The Law and the Lady

by Wilkie Collins

  CHAPTER XIII. THE MAN'S DECISION.

  MY first impulse was the reckless impulse to follow Eustace--openlythrough the streets.

  The Major and Benjamin both opposed this hasty resolution on my part.They appealed to my own sense of self-respect, without (so far as Iremember it) producing the slightest effect on my mind. They were moresuccessful when they entreated me next to be patient for my husband'ssake. In mercy to Eustace, they begged me to wait half an hour. If hefailed to return in that time, they pledged themselves to accompany mein search of him to the hotel.

  In mercy to Eustace I consented to wait. What I suffered under theforced necessity for remaining passive at that crisis in my life nowords 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 andmyself.

  "You may speak freely, my dear," he said. "I know what has happenedsince you have been in Major Fitz-David's house. No one has told meabout it; I found it out for myself. If you remember, I was struck bythe name of 'Macallan,' when you first mentioned it to me at my cottage.I couldn't guess why at the time. I know why now."

  Hearing this, I told them both unreservedly what I had said to Eustace,and how he had received it. To my unspeakable disappointment, they bothsided with my husband, treating my view of his position as a mere dream.They said it, as he had said it, "You have not read the Trial."

  I was really enraged with them. "The facts are enough for _me,_" I said."We know he is innocent. Why is his innocence not proved? It ought tobe, it must be, it shall be! If the Trial tell me it can't be done, Irefuse to believe the Trial. Where is the book, Major? Let me see formyself if his lawyers have left nothing for his wife to do. Did theylove him as I love him? Give me the book!"

  Major Fitz-David looked at Benjamin.

  "It will only additionally shock and distress her if I give her thebook," he said. "Don't you agree with me?"

  I interposed before Benjamin could answer.

  "If you refuse my request," I said, "you will oblige me, Major, to goto the nearest bookseller and tell him to buy the Trial for me. I amdetermined to read it."

  This time Benjamin sided with me.

  "Nothing can make matters worse than they are, sir," he said. "If I maybe permitted to advise, let her have her own way."

  The Major rose and took the book out of the Italian cabinet, to which hehad consigned it for safe-keeping.

  "My young friend tells me that she informed you of her regrettableoutbreak of temper a few days since," he said as he handed me thevolume. "I was not aware at the time what book she had in her hand whenshe so far forgot herself as to destroy the vase. When I left you in thestudy, I supposed the Report of the Trial to be in its customary placeon the top shelf of the book-case, and I own I felt some curiosityto know whether you would think of examining that shelf. The brokenvase--it is needless to conceal it from you now--was one of a pairpresented to me by your husband and his first wife only a week beforethe poor woman's terrible death. I felt my first presentiment thatyou were on the brink of discovery when I found you looking at thefragments, and I fancy I betrayed to you that something of the sort wasdisturbing me. You looked as if you noticed it."

  "I did notice it, Major. And I too had a vague idea that I was on theway to discovery. Will you look at your watch? Have we waited half anhour yet?"

  My impatience had misled me. The ordeal of the half-hour was not yet atan end.

  Slowly and more slowly the heavy minutes followed each other, and stillthere were no signs of my husband's return. We tried to continueour conversation, and failed. Nothing was audible; no sounds but theordinary sounds of the street disturbed the dreadful silence. Try as Imight to repel it, there was one foreboding thought that pressed closerand closer on my mind as the interval of waiting wore its weary way on.I shuddered as I asked myself if our married life had come to an end--ifEustace had really left me.

  The Major saw what Benjamin's slower perception had not yetdiscovered--that my fortitude was beginning to sink under the unrelievedoppression of suspense.

  "Come!" he said. "Let us go to the hotel."

  It then wanted nearly five minutes to the half-hour. I _looked_ mygratitude to Major Fitz-David for sparing me those last minutes: I couldnot speak to him or to Benjamin. In silence we three got into a cab anddrove to the hotel.

  The landlady met us in the hall. Nothing had been seen or heard ofEustace. There was a letter waiting for me upstairs on the table in oursitting-room. It had been left at the hotel by a messenger only a fewminutes since.

  Trembling and breathless, I ran up the stairs, the two gentlemenfollowing me. The address of the letter was in my husband's handwriting.My heart sank in me as I looked at the lines; there could be but onereason for his writing to me. That closed envelope held his farewellwords. I sat with the letter on my lap, stupefied, incapable of openingit.

  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. Giveher time."

  Acting on a sudden impulse, I held out the letter to him as he spoke.Even moments might be of importance, if Eustace had indeed left me. Togive me time might be to lose the opportunity of recalling him.

  "You are his old friend," I said. "Open his letter, Major, and read itfor me."

  Major Fitz-David opened the letter and read it through to himself. Whenhe had done he threw it on the table with a gesture which was almost agesture of contempt.

  "There is but one excuse for him," he said. "The man is mad."

  Those words told me all. I knew the worst; and, knowing it, I could readthe letter. It ran thus:

  "MY BELOVED VALERIA--When you read these lines you read my farewellwords. I return to my solitary unfriended life--my life before I knewyou.

  "My darling, you have been cruelly treated. You have been entrappedinto marrying a man who has been publicly accused of poisoning his firstwife--and who has not been honorably and completely acquitted of thecharge. And you know it!

  "Can you live on terms of mutual confidence and mutual esteem with mewhen I have committed this fraud, and when I stand toward you in thisposition? It was possible for you to live with me happily while you werein 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 offuture happiness is to be disassociated, at once and forever, from mydishonored life. I love you, Valeria--truly, devotedly, passionately.But the specter of the poisoned woman rises between us. It makes nodifference that I am innocent even of the thought of harming my firstwife. My innocence has not been proved. In this world my innocence cannever be proved. You are young and loving, and generous and hopeful.Bless others, Valeria, with your rare attractions and your delightfulgifts. They are of no avail with _me._ The poisoned woman stands betweenus. If you live with me now, you will see her as I see her. _That_torture shall never be yours. I love you. I leave you.

  "Do you think me hard and cruel? Wait a little, and time will changethat way of thinking. As the years go on you will say to yourself,'Basely as he deceived me, there was some generosity in him. He was manenough to release me of his own free will.'

  "Yes, Valeria, I fully, freely release you. If it be possible to annulour marriage, let it be done. Recover your liberty by any means thatyou may be advised to employ; and be assured beforehand of my entire andimplicit submission. My lawyers have the necessary instructions on thissubject. Your uncle has only to communicate with them, and I think hewill be satisfied of my resolution to do you justice. The one interestthat I have now left in life is my interest in your welfare and yourhappiness in the time to come. Your welfare and your happiness are nolonger to be found in your union with Me.

  "I can write no more. This letter will wait for you at the hotel. Itwill be useless to attempt to trace me. I know my own weakness. My heartis all y
ours: I might yield to you if I let you see me again.

  "Show these lines to your uncle, and to any friends whose opinions youmay value. I have only to sign my dishonored name, and every onewill understand and applaud my motive for writing as I do. The namejustifies--amply justifies--the letter. Forgive and forget me. Farewell.

  "EUSTACE MACALLAN."

  In those words he took his leave of me. We had then been married--sixdays.