightened too, I whispered to Mrs. Macallan, “I was wrong, and + you were right. Let us go.” + </p> + <p> + The ears of Miserrimus Dexter must have been as sensitive as the ears of a + dog. He heard me say, “Let us go.” + </p> + <p> + “No!” he called out. “Bring Eustace Macallan’s second wife in here. I am a + gentleman—I must apologize to her. I am a student of human character—I + wish to see her.” + </p> + <p> + The whole man appeared to have undergone a complete transformation. He + spoke in the gentlest of voices, and he sighed hysterically when he had + done, like a woman recovering from a burst of tears. Was it reviving + courage or reviving curiosity? When Mrs. Macallan said to me, “The fit is + over now; do you still wish to go away?” I answered, “No; I am ready to go + in.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you recovered your belief in him already?” asked my mother-in-law, + in her mercilessly satirical way. + </p> + <p> + “I have recovered from my terror of him,” I replied. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry I terrified you,” said the soft voice at the fire-place. “Some + people think I am a little mad at times. You came, I suppose, at one of + the times—if some people are right. I admit that I am a visionary. + My imagination runs away with me, and I say and do strange things. On + those occasions, anybody who reminds me of that horrible Trial throws me + back again into the past, and causes me unutterable nervous suffering. I + am a very tender-hearted man. As the necessary consequence (in such a + world as this), I am a miserable wretch. Accept my excuses. Come in, both + of you. Come in and pity me.” + </p> + <p> + A child would not have been frightened of him now. A child would have gone + in and pitied him. + </p> + <p> + The room was getting darker and darker. We could just see the crouching + figure of Miserrimus Dexter at the expiring fire—and that was all. + </p> + <p> + “Are we to have no light?” asked Mrs. Macallan. “And is this lady to see + you, when the light comes, out of your chair?” + </p> + <p> + He lifted something bright and metallic, hanging round his neck, and blew + on it a series of shrill, trilling, bird-like notes. After an interval he + was answered by a similar series of notes sounding faintly in some distant + region of the house. + </p> + <p> + “Ariel is coming,” he said. “Compose yourself, Mamma Macallan; Ariel with + make me presentable to a lady’s eyes.” + </p> + <p> + He hopped away on his hands into the darkness at the end of the room. + “Wait a little,” said Mrs. Macallan, “and you will have another surprise—you + will see the ‘delicate Ariel.’” + </p> + <p> + We heard heavy footsteps in the circular room. + </p> + <p> + “Ariel!” sighed Miserrimus Dexter out of the darkness, in his softest + notes. + </p> + <p> + To my astonishment the coarse, masculine voice of the cousin in the man’s + hat—the Caliban’s, rather than the Ariel’s voice—answered, + “Here!” + </p> + <p> + “My chair, Ariel!” + </p> + <p> + The person thus strangely misnamed drew aside the tapestry, so as to let + in more light; then entered the room, pushing the wheeled chair before + her. She stooped and lifted Miserrimus Dexter from the floor, like a + child. Before she could put him into the chair, he sprang out of her arms + with a little gleeful cry, and alighted on his seat, like a bird alighting + on its perch! + </p> + <p> + “The lamp,” said Miserrimus Dexter, “and the looking-glass.—Pardon + me,” he added, addressing us, “for turning my back on you. You mustn’t see + me until my hair is set to rights.—Ariel! the brush, the comb, and + the perfumes!” + </p> + <p> + Carrying the lamp in one hand, the looking-glass in the other, and the + brush (with the comb stuck in it) between her teeth, Ariel the Second, + otherwise Dexter’s cousin, presented herself plainly before me for the + first time. I could now see the girl’s round, fleshy, inexpressive face, + her rayless and colorless eyes, her coarse nose and heavy chin. A creature + half alive; an imperfectly developed animal in shapeless form clad in a + man’s pilot jacket, and treading in a man’s heavy laced boots, with + nothing but an old red-flannel petticoat, and a broken comb in her frowzy + flaxen hair, to tell us that she was a woman—such was the + inhospitable person who had received us in the darkness when we first + entered the house. + </p> + <p> + This wonderful valet, collecting her materials for dressing her still more + wonderful master’s hair, gave him the looking-glass (a hand-mirror), and + addressed herself to her work. + </p> + <p> + She combed, she brushed, she oiled, she perfumed the flowing locks and the + long silky beard of Miserrimus Dexter with the strangest mixture of + dullness and dexterity that I ever saw. Done in brute silence, with a + lumpish look and a clumsy gait, the work was perfectly well done + nevertheless. The imp in the chair superintended the whole proceeding + critically by means of his hand-mirror. He was too deeply interested in + this occupation to speak until some of the concluding touches to his beard + brought the misnamed Ariel in front of him, and so turned her full face + toward the part of the room in which Mrs. Macallan and I were standing. + Then he addressed us, taking especial care, however, not to turn his head + our way while his toilet was still incomplete. + </p> + <p> + “Mamma Macallan,” he said, “what is the Christian name of your son’s + second wife?” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you want to know?” asked my mother-in-law. + </p> + <p> + “I want to know because I can’t address her as ‘Mrs. Eustace Macallan.’” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “It recalls <i>the other</i> Mrs. Eustace Macallan. If I am reminded of + those horrible days at Gleninch my fortitude will give way—I shall + burst out screaming again.” + </p> + <p> + Hearing this, I hastened to interpose. + </p> + <p> + “My name is Valeria,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “A Roman name,” remarked Miserrimus Dexter. “I like it. My mind is cast in + the Roman mold. My bodily build would have been Roman if I had been born + with legs. I shall call you Mrs. Valeria, unless you disapprove of it.” + </p> + <p> + I hastened to say that I was far from disapproving of it. + </p> + <p> + “Very good,” said Miserrimus Dexter “Mrs. Valeria, do you see the face of + this creature in front of me?” + </p> + <p> + He pointed with the hand-mirror to his cousin as unconcernedly as he might + have pointed to a dog. His cousin, on her side, took no more notice than a + dog would have taken of the contemptuous phrase by which he had designated + her. She went on combing and oiling his beard as composedly as ever. + </p> + <p> + “It is the face of an idiot, isn’t it?” pursued Miserrimus Dexter! “Look + at her! She is a mere vegetable. A cabbage in a garden has as much life + and expression in it as that girl exhibits at the present moment. Would + you believe there was latent intelligence, affection, pride, fidelity, in + such a half-developed being as this?” + </p> + <p> + I was really ashamed to answer him. Quite needlessly! The impenetrable + young woman went on with her master’s beard. A machine could not have + taken less notice of the life and the talk around it than this + incomprehensible creature. + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</i> have got at that latent affection, pride, fidelity, and the rest + of it,” resumed Miserrimus Dexter. “<i>I</i> hold the key to that dormant + Intelligence. Grand thought! Now look at her when I speak. (I named her, + poor wretch, in one of my ironical moments. She has got to like her name, + just as a dog gets to like his collar.) Now, Mrs. Valeria, look and + listen.—Ariel!” + </p> + <p> + The girl’s dull face began to brighten. The girl’s mechanically moving + hand stopped, and held the comb in suspense. + </p> + <p> + “Ariel! you have learned to dress my hair and anoint my beard, haven’t + you?” + </p> + <p> + Her face still brightened. “Yes! yes! yes!” she answered, eagerly. “And + you say I have learned to do it well, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “I say that. Would you like to let anybody else do it for you?” + </p> + <p> + Her eyes melted softly into light and life. Her strange unwomanly voice + sank to the gentlest tones that I had heard from her yet. + </p> + <p> + “Nobody else shall do it for me,” she said at once proudly and tenderly. + “Nobody, as long as I live, shall touch you but me.” + </p> + <p> + “Not even the lady there?” asked Miserrimus Dexter, pointing backward with + his hand-mirror to the place at which I was standing. + </p> + <p> + Her eyes suddenly flashed, her hand suddenly shook the comb at me, in a + burst of jealous rage. + </p> + <p> + “Let her try!” cried the poor creature, raising her voice again to its + hoarsest notes. “Let her touch you if she dares!” + </p> + <p> + Dexter laughed at the childish outbreak. “That will do, my delicate + Ariel,” he said. “I dismiss your Intelligence for the present. Relapse + into your former self. Finish my beard.” + </p> + <p> + She passively resumed her work. The new light in her eyes, the new + expression in her face, faded little by little and died out. In another + minute the face was as vacant and as lumpish as before; the hands did + their work again with the lifeless dexterity which had so painfully + impressed me when she first took up the brush. Miserrimus Dexter appeared + to be perfectly satisfied with these results. + </p> + <p> + “I thought my little experiment might interest you,” he said. “You see how + it is? The dormant intelligence of my curious cousin is like the dormant + sound in a musical instrument. I play upon it—and it answers to my + touch. She likes being played upon. But her great delight is to hear me + tell a story. I puzzle her to the verge of distraction; and the more I + confuse her the better she likes the story. It is the greatest fun; you + really must see it some day.” He indulged himself in a last look at the + mirror. “Ha!” he said, complacently; “now I shall do. Vanish, Ariel!” + </p> + <p> + She tramped out of the room in her heavy boots, with the mute obedience of + a trained animal. I said “Good-night” as she passed me. She neither + returned the salutation nor looked at me: the words simply produced no + effect on her dull senses. The one voice that could reach her was silent. + She had relapsed once more into the vacant inanimate creature who had + opened the gate to us, until it pleased Miserrimus Dexter to speak to her + again. + </p> + <p> + “Valeria!” said my mother-in-law. “Our modest host is waiting to see what + you think of him.” + </p> + <p> + While my attention was fixed on his cousin he had wheeled his chair around + so as to face me with the light of the lamp falling full on him. In + mentioning his appearance as a witness at the Trial, I find I have + borrowed (without meaning to do so) from my experience of him at this + later time. I saw plainly now the bright intelligent face and the large + clear blue eyes, the lustrous waving hair of a light chestnut color, the + long delicate white hands, and the magnificent throat and chest which I + have elsewhere described. The deformity which degraded and destroyed the + manly beauty of his head and breast was hidden from view by an Oriental + robe of many colors, thrown over the chair like a coverlet. He was clothed + in a jacket of black velvet, fastened loosely across his chest with large + malachite buttons; and he wore lace ruffles at the ends of his sleeves, in + the fashion of the last century. It may well have been due to want of + perception on my part—but I could see nothing mad in him, nothing in + any way repelling, as he now looked at me. The one defect that I could + discover in his face was at the outer corners of his eyes, just under the + temple. Here when he laughed, and in a lesser degree when he smiled, the + skin contracted into quaint little wrinkles and folds, which looked + strangely out of harmony with the almost youthful appearance of the rest + of his face. As to his other features, the mouth, so far as his beard and + mustache permitted me to see it, was small and delicately formed; the nose—perfectly + shaped on the straight Grecian model—was perhaps a little too thin, + judged by comparison with the full cheeks and the high massive forehead. + Looking at him as a whole (and speaking of him, of course, from a woman’s, + not a physiognomist’s point of view), I can only describe him as being an + unusually handsome man. A painter would have reveled in him as a model for + St. John. And a young girl, ignorant of what the Oriental robe hid from + view, would have said to herself, the instant she looked at him, “Here is + the hero of my dreams!” + </p> + <p> + His blue eyes—large as the eyes of a woman, clear as the eyes of a + child—rested on me the moment I turned toward him, with a strangely + varying play of expression, which at once interested and perplexed me. + </p> + <p> + Now there was doubt—uneasy, painful doubt—in the look; and now + again it changed brightly to approval, so open and unrestrained that a + vain woman might have fancied she had made a conquest of him at first + sight. Suddenly a new emotion seemed to take possession of him. His eyes + sank, his head drooped; he lifted his hands with a gesture of regret. He + muttered and murmured to himself; pursuing some secret and melancholy + train of thought, which seemed to lead him further and further away from + present objects of interest, and to plunge him deeper and deeper in + troubled recollections of the past. Here and there I caught some of the + words. Little by little I found myself trying to fathom what was darkly + passing in this strange man’s mind. + </p> + <p> + “A far more charming face,” I heard him say. “But no—not a more + beautiful figure. What figure was ever more beautiful than hers? Something—but + not all—of her enchanting grace. Where is the resemblance which has + brought her back to me? In the pose of the figure, perhaps. In the + movement of the figure, perhaps. Poor martyred angel! What a life! And + what a death! what a death!” + </p> + <p> + Was he comparing me with the victim of the poison—with my husband’s + first wife? His words seemed to justify the conclusion. If I were right, + the dead woman had evidently been a favorite with him. There was no + misinterpreting the broken tones of his voice when he spoke of her: he had + admired her, living; he mourned her, dead. Supposing that I could prevail + upon myself to admit this extraordinary person into my confidence, what + would be the result? Should I be the gainer or the loser by the + resemblance which he fancied he had discovered? Would the sight of me + console him or pain him? I waited eagerly to hear more on the subject of + the first wife. Not a word more escaped his lips. A new change came over + him. He lifted his head with a start, and looked about him as a weary man + might look if he was suddenly disturbed in a deep sleep. + </p> + <p> + “What have I done?” he said. “Have I been letting my mind drift again?” He + shuddered and sighed. “Oh, that house of Gleninch!” he murmured, sadly, to + himself. “Shall I never get away from it in my thoughts? Oh, that house of + Gleninch!” + </p> + <p> + To my infinite disappointment, Mrs. Macallan checked the further + revelation of what was passing in his mind. + </p> + <p> + Something in the tone and manner of his allusion to her son’s + country-house seemed to have offended her. She interposed sharply and + decisively. + </p> + <p> + “Gently, my friend, gently!” she said. “I don’t think you quite know what + you are talking about.” + </p> + <p> + His great blue eyes flashed at her fiercely. With one turn of his hand he + brought his chair close at her side. The next instant he caught her by the + arm, and forced her to bend to him, until he could whisper in her ear. He + was violently agitated. His whisper was loud enough to make itself heard + where I was sitting at the time. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what I am talking about?” he repeated, with his eyes fixed + attentively, not on my mother-in-law, but on me. “You shortsighted old + woman! where are your spectacles? Look at her! Do you see no resemblance—the + figure, not the face!—do you see no resemblance there to Eustace’s + first wife?” + </p> + <p> + “Pure fancy!” rejoined Mrs. Macallan. “I see nothing of the sort.” + </p> + <p> + He shook her impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “Not so loud!” he whispered. “She will hear you.” + </p> + <p> + “I have heard you both,” I said. “You need have no fear, Mr. Dexter, of + speaking before me. I know that my husband had a first wife, and I know + how miserably she died. I have read the Trial.” + </p> + <p> + “You have read the life and death of a martyr!” cried Miserrimus Dexter. + He suddenly wheeled his chair my way; he bent over me; his eyes filled + with tears. “Nobody appreciated her at her true value,” he said, “but me. + Nobody but me! nobody but me!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Macallan walked away impatiently to the end of the room. + </p> + <p> + “When you are ready, Valeria, I am,” she said. “We cannot keep the + servants and the horses waiting much longer in this bleak place.” + </p> + <p> + I was too deeply interested in leading Miserrimus Dexter to pursue the + subject on which he had touched to be willing to leave him at that moment. + I pretended not to have heard Mrs. Macallan. I laid my hand, as if by + accident, on the wheel-chair to keep him near me. + </p> + <p> + “You showed me how highly you esteemed that poor lady in your evidence at + the Trial,” I said. “I believe, Mr. Dexter, you have ideas of your own + about the mystery of her death?” + </p> + <p> + He had been looking at my hand, resting on the arm of his chair, until I + ventured on my question. At that he suddenly raised his eyes, and fixed + them with a frowning and furtive suspicion on my face. + </p> + <p> + “How do you know I have ideas of my own?” he asked, sternly. + </p> + <p> + “I know it from reading the Trial,” I answered. “The lawyer who + cross-examined you spoke almost in the very words which I have just used. + I had no intention of offending you, Mr. Dexter.” + </p> + <p> + His face cleared as rapidly as it had clouded. He smiled, and laid his + hand on mine. His touch struck me cold. I felt every nerve in me shivering + under it; I drew my hand away quickly. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” he said, “if I have misunderstood you. I <i>have</i> + ideas of my own about that unhappy lady.” He paused and looked at me in + silence very earnestly. “Have <i>you</i> any ideas?” he asked. “Ideas + about her life? or about her death?” + </p> + <p> + I was deeply interested; I was burning to hear more. It might encourage + him to speak if I were candid with him. I answered, “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Ideas which you have mentioned to any one?” he went on. + </p> + <p> + “To no living creature,” I replied—“as yet.” + </p> + <p> + “This very strange!” he said, still earnestly reading my face. “What + interest can <i>you</i> have in a dead woman whom you never knew? Why did + you ask me that question just now? Have you any motive in coming here to + see me?” + </p> + <p> + I boldly acknowledged the truth. I said, “I have a motive.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it connected with Eustace Macallan’s first wife?” + </p> + <p> + “It is.” + </p> + <p> + “With anything that happened in her lifetime?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “With her death?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + He suddenly clasped his hands with a wild gesture of despair, and then + pressed them both on his head, as if he were struck by some sudden pain. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t hear it to-night!” he said. “I would give worlds to hear it, but + I daren’t. I should lose all hold over myself in the state I am in now. I + am not equal to raking up the horror and the mystery of the past; I have + not courage enough to open the grave of the martyred dead. Did you hear me + when you came here? I have an immense imagination. It runs riot at times. + It makes an actor of me. I play the parts of all the heroes that ever + lived. I feel their characters. I merge myself in their individualities. + For the time I <i>am</i> the man I fancy myself to be. I can’t help it. I + am obliged to do it. If I restrained my imagination when the fit is on me, + I should go mad. I let myself loose. It lasts for hours. It leaves me with + my energies worn out, with my sensibilities frightfully acute. Rouse any + melancholy or terrible associations in me at such times, and I am capable + of hysterics, I am capable of screaming. You heard me scream. You shall <i>not</i> + see me in hysterics. No, Mrs. Valeria—no, you innocent reflection of + the dead and gone—I would not frighten you for the world. Will you + come here to-morrow in the daytime? I have got a chaise and a pony. Ariel, + my delicate Ariel, can drive. She shall call at Mamma Macallan’s and fetch + you. We will talk to-morrow, when I am fit for it. I am dying to hear you. + I will be fit for you in the morning. I will be civil, intelligent, + communicative, in the morning. No more of it now. Away with the subject—the + too exciting, the too interesting subject! I must compose myself or my + brains will explode in my head. Music is the true narcotic for excitable + brains. My harp! my harp!” + </p> + <p> + He rushed away in his chair to the far end of the room, passing Mrs. + Macallan as she returned to me, bent on hastening our departure. + </p> + <p> + “Come!” said the old lady, irritably. “You have seen him, and he has made + a good show of himself. More of him might be tiresome. Come away.” + </p> + <p> + The chair returned to us more slowly. Miserrimus Dexter was working it + with one hand only. In the other he held a harp of a pattern which I had + hitherto only seen in pictures. The strings were few in number, and the + instrument was so small that I could have held it easily on my lap. It was + the ancient harp of the pictured Muses and the legendary Welsh bards. + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, Dexter,” said Mrs. Macallan. + </p> + <p> + He held up one hand imperatively. + </p> + <p> + “Wait!” he said. “Let her hear me sing.” He turned to me. “I decline to be + indebted to other people for my poetry and my music,” he went on. “I + compose my own poetry and my own music. I improvise. Give me a moment to + think. I will improvise for You.” + </p> + <p> + He closed his eyes and rested his head on the frame of the harp. His + fingers gently touched the strings while he was thinking. In a few minutes + he lifted his head, looked at me, and struck the first notes—the + prelude to the song. It was wild, barbaric, monotonous music, utterly + unlike any modern composition. Sometimes it suggested a slow and + undulating Oriental dance. Sometimes it modulated into tones which + reminded me of the severer harmonies of the old Gregorian chants. The + words, when they followed the prelude, were as wild, as recklessly free + from all restraint of critical rules, as the music. They were assuredly + inspired by the occasion; I was the theme of the strange song. And thus—in + one of the finest tenor voices I ever heard—my poet sang of me: + </p> + <p> + “Why does she come? She reminds me of the lost; She reminds me of the + dead: In her form like the other, In her walk like the other: Why does she + come? + </p> + <p> + “Does Destiny bring her? Shall we range together The mazes of the past? + Shall we search together The secrets of the past? Shall we interchange + thoughts, surmises, suspicions? Does Destiny bring her? + </p> + <p> + “The Future will show. Let the night pass; Let the day come. I shall see + into Her mind: She will look into Mine. The Future will show.” + </p> + <p> + His voice sank, his fingers touched the strings more and more feebly as he + approached the last lines. The overwrought brain needed and took its + reanimating repose. At the final words his eyes slowly closed. His head + lay back on the chair. He slept with his arms around his harp, as a child + sleeps hugging its last new toy. + </p> + <p> + We stole out of the room on tiptoe, and left Miserrimus Dexter—poet, + composer, and madman—in his peaceful sleep. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVI. MORE OF MY OBSTINACY. + </h2> + <p> + ARIEL was downstairs in the shadowy hall, half asleep, half awake, waiting + to see the visitors clear of the house. Without speaking to us, without + looking at us, she led the way down the dark garden walk, and locked the + gate behind us. “Good-night, Ariel,” I called out to her over the paling. + Nothing answered me but the tramp of her heavy footsteps returning to the + house, and the dull thump, a moment afterward, of the closing door. + </p> + <p> + The footman had thoughtfully lighted the carriage lamps. Carrying one of + them to serve as a lantern, he lighted us over the wilds of the brick + desert, and landed us safely on the path by the high-road. + </p> + <p> + “Well!” said my mother-in-law, when we were comfortably seated in the + carriage again. “You have seen Miserrimus Dexter, and I hope you are + satisfied. I will do him the justice to declare that I never, in all my + experience, saw him more completely crazy than he was to-night. What do <i>you</i> + say?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t presume to dispute your opinion,” I answered. “But, speaking for + myself, I’m not quite sure that he is mad.” + </p> + <p> + “Not mad!” cried Mrs. Macallan, “after those frantic performances in his + chair? Not mad, after the exhibition he made of his unfortunate cousin? + Not mad, after the song that he sang in your honor, and the falling asleep + by way of conclusion? Oh, Valeria! Valeria! Well said the wisdom of our + ancestors—there are none so blind as those who won’t see.” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me, dear Mrs. Macallan, I saw everything that you mention, and I + never felt more surprised or more confounded in my life. But now I have + recovered from my amazement, and can think it over quietly, I must still + venture to doubt whether this strange man is really mad in the true + meaning of the word. It seems to me that he only expresses—I admit + in a very reckless and boisterous way—thoughts and feelings which + most of us are ashamed of as weaknesses, and which we keep to ourselves + accordingly. I confess I have often fancied myself transformed into some + other person, and have felt a certain pleasure in seeing myself in my new + character. One of our first amusements as children (if we have any + imagination at all) is to get out of our own characters, and to try the + characters of other personages as a change—to fairies, to be queens, + to be anything, in short, but what we really are. Mr. Dexter lets out the + secret just as the children do, and if that is madness, he is certainly + mad. But I noticed that when his imagination cooled down he became + Miserrimus Dexter again—he no more believed himself than we believed + him to be Napoleon or Shakespeare. Besides, some allowance is surely to be + made for the solitary, sedentary life that he leads. I am not learned + enough to trace the influence of that life in making him what he is; but I + think I can see the result in an over-excited imagination, and I fancy I + can trace his exhibiting his power over the poor cousin and his singing of + that wonderful song to no more formidable cause than inordinate + self-conceit. I hope the confession will not lower me seriously in your + good opinion; but I must say I have enjoyed my visit, and, worse still, + Miserrimus Dexter really interests me.” + </p> + <p> + “Does this learned discourse on Dexter mean that you are going to see him + again?” asked Mrs. Macallan. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know how I may feel about it tomorrow morning,” I said; “but my + impulse at this moment is decidedly to see him again. I had a little talk + with him while you were away at the other end of the room, and I believe + he really can be of use to me—” + </p> + <p> + “Of use to you in what?” interposed my mother-in-law. + </p> + <p> + “In the one object which I have in view—the object, dear Mrs. + Macallan, which I regret to say you do not approve.” + </p> + <p> + “And you are going to take him into your confidence? to open your whole + mind to such a man as the man we have just left?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, if I think of it to-morrow as I think of it to-night. I dare say it + is a risk; but I must run risks. I know I am not prudent; but prudence + won’t help a woman in my position, with my end to gain.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Macallan made no further remonstrance in words. She opened a + capacious pocket in front of the carriage, and took from it a box of + matches and a railway reading-lamp. + </p> + <p> + “You provoke me,” said the old lady, “into showing you what your husband + thinks of this new whim of yours. I have got his letter with me—his + last letter from Spain. You shall judge for yourself, you poor deluded + young creature, whether my son is worthy of the sacrifice—the + useless and hopeless sacrifice—which you are bent on making of + yourself for his sake. Strike a light!” + </p> + <p> + I willingly obeyed her. Ever since she had informed me of Eustace’s + departure to Spain I had been eager for more news of him, for something to + sustain my spirits, after so much that had disappointed and depressed me. + Thus far I did not even know whether my husband thought of me sometimes in + his self-imposed exile. As to this regretting already the rash act which + had separated us, it was still too soon to begin hoping for that. + </p> + <p> + The lamp having been lighted, and fixed in its place between the two front + windows of the carriage, Mrs. Macallan produced her son’s letter. There is + no folly like the folly of love. It cost me a hard struggle to restrain + myself from kissing the paper on which the dear hand had rested. + </p> + <p> + “There!” said my mother-in-law. “Begin on the second page, the page + devoted to you. Read straight down to the last line at the bottom, and, in + God’s name, come back to your senses, child, before it is too late!” + </p> + <p> + I followed my instructions, and read these words: + </p> + <p> + “Can I trust myself to write of Valeria? I <i>must</i> write of her. Tell + me how she is, how she looks, what she is doing. I am always thinking of + her. Not a day passes but I mourn the loss of her. Oh, if she had only + been contented to let matters rest as they were! Oh, if she had never + discovered the miserable truth! + </p> + <p> + “She spoke of reading the Trial when I saw her last. Has she persisted in + doing so? I believe—I say this seriously, mother—I believe the + shame and the horror of it would have been the death of me if I had met + her face to face when she first knew of the ignominy that I have suffered, + of the infamous suspicion of which I have been publicly made the subject. + Think of those pure eyes looking at a man who has been accused (and never + wholly absolved) of the foulest and the vilest of all murders, and then + think of what that man must feel if he have any heart and any sense of + shame left in him. I sicken as I write of it. + </p> + <p> + “Does she still meditate that hopeless project—the offspring, poor + angel, of her artless, unthinking generosity? Does she still fancy that it + is in <i>her</i> power to assert my innocence before the world? Oh, mother + (if she do), use your utmost influence to make her give up the idea! Spare + her the humiliation, the disappointment, the insult, perhaps, to which she + may innocently expose herself. For her sake, for my sake, leave no means + untried to attain this righteous, this merciful end. + </p> + <p> + “I send her no message—I dare not do it. Say nothing, when you see + her, which can recall me to her memory. On the contrary, help her to + forget me as soon as possible. The kindest thing I can do—the one + atonement I can make to her—is to drop out of her life.” + </p> + <p> + With those wretched words it ended. I handed his letter back to his mother + in silence. She said but little on her side. + </p> + <p> + “If <i>this</i> doesn’t discourage you,” she remarked, slowly folding up + the letter, “nothing will. Let us leave it there, and say no more.” + </p> + <p> + I made no answer—I was crying behind my veil. My domestic prospect + looked so dreary! my unfortunate husband was so hopelessly misguided, so + pitiably wrong! The one chance for both of us, and the one consolation for + poor Me, was to hold to my desperate resolution more firmly than ever. If + I had wanted anything to confirm me in this view, and to arm me against + the remonstrances of every one of my friends, Eustace’s letter would have + proved more than sufficient to answer the purpose. At least he had not + forgotten me; he thought of me, and he mourned the loss of me every day of + his life. That was encouragement enough—for the present. “If Ariel + calls for me in the pony-chaise to-morrow,” I thought to myself, “with + Ariel I go.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Macallan set me down at Benjamin’s door. + </p> + <p> + I mentioned to her at parting—I stood sufficiently in awe of her to + put it off till the last moment—that Miserrimus Dexter had arranged + to send his cousin and his pony-chaise to her residence on the next day; + and I inquired thereupon whether my mother-in-law would permit me to call + at her house to wait for the appearance of the cousin, or whether she + would prefer sending the chaise on to Benjamin’s cottage. I fully expected + an explosion of anger to follow this bold avowal of my plans for the next + day. The old lady agreeably surprised me. She proved that she had really + taken a liking to me: she kept her temper. + </p> + <p> + “If you persist in going back to Dexter, you certainly shall not go to him + from my door,” she said. “But I hope you will <i>not</i> persist. I hope + you will awake a wiser woman to-morrow morning.” + </p> + <p> + The morning came. A little before noon the arrival of the pony-chaise was + announced at the door, and a letter was brought in to me from Mrs. + Macallan. + </p> + <p> + “I have no right to control your movements,” my mother-in-law wrote. “I + send the chaise to Mr. Benjamin’s house; and I sincerely trust that you + will not take your place in it. I wish I could persuade you, Valeria, how + truly I am your friend. I have been thinking about you anxiously in the + wakeful hours of the night. <i>How</i> anxiously, you will understand when + I tell you that I now reproach myself for not having done more than I did + to prevent your unhappy marriage. And yet, what more I could have done I + don’t really know. My son admitted to me that he was courting you under an + assumed name, but he never told me what the name was. Or who you were, or + where your friends lived. Perhaps I ought to have taken measures to find + this out. Perhaps, if I had succeeded, I ought to have interfered and + enlightened you, even at the sad sacrifice of making an enemy of my own + son. I honestly thought I did my duty in expressing my disapproval, and in + refusing to be present at the marriage. Was I too easily satisfied? It is + too late to ask. Why do I trouble you with an old woman’s vain misgivings + and regrets? My child, if you come to any harm, I shall feel (indirectly) + responsible for it. It is this uneasy state of mind which sets me writing, + with nothing to say that can interest you. Don’t go to Dexter! The fear + has been pursuing me all night that your going to Dexter will end badly. + Write him an excuse. Valeria! I firmly believe you will repent it if you + return to that house.” + </p> + <p> + Was ever a woman more plainly warned, more carefully advised, than I? And + yet warning and advice were both thrown away on me. + </p> + <p> + Let me say for myself that I was really touched by the kindness of my + mother-in-law’s letter, though I was not shaken by it in the smallest + degree. As long as I lived, moved, and thought, my one purpose now was to + make Miserrimus Dexter confide to me his ideas on the subject of Mrs. + Eustace Macallan’s death. To those ideas I looked as my guiding stars + along the dark way on which I was going. I wrote back to Mrs. Macallan, as + I really felt gratefully and penitently. And then I went out to the + chaise. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVII. MR. DEXTER AT HOME. + </h2> + <p> + I FOUND all the idle boys in the neighborhood collected around the + pony-chaise, expressing, in the occult language of slang, their high + enjoyment and appreciation at the appearance of “Ariel” in her man’s + jacket and hat. The pony was fidgety—<i>he</i> felt the influence of + the popular uproar. His driver sat, whip in hand, magnificently + impenetrable to the gibes and jests that were flying around her. I said + “Good-morning” on getting into the chaise. Ariel only said “Gee up!” and + started the pony. + </p> + <p> + I made up my mind to perform the journey to the distant northern suburb in + silence. It was evidently useless for me to attempt to speak, and + experience informed me that I need not expect to hear a word fall from the + lips of my companion. Experience, however, is not always infallible. After + driving for half an hour in stolid silence, Ariel astounded me by suddenly + bursting into speech. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what we are coming to?” she asked, keeping her eyes straight + between the pony’s ears. + </p> + <p> + “No,” I answered. “I don’t know the road. What are we coming to?” + </p> + <p> + “We are coming to a canal.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, I have half a mind to upset you in the canal.” + </p> + <p> + This formidable announcement appeared to require some explanation. I took + the liberty of asking for it. + </p> + <p> + “Why should you upset me?” I inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Because I hate you,” was the cool and candid reply. + </p> + <p> + “What have I done to offend you?” I asked next. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want with the Master?” Ariel asked, in her turn. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean Mr. Dexter?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I want to have some talk with Mr. Dexter.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t! You want to take my place. You want to brush his hair and oil + his beard, instead of me. You wretch!” + </p> + <p> + I now began to understand. The idea which Miserrimus Dexter had jestingly + put into her head, in exhibiting her to us on the previous night, had been + ripening slowly in that dull brain, and had found its way outward into + words, about fifteen hours afterward, under the irritating influence of my + presence! + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want to touch his hair or his beard,” I said. “I leave that + entirely to you.” + </p> + <p> + She looked around at me, her fat face flushing, her dull eyes dilating, + with the unaccustomed effort to express herself in speech, and to + understand what was said to her in return. + </p> + <p> + “Say that again,” she burst out. “And say it slower this time.” + </p> + <p> + I said it again, and I said it slower. + </p> + <p> + “Swear it!” she cried, getting more and more excited. + </p> + <p> + I preserved my gravity (the canal was just visible in the distance), and + swore it. + </p> + <p> + “Are you satisfied now?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + There was no answer. Her last resources of speech were exhausted. The + strange creature looked back again straight between the pony’s ears, + emitted hoarsely a grunt of relief, and never more looked at me, never + more spoke to me, for the rest of the journey. We drove past the banks of + the canal, and I escaped immersion. We rattled, in our jingling little + vehicle, through the streets and across the waste patches of ground, which + I dimly remembered in the darkness, and which looked more squalid and more + hideous than ever in the broad daylight. The chaise turned down a lane, + too narrow for the passage of any larger vehicle, and stopped at a wall + and a gate that were new objects to me. Opening the gate with her key, and + leading the pony, Ariel introduced me to the back garden and yard of + Miserrimus Dexter’s rotten and rambling old house. The pony walked off + independently to his stable, with the chaise behind him. My silent + companion led me through a bleak and barren kitchen, and along a stone + passage. Opening a door at the end, she admitted me to the back of the + hall, into which Mrs. Macallan and I had penetrated by the front entrance + to the house. Here Ariel lifted a whistle which hung around her neck, and + blew the shrill trilling notes with the sound of which I was already + familiar as the means of communication between Miserrimus Dexter and his + slave. The whistling over, the slave’s unwilling lips struggled into + speech for the last time. + </p> + <p> + “Wait till you hear the Master’s whistle,” she said; “then go upstairs.” + </p> + <p> + So! I was to be whistled for like a dog! And, worse still, there was no + help for it but to submit like a dog. Had Ariel any excuses to make? + Nothing of the sort. + </p> + <p> + She turned her shapeless back on me and vanished into the kitchen region + of the house. + </p> + <p> + After waiting for a minute or two, and hearing no signal from the floor + above, I advanced into the broader and brighter part of the hall, to look + by daylight at the pictures which I had only imperfectly discovered in the + darkness of the night. A painted inscription in many colors, just under + the cornice of the ceiling, informed me that the works on the walls were + the production of the all-accomplished Dexter himself. Not satisfied with + being poet and composer, he was painter as well. On one wall the subjects + were described as “Illustrations of the Passions;” on the other, as + “Episodes in the Life of the Wandering Jew.” Chance speculators like + myself were gravely warned, by means of the inscription, to view the + pictures as efforts of pure imagination. “Persons who look for mere Nature + in works of Art” (the inscription announced) “are persons to whom Mr. + Dexter does not address himself with the brush. He relies entirely on his + imagination. Nature puts him out.” + </p> + <p> + Taking due care to dismiss all ideas of Nature from my mind, to begin + with, I looked at the pictures which represented the Passions first. + </p> + <p> + Little as I knew critically of Art, I could see that Miserrimus Dexter + knew still less of the rules of drawing, color, and composition. His + pictures were, in the strictest meaning of that expressive word, Daubs. + The diseased and riotous delight of the painter in representing Horrors + was (with certain exceptions to be hereafter mentioned) the one remarkable + quality that I could discover in the series of his works. + </p> + <p> + The first of the Passion pictures illustrated Revenge. A corpse, in fancy + costume, lay on the bank of a foaming river, under the shade of a giant + tree. An infuriated man, also in fancy costume, stood astride over the + dead body, with his sword lifted to the lowering sky, and watched, with a + horrid expression of delight, the blood of the man whom he had just killed + dripping slowly in a procession of big red drops down the broad blade of + his weapon. The next picture illustrated Cruelty, in many compartments. In + one I saw a disemboweled horse savagely spurred on by his rider at a + bull-fight. In another, an aged philosopher was dissecting a living cat, + and gloating over his work. In a third, two pagans politely congratulated + each other on the torture of two saints: one saint was roasting on a + grid-iron; the other, hung up to a tree by his heels, had been just + skinned, and was not quite dead yet. Feeling no great desire, after these + specimens, to look at any more of the illustrated Passions, I turned to + the opposite wall to be instructed in the career of the Wandering Jew. + Here a second inscription informed me that the painter considered the + Flying Dutchman to be no other than the Wandering Jew, pursuing his + interminable Journey by sea. The marine adventures of this mysterious + personage were the adventures chosen for representation by Dexter’s brush. + The first picture showed me a harbor on a rocky coast. A vessel was at + anchor, with the helmsman singing on the deck. The sea in the offing was + black and rolling; thunder-clouds lay low on the horizon, split by broad + flashes of lightning. In the glare of the lightning, heaving and pitching, + appeared the misty form of the Phantom Ship approaching the shore. In this + work, badly as it was painted, there were really signs of a powerful + imagination, and even of a poetical feeling for the supernatural. The next + picture showed the Phantom Ship, moored (to the horror and astonishment of + the helmsman) behind the earthly vessel in the harbor. The Jew had stepped + on shore. His boat was on the beach. His crew—little men with stony, + white faces, dressed in funeral black—sat in silent rows on the + seats of the boat, with their oars in their lean, long hands. The Jew, + also in black, stood with his eyes and hands raised imploringly to the + thunderous heaven. The wild creatures of land and sea—the tiger, the + rhinoceros, the crocodile, the sea-serpent, the shark, and the devil-fish—surrounded + the accursed Wanderer in a mystic circle, daunted and fascinated at the + sight of him. The lightning was gone. The sky and sea had darkened to a + great black blank. A faint and lurid light lighted the scene, falling + downward from a torch, brandished by an avenging Spirit that hovered over + the Jew on outspread vulture wings. Wild as the picture might be in its + conception, there was a suggestive power in it which I confess strongly + impressed me. The mysterious silence in the house, and my strange position + at the moment, no doubt had their effect on my mind. While I was still + looking at the ghastly composition before me, the shrill trilling sound of + the whistle upstairs burst on the stillness. For the moment my nerves were + so completely upset that I started with a cry of alarm. I felt a momentary + impulse to open the door and run out. The idea of trusting myself alone + with the man who had painted those frightful pictures actually terrified + me; I was obliged to sit down on one of the hall chairs. Some minutes + passed before my mind recovered its balance, and I began to feel like my + own ordinary self again. The whistle sounded impatiently for the second + time. I rose and ascended the broad flight of stairs which led to the + first story. To draw back at the point which I had now reached would have + utterly degraded me in my own estimation. Still, my heart did certainly + beat faster than usual as I approached the door of the circular anteroom; + and I honestly acknowledge that I saw my own imprudence, just then, in a + singularly vivid light. + </p> + <p> + There was a glass over the mantel-piece in the anteroom. I lingered for a + moment (nervous as I was) to see how I looked in the glass. + </p> + <p> + The hanging tapestry over the inner door had been left partially drawn + aside. Softly as I moved, the dog’s ears of Miserrimus Dexter caught the + sound of my dress on the floor. The fine tenor voice, which I had last + heard singing, called to me softly. + </p> + <p> + “Is that Mrs. Valeria? Please don’t wait there. Come in!” + </p> + <p> + I entered the inner room. + </p> + <p> + The wheeled chair advanced to meet me, so slowly and so softly that I + hardly knew it again. Miserrimus Dexter languidly held out his hand. His + head inclined pensively to one side; his large blue eyes looked at me + piteously. Not a vestige seemed to be left of the raging, shouting + creature of my first visit, who was Napoleon at one moment, and + Shakespeare at another. Mr. Dexter of the morning was a mild, thoughtful, + melancholy man, who only recalled Mr. Dexter of the night by the + inveterate oddity of his dress. His jacket, on this occasion, was of pink + quilted silk. The coverlet which hid his deformity matched the jacket in + pale sea-green satin; and, to complete these strange vagaries of costume, + his wrists were actually adorned with massive bracelets of gold, formed on + the severely simple models which have descended to us from ancient times. + </p> + <p> + “How good of you to cheer and charm me by coming here!” he said, in his + most mournful and most musical tones. “I have dressed, expressly to + receive you, in the prettiest clothes I have. Don’t be surprised. Except + in this ignoble and material nineteenth century, men have always worn + precious stuffs and beautiful colors as well as women. A hundred years ago + a gentleman in pink silk was a gentleman properly dressed. Fifteen hundred + years ago the patricians of the classic times wore bracelets exactly like + mine. I despise the brutish contempt for beauty and the mean dread of + expense which degrade a gentleman’s costume to black cloth, and limit a + gentleman’s ornaments to a finger-ring, in the age I live in. I like to be + bright and beautiful, especially when brightness and beauty come to see + me. You don’t know how precious your society is to me. This is one of my + melancholy days. Tears rise unbidden to my eyes. I sigh and sorrow over + myself; I languish for pity. Just think of what I am! A poor solitary + creature, cursed with a frightful deformity. How pitiable! how dreadful! + My affectionate heart—wasted. My extraordinary talents—useless + or misapplied. Sad! sad! sad! Please pity me.” + </p> + <p> + His eyes were positively filled with tears—tears of compassion for + himself! He looked at me and spoke to me with the wailing, querulous + entreaty of a sick child wanting to be nursed. I was utterly at a loss + what to do. It was perfectly ridiculous—but I was never more + embarrassed in my life. + </p> + <p> + “Please pity me!” he repeated. “Don’t be cruel. I only ask a little thing. + Pretty Mrs. Valeria, say you pity me!” + </p> + <p> + I said I pitied him—and I felt that I blushed as I did it. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” said Miserrimus Dexter, humbly. “It does me good. Go a little + further. Pat my hand.” + </p> + <p> + I tried to restrain myself; but the sense of the absurdity of this last + petition (quite gravely addressed to me, remember!) was too strong to be + controlled. I burst out laughing. + </p> + <p> + Miserrimus Dexter looked at me with a blank astonishment which only + increased my merriment. Had I offended him? Apparently not. Recovering + from his astonishment, he laid his head luxuriously on the back of his + chair, with the expression of a man who was listening critically to a + performance of some sort. When I had quite exhausted myself, he raised his + head and clapped his shapely white hands, and honored me with an “encore.” + </p> + <p> + “Do it again,” he said, still in the same childish way. “Merry Mrs. + Valeria, <i>you</i> have a musical laugh—<i>I</i> have a musical + ear. Do it again.” + </p> + <p> + I was serious enough by this time. “I am ashamed of myself, Mr. Dexter,” I + said. “Pray forgive me.” + </p> + <p> + He made no answer to this; I doubt if he heard me. His variable temper + appeared to be in course of undergoing some new change. He sat looking at + my dress (as I supposed) with a steady and anxious attention, gravely + forming his own conclusions, steadfastly pursuing his own train of + thought. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Valeria,” he burst out suddenly, “you are not comfortable in that + chair.” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me,” I replied; “I am quite comfortable.” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon <i>me,</i>” he rejoined. “There is a chair of Indian basket-work + at that end of the room which is much better suited to you. Will you + accept my apologies if I am rude enough to allow you to fetch it for + yourself? I have a reason.” + </p> + <p> + He had a reason! What new piece of eccentricity was he about to exhibit? I + rose and fetched the chair. It was light enough to be quite easily + carried. As I returned to him, I noticed that his eyes were strangely + employed in what seemed to be the closest scrutiny of my dress. And, + stranger still, the result of this appeared to be partly to interest and + partly to distress him. + </p> + <p> + I placed the chair near him, and was about to take my seat in it, when he + sent me back again, on another errand, to the end of the room. + </p> + <p> + “Oblige me indescribably,” he said. “There is a hand-screen hanging on the + wall, which matches the chair. We are rather near the fire here. You may + find the screen useful. Once more forgive me for letting you fetch it for + yourself. Once more let me assure you that I have a reason.” + </p> + <p> + Here was his “reason,” reiterated, emphatically reiterated, for the second + time! Curiosity made me as completely the obedient servant of his caprices + as Ariel herself. I fetched the hand-screen. Returning with it, I met his + eyes still fixed with the same incomprehensible attention on my perfectly + plain and unpretending dress, and still expressing the same curious + mixture of interest and regret. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you a thousand times,” he said. “You have (quite innocently) wrung + my heart. But you have not the less done me an inestimable kindness. Will + you promise not to be offended with me if I confess the truth?” + </p> + <p> + He was approaching his explanation I never gave a promise more readily in + my life. + </p> + <p> + “I have rudely allowed you to fetch your chair and your screen for + yourself,” he went on. “My motive will seem a very strange one, I am + afraid. Did you observe that I noticed you very attentively—too + attentively, perhaps?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” I said. “I thought you were noticing my dress.” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head, and sighed bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “Not your dress,” he said; “and not your face. Your dress is dark. Your + face is still strange to me. Dear Mrs. Valeria, I wanted to see you walk.” + </p> + <p> + To see me walk! What did he mean? Where was that erratic mind of his + wandering to now? + </p> + <p> + “You have a rare accomplishment for an Englishwoman,” he resumed—“you + walk well. <i>She</i> walked well. I couldn’t resist the temptation of + seeing her again, in seeing you. It was <i>her</i> movement, <i>her</i> + sweet, simple, unsought grace (not yours), when you walked to the end of + the room and returned to me. You raised her from the dead when you fetched + the chair and the screen. Pardon me for making use of you: the idea was + innocent, the motive was sacred. You have distressed—and delighted + me. My heart bleeds—and thanks you.” + </p> + <p> + He paused for a moment; he let his head droop on his breast, then suddenly + raised it again. + </p> + <p> + “Surely we were talking about her last night?” he said. “What did I say? + what did you say? My memory is confused; I half remember, half forget. + Please remind me. You’re not offended with me—are you?” + </p> + <p> + I might have been offended with another man. Not with him. I was far too + anxious to find my way into his confidence—now that he had touched + of his own accord on the subject of Eustace’s first wife—to be + offended with Miserrimus Dexter. + </p> + <p> + “We were speaking,” I answered, “of Mrs. Eustace Macallan’s death, and we + were saying to one another—” + </p> + <p> + He interrupted me, leaning forward eagerly in his chair. + </p> + <p> + “Yes! yes!” he exclaimed. “And I was wondering what interest <i>you</i> + could have in penetrating the mystery of her death. Tell me! Confide in + me! I am dying to know!” + </p> + <p> + “Not even you have a stronger interest in that subject than the interest + that I feel,” I said. “The happiness of my whole life to come depends on + my clearing up the mystery.” + </p> + <p> + “Good God—why?” he cried. “Stop! I am exciting myself. I mustn’t do + that. I must have all my wits about me; I mustn’t wander. The thing is too + serious. Wait a minute!” + </p> + <p> + An elegant little basket was hooked on to one of the arms of his chair. He + opened it, and drew out a strip of embroidery partially finished, with the + necessary materials for working a complete. We looked at each other across + the embroidery. He noticed my surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Women,” he said, “wisely compose their minds, and help themselves to + think quietly, by doing needle-work. Why are men such fools as to deny + themselves the same admirable resource—the simple and soothing + occupation which keeps the nerves steady and leaves the mind calm and + free? As a man, I follow the woman’s wise example. Mrs. Valeria, permit me + to compose myself.” + </p> + <p> + Gravely arranging his embroidery, this extraordinary being began to work + with the patient and nimble dexterity of an accomplished needle-woman. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” said Miserrimus Dexter, “if you are ready, I am. You talk—I + work. Please begin.” + </p> + <p> + I obeyed him, and began. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXVIII. IN THE DARK. + </h2> + <p> + WITH such a man as Miserrimus Dexter, and with such a purpose as I had in + view, no half-confidences were possible. I must either risk the most + unreserved acknowledgment of the interests that I really had at stake, or + I must make the best excuse that occurred to me for abandoning my + contemplated experiment at the last moment. In my present critical + situation, no such refuge as a middle course lay before me—even if I + had been inclined to take it. As things were, I ran risks, and plunged + headlong into my own affairs at starting. + </p> + <p> + “Thus far, you know little or nothing about me, Mr. Dexter,” I said. “You + are, as I believe, quite unaware that my husband and I are not living + together at the present time.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it necessary to mention your husband?” he asked, coldly, without + looking up from his embroidery, and without pausing in his work. + </p> + <p> + “It is absolutely necessary,” I answered. “I can explain myself to you in + no other way.” + </p> + <p> + He bent his head, and sighed resignedly. + </p> + <p> + “You and your husband are not living together at the present time,” he + resumed. “Does that mean that Eustace has left you?” + </p> + <p> + “He has left me, and has gone abroad.” + </p> + <p> + “Without any necessity for it?” + </p> + <p> + “Without the least necessity.” + </p> + <p> + “Has he appointed no time for his return to you?” + </p> + <p> + “If he persevere in his present resolution, Mr. Dexter, Eustace will never + return to me.” + </p> + <p> + For the first time he raised his head from his embroidery—with a + sudden appearance of interest. + </p> + <p> + “Is the quarrel so serious as that?” he asked. “Are you free of each + other, pretty Mrs. Valeria, by common consent of both parties?” + </p> + <p> + The tone in which he put the question was not at all to my liking. The + look he fixed on me was a look which unpleasantly suggested that I had + trusted myself alone with him, and that he might end in taking advantage + of it. I reminded him quietly, by my manner more than by my words, of the + respect which he owed to me. + </p> + <p> + “You are entirely mistaken,” I said. “There is no anger—there is not + even a misunderstanding between us. Our parting has cost bitter sorrow, + Mr. Dexter, to him and to me.” + </p> + <p> + He submitted to be set right with ironical resignation. “I am all + attention,” he said, threading his needle. “Pray go on; I won’t interrupt + you again.” Acting on this invitation, I told him the truth about my + husband and myself quite unreservedly, taking care, however, at the same + time, to put Eustace’s motives in the best light that they would bear. + Miserrimus Dexter dropped his embroidery on his lap, and laughed softly to + himself, with an impish enjoyment of my poor little narrative, which set + every nerve in me on edge as I looked at him. + </p> + <p> + “I see nothing to laugh at,” I said, sharply. + </p> + <p> + His beautiful blue eyes rested on me with a look of innocent surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing to laugh at,” he repeated, “in such an exhibition of human folly + as you have just described?” His expression suddenly changed his face + darkened and hardened very strangely. “Stop!” he cried, before I could + answer him. “There can be only one reason for you’re taking it as + seriously as you do. Mrs. Valeria! you are fond of your husband.” + </p> + <p> + “Fond of him isn’t strong enough to express it,” I retorted. “I love him + with my whole heart.” + </p> + <p> + Miserrimus Dexter stroked his magnificent beard, and contemplatively + repeated my words. “You love him with your whole heart? Do you know why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I can’t help it,” I answered, doggedly. + </p> + <p> + He smiled satirically, and went on with his embroidery. “Curious!” he said + to himself; “Eustace’s first wife loved him too. There are some men whom + the women all like, and there are other men whom the women never care for. + Without the least reason for it in either case. The one man is just as + good as the other; just as handsome, as agreeable, as honorable, and as + high in rank as the other. And yet for Number One they will go through + fire and water, and for Number Two they won’t so much as turn their heads + to look at him. Why? They don’t know themselves—as Mrs. Valeria has + just said! Is there a physical reason for it? Is there some potent + magnetic emanation from Number One which Number Two doesn’t possess? I + must investigate this when I have the time, and when I find myself in the + humor.” Having so far settled the question to his own entire satisfaction, + he looked up at me again. “I am still in the dark about you and your + motives,” he said. “I am still as far as ever from understanding what your + interest is in investigating that hideous tragedy at Gleninch. Clever Mrs. + Valeria, please take me by the hand, and lead me into the light. You’re + not offended with me are you? Make it up; and I will give you this pretty + piece of embroidery when I have done it. I am only a poor, solitary, + deformed wretch, with a quaint turn of mind; I mean no harm. Forgive me! + indulge me! enlighten me!” + </p> + <p> + He resumed his childish ways; he recovered his innocent smile, with the + odd little puckers and wrinkles accompanying it at the corners of his + eyes. I began to doubt whether I might not have been unreasonably hard on + him. I penitently resolved to be more considerate toward his infirmities + of mind and body during the remainder of my visit. + </p> + <p> + “Let me go back for a moment, Mr. Dexter, to past times at Gleninch,” I + said. “You agree with me in believing Eustace to be absolutely innocent of + the crime for which he was tried. Your evidence at the Trial tells me + that.” + </p> + <p> + He paused over his work, and looked at me with a grave and stern attention + which presented his face in quite a new light. + </p> + <p> + “That is <i>our</i> opinion,” I resumed. “But it was not the opinion of + the Jury. Their verdict, you remember, was Not Proven. In plain English, + the Jury who tried my husband declined to express their opinion, + positively and publicly, that he was innocent. Am I right?” + </p> + <p> + Instead of answering, he suddenly put his embroidery back in the basket, + and moved the machinery of his chair, so as to bring it close by mine. + </p> + <p> + “Who told you this?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I found it for myself in a book.” + </p> + <p> + Thus far his face had expressed steady attention—and no more. Now, + for the first time, I thought I saw something darkly passing over him + which betrayed itself to my mind as rising distrust. + </p> + <p> + “Ladies are not generally in the habit of troubling their heads about dry + questions of law,” he said. “Mrs. Eustace Macallan the Second, you must + have some very powerful motive for turning your studies that way.” + </p> + <p> + “I have a very powerful motive, Mr. Dexter My husband is resigned to the + Scotch Verdict His mother is resigned to it. His friends (so far as I + know) are resigned to it—” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Well! I don’t agree with my husband, or his mother, or his friends. I + refuse to submit to the Scotch Verdict.” + </p> + <p> + The instant I said those words, the madness in him which I had hitherto + denied, seemed to break out. He suddenly stretched himself over his chair: + he pounced on me, with a hand on each of my shoulders; his wild eyes + questioned me fiercely, frantically, within a few inches of my face. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” he shouted, at the utmost pitch of his ringing and + resonant voice. + </p> + <p> + A deadly fear of him shook me. I did my best to hide the outward betrayal + of it. By look and word, I showed him, as firmly as I could, that I + resented the liberty he had taken with me. + </p> + <p> + “Remove your hands, sir,” I said, “and retire to your proper place.” + </p> + <p> + He obeyed me mechanically. He apologized to me mechanically. His whole + mind was evidently still filled with the words that I had spoken to him, + and still bent on discovering what those words meant. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” he said; “I humbly beg your pardon. The subject + excites me, frightens me, maddens me. You don’t know what a difficulty I + have in controlling myself. Never mind. Don’t take me seriously. Don’t be + frightened at me. I am so ashamed of myself—I feel so small and so + miserable at having offended you. Make me suffer for it. Take a stick and + beat me. Tie me down in my chair. Call up Ariel, who is as strong as a + horse, and tell her to hold me. Dear Mrs. Valeria! Injured Mrs. Valeria! + I’ll endure anything in the way of punishment, if you will only tell me + what you mean by not submitting to the Scotch Verdict.” He backed his + chair penitently as he made that entreaty. “Am I far enough away yet?” he + asked, with a rueful look. “Do I still frighten you? I’ll drop out of + sight, if you prefer it, in the bottom of the chair.” + </p> + <p> + He lifted the sea-green coverlet. In another moment he would have + disappeared like a puppet in a show if I had not stopped him. + </p> + <p> + “Say nothing more, and do nothing more; I accept your apologies,” I said. + “When I tell you that I refuse to submit to the opinion of the Scotch + Jury, I mean exactly what my words express. That verdict has left a stain + on my husband’s character. He feels the stain bitterly. How bitterly no + one knows so well as I do. His sense of his degradation is the sense that + has parted him from me. It is not enough for <i>him</i> that I am + persuaded of his innocence. Nothing will bring him back to me—nothing + will persuade Eustace that I think him worthy to be the guide and + companion of my life—but the proof of his innocence, set before the + Jury which doubts it, and the public which doubts it, to this day. He and + his friends and his lawyers all despair of ever finding that proof now. + But I am his wife; and none of you love him as I love him. I alone refuse + to despair; I alone refuse to listen to reason. If God spare me, Mr. + Dexter, I dedicate my life to the vindication of my husband’s innocence. + You are his old friend—I am here to ask you to help me.” + </p> + <p> + It appeared to be now my turn to frighten <i>him.</i> The color left his + face. He passed his hand restlessly over his forehead, as if he were + trying to brush some delusion out of his brain. + </p> + <p> + “Is this one of my dreams?” he asked, faintly. “Are you a Vision of the + night?” + </p> + <p> + “I am only a friendless woman,” I said, “who has lost all that she loved + and prized, and who is trying to win it back again.” + </p> + <p> + He began to move his chair nearer to me once more. I lifted my hand. He + stopped the chair directly. There was a moment of silence. We sat watching + one another. I saw his hands tremble as he laid them on the coverlet; I + saw his face grow paler and paler, and his under lip drop. What dead and + buried remembrances had I brought to life in him, in all their olden + horror? + </p> + <p> + He was the first to speak again. + </p> + <p> + “So this is your interest,” he said, “in clearing up the mystery of Mrs. + Eustace Macallan’s death?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And you believe that I can help you?” + </p> + <p> + “I do.” + </p> + <p> + He slowly lifted one of his hands, and pointed at me with his long + forefinger. + </p> + <p> + “You suspect somebody,” he said. + </p> + <p> + The tone in which he spoke was low and threatening; it warned me to be + careful. At the same time, if I now shut him out of my confidence, I + should lose the reward that might yet be to come, for all that I had + suffered and risked at that perilous interview. + </p> + <p> + “You suspect somebody,” he repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps!” was all that I said in return. + </p> + <p> + “Is the person within your reach?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know where the person is?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + He laid his head languidly on the back of his chair, with a trembling + long-drawn sigh. Was he disappointed? Or was he relieved? Or was he simply + exhausted in mind and body alike? Who could fathom him? Who could say? + </p> + <p> + “Will you give me five minutes?” he asked, feebly and wearily, without + raising his head. “You know already how any reference to events at + Gleninch excites and shakes me. I shall be fit for it again, if you will + kindly give me a few minutes to myself. There are books in the next room. + Please excuse me.” + </p> + <p> + I at once retired to the circular antechamber. He followed me in his + chair, and closed the door between us. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXIX. IN THE LIGHT. + </h2> + <p> + A LITTLE interval of solitude was a relief to me, as well as to Miserrimus + Dexter. + </p> + <p> + Startling doubts beset me as I walked restlessly backward and forward, now + in the anteroom, and now in the corridor outside. It was plain that I had + (quite innocently) disturbed the repose of some formidable secrets in + Miserrimus Dexter’s mind. I confused and wearied my poor brains in trying + to guess what the secrets might be. All my ingenuity—as after-events + showed me—was wasted on speculations not one of which even + approached the truth. I was on surer ground when I arrived at the + conclusion that Dexter had really kept every mortal creature out of his + confidence. He could never have betrayed such serious signs of disturbance + as I had noticed in him, if he had publicly acknowledged at the Trial, or + if he had privately communicated to any chosen friend, all that he knew of + the tragic and terrible drama acted in the bedchamber at Gleninch. What + powerful influence had induced him to close his lips? Had he been silent + in mercy to others? or in dread of consequences to himself? Impossible to + tell! Could I hope that he would confide to Me what he had kept secret + from Justice and Friendship alike? When he knew what I really wanted of + him, would he arm me, out of his own stores of knowledge, with the weapon + that would win me victory in the struggle to come? The chances were + against it—there was no denying that. Still the end was worth trying + for. The caprice of the moment might yet stand my friend, with such a + wayward being as Miserrimus Dexter. My plans and projects were + sufficiently strange, sufficiently wide of the ordinary limits of a + woman’s thoughts and actions, to attract his sympathies. “Who knows,” I + thought to myself, “if I may not take his confidence by surprise, by + simply telling him the truth?” + </p> + <p> + The interval expired; the door was thrown open; the voice of my host + summoned me again to the inner room. + </p> + <p> + “Welcome back!” said Miserrimus Dexter. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Mrs. Valeria, I am quite myself again. How are you?” + </p> + <p> + He looked and spoke with the easy cordiality of an old friend. During the + period of my absence, short as it was, another change had passed over this + most multiform of living beings. His eyes sparkled with good-humor; his + cheeks were flushing under a new excitement of some sort. Even his dress + had undergone alteration since I had seen it last. He now wore an + extemporized cap of white paper; his ruffles were tucked up; a clean apron + was thrown over the sea-green coverlet. He hacked his chair before me, + bowing and smiling, and waved me to a seat with the grace of a dancing + master, chastened by the dignity of a lord in waiting. + </p> + <p> + “I am going to cook,” he announced, with the most engaging simplicity. “We + both stand in need of refreshment before we return to the serious business + of our interview. You see me in my cook’s dress; forgive it. There is a + form in these things. I am a great stickler for forms. I have been taking + some wine. Please sanction that proceeding by taking some wine too.” + </p> + <p> + He filled a goblet of ancient Venetian glass with a purple-red liquor, + beautiful to see. + </p> + <p> + “Burgundy!” he said—“the king of wine: And this is the king of + Burgundies—Clos Vougeot. I drink to your health and happiness!” + </p> + <p> + He filled a second goblet for himself, and honored the toast by draining + it to the bottom. I now understood the sparkle in his eyes and the flush + in his cheeks. It was my interest not to offend him. I drank a little of + his wine, and I quite agreed with him. I thought it delicious. + </p> + <p> + “What shall we eat?” he asked. “It must be something worthy of our Clos + Vougeot. Ariel is good at roasting and boiling joints, poor wretch! but I + don’t insult your taste by offering you Ariel’s cookery. Plain joints!” he + exclaimed, with an expression of refined disgust. “Bah! A man who eats a + plain joint is only one remove from a cannibal or a butcher. Will you + leave it to me to discover something more worthy of us? Let us go to the + kitchen.” + </p> + <p> + He wheeled his chair around, and invited me to accompany him with a + courteous wave of his hand. + </p> + <p> + I followed the chair to some closed curtains at one end of the room, which + I had not hitherto noticed. Drawing aside the curtains, he revealed to + view an alcove, in which stood a neat little gas-stove for cooking. + Drawers and cupboards, plates, dishes, and saucepans, were ranged around + the alcove—all on a miniature scale, all scrupulously bright and + clean. “Welcome to the kitchen!” said Miserrimus Dexter. He drew out of a + recess in the wall a marble slab, which served as a table, and reflected + profoundly, with his hand to his head. “I have it!” he cried, and opening + one of the cupboards next, took from it a black bottle of a form that was + new to me. Sounding this bottle with a spike, he pierced and produced to + view some little irregularly formed black objects, which might have been + familiar enough to a woman accustomed to the luxurious tables of the rich, + but which were a new revelation to a person like myself, who had led a + simple country life in the house of a clergyman with small means. When I + saw my host carefully lay out these occult substances of uninviting + appearance on a clean napkin, and then plunge once more into profound + reflection at the sight of them, my curiosity could be no longer + restrained. I ventured to say, “What are those things, Mr. Dexter, and are + we really going to eat them?” + </p> + <p> + He started at the rash question, and looked at me with hands outspread in + irrepressible astonishment. + </p> + <p> + “Where is our boasted progress?” he cried. “What is education but a name? + Here is a cultivated person who doesn’t know Truffles when she sees them!” + </p> + <p> + “I have heard of truffles,” I answered, humbly, “but I never saw them + before. We had no such foreign luxuries as those, Mr. Dexter, at home in + the North.” + </p> + <p> + Miserrimus Dexter lifted one of the truffles tenderly on his spike, and + held it up to me in a favorable light. + </p> + <p> + “Make the most of one of the few first sensations in this life which has + no ingredient of disappointment lurking under the surface,” he said. “Look + at it; meditate over it. You shall eat it, Mrs. Valeria, stewed in + Burgundy!” + </p> + <p> + He lighted the gas for cooking with the air of a man who was about to + offer me an inestimable proof of his good-will. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me if I observe the most absolute silence,” he said, “dating from + the moment when I take this in my hand.” He produced a bright little + stew-pan from his collection of culinary utensils as he spoke. “Properly + pursued, the Art of Cookery allows of no divided attention,” he continued, + gravely. “In that observation you will find the reason why no woman ever + has reached, or ever will reach, the highest distinction as a cook. As a + rule, women are incapable of absolutely concentrating their attention on + any one occupation for any given time. Their minds will run on something + else—say; typically, for the sake of illustration, their sweetheart + or their new bonnet. The one obstacle, Mrs. Valeria, to your rising equal + to the men in the various industrial processes of life is not raised, as + the women vainly suppose, by the defective institutions of the age they + live in. No! the obstacle is in themselves. No institutions that can be + devised to encourage them will ever be strong enough to contend + successfully with the sweetheart and the new bonnet. A little while ago, + for instance, I was instrumental in getting women employed in our local + post-office here. The other day I took the trouble—a serious + business to me—of getting downstairs, and wheeling myself away to + the office to see how they were getting on. I took a letter with me to + register. It had an unusually long address. The registering woman began + copying the address on the receipt form, in a business-like manner + cheering and delightful to see. Half way through, a little child-sister of + one of the other women employed trotted into the office, and popped under + the counter to go and speak to her relative. The registering woman’s mind + instantly gave way. Her pencil stopped; her eyes wandered off to the child + with a charming expression of interest. ‘Well, Lucy,’ she said, ‘how d’ye + do?’ Then she remembered business again, and returned to her receipt. When + I took it across the counter, an important line in the address of my + letter was left out in the copy. Thanks to Lucy. Now a man in the same + position would not have seen Lucy—he would have been too closely + occupied with what he was about at the moment. There is the whole + difference between the mental constitution of the sexes, which no + legislation will ever alter as long as the world lasts! What does it + matter? Women are infinitely superior to men in the moral qualities which + are the true adornments of humanity. Be content—oh, my mistaken + sisters, be content with that!” + </p> + <p> + He twisted his chair around toward the stove. It was useless to dispute + the question with him, even if I had felt inclined to do so. He absorbed + himself in his stew-pan. + </p> + <p> + I looked about me in the room. + </p> + <p> + The same insatiable relish for horrors exhibited downstairs by the + pictures in the hall was displayed again here. The photographs hanging on + the wall represented the various forms of madness taken from the life. The + plaster casts ranged on the shelf opposite were casts (after death) of the + heads of famous murderers. A frightful little skeleton of a woman hung in + a cupboard, behind a glazed door, with this cynical inscription placed + above the skull: “Behold the scaffolding on which beauty is built!” In a + corresponding cupboard, with the door wide open, there hung in loose folds + a shirt (as I took it to be) of chamois leather. Touching it (and finding + it to be far softer than any chamois leather that my fingers had ever felt + before), I disarranged the folds, and disclosed a ticket pinned among + them, describing the thing in these horrid lines: “Skin of a French + Marquis, tanned in the Revolution of Ninety-three. Who says the nobility + are not good for something? They make good leather.” + </p> + <p> + After this last specimen of my host’s taste in curiosities, I pursued my + investigation no further. I returned to my chair, and waited for the + truffles. + </p> + <p> + After a brief interval, the voice of the poet-painter-composer-and-cook + summoned me back to the alcove. + </p> + <p> + The gas was out. The stew-pan and its accompaniments had vanished. On the + marble slab were two plates, two napkins, two rolls of bread, and a dish, + with another napkin in it, on which reposed two quaint little black balls. + Miserrimus Dexter, regarding me with a smile of benevolent interest, put + one of the balls on my plate, and took the other himself. “Compose + yourself, Mrs. Valeria,” he said. “This is an epoch in your life. Your + first Truffle! Don’t touch it with the knife. Use the fork alone. And—pardon + me; this is most important—eat slowly.” + </p> + <p> + I followed my instructions, and assumed an enthusiasm which I honestly + confess I did not feel. I privately thought the new vegetable a great deal + too rich, and in other respects quite unworthy of the fuss that had been + made about it. Miserrimus Dexter lingered and languished over his + truffles, and sipped his wonderful Burgundy, and sang his own praises as a + cook until I was really almost mad with impatience to return to the real + object of my visit. In the reckless state of mind which this feeling + produced, I abruptly reminded my host that he was wasting our time, by the + most dangerous question that I could possibly put to him. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Dexter,” I said, “have you seen anything lately of Mrs. Beauly?” + </p> + <p> + The easy sense of enjoyment expressed in his face left it at those rash + words, and went out like a suddenly extinguished light. That furtive + distrust of me which I had already noticed instantly made itself felt + again in his manner and in his voice. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know Mrs. Beauly?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I only know her,” I answered, “by what I have read of her in the Trial.” + </p> + <p> + He was not satisfied with that reply. + </p> + <p> + “You must have an interest of some sort in Mrs. Beauly,” he said, “or you + would not have asked me about her. Is it the interest of a friend, or the + interest of an enemy?” + </p> + <p> + Rash as I might be, I was not quite reckless enough yet to meet that plain + question by an equally plain reply. I saw enough in his face to warn me to + be careful with him before it was too late. + </p> + <p> + “I can only answer you in one way,” I rejoined. “I must return to a + subject which is very painful to you—the subject of the Trial.” + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” he said, with one of his grim outbursts of humor. “Here I am at + your mercy—a martyr at the stake. Poke the fire! poke the fire!” + </p> + <p> + “I am only an ignorant woman,” I resumed, “and I dare say I am quite + wrong; but there is one part of my husband’s trial which doesn’t at all + satisfy me. The defense set up for him seems to me to have been a complete + mistake.” + </p> + <p> + “A complete mistake?” he repeated. “Strange language, Mrs. Valeria, to say + the least of it!” He tried to speak lightly; he took up his goblet of + wine; but I could see that I had produced an effect on him. His hand + trembled as it carried the wine to his lips. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t doubt that Eustace’s first wife really asked him to buy the + arsenic,” I continued. “I don’t doubt that she used it secretly to improve + her complexion. But what I do <i>not</i> believe is that she died of an + overdose of the poison, taken by mistake.” + </p> + <p> + He put back the goblet of wine on the table near him so unsteadily that he + spilled the greater part of it. For a moment his eyes met mine, then + looked down again. + </p> + <p> + “How do you believe she died?” he inquired, in tones so low that I could + barely hear them. + </p> + <p> + “By the hand of a poisoner,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + He made a movement as if he were about to start up in the chair, and sank + back again, seized, apparently, with a sudden faintness. + </p> + <p> + “Not my husband!” I hastened to add. “You know that I am satisfied of <i>his</i> + innocence.” + </p> + <p> + I saw him shudder. I saw his hands fasten their hold convulsively on the + arms of his chair. + </p> + <p> + “Who poisoned her?” he asked, still lying helplessly back in the chair. + </p> + <p> + At the critical moment my courage failed me. I was afraid to tell him in + what direction my suspicions pointed. + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you guess?” I said. + </p> + <p> + There was a pause. I supposed him to be secretly following his own train + of thought. It was not for long. On a sudden he started up in his chair. + The prostration which had possessed him appeared to vanish in an instant. + His eyes recovered their wild light; his hands were steady again; his + color was brighter than ever. Had he been pondering over the secret of my + interest in Mrs. Beauly? and had he guessed? He had! + </p> + <p> + “Answer on your word of honor!” he cried. “Don’t attempt to deceive me! Is + it a woman?” + </p> + <p> + “It is.” + </p> + <p> + “What is the first letter of her name? Is it one of the first three + letters of the alphabet?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “B?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Beauly?” + </p> + <p> + “Beauly.” + </p> + <p> + He threw his hands up above his head, and burst into a frantic fit of + laughter. + </p> + <p> + “I have lived long enough!” he broke out, wildly. “At last I have + discovered one other person in the world who sees it as plainly as I do. + Cruel Mrs. Valeria! why did you torture me? Why didn’t you own it before?” + </p> + <p> + “What!” I exclaimed, catching the infection of his excitement. “Are <i>your</i> + ideas <i>my</i> ideas? Is it possible that <i>you</i> suspect Mrs. Beauly + too?” + </p> + <p> + He made this remarkable reply: + </p> + <p> + “Suspect?” he repeated, contemptuously. “There isn’t the shadow of a doubt + about it. Mrs. Beauly poisoned her.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXX. THE INDICTMENT OF MRS. BEAULY. + </h2> + <p> + I STARTED to my feet, and looked at Miserrimus Dexter. I was too much + agitated to be able to speak to him. + </p> + <p> + My utmost expectations had not prepared me for the tone of absolute + conviction in which he had spoken. At the best, I had anticipated that he + might, by the barest chance, agree with me in suspecting Mrs. Beauly. And + now his own lips had said it, without hesitation or reserve! “There isn’t + the shadow of a doubt: Mrs. Beauly poisoned her.” + </p> + <p> + “Sit down,” he said, quietly. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Nobody can + hear us in this room.” + </p> + <p> + I sat down again, and recovered myself a little. + </p> + <p> + “Have you never told any one else what you have just told me?” was the + first question that I put to him. + </p> + <p> + “Never. No one else suspected her.” + </p> + <p> + “Not even the lawyers?” + </p> + <p> + “Not even the lawyers. There is no legal evidence against Mrs. Beauly. + There is nothing but moral certainty.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely you might have found the evidence if you had tried?” + </p> + <p> + He laughed at the idea. + </p> + <p> + “Look at me!” he said. “How is a man to hunt up evidence who is tied to + this chair? Besides, there were other difficulties in my way. I am not + generally in the habit of needlessly betraying myself—I am a + cautious man, though you may not have noticed it. But my immeasurable + hatred of Mrs. Beauly was not to be concealed. If eyes can tell secrets, + she must have discovered, in my eyes, that I hungered and thirsted to see + her in the hangman’s hands. From first to last, I tell you, Mrs. + Borgia-Beauly was on her guard against me. Can I describe her cunning? All + my resources of language are not equal to the task. Take the degrees of + comparison to give you a faint idea of it: I am positively cunning; the + devil is comparatively cunning; Mrs. Beauly is superlatively cunning. No! + no! If she is ever discovered, at this distance of time, it will not be + done by a man—it will be done by a woman: a woman whom she doesn’t + suspect; a woman who can watch her with the patience of a tigress in a + state of starvation—” + </p> + <p> + “Say a woman like Me!” I broke out. “I am ready to try.” + </p> + <p> + His eyes glittered; his teeth showed themselves viciously under his + mustache; he drummed fiercely with both hands on the arms of his chair. + </p> + <p> + “Do you really mean it?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Put me in your position,” I answered. “Enlighten me with your moral + certainty (as you call it)—and you shall see!” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll do it!” he said. “Tell me one thing first. How did an outside + stranger, like you, come to suspect her?” + </p> + <p> + I set before him, to the best of my ability, the various elements of + suspicion which I had collected from the evidence at the Trial; and I laid + especial stress on the fact (sworn to by the nurse) that Mrs. Beauly was + missing exactly at the time when Christina Ormsay had left Mrs. Eustace + Macallan alone in her room. + </p> + <p> + “You have hit it!” cried Miserrimus Dexter. “You are a wonderful woman! + What was she doing on the morning of the day when Mrs. Eustace Macallan + died poisoned? And where was she during the dark hours of the night? I can + tell you where she was <i>not</i>—she was not in her own room.” + </p> + <p> + “Not in her own room?” I repeated. “Are you really sure of that?” + </p> + <p> + “I am sure of everything that I say, when I am speaking of Mrs. Beauly. + Mind that: and now listen! This is a drama; and I excel in dramatic + narrative. You shall judge for yourself. Date, the twentieth of October. + Scene the Corridor, called the Guests’ Corridor, at Gleninch. On one side, + a row of windows looking out into the garden. On the other, a row of four + bedrooms, with dressing-rooms attached. First bedroom (beginning from the + staircase), occupied by Mrs. Beauly. Second bedroom, empty. Third bedroom, + occupied by Miserrimus Dexter. Fourth bedroom, empty. So much for the + Scene! The time comes next—the time is eleven at night. Dexter + discovered in his bedroom, reading. Enter to him Eustace Macallan. Eustace + speaks: ‘My dear fellow, be particularly careful not to make any noise; + don’t bowl your chair up and down the corridor to-night.’ Dexter inquires, + ‘Why?’ Eustace answers: ‘Mrs. Beauly has been dining with some friends in + Edinburgh, and has come back terribly fatigued: she has gone up to her + room to rest.’ Dexter makes another inquiry (satirical inquiry, this + time): ‘How does she look when she is terribly fatigued? As beautiful as + ever?’ Answer: ‘I don’t know; I have not seen her; she slipped upstairs, + without speaking to anybody.’ Third inquiry by Dexter (logical inquiry, on + this occasion): ‘If she spoke to nobody, how do you know she is fatigued?’ + Eustace hands Dexter a morsel of paper, and answers: ‘Don t be a fool! I + found this on the hall table. Remember what I have told you about keeping + quiet; good-night!’ Eustace retires. Dexter looks at the paper, and reads + these lines in pencil: ‘Just returned. Please forgive me for going to bed + without saying good-night. I have overexerted myself; I am dreadfully + fatigued. (Signed) Helena.’ Dexter is by nature suspicious. Dexter + suspects Mrs. Beauly. Never mind his reasons; there is no time to enter + into his reasons now. He puts the case to himself thus: ‘A weary woman + would never have given herself the trouble to write this. She would have + found it much less fatiguing to knock at the drawing-room door as she + passed, and to make her apologies by word of mouth. I see something here + out of the ordinary way; I shall make a night of it in my chair. Very + good. Dexter proceeds to make a night of it. He opens his door; wheels + himself softly into the corridor; locks the doors of the two empty + bedrooms, and returns (with the keys in his pocket) to his own room. + ‘Now,’ says D. to himself, ‘if I hear a door softly opened in this part of + the house, I shall know for certain it is Mrs. Beauly’s door!’ Upon that + he closes his own door, leaving the tiniest little chink to look through; + puts out his light; and waits and watches at his tiny little chink, like a + cat at a mouse-hole. The corridor is the only place he wants to see; and a + lamp burns there all night. Twelve o’clock strikes; he hears the doors + below bolted and locked, and nothing happens. Half-past twelve—and + nothing still. The house is as silent as the grave. One o’clock; two + o’clock—same silence. Half-past two—and something happens at + last. Dexter hears a sound close by, in the corridor. It is the sound of a + handle turning very softly in a door—in the only door that can be + opened, the door of Mrs. Beauly’s room. Dexter drops noiselessly from his + chair onto his hands; lies flat on the floor at his chink, and listens. He + hears the handle closed again; he sees a dark object flit by him; he pops + his head out of his door, down on the floor where nobody would think of + looking for him. And what does he see? Mrs. Beauly! There she goes, with + the long brown cloak over her shoulders, which she wears when she is + driving, floating behind her. In a moment more she disappears, past the + fourth bedroom, and turns at a right angle, into a second corridor, called + the South Corridor. What rooms are in the South Corridor? There are three + rooms. First room, the little study, mentioned in the nurse’s evidence. + Second room, Mrs. Eustace Macallan’s bedchamber. Third room, her husband’s + bedchamber. What does Mrs. Beauly (supposed to be worn out by fatigue) + want in that part of the house at half-past two in the morning? Dexter + decides on running the risk of being seen—and sets off on a voyage + of discovery. Do you know how he gets from place to place without his + chair? Have you seen the poor deformed creature hop on his hands? Shall he + show you how he does it, before he goes on with his story?” + </p> + <p> + I hastened to stop the proposed exhibition. + </p> + <p> + “I saw you hop last night,” I said. “Go on!—pray go on with your + story! + </p> + <p> + “Do you like my dramatic style of narrative?” he asked. “Am I + interesting?” + </p> + <p> + “Indescribably interesting, Mr. Dexter. I am eager to hear more.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled in high approval of his own abilities. + </p> + <p> + “I am equally good at the autobiographical style,” he said. “Shall we try + that next, by way of variety?” + </p> + <p> + “Anything you like,” I cried, losing all patience with him, “if you will + only go on!” + </p> + <p> + “Part Two; Autobiographical Style,” he announced, with a wave of his hand. + “I hopped along the Guests’ Corridor, and turned into the South Corridor. + I stopped at the little study. Door open; nobody there. I crossed the + study to the second door, communicating with Mrs. Macallan’s bedchamber. + Locked! I looked through the keyhole Was there something hanging over it, + on the other side? I can’t say—I only know there was nothing to be + seen but blank darkness. I listened. Nothing to be heard. Same blank + darkness, same absolute silence, inside the locked second door of Mrs. + Eustace’s room, opening on the corridor. I went on to her husband’s + bedchamber. I had the worst possible opinion of Mrs. Beauly—I should + not have been in the least surprised if I had caught her in Eustace’s + room. I looked through the keyhole. In this case, the key was out of it—or + was turned the right way for me—I don’t know which. Eustace’s bed + was opposite the door. No discovery. I could see him, all by himself, + innocently asleep. I reflected a little. The back staircase was at the end + of the corridor, beyond me. I slid down the stairs, and looked about me on + the lower floor, by the light of the night-lamp. Doors all fast locked and + keys outside, so that I could try them myself. House door barred and + bolted. Door leading into the servants’ offices barred and bolted. I got + back to my own room, and thought it out quietly. Where could she be? + Certainly <i>in</i> the house, somewhere. Where? I had made sure of the + other rooms; the field of search was exhausted. She could only be in Mrs. + Macallan’s room—the <i>one</i> room which had baffled my + investigations; the <i>only</i> room which had not lent itself to + examination. Add to this that the key of the door in the study, + communicating with Mrs. Macallan’s room, was stated in the nurse’s + evidence to be missing; and don’t forget that the dearest object of Mrs. + Beauly’s life (on the showing of her own letter, read at the Trial) was to + be Eustace Macallan’s happy wife. Put these things together in your own + mind, and you will know what my thoughts were, as I sat waiting for events + in my chair, without my telling you. Toward four o’clock, strong as I am, + fatigue got the better of me. I fell asleep. Not for long. I awoke with a + start and looked at my watch. Twenty-five minutes past four. Had she got + back to her room while I was asleep? I hopped to her door and listened. + Not a sound. I softly opened the door. The room was empty. I went back + again to my own room to wait and watch. It was hard work to keep my eyes + open. I drew up the window to let the cool air refresh me; I fought hard + with exhausted nature, and exhausted nature won. I fell asleep again. This + time it was eight in the morning when I awoke. I have goodish ears, as you + may have noticed. I heard women’s voices talking under my open window. I + peeped out. Mrs. Beauly and her maid in close confabulation! Mrs. Beauly + and her maid looking guiltily about them to make sure that they were + neither seen nor heard! ‘Take care, ma’am,’ I heard the maid say; ‘that + horrid deformed monster is as sly as a fox. Mind he doesn’t discover you.’ + Mrs. Beauly answered, ‘You go first, and look out in front; I will follow + you, and make sure there is nobody behind us.’ With that they disappeared + around the corner of the house. In five minutes more I heard the door of + Mrs. Beauly’s room softly opened and closed again. Three hours later the + nurse met her in the corridor, innocently on her way to make inquiries at + Mrs. Eustace Macallan’s door. What do you think of these circumstances? + What do you think of Mrs. Beauly and her maid having something to say to + each other, which they didn’t dare say in the house—for fear of my + being behind some door listening to them? What do you think of these + discoveries of mine being made on the very morning when Mrs. Eustace was + taken ill—on the very day when she died by a poisoner’s hand? Do you + see your way to the guilty person? And has mad Miserrimus Dexter been of + some assistance to you, so far?” + </p> + <p> + I was too violently excited to answer him. The way to the vindication of + my husband’s innocence was opened to me at last! + </p> + <p> + “Where is she?” I cried. “And where is that servant who is in her + confidence?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t tell you,” he said. “I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “Where can I inquire? Can you tell me that?” + </p> + <p> + He considered a little. “There is one man who must know where she is—or + who could find it out for you,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Who is he? What is his name?” + </p> + <p> + “He is a friend of Eustace’s. Major Fitz-David.” + </p> + <p> + “I know him! I am going to dine with him next week. He has asked you to + dine too.” + </p> + <p> + Miserrimus Dexter laughed contemptuously. + </p> + <p> + “Major Fitz-David may do very well for the ladies,” he said. “The ladies + can treat him as a species of elderly human lap-dog. I don’t dine with + lap-dogs; I have said, No. You go. He or some of his ladies may be of use + to you. Who are the guests? Did he tell you?” + </p> + <p> + “There was a French lady whose name I forget,” I said, “and Lady Clarinda—” + </p> + <p> + “That will do! She is a friend of Mrs. Beauly’s. She is sure to know where + Mrs. Beauly is. Come to me the moment you have got your information. Find + out if the maid is with her: she is the easiest to deal with of the two. + Only make the maid open her lips, and we have got Mrs. Beauly. We crush + her,” he cried, bringing his hand down like lightning on the last languid + fly of the season, crawling over the arm of his chair—“we crush her + as I crush this fly. Stop! A question—a most important question in + dealing with the maid. Have you got any money?” + </p> + <p> + “Plenty of money.” + </p> + <p> + He snapped his fingers joyously. + </p> + <p> + “The maid is ours!” he cried. “It’s a matter of pounds, shillings, and + pence with the maid. Wait! Another question. About your name? If you + approach Mrs. Beauly in your own character as Eustace’s wife, you approach + her as the woman who has taken her place—you make a mortal enemy of + her at starting. Beware of that!” + </p> + <p> + My jealousy of Mrs. Beauly, smoldering in me all through the interview, + burst into flames at those words. I could resist it no longer—I was + obliged to ask him if my husband had ever loved her. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me the truth,” I said. “Did Eustace really—?” + </p> + <p> + He burst out laughing maliciously, he penetrated my jealousy, and guessed + my question almost before it had passed my lips. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said, “Eustace did really love her—and no mistake about + it. She had every reason to believe (before the Trial) that the wife’s + death would put her in the wife’s place. But the Trial made another man of + Eustace. Mrs. Beauly had been a witness of the public degradation of him. + That was enough to prevent his marrying Mrs. Beauly. He broke off with her + at once and forever—for the same reason precisely which has led him + to separate himself from you. Existence with a woman who knew that he had + been tried for his life as a murderer was an existence that he was not + hero enough to face. You wanted the truth. There it is! You have need to + be cautious of Mrs. Beauly—you have no need to be jealous of her. + Take the safe course. Arrange with the Major, when you meet Lady Clarinda + at his dinner, that you meet her under an assumed name.” + </p> + <p> + “I can go to the dinner,” I said, “under the name in which Eustace married + me. I can go as ‘Mrs. Woodville.’” + </p> + <p> + “The very thing!” he exclaimed. “What would I not give to be present when + Lady Clarinda introduces you to Mrs. Beauly! Think of the situation. A + woman with a hideous secret hidden in her inmost soul: and another woman + who knows of it—another woman who is bent, by fair means or foul, on + dragging that secret into the light of day. What a struggle! What a plot + for a novel! I am in a fever when I think of it. I am beside myself when I + look into the future, and see Mrs. Borgia-Beauly brought to her knees at + last. Don’t be alarmed!” he cried, with the wild light flashing once more + in his eyes. “My brains are beginning to boil again in my head. I must + take refuge in physical exercise. I must blow off the steam, or I shall + explode in my pink jacket on the spot!” + </p> + <p> + The old madness seized on him again. I made for the door, to secure my + retreat in case of necessity—and then ventured to look around at + him. + </p> + <p> + He was off on his furious wheels—half man, half chair—flying + like a whirlwind to the other end of the room. Even this exercise was not + violent enough for him in his present mood. In an instant he was down on + the floor, poised on his hands, and looking in the distance like a + monstrous frog. Hopping down the room, he overthrew, one after another, + all the smaller and lighter chairs as he passed them; arrived at the end, + he turned, surveyed the prostrate chairs, encouraged himself with a scream + of triumph, and leaped rapidly over chair after chair on his hands—his + limbless body now thrown back from the shoulders, and now thrown forward + to keep the balance—in a manner at once wonderful and horrible to + behold. “Dexter’s Leap-frog!” he cried, cheerfully, perching himself with + his birdlike lightness on the last of the prostrate chairs when he had + reached the further end of the room. “I’m pretty active, Mrs. Valeria, + considering I’m a cripple. Let us drink to the hanging of Mrs. Beauly in + another bottle of Burgundy!” + </p> + <p> + I seized desperately on the first excuse that occurred to me for getting + away from him. + </p> + <p> + “You forget,” I said—“I must go at once to the Major. If I don’t + warn him in time, he may speak of me to Lady Clarinda by the wrong name.” + </p> + <p> + Ideas of hurry and movement were just the ideas to take his fancy in his + present state. He blew furiously on the whistle that summoned Ariel from + the kitchen regions, and danced up and down on his hands in the full + frenzy of his delight. + </p> + <p> + “Ariel shall get you a cab!” he cried. “Drive at a gallop to the Major’s. + Set the trap for her without losing a moment. Oh, what a day of days this + has been! Oh, what a relief to get rid of my dreadful secret, and share it + with You! I am suffocating with happiness—I am like the Spirit of + the Earth in Shelley’s poem.” He broke out with the magnificent lines in + “Prometheus Unbound,” in which the Earth feels the Spirit of Love, and + bursts into speech. “‘The joy, the triumph, the delight, the madness! the + boundless, overflowing, bursting gladness! the vaporous exultation not to + be confined! Ha! ha! the animation of delight, which wraps me like an + atmosphere of light, and bears me as a cloud is borne by its own wind.’ + That’s how I feel, Valeria!—that’s how I feel!” + </p> + <p> + I crossed the threshold while he was still speaking. The last I saw of him + he was pouring out that glorious flood of words—his deformed body, + poised on the overthrown chair, his face lifted in rapture to some + fantastic heaven of his own making. I slipped out softly into the + antechamber. Even as I crossed the room, he changed once more. I heard his + ringing cry; I heard the soft thump-thump of his hands on the floor. He + was going down the room again, in “Dexter’s Leap-frog,” flying over the + prostrate chairs. + </p> + <p> + In the hall, Ariel was on the watch for me. + </p> + <p> + As I approached her, I happened to be putting on my gloves. She stopped + me; and, taking my right arm, lifted my hand toward her face. Was she + going to kiss it? or to bite it? Neither. She smelt it like a dog—and + dropped it again with a hoarse chuckling laugh. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t smell of his perfumes,” she said. “You <i>haven’t</i> touched + his beard. <i>Now</i> I believe you. Want a cab?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. I’ll walk till I meet a cab.” + </p> + <p> + She was bent on being polite to me—now I had <i>not</i> touched his + beard. + </p> + <p> + “I say!” she burst out, in her deepest notes. + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad I didn’t upset you in the canal. There now!” + </p> + <p> + She gave me a friendly smack on the shoulder which nearly knocked me down—relapsed, + the instant after, into her leaden stolidity of look and manner—-and + led the way out by the front door. I heard her hoarse chuckling laugh as + she locked the gate behind me. My star was at last in the ascendant! In + one and the same day I had found my way into the confidence of Ariel and + Ariel’s master. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXI. THE DEFENSE OF MRS. BEAULY. + </h2> + <p> + THE days that elapsed before Major Fitz-David’s dinner-party were precious + days to me. + </p> + <p> + My long interview with Miserrimus Dexter had disturbed me far more + seriously than I suspected at the time. It was not until some hours after + I had left him that I really began to feel how my nerves had been tried by + all that I had seen and heard during my visit at his house. I started at + the slightest noises; I dreamed of dreadful things; I was ready to cry + without reason at one moment, and to fly into a passion without reason at + another. Absolute rest was what I wanted, and (thanks to my good Benjamin) + was what I got. The dear old man controlled his anxieties on my account, + and spared me the questions which his fatherly interest in my welfare made + him eager to ask. It was tacitly understood between us that all + conversation on the subject of my visit to Miserrimus Dexter (of which, it + is needless to say, he strongly disapproved) should be deferred until + repose had restored my energies of body and mind. I saw no visitors. Mrs. + Macallan came to the cottage, and Major Fitz-David came to the cottage—one + of them to hear what had passed between Miserrimus Dexter and myself, the + other to amuse me with the latest gossip about the guests at the + forthcoming dinner. Benjamin took it on himself to make my apologies, and + to spare me the exertion of receiving my visitors. We hired a little open + carriage, and took long drives in the pretty country lanes still left + flourishing within a few miles of the northern suburb of London. At home + we sat and talked quietly of old times, or played at backgammon and + dominoes—and so, for a few happy days, led the peaceful + unadventurous life which was good for me. When the day of the dinner + arrived, I felt restored to my customary health. I was ready again, and + eager again, for the introduction to Lady Clarinda and the discovery of + Mrs. Beauly. + </p> + <p> + Benjamin looked a little sadly at my flushed face as we drove to Major + Fitz-David’s house. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my dear,” he said, in his simple way, “I see you are well again! You + have had enough of our quiet life already.” + </p> + <p> + My recollection of events and persons, in general, at the dinner-party, is + singularly indistinct. + </p> + <p> + I remember that we were very merry, and as easy and familiar with one + another as if we had been old friends. I remember that Madame Mirliflore + was unapproachably superior to the other women present, in the perfect + beauty of her dress, and in the ample justice which she did to the + luxurious dinner set before us. I remember the Major’s young prima donna, + more round-eyed, more overdressed, more shrill and strident as the coming + “Queen of Song,” than ever. I remember the Major himself, always kissing + our hands, always luring us to indulge in dainty dishes and drinks, always + making love, always detecting resemblances between us, always “under the + charm,” and never once out of his character as elderly Don Juan from the + beginning of the evening to the end. I remember dear old Benjamin, + completely bewildered, shrinking into corners, blushing when he was + personally drawn into the conversation, frightened at Madame Mirliflore, + bashful with Lady Clarinda, submissive to the Major, suffering under the + music, and from the bottom of his honest old heart wishing himself home + again. And there, as to the members of that cheerful little gathering, my + memory finds its limits—with one exception. The appearance of Lady + Clarinda is as present to me as if I had met her yesterday; and of the + memorable conversation which we two held together privately, toward the + close of the evening, it is no exaggeration to say that I can still call + to mind almost every word. + </p> + <p> + I see her dress, I hear her voice again, while I write. + </p> + <p> + She was attired, I remember, with that extreme assumption of simplicity + which always defeats its own end by irresistibly suggesting art. She wore + plain white muslin, over white silk, without trimming or ornament of any + kind. Her rich brown hair, dressed in defiance of the prevailing fashion, + was thrown back from her forehead, and gathered into a simple knot behind—without + adornment of any sort. A little white ribbon encircled her neck, fastened + by the only article of jewelry that she wore—a tiny diamond brooch. + She was unquestionably handsome; but her beauty was of the somewhat hard + and angular type which is so often seen in English women of her race: the + nose and chin too prominent and too firmly shaped; the well-opened gray + eyes full of spirit and dignity, but wanting in tenderness and mobility of + expression. Her manner had all the charm which fine breeding can confer—exquisitely + polite, easily cordial; showing that perfect yet unobtrusive confidence in + herself which (in England) seems to be the natural outgrowth of + pre-eminent social rank. If you had accepted her for what she was, on the + surface, you would have said, Here is the model of a noble woman who is + perfectly free from pride. And if you had taken a liberty with her, on the + strength of that conviction, she would have made you remember it to the + end of your life. + </p> + <p> + We got on together admirably. I was introduced as “Mrs. Woodville,” by + previous arrangement with the Major—effected through Benjamin. + Before the dinner was over we had promised to exchange visits. Nothing but + the opportunity was wanting to lead Lady Clarinda into talking, as I + wanted her to talk, of Mrs. Beauly. + </p> + <p> + Late in the evening the opportunity came. + </p> + <p> + I had taken refuge from the terrible bravura singing of the Major’s + strident prima donna in the back drawing-room. As I had hoped and + anticipated, after a while Lady Clarinda (missing me from the group around + the piano) came in search of me. She seated herself by my side, out of + sight and out of hearing of our friends in the front room; and, to my + infinite relief and delight, touched on the subject of Miserrimus Dexter + of her own accord. Something I had said of him, when his name had been + accidentally mentioned at dinner, remained in her memory, and led us, by + perfectly natural gradations, into speaking of Mrs. Beauly. “At last,” I + thought to myself, “the Major’s little dinner will bring me my reward!” + </p> + <p> + And what a reward it was, when it came! My heart sinks in me again—as + it sank on that never-to-be-forgotten evening—while I sit at my desk + thinking of it. + </p> + <p> + “So Dexter really spoke to you of Mrs. Beauly!” exclaimed Lady Clarinda. + “You have no idea how you surprise me.” + </p> + <p> + “May I ask why?” + </p> + <p> + “He hates her! The last time I saw him he wouldn’t allow me to mention her + name. It is one of his innumerable oddities. If any such feeling as + sympathy is a possible feeling in such a nature as his, he ought to like + Helena Beauly. She is the most completely unconventional person I know. + When she does break out, poor dear, she says things and does things which + are almost reckless enough to be worthy of Dexter himself. I wonder + whether you would like her?” + </p> + <p> + “You have kindly asked me to visit you, Lady Clarinda. Perhaps I may meet + her at your house?” + </p> + <p> + “I hope you will not wait until that is likely to happen,” she said. + “Helena’s last whim is to fancy that she has got—the gout, of all + the maladies in the world! She is away at some wonderful baths in Hungary + or Bohemia (I don’t remember which)—and where she will go, or what + she will do next, it is perfectly impossible to say.—Dear Mrs. + Woodville! is the heat of the fire too much for you? You are looking quite + pale.” + </p> + <p> + I <i>felt</i> that I was looking pale. The discovery of Mrs. Beauly’s + absence from England was a shock for which I was quite unprepared. For a + moment it unnerved me. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we go into the other room?” asked Lady Clarinda. + </p> + <p> + To go into the other room would be to drop the conversation. I was + determined not to let that catastrophe happen. It was just possible that + Mrs. Beauly’s maid might have quitted her service, or might have been left + behind in England. My information would not be complete until I knew what + had become of the maid. I pushed my chair back a little from the + fire-place, and took a hand-screen from a table near me; it might be made + useful in hiding my face, if any more disappointments were in store for + me. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Lady Clarinda; I was only a little too near the fire. I shall + do admirably here. You surprise me about Mrs. Beauly. From what Mr. Dexter + said to me, I had imagined—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you must not believe anything Dexter tells you!” interposed Lady + Clarinda. “He delights in mystifying people; and he purposely misled you, + I have no doubt. If all that I hear is true, <i>he</i> ought to know more + of Helena Beauly’s strange freaks and fancies than most people. He all but + discovered her in one of her adventures (down in Scotland), which reminds + me of the story in Auber’s charming opera—what is it called? I shall + forget my own name next! I mean the opera in which the two nuns slip out + of the convent, and go to the ball. Listen! How very odd! That vulgar girl + is singing the castanet song in the second act at this moment. Major! what + opera is the young lady singing from?” + </p> + <p> + The Major was scandalized at this interruption. He bustled into the back + room—whispered, “Hush! hush! my dear lady; the ‘Domino Noir’”—and + bustled back again to the piano. + </p> + <p> + “Of course!” said Lady Clarinda. “How stupid of me! The ‘Domino Noir.’ And + how strange that you should forget it too!” + </p> + <p> + I had remembered it perfectly; but I could not trust myself to speak. If, + as I believed, the “adventure” mentioned by Lady Clarinda was connected, + in some way, with Mrs. Beauly’s mysterious proceedings on the morning of + the twenty-first of October, I was on the brink of the very discovery + which it was the one interest of my life to make! I held the screen so as + to hide my face; and I said, in the steadiest voice that I could command + at the moment, + </p> + <p> + “Pray go on!—pray tell me what the adventure was!” + </p> + <p> + Lady Clarinda was quite flattered by my eager desire to hear the coming + narrative. + </p> + <p> + “I hope my story will be worthy of the interest which you are so good as + to feel in it,” she said. “If you only knew Helena—it is <i>so</i> + like her! I have it, you must know, from her maid. She has taken a woman + who speaks foreign languages with her to Hungary and she has left the maid + with me. A perfect treasure! I should be only too glad if I could keep her + in my service: she has but one defect, a name I hate—Phoebe. Well! + Phoebe and her mistress were staying at a place near Edinburgh, called (I + think) Gleninch. The house belonged to that Mr. Macallan who was afterward + tried—you remember it, of course?—for poisoning his wife. A + dreadful case; but don’t be alarmed—my story has nothing to do with + it; my story has to do with Helena Beauly. One evening (while she was + staying at Gleninch) she was engaged to dine with some English friends + visiting Edinburgh. The same night—also in Edinburgh—there was + a masked ball, given by somebody whose name I forget. The ball (almost an + unparalleled event in Scotland!) was reported to be not at all a reputable + affair. All sorts of amusing people were to be there. Ladies of doubtful + virtue, you know, and gentlemen on the outlying limits of society, and so + on. Helena’s friends had contrived to get cards, and were going, in spite + of the objections—in the strictest incognito, of course, trusting to + their masks. And Helena herself was bent on going with them, if she could + only manage it without being discovered at Gleninch. Mr. Macallan was one + of the strait-laced people who disapproved of the ball. No lady, he said, + could show herself at such an entertainment without compromising her + reputation. What stuff! Well, Helena, in one of her wildest moments, hit + on a way of going to the ball without discovery which was really as + ingenious as a plot in a French play. She went to the dinner in the + carriage from Gleninch, having sent Phoebe to Edinburgh before her. It was + not a grand dinner—a little friendly gathering: no evening dress. + When the time came for going back to Gleninch, what do you think Helena + did? She sent her maid back in the carriage, instead of herself! Phoebe + was dressed in her mistress’s cloak and bonnet and veil. She was + instructed to run upstairs the moment she got to the house, leaving on the + hall table a little note of apology (written by Helena, of course!), + pleading fatigue as an excuse for not saying good-night to her host. The + mistress and the maid were about the same height; and the servants + naturally never discovered the trick. Phoebe got up to her mistress’s room + safely enough. There, her instructions were to wait until the house was + quiet for the night, and then to steal up to her own room. While she was + waiting, the girl fell asleep. She only awoke at two in the morning, or + later. It didn’t much matter, as she thought. She stole out on tiptoe, and + closed the door behind her. Before she was at the end of the corridor, she + fancied she heard something. She waited until she was safe on the upper + story, and then she looked over the banisters. There was Dexter—so + like him!—hopping about on his hands (did you ever see it? the most + grotesquely horrible exhibition you can imagine!)—there was Dexter, + hopping about, and looking through keyholes, evidently in search of the + person who had left her room at two in the morning; and no doubt taking + Phoebe for her mistress, seeing that she had forgotten to take her + mistress’s cloak off her shoulders. The next morning, early, Helena came + back in a hired carriage from Edinburgh, with a hat and mantle borrowed + from her English friends. She left the carriage in the road, and got into + the house by way of the garden—without being discovered, this time, + by Dexter or by anybody. Clever and daring, wasn’t it? And, as I said just + now, quite a new version of the ‘Domino Noir.’ You will wonder, as I did, + how it was that Dexter didn’t make mischief in the morning? He would have + done it no doubt. But even he was silenced (as Phoebe told me) by the + dreadful event that happened in the house on the same day. My dear Mrs. + Woodville! the heat of this room is certainly too much for you, take my + smelling-bottle. Let me open the window.” + </p> + <p> + I was just able to answer, “Pray say nothing! Let me slip out into the + open air!” + </p> + <p> + I made my way unobserved to the landing, and sat down on the stairs to + compose myself where nobody could see me. In a moment more I felt a hand + laid gently on my shoulder, and discovered good Benjamin looking at me in + dismay. Lady Clarinda had considerately spoken to him, and had assisted + him in quietly making his retreat from the room, while his host’s + attention was still absorbed by the music. + </p> + <p> + “My dear child!” he whispered, “what is the matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Take me home, and I will tell you,” was all that I could say. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXII. A SPECIMEN OF MY WISDOM. + </h2> + <p> + THE scene must follow my erratic movements—the scene must close on + London for a while, and open in Edinburgh. Two days had passed since Major + Fitz-David’s dinner-party. I was able to breathe again freely, after the + utter destruction of all my plans for the future, and of all the hopes + that I had founded on them. I could now see that I had been trebly in the + wrong—wrong in hastily and cruelly suspecting an innocent woman; + wrong in communicating my suspicions (without an attempt to verify them + previously) to another person; wrong in accepting the flighty inferences + and conclusions of Miserrimus Dexter as if they had been solid truths. I + was so ashamed of my folly, when I thought of the past—so completely + discouraged, so rudely shaken in my confidence in myself, when I thought + of the future, that, for once in a way, I accepted sensible advice when it + was offered to me. “My dear,” said good old Benjamin, after we had + thoroughly talked over my discomfiture on our return from the + dinner-party, “judging by what you tell me of him, I don’t fancy Mr. + Dexter. Promise me that you will not go back to him until you have first + consulted some person who is fitter to guide you through this dangerous + business than I am.” + </p> + <p> + I gave him my promise, on one condition. “If I fail to find the person,” I + said, “will you undertake to help me?” + </p> + <p> + Benjamin pledged himself to help me, cheerfully. + </p> + <p> + The next morning, when I was brushing my hair, and thinking over my + affairs, I called to mind a forgotten resolution of mine at the time I + first read the Report of my husband’s Trial. I mean the resolution—if + Miserrimus Dexter failed me—to apply to one of the two agents (or + solicitors, as we should term them) who had prepared Eustace’s defense—namely, + Mr. Playmore. This gentleman, it may be remembered, had especially + recommended himself to my confidence by his friendly interference when the + sheriff’s officers were in search of my husband’s papers. Referring back + to the evidence Of “Isaiah Schoolcraft,” I found that Mr. Playmore had + been called in to assist and advise Eustace by Miserrimus Dexter. He was + therefore not only a friend on whom I might rely, but a friend who was + personally acquainted with Dexter as well. Could there be a fitter man to + apply to for enlightenment in the darkness that had now gathered around + me? Benjamin, when I put the question to him, acknowledged that I had made + a sensible choice on this occasion, and at once exerted himself to help + me. He discovered (through his own lawyer) the address of Mr. Playmore’s + London agents; and from these gentlemen he obtained for me a letter of + introduction to Mr. Playmore himself. I had nothing to conceal from my new + adviser; and I was properly described in the letter as Eustace Macallan’s + second wife. + </p> + <p> + The same evening we two set forth (Benjamin refused to let me travel + alone) by the night mail for Edinburgh. + </p> + <p> + I had previously written to Miserrimus Dexter (by my old friend’s advice), + merely saying that I had been unexpectedly called away from London for a + few days, and that I would report to him the result of my interview with + Lady Clarinda on my return. A characteristic answer was brought back to + the cottage by Ariel: “Mrs. Valeria, I happen to be a man of quick + perceptions; and I can read the <i>unwritten</i> part of your letter. Lady + Clarinda has shaken your confidence in me. Very good. I pledge myself to + shake your confidence in Lady Clarinda. In the meantime I am not offended. + In serene composure I await the honor and the happiness of your visit. + Send me word by telegraph whether you would like Truffles again, or + whether you would prefer something simpler and lighter—say that + incomparable French dish, Pig’s Eyelids and Tamarinds. Believe me always + your ally and admirer, your poet and cook—DEXTER.” + </p> + <p> + Arrived in Edinburgh, Benjamin and I had a little discussion. The question + in dispute between us was whether I should go with him, or go alone, to + Mr. Playmore. I was all for going alone. + </p> + <p> + “My experience of the world is not a very large one,” I said. “But I have + observed that, in nine cases out of ten, a man will make concessions to a + woman, if she approaches him by herself, which he would hesitate even to + consider if another man was within hearing. I don’t know how it is—I + only know that it is so; If I find that I get on badly with Mr. Playmore, + I will ask him for a second appointment, and, in that case, you shall + accompany me. Don’t think me self-willed. Let me try my luck alone, and + let us see what comes of it.” + </p> + <p> + Benjamin yielded, with his customary consideration for me. I sent my + letter of introduction to Mr. Playmore’s office—his private house + being in the neighborhood of Gleninch. My messenger brought back a polite + answer, inviting me to visit him at an early hour in the afternoon. At the + appointed time, to the moment, I rang the bell at the office door. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIII. A SPECIMEN OF MY FOLLY. + </h2> + <p> + THE incomprehensible submission of Scotchmen to the ecclesiastical tyranny + of their Established Church has produced—not unnaturally, as I think—a + very mistaken impression of the national character in the popular mind. + </p> + <p> + Public opinion looks at the institution of “The Sabbath” in Scotland; + finds it unparalleled in Christendom for its senseless and savage + austerity; sees a nation content to be deprived by its priesthood of every + social privilege on one day in every week—forbidden to travel; + forbidden to telegraph; forbidden to eat a hot dinner; forbidden to read a + newspaper; in short, allowed the use of two liberties only, the liberty of + exhibiting one’s self at the Church and the liberty of secluding one’s + self over the bottle—public opinion sees this, and arrives at the + not unreasonable conclusion that the people who submit to such social laws + as these are the most stolid, stern and joyless people on the face of the + earth. Such are Scotchmen supposed to be, when viewed at a distance. But + how do Scotchmen appear when they are seen under a closer light, and + judged by the test of personal experience? There are no people more + cheerful, more companionable, more hospitable, more liberal in their + ideas, to be found on the face of the civilized globe than the very people + who submit to the Scotch Sunday! On the six days of the week there is an + atmosphere of quiet humor, a radiation of genial common-sense, about + Scotchmen in general, which is simply delightful to feel. But on the + seventh day these same men will hear one of their ministers seriously tell + them that he views taking a walk on the Sabbath in the light of an act of + profanity, and will be the only people in existence who can let a man talk + downright nonsense without laughing at him. + </p> + <p> + I am not clever enough to be able to account for this anomaly in the + national character; I can only notice it by way of necessary preparation + for the appearance in my little narrative of a personage not frequently + seen in writing—a cheerful Scotchman. + </p> + <p> + In all other respects I found Mr. Playmore only negatively remarkable. He + was neither old nor young, neither handsome nor ugly; he was personally + not in the least like the popular idea of a lawyer; and he spoke perfectly + good English, touched with only the slightest possible flavor of a Scotch + accent. + </p> + <p> + “I have the honor to be an old friend of Mr. Macallan,” he said, cordially + shaking hands with me; “and I am honestly happy to become acquainted with + Mr. Macallan’s wife. Where will you sit? Near the light? You are young + enough not to be afraid of the daylight just yet. Is this your first visit + to Edinburgh? Pray let me make it as pleasant to you as I can. I shall be + delighted to present Mrs. Playmore to you. We are staying in Edinburgh for + a little while. The Italian opera is here, and we have a box for to-night. + Will you kindly waive all ceremony and dine with us and go to the music + afterward?” + </p> + <p> + “You are very kind,” I answered. “But I have some anxieties just now which + will make me a very poor companion for Mrs. Playmore at the opera. My + letter to you mentions, I think, that I have to ask your advice on matters + which are of very serious importance to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Does it?” he rejoined. “To tell you the truth, I have not read the letter + through. I saw your name in it, and I gathered from your message that you + wished to see me here. I sent my note to your hotel—and then went on + with something else. Pray pardon me. Is this a professional consultation? + For your own sake, I sincerely hope not!” + </p> + <p> + “It is hardly a professional consultation, Mr. Playmore. I find myself in + a very painful position; and I come to you to advise me, under very + unusual circumstances. I shall surprise you very much when you hear what I + have to say; and I am afraid I shall occupy more than my fair share of + your time.” + </p> + <p> + “I and my time are entirely at your disposal,” he said. “Tell me what I + can do for you—and tell it in your own way.” + </p> + <p> + The kindness of this language was more than matched by the kindness of his + manner. I spoke to him freely and fully—I told him my strange story + without the slightest reserve. + </p> + <p> + He showed the varying impressions that I produced on his mind without the + slightest concealment. My separation from Eustace distressed him. My + resolution to dispute the Scotch Verdict, and my unjust suspicions of Mrs. + Beauly, first amused, then surprised him. It was not, however, until I had + described my extraordinary interview with Miserrimus Dexter, and my hardly + less remarkable conversation with Lady Clarinda, that I produced my + greatest effect on the lawyer’s mind. I saw him change color for the first + time. He started, and muttered to himself, as if he had completely + forgotten me. “Good God!” I heard him say—“can it be possible? Does + the truth lie <i>that</i> way after all?” + </p> + <p> + I took the liberty of interrupting him. I had no idea of allowing him to + keep his thoughts to himself. + </p> + <p> + “I seem to have surprised you?” I said. + </p> + <p> + He started at the sound of my voice. + </p> + <p> + “I beg ten thousand pardons!” he exclaimed. “You have not only surprised + me—you have opened an entirely new view to my mind. I see a + possibility, a really startling possibility, in connection with the + poisoning at Gleninch, which never occurred to me until the present + moment. This is a nice state of things,” he added, falling back again into + his ordinary humor. “Here is the client leading the lawyer. My dear Mrs. + Eustace, which is it—do you want my advice? or do I want yours?” + </p> + <p> + “May I hear the new idea?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Not just yet, if you will excuse me,” he answered. “Make allowances for + my professional caution. I don’t want to be professional with you—my + great anxiety is to avoid it. But the lawyer gets the better of the man, + and refuses to be suppressed. I really hesitate to realize what is passing + in my own mind without some further inquiry. Do me a great favor. Let us + go over a part of the ground again, and let me ask you some questions as + we proceed. Do you feel any objection to obliging me in this matter?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not, Mr. Playmore. How far shall we go back?” + </p> + <p> + “To your visit to Dexter with your mother-in-law. When you first asked him + if he had any ideas of his own on the subject of Mrs. Eustace Macallan’s + death, did I understand you to say that he looked at you suspiciously?” + </p> + <p> + “Very suspiciously.” + </p> + <p> + “And his face cleared up again when you told him that your question was + only suggested by what you had read in the Report of the Trial?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + He drew a slip of paper out of the drawer in his desk, dipped his pen in + the ink, considered a little, and placed a chair for me close at his side. + </p> + <p> + “The lawyer disappears,” he said, “and the man resumes his proper place. + There shall be no professional mysteries between you and me. As your + husband’s old friend, Mrs. Eustace, I feel no common interest in you. I + see a serious necessity for warning you before it is too late; and I can + only do so to any good purpose by running a risk on which few men in my + place would venture. Personally and professionally, I am going to trust + you—though I <i>am</i> a Scotchman and a lawyer. Sit here, and look + over my shoulder while I make my notes. You will see what is passing in my + mind if you see what I write.” + </p> + <p> + I sat down by him, and looked over his shoulder, without the smallest + pretense of hesitation. + </p> + <p> + He began to write as follows: + </p> + <p> + “The poisoning at Gleninch. Queries: In what position does Miserrimus + Dexter stand toward the poisoning? And what does he (presumably) know + about that matter? + </p> + <p> + “He has ideas which are secrets. He suspects that he has betrayed them, or + that they have been discovered in some way inconceivable to himself. He is + palpably relieved when he finds that this is not the case.” + </p> + <p> + The pen stopped; and the questions went on. + </p> + <p> + “Let us advance to your second visit,” said Mr. Playmore, “when you saw + Dexter alone. Tell me again what he did, and how he looked when you + informed him that you were not satisfied with the Scotch Verdict.” + </p> + <p> + I repeated what I have already written in these pages. The pen went back + to the paper again, and added these lines: + </p> + <p> + “He hears nothing more remarkable than that a person visiting him, who is + interested in the case, refuses to accept the verdict at the Macallan + Trial as a final verdict, and proposes to reopen the inquiry. What does he + do upon that? + </p> + <p> + “He exhibits all the symptoms of a panic of terror; he sees himself in + some incomprehensible danger; he is frantic at one moment and servile at + the next; he must and will know what this disturbing person really means. + And when he is informed on that point, he first turns pale and doubts the + evidence of his own senses; and next, with nothing said to justify it, + gratuitously accuses his visitor of suspecting somebody. Query here: When + a small sum of money is missing in a household, and the servants in + general are called together to be informed of the circumstance, what do we + think of the one servant in particular who speaks first, and who says, ‘Do + you suspect <i>me?</i>’” + </p> + <p> + He laid down the pen again. “Is that right?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + I began to see the end to which the notes were drifting. Instead of + answering his question, I entreated him to enter into the explanations + that were still wanting to convince my own mind. He held up a warning + forefinger, and stopped me. + </p> + <p> + “Not yet,” he said. “Once again, am I right—so far?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite right.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. Now tell me what happened next. Don’t mind repeating yourself. + Give me all the details, one after another, to the end.” + </p> + <p> + I mentioned all the details exactly as I remembered them. Mr. Playmore + returned to his writing for the third and last time. Thus the notes ended: + </p> + <p> + “He is indirectly assured that he at least is not the person suspected. He + sinks back in his chair; he draws a long breath; he asks to be left a + while by himself, under the pretense that the subject excites him. When + the visitor returns, Dexter has been drinking in the interval. The visitor + resumes the subject—not Dexter. The visitor is convinced that Mrs. + Eustace Macallan died by the hand of a poisoner, and openly says so. + Dexter sinks back in his chair like a man fainting. What is the horror + that has got possession of him? It is easy to understand if we call it + guilty horror; it is beyond all understanding if we call it anything else. + And how does it leave him? He flies from one extreme, to another; he is + indescribably delighted when he discovers that the visitor’s suspicions + are all fixed on an absent person. And then, and then only, he takes + refuge in the declaration that he has been of one mind with his visitor, + in the matter of suspicion, from the first. These are facts. To what plain + conclusion do they point?” + </p> + <p> + He shut up his notes, and, steadily watching my face, waited for me to + speak first. + </p> + <p> + “I understand you, Mr. Playmore,” I beg impetuously. “You believe that Mr. + Dexter—” + </p> + <p> + His warning forefinger stopped me there. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me,” he interposed, “what Dexter said to you when he was so good as + to confirm your opinion of poor Mrs. Beauly.” + </p> + <p> + “He said, ‘There isn’t a doubt about it. Mrs. Beauly poisoned her.’” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t do better than follow so good an example—with one trifling + difference. I say too, There isn’t a doubt about it. Dexter poisoned her. + </p> + <p> + “Are you joking, Mr. Playmore?” + </p> + <p> + “I never was more in earnest in my life. Your rash visit to Dexter, and + your extraordinary imprudence in taking him into your confidence have led + to astonishing results. The light which the whole machinery of the Law was + unable to throw on the poisoning case at Gleninch has been accidentally + let in on it by a Lady who refuses to listen to reason and who insists on + having her own way. Quite incredible, and nevertheless quite true.” + </p> + <p> + “Impossible!” I exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “What is impossible?” he asked, coolly + </p> + <p> + “That Dexter poisoned my husband’s first wife.” + </p> + <p> + “And why is that impossible, if you please?” I began to be almost enraged + with Mr. Playmore. + </p> + <p> + “Can you ask the question?” I replied, indignantly. “I have told you that + I heard him speak of her in terms of respect and affection of which any + woman might be proud. He lives in the memory of her. I owe his friendly + reception of me to some resemblance which he fancies he sees between my + figure and hers. I have seen tears in his eyes, I have heard his voice + falter and fail him, when he spoke of her. He may be the falsest of men in + all besides, but he is true to <i>her</i>—he has not misled me in + that one thing. There are signs that never deceive a woman when a man is + talking to her of what is really near his heart: I saw those signs. It is + as true that I poisoned her as that he did. I am ashamed to set my opinion + against yours, Mr. Playmore; but I really cannot help it. I declare I am + almost angry with you.” + </p> + <p> + He seemed to be pleased, instead of offended by the bold manner in which I + expressed myself. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Mrs. Eustace, you have no reason to be angry with me. In one + respect, I entirely share your view—with this difference, that I go + a little further than you do.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand you.” + </p> + <p> + “You will understand me directly. You describe Dexter’s feeling for the + late Mrs. Eustace as a happy mixture of respect and affection. I can tell + you it was a much warmer feeling toward her than that. I have my + information from the poor lady herself—who honored me with her + confidence and friendship for the best part of her life. Before she + married Mr. Macallan—she kept it a secret from him, and you had + better keep it a secret too—Miserrimus Dexter was in love with her. + Miserrimus Dexter asked her—deformed as he was, seriously asked her—to + be his wife.” + </p> + <p> + “And in the face of that,” I cried, “you say that he poisoned her!” + </p> + <p> + “I do. I see no other conclusion possible, after what happened during your + visit to him. You all but frightened him into a fainting fit. What was he + afraid of?” + </p> + <p> + I tried hard to find an answer to that. I even embarked on an answer + without quite knowing where my own words might lead me. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Dexter is an old and true friend of my husband, I began. “When he + heard me say I was not satisfied with the Verdict, he might have felt + alarmed—” + </p> + <p> + “He might have felt alarmed at the possible consequences to your husband + of reopening the inquiry,” said Mr. Playmore, ironically finishing the + sentence for me. “Rather far-fetched, Mrs. Eustace; and not very + consistent with your faith in your husband’s innocence. Clear your mind of + one mistake,” he continued, seriously, “which may fatally mislead you if + you persist in pursuing your present course. Miserrimus Dexter, you may + take my word for it, ceased to be your husband’s friend on the day when + your husband married his first wife. Dexter has kept up appearances, I + grant you, both in public and in private. His evidence in his friend’s + favor at the Trial was given with the deep feeling which everybody + expected from him. Nevertheless, I firmly believe, looking under the + surface, that Mr. Macallan has no bitterer enemy living than Miserrimus + Dexter.” + </p> + <p> + He turned me cold. I felt that here, at least, he was right. My husband + had wooed and won the woman who had refused Dexter’s offer of marriage. + Was Dexter the man to forgive that? My own experience answered me, and + said, No. “Bear in mind what I have told you,” Mr. Playmore proceeded. + “And now let us get on to your own position in this matter, and to the + interests that you have at stake. Try to adopt my point of view for the + moment; and let us inquire what chance we have of making any further + advance toward a discovery of the truth. It is one thing to be morally + convinced (as I am) that Miserrimus Dexter is the man who ought to have + been tried for the murder at Gleninch; and it is another thing, at this + distance of time, to lay our hands on the plain evidence which can alone + justify anything like a public assertion of his guilt. There, as I see it, + is the insuperable difficulty in the case. Unless I am completely + mistaken, the question is now narrowed to this plain issue: The public + assertion of your husband’s innocence depends entirely on the public + assertion of Dexter’s guilt. How are you to arrive at that result? There + is not a particle of evidence against him. You can only convict Dexter on + Dexter’s own confession. Are you listening to me?” + </p> + <p> + I was listening, most unwillingly. If he were right, things had indeed + come to that terrible pass. But I could not—with all my respect for + his superior knowledge and experience—I could not persuade myself + that he <i>was</i> right. And I owned it, with the humility which I really + felt. + </p> + <p> + He smiled good-humoredly. + </p> + <p> + “At any rate,” he said, “you will admit that Dexter has not freely opened + his mind to you thus far? He is still keeping something from your + knowledge which you are interested in discovering?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I admit that.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good. What applies to your view of the case applies to mine. I say, + he is keeping from you the confession of his guilt. You say, he is keeping + from you information which may fasten the guilt on some other person. Let + us start from that point. Confession, or information, how are you to get + at what he is now withholding from you? What influence can you bring to + bear on him when you see him again?” + </p> + <p> + “Surely I might persuade him?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. And if persuasion fail—what then? Do you think you can + entrap him into speaking out? or terrify him into speaking out?” + </p> + <p> + “If you will look at your notes, Mr. Playmore, you will see that I have + already succeeded in terrifying him—though I am only a woman and + though I didn’t mean to do it.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well answered. You mark the trick. What you have done once you think + you can do again. Well, as you are determined to try the experiment, it + can do you no harm to know a little more of Dexter’s character and + temperament than you know now. Suppose we apply for information to + somebody who can help us?” + </p> + <p> + I started, and looked round the room. He made me do it—he spoke as + if the person who was to help us was close at our elbows. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “The oracle is silent; and the oracle is + here.” + </p> + <p> + He unlocked one of the drawers of his desk; produced a bundle of letters, + and picked out one. + </p> + <p> + “When we were arranging your husband’s defense,” he said, “we felt some + difficulty about including Miserrimus Dexter among our witnesses. We had + not the slightest suspicion of him, I need hardly tell you. But we were + all afraid of his eccentricity; and some among us even feared that the + excitement of appearing at the Trial might drive him completely out of his + mind. In this emergency we applied to a doctor to help us. Under some + pretext, which I forget now, we introduced him to Dexter. And in due + course of time we received his report. Here it is.” + </p> + <p> + He opened the letter, and marking a certain passage in it with a pencil, + handed it to me. + </p> + <p> + “Read the lines which I have marked,” he said; “they will be quite + sufficient for our purpose.” + </p> + <p> + I read these words: + </p> + <p> + “Summing up the results of my observation, I may give it as my opinion + that there is undoubtedly latent insanity in this case, but that no active + symptoms of madness have presented themselves as yet. You may, I think, + produce him at the Trial, without fear of consequences. He may say and do + all sorts of odd things; but he has his mind under the control of his + will, and you may trust his self-esteem to exhibit him in the character of + a substantially intelligent witness. + </p> + <p> + “As to the future, I am, of course, not able to speak positively. I can + only state my views. + </p> + <p> + “That he will end in madness (if he live), I entertain little or no doubt. + The question of <i>when</i> the madness will show itself depends entirely + on the state of his health. His nervous system is highly sensitive, and + there are signs that his way of life has already damaged it. If he conquer + the bad habits to which I have alluded in an earlier part of my report, + and if he pass many hours of every day quietly in the open air, he may + last as a sane man for years to come. If he persist in his present way of + life—or, in other words, if further mischief occur to that sensitive + nervous system—his lapse into insanity must infallibly take place + when the mischief has reached its culminating point. Without warning to + himself or to others, the whole mental structure will give way; and, at a + moment’s notice, while he is acting as quietly or speaking as + intelligently as at his best time, the man will drop (if I may use the + expression) into madness or idiocy. In either case, when the catastrophe + has happened, it is only due to his friends to add that they can (as I + believe) entertain no hope of his cure. The balance once lost, will be + lost for life.” + </p> + <p> + There it ended. Mr. Playmore put the letter back in his drawer. + </p> + <p> + “You have just read the opinion of one of our highest living authorities,” + he said. “Does Dexter strike you as a likely man to give his nervous + system a chance of recovery? Do you see no obstacles and no perils in your + way?” + </p> + <p> + My silence answered him. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose you go back to Dexter,” he proceeded. “And suppose that the + doctor’s opinion exaggerates the peril in his case. What are you to do? + The last time you saw him, you had the immense advantage of taking him by + surprise. Those sensitive nerves of his gave way, and he betrayed the fear + that you aroused in him. Can you take him by surprise again? Not you! He + is prepared for you now; and he will be on his guard. If you encounter + nothing worse, you will have his cunning to deal with next. Are you his + match at that? But for Lady Clarinda he would have hopelessly misled you + on the subject of Mrs. Beauly.” + </p> + <p> + There was no answering this, either. I was foolish enough to try to answer + it, for all that. + </p> + <p> + “He told me the truth so far as he knew it,” I rejoined. “He really saw + what he said he saw in the corridor at Gleninch.” + </p> + <p> + “He told you the truth,” returned Mr. Playmore, “because he was cunning + enough to see that the truth would help him in irritating your suspicions. + You don’t really believe that he shared your suspicions?” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” I said. “He was as ignorant of what Mrs. Beauly was really + doing on that night as I was—until I met Lady Clarinda. It remains + to be seen whether he will not be as much astonished as I was when I tell + him what Lady Clarinda told me.” + </p> + <p> + This smart reply produced an effect which I had not anticipated. + </p> + <p> + To my surprise, Mr. Playmore abruptly dropped all further discussion on + his side. He appeared to despair of convincing me, and he owned it + indirectly in his next words. + </p> + <p> + “Will nothing that I can say to you,” he asked, “induce you to think as I + think in this matter?” + </p> + <p> + “I have not your ability or your experience,” I answered. “I am sorry to + say I can’t think as you think.” + </p> + <p> + “And you are really determined to see Miserrimus Dexter again?” + </p> + <p> + “I have engaged myself to see him again.” + </p> + <p> + He waited a little, and thought over it. + </p> + <p> + “You have honored me by asking for my advice,” he said. “I earnestly + advise you, Mrs. Eustace, to break your engagement. I go even further than + that—I <i>entreat</i> you not to see Dexter again.” + </p> + <p> + Just what my mother-in-law had said! just what Benjamin and Major + Fitz-David had said! They were all against me. And still I held out. + </p> + <p> + I wonder, when I look back at it, at my own obstinacy. I am almost ashamed + to relate that I made Mr. Playmore no reply. He waited, still looking at + me. I felt irritated by that fixed look. I arose, and stood before him + with my eyes on the floor. + </p> + <p> + He arose in his turn. He understood that the conference was over. + </p> + <p> + “Well, well,” he said, with a kind of sad good-humor, “I suppose it is + unreasonable of me to expect that a young woman like you should share any + opinion with an old lawyer like me. Let me only remind you that our + conversation must remain strictly confidential for the present; and then + let us change the subject. Is there anything that I can do for you? Are + you alone in Edinburgh?