University of Virginia Library

19. XIX.
THE FAR-OFF LAND.

Sometimes the fulfilment of our dearest wishes comes
to us like a curse. For twelve long months had
Warren Clifford been separated from his Grace, and
Juno had been waiting wearily for the “old man's”
slow feet to reach the shore of the dark river of death.
For a long time Warren had seemed like one who walks
in his sleep. He had eaten and drank, performed all
the duties of life, and complied passively with her
wishes, all the while with a strange glitter in his eye,
and a stern composure of manner, which to that
passionate woman was almost fearful. But for some
months he had seemed quite himself again, albeit between
him and his adopted father there was a scarcely
perceptible shadow of coldness. To Juno he was tenderly
affectionate as ever, and even more lively in
general society than before, but never had Grace
Atherton's name crossed his lips.

It was Christmas, and the three sat together over

their five o'clock dinner. The gas had been lighted,
and a flood of radiance streamed downward over the
massive silver plate and sparkling Bohemian glass of
the dessert service. Rich purple grapes lay piled up
on vases of crystal, rare old Rhenish mantled the antique
goblets, and you might have deemed it all the
work of an enchanter, so costly and unique were the
appointments of that sumptuous board. And no unworthy
Circe might have been the proud woman at
its head. No mantling wine was deeper in its glow
than the crimson on her cheek; no jewels, were they
worth a prince's ransom, brighter than her flashing
eyes; and not even the queen of the genii could have
worn a robe more fitting than that velvet, vieing in its
purple tint with the rare hue of the Tuscan grapes.
She alone, of those three at the board, had quaffed
deep draughts of the sparkling Rhenish. With her
clear head and strong nerves, it only gave her a wilder,
freer sense of life, and sent the blood tingling to her
rosy finger tips with a warmer glow. A cup of clear
water stood at Warren's side, and before Mr. Clifford
an untasted glass of champagne.

“You are very still, both of you,” she said, in her
soft, silvery tones. “One would think there was a
skeleton at the feast. Pledge me in that bright champagne,
John Clifford, if you like not my Rhenish.
Here's to your very long life, my lord and master!”

He raised the glass to his lips, but a spasm of sudden

agony contracted his features, and he set it down
again untasted. His face grew wan and ghastly as
the face of death, and he sank to the floor, strong man
as he was, powerless, senseless, helpless. “Is he
dead?” cried Juno, pale with terror. In that moment,
even her haughty soul was humbled. She closed
her eyes to shut out the sight she dared not look
upon, and before them passed horrible visions of retribution.
Hourly and daily she had wished him dead,
and now Satan had sent an answer to her prayer.
She could almost feel upon her cheek the breath of
flame seething upward from the pit. An hour seemed
to have passed, though in reality it was but a moment,
before Warren, who had lifted his head from the carpet,
answered, “No, mother, he is not yet dead. It is
apoplexy.” The servants bore him up stairs and laid
him on the bed, where she had rested so many nights
beside him, wishing and longing for his death, and
she went after them, shuddering. All that night he lay
in a profound trance, so fearfully like death. Dr.
Greene, standing over him, sorrowfully shook his head,
and doubted whether the flickering life-flame would
not go out without word or sign; Warren, condemning
himself bitterly for every cherished thought of coldness
or reproach toward his father, his benefactor,
knelt by his bedside, praying wildly, imploringly, that
he might live long enough to assure him of his forgiveness;
and Juno paced to and fro in the next room,
like a chafed lioness, cursing in her passionate heart the
tie that bound her to him, the husband that lay dying;
and, more than all, this fearful answer to her prayer.
Sometimes her reason seemed forsaking her. She
would deem the quadroon, who sat crouching in one
corner, with her shadow-like face and flashing eyes,
an avenging fiend sent to haunt her; and seizing
her fiercely would seem about to hurl her from the
room. Then, reassured by her tones, she would plead
with the girl not to leave her, not to let her stay there
alone with her old friend, Satan.

And yet, when, with the sunrise, life and reason
seemed coming back to the husband of her youth, she
experienced a shock of something like indignation.

