THUS far I have written of myself with perfect frankness, and, Ithink I may fairly add, with some courage as well. My franknessfails me and my courage fails me when I look back to my husband'sfarewell letter, and try to recall the storm of contendingpassions that it roused in my mind. No! I cannot tell the truthabout myself--I dare not tell the truth about myself--at thatterrible time. Men! consult your observation of women, andimagine what I felt; women! look into your own hearts, and seewhat I felt, for yourselves.

What I _did,_ when my mind was quiet again, is an easier matterto deal with. I answered my husband's letter. My reply to himshall appear in these pages. It will show, in some degree, whateffect (of the lasting sort) his desertion of me produced on mymind. It will also reveal the motives that sustained me, thehopes that animated me, in the new and strange life which my nextchapters must describe.

I was removed from the hotel in the care of my fatherly oldfriend, Benjamin. A bedroom was prepared for me in his littlevilla. There I passed the first night of my separation from myhusband. Toward the morning my weary brain got some rest--Islept.

At breakfast-time Major Fitz-David called to inquire about me. Hehad kindly volunteered to go and speak for me to my husband'slawyers on the preceding day. They had admitted that they knewwhere Eustace had gone, but they declared at the same time thatthey were positively forbidden to communicate his address to anyone. In other respects their "instructions" in relation to thewife of their client were (as they were pleased to express it)"generous to a fault." I had only to write to them, and theywould furnish me with a copy by return of post.

This was the Major's news. He refrained, with the tact thatdistinguished him, from putting any questions to me beyondquestions relating to the state of my health. These answered, hetook his leave of me for that day. He and Benjamin had a longtalk together afterward in the garden of the villa.

I retired to my room and wrote to my uncle Starkweather, tellinghim exactly what had happened, and inclosing him a copy of myhusband's letter. This done, I went out for a little while tobreathe the fresh air and to think. I was soon weary, and wentback again to my room to rest. My kind old Benjamin left me atperfect liberty to be alone as long as I pleased. Toward theafternoon I began to feel a little more like my old self again. Imean by this that I could think of Eustace without bursting outcrying, and could speak to Benjamin without distressing andfrightening the dear old man.

That night I had a little more sleep. The next morning I wasstrong enough to confront the first and foremost duty that I nowowed to myself--the duty of answering my husband's letter.

I wrote to him in these words:

"I am still too weak and weary, Eustace, to write to you at anylength. But my mind is clear. I have formed my own opinion of youand your letter; and I know what I mean to do now you have leftme. Some women, in my situation, might think that you hadforfeited all right to their confidence. I don't think that. So Iwrite and tell you what is in my mind in the plainest and fewestwords that I can use.

"You say you love me--and you leave me. I don't understand lovinga woman and leaving her. For my part, in spite of the hard thingsyou have said and written to me, and in spite of the cruel mannerin which you have left me, I love you--and I won't give you up.No! As long as I live I mean to live your wife.

"Does this surprise you? It surprises _me._ If another womanwrote in this manner to a man who had behaved to her as you havebehaved, I should be quite at a loss to account for her conduct.I am quite at a loss to account for my own conduct. I ought tohate you, and yet I can't help loving you. I am ashamed ofmyself; but so it is.

"You need feel no fear of my attempting to find out where youare, and of my trying to persuade you to return to me. I am notquite foolish enough to do that. You are not in a fit state ofmind to return to me. You are all wrong, all over, from head tofoot. When you get right again, I am vain enough to think thatyou will return to me of your own accord. And shall I be weakenough to forgive you? Yes! I shall certainly be weak enough toforgive you.

"But how are you to get right again?

"I have puzzled my brains over this question by night and by day,and my opinion is that you will never get right again unless Ihelp you.

"How am I to help you?

"That question is easily answered. What the Law has failed to dofor you, your Wife must do for you. Do you remember what I saidwhen we were together in the back room at Major Fitz-David'shouse? I told you that the first thought that came to me, when Iheard what the Scotch jury had done, was the thought of settingtheir vile Verdict right. Well! Your letter has fixed this ideamore firmly in my mind than ever. The only chance that I can seeof winning you back to me, in the character of a penitent andloving husband, is to change that underhand Scotch Verdict of NotProven into an honest English Verdict of Not Guilty.

