FATE.
The face that so suddenly glared upon them was that of a Gorgon. The
ringlets were still pushed behind her ears and the narrowness of the
brow was entirely revealed; her eyes were full of cold, steely light;
the nostrils were violently drawn in, and the lips contracted, as if in
a spasm, so that the teeth were laid bare. Her hands were clenched, and
there was a movement in her throat as of imprisoned words or cries; but
for a moment no words came.
Lucy, who had started to her feet at the first sound, felt the blood
turn chill in her veins, and fell, rather than sank, upon the seat
again.
Joseph was hardly surprised, and wholly reckless. This eavesdropping was
nothing worse than he already knew; indeed, there was rather a comfort
in perceiving that he had not overestimated her capacity for treachery.
There was now no limit; anything was possible.
"There is _one_ just law, after all," he said, "the law that punishes
listeners. You have heard the truth, for once. You have snared and
trapped me, but I don't take to my captor more kindly than any other
animal. From this moment I choose my own path, and if you still wish to
appear as my wife, you must adapt your life to mine!"
"You mean to brazen it out, do you!" Julia cried, in a strange, hoarse,
unnatural voice. "That's not so easy! I have not listened to no purpose:
I have a hold upon your precious 'moral pride' at last!"
Joseph laughed scornfully.
"Yes, laugh, but it is in my hands to make or break you! There is enough
decent sentiment in this neighborhood to crush a married man who dares
to make love to an unmarried girl! As to the girl who sits still and
listens to it, I say nothing; her reputation is no concern of mine!"
Lucy uttered a faint cry of horror.
"If you choose to be so despicable," said Joseph, "you will force me to
set my truth against your falsehood. Wherever you tell your story, I
shall follow with mine. It will be a wretched, a degrading business; but
for the sake of Lucy's good name, I have no alternative. I have borne
suspicion, misrepresentation, loss of credit,—brought upon me by
you,—patiently, because they affected only myself; but since I am partly
responsible in bringing to this house a guest for your arts to play upon
and entrap, I am doubly bound to protect her against you. But I tell
you, Julia, beware! I am desperate; and it is ill meddling with a
desperate man! You may sneer at my moral pride, but you dare not forget
that I have another quality,—manly self-respect,—which it will be
dangerous to offend."
If Julia did not recognize, in that moment, that her subject had become
her master, it was because the real, unassumed rage which convulsed her
did not allow her to perceive anything clearly. Her first impulse was to
scream and shriek, that servant and farm-hand might hear her, and then
to repeat her accusation before them; but Joseph's last words, and the
threatening sternness of his voice withheld her.
"So?" she said, at last; "_this_ is the man who was all truth, and
trust, and honor! With you the proverb seems to be reversed; it's off
with the new love and on with the old. You can insult and threaten me in
_her_ presence! Well—go on: play out your little love-scene: I shall not
interrupt you. I have heard enough to darken my life from this day!"
She walked away from them, up the avenue. Her dress was torn, her arms
scratched and bleeding. She had played her stake and failed,—miserably,
hopelessly failed. Her knees threatened to give way under her at every
step, but she forced herself to walk erect, and thus reached the house
without once looking back.
Joseph and Lucy mechanically followed her with their eyes. Then they
turned and gazed at each other a moment without speaking. Lucy was very
pale, and the expression of horror had not yet left her face.
"She told me to come to you," she stammered. "She begged me, with tears,
to try and soften your anger against her; and then—oh, it is monstrous!"
"Now I see the plan!" Joseph exclaimed; "and I, in my selfish
recklessness, saying what there was no need to utter, have almost done
as she calculated,—have exposed you to this outrage! Why should I have
recalled the past at all? I was not taking off a mask, I was only
showing a scar—no, not even a scar, but a bruise!—which I ought to have
forgotten. Forget it, too, Lucy, and, if you can, forgive me!"
"It is easy to forgive—everything but my own blindness," Lucy answered.
"But there is one thing which I must do immediately: I must leave this
house!"
"I see that," said Joseph, sadly. Then, as if speaking to himself, he
murmured: "Who knows what friends will come to it in the future? Well, I
will hear what can be borne; and afterwards,—there is Philip's valley. A
free outlaw is better than a fettered outlaw!"
