The Law and the Lady

W >> Wilkie Collins >> The Law and the Lady

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31

It cost me a hard struggle, it oppressed me with many a painful
doubt; but I held firm this time. The honor of the father, the
inheritance of the child--I kept these thoughts as constant ly as
possible before my mind. Sometimes they failed me, and left me
nothing better than a poor fool who had some fitful bursts of
crying, and was always ashamed of herself afterward. But my
native obstinacy (as Mrs. Macallan said) carried me through. Now
and then I had a peep at Eustace, while he was asleep; and that
helped me too. Though they made my heart ache and shook me sadly
at the times those furtive visits to my husband fortified me
afterward. I cannot explain how this happened (it seems so
contradictory); I can only repeat it as one of my experiences at
that troubled time.

I made one concession to Mrs. Macallan--I consented to wait for
two days before I took any steps for returning to England, on the
chance that my mind might change in the interval.

It was well for me that I yielded so far. On the second day the
director of the field-hospital sent to the post-office at our
nearest town for letters addressed to him or to his care. The
messenger brought back a letter for me. I thought I recognized
the handwriting, and I was right. Mr. Playmore's answer had
reached me at last!

If I had been in any danger of changing my mind, the good lawyer
would have saved me in the nick of time. The extract that follows
contains the pith of his letter; and shows how he encouraged me
when I stood in sore need of a few cheering and friendly words.

"Let me now tell you," he wrote, "what I have done toward
verifying the conclusion to which your letter points.

"I have traced one of the servants who was appointed to keep
watch in the corridor on the night when the first Mrs. Eustace
died at Gleninch. The man perfectly remembers that Miserrimus
Dexter suddenly appeared before him and his fellow-servant long
after the house was quiet for the night. Dexter said to them, 'I
suppose there is no harm in my going into the study to read? I
can't sleep after what has happened; I must relieve my mind
somehow.' The men had no orders to keep any one out of the study.
They knew that the door of communication with the bedchamber was
locked, and that the keys of the two other doors of communication
were in the possession of Mr. Gale. They accordingly permitted
Dexter to go into the study. He closed the door (the door that
opened on the corridor), and remained absent for some time--in
the study as the men supposed; in the bedchamber as we know from
what he let out at his interview with you. Now he could enter
that room, as you rightly imagine, in but one way--by being in
possession of the missing key. How long he remained there I
cannot discover. The point is of little consequence. The servant
remembers that he came out of the study again 'as pale as death,'
and that he passed on without a word on his way back to his own
room.

"These are facts. The conclusion to which they lead is serious in
the last degree. It justifies everything that I confided to you
in my office at Edinburgh. You remember what passed between us. I
say no more.

"As to yourself next. You have innocently aroused in Miserrimus
Dexter a feeling toward you which I need not attempt to
characterize. There is a certain something--I saw it myself--in
your figure, and in some of your movements, which does recall the
late Mrs. Eustace to those who knew her well, and which has
evidently had its effect on Dexter's morbid mind. Without
dwelling further on this subject, let me only remind you that he
has shown himself (as a consequence of your influence over him)
to be incapable, in his moments of agitation, of thinking before
he speaks while he is in your presence. It is not merely
possible, it is highly probable, that he may betray himself far
more seriously than he has betrayed himself yet if you give him
the opportunity. I owe it to you (knowing what your interests
are) to express myself plainly on this point. I have no sort of
doubt that you have advanced one step nearer to the end which you
have in view in the brief interval since you left Edinburgh. I
see in your letter (and in my discoveries) irresistible evidence
that Dexter must have been in secret communication with the
deceased lady (innocent communication, I am certain, so far as
_she_ was concerned), not only at the time of her death, but
perhaps for weeks before it. I cannot disguise from myself or
from you, my own strong persuasion that if you succeed in
discovering the nature of this communication, in all human
likelihood you prove your husband's innocence by the discovery of
the truth. As an honest man, I am bound not to conceal this. And,
as an honest man also, I am equally bound to add that, not even
with your reward in view, can I find it in my conscience to
advise you to risk what you must risk if you see Miserrimus
Dexter again. In this difficult and delicate matter I cannot and
will not take the responsibility: the final decision must rest
with yourself. One favor only I entreat you to grant--let me hear
what you resolve to do as soon as you know it yourself."

