The Law and the Lady

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"Yes?"

"I'm glad I didn't upset you in the canal. There now!"

She gave me a friendly smack on the shoulder which nearly knocked
me down--relapsed, the instant after, into her leaden stolidity
of look and manner---and led the way out by the front door. I
heard her hoarse chuckling laugh as she locked the gate behind
me. My star was at last in the ascendant! In one and the same day
I had found my way into the confidence of Ariel and Ariel's
master.

CHAPTER XXXI.

THE DEFENSE OF MRS. BEAULY.

THE days that elapsed before Major Fitz-David's dinner-party
were precious days to me.

My long interview with Miserrimus Dexter had disturbed me far
more seriously than I suspected at the time. It was not until
some hours after I had left him that I really began to feel how
my nerves had been tried by all that I had seen and heard during
my visit at his house. I started at the slightest noises; I
dreamed of dreadful things; I was ready to cry without reason at
one moment, and to fly into a passion without reason at another.
Absolute rest was what I wanted, and (thanks to my good Benjamin)
was what I got. The dear old man controlled his anxieties on my
account, and spared me the questions which his fatherly interest
in my welfare made him eager to ask. It was tacitly understood
between us that all conversation on the subject of my visit to
Miserrimus Dexter (of which, it is needless to say, he strongly
disapproved) should be deferred until repose had restored my
energies of body and mind. I saw no visitors. Mrs. Macallan came
to the cottage, and Major Fitz-David came to the cottage--one of
them to hear what had passed between Miserrimus Dexter and
myself, the other to amuse me with the latest gossip about the
guests at the forthcoming dinner. Benjamin took it on himself to
make my apologies, and to spare me the exertion of receiving my
visitors. We hired a little open carriage, and took long drives
in the pretty country lanes still left flourishing within a few
miles of the northern suburb of London. At home we sat and talked
quietly of old times, or played at backgammon and dominoes--and
so, for a few happy days, led the peaceful unadventurous life
which was good for me. When the day of the dinner arrived, I felt
restored to my customary health. I was ready again, and eager
again, for the introduction to Lady Clarinda and the discovery of
Mrs. Beauly.

Benjamin looked a little sadly at my flushed face as we drove to
Major Fitz-David's house.

"Ah, my dear," he said, in his simple way, "I see you are well
again! You have had enough of our quiet life already."

My recollection of events and persons, in general, at the
dinner-party, is singularly indistinct.

I remember that we were very merry, and as easy and familiar with
one
another as if we had been old friends. I remember that Madame
Mirliflore was unapproachably superior to the other women
present, in the perfect beauty of her dress, and in the ample
justice which she did to the luxurious dinner set before us. I
remember the Major's young prima donna, more round-eyed, more
overdressed, more shrill and strident as the coming "Queen of
Song," than ever. I remember the Major himself, always kissing
our hands, always luring us to indulge in dainty dishes and
drinks, always making love, always detecting resemblances between
us, always "under the charm," and never once out of his character
as elderly Don Juan from the beginning of the evening to the end.
I remember dear old Benjamin, completely bewildered, shrinking
into corners, blushing when he was personally drawn into the
conversation, frightened at Madame Mirliflore, bashful with Lady
Clarinda, submissive to the Major, suffering under the music, and
from the bottom of his honest old heart wishing himself home
again. And there, as to the members of that cheerful little
gathering, my memory finds its limits--with one exception. The
appearance of Lady Clarinda is as present to me as if I had met
her yesterday; and of the memorable conversation which we two
held together privately, toward the close of the evening, it is
no exaggeration to say that I can still call to mind almost every
word.

I see her dress, I hear her voice again, while I write.

She was attired, I remember, with that extreme assumption of
simplicity which always defeats its own end by irresistibly
suggesting art. She wore plain white muslin, over white silk,
without trimming or ornament of any kind. Her rich brown hair,
dressed in defiance of the prevailing fashion, was thrown back
from her forehead, and gathered into a simple knot
behind--without adornment of any sort. A little white ribbon
encircled her neck, fastened by the only article of jewelry that
she wore--a tiny diamond brooch. She was unquestionably handsome;
but her beauty was of the somewhat hard and angular type which is
so often seen in English women of her race: the nose and chin too
prominent and too firmly shaped; the well-opened gray eyes full
of spirit and dignity, but wanting in tenderness and mobility of
expression. Her manner had all the charm which fine breeding can
confer--exquisitely polite, easily cordial; showing that perfect
yet unobtrusive confidence in herself which (in England) seems to
be the natural outgrowth of pre-eminent social rank. If you had
accepted her for what she was, on the surface, you would have
said, Here is the model of a noble woman who is perfectly free
from pride. And if you had taken a liberty with her, on the
strength of that conviction, she would have made you remember it
to the end of your life.

