The Law and the Lady
by
Wilkie Collins
Part 2 out of 9
child.
He followed me. Putting one hand heavily on my shoulder, he
forced me to face him once more.
"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."
So he spoke. So he left me.
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.
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.
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.
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.
"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."
"I want to look my best," I said, "and I have sent for you to
help me."
"I understand, ma'am."
"What do you understand?"
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."
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.
"Where do you keep it?" she asked.
"What do you mean?"
"Look at your complexion, ma'am. You will frighten him if he sees
you like that. A touch of color you _must_ have. Where do you
keep it? What! you haven't got it? you never use it? Dear, dear,
dear me!"
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!"
The transformation of my face was accomplished. The chambermaid
pointed with her wicked forefinger in the direction of the glass.
"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!"
CHAPTER VIII.
THE FRIEND OF THE WOMEN.
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.
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 _him_. 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.
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.
I gave him my card. My cards, being part of my wedding outfit,
necessarily had the false name printed on them--_Mrs. Eustace
Woodville_. The servant showed me into a front room on the
ground-floor, and disappeared with my card in his hand.
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.
"What did you say, Oliver, when she asked for me?" inquired a
man's voice, pitched cautiously in a low key.
"I said I was not sure you were at home, sir," answered the voice
of the servant who had let me in.
There was a pause. The first speaker was evidently Major
Fitz-David himself. I waited to hear more.
"I think I had better not see her, Oliver," the Major's voice
resumed.
"Very good, sir."
"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."
"Yes, sir."
"Stop, Oliver!"
Oliver stopped. There was another and longer pause. Then the
master resumed the examination of the man.
"Is she young, Oliver?"
"Yes, sir."
"And--pretty?"
"Better than pretty, sir, to my thinking."
"Aye? aye? What you call a fine woman--eh, Oliver?"
"Certainly, sir."
"Tall?"
"Nearly as tall as I am, Major."
"Aye? aye? aye? A good figure?"
"As slim as a sapling, sir, and as upright as a dart."
"On second thoughts, I am at home, Oliver. Show her in! show her
in!"
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?
The servant reappeared, and conducted me to the inner room. Major
Fitz-David advanced to welcome me. What was the Major like?
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.
"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."
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.
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 _such_ a pleasure to see you!"
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.
"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?"
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.
"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 _give_ 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?"
"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."
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.
"The favor is granted, of course!" he said. "And now, tell me,
how is our dear Eustace?"
"Anxious and out of spirits." I answered.
"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."
"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 _you_ that our married life is just now not quite
a happy one."
Major Fitz-David lifted his eyebrows (dyed to match his whiskers)
in polite surprise.
"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?"
"He is the best and dearest of men," I answered. "But there is
some dreadful mystery in his past life--"
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
_will_ venture on delicate ground, madam, don't ask me to
accompany you."
"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?"
"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."
The Major started, and looked at me very attentively. His manner
became grave, his tone changed completely, when he spoke next.
"May I ask," he said, "if you have communicated to your husband
the discovery which you have just mentioned to me?"
"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 _she_ 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!"
"Do _me_ the greatest of all favors;" answered the Major. "Don't
ask me to say a word about it."
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.
"I _must_ 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!"
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.
"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."
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_ had been her
husband, come what might of it, I would have told her the truth!"
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?
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.
CHAPTER IX.
THE DEFEAT OF THE MAJOR.
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.
"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. _Au revoir_, my charming pupil--_au revoir._"
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 a t liberty
to set matters right with me, in my turn.
"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!"
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.
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 _my_ 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.
"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 _me_ 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!"
"You persist in calling me Mrs. Woodville," I said.
"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?"
He stopped, and waited--gravely waited--to hear my reply.
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.
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.
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.
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?"
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 r estore 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.
"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."
The Major drew a long breath of relief, and patted me on the
shoulder in high approval of what I had said to him.
"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. _She_ 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.
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.
"I shall be delighted to meet Lady Clarinda," I replied. "In the
meantime--"
"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 _menu?_ My sweet friend, what is your favorite
autumn soup?"
"In the meantime," I persisted, "to return to what we were
speaking of just now--"
The Major's smile vanished; the Major's hand dropped the pen
destined to immortalize the name of my favorite autumn soup.
"_Must_ we return to that?" he asked, piteously.
"Only for a moment," I said.
"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 _is_ your
favorite autumn soup?"
"Pardon me," I began, "we were speaking just now--"
"Oh, dear me!" cried Major Fitz-David. "Is this the other
subject?"
"Yes--this is the other subject."
The Major put down his pen for the second time, and regretfully
dismissed from his mind Madame Mirliflore and the autumn soup.
"Yes?" he said, with a patient bow and a submissive smile. "You
were going to say--"
"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."
Major Fitz-David held up his hand warningly, and cast a sly look
at me out of his bright little gray eyes.
"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 _am_ 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!"
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.
"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 _that_ 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!"
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.
"Ask of me anything else in the wide world," he said; "but don't
ask me to be false to my friend. Spare me _that_--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."
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.
"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."
"What have I offered?" he inquired, looking a little alarmed.