Underlying all her guilty fear and tumult, there
had been a secret joy and exultation, of which she
herself was scarcely conscious, in the near hope of
being Warren Clifford's wife. “What if he should
get well enough to torment me for years longer?” she
asked herself, angrily, as he opened his eyes and
gasped forth with difficulty, “Where is she—Juno?”
Then smoothing her furrowed brow, she came and
knelt down at the bedside, and pressed his hand to
her lips. For a whole week, the scales seemed trembling
in the balance between life and death. Hating
him more and more every hour, she yet forced herself
to sit by his bedside, and abandon her hand to his
passionate clasp; for she would not have Warren,

watching over him ceaselessly and tending him so lovingly
and gently, deem her heartless. In the first
moment of comparative ease, when once more the
light of reason beamed from the sufferer's eyes,
Warren had knelt beside him and pleaded for forgiveness
for every shade of coldness, every accusing
thought; and the sick man, blessing him, had whispered,
“You had cause, Warren, bitter cause; may
God forgive me if I was wrong,—God, who knows
I meant it for the best.

It was the seventh day at noon. For many hours
John Clifford had been passing from one spasm to
another, and at last Dr. Greene had succeeded, by a
powerful opiate, in soothing him to a profound
sleep. Warren had left the room, and Juno said,
entreatingly, as one should speak who pleaded for the
life dearest on earth, “Dr. Greene, answer me truly,
are these spasms fatal? is there no hope?”

The doctor, good, innocent soul, looked, with a
glance of profound pity, into the wild, passionate eyes
raised so imploringly to his face, and answered, kindly,
“I dare not promise. The spasms are not so bad a
sign. He may recover. I can tell better when he
rouses from this sleep. I must leave him now, but
will return in a half-hour.”

“Oh, doctor, save him,” she murmured, clasping her
hands in agony most skilfully feigned,—and Dr. Greene

went home, and told the wife who had shared his
own life's pilgrimage with the love and truth of a pure
woman, that he wished he could be loved and grieved
for like his wealthy patient; and she, gentle wife,
tender mother, let fall a quiet tear upon her knitting,
and raised a silent prayer that it might be long ere she
should have such bitter cause to grieve.

Standing there alone by her husband's bedside,
Juno drooped her lashes over her eyes, and
brooded upon Dr. Greene's prediction. “He might
recover, and she might lose the love which had seemed
so nearly in her grasp, the love for which she had
perilled her salvation. And then the fierce hatred
which had been growing more and more bitter for
years, surged up in her heart. She had been a fool
ever to marry him, she said to her unquiet soul.
How could she have given her young life to that
coarse old man. True, he had been kind to her, but
had she not paid for it, aye and dearly, by submitting
to his caresses. Was not every kiss he bestowed
on her so utterly abhorrent that she would sooner
have clasped a reptile to her bosom, and yet she had
borne it. Was not that enough? And now it
seemed he might get well, to plague her, perhaps, for
half a century. She drew her breath hard—she bit her
lip till it bled—she clinched her hands till the nails
pricked through the delicate skin—and then the sentence
burst forth—“I hate you, John Clifford; oh, I

hate you, and I wish you were dead!” Every word
had fallen from her lips, full, distinct, clear, filling the
room with its utterance. And then there was silence.
She paused as if almost expecting a judgment. She
had never dared before to say those words aloud, but
John Clifford slept on steadily. The sunshine came
through the windows, weaving meshes of light in his
hair, the flowers in the vases on the mantle gave forth
their delicious perfume as before, and seeing that “all
things remained as they were,” the lady smiled mockingly.

At that moment the quadroom put away the curtains
from the other side of the bed, and came forth into
the light. “You are safe with me, my mistress,” she
said, in her low, flute-like tones—“but it might have
been another. Be careful.” At any other time Juno
would have rebuked her severely for the insolence of
advising, but she said nothing now, and the girl passed
from the room.

It was two hours before Mr. Clifford awoke, calm,
and apparently free from pain. Dr. Greene was bending
over his bedside. “Well, Doctor,” he said, “I
want to hear the truth, can I recover?”

