BERKELEY LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OF CALIFOV.NIA THE LAW AND THE LADY WILKIE COLLINS'S NOVELS. Crown 8vo. cloth extra, 3^.6^1?. each ; post 8vo. boards, -is. each; cloth limp, 2S. 6d. each. ANTONINA. THE FROZEN DEEP. BASIL. THE LAW AND THE LADY. HIDE AND SEEK. THE TWO DESTINIES. AFTER DARK. THE HAUNTED HOTEL. THE DEAD SECRET. THE FALLEN LEAVES. THE QUEEN OF HEARTS. THE WOMAN IN WHITE. JEZEBEL'S DAUGHTER. THE BLACK ROBE. NO NAME. HEART AND SCIENCE. MY MISCELLANIES. 'I SAY NO.' ARMADALE. A ROGUE'S LIFE. THE MOONSTONE. THE EVIL GENIUS. MAN AND WIFE. LITTLE NOVELS. POOR MISS FINCH. THE LEGACY OF CAIN. MISS OR MRS.? BLIND LOVE. THE NEW MAGDALEN. Popular Editions. Medium 8vo. 6d. each. THE WOMAN IN WHITE. THE MOONSTONE. ANTONINA. THE DEAD SECRET. THE NEW MAGDALEN. MAN AND WIFE. -.,. ARMA DALE. London : CHATTO & WINDl JS, III St. Martin's Lane, W.C. WILKIE COLLINS THE LAW AND THE LADY LIBRARY EDITION LONDON CHATTO & WINDUS 1903 MA Ik Jn^ci-ftelf to K E G N I E R (of the TH]gATRE FRANgAIS, PARISX IN TOKEN OF ADMIRATION FOPw THE GREAT ACTOR AND OF AFFECTION FOR THE TRUE FRIEND. ^80 NOTE: ADDRESSED TO THE READEB. Ik offering tMs 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 (especially when we happen to be women) of bestowing our love on the objects which are the most deserving of it, in the opinions of our fiiends. (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 saidiall that seems to be necessary at the present time; &rid I bid you cordially farewell w.a London, February 1, 1876. CONTENTS. OHAP. PA'JK I, The Bride's Mistake ...,,, . \ II. The Bride's Thoughts . • . « , , 7 III. Kamsgate Sands 16 IV. On the Wat Home ...»,,. 25 v. The Landlady's Discovery . • . , . 32 VI. My own Discovery , , 37 VII. On the Way to the Major , , , , , . 45 VIII. The Friend of the Av omen • • • , , 64 IX. The Defeat of the Major 61 X. The Search .•..,,.. 73 XI. The Return to Life . 92 XII. The Scotch Verdict . . , . , . jqi XIII. The Man's Decision 1Q7 XIV. The Woman's Answer 112 XV. The Story op the Trial. The Preliminaries . ,123 XVI. First Question— Did the Woman Die Poisoned T . 126 XVII. Second Question— Who Poisoned her ? . . . 142 XVIII. Third Question— What was his Motive ! . . 154 XIX. The Evidence for the Defence I69 XX. The End of the Trial ...... 174 XXI. I See my Way 1S5 XXII. The Major makes Difficulties . , . 192 XXIII. My Mother-in-Law Surprises me ... . 193 XXIV. Miserrimus Dexter— First View . . , , 205 XXV. Miserrimus Dexter — Second View .... 212 XXVI. MoRB or MY Obstinaot 225 vii CONTENTS. CHAP. PAOa XXVII. Mb. Dexter at Home 231 XXVIII. In the Dabk 242 XXIX. In the Light 249 XXX. The Indictment of Mks. Beault ... 257 XXXI. The Defence op Mks. Beadly . . . .268 XXXII. A Specimen of mt Wisdom .... 276 XXXIII. A Specimen of my Folly 279 XXXIV. Gleninch 293 XXXV. Mb. Playmoue's Pkophecy 300 XXXVI. Aeiel 309 XXXVII. At the Bedside ....... 315 XXXVIII. On the Journey Back 327 XXXIX. On THE Way to Dexteb 330 XL. Nemesis at Last ! 336 XLI. Mb. Playmore in a New Character . . .363 XLII. More Surprises 371 XLIII. At Last ! 377 XLIV. Our New Honeymoon 381 XLV. The Dust-Heap Disturbed . , , . . 388 XLVI, The Crisis Depebeed 397 XL VII. The Wife's Confession 401 XLVIIL What else COULD I do! 410 XLIX. Past and Future ....... 41b L. The Last or the Sxobz 422 THE LAW AND THE LADY- CHAPTER I. THE bride's mistake. ' 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 v/^ell, and are not afraid with any amazement.' Concluding the Marriage Service of the Church of England In those well-known word-s, 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, * Valeria, you are married ! ' Where were my thoughts ? What had become of my atten- tion ? I was too bewildered to know. I started and looked at my new husband. He seemed to be almost as much be- wildered 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 mar- riage — that we were Man and Wife 1 My Aunt Starkweatheif settled the question by a second tap on my shoulder. ' Take his arm ! ' she whispered in the tone of a woman who had lost all p.itience with me, I took his Brm, 2 THE LAW AND THE LADY, •Follow your uucle.' Holding fast by my husband's arm, I followed my uncle nnd the curate who had assisted him at the marriage. 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 neighbourhood 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. ]\ly dear father's faithful old clt-rk, Benjamin, at- tended the wedding to ' give me away,' as the phrase is. He had known me from a child, and, in my forlorn positioi?, he was as good as a father to me. 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. ' What !' cried my uncle, in his loudest and cheeriest tones, •you have forgotten your own name already? Well! well I let us hope you will never repent parting with it so readily. Try again, Valeria — try again,' With trembling fingers I struck the pen through my first effort and wrote my maiden name, very badly indeed, as follows :— When it came to my husband's turn I noticed, >\ali 8UI THE BRIDE'S MISTAKE. priso, that liis hand trembled too, and that lie produced a very poor specimen 0^ hia customary signature : — ^MMk^t^'t^jQ-ti^ryf'Ul^, My aunt, on being requested to sign, complied under pro- test. ' A bad beginning ! ' she said, pointing to my fir&t unfortunate signature with the feather-end of her pen. 'I say with my husband — I hope you may not live to regret it.' Even then, in the days of my ignorance and my innocence, that curious outbreak of my aunt's superstition produced a certain une; sy 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 ha 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. 'I wish you health and happinoes, my love, with all my heart. You are old enough to choose for yourself, and — no offence, Mr. Woodville, you and I ai»e new friends — and I pray God, Valeria, it may turn out that you have chosen well. Our house wiU be dreary enough without you ; but I don't complain, my dear. On the contrarj', if this change in your life makes you happier, I rejoice. Come ! come ! don't cry, or you wiU set your aunt off— and it's no joke at her time of life. Besides, crying will spoil your beauty. Dry your eyea 4 THE LAW AND THE LADY. and look in the glass there, and you will see that 1 am right Good-bye, child — and God bless you ! ' He tucked my aunt under his arm, and hurried out. My heart sank a little, dearly as I loved my husband, when I had Been the last of the true friend and protector of my maiden days. 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 was not quite hopeful about my future life. My husband's voice roused me, and turned my mind to Iiappier thoughts. 'Shall we go, Valeria?' he asked. I atopped 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. What does the glass show me ? The glass shows a tall and slender young woman of three- and-tweiity 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' INIedici), so as to show the neck beneath. Her complexion is pale : except in moments of violent agitation there is no colour 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 THE BRIDE'S MISTAKE. J !u form, but they are too dark, and too strongly marked. Her nose just inclines towards the aquiline bend, and is con- sidered a little too large by persons difficult to please m the matter of noses. The mouth, her best feature, is very deli- cately 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 mo- ments 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 even on a third, view. As for her dress, it studiously conceals, instead of proclaiming, that she has been married that morning. She wears a grey Cashmere tnn!c trimmed with grey silk, and having a skirt of the same material and colour 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 colour, to complete the effect of the whole dress. Have I succeeded or failed in describing the picture of mj'self 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 ! And fi bom do I see in the glass, standing by my side ? 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-coloured beard and hia long overhanging moustache are already streaked with grey. He has the colour in his face which my face wants, and the firmness in his figure which my figure wants. Ho looks at me with the tenderest and gentlest eyes (of a light brown) that I ever saw in the countenance of a m^n. His 6 THE LAW AND THE LADY. smile is rare and sweet; his manner perfectly quiet and retiring, has yet a hitent persuasiveness in it, which is (to women) irresistibly winning. lie just halts a little in his walk, from the effect of an injury received in patt years, when he was a soldier serving in India, and he carries a thick bamboo cane, with a curious crutch handle (an old favourite), to help himself along whenever he gets on his feet, indoors or out. With this one little drawback (if it is a drawback), there is nothing infirm or old or awkwaid 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 Sc6 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 wed- ding-day. The glass has told me all I want to know. We leave the vestry at last. 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 father's or mother's blessing. A dreary wed- ding — there is no denying it — and (if Aunt Starkweather is right) a bad beginning as wSll ! A cotip'e 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 '"-vhat 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. Out lips meet in the first long lingering kiss of our married life. THE BRIDE'S THOUGHTS. Oil, what recollections of that journey rise in me aa I write ! Let me dry my eyes, and shut up my paper for the day. CHAPTER II. THE bride's thoughts. We had been travelling for a little more than an hour, when a change passed insensibly over us both. 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 pa=;sion 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 towards each other. We travelled along, each of us absorbed in our own reverie. Was he thinking exclusively of me — as I was thinking exclusively of him % Be'^o'-e 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. For me, the secret pleasure of filling my mind with him whiL I felt him by my side, was a luxury in itsel£ I pictured in my thoughts our first meeting in the neigh- bourhood of my uncle's house. 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 tlie backwater lay fctiL' g THE LAW AND THE LADY. and deep under an overhanging bank. A girl (myself) stand- ing on the bank, invisible to the fisherman beneath, waited eagerly to see the trout rise. The moment came ; the fish took the fly. 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 fi,sh. Along the bank I followed, to watch the contest of skill and cunniiig 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 some- thing, 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. 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 favour 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, an^J I verily believe our hearts encountered at the same moment. This I know for certain, we forgot our breeding as lady and gentle- man ; ■we looked at each other in barbarous silence. I was the first to recover myself. What did I say to him t I said BODiething about my not being hurt, and then somo THE BRIDE'S THOUGHTS. 9 thing more, urging liim to run back, and try if he might cot yet recover the fish. He went back unwillingly. He returned to me — of course, without the fish. Knowing how bitterly disappointed my uncle wonld have been in his place, I apologized very ear- nestly. In my eagerness to make atonement I even ofi'ered to show him a spot where he might try again, lower down the stream. 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. 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 was not the Vicar'a daughter. 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 this 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 ol my bosom — and all this for a stranger ! I burned with shame ; but oh, in spite of it all, I was so happy ! And now, when little more than a few weeks had passed since that first meeting, I had him by my side ; he was mine lo THE LAW AND THE LADY. 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. He never moved in his corner of the carriage. Was he deep in his own thoughts % and were they thoughts oi Mel I laid down my head again softly, so as not to disturb him. My mind wandered backward once more, and showed me another picture in the golden gallery of the past. The garden of 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. V/e 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 firat took me in his arms, and he gently turned my head tow{<.-ds the moonlight, to read my trouble in my face. How often he had read my happiness there in the earlier days of our love ! * You bring bad news, my anj'jel,' he said, lifting my hair tenderly from my forehead as he spoke. * I see the lines here which tell me of auxiety and distress. I almost wish I loved you less dearly, Valeria.' ' Why 1 ' *I might give you back your freedom. I have only to leave this place, and your undo v/ould be satisfied, and you would be relieved from all the ^ares that are pressing on you now.' * Don't speak of it, Eustace i If you want me to forget my cares, say you love me mor.^ dearly than ever.' THE BRIDE'S THOUGHTS. tl 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 bad gone through, ready to go through it all over again for another kisa Only give a woman love, and there is nothing she will not venture. Buffer, and do. •Have they been raising fresh objections to our marriage?' he asked, as we slowly walked on again. ' No ; they have done with objecting. They have re- membered at last that I am of age, and that I can chooso for myself. They have been pleading with me, Eustace, tt 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 towards you, if I am not satisfied with his opinion. Oh, my darling, they are as anxious to part U3, as if you were the worst, instead of the best, of men ! ' * Has anything happened since yesterday to increase their distrust of me % he asked. 'Yes.' •What is it?' * You remember referring my uncle to a friend of yours and of his?' * Yes. To Major Fitz-David.' * My uncle has written to Major Fitz-David ? ' 'Why?' He pronounced that one word in a tone so utterly unliko la THE LA]V AND THE LADY. his natural tone that his voice sounded quite strange to me. 'You won't be angry, Eustace, if I tell you?' I said. 'My uncle, as I understood liim, had several motives for writing to the Major. One of them was to inquire if he knew your mother's address.' Eustace suddenly stood still, I paused at the same moment, feeling that I could venture no further without the risk of offending him. To speak the truth, his conduct, when he first mentioned our engagement to my uncle, had been (so far as appear- ances went) a little flighty and strange. The "Vicar had naturally questioned him about his family. He had an- swered that his father was dead ; and he had consented, though not very readily, to announce his contemplated mar riage to his mother. Informing us that she too lived in tho 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 dis- approved 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 por- fiisted in keeping his engagement with Doctor Starkweather's niece. Being asked to explain this extraordinary commu- nication, 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 re- ceives 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 hia THE BRIDE'S THOUGHTS. I3 mother's address, on the ground that the Vicar's interference would be utterly useless. My uncle at once drew the con- clusion that the mystery about the address indicated some- thing wrong. He refused to favour 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. Under such circumstances as these, to speak of my uncle'a motives was to venture on very delicate ground. Eustace relieved me from further embarrassment by asking a question to which I could easily reply. 