University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.
A STORM.

“I have a plan,” said Julia, a week or two later. “Can
you guess it? No, I think not; yet you might! O, how
lovely the light falls on your hair: it is perfect satin!”

She had one hand on his shoulder, and ran the fingers of
the other lightly through his brown locks. Her face, sparkling
all over with a witching fondness, was lifted towards his.
It was the climax of an amiable mood which had lasted
three days.

What young man can resist a playful, appealing face, a
soft, caressing touch? Joseph smiled as he asked,—

“Is it that I shall wear my hair upon my shoulders, or
that we shall sow plaster on the clover-field, as old Bishop
advised you the other day?”

“Now you are making fun of my interest in farming; but
wait another year! I am trying earnestly to understand it, but
only so that ornament—beauty—what was the word in those
lines you read last night?—may grow out of use. That's
it—Beauty out of Use! I know I've bored you a little
sometimes—just a little, now, confess it!—with all my questions;
but this is something different. Can't you think of
anything that would make our home, O so much more beautiful?”

“A grove of palm-trees at the top of the garden? Or a
lake in front, with marble steps leading down to the water?”

“You perverse Joseph! No: something possible, something

practicable, something handsome, something profitable!
Or, are you so old-fashioned that you think we must drudge
for thirty years, and only take our pleasure after we grow
rheumatic?”

Joseph looked at her with a puzzled, yet cheerful face.

“You don't understand me yet!” she exclaimed. “And
indeed, indeed, I dread to tell you, for one reason: you have
such a tender regard for old associations,—not that I'd have
it otherwise, if I could. I like it: I trust I have the same
feeling; yet a little sentiment sometimes interferes practically
with the improvement of our lives.”

Joseph's curiosity was aroused. “What do you mean,
Julia?” he asked.

“No!” she cried; “I will not tell you until I have read
part of pa's letter, which came this afternoon. Take the
arm-chair, and don't interrupt me.”

She seated herself on the window-sill and opened the letter.
“I saw,” she said, “how uneasy you felt when the call
came for the fourth instalment of ten per cent. on the Amaranth
shares, especially after I had so much difficulty in persuading
you not to sell the half. It surprised me, although
I knew that, where pa is concerned, there's a good reason for
everything. So I wrote to him the other day, and this is
what he says,—you remember, Kanuck is the company's
agent on the spot:—

“`Tell Joseph that in matters of finance there's often a
wheel within a wheel. Blenkinsop, of the Chowder Company,
managed to get a good grab of our shares through a
third party, of whom we had not the slightest suspicion. I
name no name at present, from motives of prudence. We
only discovered the circumstance after the third party left
for Europe. Looking upon the Chowder as a rival, it is our

desire, of course, to extract this entering wedge before it has
been thrust into our vitals, and we can only accomplish the
end by still keeping secret the discovery of the torpedoes (an
additional expense, I might remark), and calling for fresh
instalments from all the stockholders. Blenkinsop, not being
within the inside ring,—and no possibility of his getting
in!—will naturally see only the blue of disappointment
where we see the rose of realized expectations. Already, so
Kanuck writes to me, negotiations are on foot which will relieve
our Amaranth of this parasitic growth, and a few weeks—
days—hours, in fact, may enable us to explode and triumph!
I was offered, yesterday, by one of our shrewdest operators,
who has been silently watching us, ten shares of the Sinnemahoning
Hematite for eight of ours. Think of that,—the
Sinnemahoning Hematite! No better stock in the market, if
you remember the quotations! Explain the significance of
the figures to your husband, and let him see that he has—
but no, I will restrain myself and make no estimate. I will
only mention, under the seal of the profoundest secrecy, that
the number of shafts now sinking (or being sunk) will give
an enormous flowing capacity when the electric spark fires
the mine, and I should not wonder if our shares then soared
high over the pinnacles of all previous speculation!'

“No, nor I!” Julia exclaimed, as she refolded the letter;
“it is certain,—positively certain! I have never known
the Sinnemahoning Hematite to be less than 147. What do
you say, Joseph?”

“I hope it may be true,” he answered. “I can't feel so
certain, while an accident—the discovery of the torpedo-plan,
for instance—might change the prospects of the Amaranth.
It will be a great relief when the time comes to `realize,' as
your father says.”

“You only feel so because it is your first experience; but
for your sake I will consent that it shall be the last. We
shall scarcely need any more than this will bring us; for, as
pa says, a mere competence in the city is a splendid fortune
in the country. You need leisure for books and travel and
society, and you shall have it. Now, let us make a place for
both!”