"Are you surprised at the knowledge of the law which this way ofwriting betrays in an ignorant woman? I have been learning, mydear: the Law and the Lady have begun by understanding oneanother. In plain English, I have looked into Ogilvie's 'ImperialDictionary,' and Ogilvie tells me, 'A verdict of Not Proven onlyindicates that, in the opinion of the jury, there is a deficiencyin the evidence to convict the prisoner. A verdict of Not Guiltyimports the jury's opinion that the prisoner is innocent.'Eustace, that shall be the opinion of the world in general, andof the Scotch jury in particular, in your case. To that oneobject I dedicate my life to come, if God spare me!

"Who will help me, when I need help, is more than I yet know.There was a time when I had hoped that we should go hand in handtogether in doing this good work. That hope is at an end. I nolonger expect you, or ask you, to help me. A man who thinks asyou think can give no help to anybody--it is his miserablecondition to have no hope. So be it! I will hope for two, andwill work for two; and I shall find some one to help me--neverfear--if I deserve it.

"I will say nothing about my plans--I have not read the Trialyet. It is quite enough for me that I know you are i nnocent.When a man is innocent, there _must_ be a way of proving it: theone thing needful is to find the way. Sooner or later, with orwithout assistance, I shall find it. Yes! before I know anysingle particular of the Case, I tell you positively--I shallfind it!

"You may laugh over this blind confidence on my part, or you maycry over it. I don't pretend to know whether I am an object forridicule or an object for pity. Of one thing only I am certain: Imean to win you back, a man vindicated before the world, withouta stain on his character or his name--thanks to his wife.

"Write to me, sometimes, Eustace; and believe me, through all thebitterness of this bitter business, your faithful and loving

"VALERIA."

There was my reply! Poor enough as a composition (I could write amuch better letter now), it had, if I may presume to say so, onemerit. It was the honest expression of what I really meant andfelt.

I read it to Benjamin. He held up his hands with his customarygesture when he was thoroughly bewildered and dismayed. "It seemsthe rashest letter that ever was written," said the dear old man."I never heard, Valeria, of a woman doing what you propose to do.Lord help us! the new generation is beyond my fathoming. I wishyour uncle Starkweather was here: I wonder what he would say? Oh,dear me, what a letter from a wife to a husband! Do you reallymean to send it to him?"

I added immeasurably to my old friend's surprise by not evenemploying the post-office. I wished to see the "instructions"which my husband had left behind him. So I took the letter to hislawyers myself.

The firm consisted of two partners. They both received metogether. One was a soft, lean man, with a sour smile. The otherwas a hard, fat man, with ill-tempered eyebrows. I took a greatdislike to both of them. On their side, they appeared to feel astrong distrust of me. We began by disagreeing. They showed me myhusband's "instructions," providing, among other things, for thepayment of one clear half of his income as long as he lived tohis wife. I positively refused to touch a farthing of his money.

The lawyers were unaffectedly shocked and astonished at thisdecision. Nothing of the sort had ever happened before in thewhole course of their experience. They argued and remonstratedwith me. The partner with the ill-tempered eyebrows wanted toknow what my reasons were. The partner with the sour smilereminded his colleague satirically that I was a lady, and hadtherefore no reasons to give. I only answered, "Be so good as toforward my letter, gentlemen," and left them.

I have no wish to claim any credit to myself in these pages whichI do not honestly deserve. The truth is that my pride forbade meto accept help from Eustace, now that he had left me. My ownlittle fortune (eight hundred a year) had been settled on myselfwhen I married. It had been more than I wanted as a single woman,and I was resolved that it should be enough for me now. Benjaminhad insisted on my considering his cottage as my home. Underthese circumstances, the expenses in which my determination toclear my husband's character might involve me were the onlyexpenses for which I had to provide. I could afford to beindependent, and independent I resolved that I would be.

While I am occupied in confessing my weakness and my errors, itis only right to add that, dearly as I still loved my unhappy,misguided husband, there was one little fault of his which Ifound it not easy to forgive.

Pardoning other things, I could not quite pardon his concealingfrom me that he had been married to a first wife. Why I shouldhave felt this so bitterly as I did, at certain times andseasons, I am not able to explain. Jealousy was at the bottom ofit, I suppose. And yet I was not conscious of beingjealous--especially when I thought of the poor creature'smiserable death. Still, Eustace ought not to have kept _that_secret from me, I used to think to myself, at odd times when Iwas discouraged and out of temper. What would _he_ have said if Ihad been a widow, and had never told him of it?

