The Law and the Lady

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"SARA MACALLAN."*

----------------------------------- * Note by Mr. Playmore:

The lost words and phrases supplied in this concluding portion of
the letter are so few in number that it is needless to mention
them. The fragments which were found accidentally stuck together
by the gum, and which represent the part of the letter first
completely reconstructed, begin at the phrase, "I spoke of you
shamefully, Eustace;" and end with the broken sentence, "If in
paying me this little attention, you only encouraged me by one
fond word or one fond look, I resolved not to take--" With the
assistance thus afforded to us, the labor of putting together the
concluding half of the letter (dated "October 20") was trifling,
compared with the almost insurmountable difficulties which we
encountered in dealing with the scattered wreck of the preceding
pages. -----------------------------------

CHAPTER XLVIII.

WHAT ELSE COULD I DO?

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

Yes! to this end it had come. I had devoted my life to the
attainment of one object; and that object I had gained. There, on
the table before me, lay the triumphant vindication of my
husband's innocence; and, in mercy to him, in mercy to the memory
of his dead wife, my one hope was that he might 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
had been discovered.

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

Looking back at events in this frame of mind, the very sight of
the letter sickened and horrified me. I cursed the day which had
disinterred the fragments of it from their foul tomb. Just at the
time when Eustace had found his weary way back to health and
strength; just at the time when we were united again and happy
again--when a month or two more might make us father and mother,
as well as husband and wife--that frightful record of suffering
and sin had risen against us like an avenging spirit. There it
faced me on the table, threatening my husband's tranqu illity;
nay, for all I knew (if he read it at the present critical stage
of his recovery) even threatening his life!

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

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

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

He glanced at the fire. The black cinders of the burned paper
were still floating at the back of the grate. He had seen the
letter brought to me at the breakfast-table. Did he suspect what
I had done? He said nothing--he stood gravely looking into the
fire. Then he advanced and fixed his eyes on me. I suppose I was
very pale. The first words he spoke 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. I remained silent. He took a letter out of the
breast-pocket of his coat and laid it on the table before
me--just where the Confession had lain before I destroyed it!

"I have had a letter too this morning," he said. "And _I,_
Valeria, have no secrets from _you._"

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

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

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

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

"Read it," said Eustace.

I read as follows:

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

I laid the newspaper slip on the table, in no very Christian
frame of mind toward the persons concerned in producing it. Some
reporter in search of news had evidently been prying about the
grounds at Gleninch, and some busy-body in the neighborhood had
in all probability sent the published paragraph to Eustace.
Entirely at a loss what to do, I waited for my husband to speak.
He did not keep me in suspense--he questioned me 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 only refuge 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,
think quickly in emergencies. There was but one way out of the
embarrassing position in which my husband's last words had placed
me. My instincts showed 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
little while 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
persuasion than 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 (not over-graciously), he insisted once more on knowing
how much longer I wanted 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
his hand, and gave him a look. He returned the look (warmly
enough, this time, 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
consult again with Benjamin and Mr. Playmore.

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

CHAPTER XLIX.

PAST AND FUTURE.

I write from memory, unassisted by notes or diaries; and I have
no distinct recollection of the length of our residence abroad.
It certainly extended over a period of some months. Long after
Eustace was strong enough to take the journey to London the
doctors persisted in keeping him in Paris. He had shown symptoms
of weakness in one of his lungs, and his medical advisers, seeing
that he prospered in the dry atmosphere of France, warned him to
be careful of breathing too soon the moist air of his own
country.

Thus it happened that we were still in Paris when I received my
next news from Gleninch.

This time no letters passed on either side. To my surprise and
delight, Benjamin quietly made his appearance one morning in our
pretty French drawing-room. He was so preternaturally smart in
his dress, and so incomprehensibly anxious (while my husband was
in the way) to make us understand that his reasons for visiting
Paris were holiday reasons only, that I at once suspected him of
having crossed the Channel in a double character--say, as tourist
in search of pleasure, when third persons were present; as
ambassador from Mr. Playmore, when he and I had the room to
ourselves.

Later in the day I contrived that we should be left together, and
I soon found that my anticipations had not misled me. Benjamin
had set out for Paris, at Mr. Playmore's express request, to
consult with me as to the future, and to enlighten me as to the
past. He presented me with his credentials in the shape of a
little note from the lawyer.