The difficulties which my worthy correspondent felt were no
difficulties to me. I did not possess Mr. Playmore's judicial
mind. My resolution was settled before I had read his letter
through.

The mail to France crossed the frontier the next day. There was a
place for me, under the protection of the conductor, if I chose
to take it. Without consulting a living creature--rash as usual,
headlong as usual--I took it.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

ON THE JOURNEY BACK.

IF I had been traveling homeward in my own carriage, the
remaining chapters of this narrative would never have been
written. Before we had been an hour on the road I should have
called to the driver, and should have told him to turn back.

Who can be always resolute?

In asking that question, I speak of the women, not of the men. I
had been resolute in turning a deaf ear to Mr. Playmore's doubts
and cautions; resolute in holding out against my mother-in-law;
resolute in taking my place by the French mail. Until ten minutes
after we had driven away from the inn my courage held out--and
then it failed me; then I said to myself, "You wretch, you have
deserted your husband!" For hours afterward, if I could have
stopped the mail, I would have done it. I hated the conductor,
the kindest of men. I hated the Spanish ponies that drew us, the
cheeriest animals that ever jingled a string of bells. I hated
the bright day that _would_ make things pleasant, and the bracing
air that forced me to feel the luxury of breathing whether I
liked it or not. Never was a journey more miserable than my safe
and easy journey to the frontier. But one little comfort helped
me to bear my heart-ache resignedly--a stolen morsel of Eustace's
hair. We had started at an hour of the morning when he was still
sound asleep. I could creep into his room, and kiss him, and cry
over him softly, and cut off a stray lock of his hair, without
danger of discovery. How I summoned resolution enough to leave
him is, to this hour, not clear to my mind. I think my
mother-in-law must have helped me, without meaning to do it. She
came into the room with an erect head and a cold eye; she said,
with an unmerciful emphasis on the word, "If you _mean_ to go,
Valeria, the carriage is here." Any woman with a spark of spirit
in her would have "meant" it under those circumstances. I meant
it--and did it.

And then I was sorry for it. Poor humanity! Time has got all the
credit of being the great consoler of afflicted mortals. In my
opinion, Time has been overrated in this matter. Distance does
the same beneficent work far more speedily, and (when assisted by
Change) far more effectually as well. On the railroad to Paris, I
became capable of taking a sensible view of my position. I could
now remind myself that my husband's reception of me--after the
first surprise and the first happiness had passed away--might not
have justified his mother's confidence in him. Admitting that I
ran a risk in going back to Miserrimus Dexter, should I not have
been equally rash, in another way, if I had returned, uninvited,
to a husband who had declared that our conjugal happiness was
impossible, and that our married life was at an end? Besides, who
could say that the events of the future might not y et justify
me--not only to myself, but to him? I might yet hear him say,
"She was inquisitive when she had no business to inquire; she was
obstinate when she ought; to have listened to reason; she left my
bedside when other women would have remained; but in the end she
atoned for it all--she turned out to be right!"

I rested a day at Paris and wrote three letters.

One to Benjamin, telling him to expect me the next evening. One
to Mr. Playmore, warning him, in good time, that I meant to make
a last effort to penetrate the mystery at Gleninch. One to
Eustace (of a few lines only), owning that I had helped to nurse
him through the dangerous part of his illness; confessing the one
reason which had prevailed with me to leave him; and entreating
him to suspend his opinion of me until time had proved that I
loved him more dearly than ever. This last letter I inclosed to
my mother-in-law, leaving it to her discretion to choose the
right time for giving it to her son. I positively forbade Mrs.
Macallan, however, to tell Eustace of the new tie between us.
Although he _had_ separated himself from me, I was determined
that he should not hear it from other lips than mine. Never mind
why. There are certain little matters which I must keep to
myself; and this is one of them.

