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 usto stay with her until our child was born, and our plans for thefuture were arranged.

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

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

They had mercifully allowed her to attend the funeral ofMiserrimus Dexter--in the hope that the ceremony might avail toconvince her of his death. The anticipation was not realized; shestill persisted in denying that "the Master" had left her. Theywere obliged to restrain the poor creature by force when thecoffin was lowered into the grave; and they could only remove herfrom the cemetery by the same means when the burial-service wasover. From that time her life alternated, for a few weeks,between fits of raving delirium and intervals of lethargicrepose. At the annual ball given in the asylum, when the strictsuperintendence of the patients was in some degree relaxed, thealarm was raised, a little before midnight, that Ariel wasmissing. The nurse in charge had left her asleep, and had yieldedto the temptation of going downstairs to look at the dancing.When the woman returned to her post, Ariel was gone. The presenceof strangers, and the confusion incidental to the festival,offered her facilities for escaping which would not havepresented themselves at any other time. That night the search forher proved to be useless. The next morning brought with it thelast touching and terrible tidings of her. She had strayed backto the burial-ground; and she had been found toward sunrise, deadof cold and exposure, on Miserrimus Dexter's grave. Faithful tothe 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 lesspainful theme.

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

We paid our visit of congratulation in due form; and we reallydid feel for Major Fitz-David.

The ordeal of marriage had so changed my gay and gallant admirerof former times that I hardly knew him again. He had lost all hispretensions to youth: he had become, hopelessly andundisguisedly, an old man. Standing behind the chair on which hisimperious young wife sat enthroned, he looked at her submissivelybetween every two words that he addressed to me, as if he waitedfor her permission to open his lips and speak. Whenever sheinterrupted him--and she did it, over and over again, withoutceremony--he submitted with a senile docility and admiration, atonce absurd and shocking to see.

"Isn't she beautiful?" he said to me (in his wife's hearing!)."What a figure, and what a voice! You remember her voice? It's aloss, my dear lady, an irretrievable loss, to the operatic stage!Do you know, when I think what that grand creature might havedone, I sometimes ask myself if I really had any right to marryher. I feel, upon my honor I feel, as if I had committed a fraudon the public!"

As for the favored object of this quaint mixture of admirationand regret, she was pleased to receive me graciously, as an oldfriend. While Eustace was talking to the Major, the bride drew measide out of their hearing, and explained her motives formarrying, with a candor which was positively shameless.

"You see we are a large family at home, quite unprovided for!"this odious young woman whispered in my ear. "It's all very wellabout my being a 'Queen of Song' and the rest of it. Lord blessyou, I have been often enough to the opera, and I have learnedenough of my music-master, to know what it takes to make a finesinger. I haven't the patience to work at it as those foreignwomen do: a parcel of brazen-faced Jezebels--I hat e them! No!no! between you and me, it was a great deal easier to get themoney by marrying the old gentleman. Here I am, provided for--andthere's all my family provided for, too--and nothing to do but tospend the money. I am fond of my family; I'm a good daughter andsister--_I_ am! See how I'm dressed; look at the furniture: Ihaven't played my cards badly, have I? It's a great advantage tomarry an old man--you can twist him round your little finger.Happy? Oh, yes! I'm quite happy; and I hope you are, too. Whereare you living now? I shall call soon, and have a long gossipwith you. I always had a sort of liking for you, and (now I'm asgood as you are) I want to be friends."

I made a short and civil reply to this; determining inwardly thatwhen she did visit me she should get no further than thehouse-door. I don't scruple to say that I was thoroughlydisgusted with her. When a woman sells herself to a man, thatvile bargain is none the less infamous (to my mind) because ithappens to be made under the sanction of the Church and the Law.

As I sit at the desk thinking, the picture of the Major and hiswife vanishes from my memory--and the last scene in my storycomes slowly into view.

The place is my bedroom. The persons (both, if you will bepleased to excuse them, in bed) are myself and my son. He isalready three weeks old; and he is now lying fast asleep by hismother's side. My good Uncle Starkweather is coming to London tobaptize him. Mrs. Macallan will be his godmother; and hisgodfathers will be Benjamin and Mr. Playmore. I wonder whether mychristening will pass off more merrily than my wedding?

The doctor has just left the house, in some little perplexityabout me. He has found me reclining as usual (latterly) in myarm-chair; but on this particular day he has detected symptoms ofexhaustion, which he finds quite unaccountable under thecircumstances, and which warn him to exert his authority bysending me back to my bed.