We got on together admirably. I was introduced as "Mrs.
Woodville," by previous arrangement with the Major--effected
through Benjamin. Before the dinner was over we had promised to
exchange visits. Nothing but the opportunity was wanting to lead
Lady Clarinda into talking, as I wanted her to talk, of Mrs.
Beauly.

Late in the evening the opportunity came.

I had taken refuge from the terrible bravura singing of the
Major's strident prima donna in the back drawing-room. As I had
hoped and anticipated, after a while Lady Clarinda (missing me
from the group around the piano) came in search of me. She seated
herself by my side, out of sight and out of hearing of our
friends in the front room; and, to my infinite relief and
delight, touched on the subject of Miserrimus Dexter of her own
accord. Something I had said of him, when his name had been
accidentally mentioned at dinner, remained in her memory, and led
us, by perfectly natural gradations, into speaking of Mrs.
Beauly. "At last," I thought to myself, "the Major's little
dinner will bring me my reward!"

And what a reward it was, when it came! My heart sinks in me
again--as it sank on that never-to-be-forgotten evening--while I
sit at my desk thinking of it.

"So Dexter really spoke to you of Mrs. Beauly!" exclaimed Lady
Clarinda. "You have no idea how you surprise me."

"May I ask why?"

"He hates her! The last time I saw him he wouldn't allow me to
mention her name. It is one of his innumerable oddities. If any
such feeling as sympathy is a possible feeling in such a nature
as his, he ought to like Helena Beauly. She is the most
completely unconventional person I know. When she does break out,
poor dear, she says things and does things which are almost
reckless enough to be worthy of Dexter himself. I wonder whether
you would like her?"

"You have kindly asked me to visit you, Lady Clarinda. Perhaps I
may meet her at your house?"

"I hope you will not wait until that is likely to happen," she
said. "Helena's last whim is to fancy that she has got--the gout,
of all the maladies in the world! She is away at some wonderful
baths in Hungary or Bohemia (I don't remember which)--and where
she will go, or what she will do next, it is perfectly impossible
to say.--Dear Mrs. Woodville! is the heat of the fire too much
for you? You are looking quite pale."

I _felt_ that I was looking pale. The discovery of Mrs. Beauly's
absence from England was a shock for which I was quite
unprepared. For a moment it unnerved me.

"Shall we go into the other room?" asked Lady Clarinda.

To go into the other room would be to drop the conversation. I
was determined not to let that catastrophe happen. It was just
possible that Mrs. Beauly's maid might have quitted her service,
or might have been left behind in England. My information would
not be complete until I knew what had become of the maid. I
pushed my chair back a little from the fire-place, and took a
hand-screen from a table near me; it might be made useful in
hiding my face, if any more disappointments were in store for me.

"Thank you, Lady Clarinda; I was only a little too near the fire.
I shall do admirably here. You surprise me about Mrs. Beauly.
From what Mr. Dexter said to me, I had imagined--"

"Oh, you must not believe anything Dexter tells you!" interposed
Lady Clarinda. "He delights in mystifying people; and he
purposely misled you, I have no doubt. If all that I hear is
true, _he_ ought to know more of Helena Beauly's strange freaks
and fancies than most people. He all but discovered her in one of
her adventures (down in Scotland), which reminds me of the story
in Auber's charming opera--what is it called? I shall forget my
own name next! I mean the opera in which the two nuns slip out of
the convent, and go to the ball. Listen! How very odd! That
vulgar girl is singing the castanet song in the second act at
this moment. Major! what opera is the young lady singing from?"

The Major was scandalized at this interruption. He bustled into
the back room--whispered, "Hush! hush! my dear lady; the 'Domino
Noir'"--and bustled back again to the piano.

"Of course!" said Lady Clarinda. "How stupid of me! The 'Domino
Noir.' And how strange that you should forget it too!"