Thereupon she showed him how the parlor and rear bed-room
might be thrown into one; where there were alcoves
for bookcases and space for a piano; how a new veranda
might be added to the western end of the house; how the
plastering might be renewed, a showy cornice supplied, and
an air of elegant luxury given to the new apartment. Joseph
saw and listened, conscious at once of a pang at changing
the ancient order of things, and a temptation to behold
a more refined comfort in its place. He only asked to postpone
the work; but Julia pressed him so closely, with such
a multitude of unanswerable reasons, that he finally consented
to let a mechanic look at the house, and make an estimate
of the expense.

In such cases, the man who deliberates is lost.

His consent once reluctantly exacted, Julia insisting that
she would take the whole charge of directing the work, a
beginning was made without delay, and in a few days the
ruin was so complete that the restoration became a matter
of necessity.

Julia kept her word only too faithfully. With a lively,
playful manner in the presence of the workmen, but with a
cold, inflexible obstinacy when they were alone, she departed
from the original plan, adding showy and expensive features,
every one of which, Joseph presently saw, was devised to
surpass the changes made by the Hopetons in their new residence.

His remonstrances produced no effect, and he was
precluded from a practical interference by the fear of the
workmen guessing his domestic trouble. Thus the days
dragged on, and the breach widened without an effort on
either side to heal it.

The secret of her temporary fondness gave him a sense of
positive disgust when it arose in his memory. He now suspected
a selfish purpose in her caresses, and sought to give
her no chance of repeating them, but in the company of others
he was forced to endure a tenderness which, he was surprised
to find, still half deceived him, as it wholly deceived
his neighbors. He saw, too,—and felt himself powerless to
change the impression,—that Julia's popularity increased
with her knowledge of the people, while their manner towards
him was a shade less frank and cordial than formerly.
He knew that the changes in his home were so much needless
extravagance, to them; and that Julia's oft-repeated
phrase (always accompanied with a loving look), “Joseph is
making the old place so beautiful for me!” increased their
mistrust, while seeming to exalt him as a devoted husband.

It is not likely that she specially intended this result;
while, on the other hand, he somewhat exaggerated its character.
Her object was simply to retain her growing ascendency:
within the limits where her peculiar faculties had
been exercised she was nearly perfect; but she was indifferent
to tracing the consequences of her actions beyond those
limits. When she ascertained Mr. Chaffinch's want of faith
in Joseph's entire piety, she became more regular in her attendance
at his church, not so much to prejudice her husband
by the contrast, as to avoid the suspicion which he had
incurred. To Joseph, however, in the bitterness of his deception,
these actions seemed either hostile or heartless; he

was repelled from the clearer knowledge of a nature so foreign
to his own. So utterly foreign: yet how near beyond
all others it had once seemed!

It was not a jealousy of the authority she assumed which
turned his heart from her: it was the revelation of a shallowness
and selfishness not at all rare in the class from
which she came, but which his pure, guarded youth had
never permitted him to suspect in any human being. A
man familiar with men and women, if he had been caught
in such toils, would have soon discovered some manner
of controlling her nature, for the very shrewdest and falsest
have their vulnerable side. It gave Joseph, however,
so much keen spiritual pain to encounter her in her
true character, that such a course was simply impossible.

Meanwhile the days went by; the expense of labor and
material had already doubled the estimates made by the
mechanics; bills were presented for payment, and nothing
was heard from the Amaranth. Money was a necessity,
and there was no alternative but to obtain a temporary loan
at a county town, the centre of transactions for all the debtors
and creditors of the neighboring country. It was a new
and disagreeable experience for Joseph to appear in the
character of a borrower, and he adopted it most reluctantly;
yet the reality was a greater trial than he had suspected.
He found that the most preposterous stories of his extravagance
were afloat. He was transforming his house into a
castle: he had made, lost, and made again a large fortune
in petroleum; he had married a wealthy wife and squandered
her money; he drove out in a carriage with six white
horses; he was becoming irregular in his habits and heretical
in his religious views; in short, such marvellous powers

of invention had been exercised that the Arab story-tellers
were surpassed by the members of that quiet, sluggish community.

It required all his self-control to meet the suspicions of
the money-agents, and convince them of the true state of
his circumstances. The loan was obtained, but after such a
wear and tear of flesh and spirit as made it seem a double
burden.

When he reached home, in the afternoon, Julia instantly
saw, by his face, that all had not gone right. A slight effort,
however, enabled her to say carelessly and cheerfully,—

“Have you brought me my supplies, dear?”

“Yes,” he answered curtly.

“Here is a letter from pa,” she then said. “I opened it,
because I knew what the subject must be. But if you're
tired, pray don't read it now, for then you may be impatient.
There's a little more delay.”

