THE MOURNERS.
"It cannot be!" cried Joseph, looking at the doctor with an agonized
face; "it is too dreadful!"
"There is no room for doubt in relation to the cause. I suspect that her
nervous system has been subjected to a steady and severe tension,
probably for years past. This may have induced a condition, or at least
a temporary paroxysm, during which she was—you understand me—not wholly
responsible for her actions. You must have noticed whether such a
condition preceded this catastrophe."
Lucy looked from one to the other, and back to the livid face on the
pillow, unable to ask a question, and not yet comprehending that the end
had come. Joseph arose at the doctor's words.
"That is my guilt," he said. "I was excited and angry, for I had been
bitterly deceived. I warned her that her life must henceforth conform to
mine: my words were harsh and violent. I told her that we had at last
ascertained each other's true natures, and proposed a serious discussion
for the purpose of arranging our common future, this afternoon. Can she
have misunderstood my meaning? It was not separation, not divorce: I
only meant to avoid the miserable strife of the last few weeks. Who
could imagine that this would follow?"
Even as he spoke the words Joseph remembered the tempting fancy which
had passed through his own mind,—and the fear of Philip,—as he stood on
the brink of the rock, above the dark, sliding water. He covered his
face with his hands and sat down. What right had he to condemn her, to
pronounce her mad? Grant that she had been blinded by her own
unbalanced, excitable nature rather than consciously false; grant that
she had really loved him, that the love survived under all her vain and
masterful ambition,—and how could he doubt it after the dying words and
looks?—it was then easy to guess how sorely she had been wounded, how
despair should follow her fierce excitement! Her words, "Go away! _you_
have killed me!" were now explained. He groaned in the bitterness of his
self-accusation. What were all the trials he had endured to this? How
light seemed the burden from which he was now free! how gladly would he
bear it, if the day's words and deeds could be unsaid and undone!
The doctor, meanwhile, had explained the manner of Julia's death to Lucy
Henderson. She, almost overcome with this last horror, could only agree
with his conjecture, for her own evidence confirmed it. Joseph had
forborne to mention her presence in the garden, and she saw no need of
repeating his words to her; but she described Julia's convulsive
excitement, and her refusal to admit her to her room, half an hour
before the first attack of the poison. The case seemed entirely clear to
both.
"For the present," said the doctor, "let us say nothing about the
suicide. There is no necessity for a _post-mortem_ examination: the
symptoms, and the presence of arsenic in the glass, are quite sufficient
to establish the cause of death. You know what a foolish idea of
disgrace is attached to families here in the country when such a thing
happens, and Mr. Asten is not now in a state to bear much more. At
least, we must save him from painful questions until after the funeral
is over. Say as little as possible to him: he is not in a condition to
listen to reason: he believes himself guilty of her death."
"What shall I do?" cried Lucy: "will you not stay until the man Dennis
returns? Mr. Asten's aunt must be fetched immediately."
It was not a quarter of an hour before Dennis arrived, followed by
Philip and Madeline Held.
Lucy, who had already despatched Dennis, with a fresh horse, to
Magnolia, took Philip and Madeline into the dining-room, and hurriedly
communicated to them the intelligence of Julia's death. Philip's heart
gave a single leap of joy; then he compelled himself to think of Joseph
and the exigencies of the situation.
"You cannot stay here alone," he said. "Madeline must keep you company.
I will go up and take care of Joseph: we must think of both the living
and the dead."
No face could have been half so comforting in the chamber of death as
Philip's. The physician had, in the mean time, repeated to Joseph the
words he had spoken to Lucy, and now Joseph said, pointing to Philip,
"Tell _him_ everything!"
Philip, startled as he was, at once comprehended the situation. He
begged Dr. Hartman to leave all further arrangements to him, and to
summon Mrs. Bishop, the wife of one of Joseph's near neighbors, on his
way home. Then, taking Joseph by the arm, he said:—
"Now come with me. We will leave this room awhile to Lucy and Madeline;
but neither must you be alone. If I am anything to you, Joseph, now is
the time when my presence should be some slight comfort. We need not
speak, but we will keep together."
Joseph clung the closer to his friend's arm, without speaking, and they
passed out of the house. Philip led him, mechanically, towards the
garden, but as they drew near the avenue of box-trees Joseph started
back, crying out:—
"Not there!—O, not there!"