'Has your uncle received any answer from Major Fitz- David ? ' he inquired. * Yes.' * Were you allowed to read it ? ' His voice sank as he said those words ; his face betrayed a sudden anxiety which it ;jained me to see. * I have got the answer with me to show you,' I said. 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 re- peated it at the time. I can repeat it now. * 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 in- dependent fortune of two thousand a year. * Always yours, * Laweence Fitz-David.' * Can any one wish for a plainer answer than that ? ' Eustace asked, handing the letter back to me. ' If / had written for information about you,' I answered, *it would have been plain enough for me.' * Is it not plain enough for your uncle 1 * 14 THE Law and the lady, ' No.' * What does he say ? ' 'Why need you care to know, my darling V ' I want to know, Valeria. There must be no secret b« tween us in this matter. Did your uncle say anything when he showed you the Major's letter?' 'Yes.' 'What was it?' * My uncle told me that Lis letter of inquiry filled three pages, and he bade me observe that the Major's answer con- tained one sentence only. He said, " I volunteered to go to Jfajor 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, aa he has passed over my proposal — he studiously confines him* self to the shortest possible statement of bare facts. Usb your own 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 ? " ' Eustace stopped me there. ' Did you answer your uncle's question ? ' he asked. ' No,' I replied. ' I only said that I did not understand the Major's conduct.' 'And what did your uncle say next? If you love m6, Valeria, tell me the truth.' 'He used very strong language, Eustace. He is an old man ; you must not be olfended with him.' ' I am not off"ended. What did he say % ' 'He said, " Mark my words! There is something under the surface in connexion with JMr. Woodville, or with his family, to which IMajor Fitz-David is not at liberty to allude. I'roperly interi)reted, Valeria, that letter is a warning. Show it to JMr. Woodville, and tell him (if you like) what I hav« just told you " ' Eustace stopped me again. THE BRIDE'S THOUGHTS. IS * i'ou are sure your undo said those words % ' he aske^S, Bcanning my face attentively ia the moonlight. ' Quite sure. But I don't say what my uncle says. Pray don't think that ! ' He suddenly pressed me to his bosom, and fixed his eyes ou mine. His look frightened me. * Good-bye, Valeria ! ' he said. ♦ Try and think kindly of m^, my darlini^, when you arr married to some happier man.' He attempted to leave me. I olung; to him in an agony of jerror that shook me from head to foot. * 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 doncj to deserve those dreadful words ] ' * 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 1 I have led a dreary life, I bave 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 1 I must make the sacrifice, love, fur your sake. I know no more why that letter is what it ia than you do. Will your uncle believe me? V/ill your friends believe me ? One last kiss, Valeria ! Forgive me for having loved you — passionately, devotedly loved you. Forgive me — and let me go ! ' I held him desperately, recklessly. His eyes put me beside myself; his words filled me with a frenzy of despair. ' 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 ! ' Those wild words were all I could say before the misery and mad- ness ia me forced their way outward in a burst of sobs and tears. e§ THE LAW AND THE LADY. 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 happi- ness was mine ! Again, I lifted my head from his bosom to taste the dear delight of seeing him by my side — my life, my love, my hus- band, my own ! 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 ! ' 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? (/ had not been weeping — I was too happy.) What did I feel on my cheek ? A tear ! His face was still averted from me. I turned it toward* me, with my own hands, by main force. I looked at him — and saw my husband, on our wedding' day, with his eyes full of tears. CHAPTER IIL EAMSGATE SANDS. Eustace succeeded in quieting my alarm. But I can hardily eay that he succeeded in satisfying ray min« welL RAMSGATE SANDS. I7 He had been thinking, he told me, of the contrast between his past and his present life. Bitter remembrances 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 was 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 for ever. 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. We left the train at Ramsgate. The favourite watering-place was «mpiy ; 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 Kiarried, 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 sail- ing-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. 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. Early on the morning of the fourth day, just before suiv rise, a trifling incident happened, which was noticeable, never^ theless, as being strange to me in my experience of myself. o i8 THE LAW Ayn the lady. 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 wake 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. 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. I went to the window. The sun was just rising over the calm grey sea. For a while, the majestic spectacle before me exercised a tranquillising 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 wakiog before my usual time! I ro.^e 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. The first object that I noticed was his dressing-case, open ou the toilette tale. RAMSGATE SANDS. 19 I took out the bottles and pots and brushes and combs, the knives and scissors in one compartment, the writing materials in another. I smelt the perfumes and pomatums ; I busily cleaned and dusted the bottles with my handkerchief as 1 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 strip of loose blue silk. Taking it between my finger and my thumb, and, drawing it upward, I dis- covered 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 every- thing else. I found some receipted bills, which failed to interest me j some letters, which it is needless to say I laid aside, after only looking at the addresses ; and, under all, a photograph, face downwards, with writing on the back of it. I looked at the writing, and saw these words : * To my dear son, Eustace.' His mother ! the woman who had so obstinately and so mercilessly opposed herself to our marriage ! 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 ; tha expression, though remarkably firm^ was yet winning, tender, and kind. The grey 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 pecu- liarity 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 dis- pute, so far as appearances went, a person possessing unusual attractions — a person whom it would Do a pleasure and a privilege to know. 20 THE LAW AND THE LADY. I fell into deep thought. The discovery of the photograph quieted me as nothing had quieted me yet. 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 ? Could I put my question openly to Eustace when he woke 1 No ; I was afraid to venture that length. It had been tacitly understood between us that ve were not to speak of hia mother — and, besides, he might be angry if he knevf that I had opened the private compartment in his dressing-case. After breakfast that morning we had news at last of the yacht. The vessel was safely moored in the inner harbour, and the sailing-master was waiting to receive my husband's orders on board. Eustace hesitated at asking me to accompany him to tho yacht. It would be necessary for him to examine the inven- tory 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, volun- teered 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 Uje yacht. In half an hour more, the landlady and I were out ou the beach. t?AMSGATE SANDS. S>I The scene on that fine autumn morning was nothing les3 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 * JMrs, Woodville,' which I thought a little over- familiar as an assertion of equality from a person in her position to a person in mine. We had been out, I ' should think, more than half-an-hour when we overtook a lady walking before us on the beach. 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. 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 recognised the quaint little grey curls, the gentle genial expression, the mole at the corner of the mouth. No mistake was possible. His mother herself ! The old lady, naturally enough, mistook my confusion for Bhyilcjss. With perfect tact and kindness she entered into conversation with me In another minute I was walking Bide by side with the woman who had sternly repudiated me as a member of her family ; feeling, I own, terribly dis- composed, and not knowing in the least whether I ought, or ought not, to assume the responsibility, in my husband'i absea3e, of telling her who I waa. ta THE LAW AND THE LADY. In anotlicr minute my familiar landlady, walking on the otiier side of my motlier-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 Eroadstairs. *0h, no, Mrs. Woodvillcl' cried the irrepres- sible woman, calling me by my name, as usual ; ' nothing like flo near as you think ! ' I looked with a beating heart at the old lady. To my unutterable amazement, not the faintest gleam ol recognition appeared in her face. Old Mrs. ^yoodville went on talking to young Mrs. Woodville just as com- posedly as if she had never heard her own name before in her life ! My face am) manner must have betrayed something of the agitation that 1 was suffering. Happening to look at me at tha end of her next sentence, the old lady started, and said in her kindly way, — ' I am afraid you have over-exerted yourself You are very pale — you are looking quite exhausted. Come and sit down here; let me lend you my smelling-bottle.' 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 re- gret ; I mechanically took the smelling-bottle which my hus- band's mother offered to me, after hearing my name, as an act of kindness to a stranger. 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 himsel£ What could I do ? In the mean time, the old lady was still speaking to m with the most considerate sympathy. She too was fatigued, ehe said. She had passed a weary night at the bedside of a Xicar relative, staying at Ramngate. Only the day before, she RAMS GATE SAiVDS. a? had received a telegram announcing that one of her sisters was seriously ill. She was herself, thank God, still active and Btrong ; and she had thought it her duty to start at once for Kamsgate. Towards 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.' I heard the words — I understood what they meant — but I was still too bewildered and too intimidated by my extra- ordinary position to be able to continue the conversation. The landlady had a sensible suggestion to make ; the landlady was the next person who spoke. * 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?' The gentleman advanced a little nearer. The landlady and I recognised 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 1 here is Mr. Woodville himself ! ' 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 recognised her son yet. He had young eyes like us, and he recognised his mother. For a moment he stopped like a man thunderstruck. Then he cafue on— his face white with suppressed emotion, his eyes fixed on his mother. * You here ? ' he said to her. ' How do you do, Eustace 1 ' she quietly rejoined. * Have you heard of your aunt's illness, too ] Did you know she was gtaying at Ramsgate V \li'. marie no au'^/.ver. The landlady, drawing the inevitable 24 THE LAW AND THE LADY. inference from tlie words slie had just heard, looked from me to my mother-in law in a state of amazement, which paralysed 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. He did not delay. He came to my side and took my hand. ' Do you know who this is ? ' he said to his mother. She answered, looking at me with a courteous bend of her head, — * 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?' 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. ' Mother,' he said to her, very quietly, * this lady is my wife.' 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. ' I pity your wife,' she said. 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, aloue. ON THE WAY HOME. 35 CHAPTER IV. ON THE WAY HOME. Left by ourselves, there was a moment of silence amongst U3. Eustace spoke first. * Are you able to walk back % ' he said to me. ' Or shall we go on to Broadstairs, and return to Eamsgate by the railway 1 ' 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 cowrage, 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 1 Why had she left us, as if the bare idea of remaining in oui company was abhorrent to her 1 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 ! * I am quite recovered,' I said. * Let us go back, as we came, on foot.' Eustace glanced at the landlady. The landlady understood Mm. 26 THE LAW AND THE LADY. * I won't intrude my company on you, sir,' she said, sharply. * I have some business to do at Broadstairs — and, now I am BO near, I may as well go on. Good morning, ilrs. W«()d ville.' She laid a marked emphasis on my name ; and she added one significant look at parting, which (in the preoccupied etate of my mind at that moment) I entirely failed to com- prehend. 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. At last, we were alone. 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, — ' What does your mother's conduct mean?' 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 understood it, that I stood still on the sands, and openly remonstrated with him. ' Eustace ! you are not like yourself,' I said. ' You almost frighten me.' He took no notice. He seemed to be pursuing some pleasant train of thought just started in his mind, ' 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 ! ' ' Tell you ? ' I repeated. ' After what hng happened, surely it is your duty to enlighten me.' ' You don't see the joke 1 ' he said. 'I not only fail to see the joke,' I rejoined, 'I see some- thing in your mother's language and your mother's behaviour which justifies me in asking you for a serious explanation.' * My dcnr Valeria ! if yon understood my mother as well OiV THE WAY HOME. 27 as I do, a seriovis 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 laughkig again. ' My darling ! you don't know how you amuse me.' 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 unutter- able distress and alarm I asked myself: 'Is my husband, beginning to deceive me 1 is he acting a part, and acting it badly, before we have been married a week V 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. ' You tell me I don't understand your mother,' I said, gently. * Will you help me to understand her ?' * 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.' If he had picked out the most inappropriate word in the whole Dictionary to descrilw the lady whom I had met on the beach, ' Eccentricity ' wuuld have been that word. A child who had seen what I saw, who had heard what I heard, would have discovered that be was trifling — grossly, reck- lessly trifling — with the truth. '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 1 ' 'Your mother told you Eustace. I was walking just behind her, when she droppK? a letter by accident ' • No accident,' he intcrp''>scd * The letter was dropped on purpose.' 