THE POTION
The declining sun shone dimly through the painted windows. The chapel
was in half-dark. Teresa went slowly to where the two candles winked
yellowly. She had often knelt there, but she brought now no thought of
prayer. Might Gordon come in time? Would his errand at the casa delay
him? Could fate will that she should miss him by such a narrow margin?
She crouched suddenly down on the altar cushions, dry, tearless sobs
tearing at her throat.
She felt the book in her pocket and drew it out.
Only that morning she had found the letter written in it--only an
hour ago their hands had touched together on its cover. How truly now
Juliet’s plight seemed like her own! But she, alas! had no friendly
monk nor magic elixir. There were no such potions nowadays. What was it
Gordon had said? Mandragora--a drachm of mandragora? If she only had
some now!
She caught her breath.
In another minute she was stumbling up the narrow curling stair to the
loft above.
Ten minutes later she stood in the center of the laboratory, lined with
its shelves of crooked-necked retorts and bottles, her search ended,
the blood shrinking from her heart, her hand clutching a small phial.
Gasping, she seized a slender graduated glass and hurried down. She ran
to the chapel door and fastened it, hearing while she slid the bolt,
the steps of the cleric pacing up and down without.
As she stood again at the altar, the phial in her hand, a bleak fear
crossed her soul. What if it had never been anything but a story?
Perhaps Juliet had never awakened really, but had died when she drank
the potion! Suppose it were a poison, from which there _was_ no awaking!
She shivered as if with cold. Better even that than life--without _him_!
Perhaps, too, Gordon had jested or had been mistaken. It might have
been some other drug--some other quantity.
Another dread leaped upon her out of the shadow. Suppose it were the
right drug--that its effect would be as he had said. What, then? In her
agony she had thought only of escape from the hour’s dilemma. There
would be an afterward. And who would know she only slept? She dared
not trust to Elise--her fright would betray her. She dared not leave
a writing lest other eyes than Gordon’s should see and understand.
Suppose she did it, and it succeeded, and he came afterward. He would
deem her dead in truth,--that was what Romeo had thought!--a victim
of her own despair. They would bear her to the Gamba vault cold and
coffined, to wake beside her father, without Juliet’s hope of rescue.
Her brain rocked with hysterical terror. If Gordon only knew, she
would dare all--dare that worst. But how could she let him know? Even
if he were here now she would have neither time nor opportunity. Her
half-hour of grace was almost up.
Yet--if he saw her lying there, apparently lifeless, and beside her
that book and phial--would he remember what he had said? Would he
guess? Oh God, _would he_?
A warning knock sounded at the chapel door.
“Blessed Virgin, help me!” whispered Teresa, poured the drachm and
drank it.
Then with a sob she stretched herself on the altar cushions and laid
the “Romeo and Juliet” open on her breast.
* * * * *
When finally--his wonder and indignation having given place to
apprehension--the chaplain employed a dragoon’s stout shoulder to force
the chapel door, he distinguished at first only emptiness.
He approached the altar to start back with an exclamation of dismay at
what he saw stretched in the candle-light.
He laid a faltering hand on Teresa’s; it was already chilled. He raised
her eyelid--the pupil was expanded to the iris’ edge. He felt her
pulse, her heart. Both were still. A cry of horror broke from his lips,
as he saw a phial lying uncorked beside her. He picked it up, noting
the far-faint halitus of the deadly elixir.
His cry brought Elise, with the nuns behind her. The old woman pushed
past the peering trooper and rushed to throw herself beside the altar
with a wail of lamentation.
The chaplain lifted her and drew her away.
“Go back to the house,” he bade her sternly; “let no servant enter here
till word comes from Casa Guiccioli.” He waved the black-gowned figures
back to the threshold. “She is self-slain!” he said.
In the confusion none of them had seen a man enter the garden from the
side, who, hearing the first alarm, had swiftly approached the chapel.
No one had seen him enter the open door behind them.
The churchman, with that solemn pronouncement on his lips, stopped
short at Gordon’s white, awe-frosted face. There was not true sight but
rather a woeful congealed vision in those eyes turned upon the altar;
they seemed those of a soul in whom the abrupt certainty of perdition
has sheathed itself unawares.
The chaplain drew back. He recognized the man who had come so suddenly
to meet that scene. A dark shadow crossed his face. Then muttering
a prayer, he followed the nuns to the carriages to bear back the
melancholy news to Ravenna.