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I am traveling with an old friend of mine, who has known me from + childhood.” + </p> + <p> + “And do you stay here to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “I think so.” + </p> + <p> + “Will you do me one favor? Will you think over what has passed between us, + and will you come back to me in the morning?” + </p> + <p> + “Willingly, Mr. Playmore, if it is only to thank you again for your + kindness.” + </p> + <p> + On that understanding we parted. He sighed—the cheerful man sighed, + as he opened the door for me. Women are contradictory creatures. That sigh + affected me more than all his arguments. I felt myself blush for my own + head-strong resistance to him as I took my leave and turned away into the + street. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIV. GLENINCH. + </h2> + <p> + “AHA!” said Benjamin, complacently. “So the lawyer thinks, as I do, that + you will be highly imprudent if you go back to Mr. Dexter? A hard-headed, + sensible man the lawyer, no doubt. You will listen to Mr. Playmore, won’t + you, though you wouldn’t listen to me?” + </p> + <p> + (I had of course respected Mr. Playmore’s confidence in me when Benjamin + and I met on my return to the hotel. Not a word relating to the lawyer’s + horrible suspicion of Miserrimus Dexter had passed my lips.) + </p> + <p> + “You must forgive me, my old friend,” I said, answering Benjamin. “I am + afraid it has come to this—try as I may, I can listen to nobody who + advises me. On our way here I honestly meant to be guided by Mr. Playmore—we + should never have taken this long journey if I had not honestly meant it. + I have tried, tried hard to be a teachable, reasonable woman. But there is + something in me that won’t be taught. I am afraid I shall go back to + Dexter.” + </p> + <p> + Even Benjamin lost all patience with me this time. + </p> + <p> + “What is bred in the bone,” he said, quoting the old proverb, “will never + come out of the flesh. In years gone by, you were the most obstinate child + that ever made a mess in a nursery. Oh, dear me, we might as well have + stayed in London.” + </p> + <p> + “No,” I replied, “now we have traveled to Edinburgh, we will see something + (interesting to <i>me</i> at any rate) which we should never have seen if + we had not left London. My husband’s country-house is within a few miles + of us here. To-morrow—we will go to Gleninch.” + </p> + <p> + “Where the poor lady was poisoned?” asked Benjamin, with a look of dismay. + “You mean that place?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I want to see the room in which she died; I want to go all over the + house.” + </p> + <p> + Benjamin crossed his hands resignedly on his lap. “I try to understand the + new generation,” said the old man, sadly; “but I can’t manage it. The new + generation beats me.” + </p> + <p> + I sat down to write to Mr. Playmore about the visit to Gleninch. The house + in which the tragedy had occurred that had blighted my husband’s life was, + to my mind, the most interesting house on the habitable globe. The + prospect of visiting Gleninch had, indeed (to tell the truth), strongly + influenced my resolution to consult the Edinburgh lawyer. I sent my note + to Mr. Playmore by a messenger, and received the kindest reply in return. + If I would wait until the afternoon, he would get the day’s business done, + and would take us to Gleninch in his own carriage. + </p> + <p> + Benjamin’s obstinacy—in its own quiet way, and on certain occasions + only—was quite a match for mine. He had privately determined, as one + of the old generation, to have nothing to do with Gleninch. Not a word on + the subject escaped him until Mr. Playmore’s carriage was at the hotel + door. At that appropriate moment Benjamin remembered an old friend of his + in Edinburgh. “Will you please to excuse me, Valeria? My friend’s name is + Saunders; and he will take it unkindly of me if I don’t dine with him + to-day.” + </p> + <p> + Apart from the associations that I connected with it, there was nothing to + interest a traveler at Gleninch. + </p> + <p> + The country around was pretty and well cultivated, and nothing more. The + park was, to an English eye, wild and badly kept. The house had been built + within the last seventy or eighty years. Outside, it was as bare of all + ornament as a factory, and as gloomily heavy in effect as a prison. + Inside, the deadly dreariness, the close, oppressive solitude of a + deserted dwelling wearied the eye and weighed on the mind, from the roof + to the basement. The house had been shut up since the time of the Trial. A + lonely old couple, man and wife, had the keys and the charge of it. The + man shook his head in silent and sorrowful disapproval of our intrusion + when Mr. Playmore ordered him to open the doors and shutters, and let the + light in on the dark, deserted place. Fires were burning in the library + and the picture-gallery, to preserve the treasures which they contained + from the damp. It was not easy, at first, to look at the cheerful blaze + without fancying that the inhabitants of the house must surely come in and + warm themselves. Ascending to the upper floor, I saw the rooms made + familiar to me by the Report of the Trial. I entered the little study, + with the old books on the shelves, and the key still missing from the + locked door of communication with the bedchamber. I looked into the room + in which the unhappy mistress of Gleninch had suffered and died. The bed + was left in its place; the sofa on which the nurse had snatched her + intervals of repose was at its foot; the Indian cabinet, in which the + crumpled paper with the grains of arsenic had been found, still held its + little collection of curiosities. I moved on its pivot the invalid-table + on which she had taken her meals and written her poems, poor soul. The + place was dreary and dreadful; the heavy air felt as if it were still + burdened with its horrid load of misery and distrust. I was glad to get + out (after a passing glance at the room which Eustace had occupied in + those days) into the Guests’ Corridor. There was the bedroom, at the door + of which Miserrimus Dexter had waited and watched. There was the oaken + floor along which he had hopped, in his horrible way, following the + footsteps of the servant disguised in her mistress’s clothes. Go where I + might, the ghosts of the dead and the absent were with me, step by step. + Go where I might, the lonely horror of the house had its still and awful + voice for Me: “<i>I</i> keep the secret of the Poison! <i>I</i> hide the + mystery of the death!” + </p> + <p> + The oppression of the place became unendurable. I longed for the pure sky + and the free air. My companion noticed and understood me. + </p> + <p> + “Come,” he said. “We have had enough of the house. Let us look at the + grounds.” + </p> + <p> + In the gray quiet of the evening we roamed about the lonely gardens, and + threaded our way through the rank, neglected shrubberies. Wandering here + and wandering there, we drifted into the kitchen garden—with one + little patch still sparely cultivated by the old man and his wife, and all + the rest a wilderness of weeds. Beyond the far end of the garden, divided + from it by a low paling of wood, there stretched a patch of waste ground, + sheltered on three sides by trees. In one lost corner of the ground an + object, common enough elsewhere, attracted my attention here. The object + was a dust-heap. The great size of it, and the curious situation in which + it was placed, aroused a moment’s languid curiosity in me. I stopped, and + looked at the dust and ashes, at the broken crockery and the old iron. + Here there was a torn hat, and there some fragments of rotten old boots, + and scattered around a small attendant litter of torn paper and frowzy + rags. + </p> + <p> + “What are you looking at?” asked Mr. Playmore. + </p> + <p> + “At nothing more remarkable than the dust-heap,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + “In tidy England, I suppose, you would have all that carted away out of + sight,” said the lawyer. “We don’t mind in Scotland, as long as the + dust-heap is far enough away not to be smelt at the house. Besides, some + of it, sifted, comes in usefully as manure for the garden. Here the place + is deserted, and the rubbish in consequence has not been disturbed. + Everything at Gleninch, Mrs. Eustace (the big dust-heap included), is + waiting for the new mistress to set it to rights. One of these days you + may be queen here—who knows?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall never see this place again,” I said. + </p> + <p> + “Never is a long day,” returned my companion. “And time has its surprises + in store for all of us.” + </p> + <p> + We turned away, and walked back in silence to the park gate, at which the + carriage was waiting. + </p> + <p> + On the return to Edinburgh, Mr. Playmore directed the conversation to + topics entirely unconnected with my visit to Gleninch. He saw that my mind + stood in need of relief; and he most good-naturedly, and successfully, + exerted himself to amuse me. It was not until we were close to the city + that he touched on the subject of my return to London. + </p> + <p> + “Have you decided yet on the day when you leave Edinburgh?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “We leave Edinburgh,” I replied, “by the train of to-morrow morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you still see no reason to alter the opinions which you expressed + yesterday? Does your speedy departure mean that?” + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid it does, Mr. Playmore. When I am an older woman, I may be a + wiser woman. In the meantime, I can only trust to your indulgence if I + still blindly blunder on in my own way.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled pleasantly, and patted my hand—then changed on a sudden, + and looked at me gravely and attentively before he opened his lips again. + </p> + <p> + “This is my last opportunity of speaking to you before you go,” he said. + “May I speak freely?” + </p> + <p> + “As freely as you please, Mr. Playmore. Whatever you may say to me will + only add to my grateful sense of your kindness.” + </p> + <p> + “I have very little to say, Mrs. Eustace—and that little begins with + a word of caution. You told me yesterday that, when you paid your last + visit to Miserrimus Dexter, you went to him alone. Don’t do that again. + Take somebody with you.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I am in any danger, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Not in the ordinary sense of the word. I only think that a friend may be + useful in keeping Dexter’s audacity (he is one of the most impudent men + living) within proper limits. Then, again, in case anything worth + remembering and acting on <i>should</i> fall from him in his talk, a + friend may be valuable as witness. In your place, I should have a witness + with me who could take notes—but then I am a lawyer, and my business + is to make a fuss about trifles. Let me only say—go with a companion + when you next visit Dexter; and be on your guard against yourself when + your talk turns on Mrs. Beauly.” + </p> + <p> + “On my guard against myself? What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Practice, my dear Mrs. Eustace, has given me an eye for the little + weaknesses of human nature. You are (quite naturally) disposed to be + jealous of Mrs. Beauly; and you are, in consequence, not in full + possession of your excellent common-sense when Dexter uses that lady as a + means of blindfolding you. Am I speaking too freely?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not. It is very degrading to me to be jealous of Mrs. Beauly. + My vanity suffers dreadfully when I think of it. But my common-sense + yields to conviction. I dare say you are right.” + </p> + <p> + “I am delighted to find that we agree on one point,” he rejoined, dryly. + “I don’t despair yet of convincing you in that far more serious matter + which is still in dispute between us. And, what is more, if you will throw + no obstacles in the way, I look to Dexter himself to help me.” + </p> + <p> + This aroused my curiosity. How Miserrimus Dexter could help him, in that + or in any other way, was a riddle beyond my reading. + </p> + <p> + “You propose to repeat to Dexter all that Lady Clarinda told you about + Mrs. Beauly,” he went on. “And you think it is likely that Dexter will be + overwhelmed, as you were overwhelmed, when he hears the story. I am going + to venture on a prophecy. I say that Dexter will disappoint you. Far from + showing any astonishment, he will boldly tell you that you have been duped + by a deliberately false statement of facts, invented and set afloat, in + her own guilty interests, by Mrs. Beauly. Now tell me—if he really + try, in that way, to renew your unfounded suspicion of an innocent woman, + will <i>that</i> shake your confidence in your own opinion?” + </p> + <p> + “It will entirely destroy my confidence in my own opinion, Mr. Playmore.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good. I shall expect you to write to me, in any case; and I believe + we shall be of one mind before the week is out. Keep strictly secret all + that I said to you yesterday about Dexter. Don’t even mention my name when + you see him. Thinking of him as I think now, I would as soon touch the + hand of the hangman as the hand of that monster! God bless you! Good-by.” + </p> + <p> + So he said his farewell words, at the door of the hotel. Kind, genial, + clever—but oh, how easily prejudiced, how shockingly obstinate in + holding to his own opinion! And <i>what</i> an opinion! I shuddered as I + thought of it. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXV. MR. PLAYMORE’S PROPHECY. + </h2> + <p> + WE reached London between eight and nine in the evening. Strictly + methodical in all his habits, Benjamin had telegraphed to his housekeeper, + from Edinburgh, to have supper ready or us by ten o’clock, and to send the + cabman whom he always employed to meet us at the station. + </p> + <p> + Arriving at the villa, we were obliged to wait for a moment to let a + pony-chaise get by us before we could draw up at Benjamin’s door. The + chaise passed very slowly, driven by a rough-looking man, with a pipe in + his mouth. But for the man, I might have doubted whether the pony was + quite a stranger to me. As things were, I thought no more of the matter. + </p> + <p> + Benjamin’s respectable old housekeeper opened the garden gate, and + startled me by bursting into a devout ejaculation of gratitude at the + sight of her master. “The Lord be praised, sir!” she cried; “I thought you + would never come back!” + </p> + <p> + “Anything wrong?” asked Benjamin, in his own impenetrably quiet way. + </p> + <p> + The housekeeper trembled at the question, and answered in these + enigmatical words: + </p> + <p> + “My mind’s upset, sir; and whether things are wrong or whether things are + right is more than I can say. Hours ago, a strange man came in and asked”—she + stopped, as if she were completely bewildered—looked for a moment + vacantly at her master—and suddenly addressed herself to me. “And + asked,” she proceeded, “when <i>you</i> was expected back, ma’am. I told + him what my master had telegraphed, and the man says upon that, ‘Wait a + bit,’ he says; ‘I’m coming back.’ He came back in a minute or less; and he + carried a Thing in his arms which curdled my blood—it did!—and + set me shaking from the crown of my head to the sole of my foot. I know I + ought to have stopped it; but I couldn’t stand upon my legs, much less put + the man out of the house. In he went, without ‘<i>with</i> your leave,’ or + ‘<i>by</i> your leave,’ Mr. Benjamin, sir—in he went, with the Thing + in his arms, straight through to your library. And there It has been all + these hours. And there It is now. I’ve spoken to the police; but they + wouldn’t interfere; and what to do next is more than my poor head can + tell. Don’t you go in by yourself, ma’am! You’ll be frightened out of your + wits—you will!” + </p> + <p> + I persisted in entering the house, for all that. Aided by the pony, I + easily solved the mystery of the housekeeper’s otherwise unintelligible + narrative. Passing through the dining-room (where the supper-table was + already laid for us), I looked through the half-opened library door. + </p> + <p> + Yes, there was Miserrimus Dexter, arrayed in his pink jacket, fast asleep + in Benjamin’s favorite arm-chair! No coverlet hid his horrible deformity. + Nothing was sacrificed to conventional ideas of propriety in his + extraordinary dress. I could hardly wonder that the poor old housekeeper + trembled from head to foot when she spoke of him. + </p> + <p> + “Valeria,” said Benjamin, pointing to the Portent in the chair. “Which is + it—an Indian idol, or a man?” + </p> + <p> + I have already described Miserrimus Dexter as possessing the sensitive ear + of a dog: he now allowed that he also slept the light sleep of a dog. + Quietly as Benjamin had spoken, the strange voice aroused him on the + instant. He rubbed his eyes, and smiled as innocently as a waking child. + </p> + <p> + “How do you do, Mrs. Valeria?” he said. “I have had a nice little sleep. + You don’t know how happy I am to see you again. Who is this?” + </p> + <p> + He rubbed his eyes once more! and looked at Benjamin. Not knowing what + else to do in this extraordinary emergency, I presented my visitor to the + master of the house. + </p> + <p> + “Excuse my getting up, sir,” said Miserrimus Dexter. “I can’t get up—I + have no legs. You look as if you thought I was occupying your chair? If I + am committing an intrusion, be so good as to put your umbrella under me, + and give me a jerk. I shall fall on my hands, and I shan’t be offended + with you. I will submit to a tumble and a scolding—but please don’t + break my heart by sending me away. That beautiful woman there can be very + cruel sometimes, sir, when the fit takes her. She went away when I stood + in the sorest need of a little talk with her—she went away, and left + me to my loneliness and my suspense. I am a poor deformed wretch, with a + warm heart, and, perhaps, an insatiable curiosity as well. Insatiable + curiosity (have you ever felt it?) is a curse. I bore it until my brains + began to boil in my head; and then I sent for my gardener, and made him + drive me here. I like being here. The air of your library soothes me; the + sight of Mrs. Valeria is balm to my wounded heart. She has something to + tell me—something that I am dying to hear. If she is not too tired + after her journey, and if you will let her tell it, I promise to have + myself taken away when she has done. Dear Mr. Benjamin, you look like the + refuge of the afflicted. I am afflicted. Shake hands like a good + Christian, and take me in.” + </p> + <p> + He held out his hand. His soft blue eyes melted into an expression of + piteous entreaty. Completely stupefied by the amazing harangue of which he + had been made the object, Benjamin took the offered hand, with the air of + a man in a dream. “I hope I see you well, sir,” he said, mechanically—and + then looked around at me, to know what he was to do next. + </p> + <p> + “I understand Mr. Dexter,” I whispered. “Leave him to me.” + </p> + <p> + Benjamin stole a last bewildered look at the object in the chair; bowed to + it, with the instinct of politeness which never failed him; and (still + with the air of a man in a dream) withdrew into the next room. + </p> + <p> + Left together, we looked at each other, for the first moment, in silence. + </p> + <p> + Whether I unconsciously drew on that inexhaustible store of indulgence + which a woman always keeps in reserve for a man who owns that he has need + of her, or whether, resenting as I did Mr. Playmore’s horrible suspicion + of him, my heart was especially accessible to feelings of compassion in + his unhappy case, I cannot tell. I only know that I pitied Miserrimus + Dexter at that moment as I had never pitied him yet; and that I spared him + the reproof which I should certainly have administered to any other man + who had taken the liberty of establishing himself, uninvited, in + Benjamin’s house. + </p> + <p> + He was the first to speak. + </p> + <p> + “Lady Clarinda has destroyed your confidence in me!” he began, wildly. + </p> + <p> + “Lady Clarinda has done nothing of the sort,” I replied. “She has not + attempted to influence my opinion. I was really obliged to leave London, + as I told you.” + </p> + <p> + He sighed, and closed his eyes contentedly, as if I had relieved him of a + heavy weight of anxiety. + </p> + <p> + “Be merciful to me,” he said, “and tell me something more. I have been so + miserable in your absence.” He suddenly opened his eyes again, and looked + at me with an appearance of the greatest interest. “Are you very much + fatigued by traveling?” he proceeded. “I am hungry for news of what + happened at the Major’s dinner party. Is it cruel of me to tell you so, + when you have not rested after your journey? Only one question to-night, + and I will leave the rest till to-morrow. What did Lady Clarinda say about + Mrs. Beauly? All that you wanted to hear?” + </p> + <p> + “All, and more,” I answered. + </p> + <p> + “What? what? what?” he cried wild with impatience in a moment. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Playmore’s last prophetic words were vividly present to my mind. He + had declared, in the most positive manner, that Dexter would persist in + misleading me, and would show no signs of astonishment when I repeated + what Lady Clarinda had told me of Mrs. Beauly. I resolved to put the + lawyer’s prophecy—so far as the question of astonishment was + concerned—to the sharpest attainable test. I said not a word to + Miserrimus Dexter in the way of preface or preparation: I burst on him + with my news as abruptly as possible. + </p> + <p> + “The person you saw in the corridor was not Mrs. Beauly,” I said. “It was + the maid, dressed in her mistress’s cloak and hat. Mrs. Beauly herself was + not in the house at all. Mrs. Beauly herself was dancing at a masked ball + in Edinburgh. There is what the maid told Lady Clarinda; and there is what + Lady Clarinda told <i>me.</i>” + </p> + <p> + In the absorbing interest of the moment, I poured out those words one + after another as fast as they would pass my lips. Miserrimus Dexter + completely falsified the lawyer’s prediction. He shuddered under the + shock. His eyes opened wide with amazement. “Say it again!” he cried. “I + can’t take it all in at once. You stun me.” + </p> + <p> + I was more than contented with this result—I triumphed in my + victory. For once, I had really some reason to feel satisfied with myself. + I had taken the Christian and merciful side in my discussion with Mr. + Playmore; and I had won my reward. I could sit in the same room with + Miserrimus Dexter, and feel the blessed conviction that I was not + breathing the same air with a poisoner. Was it not worth the visit to + Edinburgh to have made sure of that? + </p> + <p> + In repeating, at his own desire, what I had already said to him, I took + care to add the details which made Lady Clarinda’s narrative coherent and + credible. He listened throughout with breathless attention—here and + there repeating the words after me, to impress them the more surely and + the more deeply on his mind. + </p> + <p> + “What is to be said? what is to be done?” he asked, with a look of blank + despair. “I can’t disbelieve it. From first to last, strange as it is, it + sounds true.” + </p> + <p> + (How would Mr. Playmore have felt if he had heard those words? I did him + the justice to believe that he would have felt heartily ashamed of + himself.) + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing to be said,” I rejoined, “except that Mrs. Beauly is + innocent, and that you and I have done her a grievous wrong. Don’t you + agree with me?” + </p> + <p> + “I entirely agree with you,” he answered, without an instant’s hesitation. + “Mrs. Beauly is an innocent woman. The defense at the Trial was the right + defense after all.” + </p> + <p> + He folded his arms complacently; he looked perfectly satisfied to leave + the matter there. + </p> + <p> + I was not of his mind. To my own amazement, I now found myself the least + reasonable person of the two! + </p> + <p> + Miserrimus Dexter (to use the popular phrase) had given me more than I had + bargained for. He had not only done all that I had anticipated in the way + of falsifying Mr. Playmore’s prediction—he had actually advanced + beyond my limits. I could go the length of recognizing Mrs. Beauly’s + innocence; but at that point I stopped. If the Defense at the Trial were + the right defense, farewell to all hope of asserting my husband’s + innocence. I held to that hope as I held to my love and my life. + </p> + <p> + “Speak for yourself,” I said. “My opinion of the Defense remains + unchanged.” + </p> + <p> + He started, and knit his brows as if I had disappointed and displeased + him. + </p> + <p> + “Does that mean that you are determined to go on?” + </p> + <p> + “It does.” + </p> + <p> + He was downright angry with me. He cast his customary politeness to the + winds. + </p> + <p> + “Absurd! impossible!” he cried, contemptuously. “You have yourself + declared that we wronged an innocent woman when we suspected Mrs. Beauly. + Is there any one else whom we can suspect? It is ridiculous to ask the + question. There is no alternative left but to accept the facts as they + are, and to stir no further in the matter of the poisoning at Gleninch. It + is childish to dispute plain conclusions. You must give up.” + </p> + <p> + “You may be angry with me if you will, Mr. Dexter. Neither your anger nor + your arguments will make me give up.” + </p> + <p> + He controlled himself by an effort—he was quiet and polite again + when he next spoke to me. + </p> + <p> + “Very well. Pardon me for a moment if I absorb myself in my own thoughts. + I want to do something which I have not done yet.” + </p> + <p> + “What may that be, Mr. Dexter?” + </p> + <p> + “I am going to put myself into Mrs. Beauly’s skin, and to think with Mrs. + Beauly’s mind. Give me a minute. Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + What did he mean? what new transformation of him was passing before my + eyes? Was there ever such a puzzle of a man as this? Who that saw him now, + intently pursuing his new train of thought, would have recognized him as + the childish creature who had awoke so innocently, and had astonished + Benjamin by the infantine nonsense which he talked? It is said, and said + truly, that there are many sides to every human character. Dexter’s many + sides were developing themselves at such a rapid rate of progress that + they were already beyond my counting. + </p> + <p> + He lifted his head, and fixed a look of keen inquiry on me. + </p> + <p> + “I have come out of Mrs. Beauly’s skin,” he announced. “And I have arrived + at this result: We are two impetuous people; and we have been a little + hasty in rushing at a conclusion.” + </p> + <p> + He stopped. I said nothing. Was the shadow of a doubt of him beginning to + rise in my mind? I waited, and listened. + </p> + <p> + “I am as fully satisfied as ever of the truth of what Lady Clarinda told + you,” he proceeded. “But I see, on consideration, what I failed to see at + the time. The story admits of two interpretations—one on the + surface, and another under the surface. I look under the surface, in your + interests; and I say, it is just possible that Mrs. Beauly may have been + cunning enough to forestall suspicion, and to set up an Alibi.” + </p> + <p> + I am ashamed to own that I did not understand what he meant by the last + word—Alibi. He saw that I was not following him, and spoke out more + plainly. + </p> + <p> + “Was the maid something more than her mistress’s passive accomplice?” he + said. “Was she the Hand that her mistress used? Was she on her way to give + the first dose of poison when she passed me in this corridor? Did Mrs. + Beauly spend the night in Edinburgh—so as to have her defense ready, + if suspicion fell upon her?” + </p> + <p> + My shadowy doubt of him became substantial doubt when I heard that. Had I + absolved him a little too readily? Was he really trying to renew my + suspicions of Mrs. Beauly, as Mr. Playmore had foretold? This time I was + obliged to answer him. In doing so, I unconsciously employed one of the + phrases which the lawyer had used to me during my first interview with + him. + </p> + <p> + “That sounds rather far-fetched, Mr. Dexter,” I said. + </p> + <p> + To my relief, he made no attempt to defend the new view that he had + advanced. + </p> + <p> + “It is far-fetched,” he admitted. “When I said it was just possible—though + I didn’t claim much for my idea—I said more for it perhaps than it + deserved. Dismiss my view as ridiculous; what are you to do next? If Mrs. + Beauly is not the poisoner (either by herself or by her maid), who is? She + is innocent, and Eustace is innocent. Where is the other person whom you + can suspect? Have <i>I</i> poisoned her?” he cried, with his eyes + flashing, and his voice rising to its highest notes. “Do you, does + anybody, suspect Me? I loved her; I adored her; I have never been the same + man since her death. Hush! I will trust you with a secret. (Don’t tell + your husband; it might be the destruction of our friendship.) I would have + married her, before she met with Eustace, if she would have taken me. When + the doctors told me she had died poisoned—ask Doctor Jerome what I + suffered; <i>he</i> can tell you! All through that horrible night I was + awake; watching my opportunity until I found my way to her. I got into the + room, and took my last leave of the cold remains of the angel whom I + loved. I cried over her. I kissed her for the first and last time. I stole + one little lock of her hair. I have worn it ever since; I have kissed it + night and day. Oh, God! the room comes back to me! the dead face comes + back to me! Look! look!” + </p> + <p> + He tore from its place of concealment in his bosom a little locket, + fastened by a ribbon around his neck. He threw it to me where I sat, and + burst into a passion of tears. + </p> + <p> + A man in my place might have known what to do. Being only a woman, I + yielded to the compassionate impulse of the moment. + </p> + <p> + I got up and crossed the room to him. I gave him back his locket, and put + my hand, without knowing what I was about, on the poor wretch’s shoulder. + “I am incapable of suspecting you, Mr. Dexter,” I said, gently. “No such + idea ever entered my head. I pity you from the bottom of my heart.” + </p> + <p> + He caught my hand in his, and devoured it with kisses. His lips burned me + like fire. He twisted himself suddenly in the chair, and wound his arm + around my waist. In the terror and indignation of the moment, vainly + struggling with him, I cried out for help. + </p> + <p> + The door opened, and Benjamin appeared on the threshold. + </p> + <p> + Dexter let go his hold of me. + </p> + <p> + I ran to Benjamin, and prevented him from advancing into the room. In all + my long experience of my fatherly old friend I had never seen him really + angry yet. I saw him more than angry now. He was pale—the patient, + gentle old man was pale with rage! I held him at the door with all my + strength. + </p> + <p> + “You can’t lay your hand on a cripple,” I said. Send for the man outside + to take him away. + </p> + <p> + I drew Benjamin out of the room, and closed and locked the library door. + The housekeeper was in the dining-room. I sent her out to call the driver + of the pony-chaise into the house. + </p> + <p> + The man came in—the rough man whom I had noticed when we were + approaching the garden gate. Benjamin opened the library door in stern + silence. It was perhaps unworthy of me, but I could <i>not</i> resist the + temptation to look in. + </p> + <p> + Miserrimus Dexter had sunk down in the chair. The rough man lifted his + master with a gentleness that surprised me. “Hide my face,” I heard Dexter + say to him, in broken tones. He opened his coarse pilot-jacket, and hid + his master’s head under it, and so went silently out—with the + deformed creature held to his bosom, like a woman sheltering her child. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVI. ARIEL. + </h2> + <p> + I PASSED a sleepless night. + </p> + <p> + The outrage that had been offered to me was bad enough in itself. But + consequences were associated with it which might affect me more seriously + still. In so far as the attainment of the one object of my life might yet + depend on my personal association with Miserrimus Dexter, an + insurmountable obstacle appeared to be now placed in my way. Even in my + husband’s interests, ought I to permit a man who had grossly insulted me + to approach me again? Although I was no prude, I recoiled from the thought + of it. + </p> + <p> + I arose late, and sat down at my desk, trying to summon energy enough to + write to Mr. Playmore—and trying in vain. + </p> + <p> + Toward noon (while Benjamin happened to be out for a little while) the + housekeeper announced the arrival of another strange visitor at the gate + of the villa. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a woman this time, ma’am—or something like one,” said this + worthy person, confidentially. “A great, stout, awkward, stupid creature, + with a man’s hat on and a man’s stick in her hand. She says she has got a + note for you, and she won’t give it to anybody <i>but</i> you. I’d better + not let her in—had I?” + </p> + <p> + Recognizing the original of the picture, I astonished the housekeeper by + consenting to receive the messenger immediately. + </p> + <p> + Ariel entered the room—in stolid silence, as usual. But I noticed a + change in her which puzzled me. Her dull eyes were red and bloodshot. + Traces of tears (as I fancied) were visible on her fat, shapeless cheeks. + She crossed the room, on her way to my chair, with a less determined tread + than was customary with her. Could Ariel (I asked myself) be woman enough + to cry? Was it within the limits of possibility that Ariel should approach + me in sorrow and in fear? + </p> + <p> + “I hear you have brought something for me?” I said. “Won’t you sit down?” + </p> + <p> + She handed me a letter—without answering and without taking a chair. + I opened the envelope. The letter inside was written by Miserrimus Dexter. + It contained these lines: + </p> + <p> + “Try to pity me, if you have any pity left for a miserable man; I have + bitterly expiated the madness of a moment. If you could see me—even + you would own that my punishment has been heavy enough. For God’s sake, + don’t abandon me! I was beside myself when I let the feeling that you have + awakened in me get the better of my control. It shall never show itself + again; it shall be a secret that dies with me. Can I expect you to believe + this? No. I won’t ask you to believe me; I won’t ask you to trust me in + the future. If you ever consent to see me again, let it be in the presence + of any third person whom you may appoint to protect you. I deserve that—I + will submit to it; I will wait till time has composed your angry feeling + against me. All I ask now is leave to hope. Say to Ariel, ‘I forgive him; + and one day I will let him see me again.’ She will remember it, for love + of me. If you send her back without a message, you send me to the + mad-house. Ask her, if you don’t believe me. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “MISERRIMUS DEXTER.” + </pre> + <p> + I finished the strange letter, and looked at Ariel. + </p> + <p> + She stood with her eyes on the floor, and held out to me the thick + walking-stick which she carried in her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Take the stick” were the first words she said to me. + </p> + <p> + “Why am I to take it?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + She struggled a little with her sluggishly working mind, and slowly put + her thoughts into words. + </p> + <p> + “You’re angry with the Master,” she said. “Take it out on Me. Here’s the + stick. Beat me.” + </p> + <p> + “Beat you!” I exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “My back’s broad,” said the poor creature. “I won’t make a row. I’ll bear + it. Drat you, take the stick! Don’t vex <i>him.</i> Whack it out on my + back. Beat <i>me.</i>” + </p> + <p> + She roughly forced the stick into my hand; she turned her poor shapeless + shoulders to me; waiting for the blow. It was at once dreadful and + touching to see her. The tears rose in my eyes. I tried, gently and + patiently, to reason with her. Quite useless! The idea of taking the + Master’s punishment on herself was the one idea in her mind. “Don’t vex <i>him,</i>” + she repeated. “Beat <i>me.</i>” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by ‘vexing him’?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + She tried to explain, and failed to find the words. She showed me by + imitation, as a savage might have shown me, what she meant. Striding to + the fire-place, she crouched on the rug, and looked into the fire with a + horrible vacant stare. Then she clasped her hands over her forehead, and + rocked slowly to and fro, still staring into the fire. “There’s how he + sits!” she said, with a sudden burst of speech. “Hours on hours, there’s + how he sits! Notices nobody. Cries about <i>you.</i>” + </p> + <p> + The picture she presented recalled to my memory the Report of Dexter’s + health, and the doctor’s plain warning of peril waiting for him in the + future. + </p> + <p> + Even if I could have resisted Ariel, I must have yielded to the vague + dread of consequences which now shook me in secret. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t do that!” I cried. She was still rocking herself in imitation of + the “Master,” and still staring into the fire with her hands to her head. + “Get up, pray! I am not angry with him now. I forgive him.” + </p> + <p> + She rose on her hands and knees, and waited, looking up intently into my + face. In that attitude—more like a dog than a human being—she + repeated her customary petition when she wanted to fix words that + interested her in her mind. + </p> + <p> + “Say it again!” + </p> + <p> + I did as she bade me. She was not satisfied. + </p> + <p> + “Say it as it is in the letter,” she went on. “Say it as the Master said + it to Me.” + </p> + <p> + I looked back at the letter, and repeated the form of message contained in + the latter part of it, word for word: + </p> + <p> + “I forgive him; and one day I will let him see me again.” + </p> + <p> + She sprang to her feet at a bound. For the first time since she had + entered the room her dull face began to break slowly into light and life. + </p> + <p> + “That’s it!” she cried. “Hear if I can say it, too; hear if I’ve got it by + heart.” + </p> + <p> + Teaching her exactly as I should have taught a child, I slowly fastened + the message, word by word, on her mind. + </p> + <p> + “Now rest yourself,” I said; “and let me give you something to eat and + drink after your long walk.” + </p> + <p> + I might as well have spoken to one of the chairs. She snatched up her + stick from the floor, and burst out with a hoarse shout of joy. “I’ve got + it by heart!” she cried. “This will cool the Master’s head! Hooray!” She + dashed out into the passage like a wild animal escaping from its cage. I + was just in time to see her tear open the garden gate, and set forth on + her walk back at a pace which made it hopeless to attempt to follow and + stop her. + </p> + <p> + I returned to the sitting-room, pondering on a question which has + perplexed wiser heads than mine. Could a man who was hopelessly and + entirely wicked have inspired such devoted attachment to him as Dexter had + inspired in the faithful woman who had just left me? in the rough gardener + who had carried him out so gently on the previous night? Who can decide? + The greatest scoundrel living always has a friend—in a woman or a + dog. + </p> + <p> + I sat down again at my desk, and made another attempt to write to Mr. + Playmore. + </p> + <p> + Recalling, for the purpose of my letter, all that Miserrimus Dexter had + said to me, my memory dwelt with special interest on the strange outbreak + of feeling which had led him to betray the secret of his infatuation for + Eustace’s first wife. I saw again the ghastly scene in the death-chamber—the + deformed creature crying over the corpse in the stillness of the first + dark hours of the new day. The horrible picture took a strange hold on my + mind. I arose, and walked up and down, and tried to turn my thoughts some + other way. It was not to be done: the scene was too familiar to me to be + easily dismissed. I had myself visited the room and looked at the bed. I + had myself walked in the corridor which Dexter had crossed on his way to + take his last leave of her. + </p> + <p> + The corridor? I stopped. My thoughts suddenly took a new direction, + uninfluenced by any effort of my will. + </p> + <p> + What other association besides the association with Dexter did I connect + with the corridor? Was it something I had seen during my visit to + Gleninch? No. Was it something I had read? I snatched up the Report of the + Trial to see. It opened at a page which contained the nurse’s evidence. I + read the evidence through again, without recovering the lost remembrance + until I came to these lines close at the end: + </p> + <p> + “Before bed-time I went upstairs to prepare the remains of the deceased + lady for the coffin. The room in which she lay was locked; the door + leading into Mr. Macallan’s room being secured, as well as the door + leading into the corridor. The keys had been taken away by Mr. Gale. Two + of the men-servants were posted outside the bedroom to keep watch. They + were to be relieved at four in the morning—that was all they could + tell me.” + </p> + <p> + There was my lost association with the corridor! There was what I ought to + have remembered when Miserrimus Dexter was telling me of his visit to the + dead! + </p> + <p> + How had he got into the bedroom—the doors being locked, and the keys + being taken away by Mr. Gale? There was but one of the locked doors of + which Mr. Gale had not got the key—the door of communication between + the study and the bedroom. The key was missing from this. Had it been + stolen? And was Dexter the thief? He might have passed by the men on the + watch while they were asleep, or he might have crossed the corridor in an + unguarded interval while the men were being relieved. But how could he + have got into the bedchamber except by way of the locked study door? He <i>must</i> + have had the key! And he <i>must</i> have secreted it weeks before Mrs. + Eustace Macallan’s death! When the nurse first arrived at Gleninch, on the + seventh of the month, her evidence declared the key of the door of + communication to be then missing. + </p> + <p> + To what conclusion did these considerations and discoveries point? Had + Miserrimus Dexter, in a moment of ungovernable agitation, unconsciously + placed the clew in my hands? Was the pivot on which turned the whole + mystery of the poisoning at Gleninch the missing key? + </p> + <p> + I went back for the third time to my desk. The one person who might be + trusted to find the answer to those questions was Mr. Playmore. I wrote + him a full and careful account of all that had happened; I begged him to + forgive and forget my ungracious reception of the advice which he had so + kindly offered to me; and I promised beforehand to do nothing without + first consulting his opinion in the new emergency which now confronted me. + </p> + <p> + The day was fine for the time of year; and by way of getting a little + wholesome exercise after the surprises and occupations of the morning, I + took my letter to Mr. Playmore to the post. + </p> + <p> + Returning to the villa, I was informed that another visitor was waiting to + see me: a civilized visitor this time, who had given her name. My + mother-in-law—Mrs. Macallan. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVII. AT THE BEDSIDE. + </h2> + <p> + BEFORE she had uttered a word, I saw in my mother-in-law’s face that she + brought bad news. + </p> + <p> + “Eustace?” I said. + </p> + <p> + She answered me by a look. + </p> + <p> + “Let me hear it at once!” I cried. “I can bear anything but suspense.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Macallan lifted her hand, and showed me a telegraphic dispatch which + she had hitherto kept concealed in the folds of her dress. + </p> + <p> + “I can trust your courage,” she said. “There is no need, my child, to + prevaricate with you. Read that.” + </p> + <p> + I read the telegram. It was sent by the chief surgeon of a field-hospital; + and it was dated from a village in the north of Spain. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Eustace severely wounded in a skirmish by a stray shot. Not in + danger, so far. Every care taken of him. Wait for another telegram.” + </p> + <p> + I turned away my face, and bore as best I might the pang that wrung me + when I read those words. I thought I knew how dearly I loved him: I had + never known it till that moment. + </p> + <p> + My mother-in-law put her arm round me, and held me to her tenderly. She + knew me well enough not to speak to me at that moment. + </p> + <p> + I rallied my courage, and pointed to the last sentence in the telegram. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to wait?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Not a day!” she answered. “I am going to the Foreign Office about my + passport—I have some interest there: they can give me letters; they + can advise and assist me. I leave to-night by the mail train to Calais.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>You</i> leave?” I said. “Do you suppose I will let you go without me? + Get my passport when you get yours. At seven this evening I will be at + your house.” + </p> + <p> + She attempted to remonstrate; she spoke of the perils of the journey. At + the first words I stopped her. “Don’t you know yet, mother, how obstinate + I am? They may keep you waiting at the Foreign Office. Why do you waste + the precious hours here?” + </p> + <p> + She yielded with a gentleness that was not in her everyday character. + “Will my poor Eustace ever know what a wife he has got?” That was all she + said. She kissed me, and went away in her carriage. + </p> + <p> + My remembrances of our journey are strangely vague and imperfect. + </p> + <p> + As I try to recall them, the memory of those more recent and more + interesting events which occurred after my return to England gets between + me and my adventures in Spain, and seems to force these last into a + shadowy background, until they look like adventures that happened many + years since. I confusedly recollect delays and alarms that tried our + patience and our courage. I remember our finding friends (thanks to our + letters of recommendation) in a Secretary to the Embassy and in a Queen’s + Messenger, who assisted and protected us at a critical point in the + journey. I recall to mind a long succession of men in our employment as + travelers, all equally remarkable for their dirty cloaks and their clean + linen, for their highly civilized courtesy to women and their utterly + barbarous cruelty to horses. Last, and most important of all, I see again, + more clearly than I can see anything else, the one wretched bedroom of a + squalid village inn in which we found our poor darling, prostrate between + life and death, insensible to everything that passed in the narrow little + world that lay around his bedside. + </p> + <p> + There was nothing romantic or interesting in the accident which had put my + husband’s life in peril. + </p> + <p> + He had ventured too near the scene of the conflict (a miserable affair) to + rescue a poor lad who lay wounded on the field—mortally wounded, as + the event proved. A rifle-bullet had struck him in the body. His brethren + of the field-hospital had carried him back to their quarters at the risk + of their lives. He was a great favorite with all of them; patient and + gentle and brave; only wanting a little more judgment to be the most + valuable recruit who had joined the brotherhood. + </p> + <p> + In telling me this, the surgeon kindly and delicately added a word of + warning as well. + </p> + <p> + The fever caused by the wound had brought with it delirium, as usual. My + poor husband’s mind, in so far as his wandering words might interpret it, + was filled by the one image of his wife. The medical attendant had heard + enough in the course of his ministrations at the bedside, to satisfy him + that any sudden recognition of me by Eustace (if he recovered) might be + attended by the most lamentable results. As things were at that sad time, + I might take my turn at nursing him, without the slightest chance of his + discovering me, perhaps for weeks and weeks to come. But on the day when + he was declared out of danger—if that happy day ever arrived—I + must resign my place at his bedside, and must wait to show myself until + the surgeon gave me leave. + </p> + <p> + My mother-in-law and I relieved each other regularly, day and night, in + the sick-room. + </p> + <p> + In the hours of his delirium—hours that recurred with a pitiless + regularity—my name was always on my poor darling’s fevered lips. The + ruling idea in him was the fine dreadful idea which I had vainly combated + at our last interview. In the face of the verdict pronounced at the Trial, + it was impossible even for his wife to be really and truly persuaded that + he was an innocent man. All the wild pictures which his distempered + imagination drew were equally inspired by that one obstinate conviction. + He fancied himself to be still living with me under those dreaded + conditions. Do what he might, I was always recalling to him the terrible + ordeal through which he had passed. He acted his part, and he acted mine. + He gave me a cup of tea; and I said to him, “We quarreled yesterday, + Eustace. Is it poisoned?” He kissed me, in token of our reconciliation; + and I laughed, and said, “It’s morning now, my dear. Shall I die by nine + o’clock to-night?” I was ill in bed, and he gave me my medicine. I looked + at him with a doubting eye. I said to him, “You are in love with another + woman. Is there anything in the medicine that the doctor doesn’t know of?” + Such was the horrible drama which now perpetually acted itself in his + mind. Hundreds and hundreds of times I heard him repeat it, almost always + in the same words. On other occasions his thoughts wandered away to my + desperate project of proving him to be an innocent man. Sometimes he + laughed at it. Sometimes he mourned over it. Sometimes he devised cunning + schemes for placing unsuspected obstacles in my way. He was especially + hard on me when he was inventing his preventive stratagems—he + cheerfully instructed the visionary people who assisted him not to + hesitate at offending or distressing me. “Never mind if you make her + angry; never mind if you make her cry. It’s all for her good; it’s all to + save the poor fool from dangers she doesn’t dream of. You mustn’t pity her + when she says she does it for my sake. See! she is going to be insulted; + she is going to be deceived; she is going to disgrace herself without + knowing it. Stop her! stop her!” It was weak of me, I know; I ought to + have kept the plain fact that he was out of his senses always present to + my mind: still it is true that my hours passed at my husband’s pillow were + many of them hours of mortification and misery of which he, poor dear, was + the innocent and only cause. + </p> + <p> + The weeks passed; and he still hovered between life and death. + </p> + <p> + I kept no record of the time, and I cannot now recall the exact date on + which the first favorable change took place. I only remember that it was + toward sunrise on a fine winter morning when we were relieved at last of + our heavy burden of suspense. The surgeon happened to be by the bedside + when his patient awoke. The first thing he did, after looking at Eustace, + was to caution me by a sign to be silent and to keep out of sight. My + mother-in-law and I both knew what this meant. With full hearts we thanked + God together for giving us back the husband and the son. + </p> + <p> + The same evening, being alone, we ventured to speak of the future—for + the first time since we had left home. + </p> + <p> + “The surgeon tells me,” said Mrs. Macallan, “that Eustace is too weak to + be capable of bearing anything in the nature of a surprise for some days + to come. We have time to consider whether he is or is not to be told that + he owes his life as much to your care as to mine. Can you find it in your + heart to leave him, Valeria, now that God’s mercy has restored him to you + and to me?” + </p> + <p> + “If I only consulted my own heart,” I answered, “I should never leave him + again.