CHAPTER XXVI. MORE OF MY OBSTINACY.
ARIEL was downstairs in the shadowy hall, half asleep, half awake,waiting to see the visitors clear of the house. Without speaking to us,without looking at us, she led the way down the dark garden walk, andlocked the gate behind us. "Good-night, Ariel," I called out to her overthe paling. Nothing answered me but the tramp of her heavy footstepsreturning to the house, and the dull thump, a moment afterward, of theclosing door.
The footman had thoughtfully lighted the carriage lamps. Carrying oneof them to serve as a lantern, he lighted us over the wilds of the brickdesert, and landed us safely on the path by the high-road.
"Well!" said my mother-in-law, when we were comfortably seated in thecarriage again. "You have seen Miserrimus Dexter, and I hope you aresatisfied. I will do him the justice to declare that I never, in all myexperience, saw him more completely crazy than he was to-night. What do_you_ say?"
"I don't presume to dispute your opinion," I answered. "But, speakingfor myself, I'm not quite sure that he is mad."
"Not mad!" cried Mrs. Macallan, "after those frantic performances in hischair? Not mad, after the exhibition he made of his unfortunate cousin?Not mad, after the song that he sang in your honor, and the fallingasleep by way of conclusion? Oh, Valeria! Valeria! Well said the wisdomof our ancestors--there are none so blind as those who won't see."
"Pardon me, dear Mrs. Macallan, I saw everything that you mention, and Inever felt more surprised or more confounded in my life. But now I haverecovered from my amazement, and can think it over quietly, I must stillventure to doubt whether this strange man is really mad in the truemeaning of the word. It seems to me that he only expresses--I admit in avery reckless and boisterous way--thoughts and feelings which most ofus are ashamed of as weaknesses, and which we keep to ourselvesaccordingly. I confess I have often fancied myself transformed into someother person, and have felt a certain pleasure in seeing myself in mynew character. One of our first amusements as children (if we have anyimagination at all) is to get out of our own characters, and to try thecharacters of other personages as a change--to fairies, to be queens, tobe anything, in short, but what we really are. Mr. Dexter lets out thesecret just as the children do, and if that is madness, he is certainlymad. But I noticed that when his imagination cooled down he becameMiserrimus Dexter again--he no more believed himself than we believedhim to be Napoleon or Shakespeare. Besides, some allowance is surely tobe made for the solitary, sedentary life that he leads. I am not learnedenough to trace the influence of that life in making him what he is; butI think I can see the result in an over-excited imagination, and Ifancy I can trace his exhibiting his power over the poor cousin andhis singing of that wonderful song to no more formidable cause thaninordinate self-conceit. I hope the confession will not lower meseriously in your good opinion; but I must say I have enjoyed my visit,and, worse still, Miserrimus Dexter really interests me."
"Does this learned discourse on Dexter mean that you are going to seehim again?" asked Mrs. Macallan.
"I don't know how I may feel about it tomorrow morning," I said; "butmy impulse at this moment is decidedly to see him again. I had a littletalk with him while you were away at the other end of the room, and Ibelieve he really can be of use to me--"
"Of use to you in what?" interposed my mother-in-law.
"In the one object which I have in view--the object, dear Mrs. Macallan,which I regret to say you do not approve."
"And you are going to take him into your confidence? to open your wholemind to such a man as the man we have just left?"
"Yes, if I think of it to-morrow as I think of it to-night. I daresay it is a risk; but I must run risks. I know I am not prudent; butprudence won't help a woman in my position, with my end to gain."
Mrs. Macallan made no further remonstrance in words. She opened acapacious pocket in front of the carriage, and took from it a box ofmatches and a railway reading-lamp.
"You provoke me," said the old lady, "into showing you what your husbandthinks of this new whim of yours. I have got his letter with me--hislast letter from Spain. You shall judge for yourself, you poor deludedyoung creature, whether my son is worthy of the sacrifice--the uselessand hopeless sacrifice--which you are bent on making of yourself for hissake. Strike a light!"
I willingly obeyed her. Ever since she had informed me of Eustace'sdeparture to Spain I had been eager for more news of him, for somethingto sustain my spirits, after so much that had disappointed and depressedme. Thus far I did not even know whether my husband thought of mesometimes in his self-imposed exile. As to this regretting already therash act which had separated us, it was still too soon to begin hopingfor that.
The lamp having been lighted, and fixed in its place between the twofront windows of the carriage, Mrs. Macallan produced her son's letter.There is no folly like the folly of love. It cost me a hard struggleto restrain myself from kissing the paper on which the dear hand hadrested.
"There!" said my mother-in-law. "Begin on the second page, the pagedevoted to you. Read straight down to the last line at the bottom, and,in God's name, come back to your senses, child, before it is too late!"