28 THE LAW AND THE LADY. 'Impossible!* I exclaimed. *WLy should your mothe? drop the letter on purpose V * Use the key to her character, my dear. Eccentricity I My mother's odd way of making acquaintance with you.' * 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.' * So you suppose, Valeria.' * I am certain of it.' * Pardon me — you don't know my mother as I do.* I began to lose all patience with him. * 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?' ' I have not the slightest doubt of it,' he answered, coolly. 'Why she didn't even recognise 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 honour, 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 lite.' ' "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 oif your guard by speaking in the character of a stranger. It is 60 like her to take that roundabout way of satisfying her curiosity about a daughter-in-law whom 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 impres- sion 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 ON THE WAY HOME. 29 your faults. And you wonder why no impression was pro- duced on her wlien slie 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.' I let him go on without saying a word. I listened — oh, with such a heavy heart ! with such a crushing sense of dis- enchantment 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 1 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 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 improbabilities to be facts that had actually happened ! 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 ! 'Valeria,' he asked, 'have you nothing to say to mel* ' Nothing.' *Are you not satisfied with my explanation?' I detected a slight tremor in his voice as he put that question. The tone was, for the first time since we had 30 THE LAW AND THE LADY. spoken together, a tone that my experience associated with him in certain moods of his which I had already learnt to know well. Among the hundred thousand mysterious in- fluences which a man exercises over the woman who loves him, I doubt if there is any more irresistible to her than the i)ifluence of his voice. I am not one of those women who ehed 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. He suddenly stood still, and took me by the hand. Ho tried to look at me. 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. In the silence that followed, he suddenly dropped on hi.s knees at my feet, with a cry of despair that cut through mo like a knife. ' 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 ! IMy love ! my angel ! it's something V>etweeu my mother and me ; it's nothing that need disturb you, it's nothing to anybody now. I love you, I adore you ; my w^hole 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. Docs it matter where we live, so long aa ON THE WAY HOME. 31 we live for each other % Forgive and forget ! Oh. Viileiw, Valeria, forgive and forget ! ' Unutterable misery was in his face ; unutterable misery was in his voice. Eemember this. And remember that 1 loved him. 'It is easy to forgive,' I said sadly. 'For your sake, Eustace, I will try to forget.' I raised him gently as I 3poke. 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 him, I asked him to tell me about the yacht. He seized on the subject as a drowning man seizes on the hand that rescues him. 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 his way back. To me, it was dread- ful 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 pre- served 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. * Shall we sail to-morrow % ' he called after me suddenly, as I ascended the stairs. 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 eympathy further and further from each ot'..;.i- day by day ? I Etuddered at the thoucrJj* of it. 32 THE LAW AND THE LADY. * To-morrow is rather a short notice,' I said. * Will you give me a little longer time to prepare for the voyage 1 ' ' 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 yoii, Valeria, before I go 1 ' * Nothing — thank you, Eustace.' He hastened away to the harbour. 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 CO company at all ? It was useless to ask. What did I know about him or his thoughts ] I locked myself into my room. CHAPTER V. THE landlady's DISCOVERY, I SAT DOWN, and tried to compose my spirits, Noav, or never, was the time to decide what was my duty to my husband and my duty to myself to do next. 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 marriel 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'(» 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. THE LAN'DLADY'S DISCOVERY. 33 So far as I could advance towards realising my position — and no farther. 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. 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. I was awakened by a knock at the door of my room. 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 handl Half nervously, half irritably, I asked who was there. The landlady's voice answered me. ' Can I speak to you for a moment, if you please 1 ' 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. 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. *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 1 ' I bowed, and said nothing. '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 you. No, no. I noticed that you were &s much fhocked and surprised at your mother-ia-law's con- 34 THE LAW AND THE LADY, duct as I was ; and that is saying a great deal, a great deal indeed. However, I have a duty to perform. It is disagree- able, 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 underst.ind 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 my 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 ' I could endure it no longer. I stopped her there. ' I understand,* I said, ' that you wish to give us notice to quit your lodgings. When do you want us to ^QV The landlady held up a long, lean, red hand, in sorrowful and sisterly protest. * No,' she said. * Not that tone ! not those looks ! It 'a 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.' * You ! ' I exclaimed. * What sacrifice ? ' 'Wliat 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 me by the hand, in a perfect frenzy of friendship. * Oh, my poor dear,' cried this intolerable person, ' I have discovered every- thing ! A villain has deceived you. You are no more mai ried than I ana ' ' THE LANDLADY'S DISCOVERY. 35 I snatclied my band ont of liers, and rose angrily from my chair. * Are you mad % ' I asked. The landlady raised her eyes to the ceiling, with the ai» of a person who had deserved martyrdom, and who submitted to it cheerfully. ' Yes,' she said. ' I begin to think I am 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 ! ' * Do what again ? * I asked. * 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.' Thus far, my pride had held me up. It sustained me no longer. I dropped back ogain into my chair, in undisguised dread of what was coming next. * 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. 1 overtook your mother-in-law at the gap in the cliff. I f.>llowed her — oh, how I feel the disgrace of it now ! — I followed her to the station at Broadstairs. She went back by train to E-amsgate. I went back by train to Ramsgate. She walked to her lodgings. / 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, madim, what your mother-in-law's name really ia. 36 THE LAW AND THE LADY. She knows nothing about any such person as j\Trs. Wocdville, for an excellent reason. Her name is not Woodville. Hht name (and consequently her son's name) is Macallan. Mrs. Macallan, widow of the late General Macallan. Yes ! your husband is not your husband. You are neither maid, wife, rror widow. You are worse than nothing, madam — and you leave my house.' I stopped her as she opened the door to go out. She hud roused my temper by this time. The doubt that she had cast on my marriage was more than mortal resignation could endure. * Give me Mrs. Macallan's address,' I said. The landlady's anger receded into the background, and the landlady's astonishment appeared in its place. ' You don't mean to tell me you are going to the old lady yourself?' she said. •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 you ; it is not enough for me. 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 % ' 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. ' Stop a bit ! ' she stipulated. * If I give you the address, will you promise to tell me everything your mother-in-law says to you when you come back % ' I gave the required promise, and received the address in k-eturn. * No malice,' said the landlady, suddenly resuming all her old familiarity with me. * No malice,' I answered, with all possible cordiality on my BicUi. AfV WN- DISCO VER Y. 37 In ten minutes more I was at my mother-in-law's lodgings. CHAPTER VI. MY OWN DISCOVERY. 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. My mother-in-law was sitting alone, near a work-table, knitting. The moment I appeared in the door-way, she laid aside her work ; and, rising, signed to me with a commanding gesture of her hand to let her speak first. * I know what you have come 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.' It was firmly, but not harshly, said. I spoke firmly in my turn. ' I have not come here, madam, to ask questions about your Bon,' I answered. * I have come — if you will excuse me — to ask you a question about yourself.' She started, and looked at me keenly over her spectacles. I had evidently taken her by surprise. * What is the question % ' she inquired. * I now know for the first time, madam, that your name is JIacallan,' I said. 'Your son has married me under the name of Woodville. The only honourable 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 m^y position ? Will you let me ask 38 THE LAW AND THE LADY. if you Lave been twice married, and if the na'ue of your first husband was "VVoodville % ' She considered a little before she replied. * The question is a perfectly natural one, in your position,' she said. * But I think I had better not answer it' * May I ask why 1 ' ' 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 towards you. If you had consulted me before your marriage, I should willingly have admitted you to my fullest conlidence. It is now too late. You are married. I recom- mend you to make the best of your position, and to rest satisfied with things as they are.' ' Pardon me, madam,' I remonstrated. * As things are, 1 don't know that I am married. AJ 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 1 ' * 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 not lawfully married, my son (whatever his faults and failing ; n->ny be) is a gentleman. He is incapable of wilfully 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.' MY OWiy DISCOVERY. S9 She sat down again witli the air of a woman who had said her last word. 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. * You are hard on me, madam,' I said, at parting. « I am at your mercy, and I must submit.' She suddenly looked up, and answered me with a flush on her kind and handsome old face. * As God is my witness, child, I pity you from the bottom of my heart ! ' After that extraordinary outburst of feeling, she took up her work with one hand, and signed to me with the other to leave her. I bowed to her in silence, and went out. 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 had been twice married (as I had rashly chosen to suppose) she would certainly have shown '">me signs of recognition, when she heard me addressed by her first husband's name. Where all else was mystery, there was no mystery here, iWhatever his reasons might be, Eustace had assuredly married me under an assumed name. Approaching the door of our lodgings, I saw my husband walking backwards and forwards before it, evidently waiting for my return. If he asked me the question, I decided to teU him frankly where I had been, and what had passed between his mother and myself. He hurried to meet me with signs of disturbance in his face and manner. 'I have a favour to ask of you, Valeria,' he eaid. 40 THE LAW AND THE LADY. *Do you mind returning with me to London by the next train?' I looked at him. In the popular phrase, 1 could hardly believe my own ears. '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 ? * I made no objection. I too was eager to go back. In London, I could obtain the legal opinion which would tell me whether I was 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 had made a bad beginning, when I signed the wrong name in the marriage register. Shall I own it 1 My pride shrank from acknowledging, before the honeymoon was over, that his wife was right. 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. We went to a private hotel in the neighbourhood of Portland Place. After breakfast, the next morning, Eustace announced that be must leave me to attend to his business. I had pre- viously 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 pro» vidcd by the hotel MY WN DISCO VER y. 41 My heart was heavy that morning : I felt the tinaclcnc w- ledged 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 afterthought of tenderness touched me. Acting on the im- pulse of the moment, I put my arm round his neck, and held him to me gently. 'My darling,' I said, 'give me all your confidence. I know that you love me. Show that you can trust me too.* He sighed bitterly, and drew back from me— in sorrow, not In anger. * I thought we had agreed, Valeria, not to return to that subject again,' he said. ' You only distress yourself and dis- tress me.' 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. I drove to the shops firiit, and made the purchases which 1 had mentioned to Eustace by way of giving a reason for going out. Then I devoted myiielf 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, As soon as he had got over the first surprise of seeing me, he noticed that I looked ])ale and careworn. 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. 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, ho 42 THE LAW AND THE LADY. repeated my mother-in-law's name to liimself, ia a doubting, questioning tone. 'Macallan?' lie said. 'Macallan? Wlieie liave I heard that name? Why does it sound as if it wasn't strange tome?' He gave up pursuing the lost recollection, and asked, veiy 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 me — whether I was 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. 'Your carriage is at the door, my dear,' he answered. ' Come with me to my own lawyer, without wasting another moment.' We drove to Lincoln's Inn Fields. 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. This decisive answer relieved me of a heavy anxiety. I. accepted ray old friend's invitation to return with him to St. John's Wood, and to make my luncheon at his early dinner. 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. My companion shook his head, and entreated me to con- sider well beforehand what I proposed doing. His advice to tne — so strangely do extremes meet I — was my mother-in-law'a Jl/y JVN- DISCO VER V. 43 advice, repeated almost word for word. 