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Macallan looked at me in grave surprise. + </p> + <p> + “What else have you to consult?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “If we both live,” I replied, “I have to think of the happiness of his + life and the happiness of mine in the years that are to come. I can bear a + great deal, mother, but I cannot endure the misery of his leaving me for + the second time.” + </p> + <p> + “You wrong him, Valeria—I firmly believe you wrong him—in + thinking it possible that he can leave you again.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear Mrs. Macallan, have you forgotten already what we have both heard + him say of me while we have been sitting by his bedside?” + </p> + <p> + “We have heard the ravings of a man in delirium. It is surely hard to hold + Eustace responsible for what he said when he was out of his senses.” + </p> + <p> + “It is harder still,” I said, “to resist his mother when she is pleading + for him. Dearest and best of friends! I don’t hold Eustace responsible for + what he said in the fever—but I <i>do</i> take warning by it. The + wildest words that fell from him were, one and all, the faithful echo of + what he said to me in the best days of his health and his strength. What + hope have I that he will recover with an altered mind toward me? Absence + has not changed it; suffering has not changed it. In the delirium of + fever, and in the full possession of his reason, he has the same dreadful + doubt of me. I see but one way of winning him back: I must destroy at its + root his motive for leaving me. It is hopeless to persuade him that I + believe in his innocence: I must show him that belief is no longer + necessary; I must prove to him that his position toward me has become the + position of an innocent man!” + </p> + <p> + “Valeria! Valeria! you are wasting time and words. You have tried the + experiment; and you know as well as I do that the thing is not to be + done.” + </p> + <p> + I had no answer to that. I could say no more than I had said already. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose you go back to Dexter, out of sheer compassion for a mad and + miserable wretch who has already insulted you,” proceeded my + mother-in-law. “You can only go back accompanied by me, or by some other + trustworthy person. You can only stay long enough to humor the creature’s + wayward fancy, and to keep his crazy brain quiet for a time. That done, + all is done—you leave him. Even supposing Dexter to be still capable + of helping you, how can you make use of him but by admitting him to terms + of confidence and familiarity—by treating him, in short, on the + footing of an intimate friend? Answer me honestly: can you bring yourself + to do that, after what happened at Mr. Benjamin’s house?” + </p> + <p> + I had told her of my last interview with Miserrimus Dexter, in the natural + confidence that she inspired in me as relative and fellow-traveler; and + this was the use to which she turned her information! I suppose I had no + right to blame her; I suppose the motive sanctioned everything. At any + rate, I had no choice but to give offense or to give an answer. I gave it. + I acknowledged that I could never again permit Miserrimus Dexter to treat + me on terms of familiarity as a trusted and intimate friend. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Macallan pitilessly pressed the advantage that she had won. + </p> + <p> + “Very well,” she said, “that resource being no longer open to you, what + hope is left? Which way are you to turn next?” + </p> + <p> + There was no meeting those questions, in my present situation, by any + adequate reply. I felt strangely unlike myself—I submitted in + silence. Mrs. Macallan struck the last blow that completed her victory. + </p> + <p> + “My poor Eustace is weak and wayward,” she said; “but he is not an + ungrateful man. My child, you have returned him good for evil—you + have proved how faithfully and how devotedly you love him, by suffering + all hardships and risking all dangers for his sake. Trust me, and trust + him! He cannot resist you. Let him see the dear face that he has been + dreaming of looking at him again with all the old love in it, and he is + yours once more, my daughter—yours for life.” She rose and touched + my forehead with her lips; her voice sank to tones of tenderness which I + had never heard from her yet. “Say yes, Valeria,” she whispered; “and be + dearer to me and dearer to him than ever!” + </p> + <p> + My heart sided with her. My energies were worn out. No letter had arrived + from Mr. Playmore to guide and to encourage me. I had resisted so long and + so vainly; I had tried and suffered so much; I had met with such cruel + disasters and such reiterated disappointments—and he was in the room + beneath me, feebly finding his way back to consciousness and to life—how + could I resist? It was all over. In saying Yes (if Eustace confirmed his + mother’s confidence in him), I was saying adieu to the one cherished + ambition, the one dear and noble hope of my life. I knew it—and I + said Yes. + </p> + <p> + And so good-by to the grand struggle! And so welcome to the new + resignation which owned that I had failed. + </p> + <p> + My mother-in-law and I slept together under the only shelter that the inn + could offer to us—a sort of loft at the top of the house. The night + that followed our conversation was bitterly cold. We felt the chilly + temperature, in spite of the protection of our dressing-gowns and our + traveling-wrappers. My mother-in-law slept, but no rest came to me. I was + too anxious and too wretched, thinking over my changed position, and + doubting how my husband would receive me, to be able to sleep. + </p> + <p> + Some hours, as I suppose, must have passed, and I was still absorbed in my + own melancholy thoughts, when I suddenly became conscious of a new and + strange sensation which astonished and alarmed me. I started up in the + bed, breathless and bewildered. The movement awakened Mrs. Macallan. “Are + you ill?” she asked. “What is the matter with you?” I tried to tell her, + as well as I could. She seemed to understand me before I had done; she + took me tenderly in her arms, and pressed me to her bosom. “My poor + innocent child,” she said, “is it possible you don’t know? Must I really + tell you?” She whispered her next words. Shall I ever forget the tumult of + feelings which the whisper aroused in me—the strange medley of joy + and fear, and wonder and relief, and pride and humility, which filled my + whole being, and made a new woman of me from that moment? Now, for the + first time, I knew it! If God spared me for a few months more, the most + enduring and the most sacred of all human joys might be mine—the joy + of being a mother. + </p> + <p> + I don’t know how the rest of the night passed. I only find my memory again + when the morning came, and when I went out by myself to breathe the crisp + wintry air on the open moor behind the inn. + </p> + <p> + I have said that I felt like a new woman. The morning found me with a new + resolution and a new courage. When I thought of the future, I had not only + my husband to consider now. His good name was no longer his own and mine—it + might soon become the most precious inheritance that he could leave to his + child. What had I done while I was in ignorance of this? I had resigned + the hope of cleansing his name from the stain that rested on it—a + stain still, no matter how little it might look in the eye of the Law. Our + child might live to hear malicious tongues say, “Your father was tried for + the vilest of all murders, and was never absolutely acquitted of the + charge.” Could I face the glorious perils of childbirth with that + possibility present to my mind? No! not until I had made one more effort + to lay the conscience of Miserrimus Dexter bare to my view! not until I + had once again renewed the struggle, and brought the truth that vindicated + the husband and the father to the light of day! + </p> + <p> + I went back to the house, with my new courage to sustain me. I opened my + heart to my friend and mother, and told her frankly of the change that had + come over me since we had last spoken of Eustace. + </p> + <p> + She was more than disappointed—she was almost offended with me. The + one thing needful had happened, she said. The happiness that might soon + come to us would form a new tie between my husband and me. Every other + consideration but this she treated as purely fanciful. If I left Eustace + now, I did a heartless thing and a foolish thing. I should regret, to the + end of my days, having thrown away the one golden opportunity of my + married life. + </p> + <p> + It cost me a hard struggle, it oppressed me with many a painful doubt; but + I held firm this time. The honor of the father, the inheritance of the + child—I kept these thoughts as constant ly as possible before my + mind. Sometimes they failed me, and left me nothing better than a poor + fool who had some fitful bursts of crying, and was always ashamed of + herself afterward. But my native obstinacy (as Mrs. Macallan said) carried + me through. Now and then I had a peep at Eustace, while he was asleep; and + that helped me too. Though they made my heart ache and shook me sadly at + the times those furtive visits to my husband fortified me afterward. I + cannot explain how this happened (it seems so contradictory); I can only + repeat it as one of my experiences at that troubled time. + </p> + <p> + I made one concession to Mrs. Macallan—I consented to wait for two + days before I took any steps for returning to England, on the chance that + my mind might change in the interval. + </p> + <p> + It was well for me that I yielded so far. On the second day the director + of the field-hospital sent to the post-office at our nearest town for + letters addressed to him or to his care. The messenger brought back a + letter for me. I thought I recognized the handwriting, and I was right. + Mr. Playmore’s answer had reached me at last! + </p> + <p> + If I had been in any danger of changing my mind, the good lawyer would + have saved me in the nick of time. The extract that follows contains the + pith of his letter; and shows how he encouraged me when I stood in sore + need of a few cheering and friendly words. + </p> + <p> + “Let me now tell you,” he wrote, “what I have done toward verifying the + conclusion to which your letter points. + </p> + <p> + “I have traced one of the servants who was appointed to keep watch in the + corridor on the night when the first Mrs. Eustace died at Gleninch. The + man perfectly remembers that Miserrimus Dexter suddenly appeared before + him and his fellow-servant long after the house was quiet for the night. + Dexter said to them, ‘I suppose there is no harm in my going into the + study to read? I can’t sleep after what has happened; I must relieve my + mind somehow.’ The men had no orders to keep any one out of the study. + They knew that the door of communication with the bedchamber was locked, + and that the keys of the two other doors of communication were in the + possession of Mr. Gale. They accordingly permitted Dexter to go into the + study. He closed the door (the door that opened on the corridor), and + remained absent for some time—in the study as the men supposed; in + the bedchamber as we know from what he let out at his interview with you. + Now he could enter that room, as you rightly imagine, in but one way—by + being in possession of the missing key. How long he remained there I + cannot discover. The point is of little consequence. The servant remembers + that he came out of the study again ‘as pale as death,’ and that he passed + on without a word on his way back to his own room. + </p> + <p> + “These are facts. The conclusion to which they lead is serious in the last + degree. It justifies everything that I confided to you in my office at + Edinburgh. You remember what passed between us. I say no more. + </p> + <p> + “As to yourself next. You have innocently aroused in Miserrimus Dexter a + feeling toward you which I need not attempt to characterize. There is a + certain something—I saw it myself—in your figure, and in some + of your movements, which does recall the late Mrs. Eustace to those who + knew her well, and which has evidently had its effect on Dexter’s morbid + mind. Without dwelling further on this subject, let me only remind you + that he has shown himself (as a consequence of your influence over him) to + be incapable, in his moments of agitation, of thinking before he speaks + while he is in your presence. It is not merely possible, it is highly + probable, that he may betray himself far more seriously than he has + betrayed himself yet if you give him the opportunity. I owe it to you + (knowing what your interests are) to express myself plainly on this point. + I have no sort of doubt that you have advanced one step nearer to the end + which you have in view in the brief interval since you left Edinburgh. I + see in your letter (and in my discoveries) irresistible evidence that + Dexter must have been in secret communication with the deceased lady + (innocent communication, I am certain, so far as <i>she</i> was + concerned), not only at the time of her death, but perhaps for weeks + before it. I cannot disguise from myself or from you, my own strong + persuasion that if you succeed in discovering the nature of this + communication, in all human likelihood you prove your husband’s innocence + by the discovery of the truth. As an honest man, I am bound not to conceal + this. And, as an honest man also, I am equally bound to add that, not even + with your reward in view, can I find it in my conscience to advise you to + risk what you must risk if you see Miserrimus Dexter again. In this + difficult and delicate matter I cannot and will not take the + responsibility: the final decision must rest with yourself. One favor only + I entreat you to grant—let me hear what you resolve to do as soon as + you know it yourself.” + </p> + <p> + The difficulties which my worthy correspondent felt were no difficulties + to me. I did not possess Mr. Playmore’s judicial mind. My resolution was + settled before I had read his letter through. + </p> + <p> + The mail to France crossed the frontier the next day. There was a place + for me, under the protection of the conductor, if I chose to take it. + Without consulting a living creature—rash as usual, headlong as + usual—I took it. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXVIII. ON THE JOURNEY BACK. + </h2> + <p> + IF I had been traveling homeward in my own carriage, the remaining + chapters of this narrative would never have been written. Before we had + been an hour on the road I should have called to the driver, and should + have told him to turn back. + </p> + <p> + Who can be always resolute? + </p> + <p> + In asking that question, I speak of the women, not of the men. I had been + resolute in turning a deaf ear to Mr. Playmore’s doubts and cautions; + resolute in holding out against my mother-in-law; resolute in taking my + place by the French mail. Until ten minutes after we had driven away from + the inn my courage held out—and then it failed me; then I said to + myself, “You wretch, you have deserted your husband!” For hours afterward, + if I could have stopped the mail, I would have done it. I hated the + conductor, the kindest of men. I hated the Spanish ponies that drew us, + the cheeriest animals that ever jingled a string of bells. I hated the + bright day that <i>would</i> make things pleasant, and the bracing air + that forced me to feel the luxury of breathing whether I liked it or not. + Never was a journey more miserable than my safe and easy journey to the + frontier. But one little comfort helped me to bear my heart-ache + resignedly—a stolen morsel of Eustace’s hair. We had started at an + hour of the morning when he was still sound asleep. I could creep into his + room, and kiss him, and cry over him softly, and cut off a stray lock of + his hair, without danger of discovery. How I summoned resolution enough to + leave him is, to this hour, not clear to my mind. I think my mother-in-law + must have helped me, without meaning to do it. She came into the room with + an erect head and a cold eye; she said, with an unmerciful emphasis on the + word, “If you <i>mean</i> to go, Valeria, the carriage is here.” Any woman + with a spark of spirit in her would have “meant” it under those + circumstances. I meant it—and did it. + </p> + <p> + And then I was sorry for it. Poor humanity! Time has got all the credit of + being the great consoler of afflicted mortals. In my opinion, Time has + been overrated in this matter. Distance does the same beneficent work far + more speedily, and (when assisted by Change) far more effectually as well. + On the railroad to Paris, I became capable of taking a sensible view of my + position. I could now remind myself that my husband’s reception of me—after + the first surprise and the first happiness had passed away—might not + have justified his mother’s confidence in him. Admitting that I ran a risk + in going back to Miserrimus Dexter, should I not have been equally rash, + in another way, if I had returned, uninvited, to a husband who had + declared that our conjugal happiness was impossible, and that our married + life was at an end? Besides, who could say that the events of the future + might not yet justify me—not only to myself, but to him? I might yet + hear him say, “She was inquisitive when she had no business to inquire; + she was obstinate when she ought; to have listened to reason; she left my + bedside when other women would have remained; but in the end she atoned + for it all—she turned out to be right!” + </p> + <p> + I rested a day at Paris and wrote three letters. + </p> + <p> + One to Benjamin, telling him to expect me the next evening. One to Mr. + Playmore, warning him, in good time, that I meant to make a last effort to + penetrate the mystery at Gleninch. One to Eustace (of a few lines only), + owning that I had helped to nurse him through the dangerous part of his + illness; confessing the one reason which had prevailed with me to leave + him; and entreating him to suspend his opinion of me until time had proved + that I loved him more dearly than ever. This last letter I inclosed to my + mother-in-law, leaving it to her discretion to choose the right time for + giving it to her son. I positively forbade Mrs. Macallan, however, to tell + Eustace of the new tie between us. Although he <i>had</i> separated + himself from me, I was determined that he should not hear it from other + lips than mine. Never mind why. There are certain little matters which I + must keep to myself; and this is one of them. + </p> + <p> + My letters being written, my duty was done. I was free to play my last + card in the game—the darkly doubtful game which was neither quite + for me nor quite against me as the chances now stood. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XXXIX. ON THE WAY TO DEXTER. + </h2> + <p> + “I DECLARE to Heaven, Valeria, I believe that monster’s madness is + infectious—and you have caught it!” + </p> + <p> + This was Benjamin’s opinion of me (on my safe arrival at the villa) after + I had announced my intention of returning Miserrimus Dexter’s visit, in + his company. + </p> + <p> + Being determined to carry my point, I could afford to try the influence of + mild persuasion. I begged my good friend to have a little patience with + me. “And do remember what I have already told you,” I added. “It is of + serious importance to me to see Dexter again.” + </p> + <p> + I only heaped fuel on the fire. “See him again?” Benjamin repeated + indignantly. “See him, after he grossly insulted you, under my roof, in + this very room? I can’t be awake; I must be asleep and dreaming!” + </p> + <p> + It was wrong of me, I know. But Benjamin’s virtuous indignation was so + very virtuous that it let the spirit of mischief loose in me. I really + could not resist the temptation to outrage his sense of propriety by + taking an audaciously liberal view of the whole matter. + </p> + <p> + “Gently, my good friend, gently,” I said. “We must make allowances for a + man who suffers under Dexter’s infirmities, and lives Dexter’s life. And + really we must not let our modesty lead us beyond reasonable limits. I + begin to think that I took rather a prudish view of the thing myself at + the time. A woman who respects herself, and whose whole heart is with her + husband, is not so very seriously injured when a wretched crippled + creature is rude enough to put his arm around her waist. Virtuous + indignation (if I may venture to say so) is sometimes very cheap + indignation. Besides, I have forgiven him—and you must forgive him + too. There is no fear of his forgetting himself again, while you are with + me. His house is quite a curiosity—it is sure to interest you; the + pictures alone are worth the journey. I will write to him to-day, and we + will go and see him together to-morrow. We owe it to ourselves (if we + don’t owe it to Mr. Dexter) to pay this visit. If you will look about you, + Benjamin, you will see that benevolence toward everybody is the great + virtue of the time we live in. Poor Mr. Dexter must have the benefit of + the prevailing fashion. Come, come, march with the age! Open your mind to + the new ideas!” + </p> + <p> + Instead of accepting this polite invitation, worthy old Benjamin flew at + the age we lived in like a bull at a red cloth. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the new ideas! the new ideas! By all manner of means, Valeria, let us + have the new ideas! The old morality’s all wrong, the old ways are all + worn out. Let’s march with the age we live in. Nothing comes amiss to the + age we live in. The wife in England and the husband in Spain, married or + not married living together or not living together—it’s all one to + the new ideas. I’ll go with you, Valeria; I’ll be worthy of the generation + I live in. When we have done with Dexter, don’t let’s do things by halves. + Let’s go and get crammed with ready made science at a lecture—let’s + hear the last new professor, the man who has been behind the scenes at + Creation, and knows to a T how the world was made, and how long it took to + make it. There’s the other fellow, too: mind we don’t forget the modern + Solomon, who has left his proverbs behind him—the brand-new + philosopher who considers the consolations of religion in the light of + harmless playthings, and who is kind enough to say that he might have been + all the happier if he could only have been childish enough to play with + them himself. Oh, the new ideas! the new ideas!—what consoling, + elevating, beautiful discoveries have been made by the new ideas! We were + all monkeys before we were men, and molecules before we were monkeys! and + what does it matter? And what does anything matter to anybody? I’m with + you, Valeria, I’m ready. The sooner the better. Come to Dexter! Come to + Dexter!” + </p> + <p> + “I am so glad you agree with me,” I said. “But let us do nothing in a + hurry. Three o’clock to-morrow will be time enough for Mr. Dexter. I will + write at once and tell him to expect us. Where are you going?” + </p> + <p> + “I am going to clear my mind of cant,” said Benjamin, sternly. “I am going + into the library.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to read?” + </p> + <p> + “I am going to read—Puss in Boots, and Jack and the Bean-stalk, and + anything else I can find that doesn’t march with the age we live in.” + </p> + <p> + With that parting shot at the new ideas, my old friend left me for a time. + </p> + <p> + Having dispatched my note, I found myself beginning to revert, with a + certain feeling of anxiety, to the subject of Miserrimus Dexter’s health. + How had he passed through the interval of my absence from England? Could + anybody, within my reach, tell me news of him? To inquire of Benjamin + would only be to provoke a new outbreak. While I was still considering, + the housekeeper entered the room on some domestic errand. I asked, at a + venture, if she had heard anything more, while I had been away of the + extraordinary person who had so seriously alarmed her on a former + occasion. + </p> + <p> + The housekeeper shook her head, and looked as if she thought it in bad + taste to mention the subject at all. + </p> + <p> + “About a week after you had gone away ma’am,” she said, with extreme + severity of manner, and with excessive carefulness in her choice of words, + “the Person you mention had the impudence to send a letter to you. The + messenger was informed, by my master’s orders, that you had gone abroad, + and he and his letter were both sent about their business together. Not + long afterward, ma’am, I happened, while drinking tea with Mrs. Macallan’s + housekeeper, to hear of the Person again. He himself called in his chaise, + at Mrs. Macallan’s, to inquire about you there. How he can contrive to + sit, without legs to balance him, is beyond my understanding—but + that is neither here nor there. Legs or no legs, the housekeeper saw him, + and she says, as I say, she will never forget him to her dying day. She + told him (as soon as she recovered herself) of Mr. Eustace’s illness, and + of you and Mrs. Macallan being in foreign parts nursing him. He went away, + so the housekeeper told me, with tears in his eyes, and oaths and curses + on his lips—a sight shocking to see. That’s all I know about the + Person, ma’am, and I hope to be excused if I venture to say that the + subject is (for good reasons) extremely disagreeable to me.” + </p> + <p> + She made a formal courtesy, and quitted the room. + </p> + <p> + Left by myself, I felt more anxious and more uncertain than ever when I + thought of the experiment that was to be tried on the next day. Making due + allowance for exaggeration, the description of Miserrimus Dexter on his + departure from Mrs. Macallan’s house suggested that he had not endured my + long absence very patiently, and that he was still as far as ever from + giving his shattered nervous system its fair chance of repose. + </p> + <p> + The next morning brought me Mr. Playmore’s reply to the letter which I had + addressed to him from Paris. + </p> + <p> + He wrote very briefly, neither approving nor blaming my decision, but + strongly reiterating his opinion that I should do well to choose a + competent witness as my companion at my coming interview with Dexter. The + most interesting part of the letter was at the end. “You must be + prepared,” Mr. Playmore wrote, “to see a change for the worse in Dexter. A + friend of mine was with him on a matter of business a few days since, and + was struck by the alteration in him. Your presence is sure to have its + effect, one way or another. I can give you no instructions for managing + him—you must be guided by the circumstances. Your own tact will tell + you whether it is wise or not to encourage him to speak of the late Mrs. + Eustace. The chances of his betraying himself all revolve (as I think) + round that one topic: keep him to it if you can.” To this was added, in a + postscript: “Ask Mr. Benjamin if he were near enough to the library door + to hear Dexter tell you of his entering the bedchamber on the night of + Mrs. Eustace Macallan’s death.” + </p> + <p> + I put the question to Benjamin when we met at the luncheon-table before + setting forth for the distant suburb in which Miserrimus Dexter lived. My + old friend disapproved of the contemplated expedition as strongly as ever. + He was unusually grave and unusually sparing of his words when he answered + me. + </p> + <p> + “I am no listener,” he said. “But some people have voices which insist on + being heard. Mr. Dexter is one of them.” + </p> + <p> + “Does that mean that you heard him?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “The door couldn’t muffle him, and the wall couldn’t muffle him,” Benjamin + rejoined. “I heard him—and I thought it infamous. There!” + </p> + <p> + “I may want you to do more than hear him this time,” I ventured to say. “I + may want you to make notes of our conversation while Mr. Dexter is + speaking to me. You used to write down what my father said, when he was + dictating his letters to you. Have you got one of your little note-books + to spare?” + </p> + <p> + Benjamin looked up from his plate with an aspect of stern surprise. + </p> + <p> + “It’s one thing,” he said, “to write under the dictation of a great + merchant, conducting a vast correspondence by which thousands of pounds + change hands in due course of post. And it’s another thing to take down + the gibberish of a maundering mad monster who ought to be kept in a cage. + Your good father, Valeria, would never have asked me to do that.” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me, Benjamin; I must really ask you to do it. You may be of the + greatest possible use to me. Come, give way this once, dear, for my sake.” + </p> + <p> + Benjamin looked down again at his plate, with a rueful resignation which + told me that I had carried my point. + </p> + <p> + “I have been tied to her apron-string all my life,” I heard him grumble to + himself; “and it’s too late in the day to get loose from her how.” He + looked up again at me. “I thought I had retired from business,” he said; + “but it seems I must turn clerk again. Well? What is the new stroke of + work that’s expected from me this time?” + </p> + <p> + The cab was announced to be waiting for us at the gate as he asked the + question. I rose and took his arm, and gave him a grateful kiss on his + rosy old cheek. + </p> + <p> + “Only two things,” I said. “Sit down behind Mr. Dexter’s chair, so that he + can’t see you. But take care to place yourself, at the same time, so that + you can see me.” + </p> + <p> + “The less I see of Mr. Dexter the better I shall be pleased,” growled + Benjamin. “What am I to do after I have taken my place behind him?” + </p> + <p> + “You are to wait until I make you a sign; and when you see it you are to + begin writing down in your note-book what Mr. Dexter is saying—and + you are to go on until I make another sign, which means, Leave off!” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Benjamin, “what’s the sign for Begin? and what’s the sign for + Leave off?” + </p> + <p> + I was not quite prepared with an answer to this. I asked him to help me + with a hint. No! Benjamin would take no active part in the matter. He was + resigned to be employed in the capacity of passive instrument—and + there all concession ended, so far as he was concerned. + </p> + <p> + Left to my own resources, I found it no easy matter to invent a + telegraphic system which should sufficiently inform Benjamin, without + awakening Dexter’s quick suspicion. I looked into the glass to see if I + could find the necessary suggestion in anything that I wore. My earrings + supplied me with the idea of which I was in search. + </p> + <p> + “I shall take care to sit in an arm-chair,” I said. “When you see me rest + my elbow on the chair, and lift my hand to my earring, as if I were + playing with it—write down what he says; and go on until—well, + suppose we say, until you hear me move my chair. At that sound, stop. You + understand me?” + </p> + <p> + “I understand you.” + </p> + <p> + We started for Dexter’s house. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XL. NEMESIS AT LAST. + </h2> + <p> + THE gardener opened the gate to us on this occasion. He had evidently + received his orders in anticipation of my arrival. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Valeria?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And friend?” + </p> + <p> + “And friend.” + </p> + <p> + “Please to step upstairs. You know the house.” + </p> + <p> + Crossing the hall, I stopped for a moment, and looked at a favorite + walking-cane which Benjamin still kept in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Your cane will only be in your way,” I said. “Had you not better leave it + here?” + </p> + <p> + “My cane may be useful upstairs,” retorted Benjamin, gruffly. “<i>I</i> + haven’t forgotten what happened in the library.” + </p> + <p> + It was no time to contend with him. I led the way up the stairs. + </p> + <p> + Arriving at the upper flight of steps, I was startled by hearing a sudden + cry from the room above. It was like the cry of a person in pain; and it + was twice repeated before we entered the circular antechamber. I was the + first to approach the inner room, and to see the many-sided Miserrimus + Dexter in another new aspect of his character. + </p> + <p> + The unfortunate Ariel was standing before a table, with a dish of little + cakes placed in front of her. Round each of her wrists was tied a string, + the free ends of which (at a distance of a few yards) were held in + Miserrimus Dexter’s hands. “Try again, my beauty!” I heard him say, as I + stopped on the threshold of the door. “Take a cake.” At the word of + command, Ariel submissively stretched out one arm toward the dish. Just as + she touched a cake with the tips of her fingers her hand was jerked away + by a pull at the string, so savagely cruel in the nimble and devilish + violence of it that I felt inclined to snatch Benjamin’s cane out of his + hand and break it over Miserrimus Dexter’s back. Ariel suffered the pain + this time in Spartan silence. The position in which she stood enabled her + to be the first to see me at the door. She had discovered me. Her teeth + were set; her face was flushed under the struggle to restrain herself. Not + even a sigh escaped her in my presence. + </p> + <p> + “Drop the string!” I called out, indignantly “Release her, Mr. Dexter, or + I shall leave the house.” + </p> + <p> + At the sound of my voice he burst out with a shrill cry of welcome. His + eyes fastened on me with a fierce, devouring delight. + </p> + <p> + “Come in! come in!” he cried. “See what I am reduced to in the maddening + suspense of waiting for you. See how I kill the time when the time parts + us. Come in! come in! I am in one of my malicious humors this morning, + caused entirely, Mrs. Valeria, by my anxiety to see you. When I am in my + malicious humors I must tease something. I am teasing Ariel. Look at her! + She has had nothing to eat all day, and she hasn’t been quick enough to + snatch a morsel of cake yet. You needn’t pity her. Ariel has no nerves—I + don’t hurt her.” + </p> + <p> + “Ariel has no nerves,” echoed the poor creature, frowning at me for + interfering between her master and herself. “He doesn’t hurt me.” + </p> + <p> + I heard Benjamin beginning to swing his cane behind him. + </p> + <p> + “Drop the string!” I reiterated, more vehemently than ever. “Drop it, or I + shall instantly leave you.” + </p> + <p> + Miserrimus Dexter’s delicate nerves shuddered at my violence. “What a + glorious voice!” he exclaimed—and dropped the string. “Take the + cakes,” he added, addressing Ariel in his most imperial manner. + </p> + <p> + She passed me, with the strings hanging from her swollen wrists, and the + dish of cakes in her hand. She nodded her head at me defiantly. + </p> + <p> + “Ariel has got no nerves,” she repeated, proudly. “He doesn’t hurt me.” + </p> + <p> + “You see,” said Miserrimus Dexter, “there is no harm done—and I + dropped the strings when you told me. Don’t <i>begin</i> by being hard on + me, Mrs. Valeria, after your long absence.” He paused. Benjamin, standing + silent in the doorway, attracted his attention for the first time. “Who is + this?” he asked, and wheeled his chair suspiciously nearer to the door. “I + know!” he cried, before I could answer. “This is the benevolent gentleman + who looked like the refuge of the afflicted when I saw him last.—You + have altered for the worse since then, sir. You have stepped into quite a + new character—you personify Retributive Justice now.—Your new + protector, Mrs. Valeria—I understand!” He bowed low to Benjamin, + with ferocious irony. “Your humble servant, Mr. Retributive Justice! I + have deserved you—and I submit to you. Walk in, sir! I will take + care that your new office shall be a sinecure. This lady is the Light of + my Life. Catch me failing in respect to her if you can!” He backed his + chair before Benjamin (who listened to him in contemptuous silence) until + he reached the part of the room in which I was standing. “Your hand, Light + of my Life!” he murmured in his gentlest tones. “Your hand—only to + show that you have forgiven me!” I gave him my hand. “One?” he whispered, + entreatingly. “Only one?” He kissed my hand once, respectfully—and + dropped it with a heavy sigh. “Ah, poor Dexter!” he said, pitying himself + with the whole sincerity of his egotism. “A warm heart—wasted in + solitude, mocked by deformity. Sad! sad! Ah, poor Dexter!” He looked round + again at Benjamin, with another flash of his ferocious irony. “A beauteous + day, sir,” he said, with mock-conventional courtesy. “Seasonable weather + indeed after the late long-continued rains. Can I offer you any + refreshment? Won’t you sit down? Retributive Justice, when it is no taller + than you are, looks best in a chair.” + </p> + <p> + “And a monkey looks best in a cage,” rejoined Benjamin, enraged at the + satirical reference to his shortness of stature. “I was waiting, sir, to + see you get into your swing.” + </p> + <p> + The retort produced no effect on Miserrimus Dexter: it appeared to have + passed by him unheard. He had changed again; he was thoughtful, he was + subdued; his eyes were fixed on me with a sad and rapt attention. I took + the nearest arm-chair, first casting a glance at Benjamin, which he + immediately understood. He placed himself behind Dexter, at an angle which + commanded a view of my chair. Ariel, silently devouring her cakes, + crouched on a stool at “the Master’s” feet, and looked up at him like a + faithful dog. There was an interval of quiet and repose. I was able to + observe Miserrimus Dexter uninterruptedly for the first time since I had + entered the room. + </p> + <p> + I was not surprised—I was nothing less than alarmed by the change + for the worse in him since we had last met. Mr. Playmore’s letter had not + prepared me for the serious deterioration in him which I could now + discern. + </p> + <p> + His features were pinched and worn; the whole face seemed to have wasted + strangely in substance and size since I had last seen it. The softness in + his eyes was gone. Blood-red veins were intertwined all over them now: + they were set in a piteous and vacant stare. His once firm hands looked + withered; they trembled as they lay on the coverlet. The paleness of his + face (exaggerated, perhaps, by the black velvet jacket that he wore) had a + sodden and sickly look—the fine outline was gone. The multitudinous + little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes had deepened. His head sank + into his shoulders when he leaned forward in his chair. Years appeared to + have passed over him, instead of months, while I had been absent from + England. Remembering the medical report which Mr. Playmore had given me to + read—recalling the doctor’s positively declared opinion that the + preservation of Dexter’s sanity depended on the healthy condition of his + nerves—I could not but feel that I had done wisely (if I might still + hope for success) in hastening my return from Spain. Knowing what I knew, + fearing what I feared, I believed that his time was near. I felt, when our + eyes met by accident, that I was looking at a doomed man. + </p> + <p> + I pitied him. + </p> + <p> + Yes, yes! I know that compassion for him was utterly inconsistent with the + motive which had taken me to his house—utterly inconsistent with the + doubt, still present to my mind, whether Mr. Playmore had really wronged + him in believing that his was the guilt which had compassed the first Mrs. + Eustace’s death. I felt this: I knew him to be cruel; I believed him to be + false. And yet I pitied him! Is there a common fund of wickedness in us + all? Is the suppression or the development of that wickedness a mere + question of training and temptation? And is there something in our deeper + sympathies which mutely acknowledges this when we feel for the wicked; + when we crowd to a criminal trial; when we shake hands at parting (if we + happen to be present officially) with the vilest monster that ever swung + on a gallows? It is not for me to decide. I can only say that I pitied + Miserrimus Dexter—and that he found it out. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you,” he said, suddenly. “You see I am ill, and you feel for me. + Dear and good Valeria!” + </p> + <p> + “This lady’s name, sir, is Mrs. Eustace Macallan,” interposed Benjamin, + speaking sternly behind him. “The next time you address her, remember, if + you please, that you have no business with her Christian name.” + </p> + <p> + Benjamin’s rebuke passed, like Benjamin’s retort, unheeded and unheard. To + all appearance, Miserrimus Dexter had completely forgotten that there was + such a person in the room. + </p> + <p> + “You have delighted me with the sight of you,” he went on. “Add to the + pleasure by letting me hear your voice. Talk to me of yourself. Tell me + what you have been doing since you left England.” + </p> + <p> + It was necessary to my object to set the conversation afloat; and this was + as good a way of doing it as any other. I told him plainly how I had been + employed during my absence. + </p> + <p> + “So you are still fond of Eustace?” he said, bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “I love him more dearly than ever.” + </p> + <p> + He lifted his hands, and hid his face. After waiting a while, he went on, + speaking in an odd, muffled manner, still under cover of his hands. + </p> + <p> + “And you leave Eustace in Spain,” he said; “and you return to England by + yourself! What made you do that?” + </p> + <p> + “What made me first come here and ask you to help me, Mr. Dexter?” + </p> + <p> + He dropped his hands, and looked at me. I saw in his eyes, not amazement + only, but alarm. + </p> + <p> + “Is it possible,” he exclaimed, “that you won’t let that miserable matter + rest even yet? Are you still determined to penetrate the mystery at + Gleninch?” + </p> + <p> + “I am still determined, Mr. Dexter; and I still hope that you may be able + to help me.” + </p> + <p> + The old distrust that I remembered so well darkened again over his face + the moment I said those words. + </p> + <p> + “How can I help you?” he asked. “Can I alter facts?” He stopped. His face + brightened again, as if some sudden sense of relief had come to him. “I + did try to help you,” he went on. “I told you that Mrs. Beauly’s absence + was a device to screen herself from suspicion; I told you that the poison + might have been given by Mrs. Beauly’s maid. Has reflection convinced you? + Do you see something in the idea?” + </p> + <p> + This return to Mrs. Beauly gave me my first chance of leading the talk to + the right topic. + </p> + <p> + “I see nothing in the idea,” I answered. “I see no motive. Had the maid + any reason to be an enemy to the late Mrs. Eustace?” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody had any reason to be an enemy to the late Mrs. Eustace!” he broke + out, loudly and vehemently. “She was all goodness, all kindness; she never + injured any human creature in thought or deed. She was a saint upon earth. + Respect her memory! Let the martyr rest in her grave!” He covered his face + again with his hands, and shook and shuddered under the paroxysm of + emotion that I had roused in him. + </p> + <p> + Ariel suddenly and softly left her stool, and approached me. + </p> + <p> + “Do you see my ten claws?” she whispered, holding out her hands. “Vex the + Master again, and you will feel my ten claws on your throat!” + </p> + <p> + Benjamin rose from his seat: he had seen the action, without hearing the + words. I signed to him to keep his place. Ariel returned to her stool, and + looked up again at her master. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t cry,” she said. “Come on. Here are the strings. Tease me again. + Make me screech with the smart of it.” + </p> + <p> + He never answered, and never moved. + </p> + <p> + Ariel bent her slow mind to meet the difficulty of attracting his + attention. I saw it in her frowning brows, in her colorless eyes looking + at me vacantly. On a sudden, she joyfully struck the open palm of one of + her hands with the fist of the other. She had triumphed. She had got an + idea. + </p> + <p> + “Master!” she cried. “Master! You haven’t told me a story for ever so + long. Puzzle my thick head. Make my flesh creep. Come on. A good long + story. All blood and crimes.” + </p> + <p> + Had she accidentally hit on the right suggestion to strike his wayward + fancy? I knew his high opinion of his own skill in “dramatic narrative.” I + knew that one of his favorite amusements was to puzzle Ariel by telling + her stories that she could not understand. Would he wander away into the + regions of wild romance? Or would he remember that my obstinacy still + threatened him with reopening the inquiry into the tragedy at Gleninch? + and would he set his cunning at work to mislead me by some new stratagem? + This latter course was the course which my past experience of him + suggested that he would take. But, to my surprise and alarm, I found my + past experience at fault. Ariel succeeded in diverting his mind from the + subject which had been in full possession of it the moment before she + spoke! He showed his face again. It was overspread by a broad smile of + gratified self-esteem. He was weak enough now to let even Ariel find her + way to his vanity. I saw it with a sense of misgiving, with a doubt + whether I had not delayed my visit until too late, which turned me cold + from head to foot. + </p> + <p> + Miserrimus Dexter spoke—to Ariel, not to me. + </p> + <p> + “Poor devil!” he said, patting her head complacently. “You don’t + understand a word of my stories, do you? And yet I can make the flesh + creep on your great clumsy body—and yet I can hold your muddled + mind, and make you like it. Poor devil!” He leaned back serenely in his + chair, and looked my way again. Would the sight of me remind him of the + words that had passed between us not a minute since? No! There was the + pleasantly tickled self-conceit smiling at me exactly as it had smiled at + Ariel. “I excel in dramatic narrative, Mrs. Valeria,” he said. “And this + creature here on the stool is a remarkable proof of it. She is quite a + psychological study when I tell her one of my stories. It is really + amusing to see the half-witted wretch’s desperate efforts to understand + me. You shall have a specimen. I have been out of spirits while you were + away—I haven’t told her a story for weeks past; I will tell her one + now. Don’t suppose it’s any effort to me! My invention is inexhaustible. + You are sure to be amused—you are naturally serious—but you + are sure to be amused. I am naturally serious too; and I always laugh at + her.” + </p> + <p> + Ariel clapped her great shapeless hands. “He always laughs at me!” she + said, with a proud look of superiority directed straight at me. + </p> + <p> + I was at a loss, seriously at a loss, what to do. + </p> + <p> + The outbreak which I had provoked in leading him to speak of the late Mrs. + Eustace warned me to be careful, and to wait for my opportunity before I + reverted to <i>that</i> subject. How else could I turn the conversation so + as to lead him, little by little, toward the betrayal of the secrets which + he was keeping from me? In this uncertainty, one thing only seemed to be + plain. To let him tell his story would be simply to let him waste the + precious minutes. With a vivid remembrance of Ariel’s “ten claws,” I + decided, nevertheless on discouraging Dexter’s new whim at every possible + opportunity and by every means in my power. + </p> + <p> + “Now, Mrs. Valeria,” he began, loudly and loftily, “listen. Now, Ariel, + bring your brains to a focus. I improvise poetry; I improvise fiction. We + will begin with the good old formula of the fairy stories. Once upon a + time—” + </p> + <p> + I was waiting for my opportunity to interrupt him when he interrupted + himself. He stopped, with a bewildered look. He put his hand to his head, + and passed it backward and forward over his forehead. He laughed feebly. + </p> + <p> + “I seem to want rousing,” he said + </p> + <p> + Was his mind gone? There had been no signs of it until I had unhappily + stirred his memory of the dead mistress of Gleninch. Was the weakness + which I had already noticed, was the bewilderment which I now saw, + attributable to the influence of a passing disturbance only? In other + words, had I witnessed nothing more serious than a first warning to him + and to us? Would he soon recover himself, if we were patient, and gave him + time? Even Benjamin was interested at last; I saw him trying to look at + Dexter around the corner of the chair. Even Ariel was surprised and + uneasy. She had no dark glances to cast at me now. + </p> + <p> + We all waited to see what he would do, to hear what he would say, next. + </p> + <p> + “My harp!” he cried. “Music will rouse me.” + </p> + <p> + Ariel brought him his harp. + </p> + <p> + “Master,” she said, wonderingly, “what’s come to you?” + </p> + <p> + He waved his hand, commanding her to be silent. + </p> + <p> + “Ode to Invention,” he announced, loftily, addressing himself to me. + “Poetry and music improvised by Dexter. Silence! Attention!” + </p> + <p> + His fingers wandered feebly over the harpstrings, awakening no melody, + suggesting no words. In a little while his hand dropped; his head sank + forward gently, and rested on the frame of the harp. I started to my feet, + and approached him. Was it a sleep? or was it a swoon? + </p> + <p> + I touched his arm, and called to him by his name. + </p> + <p> + Ariel instantly stepped between us, with a threatening look at me. At the + same moment Miserrimus Dexter raised his head. My voice had reached him. + He looked at me with a curious contemplative quietness in his eyes which I + had never seen in them before. + </p> + <p> + “Take away the harp,” he said to Ariel, speaking in languid tones, like a + man who was very weary. + </p> + <p> + The mischievous, half-witted creature—in sheer stupidity or in + downright malice, I am not sure which—irritated him once more. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Master?” she asked, staring at him with the harp hugged in her arms. + “What’s come to you? where is the story?” + </p> + <p> + “We don’t want the story,” I interposed. “I have many things to say to Mr. + Dexter which I have not said yet.” + </p> + <p> + Ariel lifted her heavy hand. “You will have it!” she said, and advanced + toward me. At the same moment the Master’s voice stopped her. + </p> + <p> + “Put away the harp, you fool!” he repeated, sternly. “And wait for the + story until I choose to tell it.” + </p> + <p> + She took the harp submissively back to its place at the end of the room. + Miserrimus Dexter moved his chair a little closer to mine. “I know what + will rouse me,” he said, confidentially. “Exercise will do it. I have had + no exercise lately. Wait a little, and you will see.” + </p> + <p> + He put his hands on the machinery of the chair, and started on his + customary course down the room. Here again the ominous change in him + showed itself under a new form. The pace at which he traveled was not the + furious pace that I remembered; the chair no longer rushed under him on + rumbling and whistling wheels. It went, but it went slowly. Up the room + and down the room he painfully urged it—and then he stopped for want + of breath. + </p> + <p> + We followed him. Ariel was first, and Benjamin was by my side. He motioned + impatiently to both of them to stand back, and to let me approach him + alone. + </p> + <p> + “I’m out of practice,” he said, faintly. “I hadn’t the heart to make the + wheels roar and the floor tremble while you were away.” + </p> + <p> + Who would not have pitied him? Who would have remembered his misdeeds at + that moment? Even Ariel felt it. I heard her beginning to whine and + whimper behind me. The magician who alone could rouse the dormant + sensibilities in her nature had awakened them now by his neglect. Her + fatal cry was heard again, in mournful, moaning tones— + </p> + <p> + “What’s come to you, Master? Where’s the story?” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind her,” I whispered to him. “You want the fresh air. Send for + the gardener. Let us take a drive in your pony-chaise.” + </p> + <p> + It was useless. Ariel would be noticed. The mournful cry came once more— + </p> + <p> + “Where’s the story? where’s the story?” + </p> + <p> + The sinking spirit leaped up in Dexter again. + </p> + <p> + “You wretch! you fiend!” he cried, whirling his chair around, and facing + her. “The story is coming. I <i>can</i> tell it! I <i>will</i> tell it! + Wine! You whimpering idiot, get me the wine. Why didn’t I think of it + before? The kingly Burgundy! that’s what I want, Valeria, to set my + invention alight and flaming in my head. Glasses for everybody! Honor to + the King of the Vintages—the Royal Clos Vougeot!” + </p> + <p> + Ariel opened the cupboard in the alcove, and produced the wine and the + high Venetian glasses. Dexter drained his gobletful of Burgundy at a + draught; he forced us to drink (or at least to pretend to drink) with him. + Even Ariel had her share this time, and emptied her glass in rivalry with + her master. The powerful wine mounted almost instantly to her weak head. + She began to sing hoarsely a song of her own devising, in imitation of + Dexter. It was nothing but the repetition, the endless mechanical + repetition, of her demand for the story—“Tell us the story. Master! + master! tell us the story!” Absorbed over his wine, the Master silently + filled his goblet for the second time. Benjamin whispered to me while his + eye was off us, “Take my advice, Valeria, for once; let us go.” + </p> + <p> + “One last effort,” I whispered back. “Only one!” + </p> + <p> + Ariel went drowsily on with her song— + </p> + <p> + “Tell us the story. Master! master! tell us the story.” + </p> + <p> + Miserrimus Dexter looked up from his glass. The generous stimulant was + beginning to do its work. I saw the color rising in his face. I saw the + bright intelligence flashing again in his eyes. The Burgundy <i>had</i> + roused him! The good wine stood my friend, and offered me a last chance! + </p> + <p> + “No story,” I said. “I want to talk to you, Mr. Dexter. I am not in the + humor for a story.” + </p> + <p> + “Not in the humor?” he repeated, with a gleam of the old impish irony + showing itself again in his face. “That’s an excuse. I see what it is! You + think my invention is gone—and you are not frank enough to confess + it. I’ll show you you’re wrong. I’ll show you that Dexter is himself + again. Silence, you Ariel, or you shall leave the room! I have got it, + Mrs. Valeria, all laid out here, with scenes and characters complete.” He + touched his forehead, and looked at me with a furtive and smiling cunning + before he added his next words. “It’s the very thing to interest you, my + fair friend. It’s the story of a Mistress and a Maid. Come back to the + fire and hear it.” + </p> + <p> + The Story of a Mistress and a Maid? If that meant anything, it meant the + story of Mrs. Beauly and her maid, told in disguise. + </p> + <p> + The title, and the look which had escaped him when he announced it, + revived the hope that was well-nigh dead in me. He had rallied at last. He + was again in possession of his natural foresight and his natural cunning. + Under pretense of telling Ariel her story, he was evidently about to make + the attempt to mislead me for the second time. The conclusion was + irresistible. To use his own words—Dexter was himself again. + </p> + <p> + I took Benjamin’s arm as we followed him back to the fire-place in the + middle of the room. + </p> + <p> + “There is a chance for me yet,” I whispered. “Don’t forget the signals.” + </p> + <p> + We returned to the places which we had already occupied. Ariel cast + another threatening look at me. She had just sense enough left, after + emptying her goblet of wine, to be on the watch for a new interruption on + my part. I took care, of course, that nothing of the sort should happen. I + was now as eager as Ariel to hear the story. The subject was full of + snares for the narrator. At any moment, in the excitement of speaking, + Dexter’s memory of the true events might show itself reflected in the + circumstances of the fiction. At any moment he might betray himself. + </p> + <p> + He looked around him, and began. + </p> + <p> + “My public, are you seated? My public, are you ready?” he asked, gayly. + “Your face a little more this way,” he added, in his softest and tenderest + tones, motioning to me to turn my full face toward him. “Surely I am not + asking too much? You look at the meanest creature that crawls—look + at Me. Let me find my inspiration in your eyes. Let me feed my hungry + admiration on your form. Come, have one little pitying smile left for the + man whose happiness you have wrecked. Thank you, Light of my Life, thank + you!” He kissed his hand to me, and threw himself back luxuriously in his + chair. “The story,” he resumed. “The story at last! In what form shall I + cast it? In the dramatic form—the oldest way, the truest way, the + shortest way of telling a story! Title first. A short title, a taking + title: ‘Mistress and Maid.’ Scene, the land of romance—Italy. Time, + the age of romance—the fifteenth century. Ha! look at Ariel. She + knows no more about the fifteenth century than the cat in the kitchen, and + yet she is interested already. Happy Ariel!” + </p> + <p> + Ariel looked at me again, in the double intoxication of the wine and the + triumph. + </p> + <p> + “I know no more than the cat in the kitchen,” she repeated, with a broad + grin of gratified vanity. “I am ‘happy Ariel!’ What are you?” + </p> + <p> + Miserrimus Dexter laughed uproariously. + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t I tell you?” he said. “Isn’t she fun?—Persons of the Drama,” + he resumed: “three in number. Women only. Angelica, a noble lady; noble + alike in spirit and in birth. Cunegonda, a beautiful devil in woman’s + form. Damoride, her unfortunate maid. First scene: a dark vaulted chamber + in a castle. Time, evening. The owls are hooting in the wood; the frogs + are croaking in the marsh.—Look at Ariel! Her flesh creeps; she + shudders audibly. Admirable Ariel!” + </p> + <p> + My rival in the Master’s favor eyed me defiantly. “Admirable Ariel!” she + repeated, in drowsy accents. Miserrimus Dexter paused to take up his + goblet of Burgundy—placed close at hand on a little sliding table + attached to his chair. I watched him narrowly as he sipped the wine. The + flush was still mounting in his face; the light was still brightening in + his eyes. He set down his glass again, with a jovial smack of his lips—and + went on: + </p> + <p> + “Persons present in the vaulted chamber: Cunegonda and Damoride. Cunegonda + speaks. ‘Damoride!’ ‘Madam?’ ‘Who lies ill in the chamber above us?’ + ‘Madam, the noble lady Angelica.’ (A pause. Cunegonda speaks again.) + ‘Damoride!’ ‘Madam?’ ‘How does Angelica like you?’ ‘Madam, the noble lady, + sweet and good to all who approach her, is sweet and good to me.’ ‘Have + you attended on her, Damoride?’ ‘Sometimes, madam, when the nurse was + weary.’ ‘Has she taken her healing medicine from your hand.’ ‘Once or + twice, madam, when I happened to be by.’ ‘Damoride, take this key and open + the casket on the table there.’ (Damoride obeys.) ‘Do you see a green vial + in the casket?’ ‘I see it, madam.’ ‘Take it out.’ (Damoride obeys.) ‘Do + you see a liquid in the green vial? can you guess what it is?’ ‘No, + madam.’ ‘Shall I tell you?’ (Damoride bows respectfully ) ‘Poison is in + the vial.’ (Damoride starts; she shrinks from the poison; she would fain + put it aside. Her mistress signs to her to keep it in her hand; her + mistress speaks.) ‘Damoride, I have told you one of my secrets; shall I + tell you another?’ (Damoride waits, fearing what is to come. Her mistress + speaks.) ‘I hate the Lady Angelica. Her life stands between me and the joy + of my heart. You hold her life in your hand.’ (Damoride drops on her + knees; she is a devout person; she crosses herself, and then she speaks.) + ‘Mistress, you terrify me. Mistress, what do I hear?’ (Cunegonda advances, + stands over her, looks down on her with terrible eyes, whispers the next + words.) ‘Damoride! the Lady Angelica must die—and I must not be + suspected. The Lady Angelica must die—and by your hand.’” + </p> + <p> + He paused again. To sip the wine once more? No; to drink a deep draught of + it this time. + </p> + <p> + Was the stimulant beginning to fail him already? + </p> + <p> + I looked at him attentively as he laid himself back again in his chair to + consider for a moment before he went on. + </p> + <p> + The flush on his face was as deep as ever; but the brightness in his eyes + was beginning to fade already. I had noticed that he spoke more and more + slowly as he advanced to the later dialogue of the scene. Was he feeling + the effort of invention already? Had the time come when the wine had done + all that the wine could do for him? + </p> + <p> + We waited. Ariel sat watching him with vacantly staring eyes and vacantly + open mouth. Benjamin, impenetrably expecting the signal, kept his open + note-book on his knee, covered by his hand. Miserrimus Dexter went on: + </p> + <p> + “Damoride hears those terrible words; Damoride clasps her hands in + entreaty. ‘Oh, madam! madam! how can I kill the dear and noble lady? What + motive have I for harming her?’ Cunegonda answers, ‘You have the motive of + obeying Me.’ (Damoride falls with her face on the floor at her mistress’s + feet.) ‘Madam, I cannot do it! Madam, I dare not do it!’ Cunegonda + answers, ‘You run no risk: I have my plan for diverting discovery from + myself, and my plan for diverting discovery from you.’ Damoride repeats, + ‘I cannot do it! I dare not do it!’ Cunegonda’s eyes flash lightnings of + rage. She takes from its place of concealment in her bosom—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped in the middle of the sentence, and put his hand to his head—not + like a man in pain, but like a man who had lost his idea. + </p> + <p> + Would it be well if I tried to help him to recover his idea? or would it + be wiser (if I could only do it) to keep silence? + </p> + <p> + I could see the drift of his story plainly enough. His object, under the + thin disguise of the Italian romance, was to meet my unanswerable + objection to suspecting Mrs. Beauly’s maid—the objection that the + woman had no motive for committing herself to an act of murder. If he + could practically contradict this, by discovering a motive which I should + be obliged to admit, his end would be gained. Those inquiries which I had + pledged myself to pursue—those inquiries which might, at any moment, + take a turn that directly concerned him—would, in that case, be + successfully diverted from the right to the wrong person. The innocent + maid would set my strictest scrutiny at defiance; and Dexter would be + safely shielded behind her. + </p> + <p> + I determined to give him time. Not a word passed my lips. + </p> + <p> + The minutes followed each other. I waited in the deepest anxiety. It was a + trying and a critical moment. If he succeeded in inventing a probable + motive, and in shaping it neatly to suit the purpose of his story, he + would prove, by that act alone, that there were reserves of mental power + still left in him which the practiced eye of the Scotch doctor had failed + to see. But the question was—would he do it? + </p> + <p> + He did it! Not in a new way; not in a convincing way; not without a + painfully evident effort. Still, well done or ill done, he found a motive + for the maid. + </p> + <p> + “Cunegonda,” he resumed, “takes from its place of concealment in her bosom + a written paper, and unfolds it. ‘Look at this,’ she says. Damoride looks + at the paper, and sinks again at her mistress’s feet in a paroxysm of + horror and despair. Cunegonda is in possession of a shameful secret in the + maid’s past life. Cunegonda can say to her, ‘Choose your alternative. + Either submit to an exposure which disgraces you and—disgraces your + parents forever—or make up your mind to obey Me.’ Damoride might + submit to the disgrace if it only affected herself. But her parents are + honest people; she cannot disgrace her parents. She is driven to her last + refuge—there is no hope of melting the hard heart of Cunegonda. Her + only resource is to raise difficulties; she tries to show that there are + obstacles between her and the crime. ‘Madam! madam!’ she cries; ‘how can I + do it, when the nurse is there to see me?’ Cunegonda answers, ‘Sometimes + the nurse sleeps; sometimes the nurse is away.’ Damoride still persists. + ‘Madam! madam! the door is kept locked, and the nurse has got the key.’” + </p> + <p> + The key! I instantly thought of the missing key at Gleninch. Had he + thought of it too? He certainly checked himself as the word escaped him. I + resolved to make the signal. I rested my elbow on the arm of my chair, and + played with my earring. Benjamin took out his pencil and arranged his + note-book so that Ariel could not see what he was about if she happened to + look his way. + </p> + <p> + We waited until it pleased Miserrimus Dexter to proceed. The interval was + a long one. His hand went up again to his forehead. A duller and duller + look was palpably stealing over his eyes. When he did speak, it was not to + go on with the narrative, but to put a question. + </p> + <p> + “Where did I leave off?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + My hopes sank again as rapidly as they had risen. I managed to answer him, + however, without showing any change in my manner. + </p> + <p> + “You left off,” I said, “where Damoride was speaking to Cunegonda—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes!” he interposed. “And what did she say?” + </p> + <p> + “She said, ‘The door is kept locked, and the nurse has got the key.’” + </p> + <p> + He instantly leaned forward in his chair. + </p> + <p> + “No!” he answered, vehemently. “You’re wrong. ‘Key?’ Nonsense! I never + said ‘Key.’” + </p> + <p> + “I thought you did, Mr. Dexter.” + </p> + <p> + “I never did! I said something else, and you have forgotten it.” + </p> + <p> + I refrained from disputing with him, in fear of what might follow. We + waited again. Benjamin, sullenly submitting to my caprices, had taken down + the questions and answers that had passed between Dexter and myself. He + still mechanically kept his page open, and still held his pencil in + readiness to go on. Ariel, quietly submitting to the drowsy influence of + the wine while Dexter’s voice was in her ears, felt uneasily the change to + silence. She glanced round her restlessly; she lifted her eyes to “the + Master.” + </p> + <p> + There he sat, silent, with his hand to his head, still struggling to + marshal his wandering thoughts, still trying to see light through the + darkness that was closing round him. + </p> + <p> + “Master!” cried Ariel, piteously. “What’s become of the story?” + </p> + <p> + He started as if she had awakened him out of a sleep; he shook his head + impatiently, as though he wanted to throw off some oppression that weighed + upon it. + </p> + <p> + “Patience, patience,” he said. “The story is going on again.” + </p> + <p> + He dashed at it desperately; he picked up the first lost thread that fell + in his way, reckless whether it were the right thread or the wrong one: + </p> + <p> + “Damoride fell on her knees. She burst into tears. She said—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped, and looked about him with vacant eyes. + </p> + <p> + “What name did I give the other woman?” he asked, not putting the question + to me, or to either of my companions: asking it of himself, or asking it + of the empty air. + </p> + <p> + “You called the other woman Cunegonda,” I said. + </p> + <p> + At the sound of my voice his eyes turned slowly—turned on me, and + yet failed to look at me. Dull and absent, still and changeless, they were + eyes that seemed to be fixed on something far away. Even his voice was + altered when he spoke next. It had dropped to a quiet, vacant, monotonous + tone. I had heard something like it while I was watching by my husband’s + bedside, at the time of his delirium—when Eustace’s mind appeared to + be too weary to follow his speech. Was the end so near as this? + </p> + <p> + “I called her Cunegonda,” he repeated. “And I called the other—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped once more. + </p> + <p> + “And you called the other Damoride,” I said. + </p> + <p> + Ariel looked up at him with a broad stare of bewilderment. She pulled + impatiently at the sleeve of his jacket to attract his notice. + </p> + <p> + “Is this the story, Master?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + He answered without looking at her, his changeless eyes still fixed, as it + seemed, on something far away. + </p> + <p> + “This is the story,” he said, absently. “But why Cunegonda? why Damoride? + Why not Mistress and Maid? It’s easier to remember Mistress and Maid—” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated; he shivered as he tried to raise himself in his chair. Then + he seemed to rally “What did the Maid say to the Mistress?” he muttered. + “What? what? what?” He hesitated again. Then something seemed to dawn upon + him unexpectedly. Was it some new thought that had struck him? or some + lost thought that he had recovered? Impossible to say. + </p> + <p> + He went on, suddenly and rapidly went on, in these strange words: + </p> + <p> + “‘The letter,’ the Maid said; ‘the letter. Oh my heart. Every word a + dagger. A dagger in my heart. Oh, you letter. Horrible, horrible, horrible + letter.’” + </p> + <p> + What, in God’s name, was he talking about? What did those words mean? + </p> + <p> + Was he unconsciously pursuing his faint and fragmentary recollections of a + past time at Gleninch, under the delusion that he was going on with the + story? In the wreck of the other faculties, was memory the last to sink? + Was the truth, the dreadful truth, glimmering on me dimly through the + awful shadow cast before it by the advancing eclipse of the brain? My + breath failed me; a nameless horror crept through my whole being. + </p> + <p> + Benjamin, with his pencil in his hand, cast one warning look at me. Ariel + was quiet and satisfied. “Go on, Master,” was all she said. “I like it! I + like it! Go on with the story.” + </p> + <p> + He went on—like a man sleeping with his eyes open, and talking in + his sleep. + </p> + <p> + “The Maid said to the Mistress. No—the Mistress said to the Maid. + The Mistress said, ‘Show him the letter. Must, must, must do it.’ The Maid + said, ‘No. Mustn’t do it. Shan’t show it. Stuff. Nonsense. Let him suffer. + We can get him off. Show it? No. Let the worst come to the worst. Show it, + then.’ The Mistress said—” He paused, and waved his hand rapidly to + and fro before his eyes, as if he were brushing away some visionary + confusion or entanglement. “Which was it last?” he said—“Mistress or + Maid? Mistress? No. Maid speaks, of course. Loud. Positive. ‘You + scoundrels. Keep away from that table. The Diary’s there. Number Nine, + Caldershaws. Ask for Dandie. You shan’t have the Diary. A secret in your + ear. The Diary will hang, him. I won’t have him hanged. How dare you touch + my chair? My chair is Me! How dare you touch Me?’” + </p> + <p> + The last words burst on me like a gleam of light! I had read them in the + Report of the Trial—in the evidence of the sheriff’s officer. + Miserrimus Dexter had spoken in those very terms when he had tried vainly + to prevent the men from seizing my husband’s papers, and when the men had + pushed his chair out of the room. There was no doubt now of what his + memory was busy with. The mystery at Gleninch! His last backward flight of + thought circled feebly and more feebly nearer and nearer to the mystery at + Gleninch! + </p> + <p> + Ariel aroused him again. She had no mercy on him; she insisted on hearing + the whole story. + </p> + <p> + “Why do you stop, Master? Get along with it! get along with it! Tell us + quick—what did the Missus say to the Maid?” + </p> + <p> + He laughed feebly, and tried to imitate her. + </p> + <p> + “‘What did the Missus say to the Maid?’” he repeated. His laugh died away. + He went on speaking, more and more vacantly, more and more rapidly. “The + Mistress said to the Maid. We’ve got him off. What about the letter? Burn + it now. No fire in the grate. No matches in the box. House topsy-turvy. + Servants all gone. Tear it up. Shake it up in the basket. Along with the + rest. Shake it up. Waste paper. Throw it away. Gone forever. Oh, Sara, + Sara, Sara! Gone forever.’” + </p> + <p> + Ariel clapped her hands, and mimicked him in her turn. + </p> + <p> + “‘Oh, Sara, Sara, Sara!’” she repeated. “‘Gone forever.’ That’s prime, + Master! Tell us—who was Sara?” + </p> + <p> + His lips moved, but his voice sank so low that I could barely hear him. He + began again, with the old melancholy refrain: + </p> + <p> + “The Maid said to the Mistress. No—the Mistress said to the Maid—” + He stopped abruptly, and raised himself erect in the chair; he threw up + both his hands above his head, and burst into a frightful screaming laugh. + “Aha-ha-ha-ha! How funny! Why don’t you laugh? Funny, funny, funny, funny. + Aha-ha-ha-ha-ha—” + </p> + <p> + He fell back in the chair. The shrill and dreadful laugh died away into a + low sob. Then there was one long, deep, wearily drawn breath. Then nothing + but a mute, vacant face turned up to the ceiling, with eyes that looked + blindly, with lips parted in a senseless, changeless grin. Nemesis at + last! The foretold doom had fallen on him. The night had come. + </p> + <p> + But one feeling animated me when the first shock was over. Even the horror + of that fearful sight seemed only to increase the pity that I felt for the + stricken wretch. I started impulsively to my feet. Seeing nothing, + thinking of nothing but the helpless figure in the chair, I sprang forward + to raise him, to revive him, to recall him (if such a thing might still be + possible) to himself. At the first step that I took, I felt hands on me—I + was violently drawn back. “Are you blind?” cried Benjamin, dragging me + nearer and nearer to the door. “Look there!” + </p> + <p> + He pointed; and I looked. + </p> + <p> + Ariel had been beforehand with me. She had raised her master in the chair; + she had got one arm around him. In her free hand she brandished an Indian + club, torn from a “trophy” of Oriental weapons that ornamented the wall + over the fire-place. The creature was transfigured! Her dull eyes glared + like the eyes of a wild animal. She gnashed her teeth in the frenzy that + possessed her. “You have done this!” she shouted to me, waving the club + furiously around and around over her head. “Come near him, and I’ll dash + your brains out! I’ll mash you till there’s not a whole bone left in your + skin!” Benjamin, still holding me with one hand opened the door with the + other. I let him do with me as he would; Ariel fascinated me; I could look + at nothing but Ariel. Her frenzy vanished as she saw us retreating. She + dropped the club; she threw both arms around him, and nestled her head on + his bosom, and sobbed and wept over him. “Master! master! They shan’t vex + you any more. Look up again. Laugh at me as you used to do. Say, ‘Ariel, + you’re a fool.’ Be like yourself again!” I was forced into the next room. + I heard a long, low, wailing cry of misery from the poor creature who + loved him with a dog’s fidelity and a woman’s devotion. The heavy door was + closed between us. I was in the quiet antechamber, crying over that + piteous sight; clinging to my kind old friend as helpless and as useless + as a child. + </p> + <p> + Benjamin turned the key in the lock. + </p> + <p> + “There’s no use in crying about it,” he said, quietly. “It would be more + to the purpose, Valeria, if you thanked God that you have got out of that + room safe and sound. Come with me.” + </p> + <p> + He took the key out of the lock, and led me downstairs into the hall. + After a little consideration, he opened the front door of the house. The + gardener was still quietly at work in the grounds. + </p> + <p> + “Your master is taken ill,” Benjamin said; “and the woman who attends upon + him has lost her head—if she ever had a head to lose. Where does the + nearest doctor live?” + </p> + <p> + The man’s devotion to Dexter showed itself as the woman’s devotion had + shown itself—in the man’s rough way. He threw down his spade with an + oath. + </p> + <p> + “The Master taken bad?” he said. “I’ll fetch the doctor. I shall find him + sooner than you will.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell the doctor to bring a man with him,” Benjamin added. “He may want + help.” + </p> + <p> + The gardener turned around sternly. + </p> + <p> + “<i>I’m</i> the man,” he said. “Nobody shall help but me.” + </p> + <p> + He left us. I sat down on one of the chairs in the hall, and did my best + to compose myself. Benjamin walked to and fro, deep in thought. “Both of + them fond of him,” I heard my old friend say to himself. “Half monkey, + half man—and both of them fond of him. <i>That</i> beats me.” + </p> + <p> + The gardener returned with the doctor—a quiet, dark, resolute man. + Benjamin advanced to meet them. “I have got the key,” he said. “Shall I go + upstairs with you?” + </p> + <p> + Without answering, the doctor drew Benjamin aside into a corner of the + hall. The two talked together in low voices. At the end of it the doctor + said, “Give me the key. You can be of no use; you will only irritate her.” + </p> + <p> + With those words he beckoned to the gardener. He was about to lead the way + up the stairs when I ventured to stop him. + </p> + <p> + “May I stay in the hall, sir?” I said. “I am very anxious to hear how it + ends.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at me for a moment before he replied. + </p> + <p> + “You had better go home, madam,” he said. “Is the gardener acquainted with + your address?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. I will let you know how it ends by means of the gardener. Take + my advice. Go home.” + </p> + <p> + Benjamin placed my arm in his. I looked back, and saw the doctor and the + gardener ascending the stairs together on their way to the locked-up room. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind the doctor,” I whispered. “Let’s wait in the garden.” + </p> + <p> + Benjamin would not hear of deceiving the doctor. “I mean to take you + home,” he said. I looked at him in amazement. My old friend, who was all + meekness and submission so long as there was no emergency to try him, now + showed the dormant reserve of manly spirit and decision in his nature as + he had never (in my experience) shown it yet. He led me into the garden. + We had kept our cab: it was waiting for us at the gate. + </p> + <p> + On our way home Benjamin produced his note-book. + </p> + <p> + “What’s to be done, my dear, with the gibberish that I have written here?” + he said. + </p> + <p> + “Have you written it all down?” I asked, in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “When I undertake a duty, I do it,” he answered. “You never gave me the + signal to leave off—you never moved your chair. I have written every + word of it. What shall I do? Throw it out of the cab window?” + </p> + <p> + “Give it to me.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you going to do with it?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know yet. I will ask Mr. Playmore.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLI. MR. PLAYMORE IN A NEW CHARACTER. + </h2> + <p> + BY that night’s post—although I was far from being fit to make the + exertion—I wrote to Mr. Playmore, to tell him what had taken place, + and to beg for his earliest assistance and advice. + </p> + <p> + The notes in Benjamin’s book were partly written in shorthand, and were, + on that account, of no use to me in their existing condition. At my + request, he made two fair copies. One of the copies I inclosed in my + letter to Mr. Playmore. The other I laid by me, on my bedside table, when + I went to rest. + </p> + <p> + Over and over again, through the long hours of the wakeful night, I read + and re-read the last words which had dropped from Miserrimus Dexter’s + lips. Was it possible to interpret them to any useful purpose? At the very + outset they seemed to set interpretation at defiance. After trying vainly + to solve the hopeless problem, I did at last what I might as well have + done at first—I threw down the paper in despair. Where were my + bright visions of discovery and success now? Scattered to the winds! Was + there the faintest chance of the stricken man’s return to reason? I + remembered too well what I had seen to hope for it. The closing lines of + the medical report which I had read in Mr. Playmore’s office recurred to + my memory in the stillness of the night—“When the catastrophe has + happened, his friends can entertain no hope of his cure: the balance once + lost, will be lost for life.” + </p> + <p> + The confirmation of that terrible sentence was not long in reaching me. On + the next morning the gardener brought a note containing the information + which the doctor had promised to give me on the previous day. + </p> + <p> + Miserrimus Dexter and Ariel were still where Benjamin and I had left them + together—in the long room. They were watched by skilled attendants, + waiting the decision of Dexter’s nearest relative (a younger brother, who + lived in the country, and who had been communicated with by telegraph). It + had been found impossible to part the faithful Ariel from her master + without using the bodily restraints adopted in cases of raging insanity. + The doctor and the gardener (both unusually strong men) had failed to hold + the poor creature when they first attempted to remove her on entering the + room. Directly they permitted her to return to her master the frenzy + vanished: she was perfectly quiet and contented so long as they let her + sit at his feet and look at him. + </p> + <p> + Sad as this was, the report of Miserrimus Dexter’s condition was more + melancholy still. + </p> + <p> + “My patient is in a state of absolute imbecility”—those were the + words in the doctor’s letter; and the gardener’s simple narrative + confirmed them as the truest words that could have been used. He was + utterly unconscious of poor Ariel’s devotion to him—he did not even + appear to know that she was present in the room. For hours together he + remained in a state of utter lethargy in his chair. He showed an animal + interest in his meals, and a greedy animal enjoyment of eating and + drinking as much as he could get—and that was all. “This morning,” + the honest gardener said to me at parting, “we thought he seemed to wake + up a bit. Looked about him, you know, and made queer signs with his hands. + I couldn’t make out what he meant; no more could the doctor. <i>She</i> + knew, poor thing—She did. Went and got him his harp, and put his + hand up to it. Lord bless you! no use. He couldn’t play no more than I + can. Twanged at it anyhow, and grinned and gabbled to himself. No: he’ll + never come right again. Any person can see that, without the doctor to + help ‘em. Enjoys his meals, as I told you; and that’s all. It would be the + best thing that could happen if it would please God to take him. There’s + no more to be said. I wish you good-morning, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + He went away with the tears in his eyes; and he left me, I own it, with + the tears in mine. + </p> + <p> + An hour later there came some news which revived me. I received a telegram + from Mr. Playmore, expressed in these welcome words: “Obliged to go to + London by to-night’s mail train. Expect me to breakfast to-morrow + morning.” + </p> + <p> + The appearance of the lawyer at our breakfast-table duly followed the + appearance of his telegram. His first words cheered me. To my infinite + surprise and relief, he was far from sharing the despondent view which I + took of my position. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t deny,” he said, “that there are some serious obstacles in your + way. But I should never have called here before attending to my + professional business in London if Mr. Benjamin’s notes had not produced a + very strong impression on my mind. For the first time, as <i>I</i> think, + you really have a prospect of success. For the first time, I feel + justified in offering (under certain restrictions) to help you. That + miserable wretch, in the collapse of his intelligence, has done what he + would never have done in the possession of his sense and his cunning—he + has let us see the first precious glimmerings of the light of truth.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure it <i>is</i> the truth?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “In two important particulars,” he answered, “I know it to be the truth. + Your idea about him is the right one. His memory (as you suppose) was the + least injured of his faculties, and was the last to give way under the + strain of trying to tell that story. I believe his memory to have been + speaking to you (unconsciously to himself) in all that he said from the + moment when the first reference to ‘the letter’ escaped him to the end.” + </p> + <p> + “But what does the reference to the letter mean?” I asked. “For my part, I + am entirely in the dark about it.” + </p> + <p> + “So am I,” he answered, frankly. “The chief one among the obstacles which + I mentioned just now is the obstacle presented by that same ‘letter.’ The + late Mrs. Eustace must have been connected with it in some way, or Dexter + would never have spoken of it as ‘a dagger in his heart’; Dexter would + never have coupled her name with the words which describe the tearing up + of the letter and the throwing of it away. I can arrive with some + certainty at this result, and I can get no further. I have no more idea + than you have of who wrote the letter, or of what was written in it. If we + are ever to make that discovery—probably the most important + discovery of all—we must dispatch our first inquiries a distance of + three thousand miles. In plain English, my dear lady, we must send to + America.” + </p> + <p> + This, naturally enough, took me completely by surprise. I waited eagerly + to hear why we were to send to America. + </p> + <p> + “It rests with you,” he proceeded, “when you hear what I have to tell you, + to say whether you will go to the expense of sending a man to New York, or + not. I can find the right man for the purpose; and I estimate the expense + (including a telegram)—” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind the expense!” I interposed, losing all patience with the + eminently Scotch view of the case which put my purse in the first place of + importance. “I don’t care for the expense; I want to know what you have + discovered.” + </p> + <p> + He smiled. “She doesn’t care for the expense,” he said to himself, + pleasantly. “How like a woman!” + </p> + <p> + I might have retorted, “He thinks of the expense before he thinks of + anything else. How like a Scotchman!” As it was, I was too anxious to be + witty. I only drummed impatiently with my fingers on the table, and said, + “Tell me! tell me!” + </p> + <p> + He took out the fair copy from Benjamin’s note-book which I had sent to + him, and showed me these among Dexter’s closing words: “What about the + letter? Burn it now. No fire in the grate. No matches in the box. House + topsy-turvy. Servants all gone.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you really understand what those words mean?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “I look back into my own experience,” he answered, “and I understand + perfectly what the words mean.” + </p> + <p> + “And can you make me understand them too?” + </p> + <p> + “Easily. In those incomprehensible sentences Dexter’s memory has correctly + recalled certain facts. I have only to tell you the facts, and you will be + as wise as I am. At the time of the Trial, your husband surprised and + distressed me by insisting on the instant dismissal of all the household + servants at Gleninch. I was instructed to pay them a quarter’s wages in + advance, to give them the excellent written characters which their good + conduct thoroughly deserved, and to see the house clear of them at an + hour’s notice. Eustace’s motive for this summary proceeding was much the + same motive which animated his conduct toward you. ‘If I am ever to return + to Gleninch,’ he said, ‘I cannot face my honest servants after the infamy + of having stood my trial for murder.’ There was his reason. Nothing that I + could say to him, poor fellow, shook his resolution. I dismissed the + servants accordingly. At an hour’s notice, they quitted the house, leaving + their work for the day all undone. The only persons placed in charge of + Gleninch were persons who lived on the outskirts of the park—that is + to say, the lodge-keeper and his wife and daughter. On the last day of the + Trial I instructed the daughter to do her best to make the rooms tidy. She + was a good girl enough, but she had no experience as a housemaid: it would + never enter her head to lay the bedroom fires ready for lighting, or to + replenish the empty match-boxes. Those chance words that dropped from + Dexter would, no doubt, exactly describe the state of his room when he + returned to Gleninch, with the prisoner and his mother, from Edinburgh. + That he tore up the mysterious letter in his bedroom, and (finding no + means immediately at hand for burning it) that he threw the fragments into + the empty grate, or into the waste-paper basket, seems to be the most + reasonable conclusion that we can draw from what we know. In any case, he + would not have much time to think about it. Everything was done in a hurry + on that day. Eustace and his mother, accompanied by Dexter, left for + England the same evening by the night train. I myself locked up the house, + and gave the keys to the lodge-keeper. It was understood that he was to + look after the preservation of the reception-rooms on the ground-floor; + and that his wife and daughter were to perform the same service between + them in the rooms upstairs. On receiving your letter, I drove at once to + Gleninch to question the old woman on the subject of the bedrooms, and of + Dexter’s room especially. She remembered the time when the house was shut + up by associating it with the time when she was confined to her bed by an + attack of sciatica. She had not crossed the lodge door, she was sure, for + at least a week (if not longer after Gleninch had been left in charge of + her husband and herself). Whatever was done in the way of keeping the + bedrooms aired and tidy during her illness was done by her daughter. She, + and she only, must have disposed of any letter which might have been lying + about in Dexter’s room. Not a vestige of torn paper, as I can myself + certify, is to be discovered in any part of the room now. Where did the + girl find the fragments of the letter? and what did she do with them? + Those are the questions (if you approve of it) which we must send three + thousand miles away to ask—for this sufficient reason, that the + lodge-keeper’s daughter was married more than a year since, and that she + is settled with her husband in business at New York. It rests with you to + decide what is to be done. Don’t let me mislead you with false hopes! + Don’t let me tempt you to throw away your money! Even if this woman does + remember what she did with the torn paper, the chances, at this distance + of time, are enormously against our ever recovering a single morsel of it. + Be in no haste to decide. I have my work to do in the city—I can + give you the whole day to think it over.” + </p> + <p> + “Send the man to New York by the next steamer,” I said. “There is my + decision, Mr. Playmore, without keeping you waiting for it!” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head, in grave disapproval of my impetuosity. In my former + interview with him we had never once touched on the question of money. I + was now, for the first time, to make acquaintance with Mr. Playmore on the + purely Scotch side of his character. + </p> + <p> + “Why, you don’t even know what it will cost you!” he exclaimed, taking out + his pocket-book with the air of a man who was equally startled and + scandalized. “Wait till I tot it up,” he said, “in English and American + money.” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t wait! I want to make more discoveries!” + </p> + <p> + He took no notice of my interruption; he went on impenetrably with his + calculations. + </p> + <p> + “The man will go second-class, and will take a return-ticket. Very well. + His ticket includes his food; and (being, thank God, a teetotaler) he + won’t waste your money in buying liquor on board. Arrived at New York, he + will go to a cheap German house, where he will, as I am credibly informed, + be boarded and lodged at the rate—” + </p> + <p> + By this time (my patience being completely worn out) I had taken my + check-book from the table-drawer, had signed my name, and had handed the + blank check across the table to my legal adviser. + </p> + <p> + “Fill it in with whatever the man wants,” I said. “And for Heaven’s sake + let us get back to Dexter!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Playmore fell back in his chair, and lifted his hands and eyes to the + ceiling. I was not in the least impressed by that solemn appeal to the + unseen powers of arithmetic and money. I insisted positively on being fed + with more information. + </p> + <p> + “Listen to this,” I went on, reading from Benjamin’s notes. “What did + Dexter mean when he said, ‘Number Nine, Caldershaws. Ask for Dandie. You + shan’t have the Diary. A secret in your ear. The Diary will hang him?’ How + came Dexter to know what was in my husband’s Diary? And what does he mean + by ‘Number Nine, Caldershaws,’ and the rest of it? Facts again?” + </p> + <p> + “Facts again!” Mr. Playmore answered, “muddled up together, as you may say—but + positive facts for all that. Caldershaws, you must know, is one of the + most disreputable districts in Edinburgh. One of my clerks (whom I am in + the habit of employing confidentially) volunteered to inquire for ‘Dandie’ + at ‘Number Nine.’ It was a ticklish business in every way; and my man + wisely took a person with him who was known in the neighborhood. ‘Number + Nine’ turned out to be (ostensibly) a shop for the sale of rags and old + iron; and ‘Dandie’ was suspected of trading now and then, additionally, as + a receiver of stolen goods. Thanks to the influence of his companion, + backed by a bank-note (which can be repaid, by the way, out of the fund + for the American expenses), my clerk succeeded is making the fellow speak. + Not to trouble you with needless details, the result in substance was + this: A fortnight or more before the date of Mrs. Eustace’s death, + ‘Dandie’ made two keys from wax models supplied to him by a new customer. + The mystery observed in the matter by the agent who managed it excited + Dandie’s distrust. He had the man privately watched before he delivered + the keys; and he ended in discovering that his customer was—Miserrimus + Dexter. Wait a little! I have not done yet. Add to this information + Dexter’s incomprehensible knowledge of the contents of your husband’s + diary, and the product is—that the wax models sent to the old-iron + shop in Caldershaws were models taken by theft from the key of the Diary + and the key of the table-drawer in which it was kept. I have my own idea + of the revelations that are still to come if this matter is properly + followed up. Never mind going into that at present. Dexter (I tell you + again) is answerable for the late Mrs. Eustace’s death. <i>How</i> he is + answerable I believe you are in a fair way of finding out. And, more than + that, I say now, what I could not venture to say before—it is a duty + toward Justice, as well as a duty toward your husband, to bring the truth + to light. As for the difficulties to be encountered, I don’t think they + need daunt you. The greatest difficulties give way in the end, when they + are attacked by the united alliance of patience resolution—<i>and</i> + economy.” + </p> + <p> + With a strong emphasis on the last words, my worthy adviser, mindful of + the flight of time and the claims of business, rose to take his leave. + </p> + <p> + “One word more,” I said, as he held out his hand. “Can you manage to see + Miserrimus Dexter before you go back to Edinburgh? From what the gardener + told me, his brother must be with him by this time. It would be a relief + to me to hear the latest news of him, and to hear it from you.” + </p> + <p> + “It is part of my business in London to see him,” said Mr. Playmore. “But + mind! I have no hope of his recovery; I only wish to satisfy myself that + his brother is able and willing to take care of him. So far as <i>we</i> + are concerned, Mrs. Eustace, that unhappy man has said his last words.” + </p> + <p> + He opened the door—stopped—considered—and came back to + me. + </p> + <p> + “With regard to that matter of sending the agent to America,” he resumed—“I + propose to have the honor of submitting to you a brief abstract—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mr. Playmore!” + </p> + <p> + “A brief abstract in writing, Mrs. Eustace, of the estimated expenses of + the whole proceeding. You will be good enough maturely to consider the + same, making any remarks on it, tending to economy, which may suggest + themselves to your mind at the time. And you will further oblige me, if + you approve of the abstract, by yourself filling in the blank space on + your check with the needful amount in words and figures. No, madam! I + really cannot justify it to my conscience to carry about my person any + such loose and reckless document as a blank check. There’s a total + disregard of the first claims of prudence and economy implied in this + small slip of paper which is nothing less than a flat contradiction of the + principles that have governed my whole life. I can’t submit to flat + contradiction. Good-morning, Mrs. Eustace—good-morning.” + </p> + <p> + He laid my check on the table with a low bow, and left me. Among the + curious developments of human stupidity which occasionally present + themselves to view, surely the least excusable is the stupidity which, to + this day, persists in wondering why the Scotch succeed so well in life! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLII. MORE SURPRISES. + </h2> + <p> + The same evening I received my “abstract” by the hands of a clerk. + </p> + <p> + It was an intensely characteristic document. My expenses were + remorselessly calculated downward to shillings and even to pence; and our + unfortunate messenger’s instructions in respect to his expenditure were + reduced to a nicety which must have made his life in America nothing less + than a burden to him. In mercy to the man, I took the liberty, when I + wrote back to Mr. Playmore, of slightly increasing the indicated amount of + the figures which were to appear on the check. I ought to have better + known the correspondent whom I had to deal with. Mr. Playmore’s reply + (informing me that our emissary had started on his voyage) returned a + receipt in due form, and the whole of the surplus money, to the last + farthing! + </p> + <p> + A few hurried lines accompanied the “abstract,” and stated the result of + the lawyer’s visit to Miserrimus Dexter. + </p> + <p> + There was no change for the better—there was no change at all. Mr. + Dexter, the brother, had arrived at the house accompanied by a medical man + accustomed to the charge of the insane. The new doctor declined to give + any definite opinion on the case until he had studied it carefully with + plenty of time at his disposal. It had been accordingly arranged that he + should remove Miserrimus Dexter to the asylum of which he was the + proprietor as soon as the preparations for receiving the patient could be + completed. The one difficulty that still remained to be met related to the + disposal of the faithful creature who had never left her master, night or + day, since the catastrophe had happened. Ariel had no friends and no + money. The proprietor of the asylum could not be expected to receive her + without the customary payment; and Mr. Dexter’s brother “regretted to say + that he was not rich enough to find the money.” A forcible separation from + the one human being whom she loved, and a removal in the character of a + pauper to a public asylum—such was the prospect which awaited the + unfortunate creature unless some one interfered in her favor before the + end of the week. + </p> + <p> + Under these sad circumstances, good Mr. Playmore—passing over the + claims of economy in favor of the claims of humanity—suggested that + we should privately start a subscription, and offered to head the list + liberally himself. + </p> + <p> + I must have written all these pages to very little purpose if it is + necessary for me to add that I instantly sent a letter to Mr. Dexter, the + brother, undertaking to be answerable for whatever money was to be + required while the subscriptions were being collected, and only + stipulating that when Miserrimus Dexter was removed to the asylum, Ariel + should accompany him. This was readily conceded. But serious objections + were raised when I further requested that she might be permitted to attend + on her master in the asylum as she had attended on him in the house. The + rules of the establishment forbade it, and the universal practice in such + cases forbade it, and so on, and so on. However, by dint of perseverance + and persuasion, I so far carried my point as to gain a reasonable + concession. During certain hours in the day, and under certain wise + restrictions, Ariel was to be allowed the privilege of waiting on the + Master in his room, as well as of accompanying him when he was brought out + in his chair to take the air in the garden. For the honor of humanity, let + me add that the liability which I had undertaken made no very serious + demands on my resources. Placed in Benjamin’s charge, our + subscription-list prospered. Friends, and even strangers sometimes, opened + their hearts and their purses when they heard Ariel’s melancholy story. + </p> + <p> + The day which followed the day of Mr. Playmore’s visit brought me news + from Spain, in a letter from my mother-in-law. To describe what I felt + when I broke the seal and read the first lines is simply impossible. Let + Mrs. Macallan be heard on this occasion in my place. + </p> + <p> + Thus she wrote: + </p> + <p> + “Prepare yourself, my dearest Valeria, for a delightful surprise. Eustace + has justified my confidence in him. When he returns to England, he returns—if + you will let him—to his wife. + </p> + <p> + “This resolution, let me hasten to assure you, has not been brought about + by any persuasions of mine. It is the natural outgrowth of your husband’s + gratitude and your husband’s love. The first words he said to me, when he + was able to speak, were these: ‘If I live to return to England, and if I + go to Valeria, do you think she will forgive me?’ We can only leave it to + you, my dear, to give the answer. If you love us, answer us by return of + post. + </p> + <p> + “Having now told you what he said when I first informed him that you had + been his nurse—and remember, if it seem very little, that he is + still too weak to speak except with difficulty—I shall purposely + keep my letter back for a few days. My object is to give him time to + think, and to frankly tell you of it if the interval produce any change in + his resolution. + </p> + <p> + “Three days have passed, and there is no change. He has but one feeling + now—he longs for the day which is to unite him again to his wife. + </p> + <p> + “But there is something else connected with Eustace that you ought to + know, and that I ought to tell you. + </p> + <p> + “Greatly as time and suffering have altered him in many respects, there is + no change, Valeria, in the aversion—the horror I may even say—with + which he views your idea of inquiring anew into the circumstances which + attended the lamentable death of his first wife. It makes no difference to + him that you are only animated by a desire to serve his interests. ‘Has + she given up that idea? Are you positively sure she has given up that + idea?’ Over and over again he has put these questions to me. I have + answered—what else could I do in the miserably feeble state in which + he still lies?—I have answered in such a manner as to soothe and + satisfy him. I have said, ‘Relieve your mind of all anxiety on that + subject: Valeria has no choice but to give up the idea; the obstacles in + her way have proved to be insurmountable—the obstacles have + conquered her.’ This, if you remember, was what I really believed would + happen when you and I spoke of that painful topic; and I have heard + nothing from you since which has tended to shake my opinion in the + smallest degree. If I am right (as I pray God I may be) in the view that I + take, you have only to confirm me in your reply, and all will be well. In + the other event—that is to say, if you are still determined to + persevere in your hopeless project—then make up your mind to face + the result. Set Eustace’s prejudices at defiance in this particular, and + you lose your hold on his gratitude, his penitence, and his love—you + will, in my belief, never see him again. + </p> + <p> + “I express myself strongly, in your own interests, my dear, and for your + own sake. When you reply, write a few lines to Eustace, inclosed in your + letter to me. + </p> + <p> + “As for the date of our departure, it is still impossible for me to give + you any definite information. Eustace recovers very slowly; the doctor has + not yet allowed him to leave his bed; and when we do travel we must + journey by easy stages. It will be at least six weeks, at the earliest, + before we can hope to be back again in dear Old England. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Affectionately yours, + + “CATHERINE MACALLAN.” + </pre> + <p> + I laid down the letter, and did my best (vainly enough for some time) to + compose my spirits. To understand the position in which I now found + myself, it is only necessary to remember one circumstance: the messenger + to whom we had committed our inquiries was at that moment crossing the + Atlantic on his way to New York. + </p> + <p> + What was to be done? + </p> + <p> + I hesitated. Shocking as it may seem to some people, I hesitated. There + was really no need to hurry my decision. I had the whole day before me. + </p> + <p> + I went out and took a wretched, lonely walk, and turned the matter over in + my mind. I came home again, and turned the matter over once more by the + fireside. To offend and repel my darling when he was returning to me, + penitently returning of his own free will, was what no woman in my + position, and feeling as I did, could under any earthly circumstances have + brought herself to do. And yet, on the other hand, how in Heaven’s name + could I give up my grand enterprise at the very time when even wise and + prudent Mr. Playmore saw such a prospect of succeeding in it that he had + actually volunteered to help me? Placed between those two cruel + alternatives, which could I choose? Think of your own frailties, and have + some mercy on mine. I turned my back on both the alternatives. Those two + agreeable fiends, Prevarication and Deceit, took me, as it were, softly by + the hand: “Don’t commit yourself either way, my dear,” they said, in their + most persuasive manner. “Write just enough to compose your mother-in-law + and to satisfy your husband. You have got time before you. Wait and see if + Time doesn’t stand your friend, and get you out of the difficulty.” + </p> + <p> + Infamous advice! And yet I took it—I, who had been well brought up, + and who ought to have known better. You who read this shameful confession + would have known better, I am sure. <i>You</i> are not included, in the + Prayer-book category, among the “miserable sinners.” + </p> + <p> + Well! well! let me have virtue enough to tell the truth. In writing to my + mother-in-law, I informed her that it had been found necessary to remove + Miserrimus Dexter to an asylum—and I left her to draw her own + conclusions from that fact, unenlightened by so much as one word of + additional information. In the same way, I told my husband a part of the + truth, and no more. I said I forgave him with all my heart—and I + did! I said he had only to come to me, and I would receive him with open + arms—and so I would! As for the rest, let me say with Hamlet—“The + rest is silence.” + </p> + <p> + Having dispatched my unworthy letters, I found myself growing restless, + and feeling the want of a change. It would be necessary to wait at least + eight or nine days before we could hope to hear by telegraph from New + York. I bade farewell for a time to my dear and admirable Benjamin, and + betook myself to my old home in the North, at the vicarage of my uncle + Starkweather. My journey to Spain to nurse Eustace had made my peace with + my worthy relatives; we had exchanged friendly letters; and I had promised + to be their guest as soon as it was possible for me to leave London. + </p> + <p> + I passed a quiet and (all things considered) a happy time among the old + scenes. I visited once more the bank by the river-side, where Eustace and + I had first met. I walked again on the lawn and loitered through the + shrubbery—those favorite haunts in which we had so often talked over + our troubles, and so often forgotten them in a kiss. How sadly and + strangely had our lives been parted since that time! How uncertain still + was the fortune which the future had in store for us! + </p> + <p> + The associations amid which I was now living had their softening effect on + my heart, their elevating influence over my mind. I reproached myself, + bitterly reproached myself, for not having written more fully and frankly + to Eustace. Why had I hesitated to sacrifice to him my hopes and my + interests in the coming investigation? <i>He</i> had not hesitated, poor + fellow—<i>his</i> first thought was the thought of his wife! + </p> + <p> + I had passed a fortnight with my uncle and aunt before I heard again from + Mr. Playmore. When a letter from him arrived at last, it disappointed me + indescribably. A telegram from our messenger informed us that the + lodge-keeper’s daughter and her husband had left New York, and that he was + still in search of a trace of them. + </p> + <p> + There was nothing to be done but to wait as patiently as we could, on the + chance of hearing better news. I remained in the North, by Mr. Playmore’s + advice, so as to be within an easy journey to Edinburgh—in case it + might be necessary for me to consult him personally. Three more weeks of + weary expectation passed before a second letter reached me. This time it + was impossible to say whether the news were good or bad. It might have + been either—it was simply bewildering. Even Mr. Playmore himself was + taken by surprise. These were the last wonderful words—limited of + course by considerations of economy—which reached us (by telegram) + from our agent in America: + </p> + <p> + “Open the dust-heap at Gleninch.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIII. AT LAST! + </h2> + <p> + MY letter from Mr. Playmore, inclosing the agent’s extraordinary telegram, + was not inspired by the sanguine view of our prospects which he had + expressed to me when we met at Benjamin’s house. + </p> + <p> + “If the telegram mean anything,” he wrote, “it means that the fragments of + the torn letter have been cast into the housemaid’s bucket (along with the + dust, the ashes, and the rest of the litter in the room), and have been + emptied on the dust-heap at Gleninch. Since this was done, the accumulated + refuse collected from the periodical cleansings of the house, during a + term of nearly three years—including, of course, the ashes from the + fires kept burning, for the greater part of the year, in the library and + the picture-gallery—have been poured upon the heap, and have buried + the precious morsels of paper deeper and deeper, day by day. Even if we + have a fair chance of finding these fragments, what hope can we feel, at + this distance of time, of recovering them with the writing in a state of + preservation? I shall be glad to hear, by return of post if possible, how + the matter strikes you. If you could make it convenient to consult with me + personally in Edinburgh, we should save time, when time may be of serious + importance to us. While you are at Doctor Starkweather’s you are within + easy reach of this place. Please think of it.” + </p> + <p> + I thought of it seriously enough. The foremost question which I had to + consider was the question of my husband. + </p> + <p> + The departure of the mother and son from Spain had been so long delayed, + by the surgeon’s orders, that the travelers had only advanced on their + homeward journey as far as Bordeaux, when I had last heard from Mrs. + Macallan three or four days since. Allowing for an interval of repose at + Bordeaux, and for the slow rate at which they would be compelled to move + afterward, I might still expect them to arrive in England some time before + a letter from the agent in America could reach Mr. Playmore. How, in this + position of affairs, I could contrive to join the lawyer in Edinburgh, + after meeting my husband in London, it was not easy to see. The wise and + the right way, as I thought, was to tell Mr. Playmore frankly that I was + not mistress of my own movements, and that he had better address his next + letter to me at Benjamin’s house. + </p> + <p> + Writing to my legal adviser in this sense, I had a word of my own to add + on the subject of the torn letter. + </p> + <p> + In the last years of my father’s life I had traveled with him in Italy, + and I had seen in the Museum at Naples the wonderful relics of a bygone + time discovered among the ruins of Pompeii. By way of encouraging Mr. + Playmore, I now reminded him that the eruption which had overwhelmed the + town had preserved, for more than sixteen hundred years, such perishable + things as the straw in which pottery had been packed; the paintings on + house walls; the dresses worn by the inhabitants; and (most noticeable of + all, in our case) a piece of ancient paper, still attached to the volcanic + ashes which had fallen over it. If these discoveries had been made after a + lapse of sixteen centuries, under a layer of dust and ashes on a large + scale, surely we might hope to meet with similar cases of preservation, + after a lapse of three or four years only, under a layer of dust and ashes + on a small scale. Taking for granted (what was perhaps doubtful enough) + that the fragments of the letter could be recovered, my own conviction was + that the writing on them, though it might be faded, would certainly still + be legible. The very accumulations which Mr. Playmore deplored would be + the means of preserving them from the rain and the damp. With these modest + hints I closed my letter; and thus for once, thanks to my Continental + experience, I was able to instruct my lawyer! + </p> + <p> + Another day passed; and I heard nothing of the travelers. + </p> + <p> + I began to feel anxious. I made my preparations for my journey southward + overnight; and I resolved to start for London the next day—unless I + heard of some change in Mrs. Macallan’s traveling arrangements in the + interval. + </p> + <p> + The post of the next morning decided my course of action. It brought me a + letter from my mother-in-law, which added one more to the memorable dates + in my domestic calendar. + </p> + <p> + Eustace and his mother had advanced as far as Paris on their homeward + journey, when a cruel disaster had befallen them. The fatigues of + traveling, and the excitement of his anticipated meeting with me, had + proved together to be too much for my husband. He had held out as far as + Paris with the greatest difficulty; and he was now confined to his bed + again, struck down by a relapse. The doctors, this time, had no fear for + his life, provided that his patience would support him through a + lengthened period of the most absolute repose. + </p> + <p> + “It now rests with you, Valeria,” Mrs. Macallan wrote, “to fortify and + comfort Eustace under this new calamity. Do not suppose that he has ever + blamed or thought of blaming you for leaving him with me in Spain, as soon + as he was declared to be out of danger. ‘It was <i>I</i> who left <i>her,</i>’ + he said to me, when we first talked about it; ‘and it is my wife’s right + to expect that I should go back to her.’ Those were his words, my dear; + and he has done all he can to abide by them. Helpless in his bed, he now + asks you to take the will for the deed, and to join him in Paris. I think + I know you well enough, my child, to be sure that you will do this; and I + need only add one word of caution, before I close my letter. Avoid all + reference, not only to the Trial (you will do that of your own accord), + but even to our house at Gleninch. You will understand how he feels, in + his present state of nervous depression, when I tell you that I should + never have ventured on asking you to join him here, if your letter had not + informed me that your visits to Dexter were at an end. Would you believe + it?—his horror of anything which recalls our past troubles is still + so vivid that he has actually asked me to give my consent to selling + Gleninch!” + </p> + <p> + So Eustace’s mother wrote of him. But she had not trusted entirely to her + own powers of persuasion. A slip of paper was inclosed in her letter, + containing these two lines, traced in pencil—oh, so feebly and so + wearily!—by my poor darling himself: + </p> + <p> + “I am too weak to travel any further, Valeria. Will you come to me and + forgive me?” A few pencil-marks followed; but they were illegible. The + writing of those two short sentences had exhausted him. + </p> + <p> + It is not saying much for myself, I know—but, having confessed it + when I was wrong, let me, at least, record it when I did what was right—I + decided instantly on giving up all further connection with the recovery of + the torn letter. If Eustace asked me the question, I was resolved to be + able to answer truly: “I have made the sacrifice that assures your + tranquillity. When resignation was hardest, I have humbled my obstinate + spirit, and I have given way for my husband’s sake.” + </p> + <p> + There was half an hour to spare before I left the vicarage for the railway + station. In that interval I wrote again to Mr. Playmore, telling him + plainly what my position was, and withdrawing, at once and forever, from + all share in investigating the mystery which lay hidden under the + dust-heap at Gleninch. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIV. OUR NEW HONEYMOON. + </h2> + <p> + It is not to be disguised or denied that my spirits were depressed on my + journey to London. + </p> + <p> + To resign the one cherished purpose of my life, when I had suffered so + much in pursuing it, and when I had (to all appearance) so nearly reached + the realization of my hopes, was putting to a hard trial a woman’s + fortitude and a woman’s sense of duty. Still, even if the opportunity had + been offered to me, I would not have recalled my letter to Mr. Playmore. + “It is done, and well done,” I said to myself; “and I have only to wait a + day to be reconciled to it—when I give my husband my first kiss.” + </p> + <p> + I had planned and hoped to reach London in time to start for Paris by the + night-mail. But the train was twice delayed on the long journey from the + North; and there was no help for it but to sleep at Benjamin’s villa, and + to defer my departure until the morning. + </p> + <p> + It was, of course, impossible for me to warn my old friend of the change + in my plans. My arrival took him by surprise. I found him alone in his + library, with a wonderful illumination of lamps and candles, absorbed over + some morsels of torn paper scattered on the table before him. + </p> + <p> + “What in the world are you about?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + Benjamin blushed—I was going to say, like a young girl; but young + girls have given up blushing in these latter days of the age we live in. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, nothing, nothing!” he said, confusedly. “Don’t notice it.” + </p> + <p> + He stretched out his hand to brush the morsels of paper off the table. + Those morsels raised a sudden suspicion in my mind. I stopped him. + </p> + <p> + “You have heard from Mr. Playmore!” I said. “Tell me the truth, Benjamin. + Yes or no?” + </p> + <p> + Benjamin blushed a shade deeper, and answered, “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is the letter?” + </p> + <p> + “I mustn’t show it to you, Valeria.” + </p> + <p> + This (need I say it?) made me determined to see the letter. My best way of + persuading Benjamin to show it to me was to tell him of the sacrifice that + I had made to my husband’s wishes. “I have no further voice in the + matter,” I added, when I had done. “It now rests entirely with Mr. + Playmore to go on or to give up; and this is my last opportunity of + discovering what he really thinks about it. Don’t I deserve some little + indulgence? Have I no claim to look at the letter?” + </p> + <p> + Benjamin was too much surprised, and too much pleased with me, when he + heard what had happened, to be able to resist my entreaties. He gave me + the letter. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Playmore wrote to appeal confidentially to Benjamin as a commercial + man. In the long course of his occupation in business, it was just + possible that he might have heard of cases in which documents have been + put together again after having been torn up by design or by accident. + Even if his experience failed in this particular, he might be able to + refer to some authority in London who would be capable of giving an + opinion on the subject. By way of explaining his strange request, Mr. + Playmore reverted to the notes which Benjamin had taken at Miserrimus + Dexter’s house, and informed him of the serious importance of “the + gibberish” which he had reported under protest. The letter closed by + recommending that any correspondence which ensued should be kept a secret + from me—on the ground that it might excite false hopes in my mind if + I were informed of it. + </p> + <p> + I now understood the tone which my worthy adviser had adopted in writing + to me. His interest in the recovery of the letter was evidently so + overpowering that common prudence compelled him to conceal it from me, in + case of ultimate failure. This did not look as if Mr. Playmore was likely + to give up the investigation on my withdrawal from it. I glanced again at + the fragments of paper on Benjamin’s table, with an interest in them which + I had not felt yet. + </p> + <p> + “Has anything been found at Gleninch?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Benjamin. “I have only been trying experiments with a letter of + my own, before I wrote to Mr. Playmore.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, you have torn up the letter yourself, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. And, to make it all the more difficult to put them together again, I + shook up the pieces in a basket. It’s a childish thing to do, my dear, at + my age—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped, looking very much ashamed of himself. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” I went on; “and have you succeeded in putting your letter together + again?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not very easy, Valeria. But I have made a beginning. It’s the same + principle as the principle in the ‘Puzzles’ which we used to put together + when I was a boy. Only get one central bit of it right, and the rest of + the Puzzle falls into its place in a longer or a shorter time. Please + don’t tell anybody, my dear. People might say I was in my dotage. To think + of that gibberish in my note-book having a meaning in it, after all! I + only got Mr. Playmore’s letter this morning; and—I am really almost + ashamed to mention it—I have been trying experiments on torn + letters, off and on, ever since. You won’t tell upon me, will you?” + </p> + <p> + I answered the dear old man by a hearty embrace. Now that he had lost his + steady moral balance, and had caught the infection of my enthusiasm, I + loved him better than ever. + </p> + <p> + But I was not quite happy, though I tried to appear so. Struggle against + it as I might, I felt a little mortified when I remembered that I had + resigned all further connection with the search for the letter at such a + time as this. My one comfort was to think of Eustace. My one encouragement + was to keep my mind fixed as constantly as possible on the bright change + for the better that now appeared in the domestic prospect. Here, at least, + there was no disaster to fear; here I could honestly feel that I had + triumphed. My husband had come back to me of his own free will; he had not + given way, under the hard weight of evidence—he had yielded to the + nobler influences of his gratitude and his love. And I had taken him to my + heart again—not because I had made discoveries which left him no + other alternative than to live with me, but because I believed in the + better mind that had come to him, and loved and trusted him without + reserve. Was it not worth some sacrifice to have arrived at this result! + True—most true! And yet I was a little out of spirits. Ah, well! + well! the remedy was within a day’s journey. The sooner I was with Eustace + the better. + </p> + <p> + Early the next morning I left London for Paris by the tidal-train. + Benjamin accompanied me to the Terminus. + </p> + <p> + “I shall write to Edinburgh by to-day’s post,” he said, in the interval + before the train moved out of the station. “I think I can find the man Mr. + Playmore wants to help him, if he decides to go on. Have you any message + to send, Valeria?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I have done with it, Benjamin; I have nothing more to say.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I write and tell you how it ends, if Mr. Playmore does really try + the experiment at Gleninch?” + </p> + <p> + I answered, as I felt, a little bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” I said “Write and tell me if the experiment fail.” + </p> + <p> + My old friend smiled. He knew me better than I knew myself. + </p> + <p> + “All right!” he said, resignedly. “I have got the address of your banker’s + correspondent in Paris. You will have to go there for money, my dear; and + you <i>may</i> find a letter waiting for you in the office when you least + expect it. Let me hear how your husband goes on. Good-by—and God + bless you!” + </p> + <p> + That evening I was restored to Eustace. + </p> + <p> + He was too weak, poor fellow, even to raise his head from the pillow. I + knelt down at the bedside and kissed him. His languid, weary eyes kindled + with a new life as my lips touched his. “I must try to live now,” he + whispered, “for your sake.” + </p> + <p> + My mother-in-law had delicately left us together. When he said those words + the temptation to tell him of the new hope that had come to brighten our + lives was more than I could resist. + </p> + <p> + “You must try to live now, Eustace,” I said, “for some one else besides + me.” + </p> + <p> + His eyes looked wonderingly into mine. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean my mother?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + I laid my head on his bosom, and whispered back—“I mean your child.” + </p> + <p> + I had all my reward for all that I had given up. I forgot Mr. Playmore; I + forgot Gleninch. Our new honeymoon dates, in my remembrance, from that + day. + </p> + <p> + The quiet time passed, in the by-street in which we lived. The outer stir + and tumult of Parisian life ran its daily course around us, unnoticed and + unheard. Steadily, though slowly, Eustace gained strength. The doctors, + with a word or two of caution, left him almost entirely to me. “You are + his physician,” they said; “the happier you make him, the sooner he will + recover.” The quiet, monotonous round of my new life was far from wearying + me. I, too, wanted repose—I had no interests, no pleasures, out of + my husband’s room. + </p> + <p> + Once, and once only, the placid surface of our lives was just gently + ruffled by an allusion to the past. Something that I accidentally said + reminded Eustace of our last interview at Major Fitz-David’s house. He + referred, very delicately, to what I had then said of the Verdict + pronounced on him at the Trial; and he left me to infer that a word from + my lips, confirming what his mother had already told him, would quiet his + mind at once and forever. + </p> + <p> + My answer involved no embarrassments or difficulties; I could and did + honestly tell him that I had made his wishes my law. But it was hardly in + womanhood, I am afraid, to be satisfied with merely replying, and to leave + it there. I thought it due to me that Eustace too should concede + something, in the way of an assurance which might quiet <i>my</i> mind. As + usual with me, the words followed the impulse to speak them. “Eustace,” I + asked, “are you quite cured of those cruel doubts which once made you + leave me?” + </p> + <p> + His answer (as he afterward said) made me blush with pleasure. “Ah, + Valeria, I should never have gone away if I had known you then as well as + I know you now!” + </p> + <p> + So the last shadows of distrust melted away out of our lives. + </p> + <p> + The very remembrance of the turmoil and the trouble of my past days in + London seemed now to fade from my memory. We were lovers again; we were + absorbed again in each other; we could almost fancy that our marriage + dated back once more to a day or two since. But one last victory over + myself was wanting to make my happiness complete. I still felt secret + longings, in those dangerous moments when I was left by myself, to know + whether the search for the torn letter had or had not taken place. What + wayward creatures we are! With everything that a woman could want to make + her happy, I was ready to put that happiness in peril rather than remain + ignorant of what was going on at Gleninch! I actually hailed the day when + my empty purse gave me an excuse for going to my banker’s correspondent on + business, and so receiving any letters waiting for me which might be + placed in my hands. + </p> + <p> + I applied for my money without knowing what I was about; wondering all the + time whether Benjamin had written to me or not. My eyes wandered over the + desks and tables in the office, looking for letters furtively. Nothing of + the sort was visible. But a man appeared from an inner office: an ugly + man, who was yet beautiful to my eyes, for this sufficient reason—he + had a letter in his hand, and he said, “Is this for you, ma’am?” + </p> + <p> + A glance at the address showed me Benjamin’s handwriting. + </p> + <p> + Had they tried the experiment of recovering the letter? and had they + failed? + </p> + <p> + Somebody put my money in my bag, and politely led me out to the little + hired carriage which was waiting for me at the door. I remember nothing + distinctly until I opened the letter on my way home. The first words told + me that the dust-heap had been examined, and that the fragments of the + torn letter had been found. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0045" id="link2HCH0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLV. THE DUST-HEAP DISTURBED. + </h2> + <p> + My head turned giddy. I was obliged to wait and let my overpowering + agitation subside, before I could read any more. + </p> + <p> + Looking at the letter again, after an interval, my eyes fell accidentally + on a sentence near the end, which surprised and startled me. + </p> + <p> + I stopped the driver of the carriage, at the entrance to the street in + which our lodgings were situated, and told him to take me to the beautiful + park of Paris—the famous Bois de Boulogne. My object was to gain + time enough, in this way, to read the letter carefully through by myself, + and to ascertain whether I ought or ought not to keep the receipt of it a + secret before I confronted my husband and his mother at home. + </p> + <p> + This precaution taken, I read the narrative which my good Benjamin had so + wisely and so thoughtfully written for me. Treating the various incidents + methodically, he began with the Report which had arrived, in due course of + mail, from our agent in America. + </p> + <p> + Our man had successfully traced the lodgekeeper’s daughter and her husband + to a small town in one of the Western States. Mr. Playmore’s letter of + introduction at once secured him a cordial reception from the married + pair, and a patient hearing when he stated the object of his voyage across + the Atlantic. + </p> + <p> + His first questions led to no very encouraging results. The woman was + confused and surprised, and was apparently quite unable to exert her + memory to any useful purpose. Fortunately, her husband proved to be a very + intelligent man. He took the agent privately aside, and said to him, “I + understand my wife, and you don’t. Tell me exactly what it is you want to + know, and leave it to me to discover how much she remembers and how much + she forgets.” + </p> + <p> + This sensible suggestion was readily accepted. The agent waited for events + a day and a night. + </p> + <p> + Early the next morning the husband said to him, “Talk to my wife now, and + you’ll find she has something to tell you. Only mind this. Don’t laugh at + her when she speaks of trifles. She is half ashamed to speak of trifles, + even to me. Thinks men are above such matters, you know. Listen quietly, + and let her talk—and you will get at it all in that way.” + </p> + <p> + The agent followed his instructions, and “got at it” as follows: + </p> + <p> + The woman remembered, perfectly well, being sent to clean the bedrooms and + put them tidy, after the gentlefolks had all left Gleninch. Her mother had + a bad hip at the time, and could not go with her and help her. She did not + much fancy being alone in the great house, after what had happened in it. + On her way to her work she passed two of the cottagers’ children in the + neighborhood at play in the park. Mr. Macallan was always kind to his poor + tenants, and never objected to the young ones round about having a run on + the grass. The two children idly followed her to the house. She took them + inside, along with her—not liking the place, as already mentioned, + and feeling that they would be company in the solitary rooms. + </p> + <p> + She began her work in the Guests’ Corridor—leaving the room in the + other corridor, in which the death had happened, to the last. + </p> + <p> + There was very little to do in the two first rooms. There was not litter + enough, when she had swept the floors and cleaned the grates, to even half + fill the housemaid’s bucket which she carried with her. The children + followed her about; and, all things considered, were “very good company” + in the lonely place. + </p> + <p> + The third room (that is to say, the bedchamber which had been occupied by + Miserrimus Dexter) was in a much worse state than the other two, and + wanted a great deal of tidying. She did not much notice the children here, + being occupied with her work. The litter was swept up from the carpet, and + the cinders and ashes were taken out of the grate, and the whole of it was + in the bucket, when her attention was recalled to the children by hearing + one of them cry. + </p> + <p> + She looked about the room without at first discovering them. + </p> + <p> + A fresh outburst of crying led her in the right direction, and showed her + the children under a table in a corner of the room. The youngest of the + two had got into a waste-paper basket. The eldest had found an old bottle + of gum, with a brush fixed in the cork, and was gravely painting the face + of the smaller child with what little remained of the contents of the + bottle. Some natural struggles, on the part of the little creature, had + ended in the overthrow of the basket, and the usual outburst of crying had + followed as a matter of course. + </p> + <p> + In this state of things the remedy was soon applied. The woman took the + bottle away from the eldest child, and gave it a “box on the ear.” The + younger one she set on its legs again, and she put the two “in the corner” + to keep them quiet. This done, she swept up such fragments of the torn + paper in the basket as had fallen on the floor; threw them back again into + the basket, along with the gum-bottle; fetched the bucket, and emptied the + basket into it; and then proceeded to the fourth and last room in the + corridor, where she finished her work for that day. + </p> + <p> + Leaving the house, with the children after her, she took the filled bucket + to the dust-heap, and emptied it in a hollow place among the rubbish, + about half-way up the mound. Then she took the children home; and there + was an end of it for the day. + </p> + <p> + Such was the result of the appeal made to the woman’s memory of domestic + events at Gleninch. + </p> + <p> + The conclusion at which Mr. Playmore arrived, from the facts submitted to + him, was that the chances were now decidedly in favor of the recovery of + the letter. Thrown in, nearly midway between the contents of the + housemaid’s bucket, the torn morsels would be protected above as well as + below, when they were emptied on the dust-heap. + </p> + <p> + Succeeding weeks and months would add to that protection, by adding to the + accumulated refuse. In the neglected condition of the grounds, the + dust-heap had not been disturbed in search of manure. There it had stood, + untouched, from the time when the family left Gleninch to the present day. + And there, hidden deep somewhere in the mound, the fragments of the letter + must be. + </p> + <p> + Such were the lawyer’s conclusions. He had written immediately to + communicate them to Benjamin. And, thereupon, what had Benjamin done? + </p> + <p> + After having tried his powers of reconstruction on his own correspondence, + the prospect of experimenting on the mysterious letter itself had proved + to be a temptation too powerful for the old man to resist. “I almost + fancy, my dear, this business of yours has bewitched me,” he wrote. “You + see I have the misfortune to be an idle man. I have time to spare and + money to spare. And the end of it is that I am here at Gleninch, engaged + on my own sole responsibility (with good Mr. Playmore’s permission) in + searching the dust-heap!” + </p> + <p> + Benjamin’s description of his first view of the field of action at + Gleninch followed these characteristic lines of apology. + </p> + <p> + I passed over the description without ceremony. My remembrance of the + scene was too vivid to require any prompting of that sort. I saw again, in + the dim evening light, the unsightly mound which had so strangely + attracted my attention at Gleninch. I heard again the words in which Mr. + Playmore had explained to me the custom of the dust-heap in Scotch + country-houses. What had Benjamin and Mr. Playmore done? What had Benjamin + and Mr. Playmore found? For me, the true interest of the narrative was + there—and to that portion of it I eagerly turned next. + </p> + <p> + They had proceeded methodically, of course, with one eye on the pounds, + shillings, and pence, and the other on the object in view. In Benjamin, + the lawyer had found what he had not met with in me—a sympathetic + mind, alive to the value of “an abstract of the expenses,” and conscious + of that most remunerative of human virtues, the virtue of economy. + </p> + <p> + At so much a week, they had engaged men to dig into the mound and to sift + the ashes. At so much a week, they had hired a tent to shelter the open + dust-heap from wind and weather. At so much a week, they had engaged the + services of a young man (personally known to Benjamin), who was employed + in a laboratory under a professor of chemistry, and who had distinguished + himself by his skillful manipulation of paper in a recent case of forgery + on a well-known London firm. Armed with these preparations, they had begun + the work; Benjamin and the young chemist living at Gleninch, and taking it + in turns to superintend the proceedings. + </p> + <p> + Three days of labor with the spade and the sieve produced no results of + the slightest importance. However, the matter was in the hands of two + quietly determined men. They declined to be discouraged. They went on. + </p> + <p> + On the fourth day the first morsels of paper were found. + </p> + <p> + Upon examination, they proved to be the fragments of a tradesman’s + prospectus. Nothing dismayed, Benjamin and the young chemist still + persevered. At the end of the day’s work more pieces of paper were turned + up. These proved to be covered with written characters. Mr. Playmore + (arriving at Gleninch, as usual, every evening on the conclusion of his + labors in the law) was consulted as to the handwriting. After careful + examination, he declared that the mutilated portions of sentences + submitted to him had been written, beyond all doubt, by Eustace Macallan’s + first wife! + </p> + <p> + This discovery aroused the enthusiasm of the searchers to fever height. + </p> + <p> + Spades and sieves were from that moment forbidden utensils. However + unpleasant the task might be, hands alone were used in the further + examination of the mound. The first and foremost necessity was to place + the morsels of paper (in flat cardboard boxes prepared for the purpose) in + their order as they were found. Night came; the laborers were dismissed; + Benjamin and his two colleagues worked on by lamplight. The morsels of + paper were now turned up by dozens, instead of by ones and twos. For a + while the search prospered in this way; and then the morsels appeared no + more. Had they all been recovered? or would renewed hand-digging yield + more yet? The next light layers of rubbish were carefully removed—and + the grand discovery of the day followed. There (upside down) was the + gum-bottle which the lodge-keeper’s daughter had spoken of. And, more + precious still, there, under it, were more fragments of written paper, all + stuck together in a little lump, by the last drippings from the gum-bottle + dropping upon them as they lay on the dust-heap! + </p> + <p> + The scene now shifted to the interior of the house. When the searchers + next assembled they met at the great table in the library at Gleninch. + </p> + <p> + Benjamin’s experience with the “Puzzles” which he had put together in the + days of his boyhood proved to be of some use to his companions. The + fragments accidentally stuck together would, in all probability, be found + to fit each other, and would certainly (in any case) be the easiest + fragments to reconstruct as a center to start from. + </p> + <p> + The delicate business of separating these pieces of paper, and of + preserving them in the order in which they had adhered to each other, was + assigned to the practiced fingers of the chemist. But the difficulties of + his task did not end here. The writing was (as usual in letters) traced on + both sides of the paper, and it could only be preserved for the purpose of + reconstruction by splitting each morsel into two—so as artificially + to make a blank side, on which could be spread the fine cement used for + reuniting the fragments in their original form. + </p> + <p> + To Mr. Playmore and Benjamin the prospect of successfully putting the + letter together, under these disadvantages, seemed to be almost hopeless. + Their skilled colleague soon satisfied them that they were wrong. + </p> + <p> + He drew their attention to the thickness of the paper—note-paper of + the strongest and best quality—on which the writing was traced. It + was of more than twice the substance of the last paper on which he had + operated, when he was engaged in the forgery case; and it was, on that + account, comparatively easy for him (aided by the mechanical appliances + which he had brought from London) to split the morsels of the torn paper, + within a given space of time which might permit them to begin the + reconstruction of the letter that night. + </p> + <p> + With these explanations, he quietly devoted himself to his work. While + Benjamin and the lawyer were still poring over the scattered morsels of + the letter which had been first discovered, and trying to piece them + together again, the chemist had divided the greater part of the fragments + specially confided to him into two halves each; and had correctly put + together some five or six sentences of the letter on the smooth sheet of + cardboard prepared for that purpose. + </p> + <p> + They looked eagerly at the reconstructed writing so far. + </p> + <p> + It was correctly done: the sense was perfect. The first result gained by + examination was remarkable enough to reward them for all their exertions. + The language used plainly identified the person to whom the late Mrs. + Eustace had addressed her letter. + </p> + <p> + That person was—my husband. + </p> + <p> + And the letter thus addressed—if the plainest circumstantial + evidence could be trusted—was identical with the letter which + Miserrimus Dexter had suppressed until the Trial was over, and had then + destroyed by tearing it up. + </p> + <p> + These were the discoveries that had been made at the time when Benjamin + wrote to me. He had been on the point of posting his letter, when Mr. + Playmore had suggested that he should keep it by him for a few days + longer, on the chance of having more still to tell me. + </p> + <p> + “We are indebted to her for these results,” the lawyer had said. “But for + her resolution; and her influence over Miserrimus Dexter, we should never + have discovered what the dust-heap was hiding from us—we should + never have seen so much as a glimmering of the truth. She has the first + claim to the fullest information. Let her have it.” + </p> + <p> + The letter had been accordingly kept back for three days. That interval + being at an end, it was hurriedly resumed and concluded in terms which + indescribably alarmed me. + </p> + <p> + “The chemist is advancing rapidly with his part of the work” (Benjamin + wrote); “and I have succeeded in putting together a separate portion of + the torn writing which makes sense. Comparison of what he has accomplished + with what I have accomplished has led to startling conclusions. Unless Mr. + Playmore and I are entirely wrong (and God grant we may be so!), there is + a serious necessity for your keeping the reconstruction of the letter + strictly secret from everybody about you. The disclosures suggested by + what has come to light are so heartrending and so dreadful that I cannot + bring myself to write about them until I am absolutely obliged to do so. + Please forgive me for disturbing you with this news. We are bound, sooner + or later, to consult with you in the matter; and we think it right to + prepare your mind for what may be to come.” + </p> + <p> + To this there was added a postscript in Mr. Playmore’s handwriting: + </p> + <p> + “Pray observe strictly the caution which Mr. Benjamin impresses on you. + And bear this in mind, as a warning from <i>me:</i> If we succeed in + reconstructing the entire letter, the last person living who ought (in my + opinion) to be allowed to see it is—your husband.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0046" id="link2HCH0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLVI. THE CRISIS DEFERRED. + </h2> + <p> + “TAKE care, Valeria!” said Mrs. Macallan. “I ask you no questions; I only + caution you for your own sake. Eustace has noticed what I have noticed—Eustace + has seen a change in you. Take care!” + </p> + <p> + So my mother-in-law spoke to me later in the day, when we happened to be + alone. I had done my best to conceal all traces of the effect produced on + me by the strange and terrible news from Gleninch. But who could read what + I had read, who could feel what I now felt, and still maintain an + undisturbed serenity of look and manner? If I had been the vilest + hypocrite living, I doubt even then if my face could have kept my secret + while my mind was full of Benjamin’s letter. + </p> + <p> + Having spoken her word of caution, Mrs. Macallan made no further advance + to me. I dare say she was right. Still, it seemed hard to be left, without + a word of advice or of sympathy, to decide for myself what it was my duty + to my husband to do next. + </p> + <p> + To show him Benjamin’s narrative, in his state of health, and in the face + of the warning addressed to me, was simply out of the question. At the + same time, it was equally impossible, after I had already betrayed myself, + to keep him entirely in the dark. I thought over it anxiously in the + night. When the morning came, I decided to appeal to my husband’s + confidence in me. + </p> + <p> + I went straight to the point in these terms: + </p> + <p> + “Eustace, your mother said yesterday that you noticed a change in me when + I came back from my drive. Is she right?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite right, Valeria,” he answered—speaking in lower tones than + usual, and not looking at me. + </p> + <p> + “We have no concealments from each other now,” I answered. “I ought to + tell you, and do tell you, that I found a letter from England waiting at + the banker’s which has caused me some agitation and alarm. Will you leave + it to me to choose my own time for speaking more plainly? And will you + believe, love, that I am really doing my duty toward you, as a good wife, + in making this request?” + </p> + <p> + I paused. He made no answer: I could see that he was secretly struggling + with himself. Had I ventured too far? Had I overestimated the strength of + my influence? My heart beat fast, my voice faltered—but I summoned + courage enough to take his hand, and to make a last appeal to him. + “Eustace,” I said; “don’t you know me yet well enough to trust me?” + </p> + <p> + He turned toward me for the first time. I saw a last vanishing trace of + doubt in his eyes as they looked into mine. + </p> + <p> + “You promise, sooner or later, to tell me the whole truth?” he said + </p> + <p> + “I promise with all my heart!” + </p> + <p> + “I trust you, Valeria!” + </p> + <p> + His brightening eyes told me that he really meant what he said. We sealed + our compact with a kiss. Pardon me for mentioning these trifles—I am + still writing (if you will kindly remember it) of our new honeymoon. + </p> + <p> + By that day’s post I answered Benjamin’s letter, telling him what I had + done, and entreating him, if he and Mr. Playmore approved of my conduct, + to keep me informed of any future discoveries which they might make at + Gleninch. + </p> + <p> + After an interval—-an endless interval, as it seemed to me—of + ten days more, I received a second letter from my old friend, with another + postscript added by Mr. Playmore. + </p> + <p> + “We are advancing steadily and successfully with the putting together of + the letter,” Benjamin wrote. “The one new discovery which we have made is + of serious importance to your husband. We have reconstructed certain + sentences declaring, in the plainest words, that the arsenic which Eustace + procured was purchased at the request of his wife, and was in her + possession at Gleninch. This, remember, is in the handwriting of the wife, + and is signed by the wife—as we have also found out. Unfortunately, + I am obliged to add that the objection to taking your husband into our + confidence, mentioned when I last wrote, still remains in force—in + greater force, I may say, than ever. The more we make out of the letter, + the more inclined we are (if we only studied our own feelings) to throw it + back into the dust-heap, in mercy to the memory of the unhappy writer. I + shall keep this open for a day or two. If there is more news to tell you + by that time you will hear of it from Mr. Playmore.