Lucy feared that his mind was wandering. He straightened himself to his
full height, drew a deep breath, and exclaimed: "Action is a sedative in
such cases, isn't it? Dennis has gone to the mill; I will get the other
horse from the field and drive you home. Or, stay! will you not go to
Philip Held's cottage for a day or two? I think his sister asked you to
come."
"No, no!" cried Lucy; "you must not go! I will wait for Dennis."
"No one must suspect what has happened here this morning, unless Julia
compels me to make it known, and I don't think she will. It is,
therefore, better that I should take you. It will put me, I hope, in a
more rational frame of mind. Go quietly to your room and make your
preparations. I will see Julia, and if there is no further scene now,
there will be none of the kind henceforth. She is cunning when she is
calm."
On reaching the house Joseph went directly to his wife's bed-room. The
necessity of an immediate interview could not be avoided, since Lucy was
to leave. When he opened the door, Julia, who was bending over an open
drawer of her bureau, started up with a little cry of alarm. She closed
the drawer hastily, and began to arrange her hair at the mirror. Her
face in the glass was flushed, but its expression was sullen and
defiant.
"Julia," he said, as coolly as possible, "I am going to take Lucy home.
Of course you understand that she cannot stay here an hour longer. You
overheard my words to her, and you know just how much they were worth. I
expect now, that—for _your_ sake as much as hers or mine—you will behave
towards her at parting in such a way that the servants may find no
suggestions of gossip or slander."
"And if I don't choose to obey you?"
"I am not commanding. I propose a course which your own mind must find
sensible. You have 'a deuced sharp intellect,' as your father said, on
our wedding-day."
Joseph bit his tongue: he felt that he might have omitted this sting.
But he was so little accustomed to victory, that he did not guess how
thoroughly he had already conquered.
"Pa loved me, nevertheless," she said, and burst into tears.
Her emotion seemed real, but he mistrusted it.
"What can I do?" she sobbed: "I will try. I thought I was your wife, but
I am not much more than your slave."
The foolish pity again stole into Joseph's heart, although he set his
teeth and clenched his hands against it. "I am going for the horse," he
said, in a kinder tone. "When I come back from this drive, this
afternoon, I hope I shall find you willing to discuss our situation
dispassionately, as I mean to do. We have not known each other fairly
before to-day, and our plan of life must be rearranged."
It was a relief to walk forth, across the silent, sunny fields; and
Joseph had learned to accept a slight relief as a substitute for
happiness. The feeling that the inevitable crisis was over, gave him,
for the first time in months, a sense of liberation. There was still a
dreary and painful task before him, and he hardly knew why he should be
so cheerful; but the bright, sweet currents of his blood were again in
motion, and the weight upon his heart was lifted by some impatient,
joyous energy.
The tempting vision of Philip's valley, which had haunted him from time
to time, faded away. The angry tumult through which he had passed
appeared to him like a fever, and he rejoiced consciously in the
beginning of his spiritual convalescence. If he could simply suspend
Julia's active interference in his life, he might learn to endure his
remaining duties. He was yet young; and how much strength and knowledge
had come to him—through sharpest pain, it was true—in a single year!
Would he willingly return to his boyish innocence of the world, if that
year could be erased from his life? He was not quite sure. Yet his
nature had not lost the basis of that innocent time, and he felt that he
must still build his future years upon it.
Thus meditating, he caught the obedient horse, led him to the barn, and
harnessed him to the light carriage which Julia was accustomed to use.
His anxiety concerning her probable demeanor returned as he entered the
house. The two servant-women were both engaged, in the hall, in some
sweeping or scouring operation, and might prove to be very inconvenient
witnesses. The workmen in the new parlor—fortunately, he thought—were
absent that day.
Lucy Henderson, dressed for the journey, sat in the dining-room. "I
think I will go to Madeline Held for a day or two," she said; "I made a
half-promise to visit her after your return."
"Where is Julia?"
"In her bed-room. I have not seen her. I knocked at the door, but there
was no answer."
Joseph's trouble returned. "I will see her myself," he said, sternly;
"she forgets what is due to a guest."
"No, I will go again," Lucy urged, rising hastily; "perhaps she did not
hear me."
