“TAKE care, Valeria!” said Mrs. Macallan. “I ask you no questions; I
only caution you for your own sake. Eustace has noticed what I have
noticed--Eustace has seen a change in you. Take care!”
So my mother-in-law spoke to me later in the day, when we happened to be
alone. I had done my best to conceal all traces of the effect produced
on me by the strange and terrible news from Gleninch. But who could read
what I had read, who could feel what I now felt, and still maintain
an undisturbed serenity of look and manner? If I had been the vilest
hypocrite living, I doubt even then if my face could have kept my secret
while my mind was full of Benjamin’s letter.
Having spoken her word of caution, Mrs. Macallan made no further advance
to me. I dare say she was right. Still, it seemed hard to be left,
without a word of advice or of sympathy, to decide for myself what it
was my duty to my husband to do next.
To show him Benjamin’s narrative, in his state of health, and in the
face of the warning addressed to me, was simply out of the question. At
the same time, it was equally impossible, after I had already betrayed
myself, to keep him entirely in the dark. I thought over it anxiously
in the night. When the morning came, I decided to appeal to my husband’s
confidence in me.
I went straight to the point in these terms:
“Eustace, your mother said yesterday that you noticed a change in me
when I came back from my drive. Is she right?”
“Quite right, Valeria,” he answered--speaking in lower tones than usual,
and not looking at me.
“We have no concealments from each other now,” I answered. “I ought to
tell you, and do tell you, that I found a letter from England waiting
at the banker’s which has caused me some agitation and alarm. Will you
leave it to me to choose my own time for speaking more plainly? And will
you believe, love, that I am really doing my duty toward you, as a good
wife, in making this request?”
I paused. He made no answer: I could see that he was secretly struggling
with himself. Had I ventured too far? Had I overestimated the strength
of my influence? My heart beat fast, my voice faltered--but I summoned
courage enough to take his hand, and to make a last appeal to him.
“Eustace,” I said; “don’t you know me yet well enough to trust me?”
He turned toward me for the first time. I saw a last vanishing trace of
doubt in his eyes as they looked into mine.
“You promise, sooner or later, to tell me the whole truth?” he said
“I promise with all my heart!”
“I trust you, Valeria!”
His brightening eyes told me that he really meant what he said.
We sealed our compact with a kiss. Pardon me for mentioning these
trifles--I am still writing (if you will kindly remember it) of our new
honeymoon.
By that day’s post I answered Benjamin’s letter, telling him what I had
done, and entreating him, if he and Mr. Playmore approved of my conduct,
to keep me informed of any future discoveries which they might make at
Gleninch.
After an interval---an endless interval, as it seemed to me--of ten
days more, I received a second letter from my old friend, with another
postscript added by Mr. Playmore.
“We are advancing steadily and successfully with the putting together of
the letter,” Benjamin wrote. “The one new discovery which we have made
is of serious importance to your husband. We have reconstructed certain
sentences declaring, in the plainest words, that the arsenic which
Eustace procured was purchased at the request of his wife, and was in
her possession at Gleninch. This, remember, is in the handwriting of
the wife, and is signed by the wife--as we have also found out.
Unfortunately, I am obliged to add that the objection to taking your
husband into our confidence, mentioned when I last wrote, still remains
in force--in greater force, I may say, than ever. The more we make out
of the letter, the more inclined we are (if we only studied our own
feelings) to throw it back into the dust-heap, in mercy to the memory of
the unhappy writer. I shall keep this open for a day or two. If there
is more news to tell you by that time you will hear of it from Mr.
Playmore.”
Mr. Playmore’s postscript followed, dated three days later.
“The concluding part of the late Mrs. Macallan’s letter to her husband,”
the lawyer wrote, “has proved accidentally to be the first part which
we have succeeded in piecing together. With the exception of a few gaps
still left, here and there, the writing of the closing paragraphs
has been perfectly reconstructed. I have neither the time nor the
inclination to write to you on this sad subject in any detail. In a
fortnight more, at the longest, we shall, I hope, send you a copy of the
letter, complete from the first line to the last. Meanwhile, it is
my duty to tell you that there is one bright side to this otherwise
deplorable and shocking document. Legally speaking, as well as morally
speaking, it absolutely vindicates your husband’s innocence. And it
may be lawfully used for this purpose--if he can reconcile it to his
conscience, and to the mercy due to the memory of the dead, to permit
the public exposure of the letter in Court. Understand me, he cannot be
tried again on what we call the criminal charge--for certain technical
reasons with which I need not trouble you. But, if the facts which were
involved at the criminal trial can also be shown to be involved in a
civil action (and in this case they can), the entire matter may be made
the subject of a new legal inquiry; and the verdict of a second jury,
completely vindicating your husband, may thus be obtained. Keep this
information to yourself for the present. Preserve the position which you
have so sensibly adopted toward Eustace until you have read the restored
letter. When you have done this, my own idea is that you will shrink,
in pity to _him,_ from letting him see it. How he is to be kept in
ignorance of what we have discovered is another question, the discussion
of which must be deferred until we can consult together. Until that time
comes, I can only repeat my advice--wait till the next news reaches you
from Gleninch.”
I waited. What I suffered, what Eustace thought of me, does not matter.
Nothing matters now but the facts.
In less than a fortnight more the task of restoring the letter was
completed. Excepting certain instances, in which the morsels of the torn
paper had been irretrievably lost--and in which it had been necessary
to complete the sense in harmony with the writer’s intention--the whole
letter had been put together; and the promised copy of it was forwarded
to me in Paris.
Before you, too, read that dreadful letter, do me one favor. Let me
briefly remind you of the circumstances under which Eustace Macallan
married his first wife.
Remember that the poor creature fell in love with him without awakening
any corresponding affection on his side. Remember that he separated
himself from her, and did all he could to avoid her, when he found this
out. Remember that she presented herself at his residence in London
without a word of warning; that he did his best to save her reputation;
that he failed, through no fault of his own; and that he ended, rashly
ended in a moment of despair, by marrying her, to silence the scandal
that must otherwise have blighted her life as a woman for the rest
of her days. Bear all this in mind (it is the sworn testimony of
respectable witnesses); and pray do not forget--however foolishly
and blamably he may have written about her in the secret pages of his
Diary--that he was proved to have done his best to conceal from his wife
the aversion which the poor soul inspired in him; and that he was (in
the opinion of those who could best judge him) at least a courteous and
a considerate husband, if he could be no more.
And now take the letter. It asks but one favor of you: it asks to be
read by the light of Christ’s teaching--“Judge not, that ye be not
judged.”