The Law and the Lady

by Wilkie Collins

  CHAPTER XIV. THE WOMAN'S ANSWER.

  THUS far I have written of myself with perfect frankness, and, I think Imay fairly add, with some courage as well. My frankness fails me and mycourage fails me when I look back to my husband's farewell letter, andtry to recall the storm of contending passions that it roused in mymind. No! I cannot tell the truth about myself--I dare not tell thetruth about myself--at that terrible time. Men! consult your observationof women, and imagine what I felt; women! look into your own hearts, andsee what I felt, for yourselves.

  What I _did,_ when my mind was quiet again, is an easier matter to dealwith. I answered my husband's letter. My reply to him shall appear inthese pages. It will show, in some degree, what effect (of the lastingsort) his desertion of me produced on my mind. It will also reveal themotives that sustained me, the hopes that animated me, in the new andstrange 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 Ipassed the first night of my separation from my husband. Toward themorning my weary brain got some rest--I slept.

  At breakfast-time Major Fitz-David called to inquire about me. He hadkindly volunteered to go and speak for me to my husband's lawyers on thepreceding day. They had admitted that they knew where Eustace had gone,but they declared at the same time that they were positively forbiddento communicate his address to any one. In other respects their"instructions" in relation to the wife of their client were (as theywere pleased to express it) "generous to a fault." I had only to writeto them, and they would furnish me with a copy by return of post.

  This was the Major's news. He refrained, with the tact thatdistinguished him, from putting any questions to me beyond questionsrelating to the state of my health. These answered, he took his leave ofme for that day. He and Benjamin had a long talk together afterward inthe garden of the villa.

  I retired to my room and wrote to my uncle Starkweather, telling himexactly what had happened, and inclosing him a copy of my husband'sletter. This done, I went out for a little while to breathe the freshair and to think. I was soon weary, and went back again to my room torest. My kind old Benjamin left me at perfect liberty to be alone aslong as I pleased. Toward the afternoon I began to feel a little morelike my old self again. I mean by this that I could think of Eustacewithout bursting out crying, and could speak to Benjamin withoutdistressing and frightening the dear old man.

  That night I had a little more sleep. The next morning I was strongenough to confront the first and foremost duty that I now owed tomyself--the duty of answering my 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 yourletter; 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 theirconfidence. I don't think that. So I write and tell you what is in mymind in the plainest and fewest words that I can use.

  "You say you love me--and you leave me. I don't understand loving awoman and leaving her. For my part, in spite of the hard things you havesaid and written to me, and in spite of the cruel manner in which youhave left me, I love you--and I won't give you up. No! As long as I liveI mean to live your wife.

  "Does this surprise you? It surprises _me._ If another woman wrotein this manner to a man who had behaved to her as you have behaved, Ishould be quite at a loss to account for her conduct. I am quite at aloss to account for my own conduct. I ought to hate you, and yet I can'thelp 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, andof my trying to persuade you to return to me. I am not quite foolishenough to do that. You are not in a fit state of mind to return tome. You are all wrong, all over, from head to foot. When you get rightagain, I am vain enough to think that you will return to me of yourown accord. And shall I be weak enough to forgive you? Yes! I shallcertainly 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 myopinion is that you will never get right again unless I help you.

  "How am I to help you?

  "That question is easily answered. What the Law has failed to do foryou, your Wife must do for you. Do you remember what I said when we weretogether in the back room at Major Fitz-David's house? I told you thatthe first thought that came to me, when I heard what the Scotch jury haddone, was the thought of setting their vile Verdict right. Well! Yourletter has fixed this idea more firmly in my mind than ever. The onlychance that I can see of winning you back to me, in the character of apenitent and loving husband, is to change that underhand Scotch Verdictof Not Proven into an honest English Verdict of Not Guilty.

  "Are you surprised at the knowledge of the law which this way of writingbetrays in an ignorant woman? I have been learning, my dear: the Law andthe Lady have begun by understanding one another. In plain English, Ihave looked into Ogilvie's 'Imperial Dictionary,' and Ogilvie tellsme, 'A verdict of Not Proven only indicates that, in the opinion of thejury, there is a deficiency in the evidence to convict the prisoner. Averdict of Not Guilty imports the jury's opinion that the prisoner isinnocent.' Eustace, that shall be the opinion of the world in general,and of the Scotch jury in particular, in your case. To that one object Idedicate my life to come, if God spare me!

  "Who will help me, when I need help, is more than I yet know. There wasa time when I had hoped that we should go hand in hand together in doingthis good work. That hope is at an end. I no longer expect you, orask you, to help me. A man who thinks as you think can give no help toanybody--it is his miserable condition to have no hope. So be it! I willhope for two, and will work for two; and I shall find some one to helpme--never fear--if I deserve it.

  "I will say nothing about my plans--I have not read the Trial yet. Itis quite enough for me that I know you are innocent. When a man isinnocent, there _must_ be a way of proving it: the one thing needful isto find the way. Sooner or later, with or without assistance, I shallfind it. Yes! before I know any single particular of the Case, I tellyou positively--I shall find it!