Juno had thought the reply would be in the affirmative.
To her unpractised eye he seemed much
better, but she listened with impatience for the answer.
“No, Mr. Clifford, at farthest you have not
more than a week to live. You had better make

your peace with God, for I dare not say hope, when
there is no hope.”

“He has been my friend from my youth up, and he
will not forsake me now,” said the sick man, solemnly;
“but my poor wife; Warren, you will guard her?”

“With my life,” was the reply, and John Clifford
seemed satisfied.

For two or three days, that luxurious room was
like the gate of heaven. God must have sent his
own angels, surely, to comfort that heart, so strong, so
hopeful in its undimmed faith. The soul seemed
waiting on the threshold of its prison-house, making
its peaceful preparations for a long journey. “It is a
far off land,” he would say, lying there quietly—“you
know the promise, Warren; He said it many, many
years ago; he left it as his legacy—`Thou shalt see
the King in his glory, and the land that is very far off.'”

He was not afraid, for One stood by him—One
whom only his eyes could see, the “fourth man,” who
trod the fiery furnace with the three holy children.
And as he lay upon the tide, drifting ever farther
away from earth and nearer heaven, his soul clung
to Juno with a yearning fondness, very different from
the passionate worship which had hitherto deemed
her faultless. Much of the cold pride of her character
seemed softened away in the near presence of that
death which was to bring her freedom. She was
very tolerant of his fancies, now that she knew they

could trouble her but a few days longer. She would
submit to his wish to have her near him, from
morning until night, sitting on a low stool by his bedside.
There he would lay his hand upon her shining
hair, and look into her face with such mournful tenderness,
as brought the tears to Warren's eyes, and
murmur, “Oh, if I could but know you would surely
come after me to the far-off land, it wouldn't be such
a hard wrench to leave you. You must see the King's
face in peace, my darling, and the Beautiful City.
Very far off, isn't it? but it won't seem so far when
angels bear you.” And then he would be silent for
a time, looking at her thoughtfully, lovingly sometimes,
and sometimes watching the lights and shadows
on the walls, and ever on the tide of the unseen
sea he kept drifting outward. Standing on the
shore, Warren thanked God that the heaven-bound
voyageur was at peace, that there were no wild struggles
to return to the land he had left, no idolatrous
longings for the false gods of earth.

And very peacefully the day dawned that was to
be his last. When its earliest rays stole through his
window, he well knew that he should never behold its
setting, that ere then he would have drifted very far
beyond the stars. And yet so peacefully he smiled,
so cheerfully he spoke, you might have fancied him a
wanderer going home, where fond kiss of wife, sweet
voices of children, kind eyes of sister and brother

should bid him welcome. For him no more Yule
logs should be kindled at the Christmas tide, no more
south winds would woo him all the summer long—in
the house whither he was going snows never fall, and
noontides never beat. The sounds and sights of earth
fell very dimly on the eyes watching the Distant Hills
of Heaven; the ears strained to listen to the far-off
chants of angels. And yet his love clung to Juno
still. Fairer she looked that hour to the eyes grown
dim with watching, than when he had clasped her to
his heart a bride. Alas, he dreamed not that she had
never loved him all those years. “It will be very
hard, I know, darling,” he said, stroking her hair with
the old, passionate fondness, “harder for you even
than for me. I go to the home He has prepared for
me, to the blessedness of that great Peace; I leave
you to battle with the troublesome world. You will be
very lonely, poor child, with no friend but Warren,
but I will pray God's love may rest on you.” Toward
noon, he seemed to sink into a drowse, though
he started from it many times, and murmured some
broken words about the land whither he was going.
He was fully aroused at length by a paroxysm of intense
pain. His partners, who had trusted so many
years to his cool judgment and unclouded intellect,
stood by his bedside weeping like very children. Dr.
Greene and a brother physician were striving to lighten
his sufferings; and Warren stood beside him, earnestly
clasping his hand. At a little distance was
Juno, very calm, very composed; and those men, his
sorrowing friends, thought it but the calmness of despair.
His thoughts seemed busy for a moment with
the cares he was leaving behind for ever. “The will,”
he gasped, brokenly—“destroyed! India cabinet in
study—right one!”