My letters being written, my duty was done. I was free to play my
last card in the game--the darkly doubtful game which was neither
quite for me nor quite against me as the chances now stood.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

ON THE WAY TO DEXTER.

"I DECLARE to Heaven, Valeria, I believe that monster's madness
is infectious--and you have caught it!"

This was Benjamin's opinion of me (on my safe arrival at the
villa) after I had announced my intention of returning Miserrimus
Dexter's visit, in his company.

Being determined to carry my point, I could afford to try the
influence of mild persuasion. I begged my good friend to have a
little patience with me. "And do remember what I have already
told you," I added. "It is of serious importance to me to see
Dexter again."

I only heaped fuel on the fire. "See him again?" Benjamin
repeated indignantly. "See him, after he grossly insulted you,
under my roof, in this very room? I can't be awake; I must be
asleep and dreaming!"

It was wrong of me, I know. But Benjamin's virtuous indignation
was so very virtuous that it let the spirit of mischief loose in
me. I really could not resist the temptation to outrage his sense
of propriety by taking an audaciously liberal view of the whole
matter.

"Gently, my good friend, gently," I said. "We must make
allowances for a man who suffers under Dexter's infirmities, and
lives Dexter's life. And really we must not let our modesty lead
us beyond reasonable limits. I begin to think that I took rather
a prudish view of the thing myself at the time. A woman who
respects herself, and whose whole heart is with her husband, is
not so very seriously injured when a wretched crippled creature
is rude enough to put his arm around her waist. Virtuous
indignation (if I may venture to say so) is sometimes very cheap
indignation. Besides, I have forgiven him--and you must forgive
him too. There is no fear of his forgetting himself again, while
you are with me. His house is quite a curiosity--it is sure to
interest you; the pictures alone are worth the journey. I will
write to him to-day, and we will go and see him together
to-morrow. We owe it to ourselves (if we don't owe it to Mr.
Dexter) to pay this visit. If you will look about you, Benjamin,
you will see that benevolence toward everybody is the great
virtue of the time we live in. Poor Mr. Dexter must have the
benefit of the prevailing fashion. Come, come, march with the
age! Open your mind to the new ideas!"

Instead of accepting this polite invitation, worthy old Benjamin
flew at the age we lived in like a bull at a red cloth.

"Oh, the new ideas! the new ideas! By all manner of means,
Valeria, let us have the new ideas! The old morality's all wrong,
the old ways are all worn out. Let's march with the age we live
in. Nothing comes amiss to the age we live in. The wife in
England and the husband in Spain, married or not married living
together or not living together--it's all one to the new ideas.
I'll go with you, Valeria; I'll be worthy of the generation I
live in. When we have done with Dexter, don't let's do things by
halves. Let's go and get crammed with ready made science at a
lecture--let's hear the last new professor, the man who has been
behind the scenes at Creation, and knows to a T how the world was
made, and how long it took to make it. There's the other fellow,
too: mind we don't forget the modern Solomon, who has left his
proverbs behind him--the brand-new philosopher who considers the
consolations of religion in the light of harmless playthings, and
who is kind enough to say that he might have been all the happier
if he could only have been childish enough to play with them
himself. Oh, the new ideas! the new ideas!--what consoling,
elevating, beautiful discoveries have been made by the new ideas!
We were all monkeys before we were men, and molecules before we
were monkeys! and what does it matter? And what does anything
matter to anybody? I'm with you, Valeria, I'm ready. The sooner
the better. Come to Dexter! Come to Dexter!"