It was getting on toward evening when I returned to the cottage.Benjamin appeared to have been on the lookout for me. Before Icould ring at the bell he opened the garden gate.

"Prepare yourself for a surprise, my dear," he said. "Your uncle,the Reverend Doctor Starkweather, has arrived from the North, andis waiting to see you. He received your letter this morning, andhe took the first train to London as soon as he had read it."

In another minute my uncle's strong arms were round me. In myforlorn position, I felt the good vicar's kindness, in travelingall the way to London to see me, very gratefully. It brought thetears into my eyes--tears, without bitterness, that did me good.

"I have come, my dear child, to take you back to your old home,"he said. "No words can tell how fervently I wish you had neverleft your aunt and me. Well! well! we won't talk about it. Themischief is done, and the next thing is to mend it as well as wecan. If I could only get within arm's-length of that husband ofyours, Valeria--There! there! God forgive me, I am forgettingthat I am a clergyman. What shall I forget next, I wonder?By-the-by, your aunt sends you her dearest love. She is moresuperstitious than ever. This miserable business doesn't surpriseher a bit. She says it all began with your making that mistakeabout your name in signing the church register. You remember? Wasthere ever such stuff? Ah, she's a foolish woman, that wife ofmine! But she means well--a good soul at bottom. She would havetraveled all the way here along with me if I would have let her.I said, 'No; you stop at home, and look after the house and theparish, and I'll bring the child back.' You shall have your oldbedroom, Valeria, with the white curtains, you know, looped upwith blue! We will return to the Vicarage (if you can get up intime) by the nine-forty train to-morrow morning."

Return to the Vicarage! How could I do that? How could I hope togain what was now the one object of my existence if I buriedmyself in a remote north-country village? It was simplyimpossible for me to accompany Doctor Starkweather on his returnto his own house.

"I thank you, uncle, with all my heart," I said. "But I am afraidI can't leave London for the present."

"You can't leave London for the present?" he repeated. "What doesthe girl mean, Mr. Benjamin?" Benjamin evaded a direct reply.

"She is kindly welcome here, Doctor Starkweather," he said, "aslong as she chooses to stay with me."

"That's no answer," retorted my uncle, in his rough-and-readyway. He turned to me. "What is there to keep you in London?" heasked. "You used to hate London. I suppose there is some reason?"

It was only due to my good guardian and friend that I should takehim into my confidence sooner or later. There was no help for itbut to rouse my courage, and tell him frankly what I had it in mymind to do. The vicar listened in breathless dismay. He turned toBenjamin, with distress as well as surprise in his face, when Ihad done.

"God help her!" cried the worthy man. "The poor thing's troubleshave turned her brain!"

"I thought you would disapprove of it, sir," said Benjamin, inhis mild and moderate way. "I confess I disapprove of it myself."

"'Disapprove of it' isn't the word," retorted the vicar. "Don'tput it in that feeble way, if you please. An act ofmadness--that's what it is, if she really mean what she says." Heturned my way, and looked as he used to look at the afternoonservice when he was catechising an obstinate child. "You don'tmean it," he said, "do you?"

"I am sorry to forfeit your good opinion, uncle," I replied. "ButI must own that I do certainly mean it."

"In plain English," retorted the vicar, "you are conceited enoughto think that you can succeed where the greatest lawyers inScotland have failed. _They_ couldn't prove this man's innocence,all working together. And _you_ are going to prove itsingle-handed? Upon my word, you are a wonderful woman," cried myuncle, suddenly descending from indignationto irony. "May a plain country parson, who isn't used to lawyersin petticoats, be permitted to ask how you mean to do it?"

"I mean to begin by reading the Trial, uncle."

"Nice reading for a young woman! You will be wanting a batch ofnasty French novels next. Well, and when you have read theTrial--what then? Have you thought of that?"