She followed him into the hall. Scarcely had he set his foot upon the
first step of the staircase, when the bed-room door above suddenly burst
open, and Julia, with a shriek of mortal terror, tottered down to the
landing. Her face was ashy, and the dark-blue rings around her sunken
eyes made them seem almost like the large sockets of a skull. She leaned
against the railing, breathing short and hard.
Joseph sprang up the steps, but as he approached her she put out her
right hand, and pushed against his breast with all her force, crying
out: "Go away! You have killed me!"
The next moment She fell senseless upon the landing.
Joseph knelt and tried to lift her. "Good God! she is dead!" he
exclaimed.
"No," said Lucy, after taking Julia's wrist, "it is only a fainting fit.
Bring some water, Susan."
The frightened woman, who had followed them, rushed down the stairs.
"But she must be ill, very ill," Lucy continued. "This is not an
ordinary swoon. Perhaps the violent excitement has brought about some
internal injury. You must send for a physician as soon as possible."
"And Dennis not here! I ought not to leave her; what shall I do?"
"Go yourself, and instantly! The carriage is ready. I will stay and do
all that can be done during your absence."
Joseph delayed until, under the influence of air and water, Julia began
to recover consciousness. Then he understood Lucy's glance,—the women
were present and she dared not speak,—that he should withdraw before
Julia could recognize him.
He did not spare the horse, but the hilly road tried his patience. It
was between two and three miles to the house of the nearest physician,
and he only arrived, anxious and breathless, to find that the gentleman
had been called away to attend another patient. Joseph was obliged to
retrace part of his road, and drive some distance in the opposite
direction, in order to summon a second. Here, however, he was more
fortunate. The physician was just sitting down to an early dinner, which
he persisted in finishing, assuring Joseph, after ascertaining such
symptoms of the case as the latter was able to describe, that it was
probably a nervous attack, "a modified form of hysteria."
Notwithstanding he violated his own theory of digestion by eating
rapidly, the minutes seemed intolerably long. Then his own horse must be
harnessed to his own sulky, during which time he prepared a few doses of
valerian, belladonna, and other palliatives, which he supposed might be
needed.
Meanwhile, Lucy and the woman had placed Julia in her own bed, and
applied such domestic restoratives as they could procure, but without
any encouraging effect. Julia appeared to be conscious, but she shook
her head when they spoke to her, and even, so Lucy imagined, attempted
to turn it away. She refused the tea, the lavender and ginger they
brought, and only drank water in long, greedy draughts. In a little
while she started up, with clutchings and incoherent cries, and then
slowly sank back again, insensible.
The second period of unconsciousness was longer and more difficult to
overcome. Lucy began to be seriously alarmed as an hour, two hours,
passed by, and Joseph did not return. Dennis was despatched in search of
him, carrying also a hastily pencilled note to Madeline Held, and then
Lucy, finding that she could do nothing more, took her seat by the
window and watched the lane, counting the seconds, one by one, as they
were ticked off by the clock in the hall.
Finally a horse's head appeared above the hedge, where it curved around
the shoulder of the hill: then the top of a carriage,—Joseph at last!
The physician's sulky was only a short distance in the rear. Lucy
hurried down and met Joseph at the gate.
"No better,—worse, I fear," she said, answering his look.
"Dr. Hartman," he replied,—"Worrall was away from home,—thinks it is
probably a nervous attack. In that case it can soon be relieved."
"I hope so, but I fancy there is danger."
The doctor now arrived, and after hearing Lucy's report, shook his head.
"It is not an ordinary case of hysteria," he remarked; "let me see her
at once."
When they entered the room Julia opened her eyes languidly, fixed them
on Joseph, and slowly lifted her hand to her head. "What has happened to
me?" she murmured, in a hardly audible whisper.
"You had a fainting fit," he answered, "and I have brought the doctor.
This is Dr. Hartman; you do not know him, but he will help you; tell him
how you feel, Julia!"
"Cold!" she said, "cold! Sinking down somewhere! _Will_ he lift me up?"
The physician made a close examination, but seemed to become more
perplexed as he advanced. He administered only a slight stimulant, and
then withdrew from the bedside. Lucy and the servant left the room, at
his request, to prepare some applications.