I had remembered it perfectly; but I could not trust myself to
speak. If, as I believed, the "adventure" mentioned by Lady
Clarinda was connected, in some way, with Mrs. Beauly's
mysterious proceedings on the morning of the twenty-first of
October, I was on the brink of the very discovery which it was
the one interest of my life to make! I held the screen so as to
hide my face; and I said, in the steadiest voice that I could
command at the moment,

"Pray go on!--pray tell me what the adventure was!"

Lady Clarinda was quite flattered by my eager desire to hear the
coming narrative.

"I hope my story will be worthy of the interest which you are so
good as to feel in it, "she said. "If you only knew Helena--it is
_so_ like her! I have it, you must know, from her maid. She has
taken a woman who speaks foreign languages with her to Hungary
and she has left the maid with me. A perfect treasure! I should
be only too glad if I could keep her in my service: she has but
one defect, a name I hate--Phoebe. Well! Phoebe and her mistress
were staying at a place near Edinburgh, called (I think)
Gleninch. The house belonged to that Mr. Macallan who was
afterward tried--you remember it, of course?--for poisoning his
wife. A dreadful case; but don't be alarmed--my story has nothing
to do with it; my story has to do with Helena Beauly. One evening
(while she was staying at Gleninch) she was engaged to dine with
some English friends visiting Edinburgh. The same night--also in
Edinburgh--there was a masked ball, given by somebody whose name
I forget. The ball (almost an unparalleled event in Scotland!)
was reported to be not at all a reputable affair. All sorts of
amusing people were to be there. Ladies of doubtful virtue, you
know, and gentlemen on the outlying limits of society, and so on.
Helena's friends had contrived to get cards, and were going, in
spite of the objections--in the strictest incognito, of course,
trusting to their masks. And Helena herself was bent on going
with them, if she could only manage it without being discovered
at Gleninch. Mr. Macallan was one of the strait-laced people who
disapproved of the ball. No lady, he said, could show herself at
such an entertainment without compromising her reputation. What
stuff! Well, Helena, in one of her wildest moments, hit on a way
of going to the ball without discovery which was really as
ingenious as a plot in a French play. She went to the dinner in
the carriage from Gleninch, having sent Phoebe to Edinburgh
before her. It was not a grand dinner--a little friendly
gathering: no evening dress. When the time came for going back to
Gleninch, what do you think Helena did? She sent her maid back in
the carriage, instead of herself! Phoebe was dressed in her
mistress's cloak and bonnet and veil. She was instructed to run
upstairs the moment she got to the house, leaving on the hall
table a little note of apology (written by Helena, of course!),
pleading fatigue as an excuse for not saying good-night to her
host. The mistress and the maid were about the same height; and
the servants naturally never discovered the trick. Phoebe got up
to her mistress's room safely enough. There, her instructions
were to wait until the house was quiet for the night, and then to
steal up to her own room. While she was waiting, the girl fell
asleep. She only awoke at two in the morning, or later. It didn't
much matter, as she thought. She stole out on tiptoe, and closed
the door behind her. Before she was at the end of the corridor,
she fancied she heard something. She waited until she was safe on
the upper story, and then she looked over the banisters. There
was Dexter--so like him!--hopping about on his hands (did you
ever see it? the most grotesquely horrible exhibition you can
imagine!)--there was Dexter, hopping about, and looking through
keyholes, evidently in search of the person who had left her room
at two in the morning; and no doubt taking Phoebe for her
mistress, seeing that she had forgotten to take her mistress's
cloak off her shoulders. The next morning, early, Helena came
back in a hired carriage from Edinburgh, with a hat and mantle
borrowed from her English friends. She left the carriage in the
road, and got into the house by way of the garden--without being
discovered, this time, by Dexter or by anybody. Clever and
daring, wasn't it? And, as I said just now, quite a new version
of the 'Domino Noir.' You will wonder, as I did, how it was that
Dexter didn't make mischief in the morning? He would have done it
no doubt. But even he was silenced (as Phoebe told me) by the
dreadful event that happened in the house on the same day. My
dear Mrs. Woodville! the heat of this room is certainly too much
for you, take my smelling-bottle. Let me open the window."

I was just able to answer, "Pray say nothing! Let me slip out
into the open air!"

I made my way unobserved to the landing, and sat down on the
stairs to compose myself where nobody could see me. In a moment
more I felt a hand laid gently on my shoulder, and discovered
good Benjamin looking at me in dismay. Lady Clarinda had
considerately spoken to him, and had assisted him in quietly
making his retreat from the room, while his host's attention was
still absorbed by the music.

