The Law and the Lady

by Wilkie Collins

  CHAPTER XLVIII. WHAT ELSE COULD I DO?

  As soon as I could dry my eyes and compose my spirits after readingthe wife's pitiable and dreadful farewell, my first thought was ofEustace--my first anxiety was to prevent him from ever reading what Ihad read.

  Yes! to this end it had come. I had devoted my life to the attainment ofone object; and that object I had gained. There, on the table before me,lay the triumphant vindication of my husband's innocence; and, in mercyto him, in mercy to the memory of his dead wife, my one hope was that hemight never see it! my one desire was to hide it from the public view!

  I looked back at the strange circumstances under which the letter hadbeen discovered.

  It was all my doing--as the lawyer had said. And yet, what I had done, Ihad, so to speak, done blindfold. The merest accident might have alteredthe whole course of later events. I had over and over again interferedto check Ariel when she entreated the Master to "tell her a story." Ifshe had not succeeded, in spite of my opposition, Miserrimus Dexter'slast effort of memory might never have been directed to the tragedy atGleninch. And, again, if I had only remembered to move my chair, and soto give Benjamin the signal to leave off, he would never have writtendown the apparently senseless words which have led us to the discoveryof the truth.

  Looking back at events in this frame of mind, the very sight of theletter sickened and horrified me. I cursed the day which had disinterredthe fragments of it from their foul tomb. Just at the time when Eustacehad found his weary way back to health and strength; just at the timewhen we were united again and happy again--when a month or two moremight make us father and mother, as well as husband and wife--thatfrightful record of suffering and sin had risen against us likean avenging spirit. There it faced me on the table, threatening myhusband's tranquillity; nay, for all I knew (if he read it at thepresent critical stage of his recovery) even threatening his life!

  The hour struck from the clock on the mantelpiece. It was Eustace's timefor paying me his morning visit in my own little room. He might come inat any moment; he might see the letter; he might snatch the letter outof my hand. In a frenzy of terror and loathing, I caught up the vilesheets of paper and threw them into the fire.

  It was a fortunate thing that a copy only had been sent to me. If theoriginal letter had been in its place, I believe I should have burnedthe original at that moment.

  The last morsel of paper had been barely consumed by the flames when thedoor opened, and Eustace came in.

  He glanced at the fire. The black cinders of the burned paper were stillfloating at the back of the grate. He had seen the letter brought tome at the breakfast-table. Did he suspect what I had done? He saidnothing--he stood gravely looking into the fire. Then he advanced andfixed his eyes on me. I suppose I was very pale. The first words hespoke were words which asked me if I felt ill.

  I was determined not to deceive him, even in the merest trifle.

  "I am feeling a little nervous, Eustace," I answered; "that is all."

  He looked at me again, as if he expected me to say something more. Iremained silent. He took a letter out of the breast-pocket of his coatand laid it on the table before me--just where the Confession had lainbefore I destroyed it!

  "I have had a letter too this morning," he said. "And _I,_ Valeria, haveno secrets from _you._"

  I understood the reproach which my husband's last words conveyed; but Imade no attempt to answer him.

  "Do you wish me to read it?" was all I said pointing to the envelopewhich he had laid on the table.

  "I have already said that I have no secrets from you," he repeated. "Theenvelope is open. See for yourself what is inclosed in it."

  I took out--not a letter, but a printed paragraph, cut from a Scotchnewspaper.

  "Read it," said Eustace.

  I read as follows:

  "STRANGE DOINGS AT GLENINCH--A romance in real life seems to be incourse of progress at Mr. Macallan's country-house. Private excavationsare taking place--if our readers will pardon us the unsavoryallusion--at the dust-heap, of all places in the world! Something hasassuredly been discovered; but nobody knows what. This alone is certain:For weeks past two strangers from London (superintended by our respectedfellow-citizen, Mr. Playmore) have been at work night and day in thelibrary at Gleninch, with the door locked. Will the secret ever berevealed? And will it throw any light on a mysterious and shocking eventwhich our readers have learned to associate with the past history ofGleninch? Perhaps when Mr. Macallan returns, he may be able to answerthese questions. In the meantime we can only await events."

  I laid the newspaper slip on the table, in no very Christian frame ofmind toward the persons concerned in producing it. Some reporter insearch of news had evidently been prying about the grounds at Gleninch,and some busy-body in the neighborhood had in all probability sent thepublished paragraph to Eustace. Entirely at a loss what to do, I waitedfor my husband to speak. He did not keep me in suspense--he questionedme instantly.

  "Do you understand what it means, Valeria?"

  I answered honestly--I owned that I understood what it meant.

  He waited again, as if he expected me to say more. I still kept the onlyrefuge left to me--the refuge of silence.

  "Am I to know no more than I know now?" he proceeded, after an interval."Are you not bound to tell me what is going on in my own house?"

  It is a common remark that people, if they can think at all, thinkquickly in emergencies. There was but one way out of the embarrassingposition in which my husband's last words had placed me. My instinctsshowed me the way, I suppose. At any rate, I took it.

  "You have promised to trust me," I began.

  He admitted that he had promised.

  "I must ask you, for your own sake, Eustace, to trust me for a littlewhile longer. I will satisfy you, if you will only give me time."

  His face darkened. "How much longer must I wait?" he asked.

  I saw that the time had come for trying some stronger form of persuasionthan words.

  "Kiss me," I said, "before I tell you!"

  He hesitated (so like a husband!). And I persisted (so like a wife!).There was no choice for him but to yield. Having given me my kiss (notover-graciously), he insisted once more on knowing how much longer Iwanted him to wait.

  "I want you to wait," I answered, "until our child is born."

  He started. My condition took him by surprise. I gently pressed hishand, and gave him a look. He returned the look (warmly enough, thistime, to satisfy me). "Say you consent," I whispered.

  He consented.

  So I put off the day of reckoning once more. So I gained time to consultagain with Benjamin and Mr. Playmore.

  While Eustace remained with me in the room, I was composed, and capableof talking to him. But when he left me, after a time, to think over whathad passed between us, and to remember how kindly he had given way tome, my heart turned pityingly to those other wives (better women, someof them, than I am), whose husbands, under similar circumstances, wouldhave spoken hard words to them--would perhaps even have acted morecruelly still. The contrast thus suggested between their fate and minequite overcame me. What had I done to deserve my happiness? Whathad _they_ done, poor souls, to deserve their misery? My nerves wereoverwrought, I dare says after reading the dreadful confession ofEustace's first wife. I burst out crying--and I was all the better forit afterward!