"There are some few points" (Mr. Playmore wrote) "which the
recovery of the letter does not seem to clear up. I have done my
best, with Mr. Benjamin's assistance, to find the right
explanation of these debatable matters; and I have treated the
subject, for the sake of brevity, in the form of Questions and
Answers. Will you accept me as interpreter, after the mistakes I
made when you consulted me in Edinburgh? Events, I admit, have
proved that I was entirely wrong in trying to prevent you from
returning to Dexter--and partially wrong in suspecting Dexter of
being directly, instead of indirectly, answerable for the first
Mrs. Eustace's death. I frankly make my confession, and leave you
to tell Mr. Benjamin whether you think my new Catechism worthy of
examination or not."

I thought his "new Catechism" (as he called it) decidedly worthy
of examination. If you don't ag ree with this view, and if you
are dying to be done with me and my narrative, pass on to the
next chapter by all means!

Benjamin produced the Questions and Answers; and read them to me,
at my request, in these terms:

"Questions suggested by the letter discovered at Gleninch. First
Group: Questions relating to the Diary. First Question: obtaining
access to Mr. Macallan's private journal, was Miserrimus Dexter
guided by any previous knowledge of its contents?

"Answer: It is doubtful if he had any such knowledge. The
probabilities are that he noticed how carefully Mr. Macallan
secured his Diary from observation; that he inferred therefrom
the existence of dangerous domestic secrets in the locked-up
pages; and that he speculated on using those secrets for his own
purpose when he caused the false keys to be made.

"Second Question: To what motive are we to attribute Miserrimus
Dexter's interference with the sheriff's officers, on the day
when they seized Mr. Macallan's Diary along with his other
papers?

"Answer: In replying to this question, we must first do justice
to Dexter himself. Infamously as we now know him to have acted,
the man was not a downright fiend. That he secretly hated Mr.
Macallan, as his successful rival in the affections of the woman
he loved--and that he did all he could to induce the unhappy lady
to desert her husband--are, in this case, facts not to be denied.
On the other hand, it is fairly to be doubted whether he were
additionally capable of permitting the friend who trusted him to
be tried for murder, through his fault, without making an effort
to save the innocent man. It had naturally never occurred to Mr.
Macallan (being guiltless of his wife's death) to destroy his
Diary and his letters, in the fear that they might be used
against him. Until the prompt and secret action of the Fiscal
took him by surprise, the idea of his being charged with the
murder of his wife was an idea which we know, from his own
statement, had never even entered his mind. But Dexter must have
looked at the matter from another point of view. In his last
wandering words (spoken when his mind broke down) he refers to
the Diary in these terms, 'The Diary will hang him; I won't have
him hanged.' If he could have found his opportunity of getting at
it in time--or if the sheriff's officers had not been too quick
for him--there can be no reasonable doubt that Dexter would have
himself destroyed the Diary, foreseeing the consequences of its
production in court. So strongly does he appear to have felt
these considerations, that he even resisted the officers in the
execution of their duty. His agitation when he sent for Mr.
Playmore to interfere was witnessed by that gentleman, and (it
may not be amiss to add) was genuine agitation beyond dispute.

"Questions of the Second Group: relating to the Wife's
Confession. First Question: What prevented Dexter from destroying
the letter, when he first discovered it under the dead woman's
pillow?

"Answer: The same motives which led him to resist the seizure of
the Diary, and to give his evidence in the prisoner's favor at
the Trial, induced him to preserve the letter until the verdict
was known. Looking back once more at his last words (as taken
down by Mr. Benjamin), we may infer that if the verdict had been
Guilty, he would not have hesitated to save the innocent husband
by producing the wife's confession. There are degrees in all
wickedness. Dexter was wicked enough to suppress the letter,
which wounded his vanity by revealing him as an object for
loathing and contempt--but he was not wicked enough deliberately
to let an innocent man perish on the scaffold. He was capable of
exposing the rival whom he hated to the infamy and torture of a
public accusation of murder; but, in the event of an adverse
verdict, he shrank before the direr cruelty of letting him be
hanged. Reflect, in this connection, on what he must have
suffered, villain as he was, when he first read the wife's
confession. He had calculated on undermining her affection for
her husband--and whither had his calculations led him? He had
driven the woman whom he loved to the last dreadful refuge of
death by suicide! Give these considerations their due weight; and
you will understand that some little redeeming virtue might show
itself, as the result even of _this_ man's remorse.