"I am so glad you agree with me," I said. "But let us do nothing
in a hurry. Three o'clock to-morrow will be time enough for Mr.
Dexter. I will write at once and tell him to expect us. Where are
you going?"

"I am going to clear my mind of cant," said Benjamin, sternly. "I
am going into the library."

"What are you going to read?"

"I am going to read--Puss in Boots, and Jack and the Bean-stalk,
and anything else I can find that doesn't march with the age we
live in."

With that parting shot at the new ideas, my old friend left me
for a time.

Having dispatched my note, I found myself beginning to revert,
with a certain feeling of anxiety, to the subject of Miserrimus
Dexter's health. How had he passed through the interval of my
absence from England? Could anybody, within my reach, tell me
news of him? To inquire of Benjamin would only be to provoke a
new outbreak. While I was still considering, the housekeeper
entered the room on some domestic errand. I asked, at a venture,
if she had heard anything more, while I had been away of the
extraordinary person who had so seriously alarmed her on a former
occasion.

The housekeeper shook her head, and looked as if she thought it
in bad taste to mention the subject at all.

"About a week after you had gone away ma'am," she said, with
extreme severity of manner, and with excessive carefulness in her
choice of words, "the Person you mention had the impudence to
send a letter to you. The messenger was informed, by my master's
orders, that you had gone abroad, and he and his letter were both
sent about their business together. Not long afterward, ma'am, I
happened, while drinking tea with Mrs. Macallan's housekeeper, to
hear of the Person again. He himself called in his chaise, at
Mrs. Macallan's, to inquire about you there. How he can contrive
to sit, without legs to balance him, is beyond my
understanding--but that is neither here nor there. Legs or no
legs, the housekeeper saw him, and she says, as I say, she will
never forget him to her dying day. She told him (as soon as she
recovered herself) of Mr. Eustace's illness, and of you and Mrs.
Macallan being in foreign parts nursing him. He went away, so the
housekeeper told me, with tears in his eyes, and oaths and curses
on his lips--a sight shocking to see. That's all I know about the
Person, ma'am, and I hope to be excused if I venture to say that
the subject is (for good reasons) extremely disagreeable to me."

She made a formal courtesy, and quitted the room.

Left by myself, I felt more anxious and more uncertain than ever
when I thought of the experiment that was to be tried on the next
day. Making due allowance for exaggeration, the description of
Miserrimus Dexter on his departure from Mrs. Macallan's house
suggested that he had not endured my long absence very patiently,
and that he was still as far as ever from giving his shatt ered
nervous system its fair chance of repose.

The next morning brought me Mr. Playmore's reply to the letter
which I had addressed to him from Paris.

He wrote very briefly, neither approving nor blaming my decision,
but strongly reiterating his opinion that I should do well to
choose a competent witness as my companion at my coming interview
with Dexter. The most interesting part of the letter was at the
end. "You must be prepared," Mr. Playmore wrote, "to see a change
for the worse in Dexter. A friend of mine was with him on a
matter of business a few days since, and was struck by the
alteration in him. Your presence is sure to have its effect, one
way or another. I can give you no instructions for managing
him--you must be guided by the circumstances. Your own tact will
tell you whether it is wise or not to encourage him to speak of
the late Mrs. Eustace. The chances of his betraying himself all
revolve (as I think) round that one topic: keep him to it if you
can." To this was added, in a postscript: "Ask Mr. Benjamin if he
were near enough to the library door to hear Dexter tell you of
his entering the bedchamber on the night of Mrs. Eustace
Macallan's death."

I put the question to Benjamin when we met at the luncheon-table
before setting forth for the distant suburb in which Miserrimus
Dexter lived. My old friend disapproved of the contemplated
expedition as strongly as ever. He was unusually grave and
unusually sparing of his words when he answered me.

"I am no listener," he said. "But some people have voices which
insist on being heard. Mr. Dexter is one of them."

"Does that mean that you heard him?" I asked.

