FORTUNATELY for me, the landlord did not open the door when Irang. A stupid maid-of-all-work, who never thought of asking mefor my name, let me in. Mrs. Macallan was at home, and had novisitors with her. Giving me this information, the maid led theway upstairs, and showed me into the drawing-room without a wordof announcement.

My mother-in-law was sitting alone, near a work-table, knitting.The moment I appeared in the doorway she laid aside her work,and, rising, signed to me with a commanding gesture of her handto let her speak first.

"I know what you have come here for," she said. "You have comehere to ask questions. Spare yourself, and spare me. I warn youbeforehand that I will not answer any questions relating to myson."

It was firmly, but not harshly said. I spoke firmly in my turn.

"I have not come here, madam, to ask questions about your son," Ianswered. "I have come, if you will excuse me, to ask you aquestion about yourself."

She started, and looked at me keenly over her spectacles. I hadevidently taken her by surprise.

"What is the question?" she inquired.

"I now know for the first time, madam, that your name isMacallan," I said. "Your son has married me under the name ofWoodville. The only honorable explanation of this circumstance,so far as I know, is that my husband is your son by a firstmarriage. The happiness of my life is at stake. Will you kindlyconsider my position? Will you let me ask you if you have beentwice married, and if the name of your first husband wasWoodville?"

She considered a little before she replied.

"The question is a perfectly natural one in your position," shesaid. "But I think I had better not answer it."

"May I as k why?"

"Certainly. If I answered you, I should only lead to otherquestions, and I should be obliged to decline replying to them. Iam sorry to disappoint you. I repeat what I said on the beach--Ihave no other feeling than a feeling of sympathy toward _you._ Ifyou had consulted me before your marriage, I should willinglyhave admitted you to my fullest confidence. It is now too late.You are married. I recommend you to make the best of yourposition, and to rest satisfied with things as they are."

"Pardon me, madam," I remonstrated. "As things are, I don't knowthat I _am_ married. All I know, unless you enlighten me, is thatyour son has married me under a name that is not his own. How canI be sure whether I am or am not his lawful wife?"

"I believe there can be no doubt that you are lawfully my son'swife," Mrs. Macallan answered. "At any rate it is easy to take alegal opinion on the subject. If the opinion is that you are_not_ lawfully married, my son (whatever his faults and failingsmay be) is a gentleman. He is incapable of willfully deceiving awoman who loves and trusts him. He will do you justice. On myside, I will do you justice, too. If the legal opinion is adverseto your rightful claims, I will promise to answer any questionswhich you may choose to put to me. As it is, I believe you to belawfully my son's wife; and I say again, make the best of yourposition. Be satisfied with your husband's affectionate devotionto you. If you value your peace of mind and the happiness of yourlife to come, abstain from attempting to know more than you knownow."

She sat down again with the air of a woman who had said her lastword.

Further remonstrance would be useless; I could see it in herface; I could hear it in her voice. I turned round to open thedrawing-room door.

"You are hard on me, madam," I said at parting. "I am at yourmercy, and I must submit."

She suddenly looked up, and answered me with a flush on her kindand handsome old face.

"As God is my witness, child, I pity you from the bottom of myheart!"

After that extraordinary outburst of feeling, she took up herwork with one hand, and signed to me with the other to leave her.

I bowed to her in silence, and went out.

I had entered the house far from feeling sure of the course Iought to take in the future. I left the house positivelyresolved, come what might of it, to discover the secret which themother and son were hiding from me. As to the question of thename, I saw it now in the light in which I ought to have seen itfrom the first. If Mrs. Macallan _had_ been twice married (as Ihad rashly chosen to suppose), she would certainly have shownsome signs of recognition when she heard me addressed by herfirst husband's name. Where all else was mystery, there was nomystery here. Whatever his reasons might be, Eustace hadassuredly married me under an assumed name.