"My dear child!" he whispered, "what is the matter?"

"Take me home, and I will tell you," was all that I could say.

CHAPTER XXXII.

A SPECIMEN OF MY WISDOM.

THE scene must follow my erratic movements--the scene must close
on London for a while, and open in Edinburgh. Two days had passed
since Major Fitz-David's dinner-party. I was able to breathe
again freely, after the utter destruction of all my plans for the
future, and of all the hopes that I had founded on them. I could
now see that I had been trebly in the wrong--wrong in hastily and
cruelly suspecting an innocent woman; wrong in communicating my
suspicions (without an attempt to verify them previously) to
another person; wrong in accepting the flighty inferences and
conclusions of Miserrimus Dexter as if they had been solid
truths. I was so ashamed of my folly, when I thought of the
past--so completely discouraged, so rudely shaken in my
confidence in myself, when I thought of the future, that, for
once in a way, I accepted sensible advice when it was offered to
me. "My dear," said good old Benjamin, after we had thoroughly
talked over my discomfiture on our return from the dinner-party,
"judging by what you tell me of him, I don't fancy Mr. Dexter.
Promise me that you will not go back to him until you have first
consulted some person who is fitter to guide you through this
dangerous business than I am.

I gave him my promise, on one condition. "If I fail to find the
person," I said, "will you undertake to help me?"

Benjamin pledged himself to help me, cheerfully.

The next morning, when I was brushing my hair, and thinking over
my affairs, I called to mind a forgotten resolution of mine at
the time I first read the Report of my husband's Trial. I mean
the resolution--if Miserrimus Dexter failed me--to apply to one
of the two agents (or solicitors, as we should term them) who had
prepared Eustace's defense--namely, Mr. Playmore. This gentleman,
it may be remembered, had especially recommended himself to my
confidence by his friendly interference when the sheriff's
officers were in search of my husband's papers. Referring back to
the evidence Of "Isaiah Schoolcraft," I found that Mr. Playmore
had been called in to assist and advise Eustace by Miserrimus
Dexter. He was therefore not only a friend on whom I might rely,
but a friend who was personally acquainted with Dexter as well.
Could there be a fitter man to apply to for enlightenment in the
darkness that had now gathered around me? Benjamin, when I put
the question to him, acknowledged that I had made a sensible
choice on this occasion, and at once exerted himself to help me.
He discovered (through his own lawyer) the address of Mr.
Playmore's London agents; and from these gentlemen he obtained
for me a letter of introduction to Mr. Playmore himself. I had
nothing to conceal from my new adviser; and I was properly
described in the letter as Eustace Macallan's second wife.

The same evening we two set forth (Benjamin refused to let me
travel alone) by the night mail for Edinburgh.

I had previously written to Miserrimus Dexter (by my old friend's
advice), merely saying that I had been unexpectedly called away
from London for a few days, and that I would report to him the
result of my interview with Lady Clarinda on my return. A
characteristic answer was brought back to the cottage by Ariel:
"Mrs. Valeria, I happen to be a man of quick perceptions; and I
can read the _unwritten_ part of your letter. Lady Clarinda has
shaken your confidence in me. Very good. I pledge myself to shake
your confidence in Lady Clarinda. In the meantime I am not
offended. In serene composure I await the honor and the happiness
of your visit. Send me word by telegraph whether you would like
Truffles again, or whether you would prefer something simpler and
lighter--say that incomparable French dish, Pig's Eyelids and
Tamarinds. Believe me always your ally and admirer, your poet and
cook--DEXTER."

Arrived in Edinburgh, Benjamin and I had a little discussion. The
question in dispute between us was whether I should go with hi m,
or go alone, to Mr. Playmore. I was all for going alone.

"My experience of the world is not a very large one," I said.
"But I have observed that, in nine cases out of ten, a man will
make concessions to a woman, if she approaches him by her self,
which he would hesitate even to consider if another man was
within hearing. I don't know how it is--I only know that it is
so; If I find that I get on badly with Mr. Playmore, I will ask
him for a second appointment, and, in that case, you shall
accompany me. Don't think me self-willed. Let me try my luck
alone, and let us see what comes of it."

Benjamin yielded, with his customary consideration for me. I sent
my letter of introduction to Mr. Playmore's office--his private
house being in the neighborhood of Gleninch. My messenger brought
back a polite answer, inviting me to visit him at an early hour
in the afternoon. At the appointed time, to the moment, I rang
the bell at the office door.