'Leave things as tliey 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 1 ' 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 daug'ater or not. The old man's answer was thoroughly characteristic of him. * Mention what you want of me, my dear,' was all he said. We were then passing & street in the neighbourhood of Portman Square. I was on the point of speaking again, when the words were suspended on my lips. I saw my husband. He was just descending the steps of a house — as if leaving Ifc 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. * Do you happen to know who lives at number sixteen, Vivian Place 1 ' I inquired of my companion. Beijamin started. IMy question was certainly a strange one, after what he had just said to me, * No.' he replied. ' Why do you ask 1 * ♦I have just eeen Eustace leaving that house.* ' Well, my dear, and what of that 1 ' *My mind is in a bad way, Benjamin, Everything my husband does that I don't understand, rouses my suspicion now.* 44 THE LA]V A.VD TFIE LADY. Benjamin lifted his withered old hands, and let them drop on his knees again in mute lamentation over me. * 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 1 ' The question was plain. Benjamin met it with a pLdn answer, * 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.' 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 difiiculty 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. * Thank you, old friend j you have given me an idea already,' I said to Benjamin. * Have you got a Directory ia your house.' 'No, my dear,' he rejoined, looking very mucli puzzled. *But I can easily send out and borrow one.' 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 ON- THE WAY TO THE MAJOR. 45 the Major's name, under the letter F, I was startled by m now discovery. * Benjamin ! ' I said. * This is a strange coincidence. Lo jk here ! ' 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 1 CHAPTER VII. ON THE WAY TO THE MAJOB. 'Yes,' said Benjamin. *It « a coincidence certainly. Still ' 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. ' Go on,' I said. * 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 seema to be the reasonable view. What do you say ? ' * I have told you already that my mind is in a bad way about Eustace,' I answered. ' / 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 ! ' 'Suppose we get on with our dinner]' said Benjamin, resignedly. ' Here is a loin of mutton, my dear— an ordi- nary loin of mutton. Is there anything suspicious in tJuU i Very well, then. Show me you have confidence in th« 46 THE LAW AXD THE LADY. mutton ; please eat. There 's the wine, again. No mystery^ Valeria, in that claret — I '11 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.' I adapted myself to the old man's genial humour as readily as I could. We ate and we drank, and we talked of bygone 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 ? 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-bye. * Tromise, my dear, you will do nothing rash,' said Benjar min, as he opened the door for me. ' Is it rash to go to Major Fitz-David ?' I asked. * 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. Tru.st my experience, my dear. In matters of this sort there is nothirig like paving the way.' I considered a moment. It was due to my good friend to consider before I said No. Eellcction decided me on taking the rc.^itonsibility, v.' bat- ever it might be, upon my own shoulders. Good or bad, compassionate or cruel, the Major was a man. A wuman'g influence was the safest influence to trust with him-- w hero ON- THE WAY TO THE MAJOR. df the end to be gained was sucli an end as I Lad ii. view, Ic 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? * Do nothing rash, my dear. In your own interests, do nothing rash ! ' Those were Benjamin's last words, when we parted for the day. 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. ' My business is settled, Valeria, sooner than I had ex- pected,' he began, gaily. * Are your purchases all completed, fair lady ? A re you free too ? ' I had learnt already (God help me !) to distrust his fits of gaiety. I asked cautiously, *Do you mean free for to-day 1 ' ♦Free for to-day, and to-morrow and next week, and next month — and next year, too, for all I know to the contrary,' lie answered, putting his arm boisterously round my waist * Look here ! ' He lifted the open sheet of paper which I had noticed in Ills hand, and held it for mo 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 Bhould bp ready to sail for the Mediterranean with the next tide. ' I only waited for your return,' said Eustace, ' to send the telegram to the office.' He crossed the room, as he spoke, to ring the bell. I C-topped him. 48 THE LAW AMD THE LADY. ' I am alraid I can't go to Ramsgate to-day,' I said. 'Why not?' lie asked, suddenly changing his tone a/ia speaking sharply. 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 Am, 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. * I am sorry to disappoint you,' I answered. * It is im- possible for me (as I told you at Ramsgate) to be ready to sail at a moment's notice. I want time.' •What for]' 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 falsa 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. * You want time % ' he repeated. * I ask you again — what for?' 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. * I want time,' J said, * to accustom myself to my right name.' He suddenly stepped up to me with a dark look. ' \Vhat do you mean by your " right name " % ' ' Surely you know,' I answered. * I once thought I was Jlrfs, Woodvilla I have now discovered that I am Mrs. Macallan. ON THE WAY TO THE MAJOR. 45 He started back at the sound of his own name, as if 1 had struck him — he started back and turned so deadly pa!e 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 ] * I didn't mean to alarm you, Eustace,' I said. *I spoke at random. Pray forgive me.' He waved his hand impatiently, as if my penitent words were tangible things — ruffling, worrying things like flies in eummer — which he was putting away from him. ' What else have you discovered 1 ' he asked, in low, stern tones. * Nothing, Eustace.' ' Nothing % ' He paused as he repeated the word, and parsed 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. 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, or she would not be here.* 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 dis- covery that he contemplated, mean something so dreadful that it would have parted us at once and for ever 1 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. He sat for some time without looking at me, lost in Ma so. THE LAW AND THE LADY. own thoughts. Then he rose on a sudden, and took hia hat. ' 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 sullec 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 ? ' His tone was almost a tone of contempt. I was too depressed about myself, too alarmed about Mm, to resent it. ' Decide as you think best, Eustace,' 1 said, sadly. 'Every way, the prospect seems a hopeless one. As long as I am shut out from your confidence, it matters little whether wc live on land or at sea — we cannot live happily.' ' 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 fiiilings of her sex. A good wife should know better than to pry into affairs of her husband's with which she has no concern.' Surely it was hard to bear this % However, I bore it, ' Is it no concern of mine,' I asked, gently, ' when I find ihat my husband has not married me under his family name 1 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 unen- durable position in which you have placed me. Your cruel Kilence 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 ma for feeling this ? You tell me I am prying into affairs which arc yours only ? They are not 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 % ' He answered with a stern and pitiless brevity. ON- THE WAY TO THE MAJOk. 5' * For your own good.' I turned away from liim in silence. He was treating me like a child. He follovv^ed 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 Jihat I am now keeping from your knowledge — from that moment you live a life of torture ; your tran- quillity 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 \^ill be doing me the vilest injustice all the time. On my faith as a Christian, on my honour as a man, if you stir a step further in this matter there is an end of your happiness for the rest of your life ! Think seriously of what I have said to you ; you wil' have time to reflect. I am going to tell my friend that our plans for the Mediter- ranean 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, hovrever strange it may appear. I don't pretend to be able to analyse my own motives; I don't pretend even to guess how other womer 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 carriiLge to take me to I.Iajor Fitz-David's house in Vivian Place. Walking to and fro while I was waiting — I was in suoii a 52 IIIF- LAW AND THE LADV. fever of excitement tbut it wiis impossible for me to sit still— I accidentally caught sight of myself in the glass. My own face startled me : it was so haggard and so wild. Could I present myself to a stranger, could I hope to produce the necessary impression in my favour, 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 Bent 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 havA 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, fche 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 con- fidential 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 ma again. ' Lord blesb 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 1 have. I mean no harm.' She stopped and looked at me ON- THE WAY TO THE MAJOR. 53 critically. * I wouldn't change my dress, if I wcro you/ she went on. * The colour 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 colour, 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 beginnrr in the art of dressing hair. She laid down the combs and brushes, and looked at me — then looked at the toilette table, searching for something which she apparently failed to find. * Where do you keep it % ' she asked. ' What do you mean 1 ' 'Look at your comjilcxion, ma'am. You will frighten him if he sees you like that. A touch of colour you must have. Where do you keep it 1 What ! you haven't got it ? you never use it 1 Dear, dear, dear me ! ' For a moment, surprise fairly deprived her of her self- possession ! Eecovering 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 paints and powders ; and I said nothing to check her. I saw, in the glass, my skin take a false fairness, my cheeks a false colour, my eyes a false brightness — and I never shrank from it. No i I let the odious deceit go on ; I even admired the extraordinary delicacy and dexterity with which it was all done. 'Any- thing ' (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 54 THE LAW AATD THE LADY. 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. TUE FEIEND OP THE WOMEN. I kxND it impossible to describe my sensations while the car- riage was taking me to Major Fitz-David's house. I doubt, indeed, if I really felt or thought at all, in the true sense ol 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 ia my way. At other times, having before me the prospect of a critical inter- view 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 at 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 bo say that I had but one anxiety — anxiety to find the Major dt home. The door was opened by a servant out of livery, an old maa THE FRIEMD OF THE WOMEN. 55 who looked as if he might l'.a"ve beei* 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 til an was not sure whether his master was 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 Wooduille. 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 com- pletely 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 1 ' 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 busineas with me.' ' Yes, sir.' ' Stop, Oliver ! ' Oliver stopped. There was another and longer pausa Then the master resumed the examination of the man. * Js she young, Oliver 1 * S6 THE LAW AND THE LADY, * Yes, sir.' 'And— pretty?' * Better than pretty, sir, to my tliinking.' * Aye? aye? What you call a fine woman — eh, Oliver?' * Certainly, sir.' *Talir * Nearly as tall as I am, Llajor.* * Aye ? aye % aye ? A good figure 1 * * As slim as a sapling, sir, and as upright as a dart.* * On second thoughts, I am at home, Oliver. Show he? 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 colourless cheeks and my ill-dressed hair % The servant reappeared, and conducted me (by way of the ball) to the inner room. Major Fitz-David advanced to welcome me. What was the l^Isjor like? Well — he was like a finely-preserved gentleman of (say) «fxty years old ; little and lean, and chiefly remarkaUe by the extraordinary length of his nose. After this feature, I «ioticed, next, his beautiful brown wig; his sparkling little grey eyes; his ropy complexion ; his short military whiskers, •dyed to match his wig ; his Avhite teeth and his winning Bmile; 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 Sirs. Woodville, how very kind of you this is ! 1 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 en%-y 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 ic his face. THE FRIEND OE THE WOMEN. 57 The Major's sparkling little grey 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 was a privilege to bo near me. He took my hand, and lifted my glove to his lips, as if that glove was 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 danger- ously 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 per- mit. ' 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. Wood- ville, 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 j I can listen so much better ^ith a pretty hand in mine. The ladies indulge my weak- S8 THE LAW AND THE LADY. nosa. 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 favour «o 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 adminis- tering a practical check to it. I trusted to those ominous words, * a favour 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 favour is granted, of course ! ' he said. ' And now — tell me — how is our dear Eustace % ' ' Anxious and out of spirits,' I auswered. 'Anxious and out of spirits!' repeated the Major. 'The enviable man who is married to You, anxious and out of spirits 1 Monstrous ! Eustace fairly disgusts me. I shall take hira 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.' iMajor Fitz David lifted his eyebrows (dyed to match hia whiskers) in polite surprise. * Already ! ' he exclaimed. ' What can Eustace be made of? Has he no appreciation of beauty and grace 1 Is he the most insensible of living beings 1 ' ' He is the best and dearest of men,' I answered, ' But there is some dreadful mysttry 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 THE FRIEiYD OF THE IVOMEJV. gq plainly, * If you tvill 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 imagina- tion. 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 ofier you, dear IMrs, Woodville ? A cup of tea 1 ' • Call me by my right name, sir,' I answered boldly. * I iave made a discovery. I know, as well as you do, that my name is Macallan.' The Major started, and looked at me very attentively. Ilis manner became grave, his tone changed completely, when ho spoke next. ']\Iay I ask,' he said, 4f you have communicated to your husband the discovery which you have just mentioned to me 1 ' ' 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 Jilajor Fitz-David, I have no friends to take my part ; I have nobody to come to but you ! Do me the grcate.