  "You may laugh over this blind confidence on my part, or you may cryover it. I don't pretend to know whether I am an object for ridicule oran object for pity. Of one thing only I am certain: I mean to winyou back, a man vindicated before the world, without a stain on hischaracter or his name--thanks to his wife.

  "Write to me, sometimes, Eustace; and believe me, through all thebitterness of this bitter business, your faithful and loving

  "VALERIA."

  There was my reply! Poor enough as a composition (I could write a muchbetter letter now), it had, if I may presume to say so, one merit. Itwas the honest expression of what I really meant and felt.

  I read it to Benjamin. He held up his hands with his customary gesturewhen he was thoroughly bewildered and dismayed. "It seems the rashestletter 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 newgeneration is beyond my fathoming. I wish your uncle Starkweather washere: I wonder what he would say? Oh, dear me, what a letter from a wifeto a husband! Do you really mean to send it to him?"

  I added immeasurably to my old friend's surprise by not even employingthe post-office. I wished to see the "instructions" which my husband hadleft behind him. So I took the letter to his lawyers myself.

  The firm consisted of two partners. They both received me together. Onewas 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. Ontheir side, they appeared to feel a strong distrust of me. We beganby disagreeing. They showed me my husband's "instructions," providing,among other things, for the payment of one clear half of his income aslong as he lived to his wife. I positively refused to touch a farthingof his mone
y.

  The lawyers were unaffectedly shocked and astonished at this decision.Nothing of the sort had ever happened before in the whole course oftheir experience. They argued and remonstrated with me. The partnerwith the ill-tempered eyebrows wanted to know what my reasons were. Thepartner with the sour smile reminded his colleague satirically that Iwas a lady, and had therefore no reasons to give. I only answered, "Beso good as to forward my letter, gentlemen," and left them.

  I have no wish to claim any credit to myself in these pages which I donot honestly deserve. The truth is that my pride forbade me to accepthelp from Eustace, now that he had left me. My own little fortune (eighthundred a year) had been settled on myself when I married. It had beenmore than I wanted as a single woman, and I was resolved that it shouldbe enough for me now. Benjamin had insisted on my considering hiscottage as my home. Under these circumstances, the expenses in which mydetermination to clear my husband's character might involve me werethe only expenses for which I had to provide. I could afford to beindependent, and independent I resolved that I would be.

  While I am occupied in confessing my weakness and my errors, it isonly right to add that, dearly as I still loved my unhappy, misguidedhusband, there was one little fault of his which I found it not easy toforgive.

  Pardoning other things, I could not quite pardon his concealing from methat he had been married to a first wife. Why I should have felt thisso bitterly as I did, at certain times and seasons, I am not able toexplain. Jealousy was at the bottom of it, I suppose. And yet I wasnot conscious of being jealous--especially when I thought of the poorcreature's miserable death. Still, Eustace ought not to have kept _that_secret from me, I used to think to myself, at odd times when I wasdiscouraged and out of temper. What would _he_ have said if I had been awidow, and had never told him of it?

  It was getting on toward evening when I returned to the cottage.Benjamin appeared to have been on the lookout for me. Before I couldring at the bell he opened the garden gate.

  "Prepare yourself for a surprise, my dear," he said. "Your uncle, theReverend Doctor Starkweather, has arrived from the North, and is waitingto see you. He received your letter this morning, and he took the firsttrain to London as soon as he had read it."

  In another minute my uncle's strong arms were round me. In my forlornposition, I felt the good vicar's kindness, in traveling all the wayto London to see me, very gratefully. It brought the tears into myeyes--tears, without bitterness, that did me good.

  "I have come, my dear child, to take you back to your old home," hesaid. "No words can tell how fervently I wish you had never left youraunt 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 getwithin arm's-length of that husband of yours, Valeria--There! there! Godforgive me, I am forgetting that I am a clergyman. What shall I forgetnext, I wonder? By-the-by, your aunt sends you her dearest love. She ismore superstitious than ever. This miserable business doesn't surpriseher a bit. She says it all began with your making that mistake aboutyour name in signing the church register. You remember? Was there eversuch stuff? Ah, she's a foolish woman, that wife of mine! But she meanswell--a good soul at bottom. She would have traveled all the way herealong 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, youknow, looped up with blue! We will return to the Vicarage (if you canget up in time) by the nine-forty train to-morrow morning."

  Return to the Vicarage! How could I do that? How could I hope to gainwhat was now the one object of my existence if I buried myself ina remote north-country village? It was simply impossible for me toaccompany Doctor Starkweather on his return to his own house.

  "I thank you, uncle, with all my heart," I said. "But I am afraid Ican't leave London for the present."

  "You can't leave London for the present?" he repeated. "What does thegirl mean, Mr. Benjamin?" Benjamin evaded a direct reply.

  "She is kindly welcome here, Doctor Starkweather," he said, "as long asshe chooses to stay with me."