"There is something unusual here," he whispered, drawing Joseph aside.
"She has been sinking rapidly since the first attack. The vital force is
very low: it is in conflict with some secret enemy, and it cannot resist
much longer, unless we discover that enemy at once. I will do my best to
save her, but I do not yet see how."
He was interrupted by a noise from the bed. Julia was vainly trying to
rise: her eyes were wide and glaring. "No, no!" came from her lips, "I
will not die! I heard you. Joseph, I will try—to be different—but—I must
live—for that!"
Then her utterance became faint and indistinct, and she relapsed into
unconsciousness. The physician re-examined her with a grave, troubled
face. "She need not be conscious," he said, "for the next thing I shall
do. I will not interrupt this syncope at once; it may, at least, prolong
the struggle. What have they been giving her?"
He picked up, one by one, the few bottles of the household pharmacy
which stood upon the bureau. Last of all, he found an empty glass shoved
behind one of the supports of the mirror. He looked into it, held it
against the light, and was about to set it down again, when he fancied
that there was a misty appearance on the bottom, as if from some
delicate sediment. Stepping to the window, he saw that he had not been
mistaken. He collected a few of the minute granulations on the tip of
his forefinger, touched them to his tongue, and, turning quickly to
Joseph, whispered:—
"She is poisoned!"
"Impossible!" Joseph exclaimed; "she could not have been so mad!"
"It is as I tell you! This form of the operation of arsenic is very
unusual, and I did not suspect it; but now I remember that it is noted
in the books. Repeated syncopes, utter nervous prostration, absence of
the ordinary burning and vomiting, and signs of rapid dissolution; it
fits the case exactly! If I had some oxy-hydrate of iron, there might
still be a possibility, but I greatly fear—"
"Do all you can!" Joseph interrupted. "She must have been insane! Do not
tell me that you have _no_ antidote!"
"We must try an emetic, though it will now be very dangerous. Then oil,
white of egg,"—and the doctor hastened down to the kitchen.
Joseph walked up and down the room, wringing his hands. Here was a
horror beyond anything he had imagined. His only thought was to save the
life which she, in the madness of passion, must have resolved to take;
she must not, _must not_, die now; and yet she seemed to be already in
some region on the very verge of darkness, some region where it was
scarcely possible to reach and pull her back. What could be done? Human
science was baffled; and would God, who had allowed him to be afflicted
through her, now answer his prayer to continue that affliction? But,
indeed, the word "affliction" was not formed in his mind; the only word
which he consciously grasped was "Life! life!"
He paused by the bedside and gazed upon her livid skin, her sunken
features: she seemed already dead. Then, sinking on his knees, he tried
to pray, if that was prayer which was the single intense appeal of all
his confused feelings. Presently he heard a faint sigh; she slightly
moved; consciousness was evidently returning.
She looked at him with half-opened eyes, striving to fix upon something
which evaded her mind. Then she said, in the faintest broken whisper: "I
did love you—I _did_—and _do_—love you! But—you—you hate me!"
A pang sharper than a knife went through Joseph's heart. He cried,
through his tears: "I did not know what I said! Give me your
forgiveness, Julia! Pardon me, not because I ask it, but freely, from
your heart, and I will bless you!"
She did not speak, but her eyes softened, and a phantom smile hovered
upon her lips. It was no mask this time: she was sacredly frank and
true. Joseph bent over her and kissed her.
"O Julia!" he said, "why did you do it? Why did you not wait until I
could speak with you? Did you think you would take a burden off yourself
or me?"
Her lips moved, but no voice came. He lifted her head, supported her,
and bent his ear to her mouth. It was like the dream of a voice:—
"I—did—not—mean—"
There it stopped. The doctor entered the room, followed by Lucy.
"First the emetic," said the former.
"For God's sake, be silent!" Joseph cried, with his ear still at Julia's
lips. The doctor stepped up softly and looked, at her. Then, seating
himself on the bed beside Joseph, he laid his hand upon her heart. For
several minutes there was silence in the room.
Then the doctor removed his hand, took Julia's head out of Joseph's
arms, and laid it softly upon the pillow.
She was dead.
------------------------------------------------------------------------