"The door couldn't muffle him, and the wall couldn't muffle him,"
Benjamin rejoined. "I heard him--and I thought it infamous.
There!"

"I may want you to do more than hear him this time," I ventured
to say. "I may want you to make notes of our conversation while
Mr. Dexter is speaking to me. You used to write down what my
father said, when he was dictating his letters to you. Have you
got one of your little note-books to spare?"

Benjamin looked up from his plate with an aspect of stern
surprise.

"It's one thing," he said, "to write under the dictation of a
great merchant, conducting a vast correspondence by which
thousands of pounds change hands in due course of post. And it's
another thing to take down the gibberish of a maundering mad
monster who ought to be kept in a cage. Your good father,
Valeria, would never have asked me to do that."

"Forgive me, Benjamin; I must really ask you to do it. You may be
of the greatest possible use to me. Come, give way this once,
dear, for my sake."

Benjamin looked down again at his plate, with a rueful
resignation which told me that I had carried my point.

"I have been tied to her apron-string all my life," I heard him
grumble to himself; "and it's too late in the day to get loose
from her how." He looked up again at me. "I thought I had retired
from business," he said; "but it seems I must turn clerk again.
Well? What is the new stroke of work that's expected from me this
time?"

The cab was announced to be waiting for us at the gate as he
asked the question. I rose and took his arm, and gave him a
grateful kiss on his rosy old cheek.

"Only two things," I said. "Sit down behind Mr. Dexter's chair,
so that he can't see you. But take care to place yourself, at the
same time, so that you can see me."

"The less I see of Mr. Dexter the better I shall be pleased,"
growled Benjamin. "What am I to do after I have taken my place
behind him?"

"You are to wait until I make you a sign; and when you see it you
are to begin writing down in your note-book what Mr. Dexter is
saying--and you are to go on until I make another sign, which
means, Leave off!"

"Well?" said Benjamin, "what's the sign for Begin? and what's the
sign for Leave off?"

I was not quite prepared with an answer to this. I asked him to
help me with a hint. No! Benjamin would take no active part in
the matter. He was resigned to be employed in the capacity of
passive instrument--and there all concession ended, so far as he
was concerned.

Left to my own resources, I found it no easy matter to invent a
telegraphic system which should sufficiently inform Benjamin,
without awakening Dexter's quick suspicion. I looked into the
glass to see if I could find the necessary suggestion in anything
that I wore. My earrings supplied me with the idea of which I was
in search.

"I shall take care to sit in an arm-chair," I said. "When you see
me rest my elbow on the chair, and lift my hand to my earring, as
if I were playing with it--write down what he says; and go on
until--well, suppose we say, until you hear me move my chair. At
that sound, stop. You understand me?"

"I understand you."

We started for Dexter's house.

CHAPTER XL.

NEMESIS AT LAST.

THE gardener opened the gate to us on this occasion. He had
evidently received his orders in anticipation of my arrival.

"Mrs. Valeria?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And friend?"

"And friend."

"Please to step upstairs. You know the house."

Crossing the hall, I stopped for a moment, and looked at a
favorite walking-cane which Benjamin still kept in his hand.

"Your cane will only be in your way," I said. "Had you not better
leave it here?"

"My cane may be useful upstairs," retorted Benjamin, gruffly.
"_I_ haven't forgotten what happened in the library."

It was no time to contend with him. I led the way up the stairs.

Arriving at the upper flight of steps, I was startled by hearing
a sudden cry from the room above. It was like the cry of a person
in pain; and it was twice repeated before we entered the circular
antechamber. I was the first to approach the inner room, and to
see the many-sided Miserrimus Dexter in another new aspect of his
character.