^t of all favours — tell me why your friend Eustace has married me under a false name ! ' ' Do me the greatest of all favours,' answered the T^Iajor. * Don't ask me to say a word about it.' He looked, in spite of his unsatisfactory reply, as if ho really felt for me. I determined to try my utmost powers ol persuasion ; I resolved not to be beaten at the first repulse. * I m^<5^ ask you,' I said. * Think of my position. How can I live, knowing what I know — and knowing no more 1 I would rather hear the most horrible thing you can tell ma Uian be condemned (as I am now) to perpetual misgiving and 6o THE LAW AND THE LADY. 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 1 I can only imitate your admirable frankness, your fearless candour. You have told me what your position is. Let voq 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 com- pose myself. * Infernal fool ! ' I heard him say to himself, as he considerately turned away from me for a few moments. * If / 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 IMajor stopped, and listened attentively. In a few moment? the door was opened, and the rustling of a woman's dress was plainly audible in the hall. The IMajor hurried to the door of the room, with the activity of a young man. He was too Inte. 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. THE DEFEAT OF THE MAJOR* ii CHAPTER IX. THK DEFEAT OF THE MA JOB, Major Fitz-David's visitor proved to be a plump, round eyed, over- dressed girl, with a florid complexion and straw- coloured hair. After first fixing on me a broad stare of astonishment, she pointedly addressed her apologies for in- truding 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 resent- ment on discovering us together. Major Fitz David set matters right in his own irresistible way. lie kissed the hand of the over dressed 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 com- municating 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. An revoir, my charming pupil — ax<. revoir.'' The young lady answered this polite little speech in a whisper — with her round eyes fixed distrustfully on me while ahe spoke. The door closed on her. Major Fitz-David was at liberty to set matters right with me, in my turn. * I call that young person one of my happy discoveries,' eaid 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 a railway station ] She was behind the counter in a refreshment-room, poor 6» THE LAW AND THE L/.'DY. 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 ib sufficiently advanced, and perfect her at Milan. In that un< sophisticated 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 sub- ject in discussion between us when his visitor had entered the room. The Major was very unwilling to return to the perilous topic on which he had just touched when the inter- ruption 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 mo «igain 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 mis- fortune is known to his friends, and is religiously kept by his friends. It is the secret that he is keeping from You. \lo will never tell it to you as long as he lives. And he hao THE DEFEAT OF THE MAJOR. 63 bound me not to tell it, under a promise given on my word (.f honour. You wished, dear ?tlrs. Woodville, to be niado acquainted with my position towards Eustace. There it is ! ' ' You persist in calling me IMrs. Woodvill-e,' 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. Kemonstrance is useless. You must do, what we do — you must give way to an unreasonable man. The best fellow in tlie 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 honour 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 1 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 towards you. I commit no indiscretion when I tell you that she refused to sanction your marriage, mainly for the reason that Eustace declined 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 Dr. 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 afi'air, 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 in- volve myself in a deception of which I thoroughly disapproved 64 THE Law AISTD THE LADY. — or to answer in a tone so guarded and so brief as to etop the correspondence at the outset. I chose the hist alternative ; and I fear I have offended my good old friend. You new 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 travelled 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 cer- tainly write to you ; she may even be bold enough to make her way into your house. Kenew your promise to keep the great calamity of my life a secret, on your honour, and on your oath." Those were his words, as nearly as I can remem- ber 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 J ' 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 THE DEFEAT GF THE MAJOR. Cs Beriously and sadly — never smiling ; never paying me a com- pliment ; 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. A.nd yet, I kept my seat. Never had the resolution to dis- cover 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 knock- ing 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 apologising 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 restore me to myself. I was able at last to satisfy Major Fitz David that his considerate 66 THE LAW AVD THE LADY. and courteous explanation bad 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 hu.°band. 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 Clarindal She has the gift of sympathy, and sees exactly how I am situated. I should so enjoy intro- ducing 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 wiU 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 mean time ' * 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 favourite autumn soup ? ' *In the mean time,' I persisted, *to return to what «V9 were speaking of just now ' The Major's smile vanished, the Major's hand dropped the pen, destined to immortalise the name of my favourite iiutumn soup. * Must we return to that 1 ' he asked, piteously. * Only for a moment,' I said. ' You remind me.' nursued Major Fitz- David, shsking his THE DEFEAT OF THE MAJOR. 67 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 pro- digious tenacity of purpose. She happens to be in L*- ndon. 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 favourite autumn soup ? ' * Pardon me,' I began \ * we were speaking just now * *0h, dear me!' cried Major Fitz-David. 'Is this the other subject 1 ' * 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 keep- ing 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 waniingly, and cast « Bly look at me out of his bright little grey 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 husbaiid 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 in- fluence ! don't make an old soldier false to his word of honour ! ' I tried to say something here in defence of my motives. The Major clasped his hands entreatingly, and looked at me with a pleading simplicity wonderful to see. ' Why press it T he asked. * I ofi"er no resistance. I am A lamb — why sacrifice me 1 I acknowledge your power ; I 68 THE LAW AND THE LADY. 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. Shtickiug, 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 (siipposed 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 colour 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. L 1 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 honour. And now, that is in danger ! Yes ; if you put your clever little questions, with those lovely eyes and with that gentle voice, 1 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 madd 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 doi 't ask me to be false to my friend. Spare mc ?/m^— and TITF. DEFEAT OF THE MAJOR. 69 there is nothing I will not do to satisfy you. I mean ^hat I say, mind ! ' he went on, bending closer to me, and speak- ing more seriously than he had spoken yet. * I think you are very hardly used. It is monstrous to '^xpect 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 honour 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 oti 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 head. * 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 ofTered to me of your own accord. *What have I offered?' he inquired, looking a littla alarmed. ' Nothing that you need repent of,' I answered; 'nothing which it is not easy for you to grant. May I ask a bold question 1 Suppose this house were mine instead of yours 1 ' * Consider it yours,' cried the gallant old gentleman. * From the garrets to the kitchen, consider it yours ! ' 1 '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 ? ' «Yesr * Suppose I went from room to room, and searched every- thing, and peeped in everywhere 1 Do you think there would be any chance — •^\ ' 70 THE LAW AND THE LADY. The quick-witted Major anticipated the nature of my qres- tion. He followed my example ; he, too, started to his feet, with a new idea in his mind. * Would there be any cLance,' 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 IMajor. * 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 clue to the mystery ? ' I asked. ' Something, for instance, which my eyes might see, and ray hands might touch, if I could onlj find it?' He considered again. I saw that I had succeeded in interesting him, in some way unknown to myself; and I waited patientl}' until he was prepared to answer me. ' The thing you mention,' he said ; * the clue (as you call it) might be seen and might be touched — supposing you could find it.' ' In this Louse ? ' 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 practising 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 lovely air from the Sonnamhda, ' 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 Placa THE DEFEAT OF THE MAJOR. 71 The Llajor — strongly affected himself, by tlxis time— was the first to break the silence. 'Sit down again,' he said; * and pray take the easy chair. Vou 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 plate-full of delicate little sugared biscuits. * I have had this wine bottled expressly for the ladie? ' said the Major. ' The biscuits come to me direct from Pari?. As a favour 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 v/hole 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 to eat a biscuit, before he gave his answer. * This is serious,' he said. * I wish you to be in perfect possession of yourself. Ptestore 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 ? ' 72 THE LAW AXD THE LADY. \ ' It is my express wish,' I answered. * I take a heavy responsibility on myself In granting youf 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 bookcase, and the door of the Italian cabinet in that corner. The small key opens the bookcase 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 honour not to assist you, by word or deed. I am not even at liberty to offer you the slightest hint. Is that understood 1 ' * 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 suc- ceed in laying your hand on the clue, 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 find- ing out your husband's secret, at once and for ever ! ' * I thank you for your warning, JLijor. I must face the consequences of making the discovery, whatever they may be.' * You are positively resolved 1 ' * Positively.* * Very welL Take any time you please. The house, and every person in it, is at your disposal. Ring the bell once, rHE SEARCH. 73 if you want the man servant. Ring twice, if you wiali 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 honour 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 yoxh led me, I v/onder, into the rashest action of all % ' With those ominous last words he bowed gravely, and kft me alone in the room. CHAPTER X. THE SEAKCn. 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 difliculty of breathing freely. The nervous agitation of the time was, I suppose, answerable for these sensations. I took jff 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 farther 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 to discovery. In other words, I began my first examination of the four walls round me, and of all that they enclosed. 74 2T/i2 LA IF AA'D THE LADY. 1 was amazed at my own calmness. My interview -with M.'ijor 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 sL.-rter walls, one contained the door in grooves which I haA'e 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. T 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 ot them. Assisted by a library ladder which stood against the bookcase, 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 com- partments, and was adorned at either extremity by handsome THE SEARCH. 75 curtains of dark red velvet. The ample, heavy folds of the velvet, left just room at the two corners of the wall, for two antique upright cabinets in buhl ; containing rows of drawers, and supporting two fine bronze reproductions (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. Beginning with the cabinet in the right hand corner, niy 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 Majors life when he had speculated, not very successfully, in mines. After satisfy- ing 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 tho examination accordingly occupied a much longer time. The top drawer contained a complete collection of car- penter's tools in miniature ; relics, probably, of the far distant time when the Major was a boy, and when parents or friends Lad 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 soit : the entire space was fiUed 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 76 THE LAW AND THE LADY. the bills, I fuuud nearly a dozen loose papers, all equally unimportant. The fifth drawer was in sad confusion. I took out first a loose bundle of ornamcntd cards, each containing the list of dishes at past banquets given, or attended, by the Major, in London and 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 disappoint- ment. 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 com- municating with the hall opened; and Major Fitz-David stood before me. His eyes, after first meeting mine, travelled downwards 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 sur- prise — looked as if he had caught me with my hand on the clue. ' Pray don't let me disturb you,' he said. * I have only looked in for a moment 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 tmj letters, I shall of course not take the liberty of examining them.' TIIL SEARCir, 77 « I wanted to speak to you about that,' lie rejoined. It only struck me a moment since, upstairs, that my letteia 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 pas3_ 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 tho fragments of the broken vase. By this time he had got hi."* feelings under perfect command. He, too, glanced at tha fragments of the vase, with an aj^pearance of perfect in- difference. I remembered the look of suspicion and surprise that had escaped him on entering the room ; and I thought his indifference a little over-acted. * 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 ta suspect everything — even down to a broken vase,' I looked hard at him as I spoke. He changed tlie subject. ' Does the music upstairs annoy you ?' he asked, * Not in the least, Major.' 