Philip turned in silence, conducted him past the barn into the
grass-field, and mounted the hill towards the pin-oak on its summit.
From this point the house was scarcely visible behind the fir-trees and
the huge weeping-willow, but the fair hills around seemed happy under
the tender sky, and the melting, vapory distance, seen through the
southern opening of the valley, hinted of still happier landscapes
beyond. As Joseph contemplated the scene, the long strain upon his
nerves relaxed: he leaned upon Philip's shoulder, as they sat side by
side, and wept passionately.
"If she had not died!" he murmured, at last.
Philip was hardly prepared for this exclamation, and he did not
immediately answer.
"Perhaps it is better for me to talk," Joseph continued. "You do not
know the whole truth, Philip. You have heard of her madness, but not of
my guilt. What was it I said when we last met? I cannot recall it now:
but I know that I feared to call my punishment unjust. Since then I have
deserved it all, and more. If I am a child, why should I dare to handle
fire? If I do not understand life, why should I dare to set death in
motion?"
He began, and related everything that had passed since they parted on
the banks of the stream. He repeated the words that had been spoken in
the house and in the garden, and the last broken sentences that came
from Julia's lips. Philip listened with breathless surprise and
attention. The greater part of the narrative made itself clear to his
mind; his instinctive knowledge of Julia's nature enabled him to read
much further than was then possible to Joseph; but there was a mystery
connected with the suicide which he could not fathom. Her rage he could
easily understand; her apparent submission to Joseph's request,
however,—her manifest desire to live, on overhearing the physician's
fears,—her last incomplete sentence, "I—did—not—mean—" indicated no such
fatal intention, but the reverse. Moreover, she was too inherently
selfish, even in the fiercest paroxysm of disappointment, to take her
own life, he believed. All the evidence justified him in this view of
her nature, yet at the same time rendered her death more inexplicable.
It was no time to mention these doubts to Joseph. His only duty was to
console and encourage.
"There is no guilt in accident," he said. "It was a crisis which must
have come, and you took the only course possible to a man. If she felt
that she was defeated, and her mad act was the consequence, think of
your fate had she felt herself victorious!"
"It could have been no worse than it was," Joseph answered. "And she
might have changed: I did not give her time. I have accused my own
mistaken education, but I had no charity, no pity for hers!"
When they descended the hill Mrs. Bishop had arrived, and the startled
household was reduced to a kind of dreary order. Dennis, who had driven
with speed, brought Rachel Miller at dusk, and Philip and Madeline then
departed, taking Lucy Henderson with them. Rachel was tearful, but
composed; she said little to her nephew, but there was a quiet,
considerate tenderness in her manner which soothed him more than any
words.
The reaction from so much fatigue and excitement almost prostrated him.
When he went to bed in his own guest-room, feeling like a stranger in a
strange house, he lay for a long time between sleep and waking, haunted
by all the scenes and personages of his past life. His mother's face, so
faded in memory, came clear and fresh from the shadows; a boy whom he
had loved in his school-days floated with fair, pale features just
before his closed eyes; and around and between them there was woven a
web of twilights and moonlights, and sweet sunny days, each linked to
some grief or pleasure of the buried years. It was a keen, bitter joy, a
fascinating torment, from which he could not escape. He was caught and
helplessly ensnared by the phantoms, until, late in the night, the
strong claim of nature drove them away and left him in a dead,
motionless, dreamless slumber.
Philip returned in the morning, and devoted the day not less to the
arrangements which must necessarily be made for the funeral than to
standing between Joseph and the awkward and inquisitive sympathy of the
neighbors. Joseph's continued weariness favored Philip's exertions,
while at the same time it blunted the edge of his own feelings, and
helped him over that cold, bewildering, dismal period, during which a
corpse is lord of the mansion and controls the life of its inmates.
Towards evening Mr. and Mrs. Blessing, who had been summoned by
telegraph, made their appearance. Clementina did not accompany them.
They were both dressed in mourning: Mrs. Blessing was grave and rigid,
Mr. Blessing flushed and lachrymose. Philip conducted them first to the
chamber of the dead and then to Joseph.