"Second Question: What motive influenced Miserrimus Dexter's
conduct, when Mrs. (Valeria) Macallan informed him that she
proposed reopening the inquiry into the poisoning at Gleninch?

"Answer: In all probability, Dexter's guilty fears suggested to
him that he might have been watched on the morning when he
secretly entered the chamber in which the first Mrs. Eustace lay
dead. Feeling no scruples himself to restrain him from listening
at doors and looking through keyholes, he would be all the more
ready to suspect other people of the same practices. With this
dread in him, it would naturally occur to his mind that Mrs.
Valeria might meet with the person who had watched him, and might
hear all that the person had discovered--unless he led her astray
at the outset of her investigations. Her own jealous suspicions
of Mrs. Beauly offered him the chance of easily doing this. And
he was all the readier to profit by the chance, being himself
animated by the most hostile feeling toward that lady. He knew
her as the enemy who destroyed the domestic peace of the mistress
of the house; he loved the mistress of the house--and he hated
her enemy accordingly. The preservation of his guilty secret, and
the persecution of Mrs. Beauly: there you have the greater and
the lesser motive of his conduct in his relations with Mrs.
Eustace the second!"*

----------------------------------- * Note by the writer of the
Narrative:

Look back for a further illustration of this point of view to the
scene at Benjamin's house (Chapter XXXV.), where Dexter, in a
moment of ungovernable agitation, betrays his own secret to
Valeria. -----------------------------------

Benjamin laid down his notes, and took off his spectacles.

"We have not thought it necessary to go further than this," he
said. "Is there any point you can think of that is still left
unexplained?"

I reflected. There was no point of any importance left
unexplained that I could remember. But there was one little
matter (suggested by the recent allusions to Mrs. Beauly) which I
wished (if possible) to have thoroughly cleared up.

"Have you and Mr. Playmore ever spoken together on the subject of
my husband's former attachment to Mrs. Beauly?" I asked. "Has Mr.
Playmore ever told you why Eustace did not marry her, after the
Trial?"

"I put that question to Mr. Playmore myself," said Benjamin. "He
answered it easily enough. Being your husband's confidential
friend and adviser, he was consulted when Mr. Eustace wrote to
Mrs. Beauly, after the Trial; and he repeated the substance of
the letter, at my request. Would you like to hear what I remember
of it, in my turn?"

I owned that I should like to hear it. What Benjamin thereupon
told me, exactly coincided with what Miserrimus Dexter had told
me--as related in the thirtieth chapter of my narrative. Mrs.
Beauly had been a witness of the public degradation of my
husband. That was enough in itself to prevent him from marrying
her: He broke off with _her_ for the same reason which had led
him to separate himself from _me._ Existence with a woman who
knew that he had been tried for his life as a murderer was an
existence which he had not resolution enough to face. The two
accounts agreed in every particular. At last my jealous curiosity
was pacified; and Benjamin was free to dismiss the past from
further consideration, and to approach the more critical and more
interesting topic of the future.

His first inquiries related to Eustace. He asked if my husband
had any suspicion of the proceedings which had taken place at
Gleninch.

I told him what had happened, and how I had contrived to put off
the inevitable disclosure for a time.

My old friend's face cleared up as he listened to me.

"This will be good news for Mr. Playmore," he said. "Our
excellent friend, the lawyer, is sorely afraid that our dis
coveries may compromise your position with your husband. On the
one hand, he is naturally anxious to spare Mr. Eustace the
distress which he must certainly feel, if he read his first
wife's confession. On the other hand, it is impossible, in
justice (as Mr. Playmore puts it) to the unborn children of your
marriage, to suppress a document which vindicates the memory of
their father from the aspersion that the Scotch Verdict might
otherwise cast on it."

I listened attentively. Benjamin had touched on a trouble which
was still secretly preying on my mind.

"How does Mr. Playmore propose to meet the difficulty?" I asked.

"He can only meet it in one way," Benjamin replied. "He proposes
to seal up the original manuscript of the letter, and to add to
it a plain statement of the circumstances under which it was
discovered, supported by your signed attestation and mine, as
witnesses to the fact. This done, he must leave it to you to take
your husband into your confidence, at your own time. It will then
be for Mr. Eustace to decide whether he will open the
inclosure--or whether he will leave it, with the seal unbroken,
as an heirloom to his children, to be made public or not, at
their discretion, when they are of an age to think for
themselves. Do you consent to this, my dear? Or would you prefer
that Mr. Playmore should see your husband, and act for you in the
matter?"

