JULIA'S EXPERIMENT.
In the mean time the Hopetons had left for the sea-shore, and the two
women, after a drive to Magnolia, remained quietly on the farm. Julia
employed the days in studying Lucy with a soft, stealthy, unremitting
watchfulness which the latter could not suspect, since, in the first
place, it was a faculty quite unknown to her, and, secondly, it would
have seemed absurd because inexplicable. Neither could she guess with
what care Julia's manner and conversation were adapted to her own. She
was only surprised to find so much earnest desire to correct faults,
such artless transparency of nature. Thus an interest quite friendly
took the place of her former repulsion of feeling, of which she began to
be sincerely ashamed.
Moreover, Julia's continual demonstration of her love for Joseph, from
which Lucy at first shrank with a delicate tremor of the heart, soon
ceased to affect her. Nay, it rather seemed to interpose a protecting
barrier between her present and the painful memory of her past self. She
began to suspect that all regret was now conquered, and rejoiced in the
sense of strength which could only thus be made clear to her mind. Her
feeling towards Joseph became that of a sister or a dear woman friend;
there could be no harm in cherishing it; she found a comfort in speaking
to Julia of his upright, unselfish character, his guilelessness and
kindness of heart.
The work upon the house was nearly finished, but new and more alarming
bills began to come in; and worse was in store. There was a
chimney-piece, "the loveliest ivory veins through the green marble,"
Julia said, which she had ordered from the city; there were boxes and
packages of furniture already on hand, purchased without Joseph's
knowledge and with entire faith in the virtues of the Amaranth. Although
she still clung to that faith with a desperate grip, the sight of the
boxes did not give her the same delight as she had felt in ordering
them. She saw the necessity of being prepared, in advance, for either
alternative. It was not in her nature to dread any scene or circumstance
of life (although she had found the _appearance_ of timidity very
available, and could assume it admirably); the question which perplexed
her was, how to retain and strengthen her ascendency over Joseph?
It is needless to say that the presence of Lucy Henderson was a part of
her plan, although she held a more important service in reserve. Lucy's
warm, frank expressions of friendship for Joseph gave her great
satisfaction, and she was exhaustless in inventing ways to call them
forth.
"You look quite like another person, Lucy," she would say; "I really
think the rest has done you good."
"I am sure of it," Lucy answered.
"Then you must be in no hurry to leave. We must build you up, as the
doctors say; and, besides, if—if this speculation _should_ be
unfortunate—O, I don't dare to think of it!—there will be such a comfort
to me, and I am sure to Joseph also, in having you here until we have
learned to bear it. We should not allow our minds to dwell on it so
much, you know; we should make an exertion to hide our disappointment in
your presence, and that would be _such_ a help! Now you will say I am
borrowing trouble, but do, pray, make allowances for me, Lucy! Think how
everything has been kept from me that I ought to have known!"
"Of course, I will stay a little while for your sake," Lucy answered;
"but Joseph is a man, and most men bear bad luck easily. He would hardly
thank me for condoling with him."
"O, no, no!" Julia cried; "he thinks _everything_ of you! He was _so_
anxious for you to come here! he said to me, 'Lucy Henderson is a noble,
true-hearted girl, and you will love her at once,' as I did, Lucy, when
I first saw you, but without knowing why, as I now do."
A warm color came into Lucy's face, but she only shook her head and said
nothing.
The two women had just risen from the breakfast-table the next morning,
when a shadow fell into the room through the front window, and a heavy
step was heard on the stone pavement of the veranda. Julia gave a little
start and shriek, and seized Lucy's arm. The door opened and Joseph was
there. He had risen before daybreak and taken the earliest train from
the city. He had scarcely slept for two nights; his face was stern and
haggard, and the fatigue, instead of exhausting, had only added to his
excitement.
Julia sprang forward, threw her arm around, him, and kissed him
repeatedly. He stood still and passively endured the caress, without
returning it; then, stepping forward, he gave his hand to Lucy. She felt
that it was cold and moist; and she did not attempt to repress the quick
sympathy which came into her face and voice.
Julia guessed something of the truth instantly, and nothing but the
powerful necessity of continuing to play her part enabled her to conceal
the bitter anger which the contrast between Joseph's greeting to her and
to Lucy aroused in her heart. She stood for a moment as if paralyzed,
but in reality to collect herself; then, approaching her husband, she
stammered forth: "O, Joseph—I'm afraid—I don't dare to ask you what—what
news you bring. You didn't write—I've been so uneasy—and now I see from
your face—that something is wrong."
He did not answer.
"Don't tell me all at once, if it's very bad!" she then cried: "but, no!
it's my duty to hear it, my duty to bear it,—Lucy has taught me
that,—tell me all, tell me _all_, this moment!"
"You and your father have ruined me: that is all."
