“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, after what 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 does that I don’t understand rouses my suspicion now.”
Benjamin lifted his withered old hands, and let them drop on his knees again in mute lamentation over me.
“I tell you again,” I went on, “my life is unendurable to me. I won’t answer for what I may do if I am left much longer to live in doubt of the one man on earth whom I love. You have had experience of the world. Suppose you were shut out from Eustace’s confidence, as I am? Suppose you were as fond of him as I am, and felt 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 friend of your husband’s,” he said, “and make a few discreet inquiries in 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’s correspondent, Major Fitz-David. My heart beat fast as the name recurred to my memory. Suppose I followed Benjamin’s advice? Suppose I applied to Major Fitz-David? Even if he, too, refused to answer my questions, my position would not be more helpless than it was now. I determined to make the attempt. The only difficulty in the way, so far, was to discover the Major’s address. I had given back his letter to Doctor Starkweather, at my uncle’s own request. I remembered that the address from which the Major wrote was somewhere in London—and I remembered no more.
“Thank you, old friend; you have given me an idea already,” I said to Benjamin. “Have you got a Directory in your house?”
“No, my dear,” he rejoined, looking very much puzzled. “But I can easily send out and borrow one.”
We returned to the villa. The servant was sent at once to the nearest stationer’s to borrow a Directory. She returned with the book just as we sat down to dinner. Searching for the Major’s name 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 number sixteen Vivian Place—the very house which I had seen my husband leaving as we passed in the carriage!
VII
On the Way to the Major
“Yes,” said Benjamin. “It is a coincidence certainly. Still—”
He stopped and looked at me. He seemed a little doubtful how I might receive what he had it in his mind to say to me next.
“Go on,” I said.
“Still, my dear, I see nothing suspicious in what has happened,” he resumed. “To my mind it is quite natural that your husband, being in London, should pay a visit to one of his friends. And it’s equally natural that we should pass through Vivian Place on our way back here. This seems to be the reasonable view. What do you say?”
“I have told you already that my mind is in a bad way about Eustace,” I answered. “I say there is some motive at the bottom of his visit to Major Fitz-David. It is not an ordinary call. I am firmly convinced it is not an ordinary call!”
“Suppose we get on with our dinner?” said Benjamin, resignedly. “Here is a loin of mutton, my dear—an ordinary loin of mutton. Is there anything suspicious in that? Very well, then. Show me you have confidence in the mutton; please eat. There’s the wine, again. No mystery, Valeria, in that claret—I’ll take my oath it’s nothing but innocent juice of the grape. If we can’t believe in anything else, let’s believe in juice of the grape. Your good health, my dear.”
I adapted myself to the old man’s genial humor as readily as I could. We ate and we drank, and we talked of bygone days. For a little while I was almost happy in the company of my fatherly old friend. Why was I not old too? Why had I not done with love, with its certain miseries, its transient delights, its cruel losses, its bitterly doubtful gains? The last autumn flowers in the window basked brightly in the last of the autumn sunlight. Benjamin’s little dog digested his dinner in perfect comfort on the hearth. The parrot in the next house screeched his vocal accomplishments cheerfully. I don’t doubt that it is a great privilege to be a human being. But may it not be the happier destiny to be an animal or a plant?
The brief respite was soon over; all my anxieties came back. I was once more a doubting, discontented, depressed creature when I rose to say goodbye.
“Promise, 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