Approaching the door of our lodgings, I saw my husband walkingbackward and forward before it, evidently waiting for my return.If he asked me the question, I decided to tell him frankly whereI had been, and what had passed between his mother and myself.

He hurried to meet me with signs of disturbance in his face andmanner.

"I have a favor to ask of you, Valeria," he said. "Do you mindreturning with me to London by the next train?"

I looked at him. In the popular phrase, I could hardly believe myown ears.

"It's a matter of business," he went on, "of no interest to anyone but myself, and it requires my presence in London. You don'twish to sail just yet, as I understand? I can't leave you here byyourself. Have you any objection to going to London for a day ortwo?"

I made no objection. I too was eager to go back.

In London I could obtain the legal opinion which would tell mewhether I were lawfully married to Eustace or not. In London Ishould be within reach of the help and advice of my father'sfaithful old clerk. I could confide in Benjamin as I couldconfide in no one else. Dearly as I loved my uncle Starkweather,I shrank from communicating with him in my present need. His wifehad told me that I made a bad beginning when I signed the wrongname in the marriage register. Shall I own it? My pride shrankfrom acknowledging, before the honeymoon was over, that his wifewas right.

In two hours more we were on the railway again. Ah, what acontrast that second journey presented to the first! On our wayto Ramsgate everybody could see that we were a newly weddedcouple. On our way to London nobody noticed us; nobody would havedoubted that we had been married for years.

We went to a private hotel in the neighborhood of Portland Place.

After breakfast the next morning Eustace announced that he mustleave me to attend to his business. I had previously mentioned tohim that I had some purchases to make in London. He was quitewilling to let me go out alone, on the condition that I shouldtake a carriage provided by the hotel.

My heart was heavy that morning: I felt the unacknowledgedestrangement that had grown up between us very keenly. My husbandopened the door to go out, and came back to kiss me before heleft me by myself. That little after-thought of tendernesstouched me. Acting on the impulse of the moment, I put my armround his neck, and held him to me gently.

"My darling," I said, "give me all your confidence. I know thatyou love me. Show that you can trust me too."

He sighed bitterly, and drew back from me--in sorrow, not inanger.

"I thought we had agreed, Valeria, not to return to that subjectagain," he said. "You only distress yourself and distress me."

He left the room abruptly, as if he dare not trust himself to saymore. It is better not to dwell on what I felt after this lastrepulse. I ordered the carriage at once. I was eager to find arefuge from my own thoughts in movement and change.

I drove to the shops first, and made the purchases which I hadmentioned to Eustace by way of giving a reason for going out.Then I devoted myself to the object which I really had at heart.I went to old Benjamin's little villa, in the by-ways of St.John's Wood.

As soon as he had got over the first surprise of seeing me, henoticed that I looked pale and care-worn. I confessed at oncethat I was in trouble. We sat down together by the brightfireside in his little library (Benjamin, as far as his meanswould allow, was a great collector of books), and there I told myold friend, frankly and truly, all that I have told here.

He was too distressed to say much. He fervently pressed my hand;he fervently thanked God that my father had not lived to hearwhat he had heard. Then, after a pause, he repeated mymother-in-law's name to himself in a doubting, questioning tone."Macallan?" he said. "Macallan? Where have I heard that name? Whydoes it sound as if it wasn't strange to me?"

He gave up pursuing the lost recollection, and asked, veryearnestly, what he could do for me. I answered that he could helpme, in the first place, to put an end to the doubt--anunendurable doubt to _me_--whether I were lawfully married ornot. His energy of the old days when he had conducted my father'sbusiness showed itself again the moment I said those words.

"Your carriage is at the door, my dear," he answered. "Come withme to my own lawyer, without wasting another moment."

We drove to Lincoln's Inn Fields.

At my request Benjamin put my case to the lawyer as the case of afriend in whom I was interested. The answer was given withouthesitation. I had married, honestly believing my husband's nameto be the name under which I had known him. The witnesses to mymarriage--my uncle, my aunt, and Benjamin--had acted, as I hadacted, in perfect good faith. Under those circumstances, therewas no doubt about the law. I was legally married. Macallan orWoodville, I was his wife.