"Joseph!" The word sounded like the essence of tender protest, of
heartbreaking reproach. Lucy rose quietly and moved towards the door.
"Don't leave me, Lucy!" was Julia's appeal.
"It is better that I should go," Lucy answered, in a faint voice, and
left the room.
"But, Joseph," Julia resumed, with a wild, distracted air, "why do you
say such terrible things? I really do not know what you mean. What have
you learned? what have you seen?"
"I have seen the Amaranth!"
"Well! Is there no oil?"
"O yes, plenty of oil!" he laughed; "skunk oil and rattlesnake oil! It
is one of the vilest cheats that the Devil ever put into the minds of
bad men."
"O, poor pa!" Julia cried; "what a terrible blow to him!"
"'Poor pa!' Yes, my discovery of the cheat _is_ a terrible blow to 'poor
pa,'—he did not calculate on its being found out so soon. When I learned
from Kanuck that all the stock he holds was given to him for
services,—that is, for getting the money out of the pockets of innocents
like myself,—you may judge how much pity I feel for poor pa! I told him
the fact to his face, last night, and he admitted it."
"Then," said Julia, "if the others know nothing, he may be able to sell
his stock to-day,—his and yours; and we may not lose much after all."
"I should have sent _you_ to the oil region, instead of going myself,"
Joseph answered, with a sneer. "You and Kanuck would soon have come to
terms. He offered to take my stock off my hands, provided I would go
back to the city and make such a report of the speculation as he would
dictate."
"_And you didn't do it?_" Julia's voice rose almost to a scream, as the
words burst involuntarily from her lips.
The expression on Joseph's face showed her that she had been rash; but
the words were said, and she could only advance, not recede.
"It is _perfectly_ legitimate in business," she continued. "Every
investment in the Amaranth was a venture,—every stockholder knew that he
risked losing his money! There is not one that would not save himself in
that way, if he had the chance. But you pride yourself on being so much
better than other men! Mr. Chaffinch is right; you have what he calls a
'moral pride'! You—"
"Stop!" Joseph interrupted. "Who was it that professed such concern
about my faith? Who sent Mr. Chaffinch to insult me?"
"Faith and business are two different things: all the churches know
that. There was Mr. Sanctus, in the city: he subscribed ten thousand
dollars to the Church of the Acceptance: he couldn't pay it, and they
levied on his property, and sold him out of house and home! Really, you
are as ignorant of the world as a baby!"
"God keep me so, then!" he exclaimed.
"However," she resumed, after a pause, "since you insist on our bearing
the loss, I shall expect of your moral pride that you bear it patiently,
if not cheerfully. It is far from being ruin to us. The rise in property
will very likely balance it, and you will still be worth what you were."
"That is not all," he said. "I will not mention my greatest loss, for
you are incapable of understanding it; but how much else have you
saddled me with? Let me have a look at it!"
He crossed the hall and entered the new apartment, Julia following.
Joseph inspected the ceiling, the elaborate and overladen cornices, the
marble chimney-piece, and finally peered into the boxes and packages,
not trusting himself to speak while the extent of the absurd splendor to
which she had committed him grew upon his mind. Finally he said,
striving to make his voice calm, although it trembled in his throat:
"Since you were so free to make all these purchases, perhaps you will
tell me how they are to be paid for?"
"Let me manage it, then," she answered. "There is no hurry. These
country mechanics are always impatient,—_I_ should call them
impertinent, and I should like to teach them a lesson. Sellers are under
obligations to the buyers, and they are bound to be accommodating. They
have so many bills which are never paid, that an extension of time is
the least they can do. Why, they will always wait a year, two years,
three years, rather than lose."
"I suppose so."
"Then," said Julia, deceived by Joseph's quiet tone, "their profits are
so enormous, that it would only be fair to reduce the bills. I am sure,
that if I were to mention that you were embarrassed by heavy losses, and
press them hard, they would compromise with me on a moderate amount. You
know they allow what is called a margin for losses,—pa told me, but I
forget how much,—they always expect to lose a certain percentage; and,
of course, it can make no difference by whom they lose it. You
understand, don't you?"
"Yes: it is very plain."
"Pa could help me to get both a reduction and an extension of time. The
bills have not all been sent, and it will be better to wait two or three
months after they have come in. If the dealers are a little uneasy in
advance, they will be all the readier to compromise afterwards."
Joseph walked up and down the hollow room, with his hands clasped behind
his back and his eyes fixed upon the floor. Suddenly he stopped before
her and said: "There is another way."
"Not a better one, I am certain."
"The furniture has not yet been unpacked, and can be returned to them
uninjured. Then the bills need not be paid at all."