78 THE LAW AND THE LADY. * 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 Bings in public. Is there anything I can do before I leave you again % May I send you some more champagne % Please Bay yes 1 * ' 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 slily towards the bookcase. 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 bookcase — 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 bookcase 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. Look- ing 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 w-aa the vase which had stood in the THE SEARCH. T9 place now vacant on the top of tlie bookcase, at tlie 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 was of British or of foreign manufacture. The ground was of a delicate cream- colour. The ornaments traced on this were wreaths of flowers and cupids, surround- ing 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 anympK or a goddess, or perhaps a portrait of some celebrated persoi> — I was not learned enough to say which. The othe<: medallion enclosed the head of a man, also treated in the classical style. Ee- clining shepherds and shepherdesses, in Watteau costume, ^ith 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 bookcase. By what accident had it become broken % And why had Major Fitz-David's face changed when he f(jund that I had dis. covered 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 was to be trusted, the way to the clue 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 bookcase. Thus far, I had assumed (without any sufficient reason) that the clue 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 bad detected on the part of 80 THE LAW AND THE LADY. the Major — that the clue 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 j^ nnual Eegister 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 1 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 ot something resembling it, exist in the archives of the Annual Keglster, 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 timel And yet, the Major had certainly stolen a look at the book- case. And again, the broken vase had once stood on the bookcase. Did these circumstances justify me in connecting the vase and the bookcase 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. Tlie 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 bookcase. The untidy top shelves looked •uggestive of some lucky accident which might unexpectedly THE SEARCH. 81 lead the way to success. I decided, if I did examine tlie bookcase 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 towards the door that ran in grooves — the imperfectly-closed door through which I had 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 bookcase ! 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 1 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 per- son — I should so like you to know her ! She is in sad trouble, poor thing. Little bills, you know, and nasty trades- people who want their money, and a husband — oh, dear mc, 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 goue. Can I do anything for you ? You are looking 82 THE LAW AND THE LADY. fatigued. Pray let me send for some more cLampagr.e 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 awhile to compose myself. He had been watching me at the bookcase ! The man who was in my husband's confidence, the man who knew where the clue was to be found, had been watching me at the bookcase ! 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-colour 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 busi- ness in that room (I was certain of it now !) began and ended with the bookcase. 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 THE SEARCH. 83 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 over-wrought. 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 was 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 compart- ment 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. Raindrops 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 bookcase. 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 white leaves of a S4 THE LAW AND THE LADY. little manuscript. 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 i-vory carvings froin 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 vpould be v/orth 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 bookcase, 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 com- parison 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, un ■ opened ; 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 SEARCH. 85 The leaves were of the finest vellum, witii tastefully- designed illuminations all round them. And what did these highly ornamented pages contain? To my imutterable amazement and disgust, they contained locks of haii let neatly into the centre 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 equally devoted to the same curious purpose- namely, to reminding the Major of the dates at which his various attach- ments 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 22nd, 1839 ! ' The next page was adorned by a darker shade of hair, with a French inscription under it : ' Cl^mence. Idole de mon ame. Toujours fidele. H61as: 2"" Avril, 1840 ! ' A lock of red hair followed— with a lamentation in Latin under it ; a note being attached to the date of dissolu- tion 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 dis- gusted with the creatures who had assisted in filling it — and then took it up again, by an after-thought. 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. 86 THE LAW AND THE LADY. This time, my patience was rewarded by a discovery whicl, 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 por- traits of two persons. One of the persons I recognised 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 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 ; mys- teries 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 Tin- known woman with the self-willed hard-featured face. All this time the lower shelf of the cupboard was still wait- ing to be looked over. I knelt down to examine it — eager to clear my mind, if 1 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 ; comprisiughis sword and pistols, THE SEARCH. 8? his epaulettes, his sash, and other minor accoutrements. 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, auti en- raged 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 por- traits. The lines ran thus : — * To Major Fitz- David, with two vases. From hio rxionds 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'a face produced by some past association in connexion 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 con- fronted me on the back of the photograph. * S. and E. M.' % Those last two letters might stand foT the initials of my husband's name — his true name — Eustace- Macallan. In this case, the first letter (' S.'), in all proba bility, indicated her name. What right had she to associate herself with him in that manner 1 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 pho- tograph, 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, 88 THE LAW AND THE LADY. they were as unlike eacli other in form and expression aa faces could be. Was she his sister after all 1 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. Was it possible that my first jealous instinct had ied 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 en- shrined in my heart of hearts capable of such base wicked- ness as the bare idea of his marriage to another woman im- plied ? 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 bookcase. IMy one idea, now, was the idea of taking refuge in eniploy- ment of any sort from my own thouglits. 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 Lope was to absorb myself, body and and soul, in the booka. THE SEARCH. g^ I had one foot on the ladder, when I beard the door of the room open — ^the door which communicated with the halL I looked round, 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 1 I asked. *If you have been here a minute, you have been here two good hours,' she went on. *A11 by yourself, in the Major's study. I am of a jealous disposition — / am. And I want to know what it means.' She advanced a few steps nearer to me, with a heightening colour 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. The brazed- faced hussey 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 90 THE LAW AND THE LADY. you see ? I 'm not easy in my mind, wi\en I see him leaving you mistress here to do just what you like. No offence ! I speak out — / do. I want to know what yon are about, alJ by yourself, in this room % How did you pick up with the Major 1 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 favour — 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 about 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 stand- ing. ' For a book ? ' she resumed. ' Yes,' I said, taking the hint. ' For a book.' * Haven't you found it yet % ' *No.' ' he looked hard at me ; undisguisedly considering with herself whether I was, or was not, speaking the truth. * You seem to be a good sort,' she said, making up her vnind at last. * There 's nothing stuck-up about you. I '11 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 t ' 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 ray 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.' THE SEARCH. «I 'What will the Major say 1' I asked. * What do I care % Do you suppose I 'm afraid of Idtn 1 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 bookcase — 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. &he had broken the vase ! Was the way to discovery about tc 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 Kving 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 1 Do you like reading Trials ] ' Trials 1 Had I heard her aright 1 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 fireplace, and taking up the tongs, returned with them to the bookcase. * Here 's where the book fell,' she said — ' in the space between the bookcase and the wall. I '11 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 1 ' she said. * Open it, and see.' I took the book from her. * It 's tremendously interesting,' she went on. * I 've read 99 Tim LAW AND THE LADY, it twice over — I have. Mind you, I believe he did it, after ^11.' Did it 1 Did what ? What was she talking about t I tried to put the question to her. I struggled — quite vainly — to say only those 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, con- temptuously. * There ! Is that the book % ' I read the first lines on the title-page :— A COMPLETE REPOKT OP THE TPJAL 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 POISONINO OF HIS WIFE. There, God's mercy remembered me. There, the black blank of a swoon swallowed me up. CHAPTER XL THE RETURN TO LIFE. My FIRST remembrance, when I began to recover my senses, was the remembrance of Pain — agonising pain, as if every nerve in my body was being twisted and torn out of mc. THE RETURN TO LIFE. 93 My whole being writhed and quivered under tlie 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 a shorter time there stole over me slowly, a sleepy sense of relief. I heard my own laboured breathing. I felt my hands moving feebly and mechanically like the hands of a baby. I faintly opened my eyes, aud 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 re- turn. With his eyes on the ground, with a strange appear- ance 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 fcimiiiar 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 1 ' I was still miserably weak. My eyes wandered mechanic- ally round the room as I put the question. I saw Major Fitz-David. I saw the table on which the singing-girl had 94 THE LAW AND THE LADY. opened tlie 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 was crying. In one mysterious moment my memoiy recovered its powers. The recollection of that fatal title page came back to me in all its horror. The ono 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 1 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. WoodviUe 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 1 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, tc account to me for my husband's extraor- dinary 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. THE RETURN TO LIFE. ^5 He looked afc Benjamin, and said, * Will you speak tc ^\tx VVoodville?' Benjamin, in Lis turn, looked at Major Fitz-David, and said, ' Will you 1 ' The Major signed to them both to leave us. They rose together, and went into the front room ; pull- ing the door to after them in its grooves. As they left ua, 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 ]\Iajor 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 an hysterical outbreak of energy. ' I must say a word, or I shall burst ! ' With that extraordinary preface, she suddenly turned my ff7ay, 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 — / do. My name is Hoighty — ]\Iis3 Hoighty. I have my own self-respect ; and it's wounded. I say my self- respect is wounded, when I find myself blamed without de- serving 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 1 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 59 worked to death with singing and languages ai:d what 9« THE LAW AND THE LADY. not — a poor girl wlio 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 defence. 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 1 ' 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 farther. No human forethought could have provided against what had happened. Besides, dreadful as the discovery had been, I would rather have made it, and suffer 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 sub- ject of my unhappy husband. ' How did he come to this house ? ' I asked. • He came herewith Mr. Eenjamin, shortly after I returned/ the Major replied. ' Long after I was taken ill % ' ' No, I had just sent for the doctor — feeling Beriouaiy alarmed about you.' THE RETURN 10 LIFE. 9» * What brought him here ? Did he return to the hotel, and miss me % ' « Yes. He returned earlier than he had anticipated ; and ha felt uneasy at not finding you at the hotel.' «*Did he suspect me of being with you 1 Did he come here from the hotel % ' * No. He appears to have gone first to lit. 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 under- stood 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. ' Eus- tace has surprised and disappointed me.' He spoke very gravely. His looks told me more than his words : his looks alarmed me. » Eustace has not quarrelled with you ]' I saii ' Oh, no ! ' _ . * He understands that you have not broken your promise to^ him ? ' * 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.' * Did the doctor see the " Trial " 1 ' ' Neither the doctor nor Mr. Benjamin has seen the " Tiial." I have locked it up ; and I have carefully kept the terrible 98 THE LAW AND THE LADY. Btory of your connexion witli the prisoner a secret from all o* 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 havt* done. He persists, nevertheless, in blaming me for letting you enter my house. And worse, far worse than this, he persists in declarin/r that 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 \ * doea 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 aiid will see him ! ' I dropped back exhausted on the soHi as I said the words. Major Fitz David poured out a glass of wine from the bottle un 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 I ' * Who is to persuade him to come back 1 ' 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 THE RET CRN TO LIFE. 99 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 inno- cence, by every argument and every appeal that an old friend could address to him. He had but one answer to give me. lleason as I might, and plead as I might, he still persisted ia 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 1 ' 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 understood my strange ignorance of what appeared to be 80 well known to other people. Three years since, my father was alive. I was living with him, in a country house in Italy — up in the mountains, near Siena. We never saw an English newspaper, or met with an English traveller, for weeks and weeks together. There might certainly have been Bome reference made to the famous Scotch Trial in my father's letters from England. If there was, he never told me of it. Or, if he did mention the case, I must have forgotten it in course of time. ' Tell me,' I said to the Major, ' 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 covirse 1 ' Major Fitz David shook his head sadly. 