This decisive answer relieved me of a heavy anxiety. I acceptedmy old friend's invitation to return with him to St. John's Wood,and to make my luncheon at his early dinner.

On our way back I reverted to the one other subject which was nowuppermost in my mind. I reiterated my resolution to discover whyEustace hadnot married me under the name that was really his own.

My companion shook his head, and entreated me to consider wellbeforehand what I proposed doing. His advice to me--so strangelydo extremes meet!--was my mother-in-law's advice, repeated almostword for word. "Leave things as they are, my dear. In theinterest of your own peace of mind be satisfied with yourhusband's affection. You know that you are his wife, and you knowthat he loves you. Surely that is enough?"

I had but one answer to this. Life, on such conditions as my goodfriend had just stated, would be simply unendurable to me.Nothing could alter my resolution--for this plain reason, thatnothing could reconcile me to living with my husband on the termson which we were living now. It only rested with Benjamin to saywhether he would give a helping hand to his master's daughter ornot.

The old man's answer was thoroughly characteristic of him.

"Mention what you want of me, my dear," was all he said.

We were then passing a street in the neighborhood of PortmanSquare. I was on the point of speaking again, when the words weresuspended on my lips. I saw my husband.

He was just descending the steps of a house--as if leaving itafter a visit. His eyes were on the ground: he did not look upwhen the-carriage passed. As the servant closed the door behindhim, I noticed that the number of the house was Sixteen. At thenext corner I saw the name of the street. It was Vivian Place.

"Do you happen to know who lives at Number Sixteen Vivian Place?"I inquired of my companion.

Benjamin started. My question was certainly a strange one, afterwhat he had just said to me.

"No," he replied. "Why do you ask?"

"I have just seen Eustace leaving that house."

"Well, my dear, and what of that?"

"My mind is in a bad way, Benjamin. Everything my husband doesthat I don't understand rouses my suspicion now."

Benjamin lifted his withered old hands, and let them drop on hisknees again in mute lamentation over me.

"I tell you again," I went on, "my life is unendurable to me. Iwon't answer for what I may do if I am left much longer to livein doubt of the one man on earth whom I love. You have hadexperience of the world. Suppose you were shut out from Eustace'sconfidence, as I am? Suppose you were as fond of him as I am, andfelt your position as bitterly as I feel it--what would you do?"

The question was plain. Benjamin met it with a plain answer.

"I think I should find my way, my dear, to some intimate friendof your husband's," he said, "and make a few discreet inquiriesin that quarter first."

Some intimate friend of my husband's? I considered with myself.There was but one friend of his whom I knew of--my uncle'scorrespondent, Major Fitz-David. My heart beat fast as the namerecurred to my memory. Suppose I followed Benjamin's advice?Suppose I applied to Major Fitz-David? Even if he, too, refusedto answer my questions, my position would not be more helplessthan it was now. I determined to make the attempt. The onlydifficulty in the way, so far, was to discover the Major'saddress. I had given back his letter to Doctor Starkweather, atmy uncle's own request. I remembered that the address from whichthe Major wrote was somewhere in London--and I remembered nomore.

"Thank you, old friend; you have given me an idea already," Isaid to Benjamin. "Have you got a Directory in your house?"

"No, my dear," he rejoined, looking very much puzzled. "But I caneasily send out and borrow one."

We returned to the villa. The servant was sent at once to thenearest stationer's to borrow a Directory. She returned with thebook just as we sat down to dinner. Searching for the Major'sname under the letter F, I was startled by a new discovery.

"Benjamin!" I said. "This is a strange coincidence. Look here!"

He looked where I pointed. Major Fitz-David's address was NumberSixteen Vivian Place--the very house which I had seen my husbandleaving as we passed in the carriage!