"And we should be the laughing-stock of the neighborhood!" she cried,
her eyes flashing. "I _never_ heard of anything so ridiculous! If the
worst comes to the worst, you can sell Bishop those fifty acres over the
hill, which he stands ready to take, any day. But you'd rather have a
dilapidated house,—no parlor,—guests received in the dining-room and the
kitchen,—the Hopetons and your friends, the Helds, sneering at us behind
our backs! And what would your credit be worth? We shall not even get
trusted for groceries at the village store, if you leave things as they
are!"
Joseph groaned, speaking to himself rather than answering her: "Is there
no way out of this? What is done is done; shall I submit to it, and try
to begin anew? or—"
He did not finish the sentence. Julia turned her head, so that only the
chimney-piece and the furniture could see the sparkle of triumph in her
eyes. She felt that she had maintained her position; and, what was far
more, she now clearly saw the course by which she could secure it.
She left the room, drawing a full breath of relief as the door closed
behind her. The first shock of the evil news was over, and it had not
fallen quite so heavily as she had feared. There were plenty of devices
in store whereby all that was lost might be recovered. Had not her life
at home been an unbroken succession of devices? Was she not seasoned to
all manner of ups and downs, and wherefore should this first failure
disconcert her? The loss of the money was, in reality, much less
important to her than the loss of her power over Joseph. Weak as she had
supposed him to he, he had shown a fierce and unexpected resistance,
which must be suppressed _now_, or it might crush her whole plan of
life. It seemed to her that he was beginning to waver: should she hasten
a scheme by which she meant to entrap him into submission,—a subtle and
dangerous scheme, which must either wholly succeed, or, wholly failing,
involve her in its failure?
Rapidly turning over the question in her mind, she entered her bed-room.
Locking the door, she walked directly to the looking-glass; the curtain
was drawn from the window, and a strong light fell upon her face.
"This will never do!" she said to herself. "The anxiety and excitement
have made me thin again, and I seem to have no color." She unfastened
her dress, bared her neck, and pushed the ringlets behind her ears. "I
look pinched; a little more, and I shall look old. If I were a perfect
brunette or a perfect blonde, there would be less difficulty; but I have
the most provoking, unmanageable complexion! I must bring on the crisis
at once, and then see if I can't fill out these hollows."
She heard the front door opening, and presently saw Joseph on the lawn.
He looked about for a moment, with a heavy, bewildered air, and then
slowly turned towards the garden. She withdrew from the window,
hesitated a moment, murmured to herself, "I will try, there cannot be a
better time!" and then, burying her face in her hands and sobbing,
rushed to Lucy's room.
"O Lucy!" she cried, "help me, or I am lost! How can I tell you? it is
harder than I ever dreamed!"
"Is the loss so very serious,—so much more than you feared?" Lucy asked.
"Not that—O, if that were all! But Joseph—" Here Julia's sobs became
almost hysterical. "He is so cruel; I _did_ advise him, as I told you,
for _his_ sake, and now he says that pa and I have combined to cheat
him! I don't think he knows how dreadful his words are. I would sooner
die than hear any more of them! Go to him, Lucy; he is in the garden;
perhaps he will listen to you. I am afraid, and I never thought I should
be afraid of _him_!"
"It is very, very sad," said Lucy. "But if he is in such an excited
condition he will surely resent my coming. What can I say?"
"Say only what you heard me speak! Tell him of my anxiety, my
self-reproach! Tell him that even if he _will_ believe that pa meant to
deceive him, he must not believe it of me! You know, Lucy, how he wrongs
me in his thoughts; if you knew how hard it is to be wronged by a
husband, you would pity me!"
"I do pity you, Julia, from my very heart; and the proof of it is, that
I will try to do what you ask, against my own sense of its prudence. If
Joseph repels my interference, I shall not blame him."
"Heaven bless you, Lucy! He will not repel you, he cannot!" Julia
sobbed. "I will lie down and try to grow calm." She rose from the bed,
upon which she had flung herself, and tottered through the door. When
she had reached her own room, she again looked at her image in the
glass, nodded and smiled.
Lucy walked slowly along the garden paths, plucking a flower or two, and
irresolute how to approach Joseph. At last, descending the avenue of
box, she found him seated in the semicircular enclosure, gazing
steadfastly down the valley, but (she was sure) not seeing the
landscape. As he turned his head at her approach, she noticed that his
eyelids were reddened and his lips compressed with an expression of
intense pain.
"Sit down, Lucy; I am a grim host, to-day," he said, with a melancholy
attempt at a smile.
Lucy had come to him with a little womanly indignation, for Julia's
sake, in her heart; but it vanished utterly, and the tears started into
her eyes. For a moment she found it impossible to speak.
"I shall not talk of my ignorance any more, as I once did," Joseph
continued. "If there is a class in the school of the world, graded
according to experience of human meanness and treachery and falsehood, I
ought to stand at the head."
Lucy stretched out her hand in protest. "Do not speak so bitterly,
Joseph; it pains me to hear you."
"How would you have me speak?"