'Eustace was tried in Scotland,' ho said. 'There is a roo THE LAW AND THE LADY. verdict allowed by tLe Scotcli law, which (so far as I know) is not permitted by the laws of any other civilized country "H ihe 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 waa guilty % and not quite satisfied that my husband was innocent 1 Is that what the Scotch Verdict means V ' 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 sympjt- thies ; 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 said. ' I am strong enough to bear anything now.' After one searching look at me, the Major silently offered me his arm. We left the room together. "^11 E SCOTCH VERDICT, CHAPTER XIL TUE SCOTCH VEEDIGT. We walked to the far end of the hull. 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 farther end of it, near the fireplace. 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 fireplace. He left me, and walked away slowly with his head down ; apparently intend- ing 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, — you are angry, I ask you to forgive me.' * It is I who ought to ask your pardon,' he replied. ' I beg you to f jrgive me, Valeria, for having made you my wife.' 102 THE LAW AND THE LADY. He pronounced those words with a hopeless, heart-broken humility, dreadful to see, I laid my hand on bis bosom. I said, * Eustace, look at me,' 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. lie chilled, he froze me. ' Is it possible,' I said, ' that you doubt my belief in your innocence % ' He left the question unanswered. He sighed bitterly to himself, * Poor woman ! ' he said, as a stranger might have said, pitying me, ' Poor woman ! ' 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. * 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 ! Now do you doubt that I believe you are an innocent man % * * I don't doubt it,' he said, * All your impulses are generous. You are speaking generously, and feeling generously. Don't blame me, my poor child, if I look on farther than you do ; if I see what is to come — too surely to come — in the cruel future.' * The cruel future ! ' I repeated. * ^Vhat do you mean ? ' You believe in my innocence, Valeria. The Jury who tried me doubted it — and have left that doubt on record. What reason have i/ou for believing, in the face of the Verdict, that I am an innocent man ? ' * I want no reason ! I believe, in spite of the Verdict' THE SCOTCH VERDICT. 103 * Will ycur friends agree with you 1 AVLen your uncle and aunt know what has happened — and sooner or later they must know it — what will they say 1 They will say, " He began badly ; be concealed from our niece that he had been a prisoner on his trial ; 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 is 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.' ' That time will never come ! ' I answered, warmly. * You wrong me, you insult me, in thinking it possible ! ' He put down my hand from him, and drew back a step, with a bitter smile. '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 fervour of that love.' 'Never ! never!' He drew back from me a little farther still. 'Look at the world round 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 us, the doubts and fears that you don't feel now, will find their way to you then. When the clouds rise on our 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. Y9U will say to yourself, " Did It begin, in her time, with a harsh word from him, and with 104 THE LAW AND THE LADY. a tasty 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 yecoil 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. Embittered 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 1 "Was it for nothing that I warned you, solemnly warned you, to draw back, when I found you bent on discovering the truth 1 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 said I poisoned her in her medicine. If I bring you a cup of tea, I revive the rcmem. brance of a horrid doubt — they said I put the arsenic in her cup of tea. If I kiss you when I leave the room — I remind you tnat the prosecution accused me of kissing her, 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 stop farther 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 doubt that kills love has cast its blight on you and on me for the rest of our lives ! ' 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 t( heur more. THE iyCOTCII VERDICT. 105 * You are talking IiorriLly,' I said, * At your age and at mine, have we done with love, and done with hope 1 It is blasphemy to love and hope to say it ! ' * Wait till you have read the Trial,' he answered. * You mean to read it, I suppose ] ' ' Every word of it ! With a motive, Eustace, which you Lave yet to know.' * 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 nc-t 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.' ' 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 ! ' ' What do you mean % ' I went near to him again, and took his hand. * 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 in- justice — if he is innocent — let him prove it." Those were the words you put into the mouths of my friends. I adopt them for mine ! / say, Not Proven won't do for me. Prove your right, Eustace, to a verdict of Not Guilty. Why have you let three years pass without doing it 1 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?' I had roused myself; my pulses were throbbing, ray voice rang through the roomu Had I roused him f What was hia answer ] lo6 THF. LAW AND THE LADY. * Read the TriaL' That was his answer. I seized his arm. In my indignation and my despair, I shooir him with all my strength. God forgive me, I coulH almo.it have struck him, for the tone in which he had spoken, and the look that he had cast on me ! * 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 favour, that might have been found, has not been found. Suspicious circum- stances 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 will set it right ! We m^ist set it right — for your sake, for my sake, for the sake of our children if we are blest with children. Ob, 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 was talking ignorantly and madly of something that can never be ! ' Still, I failed to rouse him. His next words were spoken coiTipassionately rather than coldly — that was all * My defence was undertaken by the greatest lawyers in tho land,' he said. * After such men have done their utmost, and have failed — my poor Valeria, what can you, what can I, do t We can only submit.' 'Never ! ' I cried. * The greatest lawyers are mortal men ; the greatest lawyers have made mistakes before now. You can't deny that.' * Read the Trial.' For the chird time, he said those cruel words, and said no more. In utter despair of moving Lfm — feeling keenly, bitterly (if I must own it), his merciless superiority to all that I had said to him in the honest fervour cf my devotion and my love — I THE MAN'S DECISION. loj thought of Major Fitz-David as a last resort. In the dis« ordered 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, 1 had a blind belief in the 'influence of his old friend, if his old friend could only be prevailed upon to support my view. * Is there no persuading you ? ' I said. He looked away without answering. *At least you can wait for me a mo- ment,' I went on. • I want you to hear another opinion, besides mine.' 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 him- eelf. The doctor had gone away. Benjamin still remained ji the room. * Will you come and speak to Eustace % ' I began. * If you will only say what I want you to say ' 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. 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 bouset CHAPTER Xin. THE man's decision. My first impulse was the reckless impulse to follow Eustace— openly, through the streets. The Major and Benjamin both opposed this hasty resolu- tion on my part. They appealed to my own sense of self- lo8 Tim LAW AND THE LADY. respect, without (so far as I remember it) producing the Blightest effect on my mind. They were more successful when they entreated me next to be patient, for my husband's Bake. In mercy to Eustace, they begged me to wait half-an ! hour. If he failed to return in that time, they pledged them- ' selves to accompany me in search of him to the hotel. 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. Benjamin was the first to ask me what had passed between my husband and myself. * 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 " Mac- allan," when you first mentioned it to me at my cottage. I couldn't guess why, at the time. I know why, now.' Hearing this, I told them both unreservedly what I had said to Eustace, and how he had received it. To my un- speakable disappointment, they both sided with my hus- band — treating my view of his position as a mere dream. They said it, as he had said it, 'You have not read the Trial.' I was really enraged with them. 'The &cts arc enough for me,' 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 tells 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 lovo him as I love him ? Give me the book ! ' Slajor Fitz-David looked at Benjamin. * It will only additionally shock and distress her, if I givo her the book,' he said. ' Don't you agree with me I ' J interposed before Benjamin could answer. i THE MAN'S DECISION. 109 ' If you refuse my request/ I said, * you will oblige me, Major, to go to the nearest bookseller, and tell liim to buy the Trial for me. I am determined to read it.' This time, Benjamin sided with me. * Nothing can make matters worse than they are, sir,' he said. 'If I may be permitted to advise, let her have her own way.' The Major rose, and took the book out of the Italian cabinet — to which he had consigned it for safe keeping. '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 sh« so far forgot her- self 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 bookcase ; 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 look- ing at the fragments — and I fancy I betrayed to you that something of the kind was disturbing me. You looked as if you noticed it' * 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 % ' My impatience had misled me. The ordeal of the half- hour was not yet at an end. Slowly and more slowly, the heavy minutes followed each other — and stiU 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, no THE LAW AND THE LADY. there was one foreboding thought that pressed closer abd closer on my luind 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 ? 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. * Come ! ' he said. * Let us go to the hotel.' It then wanted nearly five minutes to the half-hour. I looked my gratitude to Major Fitz-David for sparing me those last five minutes : I could not speak to him, or to Benjamin. In silence we three got into a cab and drove to the hotel. 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. Trembling and breathless, I ran up the stairs ; the two gentlemen following me. The writing on the address of the letter was in my husband's hand. My heart sank in me as I looked at the lines ; there could be but one reason for bis writing to me. That closed envelope held his farewell words. I sat with the letter on my lap, stupefied — incapable of open- ing it. Kind-hearted Benjamin attempted to comfort and encourage me. The Major, with his larger experience of women, warned the old man to be silent. ' Wait ! ' I heard him whisper. * Speaking to her will do no good now. Give her time.' Acting on a sudden impulse, I held out the letter to him as he spoke. Even moments might be of importance, i£ Eustace had indeed left me. To give me time, might be to lose the opportunity of recalling liim, * You are his old friend,' I said. ' Open his letter, Major, uud read it for me.' THE MAN'S DECISION. fln Jfajor Fitz-David opened the letter, and read it tlirough to himself. When he had done, he threw it on the table with a gesture which was almost a gesture of contempt. * There is but one excuse for him,' he said. * Th« man is mad,' Those words told me all I knew the worst j and, knowing it, I could read the letter. It ran thus :— * 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. * 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 honourably and completely acquitted of the charge. And you know it ! 'Can you live on terms of mutual confidence and mutual esteem with me, when I have committed this fraud, and when I stand towards you in this position ? It was possible for you to live with me happily, while you were in ignorance of the truth. It is not possible, now you know all. 'No! the one atonement I can make is — to leave you. Your one chance of future happiness is to be disassociated, at once and for ever, from my dishonoured life. I love you, Valeria — truly, devotedly, passionately. But the spectre of the poisoned woman rises between us. It makes no difference thdt 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 me. The poisoned woman stands between us. If you live with me now, you will see her as I see her. ThaJt torture shall never be yours. I love arou. I leave you. 112 THE LAW AND THE LADY. * Do you think me hard and cruel 1 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. lie was man enough to release me of his own free will." ' Yes, Valeria, I fully, freely release you. If it be possible to annul our marriage, let it be done. Eecover your liberty by any means that you may be advised to employ j 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 wel- fare and your happiness are no longer to be found in your union with Me. * 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. * Show these lines to your uncle, and to any friends whose opinions you may value. I have only to sign my dishonoured name ; and every one will understand and applaud my motive for writing as I do. The name justifies — amply justifies — the letter. Forgive me, and forget me. Farewell ! • EusTAcn Macallan.' In those words, he took Lis leave of mo. We had then been married — six days. CHAPTER XIV. TUE woman's ANSWEK. Tmra far, I have written of myself with perfect frankness and, I think I may fairly add, with some courage &s woU. THE WOMAN'S ANSWER. 