THE ACCUSATION.
For a few days it almost seemed to Joseph that the old order of his
existence had been suddenly restored, and the year of his betrothal and
marriage had somehow been intercalated into his life simply as a test
and trial. Rachel Miller was back again, in her old capacity, and he did
not yet see—what would have been plain to any other eyes—that her manner
towards him was far more respectful and considerate than formerly. But,
in fact, she made a wide distinction between the "boy" that he had been
and the man and widower which he had come to be. At first, she had
refused to see the dividing line: having crossed it, her new course soon
became as natural and fixed as the old. She was the very type of a
mechanically developed old maid,—inflexibly stern towards male youth,
devotedly obedient to male maturity.
Joseph had been too profoundly moved to lose at once the sense of horror
which the manner of Julia's death had left in his heart. He could not
forgive himself for having, though never so ignorantly, driven her to
madness. He was troubled, restless, unhappy; and the mention of his loss
was so painful that he made every effort to avoid hearing it. Some of
his neighbors, he imagined, were improperly curious in their inquiries.
He felt bound, since the doctor had suggested it, since Philip and Lucy
had acquiesced, and Mrs. Blessing had expressed so much alarm lest it
might become known, to keep the suicide a secret; but he was driven so
closely by questions and remarks that his task became more and more
difficult.
Had the people taken offence at his reticence? It seemed so; for their
manner towards him was certainly changed. Something in the look and
voice; an indefinable uneasiness at meeting him; an awkward haste and
lame excuses for it,—all these things forced themselves upon his mind.
Elwood Withers, alone, met him as of old, with even a tenderer though a
more delicately veiled affection; yet in Elwood's face he detected the
signs of a grave trouble. It could not be possible, he thought, that
Elwood had heard some surmise, or distorted echo, of his words to Lucy
in the garden,—that there had been another listener besides Julia!
There were times, again, when he doubted all these signs, when he
ascribed them to his own disturbed mind, and decided to banish them from
his memory. He would stay quietly at home, he resolved, and grow into a
healthier mood: he would avoid the society of men, until he should cease
to wrong them by his suspicions.
First, however, he would see Philip; but on reaching the Forge he found
Philip absent. Madeline received him with a subdued kindness in which he
felt her sympathy; but it was also deeper, he acknowledged to himself,
than he had any right to claim.
"You do not see much of your neighbors, I think, Mr. Asten?" she asked.
The tone of her voice indicated a slight embarrassment.
"No," he answered; "I have no wish to see any but my friends."
"Lucy Henderson has just left us. Philip took her to her father's, and
was intending to call at your place on his way home. I hope you will not
miss him. That is," she added, while a sudden flush of color spread over
her face, "I want you to see him to-day. I beg you won't take my words
as intended for a dismissal."
"Not now, certainly," said Joseph. But he rose from his seat as he
spoke.
Madeline looked both confused and pained. "I know that I spoke
awkwardly," she said, "but indeed I was very anxious. It was also Lucy's
wish. We have been talking about you this morning."
"You are very kind. And yet—I ought to wish you a more cheerful
subject."
What was it in Madeline's face that haunted Joseph on his way home? The
lightsome spirit was gone from her eyes, and they were troubled as if by
the pressure of tears, held back by a strong effort. Her assumed
calmness at parting seemed to cover a secret anxiety; he had never
before seen her bright, free nature so clouded.
Philip, meanwhile, had reached the farm, where he was received by Rachel
Miller.
"I am glad to find that Joseph is not at home," he said; "there are some
things which I need to discuss with you, before I see him. Can you guess
what they are? Have you heard nothing,—no stories?"
Rachel's face grew pale, yet there was a strong fire of indignation in
her eyes. "Dennis told me an outrageous report he had heard in the
village," she said: "if you mean the same thing, you did well to see me
first. You can help me to keep this insult from Joseph's knowledge."
"If I could I would, Miss Rachel. I share your feeling about it; but
suppose the report were now so extended—and of course in a more
exaggerated form the farther it goes—that we cannot avoid its probable
consequences? This is not like a mere slander, which can be suffered to
die of itself. It is equivalent to a criminal charge, and must be
faced."
She clasped her hands, and stared at him in terror.
"But why," she faltered—"why does any one _dare_ to make such a charge?