"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?"
"Consider it yours," cried the gallant old gentleman. "From the
garret to the kitchen, consider it yours!"
"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?"
"Yes?"
"Suppose I went from room to room, and searched everything, and
peeped in everywhere? Do you think there would be any chance--"
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.
"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?"
"Don't excite yourself!" cried the Major.
"Yes or No?" I repeated, more vehemently than ever.
"Yes," said the Major, after a moment's consideration.
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.
"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 mig ht touch if I could only find it?"
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.
"The thing you mention," he said, "the clew (as you call it),
might be seen and might be touched--supposing you could find it."
"In this house?" I asked.
The Major advanced a step nearer to me, and answered--
"In this room."
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 _Somnambula,_ "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.
The Major--strongly affected himself by this time--was the first
to break the silence.
"Sit down again," he said; "and pray take the easy-chair. You are
very much agitated; you want rest."
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.
"I have been here a long time," I said, faintly. "Tell me if I am
in the way."
"In the way?" he repeated, with his irresistible smile. "You
forget that you are in your own house!"
The servant returned to us, bringing with him a tiny bottle of
champagne and a plateful of delicate little sugared biscuits.
"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
_me,_ 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?"
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.
"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?"
He signed to me to drink the champagne and eat a biscuit before
he gave his answer.
"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."
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.
"Is it your express wish," he resumed, "that I should leave you
here by yourself to search the room?"
"It is my express wish," I answered.
"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."
With that explanation, he laid the keys before me on the table.
"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?"
"Certainly!"
"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--_the discovery which follows
will be a terrible one._ 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!"
"I thank you for your warning, Major. I must face the
consequences of making the discovery, whatever they may be."
"You are positively resolved?"
"Positively."
"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."
He lifted my hand to his lips, and fixed a last attentive look on
me.
"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 _you_ led me, I wonder, into the rashest
action of all?"
With those ominous last words he bowed gravely and left me alone
in the room.
CHAPTER X.
THE SEARCH.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I crossed to the opposite wall, the wall which contained the
window.
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 si x drawers in each cabinet, and examined
their contents without hesitation.
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.
Here a variety of objects was revealed to view, and the
examination accordingly occupied a much longer time.
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.
The sixth drawer was at once a surprise and a disappointment. It
literally contained nothing but the fragments of a broken vase.
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.
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.
"Pray don't let me disturb you," said Major Fitz-David. "I have
only come here to ask you a question."
"What is it, Major?"
"Have you met with any letters of mine in the course of your
investigations?"
"I have found none yet," I answered. "If I do discover any
letters, I shall, of course, not take the liberty of examining
them."
"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?"
"I am much obliged to you, Major--I quite understand."
"Are you feeling any fatigue?"
"None whatever, thank you."
"And you still hope to succeed? You are not beginning to be
discouraged already?"
"I am not in the least discouraged. With your kind leave, I mean
to persevere for some time yet."
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.
"_That_ doesn't look very encouraging," he said, with a smile,
pointing to the shattered pieces of china in the drawer.
"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."
I looked hard at him as I spoke. He changed the subject.
"Does the music upstairs annoy you?" he asked.
"Not in the least, Major."
"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!"
"A thousand thanks, Major. No more champagne for the present."
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.
Left by myself again, I looked at the book-case--looked at it
attentively for the first time.
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.
Making this discovery, I took out the fragments, down to the
smallest morsel of the shattered china, and examined them
carefully one after another.
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 a
ccident 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?
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.
It was useless to pursue the question, knowing no more than I
knew now. I returned to the book-case.
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.
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?
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.
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.
I looked up at the higher shelves.
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.
Where was the library ladder?
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.
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!
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.
"I hope I didn't frighten you," he said.
"You startled me a little, Major."
"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! _Au revoir_, my charming
friend--_au revoir!_"
I pulled the door to again the moment his back was turned, and
sat down for a while to compose myself.
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!
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. _My_ 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.
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.
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.
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.
It was divided into two compartments.
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.
As I opened the second cupboard it struck me that the light was
beginning to fail.
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.
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 whit e 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!
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.
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.
On the upper shelf there appeared, in solitary grandeur, one
object only--a gorgeously bound book.
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.
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.
Being a woman, however, I opened the book without a moment's
hesitation.
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.
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.
This time my patience was rewarded by a discovery which
indescribably irritated and distressed me.
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.
One of the persons I recognized as my husband.
The other person was a woman.
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.
All this time the lower shelf of the cupboard was still waiting
to be looked over.
I knelt down to examine it, eager to clear my mind, if I could,
of the degrading jealousy that had got possession of me.
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:
'To Major Fitz-David, with two vases. From his friends, S. and E.
M."
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.
"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
_her_ 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.
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.
_Was_ 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 replie d in the negative.
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?
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!
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.
I had one foot on the ladder, when I heard the door of the room
open--the door which communicated with the hall.
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.
"I can stand a good deal," the girl began, coolly, "but I can't
stand _this_ any longer?"
"What is it that you can't stand any longer?" I asked.
"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 _you_ out on
the stage?" she asked, sharply.