  "That's no answer," retorted my uncle, in his rough-and-ready way. Heturned to me. "What is there to keep you in London?" he asked. "You usedto hate London. I suppose there is some reason?"

  It was only due to my good guardian and friend that I should take himinto my confidence sooner or later. There was no help for it but torouse 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, withdistress as well as surprise in his face, when I had done.

  "God help her!" cried the worthy man. "The poor thing's troubles haveturned her brain!"

  "I thought you would disapprove of it, sir," said Benjamin, in his mildand moderate way. "I confess I disapprove of it myself."

  "'Disapprove of it' isn't the word," retorted the vicar. "Don't put itin that feeble way, if you please. An act of madness--that's what it is,if she really mean what she says." He turned my way, and looked ashe used to look at the afternoon service when he was catechising anobstinate child. "You don't mean it," he said, "do you?"

  "I am sorry to forfeit your good opinion, uncle," I replied. "But I mustown that I do certainly mean it."

  "In plain English," retorted the vicar, "you are conceited enough tothink that you can succeed where the greatest lawyers in Scotlandhave failed. _They_ couldn't prove this man's innocence, all workingtogether. And _you_ are going to prove it single-handed? Upon my word,you are a wonderful woman," cried my uncle, suddenly descending fromindignation to irony. "May a plain country parson, who isn't used tolawyers 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! You will be wanting a batch of nastyFrench novels next. Well, and when 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 someconclusion (after reading the Trial) as to the guilty person who reallycommitted the crime. Then I shall make out a list of the witnesses whospoke in my husband's defense. I shall go to those witnesses, and tellthem who I am and what I want. I shall ask all sorts of questions whichgrave lawyers might think it beneath their dignity to put. I shall beguided, in what I do next, by the answers I receive. And I shall not bediscouraged, no matter what difficulties are thrown in my way. Those aremy plans, uncle, so far as I know them now."

  The vicar and Benjamin looked at each other as if they doubted theevidence of their own senses. The vicar spoke.

  "Do you mean to tell me," he said, "that you are going roaming aboutthe country to throw yourself on the mercy of strangers, and to riskwhatever rough reception you may get in the course of your travels? You!A young woman! Deserted by your husband! With nobody to protect you! Mr.Benjamin, do you hear her? And can you believe your ears? I declare toHeaven _I_ don't know whether I am awake or dreaming. Look at her--justlook at her! There she sits as cool and easy as if she had said nothingat 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 amI 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 comfortand support. Don't think me obstinate. I am ready to admit that thereare 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."

  "Many another woman before me," I went on, "has faced seriousdifficulties, and has conquered them--for the sake of the man sheloved."

  Doctor Starkweather rose slowly to his feet, with the air of a personwhose capacity of toleration had reached its last limits.

  "Am I to understand that you are still in love with Mr. EustaceMacallan?" he asked.

  "Yes," I answered.

  "
The hero of the great Poison Trial?" pursued my uncle. "The man who hasdeceived and deserted you? You love him?"

  "I love him more dearly than ever."

  "Mr. Benjamin," said the vicar, "if she recover her senses betweenthis and nine o'clock to-morrow morning, send her with her luggage toLoxley's Hotel, where I am now staying. Good-night, Valeria. I shallconsult with your aunt as to what is to be done next. I have no more tosay."

  "Give me a kiss, uncle, at parting."

  "Oh yes, I'll give you a kiss. Anything you like, Valeria. I shall besixty-five next birthday; and I thought I knew something of women, atmy 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 accompanyingDoctor 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 issurely worth considering?"

  I did not reply. It was useless to say any more. I made up my mind to bemisunderstood and discouraged, and to bear it. "Good-night, my dear oldfriend," was all I said to Benjamin. Then I turned away--I confess withthe tears in my eyes--and took refuge in my bedroom.

  The window-blind was up, and the autumn moonlight shone brilliantly intothe little room.

  As I stood by the window, looking out, the memory came to me of anothermoonlight night, when Eustace and I were walking together in theVicarage garden before our marriage. It was the night of which I havewritten, many pages back, when there were obstacles to our union, andwhen Eustace had offered to release me from my engagement to him. I sawthe dear face again looking at me in the moonlight; I heard oncemore his words and mine. "Forgive me," he had said, "for having lovedyou--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, aftermarriage had united us, we were parted! Parted, still loving each aspassionately as ever. And why? Because he had been accused of a crimethat he had never committed, and because a Scotch jury had failed to seethat he was an innocent man.

  I looked at the lovely moonlight, pursuing these remembrances and thesethoughts. A new ardor burned in me. "No!" I said to myself. "Neitherrelations nor friends shall prevail on me to falter and fail in myhusband'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 lighted the candles. In the quiet night, aloneand unaided, I took my first step on the toilsome and terrible journeythat lay before me. From the title-page to the end, without stopping torest and without missing a word, I read the Trial of my husband for themurder of his wife.

  *****

  PART II. PARADISE REGAINED.