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 tranquillity; 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!