I decided, without hesitation, to take the responsibility on
myself. Where the question of guiding Eustace's decision was
concerned, I considered my influence to be decidedly superior to
the influence of Mr. Playmore. My choice met with Benjamin's full
approval. He arranged to write to Edinburgh, and relieve the
lawyer's anxieties by that day's post.

The one last thing now left to be settled related to our plans
for returning to England. The doctors were the authorities on
this subject. I promised to consult them about it at their next
visit to Eustace.

"Have you anything more to say to me?" Benjamin inquired, as he
opened his writing-case.

I thought of Miserrimus Dexter and Ariel; and I inquired if he
had heard any news of them lately. My old friend sighed, and
warned me that I had touched on a painful subject.

"The best thing that can happen to that unhappy man is likely to
happen," he said. "The one change in him is a change that
threatens paralysis. You may hear of his death before you get
back to England."

"And Ariel?" I asked.

"Quite unaltered," Benjamin answered. "Perfectly happy so long as
she is with 'the Master.' From all I can hear of her, poor soul,
she doesn't reckon Dexter among moral beings. She laughs at the
idea of his dying; and she waits patiently, in the firm
persuasion that he will recognize her again."

Benjamin's news saddened and silenced me. I left him to his
letter.

CHAPTER L.

THE LAST OF THE STORY.

In ten days more we returned to England, accompanied by Benjamin.

Mrs. Macallan's house in London offered us ample accommodation.
We gladly availed ourselves of her proposal, when she invited us
to stay with her until our child was born, and our plans for the
future were arranged.

The sad news from the asylum (for which Benjamin had prepared my
mind at Paris) reached me soon after our return to England.
Miserrimus Dexter's release from the burden of life had come to
him by slow degrees. A few hours before he breathed his last he
rallied for a while, and recognized Ariel at his bedside. He
feebly pronounced her name, and looked at her, and asked for me.
They thought of sending for me, but it was too late. Before the
messenger could be dispatched, he said, with a touch of his old
self-importance, "Silence, all of you! my brains are weary; I am
going to sleep." He closed his eyes in slumber, and never awoke
again. So for this man too the end came mercifully, without grief
or pain! So that strange and many-sided life--with its guilt and
its misery, its fitful flashes of poetry and humor, its fantastic
gayety, cruelty, and vanity--ran its destined course, and faded
out like a dream!

Alas for Ariel! She had lived for the Master--what more could she
do, now the Master was gone? She could die for him.

They had mercifully allowed her to attend the funeral of
Miserrimus Dexter--in the hope that the ceremony might avail to
convince her of his death. The anticipation was not realized; she
still persisted in denying that "the Master" had left her. They
were obliged to restrain the poor creature by force when the
coffin was lowered into the grave; and they could only remove her
from the cemetery by the same means when the burial-service was
over. From that time her life alternated, for a few weeks,
between fits of raving delirium and intervals of lethargic
repose. At the annual ball given in the asylum, when the strict
superintendence of the patients was in some degree relaxed, the
alarm was raised, a little before midnight, that Ariel was
missing. The nurse in charge had left her asleep, and had yielded
to the temptation of going downstairs to look at the dancing.
When the woman returned to her post, Ariel was gone. The presence
of strangers, and the confusion incidental to the festival,
offered her facilities for escaping which would not have
presented themselves at any other time. That night the search for
her proved to be useless. The next morning brought with it the
last touching and terrible tidings of her. She had strayed back
to the burial-ground; and she had been found toward sunrise, dead
of cold and exposure, on Miserrimus Dexter's grave. Faithful to
the last, Ariel had followed the Master! Faithful to the last,
Ariel had died on the Master's grave!

Having written these sad words, I turn willingly to a less
painful theme.

Events had separated me from Major Fitz-David, after the date of
the dinner-party which had witnessed my memorable meeting with
Lady Clarinda. From that time I heard little or nothing of the
Major; and I am ashamed to say I had almost entirely forgotten
him--when I was reminded of the modern Don Juan by the amazing
appearance of wedding-cards, addressed to me at my
mother-in-law's house! The Major had settled in life at last.
And, more wonderful still, the Major had chosen as the lawful
ruler of his household and himself--"the future Queen of Song,"
the round-eyed, overdressed young lady with the strident soprano
voice!

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