The Law and the Lady. Wilkie Collins

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СКАЧАТЬ my dear, you will do nothing rash,” said Benjamin, as he opened the door for me.

      “Is it rash to go to Major Fitz-David?” I asked.

      “Yes—if you go by yourself. You don’t know what sort of man he is; you don’t know how he may receive you. Let me try first, and pave the way, as the saying is. Trust my experience, my dear. In matters of this sort there is nothing like paving the way.”

      I considered a moment. It was due to my good friend to consider before I said No.

      Reflection decided me on taking the responsibility, whatever it might be, upon my own shoulders. Good or bad, compassionate or cruel, the Major was a man. A woman’s influence was the safest influence to trust with him, where the end to be gained was such an end as I had in view. It was not easy to say this to Benjamin without the danger of mortifying him. I made an appointment with the old man to call on me the next morning at the hotel, and talk the matter over again. Is it very disgraceful to me to add that I privately determined (if the thing could be accomplished) to see Major Fitz-David in the interval?

      “Do nothing rash, my dear. In your own interests, do nothing rash!”

      Those were Benjamin’s last words when we parted for the day.

      I found Eustace waiting for me in our sitting-room at the hotel. His spirits seemed to have revived since I had seen him last. He advanced to meet me cheerfully, with an open sheet of paper in his hand.

      “My business is settled, Valeria, sooner than I had expected,” he began, gayly. “Are your purchases all completed, fair lady? Are you free too?”

      I had learned already (God help me!) to distrust his fits of gayety. I asked, cautiously,

      “Do you mean free for to-day?”

      “Free for to-day, and to-morrow, and next week, and next month—and next year too, for all I know to the contrary,” he answered, putting his arm boisterously round my waist. “Look here!”

      He lifted the open sheet of paper which I had noticed in his hand, and held it for me to read. It was a telegram to the sailing-master of the yacht, informing him that we had arranged to return to Ramsgate that evening, and that we should be ready to sail for the Mediterranean with the next tide.

      “I only waited for your return,” said Eustace, “to send the telegram to the office.”

      He crossed the room as he spoke to ring the bell. I stopped him.

      “I am afraid I can’t go to Ramsgate to-day,” I said.

      “Why not?” he asked, suddenly changing his tone, and speaking sharply.

      I dare say it will seem ridiculous to some people, but it is really true that he shook my resolution to go to Major Fitz-David when he put his arm round me. Even a mere passing caress from him stole away my heart, and softly tempted me to yield. But the ominous alteration in his tone made another woman of me. I felt once more, and felt more strongly than ever, that in my critical position it was useless to stand still, and worse than useless to draw back.

      “I am sorry to disappoint you,” I answered. “It is impossible for me (as I told you at Ramsgate) to be ready to sail at a moment’s notice. I want time.”

      “What for?”

      Not only his tone, but his look, when he put that second question, jarred on every nerve in me. He roused in my mind—I can’t tell how or why—an angry sense of the indignity that he had put upon his wife in marrying her under a false name. Fearing that I should answer rashly, that I should say something which my better sense might regret, if I spoke at that moment, I said nothing. Women alone can estimate what it cost me to be silent. And men alone can understand how irritating my silence must have been to my husband.

      “You want time?” he repeated. “I ask you again—what for?”

      My self-control, pushed to its extremest limits, failed me. The rash reply flew out of my lips, like a bird set free from a cage.

      “I want time,” I said, “to accustom myself to my right name.”

      He suddenly stepped up to me with a dark look.

      “What do you mean by your ‘right name?’”

      “Surely you know,” I answered. “I once thought I was Mrs. Woodville. I have now discovered that I am Mrs. Macallan.”

      He started back at the sound of his own name as if I had struck him—he started back, and turned so deadly pale that I feared he was going to drop at my feet in a swoon. Oh, my tongue! my tongue! Why had I not controlled my miserable, mischievous woman’s tongue!

      “I didn’t mean to alarm you, Eustace,” I said. “I spoke at random. Pray forgive me.”

      He waved his hand impatiently, as if my penitent words were tangible things—ruffling, worrying things, like flies in summer—which he was putting away from him.

      “What else have you discovered?” he asked, in low, stern tones.

      “Nothing, Eustace.”

      “Nothing?” He paused as he repeated the word, and passed his hand over his forehead in a weary way. “Nothing, of course,” he resumed, speaking to himself, “or she would not be here.” He paused once more, and looked at me searchingly. “Don’t say again what you said just now,” he went on. “For your own sake, Valeria, as well as for mine.” He dropped into the nearest chair, and said no more.

      I certainly heard the warning; but the only words which really produced an impression on my mind were the words preceding it, which he had spoken to himself. He had said: “Nothing, of course, or she could not be here.” If I had found out some other truth besides the truth about the name, would it have prevented me from ever returning to my husband? Was that what he meant? Did the sort of discovery that he contemplated mean something so dreadful that it would have parted us at once and forever? I stood by his chair in silence, and tried to find the answer to those terrible questions in his face. It used to speak to me so eloquently when it spoke of his love. It told me nothing now.

      He sat for some time without looking at me, lost in his own thoughts. Then he rose on a sudden and took his hat.

      “The friend who lent me the yacht is in town,” he said. “I suppose I had better see him, and say our plans are changed.” He tore up the telegram with an air of sullen resignation as he spoke. “You are evidently determined not to go to sea with me,” he resumed. “We had better give it up. I don’t see what else is to be done. Do you?”

      His tone was almost a tone of contempt. I was too depressed about myself, too alarmed about him, to resent it.

      “Decide as you think best, Eustace,” I said, sadly. “Every way, the prospect seems a hopeless one. As long as I am shut out from your confidence, it matters little whether we live on land or at sea—we cannot live happily.”

      “If you could control your curiosity,” he answered, sternly, “we might live happily enough. I thought I had married a woman who was superior to the vulgar failings of her sex. A good wife should know better than to pry into affairs of her husband’s СКАЧАТЬ