And against the best, the most innocent—"
"The fact of the poisoning cannot be concealed," said Philip. "It
appears, moreover, that one of the women who was in the house on the day
of Julia's death heard her cry out to Joseph: 'Go away,—you have killed
me!' I need not take up the reports any further; there is enough in
these two circumstances to excite the suspicions of those who do not
know Joseph as we do. It is better, therefore, to meet those suspicions
before they come to us in a legal form."
"What can we do?" cried Rachel; "it is terrible!"
"One course is clear, if it is possible. We must try to discover not
only the cause of Julia's suicide, but the place where she procured the
poison, and her design in procuring it. She must have had it already in
the house."
"I never thought of that. And her ways were so quiet and sly! How shall
we ever find it out? O, to think that, dead and gone as she is, she can
yet bring all this upon Joseph!"
"Try to be calm, Miss Rachel," said Philip. "I want your help, and you
must have all your wits about you. First, you must make a very careful
examination of her clothing and effects, even to the merest scrap of
paper. A man's good name—a man's life, sometimes—hangs upon a thread, in
the most literal sense. There is no doubt that Julia meant to keep a
secret, and she must have had a strong reason; but we have a stronger
one, now, to discover it. First, as to the poison; was there any arsenic
in the house when Julia came?"
"Not a speck! I never kept it, even for rats."
"Then we shall begin with ascertaining where she bought it. Let us make
our investigations secretly, and as speedily as possible. Joseph need
not know, at present, what we have undertaken, but he must know the
charge that hangs over him. Unless I tell him, he may learn it in a more
violent way. I sent Elwood Withers to Magnolia yesterday, and his report
leaves me no choice of action."
Rachel Miller felt, from the stern gravity of Philip's manner, that he
had not exaggerated Joseph's danger. She consented to be guided by him
in all things; and this point being settled, they arranged a plan of
action and communication, which was tolerably complete by the time
Joseph returned.
As gently as possible Philip broke the unwelcome news; but, lightly as
he pretended to consider it, Joseph's instinct saw at once what might be
the consequences. The circumstances were all burned upon his
consciousness, and it needed no reflection to show him how completely he
was entangled in them.
"There is no alternative," he said, at last. "It was a mistake to
conceal the cause of her death from the public: it is easy to
misunderstand her exclamation, and make my crime out of her madness. I
see the whole connection! This suspicion will not stop where it is. It
will go further; and therefore I must anticipate it. I must demand a
legal inquiry before the law forces one upon me. If it is not my only
method of defence, it is certainly my best!"
"You are right!" Philip exclaimed. "I knew this would be your decision;
I said so to Madeline this morning."
Now Madeline's confused manner became intelligible to Joseph. Yet a
doubt still lingered in his mind. "Did she, did Madeline question it?"
he asked.
"Neither she nor Lucy Henderson. If you do this, I cannot see how it
will terminate without a trial. Lucy may then happen to be an important
witness."
Joseph started. "_Must_ that be!" he cried. "Has not Lucy been already
forced to endure enough for my sake? Advise me, Philip! Is there any
other way than that I have proposed?"
"I see no other. But your necessity is far greater than that for Lucy's
endurance. She is a friend, and there can be no sacrifice in so serving
you. What are we all good for, if not to serve you in such a strait?"
"I would like to spare her, nevertheless," said Joseph, gloomily. "I
meant so well towards all my friends, and my friendship seems to bring
only disgrace and sorrow."
"Joseph!" Philip exclaimed, "you have saved one friend from more than
disgrace and sorrow! I do not know what might have come, but you called
me back from the brink of an awful, doubtful eternity! You have given me
an infinite loss and an infinite gain! I only ask you, in return, to
obey your first true, proud instinct of innocence, and let me, and Lucy,
and Elwood be glad to take its consequences, for your sake!"
"I cannot help myself," Joseph answered. "My rash impatience and
injustice will come to light, and that may be the atonement I owe. If
Lucy will spare herself, and report me truly, as I must have appeared to
her, she will serve me best."
"Leave that, now! The first step is what most concerns us. When will you
be ready to demand a legal investigation?"
"At once!—to-morrow!"
"Then we will go together to Magnolia. I fear we cannot change the
ordinary forms of procedure, and there must be bail for your appearance
at the proper time."
"Already on the footing of a criminal?" Joseph murmured, with a sinking
of the heart. He had hardly comprehended, up to this moment, what his
position would be.