The unfortunate Ariel was standing before a table, with a dish of
little cakes placed in front of her. Round each of her wrists was
tied a string, the free ends of which (at a distance of a few
yards) were held in Miserrimus Dexter's hands. "Try again, my
beauty!" I heard him say, as I stopped on the threshold of the
door. "Take a cake." At the word of command, Ariel submissively
stretched out one arm toward the dish. Just as she touched a cake
with the tips of her fingers her hand was jerked away by a pull
at the string, so savagely cruel in the nimble and devilish
violence of it that I felt inclined to snatch Benjamin's cane out
of his hand and break it over Miserrimus Dexter's back. Ariel
suffered the pain this time in Spartan silence. The position in
which she stood enabled her to be the first to see me at the
door. She had discovered me. Her teeth were set; her face was
flushed under the struggle to restrain herself. Not even a sigh
escaped her in my presence.

"Drop the string!" I called out, indignantly "Release her, Mr.
Dexter, or I shall leave the house."

At the sound of my voice he burst out with a shrill cry of
welcome. His eyes fastened on me with a fierce, devouring
delight.

"Come in! come in!" he cried. "See what I am reduced to in the
maddening suspense of waiting for you. See how I kill the time
when the time parts us. Come in! come in! I am in one of my
malicious humors this morning, caused entirely, Mrs. Valeria, by
my anxiety to see you. When I am in my malicious humors I must
tease something. I am teasing Ariel. Look at her! She has had
nothing to eat all day, and she hasn't been quick enough to
snatch a morsel of cake yet. You needn't pity her. Ariel has no
nerves--I don't hurt her."

"Ariel has no nerves," echoed the poor creature, frowning at me
for interfering between her master and herself. "He doesn't hurt
me."

I heard Benjamin beginning to swing his cane behind him.

"Drop the string!" I reiterated, more vehemently than ever. "Drop
it, or I shall instantly leave you."

Miserrimus Dexter's delicate nerves shuddered at my violence.
"What a glorious voice!" he exclaimed--and dropped the string.
"Take the cakes," he added, addressing Ariel in his most imperial
manner.

She passed me, with the strings hanging from her swollen wrists,
and the dish of cakes in her hand. She nodded her head at me
defiantly.

"Ariel has got no nerves," she repeated, proudly. "He doesn't
hurt me."

"You see," said Miserrimus Dexter, "there is no harm done--and I
dropped the strings when you told me. Don't _begin_ by being hard
on me, Mrs. Valeria, after your long absence." He paused.
Benjamin, standing silent in the doorway, attracted his attention
for the first time. "Who is this?" he asked, and wheeled his
chair suspiciously nearer to the door. "I know!" he cried, before
I could answer. "This is the benevolent gentleman who looked like
the refuge of the afflicted when I saw him last.--You have
altered for the worse since then, sir. You have stepped into
quite a new character--you personify Retributive Justice
now.--Your new protector, Mrs. Valeria--I understand!" He bowed
low to Benjamin, with ferocious irony. "Your humble servant, Mr.
Retributive Justice! I have deserved you--and I submit to you.
Walk in, sir! I will take care that your new office shall be a
sinecure. This lady is the Light of my Life. Catch me failing in
respect to her if you can!" He backed his chair before Benjamin
(who listened to him in contemptuous silence) until he reached
the part of the room in which I was standing. "Your hand, Light
of my Life!" he murmured in his gentlest tones. "Your hand--only
to show that you have forgiven me!" I gave him my hand. "One?" he
whispered, entreatingly. "Only one?" He kissed my hand once,
respectfully--and dropped it with a heavy sigh. "Ah, poor
Dexter!" he said, pitying himself with the whole sincerity of his
egotism. "A warm heart--wasted in solitude, mocked by deformity.
Sad! sad! Ah, poor Dexter!" He looked round again at Benjamin,
with another flash of his ferocious irony. "A beauteous day,
sir," he said, with mock-conventional courtesy. "Seasonable
weather indeed after the late long-continued rains. Can I offer
you any refreshment? Won't you sit down? Retributive Justice,
when it is no taller than you are, looks best in a chair."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31