“Do not try to think of that, you must not,” said
Dr. Greene, in a tone of authority. Submissively as a
child he complied, and shut his eyes, ceasing for the
time his efforts to speak. When those words were
uttered the quadroon had seen a quick gleam of intelligence,
a look of evil triumph kindle her mistress's
face, but now she beheld her lie fainting upon the
floor. “Bring her to the boudoir, he must not see
her so,” she exclaimed, in a low tone, springing to the
door. The two men, John Clifford's partners, raised
his wife in their arms and followed. Laying her
down on a sumptuous lounge, they stood near, while
the maid bathed her temples and chafed her hands.
At first, she too had thought the well-acted swoon a
reality, but now she felt a cautious pressure from the
hand she held, and then she said, imploringly, “Oh
please to go back to Mr. Clifford. He will die, and I
can recover my mistress so much better alone. I am
used to these turns whenever she is excited—I must
unfasten her dress.”

They readily obeyed her, for their own deepest

anxiety was with the dying, and when the door closed
behind them she whispered, “We are alone, my
mistress.”

Juno raised her head. “Will you serve me at
my need, faithfully?” The quadroon bowed. “Well
then, hark. Here is the key to John Clifford's study,
and this one will unlock his cabinet. I must have
Warren in my power. He shall be left without a
penny. No one could tell which will Mr. Clifford
said was destroyed. Here is one which gives me all.
Take it; unlock the cabinet, and secure the other;
leave the old will there, and return. Lock the cabinet
and the room. You understand me, go! If any one
is here when you come back, you will know how to
invent an errand.” The girl took the parchment.
She glided out of the room and up the stairs with her
stealthy, cat-like step. Juno, meantime, sank languidly
back upon the couch, in an attitude befitting one but
just aroused from a deathly swoon. The quadroon
was not absent more than three minutes, but they
seemed like hours to the eager watcher. She
came back and drew from her pocket another sealed
parchment, precisely like in its appearance to the
one she carried away. Juno tore it open. It bequeathed
one hundred thousand dollars to “Warren
Clifford, born Hereford.” She smiled exultingly.
“Jane,” she said, quietly, “stand at the door and see
that no one surprises me.” Then rising, she walked

deliberately to the grate, and tearing the parchment
into strips, threw them one by one upon the embers.

John Clifford was indeed dying. Never more sun
of earth might light up his silver hair. For a time
he was silent. Then he called on the wife who was
not there to hear him. His glazed eyes could take
no note of her absence. “Juno, darling, come nearer,”
he whispered, in fond, caressing tones. “You have
been a true wife, and though others might have been
more worthy, none could have loved you more than I.
The God of our fathers bless you, my beloved.
May He deal with you lovingly, even as you have
dealt with me!” Could a curse more bitter have
been invoked on the guilty woman, who was at that
very moment watching the flames close around the
stolen will? “It is very near now, that other shore,”
he said once more, a beautiful light breaking like
heavenly sunshine over the features growing cold
in death. “Are you weeping, darling? Bend over, let
the tears fall on my face, and clasp my hand
tighter,” and Warren bent sobbing above him, not
daring to grieve that dying heart by the faintest
whisper that the wife of his idolatry was not with him
at the last. He made a sign as if he would have her
press her lips to his, and bending lower still, Warren
received that kiss—so wild, so passionate, the
last. And so it was the imaginary-wife, the dream of
his earlier years, who went with him into the dark valley;

and the woman for whom he would have perilled
all things, heard not, heeded not the farewell of that
love which had outlived every thing earthly in the
true heart that nourished it. John Clifford was dead!

And Juno, now that the last fragment of the will
was consumed; now that her tones could fall only on
the ears of the dead, rushed into the room, as if half
wild with grief, threw herself on the bed beside him,
and buried her face in his bosom.