The next day they drove to the county town. The step had not been taken
a moment too soon, for such representations had been made that a warrant
for Joseph's arrest was in the hands of the constable, and would have
been served in a few hours. Philip and Mr. Hopeton, who also happened to
be in the town by a fortunate chance (though Philip knew how the chance
came), offered to accept whatever amount of bail might be demanded. The
matter was arranged as privately as possible, but it leaked out in some
way, and Philip was seriously concerned lest the curiosity—perhaps,
even, the ill-will—of a few persons might be manifested towards Joseph.
He visited the offices of the county papers, and took care that the
voluntary act should be stated in such a manner as to set its character
properly before the people. Everything, he felt, depended on securing a
fair and unprejudiced judgment of the case.
This, indeed, was far more important than even he suspected. In a
country where the press is so entirely free, and where, owing to the
lazy, indifferent habit of thought—or, rather, habit of _no_ thought—of
the people, the editorial views are accepted without scrutiny, a man's
good name or life may depend on the coloring given to his acts by a few
individual minds, it is especially necessary to keep the balance even,
to offset one statement by another, and prevent a partial presentation
of the case from turning the scales in advance. The same phenomena were
as likely to present themselves here, before a small public, as in the
large cities, where the whole population of the country become a more or
less interested public. The result might hinge, not upon Joseph's
personal character as his friends knew it, but upon the political party
with which he was affiliated, the church to which he belonged,—nay, even
upon the accordance of his personal sentiments with the public sentiment
of the community in which he lived. If he had dared to defy the latter,
asserting the sacred right of his own mind to the largest liberty, he
was already a marked man. Philip did not understand the extent and power
of the external influences which control what we complacently call
"justice," but he knew something of the world, and acted in reality more
prudently than he supposed.
He was calm and cheerful for Joseph's sake; yet, now that the matter was
irrevocably committed to the decision of a new, uninterested tribunal,
he began to feel the gravity of his friend's position.
"I almost wish," Joseph said, as they drove homewards, "that no bail had
been granted. Since the court meets in October, a few weeks of seclusion
would do me no harm; whereas now I am a suspected person to nearly all
whom I may meet."
"It is not agreeable," Philip answered, "but the discipline may be
useful. The bail terminates when the trial commences, you understand,
and you will have a few nights alone, as it is,—quite enough, I imagine,
to make you satisfied with liberty under suspicion. However I have one
demand to make, Joseph! I have thought over all possible lines of
defence; I have secured legal assistance for you, and we are agreed as
to the course to be adopted. I do not think you can help us at all. If
we find that you can, we will call upon you; in the mean time, wait and
hope!"
"Why should I not?" Joseph asked. "I have nothing to fear, Philip."
"No!" But Philip's emphatic answer was intended to deceive. He was
purposely false, knew himself to be so, and yet his conscience never
troubled him less!
When they reached the farm, Philip saw by Rachel Miller's face that she
had a communication to make. It required a little management to secure
an interview with her without Joseph's knowledge; but some necessity for
his presence at the barn favored his friend. No sooner were they alone
than Rachel approached Philip hastily and said, in a hurried whisper:—
"Here! I have found something, at last! It took a mighty search: I
thought I never _should_ come upon the least bit that we could make
anything of: but _this_ was in the upper part of a box where she kept
her rings and chains, and such likes! Take it,—it makes me uncomfortable
to hold it in my fingers!"
She thrust a small paper into his hand.
It was folded very neatly, and there was an apothecary's label on the
back. Philip read: "Ziba Linthicum's Drug store, No. 77 Main St.,
Magnolia." Under this printed address was written in large letters the
word "Arsenic." On unfolding the paper he saw that a little white dust
remained in the creases: quite enough to identify the character of the
drug.
"I shall go back to-morrow!" he said. "Thank Heaven, we have got one
clew to the mystery! Joseph must know nothing of this until all is
explained; but while I am gone make another and more thorough search!
Leave no corner unexplored: I am sure we shall find something more."
"I'd rip up her dresses!" was Rachel's emphatic reply. "That is, if it
would do any good. But perhaps feeling of the lining and the hems might
be enough. I'll take every drawer out, and move the furniture! But I
must wait for daylight: I'm not generally afeared, but there is some
things, you know, which a body would as lief not do by night, with
cracks and creaks all around you, which you don't seem to hear at other
times."
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