MY first impulse was the reckless impulse to followEustace--openly through the streets.

The Major and Benjamin both opposed this hasty resolution on mypart. They appealed to my own sense of self-respect, without (sofar as I remember it) producing the slightest effect on my mind.They were more successful when they entreated me next to bepatient for my husband's sake. In mercy to Eustace, they beggedme to wait half an hour. If he failed to return in that time,they pledged themselves to accompany me in search of him to thehotel.

In mercy to Eustace I consented to wait. What I suffered underthe forced necessity for remaining passive at that crisis in mylife no words of mine can tell. It will be better if I go on withmy narrative.

Benjamin was the first to ask me what had passed between myhusband and myself.

"You may speak freely, my dear," he said. "I know what hashappened since you have been in Major Fitz-David's house. No onehas told me about it; I found it out for myself. If you remember,I was struck by the name of 'Macallan,' when you first mentionedit to me at my cottage. I couldn't guess why at the time. I knowwhy now."

Hearing this, I told them both unreservedly what I had said toEustace, and how he had received it. To my unspeakabledisappointment, they both sided with my husband, treating my viewof his position as a mere dream. They said it, as he had said it,"You have not read the Trial."

I was really enraged with them. "The facts are enough for _me,_"I said. "We know he is innocent. Why is his innocence not proved?It ought to be, it must be, it shall be! If the Trial tell me itcan't be done, I refuse to believe the Trial. Where is the book,Major? Let me see for myself if his lawyers have left nothing forhis wife to do. Did they love him as I love him? Give me thebook!"

Major Fitz-David looked at Benjamin.

"It will only additionally shock and distress her if I give herthe book," he said. "Don't you agree with me?"

I interposed before Benjamin could answer.

"If you refuse my request," I said, "you will oblige me, Major,to go to the nearest bookseller and tell him to buy the Trial forme. I am determined to read it."

This time Benjamin sided with me.

"Nothing can make matters worse than they are, sir," he said. "IfI may be permitted to advise, let her have her own way."

The Major rose and took the book out of the Italian cabinet, towhich he had consigned it for safe-keeping.

"My young friend tells me that she informed you of herregrettable outbreak of temper a few days since," he said as hehanded me the volume. "I was not aware at the time what book shehad in her hand when she so far forgot herself as to destroy thevase. When I left you in the study, I supposed the Report of theTrial to be in its customary place on the top shelf of thebook-case, and I own I felt some curiosity to know whether youwould think of examining that shelf. The broken vase--it isneedless to conceal it from you now--was one of a pair presentedto me by your husband and his first wife only a week before thepoor woman's terrible death. I felt my first presentiment thatyou were on the brink of discovery when I found you looking atthe fragments, and I fancy I betrayed to you that something ofthe sort was disturbing me. You looked as if you noticed it."

"I did notice it, Major. And I too had a vague idea that I was onthe way to discovery. Will you look at your watch? Have we waitedhalf an hour yet?"

My impatience had misled me. The ordeal of the half-hour was notyet at an end.

Slowly and more slowly the heavy minutes followed each other, andstill there were no signs of my husband's return. We tried tocontinue our conversation, and failed. Nothing was audible; nosounds but the ordinary sounds of the street disturbed thedreadful silence. Try as I might to repel it, there was oneforeboding thought that pressed closer and closer on my mind asthe interval of waiting wore its weary way on. I shuddered as Iasked myself if our married life had come to an end--if Eustacehad really left me.

The Major saw what Benjamin's slower perception had not yetdiscovered--that my fortitude was beginning to sink under theunrelieved oppression of suspense.

"Come!" he said. "Let us go to the hotel."

It then wanted nearly five minutes to the half-hour. I _looked_my gratitude to Major Fitz-David for sparing me those lastminutes: I could not speak to him or to Benjamin. In silence wethree got into a cab and drove to the hotel.

The landlady met us in the hall. Nothing had been seen or heardof Eustace. There was a letter waiting for me upstairs on thetable in our sitting-room. It had been left at the hotel by amessenger only a few minutes since.

Trembling and breathless, I ran up the stairs, the two gentlemenfollowing me. The address of the letter was in my husband'shandwriting. My heart sank in me as I looked at the lines; therecould be but one reason for his writing to me. That closedenvelope held his farewell words. I sat with the letter on mylap, stupefied, incapable of opening it.

Kind-hearted Benjamin attempted to comfort and encourage me. TheMajor, with his larger experience of women, warned the old man tobe silent.

"Wait!" I heard him whisper. "Speaking to her will do no goodnow. Give her time."

Acting on a sudden impulse, I held out the letter to him as hespoke. Even moments might be of importance, if Eustace had indeedleft me. To give me time might be to lose the opportunity ofrecalling him.

"You are his old friend," I said. "Open his letter, Major, andread it for me."

Major Fitz-David opened the letter and read it through tohimself. When he had done he threw it on the table with a gesturewhich was almost a gesture of contempt.

"There is but one excuse for him," he said. "The man is mad."

Those words told me all. I knew the worst; and, knowing it, Icould read the letter. It ran thus:

"MY BELOVED VALERIA--When you read these lines you read myfarewell words. I return to my solitary unfriended life--my lifebefore I knew you.

"My darling, you have been cruelly treated. You have beenentrapped into marrying a man who has been publicly accused ofpoisoning his first wife--and who has not been honorably andcompletely acquitted of the charge. And you know it!

"Can you live on terms of mutual confidence and mutual esteemwith me when I have committed this fraud, and when I stand towardyou in this position? It was possible for you to live with mehappily while you were in ignorance of the truth. It is _not_possible, now you know all.

"No! the one atonement I can make is--to leave you. Your onechance of future happiness is to be disassociated, at once andforever, from my dishonored life. I love you, Valeria--truly,devotedly, passionately. But the specter of the poisoned womanrises between us. It makes no difference that I am innocent evenof the thought of harming my first wife. My innocence has notbeen proved. In this world my innocence can never be proved. Youare young and loving, and generous and hopeful. Bless others,Valeria, with your rare attractions a nd your delightful gifts.They are of no avail with _me._ The poisoned woman stands betweenus. If you live with me now, you will see her as I see her._That_ torture shall never be yours. I love you. I leave you.

"Do you think me hard and cruel? Wait a little, and time willchange that way of thinking. As the years go on you will say toyourself, 'Basely as he deceived me, there was some generosity inhim. He was man enough to release me of his own free will.'

"Yes, Valeria, I fully, freely release you. If it be possible toannul our marriage, let it be done. Recover your liberty by anymeans that you may be advised to employ; and be assuredbeforehand of my entire and implicit submission. My lawyers havethe necessary instructions on this subject. Your uncle has onlyto communicate with them, and I think he will be satisfied of myresolution to do you justice. The one interest that I have nowleft in life is my interest in your welfare and your happiness inthe time to come. Your welfare and your happiness are no longerto be found in your union with Me.

"I can write no more. This letter will wait for you at the hotel.It will be useless to attempt to trace me. I know my ownweakness. My heart is all yours: I might yield to you if I letyou see me again.

"Show these lines to your uncle, and to any friends whoseopinions you may value. I have only to sign my dishonored name,and every one will understand and applaud my motive for writingas I do. The name justifies--amply justifies--the letter. Forgiveand forget me. Farewell.

"EUSTACE MACALLAN."

In those words he took his leave of me. We had then beenmarried--six days.