I followed my instructions, and read these words:
"Can I trust myself to write of Valeria? I _must_ write of her. Tell mehow she is, how she looks, what she is doing. I am always thinking ofher. Not a day passes but I mourn the loss of her. Oh, if she had onlybeen contented to let matters rest as they were! Oh, if she had neverdiscovered the miserable truth!
"She spoke of reading the Trial when I saw her last. Has she persistedin doing so? I believe--I say this seriously, mother--I believe theshame and the horror of it would have been the death of me if I hadmet her face to face when she first knew of the ignominy that I havesuffered, of the infamous suspicion of which I have been publicly madethe subject. Think of those pure eyes looking at a man who has beenaccused (and never wholly absolved) of the foulest and the vilest ofall murders, and then think of what that man must feel if he have anyheart and any sense of shame left in him. I sicken as I write of it.
"Does she still meditate that hopeless project--the offspring, poorangel, of her artless, unthinking generosity? Does she still fancy thatit is in _her_ power to assert my innocence before the world? Oh, mother(if she do), use your utmost influence to make her give up the idea!Spare her the humiliation, the disappointment, the insult, perhaps,to which she may innocently expose herself. For her sake, for my sake,leave no means untried to attain this righteous, this merciful end.
"I send her no message--I dare not do it. Say nothing, when you see her,which can recall me to her memory. On the contrary, help her to forgetme as soon as possible. The kindest thing I can do--the one atonement Ican make to her--is to drop out of her life."
With those wretched words it ended. I handed his letter back to hismother in silence. She said but little on her side.
"If _this_ doesn't discourage you," she remarked, slowly folding up theletter, "nothing will. Let us leave it there, and say no more."
I made no answer--I was crying behind my veil. My domestic prospectlooked so dreary! my unfortunate husband was so hopelessly misguided, sopitiably wrong! The one chance for both of us, and the one consolationfor poor Me, was to hold to my desperate resolution more firmly thanever. If I had wanted anything to confirm me in this view, and to arm meagainst the remonstrances of every one of my friends, Eustace's letterwould have proved more than sufficient to answer the purpose. At leasthe had not forgotten me; he thought of me, and he mourned the loss of meevery day of his life. That was encouragement enough--for the present."If Ariel calls for me in the pony-chaise to-morrow," I thought tomyself, "with Ariel I go."
Mrs. Macallan set me down at Benjamin's door.
I mentioned to her at parting--I stood sufficiently in awe of her to putit off till the last moment--that Miserrimus Dexter had arranged to sendhis cousin and his pony-chaise to her residence on the next day; and Iinquired thereupon whether my mother-in-law would permit me t
o call ather house to wait for the appearance of the cousin, or whether she wouldprefer sending the chaise on to Benjamin's cottage. I fully expected anexplosion of anger to follow this bold avowal of my plans for the nextday. The old lady agreeably surprised me. She proved that she had reallytaken a liking to me: she kept her temper.
"If you persist in going back to Dexter, you certainly shall not go tohim from my door," she said. "But I hope you will _not_ persist. I hopeyou will awake a wiser woman to-morrow morning."
The morning came. A little before noon the arrival of the pony-chaisewas announced at the door, and a letter was brought in to me from Mrs.Macallan.
"I have no right to control your movements," my mother-in-law wrote. "Isend the chaise to Mr. Benjamin's house; and I sincerely trust that youwill not take your place in it. I wish I could persuade you, Valeria,how truly I am your friend. I have been thinking about you anxiouslyin the wakeful hours of the night. _How_ anxiously, you will understandwhen I tell you that I now reproach myself for not having done more thanI did to prevent your unhappy marriage. And yet, what more I could havedone I don't really know. My son admitted to me that he was courting youunder an assumed name, but he never told me what the name was. Or whoyou were, or where your friends lived. Perhaps I ought to have takenmeasures to find this out. Perhaps, if I had succeeded, I ought to haveinterfered and enlightened you, even at the sad sacrifice of making anenemy of my own son. I honestly thought I did my duty in expressing mydisapproval, and in refusing to be present at the marriage. Was I tooeasily satisfied? It is too late to ask. Why do I trouble you with anold woman's vain misgivings and regrets? My child, if you come to anyharm, I shall feel (indirectly) responsible for it. It is this uneasystate of mind which sets me writing, with nothing to say that caninterest you. Don't go to Dexter! The fear has been pursuing me allnight that your going to Dexter will end badly. Write him an excuse.Valeria! I firmly believe you will repent it if you return to thathouse."
Was ever a woman more plainly warned, more carefully advised, than I?And yet warning and advice were both thrown away on me.
Let me say for myself that I was really touched by the kindness of mymother-in-law's letter, though I was not shaken by it in the smallestdegree. As long as I lived, moved, and thought, my one purpose now wasto make Miserrimus Dexter confide to me his ideas on the subject of Mrs.Eustace Macallan's death. To those ideas I looked as my guiding starsalong the dark way on which I was going. I wrote back to Mrs. Macallan,as I really felt gratefully and penitently. And then I went out to thechaise.
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