"Yes, uncle; I have thought of that. I shall first try to formsome conclusion (after reading the Trial) as to the guilty personwho really committed the crime. Then I shall make out a list ofthe witnesses who spoke in my husband's defense. I shall go tothose witnesses, and tell them who I am and what I want. I shallask all sorts of questions which grave lawyers might think itbeneath their dignity to put. I shall be guided, in what I donext, by the answers I receive. And I shall not be discouraged,no matter what difficulties are thrown in my way. Those are myplans, uncle, so far as I know them now."

The vicar and Benjamin looked at each other as if they doubtedthe evidence of their own senses. The vicar spoke.

"Do you mean to tell me," he said, "that you are going roamingabout the country to throw yourself on the mercy of strangers,and to risk whatever rough reception you may get in the course ofyour travels? You! A young woman! Deserted by your husband! Withnobody to protect you! Mr. Benjamin, do you hear her? And can youbelieve your ears? I declare to Heaven _I_ don't know whether Iam awake or dreaming. Look at her--just look at her! There shesits as cool and easy as if she had said nothing at allextraordinary, and was going to do nothing out of the common way!What am I to do with her?--that's the serious question--what onearth am I to do with her?"

"Let me try my experiment, uncle, rash as it may look to you," Isaid. "Nothing else will comfort and support me; and God knows Iwant comfort and support. Don't think me obstinate. I am ready toadmit that there are serious difficulties in my way."

The vicar resumed his ironical tone.

"Oh!" he said. "You admit that, do you? Well, there is somethinggained, at any rate."

"Many another woman before me," I went on, "has faced seriousdifficulties, and has conquered them--for the sake of the man sheloved."

Doctor Starkweather rose slowly to his feet, with the air of aperson whose capacity of toleration had reached its last limits.

"Am I to understand that you are still in love with Mr. EustaceMacallan?" he asked.

"Yes," I answered.

"The hero of the great Poison Trial?" pursued my uncle. "The manwho has deceived and deserted you? You love him?"

"I love him more dearly than ever."

"Mr. Benjamin," said the vicar, "if she recover her sensesbetween this and nine o'clock to-morrow morning, send her withher luggage to Loxley's Hotel, where I am now staying.Good-night, Valeria. I shall consult with your aunt as to what isto be done next. I have no more to say."

"Give me a kiss, uncle, at parting."

"Oh yes, I'll give you a kiss. Anything you like, Valeria. Ishall be sixty-five next birthday; and I thought I knew somethingof women, at my time of life. It seems I know nothing. Loxley'sHotel is the address, Mr. Benjamin. Good-night."

Benjamin looked very grave when he returned to me afteraccompanying Doctor Starkweather to the garden gate.

"Pray be advised, my dear," he said. "I don't ask you to consider_my_ view of this matter, as good for much. But your uncle'sopinion is surely worth considering?"

I did not reply. It was useless to say any more. I made up mymind to be misunderstood and discouraged, and to bear it."Good-night, my dear old friend," was all I said to Benjamin.Then I turned away--I confess with the tears in my eyes--and tookrefuge in my bedroom.

The window-blind was up, and the autumn moonlight shonebrilliantly into the little room.

As I stood by the window, looking out, the memory came to me ofanother moonlight night, when Eustace and I were walking togetherin the Vicarage garden before our marriage. It was the night ofwhich I have written, many pages back, when there were obstaclesto our union, and when Eustace had offered to release me from myengagement to him. I saw the dear face again looking at me in themoonlight; I heard once more his words and mine. "Forgive me," hehad said, "for having loved you--passionately, devotedly lovedyou. Forgive me, and let me go."

And I had answered, "Oh, Eustace, I am only a woman--don't maddenme! I can't live without you. I must and will be your wife!" Andnow, after marriage had united us, we were parted! Parted, stillloving each as passionately as ever. And why? Because he had beenaccused of a crime that he had never committed, and because aScotch jury had failed to see that he was an innocent man.

I looked at the lovely moonlight, pursuing these remembrances andthese thoughts. A new ardor burned in me. "No!" I said to myself."Neither relations nor friends shall prevail on me to falter andfail in my husband's cause.

The assertion of his innocence is the work of my life; I willbegin it to-night."

I drew down the blind and lighted the candles. In the quietnight, alone and unaided, I took my first step on the toilsomeand terrible journey that lay before me. From the title-page tothe end, without stopping to rest and without missing a word, Iread the Trial of my husband for the murder of his wife.