"It is so sudden, so shocking!" Mrs. Blessing sobbed; "and Julia always
seemed so healthy! What have you done to her, Mr. Asten, that she should
be cut off in the bloom of her youth?"
"Eliza!" exclaimed her husband, with his handkerchief to his eyes; "do
not say anything which might sound like a reproach to our heart-broken
son! There are many foes in the citadel of life: they may be undermining
our—our foundations at this very moment!"
"No," said Joseph; "you, her father and mother, must hear the truth. I
would give all I have in the world if I were not obliged to tell it."
It was, at the best, a painful task; but it was made doubly so by
exclamations, questions, intimations, which he was forced to hear.
Finally, Mrs. Blessing asked, in a tone of alarm:—
"How many persons know of this?"
"Only the physician and three of my friends," Joseph answered.
"They must be silent! It might ruin Clementina's prospects if it were
generally known. To lose one daughter and to have the life of another
blasted would be too much."
"Eliza," said her husband, "we must, try to accept whatever is
inevitable. It seems to me that I no more recognize Julia's usually
admirable intellect in her—yes, I must steel myself to say the word!—her
suicide, than I recognized her features just now! unless Decay's
effacing fingers have already swept the lines where beauty lingers. I
warned her of the experiment, for such I felt it to be; yet in this last
trying experience I do not complain of Joseph's disappointment, and his
temporary—I trust it is only temporary—suspicion. We must not forget
that he has lost more than we have."
"Where is—" Joseph began, endeavoring to turn the conversation from this
point.
"Clementina? I knew you would find her absence unaccountable. We
instantly forwarded a telegram to Long Branch; the answer said, 'My
grief is great, but it is quite impossible to come.' Why impossible she
did not particularize, and we can only conjecture. When I consider her
age and lost opportunities, and the importance which a single day, even
a fortunate situation, may possess for her at present, it seems to
remove some of the sharpness of the serpent's tooth. Neither she nor we
are responsible for Julia's rash taking off; yet it is always felt as a
cloud which lowers upon the family. There was a similar case among the
De Belsains, during the Huguenot times, but we never mention it. For
your sake silence is rigidly imposed upon us; since the preliminary—what
shall I call it?—dis-harmony of views?—would probably become a part of
the narrative."
"Pray do not speak of that now!" Joseph groaned.
"Pardon me; I will not do so again. Our minds naturally become
discursive under the pressure of grief. It is easier for me to talk at
such times than to be silent and think. My power of recuperation seems
to be spiritual as well as physical; it is congenital, and therefore
exposes me to misconceptions. But we can close over the great abyss of
our sorrow, and hide it from view in the depth of our natures, without
dancing on the platform which covers it."
Philip turned away to hide a smile, and even Mrs. Blessing exclaimed:
"Really, Benjamin, you are talking heartlessly!"
"I do not mean it so," he said, melting into tears, "but so much has
come upon me all at once! If I lose my buoyancy, I shall go to the
bottom like a foundered ship! I was never cut out for the tragic parts
of life; but there are characters who smile on the stage and weep behind
the scenes. And, you know, the Lord loveth a cheerful giver."
He was so touched by the last words he spoke, that he leaned his head
upon his arms and wept bitterly.
Then Mrs. Blessing, weeping also, exclaimed: "O, don't take on so,
Benjamin!"
Philip put an end to the scene, which was fast becoming a torment to
Joseph. But, later in the evening, Mr. Blessing again sought the latter,
softly apologizing for the intrusion, but declaring that he was
compelled, then and there, to make a slight explanation.
"When you called the other evening," he said, "I was worn out, and not
competent to grapple with such an unexpected revelation of villainy. I
had been as ignorant of Kanuck's real character as you were. All our
experience of the world is sometimes at fault; but where the Reverend
Dr. Lellifant was first deceived, my own case does not seem so flagrant.