CHAPTER XXXIII.

A SPECIMEN OF MY FOLLY.

THE incomprehensible submission of Scotchmen to the
ecclesiastical tyranny of their Established Church has
produced--not unnaturally, as I think--a very mistaken impression
of the national character in the popular mind.

Public opinion looks at the institution of "The Sabbath" in
Scotland; finds it unparalleled in Christendom for its senseless
and savage austerity; sees a nation content to be deprived by its
priesthood of every social privilege on one day in every
week--forbidden to travel; forbidden to telegraph; forbidden to
eat a hot dinner; forbidden to read a newspaper; in short,
allowed the use of two liberties only, the liberty of exhibiting
one's self at the Church and the liberty of secluding one's self
over the bottle--public opinion sees this, and arrives at the not
unreasonable conclusion that the people who submit to such social
laws as these are the most stolid, stern and joyless people on
the face of the earth. Such are Scotchmen supposed to be, when
viewed at a distance. But how do Scotchmen appear when they are
seen under a closer light, and judged by the test of personal
experience? There are no people more cheerful, more
companionable, more hospitable, more liberal in their ideas, to
be found on the face of the civilized globe than the very people
who submit to the Scotch Sunday! On the six days of the week
there is an atmosphere of quiet humor, a radiation of genial
common-sense, about Scotchmen in general, which is simply
delightful to feel. But on the seventh day these same men will
hear one of their ministers seriously tell them that he views
taking a walk on the Sabbath in the light of an act of profanity,
and will be the only people in existence who can let a man talk
downright nonsense without laughing at him.

I am not clever enough to be able to account for this anomaly in
the national character; I can only notice it by way of necessary
preparation for the appearance in my little narrative of a
personage not frequently seen in writing--a cheerful Scotchman.

In all other respects I found Mr. Playmore only negatively
remarkable. He was neither old nor young, neither handsome nor
ugly; he was personally not in the least like the popular idea of
a lawyer; and he spoke perfectly good English, touched with only
the slightest possible flavor of a Scotch accent.

"I have the honor to be an old friend of Mr. Macallan," he said,
cordially shaking hands with me; "and I am honestly happy to
become acquainted with Mr. Macallan's wife. Where will you sit?
Near the light? You are young enough not to be afraid of the
daylight just yet. Is this your first visit to Edinburgh? Pray
let me make it as pleasant to you as I can. I shall be delighted
to present Mrs. Playmore to you. We are staying in Edinburgh for
a little while. The Italian opera is here, and we have a box for
to-night. Will you kindly waive all ceremony and dine with us and
go to the music afterward?"

"You are very kind," I answered. "But I have some anxieties just
now which will make me a very poor companion for Mrs. Playmore at
the opera. My letter to you mentions, I think, that I have to ask
your advice on matters which are of very serious importance to
me."

"Does it?" he rejoined. "To tell you the truth, I have not read
the letter through. I saw your name in it, and I gathered from
your message that you wished to see me here. I sent my note to
your hotel--and then went on with something else. Pray pardon me.
Is this a professional consultation? For your own sake, I
sincerely hope not!"

"It is hardly a professional consultation, Mr. Playmore. I find
myself in a very painful position; and I come to you to advise
me, under very unusual circumstances. I shall surprise you very
much when you hear what I have to say; and I am afraid I shall
occupy more than my fair share of your time."

"I and my time are entirely at your disposal," he said. "Tell me
what I can do for you--and tell it in your own way."

The kindness of this language was more than matched by the
kindness of his manner. I spoke to him freely and fully--I told
him my strange story without the slightest reserve.

He showed the varying impressions that I produced on his mind
without the slightest concealment. My separation from Eustace
distressed him. My resolution to dispute the Scotch Verdict, and
my unjust suspicions of Mrs. Beauly, first amused, then surprised
him. It was not, however, until I had described my extraordinary
interview with Miserrimus Dexter, and my hardly less remarkable
conversation with Lady Clarinda, that I produced my greatest
effect on the lawyer's mind. I saw him change color for the first
time. He started, and muttered to himself, as if he had
completely forgotten me. "Good God!" I heard him say--"can it be
possible? Does the truth lie _that_ way after all?"

I took the liberty of interrupting him. I had no idea of allowing
him to keep his thoughts to himself.

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