"As a man who will not see ruin before him because a part of his
property happens to slip from him,—nay, if all were lost! I always took
you to be liberal, Joseph, never careful of money for money's sake, and
I cannot understand how your nature should be changed now, even though
you have been the victim of some dishonesty."
"'Some dishonesty'! You are thinking only of money: what term would you
give to the betrayal of a heart, the ruin of a life?"
"Surely, Joseph, you do not, you cannot mean—"
"My wife, of course. It needed no guessing."
"Joseph!" Lucy cried, seizing the opportunity, "indeed you do her wrong!
I know what anxiety she has suffered during your absence. She blamed
herself for having advised you to risk so much in an uncertain
speculation, dreaded your disappointment, resolved to atone for it, if
she could! She may have been rash and thoughtless, but she never meant
to deceive you. If you are disappointed in some qualities, you should
not shut your eyes and refuse to see others. I know, now, that I have
myself not been fair in my judgment of Julia. A nearer acquaintance has
led me to conceive what disadvantages of education, for which she is not
responsible, she is obliged to overcome: she sees, she admits them, and
she _will_ overcome them. You, as her husband, are bound to show her a
patient kindness—"
"Enough!" Joseph interrupted; "I see that you have touched pitch, also.
Lucy, your first instinct was right. The woman whom I am bound to look
upon as my wife is false and selfish in every fibre of her nature; how
false and selfish I only can know, for to _me_ she takes off her mask!"
"Do you believe _me_, then?" Lucy's words were slightly defiant. She had
not quite understood the allusion to touching pitch, and Joseph's
indifference to her advocacy seemed to her unfeeling.
"I begin to fear that Philip was right," said Joseph, not heeding her
question. "Life is relentless: ignorance or crime, it is all the same.
And if God cares less about our individual wrongs than we flatter
ourselves He does, what do we gain by further endurance? Here is Lucy
Henderson, satisfied that my wife is a suffering angel; thinks _my_
nature is changed, that _I_ am cold-hearted and cruel, while I know Lucy
to be true and noble, and deceived by the very goodness of her own
heart!"
He lifted his head, looked in her face a moment, and then went on:—
"I am sick of masks; we all wear them. Do you want to know the truth,
Lucy? When I look back I can see it very clearly, now. A little more
than a year ago the one girl who began to live in my thoughts was _you_!
Don't interrupt me: I am only speaking of what _was_. When I went to
Warriner's, it was in the hope of meeting you, not Julia Blessing. It
was not yet love that I felt, but I think it would have grown to that,
if I had not been led away by the cunningest arts ever a woman devised.
I will not speculate on what might have been: if I had loved you,
perhaps there would have been no return: had there been, I should have
darkened the life of a friend. But this I say; I honor and esteem you,
Lucy, and the loss of your friendship, if I now lose it, is another evil
service which my wife has done me."
Joseph little suspected how he was torturing Lucy. She must have been
more than woman, had not a pang of wild regret for the lost fortune, and
a sting of bitter resentment against the woman who had stolen it, wrung
her heart. She became deadly pale, and felt that her whole body was
trembling.
"Joseph," she said, "you should not, must not, speak so to me."
"I suppose not," he answered, letting his head sink wearily; "it is
certainly not conventional; but it is true, for all that! I could tell
you the whole story, for I can read it backwards, from now to the
beginning, without misunderstanding a word. It would make no difference;
she is simple, natural, artless, amiable, for all the rest of the world,
while to me—"
There was such despondency in his voice and posture, that Lucy, now
longing more than ever to cheer him, and yet discouraged by the failure
of her first attempt, felt sorely troubled.
"You mistake me, Joseph," she said, at last, "if you think you have lost
my friendship, my sincerest sympathy. I can see that your disappointment
is a bitter one, and my prayer is that you will not make it bitterer by
thrusting from you the hopeful and cheerful spirit you once showed. We
all have our sore trials."
Lucy found her own words very mechanical, but they were the only ones,
that came to her lips. Joseph did not answer; he still sat, stooping,
with his elbows on his knees, and his forehead resting on his palms.
"If I am deceived in Julia," she began again, "it is better to judge too
kindly than too harshly. I know you cannot change your sentence against
her now, nor, perhaps, very soon. But you are bound to her for life, and
you must labor—it is your sacred duty—to make that life smoother and
brighter for both. I do not know how, and I have no right to condemn you
if you fail. But, Joseph, make the attempt now, when the most
unfortunate experience that is likely to come to you is over; make it,
and it may chance that, little by little, the old confidence will
return, and you will love her again."
Joseph started to his feet. "Love her!" he exclaimed, with suppressed
passion,—"love her! I hate her!"
There was a hissing, rattling sound, like that of some fierce animal at
bay. The thick foliage of two of the tall box-trees was violently
parted. The branches snapped and gave way: Julia burst through, and
stood before them.
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