"Certainly not."
"He ain't in love with you, is he?"
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.
"Your question is not very civilly put," I said. "However, I
excuse you. You are probably not aware that I am a married
woman."
"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."
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.
"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--"
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.
"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.
"Yes," I said, taking the hint. "For a book."
"Haven't you found it yet?"
"No."
She looked hard at me, undisguisedly considering with herself
whether I were or were not speaking the truth.
"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?"
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!
"There!" she cried. "If I had Lady Clarinda here I'd serve her in
the same way."
"What will the Major say?" I asked.
"What do I care? Do you suppose I'm afraid of _him?_ Only last
week I broke one of his fine gimcracks up there, and all through
Lady Clarinda and her flowers!"
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. _She_ 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.
"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 _her_ 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 _that's_ the book you have been looking after? Are you
like me? Do you like reading Trials?"
Trials? Had I heard her aright? Yes: she had said Trials.
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.
"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."
I waited without moving a muscle, without uttering a word.
She approached me with the tongs in one hand and with a plainly
bound volume in the other.
"Is that the book?" she said. "Open it, and see."
I took the book from her.
"It is tremendously interesting," she went on. "I've read it
twice over--I have. Mind you, _I_ believe he did it, after all."
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?"
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.
"I declare, you're as helpless as a baby!" she said,
contemptuously. "There! _Is_ that the book?"
I read the first lines on the title-page--
A COMPLETE REPORT OF THE TRIAL OF EUSTACE MACALLAN.
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--
FOR THE ALLEGED POISONING OF HIS WIFE.
There, God's mercy remembered me. There the black blank of a
swoon swallowed me up.
CHAPTER XI.
THE RETURN TO LIFE.
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 fee bly 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.
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.
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!
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.
He rose and took my hand silently, in his simple, kindly way.
"Where is Eustace?" I asked. "Why has he gone away and left me?"
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!"
A strange voice answered, firmly and kindly: "Compose yourself,
madam. Mr. Woodville is waiting until you have recovered, in a
room close by."
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.
"You must rest a little," he said. "You must take some wine. If
you exert yourself now you will faint again."
Old Benjamin stooped over me, and whispered a word of
explanation.
"It's the doctor, my dear. You must do as he tells you."
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.
"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?"
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?"
Benjamin, in his turn, looked at Major Fitz-David, and said,
"Will _you?_" 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.
"I suppose I had better go too?" she said, addressing Major
Fitz-David.
"If you please," the Major answered.
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!"
With that extraordinary preface, she suddenly turned my way and
poured out a perfect torrent of words on me.
"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."
There Miss Hoighty lifted her handkerchief again to her face, and
burst modestly into tears behind it.
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.
"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--"
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.
"How did he come to this house?" I asked.
He came here with Mr. Benjamin shortly after I returned," the
Major replied.
"Long after I was taken ill?"
"No. I had just sent for the doctor--feeling seriously alarmed
about you."
"What brought him here? Did he return to the hotel and miss me?"
"Yes. He returned earlier than he had anticipated, and he felt
uneasy at not finding you at the hotel."
"Did he suspect me of being with you? Did he come here from the
hotel?"
"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."
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.
"I hardly know how to explain it to you," he said. "Eustace has
surprised and disappointed me."
He spoke very gravely. His looks told me more than his words: his
looks alarmed me.
"Eustace has not quarreled with you?" I said.
"Oh no!"
"He understands that you have not broken your promise to him?"
"Certainly. My youn g vocalist (Miss Hoighty) told the doctor
exactly what had happened; and the doctor in her presence
repeated the statement to your husband."
"Did the doctor see the Trial?"
"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!"'
I rose from the sofa in horror.
"Good God!" I cried, "does Eustace suppose that I doubt his
innocence?"
"He denies that it is possible for you or for anybody to believe
in his innocence," the Major replied.
"Help me to the door," I said. "Where is he? I must and will see
him!"
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.
"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."
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.
"Bring him here!" I said. "Pray, pray bring him here!"
"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."
"The Scotch Verdict?" I repeated. "What is that?"
The Major looked surprised at the question.
"Have you really never heard of the Trial?" he said.
"Never."
"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?"
"Did you say it was three years ago?" I asked.
"Yes."
"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?"
Major Fitz-David shook his head sadly.
"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."
"Was that the Verdict when Eustace was tried?" I asked.
"Yes."
"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?"
"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."
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.
"Take me to Eustace!" I cried. "I am strong enough to bear
anything now."
After one searching look at me, the Major silently offered me his
arm, and led me out of the room.
CHAPTER XII.
THE SCOTCH VERDICT.
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.
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.
"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!"
He released himself deliberately from my arms. He signed to me
with the mechanical courtesy of a stranger to take a chair.
"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."
We were standing before the fire-place. He left me, and walked
away slowly with his head down, apparently intending to leave the
room.
I followed him--I got before him--I placed myself between him and
the door.
"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 _are_
angry, I ask you to forgive me."
"It is I who ought to ask _your_ pardon," he replied. "I beg you
to forgive me, Valeria, for having made you my wife."
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