1 13 My frankness fails me, and my courage fails me, wlien I look back to my husband's farewell letter, and try to recall the Btorm 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. What I did, 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 deser- tion of me produced on my mind. It will also reveal the motives that sustained me, the hopes that animated mo, in the new and strange life which my next chapters must describe. 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. Towards the morning, my weary brain got some rest — I slept. 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 wero (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. 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 B THE LAW AND THE LADY. answered, he took liis leave of me for that day. He and Benjamin had a long talk together afterwards, in the garden of the villa. I retired to my room, and wrote to my uncle Starkweather : telling him exactly what had happened, and enclosing 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. Towards 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. 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 n^j husband's letter, I wrote to him in these words : — ' 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. ' You say you love me — and you leave me. I don't under- stand 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 I As long as I live, I mean to live your wife. ' Does this surprise you 1 It surprises me. If another woman wrote in this manner to a man who had behaved to THE WOMAN'S ANSWER, 115 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 noy own conduct. I ought to hate you — and yet I can't help loving you. I am ashamed of myself ; but so it is. '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. AnA. shall I be weak enough to forgive you ? Yes, I shall certainly be weak enough to forgive you. * But how are you to get right again % ' 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. ' How am I to help you ? * The 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 bad 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. * 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 tlw Jury, there is a deficiency in the evidence to convict the Ii5 THE LAW AND THE LADY. prisoner. A verdict of Not Guilty imports tte Jury's opinion that the prisoner is innocent," — Eustace ! that shall bo 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 spares me ! • 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. ' 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 mu&t 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 ! ' You may laugh over this Hind confidence on my part, or you may cry over it. I don't pretend to know whether I am Rn 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 hia name — thanks to his Wife. * Write to me sometimes, Eustace ; and believe me, through all the bitterness of this bitter business, your faithful and ioving * Valeria.' There was my reply I Poor enough as a composition (I could write a much better letter now), it had, if I may pre- sume to say so, one merit. It was the honest expression ct what I really meant and felt. THE WOMAN'S ANSWER. HJ 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 gene- ration is beyond my fathoming. I wish your uncle Stark weather was here : I wonder what he would say 1 Oh, dear me, what a letter from a wife to a husband ! Do you really mean to send it to him 1 ' I added immeasurably to my old friend's surprise, by not even employing the post-office. I wished to see the ' instruc- tions ' which my husband had left behind him. So I took the letter to his lawyers myself. 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. T'ney 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. 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, gentle- men ' — and left them. 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 riS THE LAW AND THE LADY. settleJ on myself when I married. It had been more than 1 wanted as a single woman, and I was resolved that it should be enough for me now. Benjamin had insisted on my con- sidering 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 in- dependent I resolved that I would be. 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. Pardoning other things, I could not 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, at odd times when T was discouraged and out of temper, I used to say to myself, 'Eustace ought not to have kept that secret from me.' What would he have said, if I had been a widow, and had never told him of it ? It was getting on towards evening when I returned to the cottage. Benjamin appeared to have been on the look-out for me. Before I could ring at the bell he opened the garden gate. * Prepare yourself for a surprise, my dear,' he said. * Your uncle, the Reverend Doctor Starkweather, has arrived from tho 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.' In another minute my uncle's strong arms were round me. In my forlorn position, I felt the good Vicar's kindness, ia travelling all the way to London to see me, very gratefully. THE WOMAN'S ANSWER. 119 It brouglxt the tears into my eyes — tears, without bitterness, that did me good. * 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 Bhall I forget next, I wonder ? By-the-bye, 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 1 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 travelled 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.' Return to the Vicarage .' How could I do that % Hov» 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 Stark- weather on his return to his own house. ' I thank you, uncle, Avith all ray heart,' I said. ' But I am afraid I can't leave London for the present.' ' You can't leave London for the present ? ' he repeated 'What does the girl mean, Mr. Benjamin ?' Benjamin evaded a direct reply. * She is kindly welcome here, Doctor Starkweather/ he said, , as long as she chooses to stay with me.' I20 THE LAW AND THE LADY. * That 's no answer,' retorted my uncle, in his roiTgh-and- ready way. He turned to me. ' What is there to keep you in London 1 ' he asked. * You used to hate London. I sup- pose there is some reason 1 ' It was only due to my good guardian and friend that T 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. ' God help her ! ' cried the worthy man. * The poor thing's troubles have turned her brain ! * * I thought you would disapprove of it, sir,' said Benjamin, in his mild and moderate way. * I confess I disapprove of it myself.' * " 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 V ' I am very sorry to forfeit your good opinion, uncle,' I re- plied. * But I must ov/n that I do certainly mean it.' ' In plain English,' retorted the Vicar, * you are conceited enough to think that you can succeed where the greatest lawyers in Scotland have failed. Thei/ couldn't prove this man's innocence, all working together. And j/ou 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 ? ' * I mean to begin by reading the Trial, uncle.* * Nice reading for a young woman 1 You will be wanting THE WOMAN'S ANSWER. 121 a batch of nasty Frencli novels next. Well, and wlien you have read the Trial — what then ? Have you thought of that?' * 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 defence. 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 diflBculties are thrown in my way. Those are my plans, uncle, so far as I know them now.' The Vicar and Benjamin looked at each other, as if they doubted the evidence of their own senses. The Vicar spoke. * 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 ! V/ith nobody to protect you ! Mr. Benjamin, do you hear her % And can you believe your ears ? I declare to Heaven / 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 % ' * 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.' The Vicar resumed his ironical tone. * Oh ! ' he said. * You admit that, do you ? Well, there is something gained, at any rate ! ' iZ2 THE LAW AND THE LADY. ' Many another woman before me,' I went or^ * has faced Berious difficulties, and has conquered them — for the sake of the man she loved.' Doctor Starkweather rose slowly to his feet, witt the air of a person whose capacity of toleration had reached its last Irjnits. *Am I to understand that you are still in love with Mr. Eustace Macallan?' he asked. ' Yes,' I answered. ' The hero of the great Poison Trial ? ' pursued my uncle. * The man who has deceived and deserted you 1 You love Limr * I love him more dearly than ever.' * Mr. Benjamin,' said the Vicar. * If she recovers 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.' ' Give me a kiss, uncle, at parting.' * Oh, yes. I '11 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.' Benjamin looked very grave when he returned to me, after accompanying Doctor Starkweather to the garden gate. ' Pray be advised, my dear,' he said. * I don't ask you to consider my view of this matter as good for much. But your uncle's opinion is surely worth considering?' 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 Ben- jamin. Then I turned away — I confess with the tears in my eyes — and took refuge in my bedroom. The window-blind was up ; and the autumn moonlight ehone brilliantly into the little room. STORY OF THE TRIAL. PRELIMINARIES. 123 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. 1 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.' 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 other as pas- sionately as ever. And why ? Because he had been accused of a crime that he had never committed, and because a Scotch jiu-y had failed to see that he was an innocent man. I looked at the lovely moonlight, pursuing these remem- brances and these thoughts. A new ardour burnt 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 ! ' I drew down the blind, and lit the candles. In the quiet \iight — alone and unaided — I took my first step on the toil- some 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. CHAPTER XV. THE STORY OP THE TBIAL. THE PRELIMINARIES. Let me confess another weakness, on my part, before I begin the story of the Trial, J. cannot prevail upon myself to copy 124 THE LAW AND THE LADY. 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. Turning to the second page of the Trial, I found a Note, assuring the reader of the absolute correctness <^f the Report of the proceedings. The compiler described himself as having enjoyed certain privileges. Thus, the presiding Judge had him- self revised his charge to the Jury. And, again, the chief lawyers for the prosecution and the defence, 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 told. The next page interested mo more nearly stilL It enume- rated the actors in the Judicial Drama — the men who held in their hands my husband's honour, and my husband's Ufa. Here is the List : The Lord Justice Clerk, "| Lord Deumfennick, > Judges on the Bench. Lord Nollkkirk, ) The Lord Advocate (Mintlaw), ] ^^^^^^,^1 f^j. Donald Drew, Esquire (Advocate- J> , ^ . Depute), j Mr. James Arliss, W.S., Agent for the Crown. The Dean of Faculty (Farmichael), \ Counsel for ttft Alexander Crocket, Esquire (Ad- > Panel (otherwise vocate), ) the Prisoner). Mr. Thorniebank, W.S., ) . . f„„ *i.^ p,,. i ,, Ti i»r o t Agents tor the rauci. Mr. Playmore, W.S., / ^ The Indictment against the Prisoner then followed. 1 shall not copy the uncouth language, full of needless repetitiona (and, if I know anything of the subject, not guiltless of bad STORY OF THE TRIAL, PRELIMINARIES. 125 grammar as well), in whlcli my innocent husband was solemnly and fiilsely accused of poisoning his first wife. The less there is of that false and hateful Indictment on this page, the better and the truer the page will look, to my eyes. To be brief, then, Eustace Macallan was 'indicted and accused, at the instance of David Mintlaw, Esq., Her Majesty's Advocate, for Her Majesty's interest,' of the Murder of hi. Wife by poison, at his residence called Gleninch, in the county of ]\Tid- 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, or in some other manner to the prosecutor unknown.' It was further declared that the prisoner's wife had died of the poison thus administered by jter 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 Indict- ment concluded by declaring that, in the event of the offence 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 the like crimes in all time coming.' So much for the Indictment ! I have done with it — and I am rejoiced to have done with it. An Inventory of papers, documents, and articles followed at great length, on the three next pages. This, in its turn, was succeeded by the list of the witnesses, and by the namca 126 THE LAW AND THE LADY. of the jurors (fifteen in number) balloted for, to try the case. And then, at last, the Report of the Trial began. In resolved itself, to my mind, into three great Questions. As it appeared to me at the time, so let me present it here. CHAPTER XVI. FIRST QUESTION — DID THE "WOMAN DIE POISONED? The proceedings began at ten o'clock. The prisoner was I)laced 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. It was observed by every one present, that the prisoner's face betrayed the traces of acute mental sufi"ering. 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 iUness and death he was deeply aflfected, 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 favour. Self possession, in his dreadful position, signified to their minds, the stark insensibility of a heartless and shame- les» criminal, and afforded in itself a presumption— not of innocence — but of guilt. The first witness called was John Daviot, Esquire, SherilT- Substitute of Mid-Lothian. He wias examined by the Lont Advocate (as counsel for the prosecution) ; and said : FIRST— DID THE WOMAN DIE POISOh ED ? la? ' 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 nrst duly warned and admonished.* Having identified the Declaration, the Sheriff-Substituta — being cross-examined by the Dean of Faculty (as counsel for the defence) — continued his evidence in these words : * The charge against the prisoner was, ]\Iurder. 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 ir the Declaration were all made in answer to questions asked oy the Procurator- Fiscal or by myself.' A clerk in the Sheriff- Clerk's office then officially produced the Declaration, and corroborated the evidence of the witness who had preceded him. The appearance of the ne-yt witr.?f;8 created a marked sensation in the Court. This was no le?s a person than the nurse who had attended Mrs. Macallan in her last illness — by name, Christina Ormsay. After the first formal answers, the nurse (examined by the Lord Advocate) proceeded to say : * I was first sent for, to attend the deceased lady, on the seventh of October. She was then suflfering from a sever© 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 reck- less, in I er fits of anger, as to what she said or did. At such times, I really hardly think she knew what she was about, 128 THE LAW AND THE LADY. 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 mc— — ' The Dean of Faculty here interposed; speaking on the prisoner's behalf. He appealed to the Judges to say whether Buch loose and unreliable evidence as this, was evidence which could be received by the Court ? The Lord Advocate (speakinr; ot? behalf of the Crown) claimed it as his right to produo? 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 deathbed. 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. The Lord Advocate thereupon continued his examination of the witness. Christina Ormsay resumed her evidence as follows : *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 t