The truth is that I have not taken the doctor into my confidence.There are two causes for those signs of exhaustion which havesurprised my medical attendant--and the names of themare--Anxiety and Suspense.

On this day I have at last summoned courage enough to perform thepromise which I made to my husband in Paris. He is informed, bythis time, how his wife's Confession was discovered. He knows (onMr. Playmore's authority) that the letter may be made the means,if he so will it, of publicly vindicating his innocence in aCourt of Law. And, last and most important of all, he is nowaware that the Confession itself has been kept a sealed secretfrom him, out of compassionate regard for his own peace of mind,as well as for the memory of the unhappy woman who was once hiswife.

These necessary disclosures I have communicated to myhusband--not by word of mouth; when the time came, I shrank fromspeaking to him personally of his first wife--but by a writtenstatement of the circumstances, taken mainly out of my lettersreceived in Paris from Benjamin and Mr. Playmore. He has now hadample time to read all that I have written to him, and to reflecton it in the retirement of his own study. I am waiting, with thefatal letter in my hand--and my mother-in-law is waiting in thenext room to me--to hear from his own lips whether he decides tobreak the seal or not.

The minutes pass; and still we fail to hear his footstep on thestairs. My doubts as to which way his decision may turn affect memore and more uneasily the longer I wait. The very possession ofthe letter, in the present excited state of my nerves, oppressesand revolts me. I shrink from touching it or looking at it. Imove it about restlessly from place to place on the bed, andstill I cannot keep it out of my mind. At last, an odd fancystrikes me. I lift up one of the baby's hands, and put the letterunder it--and so associate that dreadful record of sin and miserywith something innocent and pretty that seems to hallow and topurify it.

The minutes pass; the half-hour longer strikes from the clock onthe chimney-piece; and at last I hear him! He knocks softly, andopens the door.

He is deadly pale: I fancy I can detect traces of tears on hischeeks. But no outward signs of agitation escape him as he takeshis seat by my side. I can see that he has waited until he couldcontrol himself--for my sake.

He takes my hand, and kisses me tenderly.

"Valeria!" he says; "let me once more ask you to forgive what Isaid and did in the bygone time. If I understand nothing else, mylove, I understand this: The proof of my innocence has beenfound; and I owe it entirely to the courage and the devotion ofmy wife!"

I wait a little, to enjoy the full luxury of hearing him saythose words--to revel in the love and the gratitude that moistenhis dear eyes as they look at me. Then I rouse my resolution, andput the momentous question on which our future depends.

"Do you wish to see the letter, Eustace?"

Instead of answering directly, he questions me in his turn.

"Have you got the letter here?"

"Yes."

"Sealed up?"

"Sealed up."

He waits a little, considering what he is going to say nextbefore he says it,

"Let me be sure that I know exactly what it is I have to decide,"he proceeds. "Suppose I insist on reading the letter--?"

There I interrupt him. I know it is my duty to restrain myself.But I cannot do my duty.

"My darling, don't talk of reading the letter! Pray, pray spareyourself--"

He holds up his hand for silence.

"I am not thinking of myself," he says. "I am thinking of my deadwife. If I give up the public vindication of my innocence, in myown lifetime--if I leave the seal of the letter unbroken--do yousay, as Mr. Playmore says, that I shall be acting mercifully andtenderly toward the memory of my wife?"

"Oh, Eustace, there cannot be the shadow of a doubt of it!"

"Shall I be making some little atonement for any pain that I mayhave thoughtlessly caused her to suffer in her lifetime?"

"Yes! yes!"

"And, Valeria--shall I please You?"

"My darling, you will enchant me!"

"Where is the letter?"

"In your son's hand, Eustace."

He goes around to the other side of the bed, and lifts the baby'slittle pink hand to his lips. For a while he waits so, in sad andsecret communion with himself. I see his mother softly open thedoor, and watch him as I am watching him. In a moment more oursuspense is at an end. With a heavy sigh, he lays the child'shand back again on the sealed letter; and by that one littleaction says (as if in words) to his son--"I leave it to You!"

And so it ended! Not as I thought it would end; not perhaps asyou thought it would end. What do we know of our own lives? Whatdo we know of the fulfillment of our dearest wishes? Godknows--and that is best.

Must I shut up the paper? Yes. There is nothing more for you toread or for me to say.

Except this--as a postscript. Don't bear hardly, good people, onthe follies and the errors of my husband's life. Abuse _me_ asmuch as you please. But pray think kindly of Eustace for my sake.

End of Project Gutenberg Etext of Law and the Lady, by Wilkie Collins