Your early information, however, enabled me (through third parties) to
secure a partial sale of the stock held by yourself and me,—at something
of a sacrifice, it is true; but I prefer not to dissociate myself
entirely from the enterprise. I do not pretend to be more than the
merest tyro in geology; nevertheless, as I lay awake last night,—being,
of course, unable to sleep after the shock of the telegram,—I sought
relief in random scientific fancies. It occurred to me that since the
main Chowder wells are 'spouting,' their source or reservoir must be
considerably higher than the surface. Why might not that source be found
under the hills of the Amaranth? If so, the Chowder would be tapped at
the fountain-head and the flow of Pactolean grease would be ours! When I
return to the city I shall need instantly—after the fearful revelations
of to-day—some violently absorbing occupation; and what could be more
appropriate? If anything could give repose to Julia's unhappy shade, it
would be the knowledge that her faith in the Amaranth was at last
justified! I do not presume to awaken your confidence: it has been too
deeply shaken; all I ask is, that I may have the charge of your shares,
in order—without calling upon you for the expenditure of another cent,
you understand—to rig a jury-mast on the wreck, and, D. V., float safely
into port!"
"Why should I refuse to trust you with what is already worthless?" said
Joseph.
"I will admit even _that_, if you desire. '_Exitus acta probat_' was
Washington's motto; but I don't consider that we have yet reached the
_exitus_! Thank you, Joseph! Your question has hardly the air of
returning confidence, but I will force myself to consider it as such,
and my labor will be to deserve it."
He wrung Joseph's hand, shed a few more tears, and betook himself to his
wife's chamber. "Eliza, let us be calm: we never know our strength until
it has been tried," he said to her, as he opened his portmanteau and
took from it the wicker-covered flask.
Then came the weariest and dreariest day of all,—when the house must be
thrown open to the world; when in one room the corpse must be displayed
for solemn stares and whispered comments, while in another the
preparation of the funeral meats absorbs all the interest of half a
dozen busy women; when the nearest relatives of the dead sit together in
a room up stairs, hungering only for the consolations of loneliness and
silence; when all talk under their voices, and uncomfortably fulfil what
they believe to be their solemn duty; and when even Nature is changed to
all eyes, and the mysterious gloom of an eclipse seems to fall from the
most unclouded sun.
There was a general gathering of the neighbors from far and near. The
impression seemed to be—and Philip was ready to substantiate it—that
Julia had died in consequence of a violent convulsive spasm, which some
attributed to one cause and some to another.
The Rev. Mr. Chaffinch made his way, as by right, to the chamber of the
mourners. Rachel Miller was comforted in seeing him, Mr. and Mrs.
Blessing sadly courteous, and Joseph strengthened himself to endure with
patience what might follow. After a few introductory words, and a long
prayer, the clergyman addressed himself to each, in turn, with questions
or remarks which indicated a fierce necessity of resignation.
"I feel for you, brother," he said, as he reached Joseph and bent over
his chair. "It is an inscrutable visitation, but I trust you submit, in
all obedience?"
Joseph bowed silently.
"He has many ways of searching the heart," Mr. Chaffinch continued.
"Your one precious comfort must be that _she_ believed, and that she is
now in glory. O, if you would but resolve to follow in her footsteps! He
shows His love, in that He chastens you: it is a stretching out of His
hand, a visible offer of acceptance, this on one side, and the lesson of
our perishing mortality on the other! Do you not feel your heart awfully
and tenderly moved to approach Him?"
Joseph sat, with bowed head, listening to the smooth, unctuous, dismal
voice at his ear, until the tension of his nerves became a positive
physical pain. He longed to cry aloud, to spring up and rush away; his
heart was moved, but not awfully and tenderly. It had been yearning
towards the pure Divine Light in which all confusions of the soul are
disentangled; but now some opaque foreign substance intervened, and
drove him back upon himself. How long the torture lasted he did not
know. He spake no word, and made no further sign.
Then Philip took him and Rachel Miller down, for the last conventional
look at the stony, sunken face. He was seated here and led there; he was
dimly conscious of a crowd, of murmurs and steadfast faces; he heard
some one whisper, "How dreadfully pale he looks!" and wondered whether
the words could possibly refer to him. Then there was the welcome air
and the sunshine, and Dennis driving them slowly down the lane,
following a gloomy vehicle, in which _something_—not surely the Julia
whom he knew—was carried.
He recalled but one other such stupor of the senses: it was during the
performance of the marriage ceremony.
But the longest day wears out at last; and when night came only Philip
was beside him. The Blessings had been sent to Oakland Station for the
evening train to the city, and Joseph's shares in the Amaranth Company
were in their portmanteau.
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