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Playmore’s postscript followed, dated three days later. + </p> + <p> + “The concluding part of the late Mrs. Macallan’s letter to her husband,” + the lawyer wrote, “has proved accidentally to be the first part which we + have succeeded in piecing together. With the exception of a few gaps still + left, here and there, the writing of the closing paragraphs has been + perfectly reconstructed. I have neither the time nor the inclination to + write to you on this sad subject in any detail. In a fortnight more, at + the longest, we shall, I hope, send you a copy of the letter, complete + from the first line to the last. Meanwhile, it is my duty to tell you that + there is one bright side to this otherwise deplorable and shocking + document. Legally speaking, as well as morally speaking, it absolutely + vindicates your husband’s innocence. And it may be lawfully used for this + purpose—if he can reconcile it to his conscience, and to the mercy + due to the memory of the dead, to permit the public exposure of the letter + in Court. Understand me, he cannot be tried again on what we call the + criminal charge—for certain technical reasons with which I need not + trouble you. But, if the facts which were involved at the criminal trial + can also be shown to be involved in a civil action (and in this case they + can), the entire matter may be made the subject of a new legal inquiry; + and the verdict of a second jury, completely vindicating your husband, may + thus be obtained. Keep this information to yourself for the present. + Preserve the position which you have so sensibly adopted toward Eustace + until you have read the restored letter. When you have done this, my own + idea is that you will shrink, in pity to <i>him,</i> from letting him see + it. How he is to be kept in ignorance of what we have discovered is + another question, the discussion of which must be deferred until we can + consult together. Until that time comes, I can only repeat my advice—wait + till the next news reaches you from Gleninch.” + </p> + <p> + I waited. What I suffered, what Eustace thought of me, does not matter. + Nothing matters now but the facts. + </p> + <p> + In less than a fortnight more the task of restoring the letter was + completed. Excepting certain instances, in which the morsels of the torn + paper had been irretrievably lost—and in which it had been necessary + to complete the sense in harmony with the writer’s intention—the + whole letter had been put together; and the promised copy of it was + forwarded to me in Paris. + </p> + <p> + Before you, too, read that dreadful letter, do me one favor. Let me + briefly remind you of the circumstances under which Eustace Macallan + married his first wife. + </p> + <p> + Remember that the poor creature fell in love with him without awakening + any corresponding affection on his side. Remember that he separated + himself from her, and did all he could to avoid her, when he found this + out. Remember that she presented herself at his residence in London + without a word of warning; that he did his best to save her reputation; + that he failed, through no fault of his own; and that he ended, rashly + ended in a moment of despair, by marrying her, to silence the scandal that + must otherwise have blighted her life as a woman for the rest of her days. + Bear all this in mind (it is the sworn testimony of respectable + witnesses); and pray do not forget—however foolishly and blamably he + may have written about her in the secret pages of his Diary—that he + was proved to have done his best to conceal from his wife the aversion + which the poor soul inspired in him; and that he was (in the opinion of + those who could best judge him) at least a courteous and a considerate + husband, if he could be no more. + </p> + <p> + And now take the letter. It asks but one favor of you: it asks to be read + by the light of Christ’s teaching—“Judge not, that ye be not + judged.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0047" id="link2HCH0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLVII. THE WIFE’S CONFESSION. + </h2> + <p> + “GLENINCH, October 19, 18—. + </p> + <p> + “MY HUSBAND— + </p> + <p> + “I have something very painful to tell you about one of your oldest + friends. + </p> + <p> + “You have never encouraged me to come to you with any confidences of mine. + If you had allowed me to be as familiar with you as some wives are with + their husbands, I should have spoken to you personally instead of writing. + As it is, I don’t know how you might receive what I have to say to you if + I said it by word of mouth. So I write. + </p> + <p> + “The man against whom I warn you is still a guest in this house—Miserrimus + Dexter. No falser or wickeder creature walks the earth. Don’t throw my + letter aside! I have waited to say this until I could find proof that + might satisfy you. I have got the proof. + </p> + <p> + “You may remember that I ventured to express some disapproval when you + first told me you had asked this man to visit us. If you had allowed me + time to explain myself, I might have been bold enough to give you a good + reason for the aversion I felt toward your friend. But you would not wait. + You hastily (and most unjustly) accused me of feeling prejudiced against + the miserable creature on account of his deformity. No other feeling than + compassion for deformed persons has ever entered my mind. I have, indeed, + almost a fellow-feeling for them; being that next worst thing myself to a + deformity—a plain woman. I objected to Mr. Dexter as your guest + because he had asked me to be his wife in past days, and because I had + reason to fear that he still regarded me (after my marriage) with a guilty + and a horrible love. Was it not my duty, as a good wife, to object to his + being your guest at Gleninch? And was it not your duty, as a good husband, + to encourage me to say more? + </p> + <p> + “Well, Mr. Dexter has been your guest for many weeks; and Mr. Dexter has + dared to speak to me again of his love. He has insulted me, and insulted + you, by declaring that <i>he</i> adores me and that <i>you</i> hate me. He + has promised me a life of unalloyed happiness, in a foreign country with + my lover; and he has prophesied for me a life of unendurable misery at + home with my husband. + </p> + <p> + “Why did I not make my complaint to you, and have this monster dismissed + from the house at once and forever? + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure you would have believed me if I had complained, and if your + bosom friend had denied all intention of insulting me? I heard you once + say (when you were not aware that I was within hearing) that the vainest + women were always the ugly women. You might have accused <i>me</i> of + vanity. Who knows? + </p> + <p> + “But I have no desire to shelter myself under this excuse. I am a jealous, + unhappy creature; always doubtful of your affection for me; always fearing + that another woman has got my place in your heart. Miserrimus Dexter has + practiced on this weakness of mine. He has declared he can prove to me (if + I will permit him) that I am, in your secret heart, an object of loathing + to you; that you shrink from touching me; that you curse the hour when you + were foolish enough to make me your wife. I have struggled as long as I + could against the temptation to let him produce his proofs. It was a + terrible temptation to a woman who was far from feeling sure of the + sincerity of your affection for her; and it has ended in getting the + better of my resistance. I wickedly concealed the disgust which the wretch + inspired in me; I wickedly gave him leave to explain himself; I wickedly + permitted this enemy of yours and of mine to take me into his confidence. + And why? Because I loved you, and you only; and because Miserrimus + Dexter’s proposal did, after all, echo a doubt of you that had long been + gnawing secretly at my heart. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me, Eustace! This is my first sin against you. It shall be my + last. + </p> + <p> + “I will not spare myself; I will write a full confession of what I said to + him and of what he said to me. You may make me suffer for it when you know + what I have done; but you will at least be warned in time; you will see + your false friend in his true light. + </p> + <p> + “I said to him, ‘How can you prove to me that my husband hates me in + secret?’ + </p> + <p> + “He answered, ‘I can prove it under his own handwriting; you shall see it + in his Diary.’ + </p> + <p> + “I said, ‘His Diary has a lock; and the drawer in which he keeps it has a + lock. How can you get at the Diary and the drawer?’ + </p> + <p> + “He answered, ‘I have my own way of getting at both of them, without the + slightest risk of being discovered by your husband. All you have to do is + to give me the opportunity of seeing you privately. I will engage, in + return, to bring the open Diary with me to your room.’ + </p> + <p> + “I said, ‘How can I give you the opportunity? What do you mean?’ + </p> + <p> + “He pointed to the key in the door of communication between my room and + the little study. + </p> + <p> + “He said, ‘With my infirmity, I may not be able to profit by the first + opportunity of visiting you here unobserved. I must be able to choose my + own time and my own way of getting to you secretly. Let me take this key, + leaving the door locked. When the key is missed, if <i>you</i> say it + doesn’t matter—if <i>you</i> point out that the door is locked, and + tell the servants not to trouble themselves about finding the key—there + will be no disturbance in the house; and I shall be in secure possession + of a means of communication with you which no one will suspect. Will you + do this?’ + </p> + <p> + “I have done it. + </p> + <p> + “Yes! I have become the accomplice of this double-faced villain. I have + degraded myself and outraged you by making an appointment to pry into your + Diary. I know how base my conduct is. I can make no excuse. I can only + repeat that I love you, and that I am sorely afraid you don’t love me. And + Miserrimus Dexter offers to end my doubts by showing me the most secret + thoughts of your heart, in your own writing. + </p> + <p> + “He is to be with me, for this purpose (while you are out), some time in + the course of the next two hours I shall decline to be satisfied with only + once looking at your Diary; and I shall make an appointment with him to + bring it to me again at the same time to-morrow. Before then you will + receive these lines by the hand of my nurse. Go out as usual after reading + them; but return privately, and unlock the table-drawer in which you keep + your book. You will find it gone. Post yourself quietly in the little + study; and you will discover the Diary (when Miserrimus Dexter leaves me) + in the hands of your friend.” * + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + * Note by Mr. Playmore: + </p> + <p> + The greatest difficulties of reconstruction occurred in this first portion + of the torn letter. In the fourth paragraph from the beginning we have + been obliged to supply lost words in no less than three places. In the + ninth, tenth, and seventeenth paragraphs the same proceeding was, in a + greater or less degree, found to be necessary. In all these cases the + utmost pains have been taken to supply the deficiency in exact accordance + with what appeared to be the meaning of the writer, as indicated in the + existing pieces of the manuscript. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + “October 20. + </p> + <p> + “I have read your Diary. + </p> + <p> + “At last I know what you really think of me. I have read what Miserrimus + Dexter promised I should read—the confession of your loathing for + me, in your own handwriting. + </p> + <p> + “You will not receive what I wrote to you yesterday at the time or in the + manner which I had proposed. Long as my letter is, I have still (after + reading your Diary) some more words to add. After I have closed and sealed + the envelope, and addressed it to you, I shall put it under my pillow. It + will be found there when I am laid out for the grave—and then, + Eustace (when it is too late for hope or help), my letter will be given to + you. + </p> + <p> + “Yes: I have had enough of my life. Yes: I mean to die. + </p> + <p> + “I have already sacrificed everything but my life to my love for you. Now + I know that my love is not returned, the last sacrifice left is easy. My + death will set you free to marry Mrs. Beauly. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t know what it cost me to control my hatred of her, and to beg + her to pay her visit here, without minding my illness. I could never have + done it if I had not been so fond of you, and so fearful of irritating you + against me by showing my jealousy. And how did you reward me? Let your + Diary answer: ‘I tenderly embraced her this very morning; and I hope, poor + soul, she did not discover the effort that it cost me.’ + </p> + <p> + “Well, I have discovered it now. I know that you privately think your life + with me ‘a purgatory.’ I know that you have compassionately hidden from me + the ‘sense of shrinking that comes over you when you are obliged to submit + to my caresses.’ I am nothing but an obstacle—an ‘utterly + distasteful’ obstacle—between you and the woman whom you love so + dearly that you ‘adore the earth which she touches with her foot.’ Be it + so! I will stand in your way no longer. It is no sacrifice and no merit on + my part. Life is unendurable to me, now I know that the man whom I love + with all my heart and soul secretly shrinks from me whenever I touch him. + </p> + <p> + “I have got the means of death close at hand. + </p> + <p> + “The arsenic that I twice asked you to buy for me is in my dressing-case. + I deceived you when I mentioned some commonplace domestic reasons for + wanting it. My true reason was to try if I could not improve my ugly + complexion—not from any vain feeling of mine: only to make myself + look better and more lovable in your eyes. I have taken some of it for + that purpose; but I have got plenty left to kill myself with. The poison + will have its use at last. It might have failed to improve my complexion—it + will not fail to relieve you of your ugly wife. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t let me be examined after death. Show this letter to the doctor who + attends me. It will tell him that I have committed suicide; it will + prevent any innocent persons from being suspected of poisoning me. I want + nobody to be blamed or punished. I shall remove the chemist’s label, and + carefully empty the bottle containing the poison, so that he may not + suffer on my account. + </p> + <p> + “I must wait here, and rest a little while—then take up my letter + again. It is far too long already. But these are my farewell words. I may + surely dwell a little on my last talk with you! + </p> + <p> + “October 21. Two o’clock in the morning. + </p> + <p> + “I sent you out of the room yesterday when you came in to ask how I had + passed the night. And I spoke of you shamefully, Eustace, after you had + gone, to the hired nurse who attends on me. Forgive me. I am almost beside + myself now. You know why. + </p> + <p> + “Half-past three. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my husband, I have done the deed which will relieve you of the wife + whom you hate! I have taken the poison—all of it that was left in + the paper packet, which was the first that I found. If this is not enough + to kill me, I have more left in the bottle. + </p> + <p> + “Ten minutes past five. + </p> + <p> + “You have just gone, after giving me my composing draught. My courage + failed me at the sight of you. I thought to myself, ‘If he look at me + kindly, I will confess what I have done, and let him save my life.’ You + never looked at me at all. You only looked at the medicine. I let you go + without saying a word. + </p> + <p> + “Half-past five. + </p> + <p> + “I begin to feel the first effects of the poison. The nurse is asleep at + the foot of my bed. I won’t call for assistance; I won’t wake her. I will + die. + </p> + <p> + “Half-past nine. + </p> + <p> + “The agony was beyond my endurance—I awoke the nurse. I have seen + the doctor. + </p> + <p> + “Nobody suspects anything. Strange to say, the pain has left me; I have + evidently taken too little of the poison. I must open the bottle which + contains the larger quantity. Fortunately, you are not near me—my + resolution to die, or, rather, my loathing of life, remains as bitterly + unaltered as ever. To make sure of my courage, I have forbidden the nurse + to send for you. She has just gone downstairs by my orders. I am free to + get the poison out of my dressing-case. + </p> + <p> + “Ten minutes to ten. + </p> + <p> + “I had just time to hide the bottle (after the nurse had left me) when you + came into my room. + </p> + <p> + “I had another moment of weakness when I saw you. I determined to give + myself a last chance of life. That is to say, I determined to offer you a + last opportunity of treating me kindly. I asked you to get me a cup of + tea. If, in paying me this little attention, you only encouraged me by one + fond word or one fond look, I resolved not to take the second dose of + poison. + </p> + <p> + “You obeyed my wishes, but you were not kind. You gave me my tea, Eustace, + as if you were giving a drink to your dog. And then you wondered in a + languid way (thinking, I suppose, of Mrs. Beauly all the time), at my + dropping the cup in handing it back to you. I really could not help it; my + hand <i>would</i> tremble. In my place, your hand might have trembled too—with + the arsenic under the bedclothes. You politely hoped, before you went + away? that the tea would do me good—and, oh God, you could not even + look at me when you said that! You looked at the broken bits of the + tea-cup. + </p> + <p> + “The instant you were out of the room I took the poison—a double + dose this time. + </p> + <p> + “I have a little request to make here, while I think of it. + </p> + <p> + “After removing the label from the bottle, and putting it back, clean, in + my dressing-case, it struck me that I had failed to take the same + precaution (in the early morning) with the empty paper-packet, bearing on + it the name of the other chemist. I threw it aside on the counterpane of + the bed, among some other loose papers. My ill-tempered nurse complained + of the litter, and crumpled them all up and put them away somewhere. I + hope the chemist will not suffer through my carelessness. Pray bear it in + mind to say that he is not to blame. + </p> + <p> + “Dexter—something reminds me of Miserrimus Dexter. He has put your + Diary back again in the drawer, and he presses me for an answer to his + proposals. Has this false wretch any conscience? If he has, even he will + suffer—when my death answers him. + </p> + <p> + “The nurse has been in my room again. I have sent her away. I have told + her I want to be alone. + </p> + <p> + “How is the time going? I cannot find my watch. Is the pain coming back + again and paralyzing me? I don’t feel it keenly yet. + </p> + <p> + “It may come back, though, at any moment. I have still to close my letter + and to address it to you. And, besides, I must save up my strength to hide + it under the pillow, so that nobody may find it until after my death. + </p> + <p> + “Farewell, my dear. I wish I had been a prettier woman. A more loving + woman (toward you) I could not be. Even now I dread the sight of your dear + face. Even now, if I allowed myself the luxury of looking at you, I don’t + know that you might not charm me into confessing what I have done—before + it is too late to save me. + </p> + <p> + “But you are not here. Better as it is! better as it is! + </p> + <p> + “Once more, farewell! Be happier than you have been with me. I love you, + Eustace—I forgive you. When you have nothing else to think about, + think sometimes, as kindly as you can, of your poor, ugly + </p> + <p> + “SARA MACALLAN.” * + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + * Note by Mr. Playmore: + </p> + <p> + The lost words and phrases supplied in this concluding portion of the + letter are so few in number that it is needless to mention them. The + fragments which were found accidentally stuck together by the gum, and + which represent the part of the letter first completely reconstructed, + begin at the phrase, “I spoke of you shamefully, Eustace;” and end with + the broken sentence, “If in paying me this little attention, you only + encouraged me by one fond word or one fond look, I resolved not to take—” + With the assistance thus afforded to us, the labor of putting together the + concluding half of the letter (dated “October 20”) was trifling, compared + with the almost insurmountable difficulties which we encountered in + dealing with the scattered wreck of the preceding pages. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0048" id="link2HCH0048"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLVIII. WHAT ELSE COULD I DO? + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + I looked back at the strange circumstances under which the letter had been + discovered. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + It was a fortunate thing that a copy only had been sent to me. If the + original letter had been in its place, I believe I should have burned the + original at that moment. + </p> + <p> + The last morsel of paper had been barely consumed by the flames when the + door opened, and Eustace came in. + </p> + <p> + He glanced at the fire. The black cinders of the burned paper were still + floating at the back of the grate. He had seen the letter brought to me at + the breakfast-table. Did he suspect what I had done? He said nothing—he + stood gravely looking into the fire. Then he advanced and fixed his eyes + on me. I suppose I was very pale. The first words he spoke were words + which asked me if I felt ill. + </p> + <p> + I was determined not to deceive him, even in the merest trifle. + </p> + <p> + “I am feeling a little nervous, Eustace,” I answered; “that is all.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at me again, as if he expected me to say something more. I + remained silent. He took a letter out of the breast-pocket of his coat and + laid it on the table before me—just where the Confession had lain + before I destroyed it! + </p> + <p> + “I have had a letter too this morning,” he said. “And <i>I,</i> Valeria, + have no secrets from <i>you.</i>” + </p> + <p> + I understood the reproach which my husband’s last words conveyed; but I + made no attempt to answer him. + </p> + <p> + “Do you wish me to read it?” was all I said pointing to the envelope which + he had laid on the table. + </p> + <p> + “I have already said that I have no secrets from you,” he repeated. “The + envelope is open. See for yourself what is inclosed in it.” + </p> + <p> + I took out—not a letter, but a printed paragraph, cut from a Scotch + newspaper. + </p> + <p> + “Read it,” said Eustace. + </p> + <p> + I read as follows: + </p> + <p> + “STRANGE DOINGS AT GLENINCH—A romance in real life seems to be in + course of progress at Mr. Macallan’s country-house. Private excavations + are taking place—if our readers will pardon us the unsavory allusion—at + the dust-heap, of all places in the world! Something has assuredly been + discovered; but nobody knows what. This alone is certain: For weeks past + two strangers from London (superintended by our respected fellow-citizen, + Mr. Playmore) have been at work night and day in the library at Gleninch, + with the door locked. Will the secret ever be revealed? And will it throw + any light on a mysterious and shocking event which our readers have + learned to associate with the past history of Gleninch? Perhaps when Mr. + Macallan returns, he may be able to answer these questions. In the + meantime we can only await events.” + </p> + <p> + I laid the newspaper slip on the table, in no very Christian frame of mind + toward the persons concerned in producing it. Some reporter in search of + news had evidently been prying about the grounds at Gleninch, and some + busy-body in the neighborhood had in all probability sent the published + paragraph to Eustace. Entirely at a loss what to do, I waited for my + husband to speak. He did not keep me in suspense—he questioned me + instantly. + </p> + <p> + “Do you understand what it means, Valeria?” + </p> + <p> + I answered honestly—I owned that I understood what it meant. + </p> + <p> + He waited again, as if he expected me to say more. I still kept the only + refuge left to me—the refuge of silence. + </p> + <p> + “Am I to know no more than I know now?” he proceeded, after an interval. + “Are you not bound to tell me what is going on in my own house?” + </p> + <p> + It is a common remark that people, if they can think at all, think quickly + in emergencies. There was but one way out of the embarrassing position in + which my husband’s last words had placed me. My instincts showed me the + way, I suppose. At any rate, I took it. + </p> + <p> + “You have promised to trust me,” I began. + </p> + <p> + He admitted that he had promised. + </p> + <p> + “I must ask you, for your own sake, Eustace, to trust me for a little + while longer. I will satisfy you, if you will only give me time.” + </p> + <p> + His face darkened. “How much longer must I wait?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + I saw that the time had come for trying some stronger form of persuasion + than words. + </p> + <p> + “Kiss me,” I said, “before I tell you!” + </p> + <p> + He hesitated (so like a husband!). And I persisted (so like a wife!). + There was no choice for him but to yield. Having given me my kiss (not + over-graciously), he insisted once more on knowing how much longer I + wanted him to wait. + </p> + <p> + “I want you to wait,” I answered, “until our child is born.” + </p> + <p> + He started. My condition took him by surprise. I gently pressed his hand, + and gave him a look. He returned the look (warmly enough, this time, to + satisfy me). “Say you consent,” I whispered. + </p> + <p> + He consented. + </p> + <p> + So I put off the day of reckoning once more. So I gained time to consult + again with Benjamin and Mr. Playmore. + </p> + <p> + While Eustace remained with me in the room, I was composed, and capable of + talking to him. But when he left me, after a time, to think over what had + passed between us, and to remember how kindly he had given way to me, my + heart turned pityingly to those other wives (better women, some of them, + than I am), whose husbands, under similar circumstances, would have spoken + hard words to them—would perhaps even have acted more cruelly still. + The contrast thus suggested between their fate and mine quite overcame me. + What had I done to deserve my happiness? What had <i>they</i> done, poor + souls, to deserve their misery? My nerves were overwrought, I dare says + after reading the dreadful confession of Eustace’s first wife. I burst out + crying—and I was all the better for it afterward! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0049" id="link2HCH0049"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER XLIX. PAST AND FUTURE. + </h2> + <p> + I write from memory, unassisted by notes or diaries; and I have no + distinct recollection of the length of our residence abroad. It certainly + extended over a period of some months. Long after Eustace was strong + enough to take the journey to London the doctors persisted in keeping him + in Paris. He had shown symptoms of weakness in one of his lungs, and his + medical advisers, seeing that he prospered in the dry atmosphere of + France, warned him to be careful of breathing too soon the moist air of + his own country. + </p> + <p> + Thus it happened that we were still in Paris when I received my next news + from Gleninch. + </p> + <p> + This time no letters passed on either side. To my surprise and delight, + Benjamin quietly made his appearance one morning in our pretty French + drawing-room. He was so preternaturally smart in his dress, and so + incomprehensibly anxious (while my husband was in the way) to make us + understand that his reasons for visiting Paris were holiday reasons only, + that I at once suspected him of having crossed the Channel in a double + character—say, as tourist in search of pleasure, when third persons + were present; as ambassador from Mr. Playmore, when he and I had the room + to ourselves. + </p> + <p> + Later in the day I contrived that we should be left together, and I soon + found that my anticipations had not misled me. Benjamin had set out for + Paris, at Mr. Playmore’s express request, to consult with me as to the + future, and to enlighten me as to the past. He presented me with his + credentials in the shape of a little note from the lawyer. + </p> + <p> + “There are some few points” (Mr. Playmore wrote) “which the recovery of + the letter does not seem to clear up. I have done my best, with Mr. + Benjamin’s assistance, to find the right explanation of these debatable + matters; and I have treated the subject, for the sake of brevity, in the + form of Questions and Answers. Will you accept me as interpreter, after + the mistakes I made when you consulted me in Edinburgh? Events, I admit, + have proved that I was entirely wrong in trying to prevent you from + returning to Dexter—and partially wrong in suspecting Dexter of + being directly, instead of indirectly, answerable for the first Mrs. + Eustace’s death. I frankly make my confession, and leave you to tell Mr. + Benjamin whether you think my new Catechism worthy of examination or not.” + </p> + <p> + I thought his “new Catechism” (as he called it) decidedly worthy of + examination. If you don’t agree with this view, and if you are dying to be + done with me and my narrative, pass on to the next chapter by all means! + </p> + <p> + Benjamin produced the Questions and Answers; and read them to me, at my + request, in these terms: + </p> + <p> + “Questions suggested by the letter discovered at Gleninch. First Group: + Questions relating to the Diary. First Question: obtaining access to Mr. + Macallan’s private journal, was Miserrimus Dexter guided by any previous + knowledge of its contents? + </p> + <p> + “Answer: It is doubtful if he had any such knowledge. The probabilities + are that he noticed how carefully Mr. Macallan secured his Diary from + observation; that he inferred therefrom the existence of dangerous + domestic secrets in the locked-up pages; and that he speculated on using + those secrets for his own purpose when he caused the false keys to be + made. + </p> + <p> + “Second Question: To what motive are we to attribute Miserrimus Dexter’s + interference with the sheriff’s officers, on the day when they seized Mr. + Macallan’s Diary along with his other papers? + </p> + <p> + “Answer: In replying to this question, we must first do justice to Dexter + himself. Infamously as we now know him to have acted, the man was not a + downright fiend. That he secretly hated Mr. Macallan, as his successful + rival in the affections of the woman he loved—and that he did all he + could to induce the unhappy lady to desert her husband—are, in this + case, facts not to be denied. On the other hand, it is fairly to be + doubted whether he were additionally capable of permitting the friend who + trusted him to be tried for murder, through his fault, without making an + effort to save the innocent man. It had naturally never occurred to Mr. + Macallan (being guiltless of his wife’s death) to destroy his Diary and + his letters, in the fear that they might be used against him. Until the + prompt and secret action of the Fiscal took him by surprise, the idea of + his being charged with the murder of his wife was an idea which we know, + from his own statement, had never even entered his mind. But Dexter must + have looked at the matter from another point of view. In his last + wandering words (spoken when his mind broke down) he refers to the Diary + in these terms, ‘The Diary will hang him; I won’t have him hanged.’ If he + could have found his opportunity of getting at it in time—or if the + sheriff’s officers had not been too quick for him—there can be no + reasonable doubt that Dexter would have himself destroyed the Diary, + foreseeing the consequences of its production in court. So strongly does + he appear to have felt these considerations, that he even resisted the + officers in the execution of their duty. His agitation when he sent for + Mr. Playmore to interfere was witnessed by that gentleman, and (it may not + be amiss to add) was genuine agitation beyond dispute. + </p> + <p> + “Questions of the Second Group: relating to the Wife’s Confession. First + Question: What prevented Dexter from destroying the letter, when he first + discovered it under the dead woman’s pillow? + </p> + <p> + “Answer: The same motives which led him to resist the seizure of the + Diary, and to give his evidence in the prisoner’s favor at the Trial, + induced him to preserve the letter until the verdict was known. Looking + back once more at his last words (as taken down by Mr. Benjamin), we may + infer that if the verdict had been Guilty, he would not have hesitated to + save the innocent husband by producing the wife’s confession. There are + degrees in all wickedness. Dexter was wicked enough to suppress the + letter, which wounded his vanity by revealing him as an object for + loathing and contempt—but he was not wicked enough deliberately to + let an innocent man perish on the scaffold. He was capable of exposing the + rival whom he hated to the infamy and torture of a public accusation of + murder; but, in the event of an adverse verdict, he shrank before the + direr cruelty of letting him be hanged. Reflect, in this connection, on + what he must have suffered, villain as he was, when he first read the + wife’s confession. He had calculated on undermining her affection for her + husband—and whither had his calculations led him? He had driven the + woman whom he loved to the last dreadful refuge of death by suicide! Give + these considerations their due weight; and you will understand that some + little redeeming virtue might show itself, as the result even of <i>this</i> + man’s remorse. + </p> + <p> + “Second Question: What motive influenced Miserrimus Dexter’s conduct, when + Mrs. (Valeria) Macallan informed him that she proposed reopening the + inquiry into the poisoning at Gleninch? + </p> + <p> + “Answer: In all probability, Dexter’s guilty fears suggested to him that + he might have been watched on the morning when he secretly entered the + chamber in which the first Mrs. Eustace lay dead. Feeling no scruples + himself to restrain him from listening at doors and looking through + keyholes, he would be all the more ready to suspect other people of the + same practices. With this dread in him, it would naturally occur to his + mind that Mrs. Valeria might meet with the person who had watched him, and + might hear all that the person had discovered—unless he led her + astray at the outset of her investigations. Her own jealous suspicions of + Mrs. Beauly offered him the chance of easily doing this. And he was all + the readier to profit by the chance, being himself animated by the most + hostile feeling toward that lady. He knew her as the enemy who destroyed + the domestic peace of the mistress of the house; he loved the mistress of + the house—and he hated her enemy accordingly. The preservation of + his guilty secret, and the persecution of Mrs. Beauly: there you have the + greater and the lesser motive of his conduct in his relations with Mrs. + Eustace the second!”* + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + * Note by the writer of the Narrative: + </p> + <p> + Look back for a further illustration of this point of view to the scene at + Benjamin’s house (Chapter XXXV.), where Dexter, in a moment of + ungovernable agitation, betrays his own secret to Valeria. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Benjamin laid down his notes, and took off his spectacles. + </p> + <p> + “We have not thought it necessary to go further than this,” he said. “Is + there any point you can think of that is still left unexplained?” + </p> + <p> + I reflected. There was no point of any importance left unexplained that I + could remember. But there was one little matter (suggested by the recent + allusions to Mrs. Beauly) which I wished (if possible) to have thoroughly + cleared up. + </p> + <p> + “Have you and Mr. Playmore ever spoken together on the subject of my + husband’s former attachment to Mrs. Beauly?” I asked. “Has Mr. Playmore + ever told you why Eustace did not marry her, after the Trial?” + </p> + <p> + “I put that question to Mr. Playmore myself,” said Benjamin. “He answered + it easily enough. Being your husband’s confidential friend and adviser, he + was consulted when Mr. Eustace wrote to Mrs. Beauly, after the Trial; and + he repeated the substance of the letter, at my request. Would you like to + hear what I remember of it, in my turn?” + </p> + <p> + I owned that I should like to hear it. What Benjamin thereupon told me, + exactly coincided with what Miserrimus Dexter had told me—as related + in the thirtieth chapter of my narrative. Mrs. Beauly had been a witness + of the public degradation of my husband. That was enough in itself to + prevent him from marrying her: He broke off with <i>her</i> for the same + reason which had led him to separate himself from <i>me.</i> Existence + with a woman who knew that he had been tried for his life as a murderer + was an existence which he had not resolution enough to face. The two + accounts agreed in every particular. At last my jealous curiosity was + pacified; and Benjamin was free to dismiss the past from further + consideration, and to approach the more critical and more interesting + topic of the future. + </p> + <p> + His first inquiries related to Eustace. He asked if my husband had any + suspicion of the proceedings which had taken place at Gleninch. + </p> + <p> + I told him what had happened, and how I had contrived to put off the + inevitable disclosure for a time. + </p> + <p> + My old friend’s face cleared up as he listened to me. + </p> + <p> + “This will be good news for Mr. Playmore,” he said. “Our excellent friend, + the lawyer, is sorely afraid that our discoveries may compromise your + position with your husband. On the one hand, he is naturally anxious to + spare Mr. Eustace the distress which he must certainly feel, if he read + his first wife’s confession. On the other hand, it is impossible, in + justice (as Mr. Playmore puts it) to the unborn children of your marriage, + to suppress a document which vindicates the memory of their father from + the aspersion that the Scotch Verdict might otherwise cast on it.” + </p> + <p> + I listened attentively. Benjamin had touched on a trouble which was still + secretly preying on my mind. + </p> + <p> + “How does Mr. Playmore propose to meet the difficulty?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “He can only meet it in one way,” Benjamin replied. “He proposes to seal + up the original manuscript of the letter, and to add to it a plain + statement of the circumstances under which it was discovered, supported by + your signed attestation and mine, as witnesses to the fact. This done, he + must leave it to you to take your husband into your confidence, at your + own time. It will then be for Mr. Eustace to decide whether he will open + the inclosure—or whether he will leave it, with the seal unbroken, + as an heirloom to his children, to be made public or not, at their + discretion, when they are of an age to think for themselves. Do you + consent to this, my dear? Or would you prefer that Mr. Playmore should see + your husband, and act for you in the matter?” + </p> + <p> + I decided, without hesitation, to take the responsibility on myself. Where + the question of guiding Eustace’s decision was concerned, I considered my + influence to be decidedly superior to the influence of Mr. Playmore. My + choice met with Benjamin’s full approval. He arranged to write to + Edinburgh, and relieve the lawyer’s anxieties by that day’s post. + </p> + <p> + The one last thing now left to be settled related to our plans for + returning to England. The doctors were the authorities on this subject. I + promised to consult them about it at their next visit to Eustace. + </p> + <p> + “Have you anything more to say to me?” Benjamin inquired, as he opened his + writing-case. + </p> + <p> + I thought of Miserrimus Dexter and Ariel; and I inquired if he had heard + any news of them lately. My old friend sighed, and warned me that I had + touched on a painful subject. + </p> + <p> + “The best thing that can happen to that unhappy man is likely to happen,” + he said. “The one change in him is a change that threatens paralysis. You + may hear of his death before you get back to England.” + </p> + <p> + “And Ariel?” I asked. + </p> + <p> + “Quite unaltered,” Benjamin answered. “Perfectly happy so long as she is + with ‘the Master.’ From all I can hear of her, poor soul, she doesn’t + reckon Dexter among moral beings. She laughs at the idea of his dying; and + she waits patiently, in the firm persuasion that he will recognize her + again.” + </p> + <p> + Benjamin’s news saddened and silenced me. I left him to his letter. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0050" id="link2HCH0050"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER L. + </h2> + <p> + THE LAST OF THE STORY. + </p> + <p> + In ten days more we returned to England, accompanied by Benjamin. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Macallan’s house in London offered us ample accommodation. We gladly + availed ourselves of her proposal, when she invited us to stay with her + until our child was born, and our plans for the future were arranged. + </p> + <p> + The sad news from the asylum (for which Benjamin had prepared my mind at + Paris) reached me soon after our return to England. Miserrimus Dexter’s + release from the burden of life had come to him by slow degrees. A few + hours before he breathed his last he rallied for a while, and recognized + Ariel at his bedside. He feebly pronounced her name, and looked at her, + and asked for me. They thought of sending for me, but it was too late. + Before the messenger could be dispatched, he said, with a touch of his old + self-importance, “Silence, all of you! my brains are weary; I am going to + sleep.” He closed his eyes in slumber, and never awoke again. So for this + man too the end came mercifully, without grief or pain! So that strange + and many-sided life—with its guilt and its misery, its fitful + flashes of poetry and humor, its fantastic gayety, cruelty, and vanity—ran + its destined course, and faded out like a dream! + </p> + <p> + Alas for Ariel! She had lived for the Master—what more could she do, + now the Master was gone? She could die for him. + </p> + <p> + They had mercifully allowed her to attend the funeral of Miserrimus Dexter—in + the hope that the ceremony might avail to convince her of his death. The + anticipation was not realized; she still persisted in denying that “the + Master” had left her. They were obliged to restrain the poor creature by + force when the coffin was lowered into the grave; and they could only + remove her from the cemetery by the same means when the burial-service was + over. From that time her life alternated, for a few weeks, between fits of + raving delirium and intervals of lethargic repose. At the annual ball + given in the asylum, when the strict superintendence of the patients was + in some degree relaxed, the alarm was raised, a little before midnight, + that Ariel was missing. The nurse in charge had left her asleep, and had + yielded to the temptation of going downstairs to look at the dancing. When + the woman returned to her post, Ariel was gone. The presence of strangers, + and the confusion incidental to the festival, offered her facilities for + escaping which would not have presented themselves at any other time. That + night the search for her proved to be useless. The next morning brought + with it the last touching and terrible tidings of her. She had strayed + back to the burial-ground; and she had been found toward sunrise, dead of + cold and exposure, on Miserrimus Dexter’s grave. Faithful to the last, + Ariel had followed the Master! Faithful to the last, Ariel had died on the + Master’s grave! + </p> + <p> + Having written these sad words, I turn willingly to a less painful theme. + </p> + <p> + Events had separated me from Major Fitz-David, after the date of the + dinner-party which had witnessed my memorable meeting with Lady Clarinda. + From that time I heard little or nothing of the Major; and I am ashamed to + say I had almost entirely forgotten him—when I was reminded of the + modern Don Juan by the amazing appearance of wedding-cards, addressed to + me at my mother-in-law’s house! The Major had settled in life at last. + And, more wonderful still, the Major had chosen as the lawful ruler of his + household and himself—“the future Queen of Song,” the round-eyed, + overdressed young lady with the strident soprano voice! + </p> + <p> + We paid our visit of congratulation in due form; and we really did feel + for Major Fitz-David. + </p> + <p> + The ordeal of marriage had so changed my gay and gallant admirer of former + times that I hardly knew him again. He had lost all his pretensions to + youth: he had become, hopelessly and undisguisedly, an old man. Standing + behind the chair on which his imperious young wife sat enthroned, he + looked at her submissively between every two words that he addressed to + me, as if he waited for her permission to open his lips and speak. + Whenever she interrupted him—and she did it, over and over again, + without ceremony—he submitted with a senile docility and admiration, + at once absurd and shocking to see. + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t she beautiful?” he said to me (in his wife’s hearing!). “What a + figure, and what a voice! You remember her voice? It’s a loss, my dear + lady, an irretrievable loss, to the operatic stage! Do you know, when I + think what that grand creature might have done, I sometimes ask myself if + I really had any right to marry her. I feel, upon my honor I feel, as if I + had committed a fraud on the public!” + </p> + <p> + As for the favored object of this quaint mixture of admiration and regret, + she was pleased to receive me graciously, as an old friend. While Eustace + was talking to the Major, the bride drew me aside out of their hearing, + and explained her motives for marrying, with a candor which was positively + shameless. + </p> + <p> + “You see we are a large family at home, quite unprovided for!” this odious + young woman whispered in my ear. “It’s all very well about my being a + ‘Queen of Song’ and the rest of it. Lord bless you, I have been often + enough to the opera, and I have learned enough of my music-master, to know + what it takes to make a fine singer. I haven’t the patience to work at it + as those foreign women do: a parcel of brazen-faced Jezebels—I hate + them! No! no! between you and me, it was a great deal easier to get the + money by marrying the old gentleman. Here I am, provided for—and + there’s all my family provided for, too—and nothing to do but to + spend the money. I am fond of my family; I’m a good daughter and sister—<i>I</i> + am! See how I’m dressed; look at the furniture: I haven’t played my cards + badly, have I? It’s a great advantage to marry an old man—you can + twist him round your little finger. Happy? Oh, yes! I’m quite happy; and I + hope you are, too. Where are you living now? I shall call soon, and have a + long gossip with you. I always had a sort of liking for you, and (now I’m + as good as you are) I want to be friends.” + </p> + <p> + I made a short and civil reply to this; determining inwardly that when she + did visit me she should get no further than the house-door. I don’t + scruple to say that I was thoroughly disgusted with her. When a woman + sells herself to a man, that vile bargain is none the less infamous (to my + mind) because it happens to be made under the sanction of the Church and + the Law. + </p> + <p> + As I sit at the desk thinking, the picture of the Major and his wife + vanishes from my memory—and the last scene in my story comes slowly + into view. + </p> + <p> + The place is my bedroom. The persons (both, if you will be pleased to + excuse them, in bed) are myself and my son. He is already three weeks old; + and he is now lying fast asleep by his mother’s side. My good Uncle + Starkweather is coming to London to baptize him. Mrs. Macallan will be his + godmother; and his godfathers will be Benjamin and Mr. Playmore. I wonder + whether my christening will pass off more merrily than my wedding? + </p> + <p> + The doctor has just left the house, in some little perplexity about me. He + has found me reclining as usual (latterly) in my arm-chair; but on this + particular day he has detected symptoms of exhaustion, which he finds + quite unaccountable under the circumstances, and which warn him to exert + his authority by sending me back to my bed. + </p> + <p> + The truth is that I have not taken the doctor into my confidence. There + are two causes for those signs of exhaustion which have surprised my + medical attendant—and the names of them are—Anxiety and + Suspense. + </p> + <p> + On this day I have at last summoned courage enough to perform the promise + which I made to my husband in Paris. He is informed, by this time, how his + wife’s Confession was discovered. He knows (on Mr. Playmore’s authority) + that the letter may be made the means, if he so will it, of publicly + vindicating his innocence in a Court of Law. And, last and most important + of all, he is now aware that the Confession itself has been kept a sealed + secret from him, out of compassionate regard for his own peace of mind, as + well as for the memory of the unhappy woman who was once his wife. + </p> + <p> + These necessary disclosures I have communicated to my husband—not by + word of mouth; when the time came, I shrank from speaking to him + personally of his first wife—but by a written statement of the + circumstances, taken mainly out of my letters received in Paris from + Benjamin and Mr. Playmore. He has now had ample time to read all that I + have written to him, and to reflect on it in the retirement of his own + study. I am waiting, with the fatal letter in my hand—and my + mother-in-law is waiting in the next room to me—to hear from his own + lips whether he decides to break the seal or not. + </p> + <p> + The minutes pass; and still we fail to hear his footstep on the stairs. My + doubts as to which way his decision may turn affect me more and more + uneasily the longer I wait. The very possession of the letter, in the + present excited state of my nerves, oppresses and revolts me. I shrink + from touching it or looking at it. I move it about restlessly from place + to place on the bed, and still I cannot keep it out of my mind. At last, + an odd fancy strikes me. I lift up one of the baby’s hands, and put the + letter under it—and so associate that dreadful record of sin and + misery with something innocent and pretty that seems to hallow and to + purify it. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He takes my hand, and kisses me tenderly. + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Do you wish to see the letter, Eustace?” + </p> + <p> + Instead of answering directly, he questions me in his turn. + </p> + <p> + “Have you got the letter here?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Sealed up?” + </p> + <p> + “Sealed up.” + </p> + <p> + He waits a little, considering what he is going to say next before he says + it, + </p> + <p> + “Let me be sure that I know exactly what it is I have to decide,” he + proceeds. “Suppose I insist on reading the letter—?” + </p> + <p> + There I interrupt him. I know it is my duty to restrain myself. But I + cannot do my duty. + </p> + <p> + “My darling, don’t talk of reading the letter! Pray, pray spare yourself—” + </p> + <p> + He holds up his hand for silence. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Eustace, there cannot be the shadow of a doubt of it!” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I be making some little atonement for any pain that I may have + thoughtlessly caused her to suffer in her lifetime?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes! yes!” + </p> + <p> + “And, Valeria—shall I please You?” + </p> + <p> + “My darling, you will enchant me!” + </p> + <p> + “Where is the letter?” + </p> + <p> + “In your son’s hand, Eustace.” + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Must I shut up the paper? Yes. There is nothing more for you to read or + for me to say. + </p> + <p> + Except this—as a postscript. Don’t bear hardly, good people, on the + follies and the errors of my husband’s life. Abuse <i>me</i> as much as + you please. But pray think kindly of Eustace for my sake. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Law and the Lady, by Wilkie Collins + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LAW AND THE LADY *** + +***** This file should be named 1622-h.htm or 1622-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/6/2/1622/ + +Produced by John Hamm, James Rusk, Janet Blenkinship, and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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