“Then I'll not delay to know it,” he said, taking the letter
from her hand. A printed slip, calling upon the stockholders
of the Amaranth to pay a fifth instalment, fell out
of the envelope. Accompanying it there was a hasty note
from B. Blessing: “Don't be alarmed, my dear son-in-law!
Probably a mere form. Blenkinsop still holds on, but we
think this will bring him at once. If it don't, we shall very
likely have to go on with him, even if it obliges us to unite
the Amaranth and the Chowder. In any case, we shall ford
or bridge this little Rubicon within a fortnight. Have the
money ready, if convenient, but do not forward unless I
give the word. We hear, through third parties, that Clementina
(who is now at Long Branch) receives much attention
from Mr. Spelter, a man of immense wealth, but, I regret
to say, no refinement.”

Joseph smiled grimly when he finished the note. “Is
there never to be an end of humbug?” he exclaimed.

“There, now!” cried Julia; “I knew you'd be impatient.
You are so unaccustomed to great operations.
Why, the Muchacho Land Grant—I remember it, because
pa sold out just at the wrong time—hung on for seven
years!”

“D— curse the Muchacho Land Grant, and the Amaranth
too!”

“Are n't you ashamed!” exclaimed Julia, taking on a
playful air of offence; “but you're tired and hungry, poor
fellow!” Therewith she put her hands on his shoulders,
and raised herself on tiptoe to kiss him.

Joseph, unable to control his sudden instinct, swiftly
turned away his head.

“O you wicked husband, you deserve to be punished!”
she cried, giving him what was meant to be a light tap on
the cheek.

It was a light tap, certainly; but perhaps a little of the
annoyance which she banished from her face had lodged,
unconsciously, in her fingers. They left just sting enough
to rouse Joseph's heated blood. He started back a step,
and looked at her with flaming eyes.

“No more of that, Julia! I know, now, how much your
arts are worth. I am getting a vile name in the neighborhood,—losing
my property,—losing my own self-respect,—
because I have allowed you to lead me! Will you be content
with what you have done, or must you go on until my
ruin is complete?”

Before he had finished speaking she had taken rapid
counsel with herself, and decided. “Oh, oh! such words
to me!” she groaned, hiding her face between her hands.

“I never thought you could be so cruel! I had such pleasure
in seeing you rich and free, in trying to make your
home beautiful; and now this little delay, which no business
man would think anything of, seems to change your
very nature! But I will not think it's your true self:
something has worried you to-day,—you have heard some
foolish story—”

“It is not the worry of to-day,” he interrupted, in haste
to state his whole grievance, before his weak heart had
time to soften again,—“it is the worry of months past! It
is because I thought you true and kind-hearted, and I find
you selfish and hypocritical! It is very well to lead me
into serious expenses, while so much is at stake, and now
likely to be lost,—it is very well to make my home beautiful,
especially when you can outshine Mrs. Hopeton! It is
easy to adapt yourself to the neighbors, and keep on the
right side of them, no matter how much your husband's
character may suffer in the process!”

“That will do!” said Julia, suddenly becoming rigid.
She lifted her head, and apparently wiped the tears from
her eyes. “A little more and it would be too much for
even me! What do I care for `the neighbors'? persons
whose ideas and tastes and habits of life are so different
from mine? I have endeavored to be friendly with them
for your sake: I have taken special pains to accommodate
myself to their notions, just because I intended they should
justify you in choosing me! I believed—for you told me
so—that there was no calculation in love, that money was
dross in comparison; and how could I imagine that you
would so soon put up a balance and begin to weigh the
two? Am I your wife or your slave? Have I an equal
share in what is yours, or am I here merely to increase it?

If there is to be a question of dollars and cents between us,
pray have my allowance fixed, so that I may not overstep
it, and may save myself from such reproaches! I knew
you would be disappointed in pa's letter: I have been anxious
and uneasy since it came, through my sympathy with
you, and was ready to make any sacrifice that might relieve
your mind; and now you seem to be full of unkindness and
injustice! What shall I do, O what shall I do?”

She threw herself upon a sofa, weeping hysterically.

“Julia!” he cried, both shocked and startled by her
words, “you purposely misunderstand me. Think how constantly
I have yielded to you, against my own better judgment!
When have you considered my wishes?”

“When?” she repeated: then, addressing the cushion
with a hopeless, melancholy air, “he asks, when! How
could I misunderstand you? your words were as plain as
daggers. If you were not aware how sharp they were, call
them back to your mind when these mad, unjust suspicions
have left you! I trusted you so perfectly, I was looking
forward to such a happy future, and now—now, all seems so
dark! It is like a flash of lightning: I am weak and giddy:
leave me,—I can bear no more!”

She covered her face, and sobbed wretchedly.

“I am satisfied that you are not as ignorant as you profess
to be,” was all Joseph could say, as he obeyed her command,
and left the room. He was vanquished, he knew,
and a little confused by his wife's unexpected way of taking
his charges in flank instead of meeting them in front, as a
man would have done. Could she be sincere? he asked
himself. Was she really so ignorant of herself, as to believe
all that she had uttered? There seemed to be not the
shadow of hypocrisy in her grief and indignation. Her

tears were real: then why not her smiles and caresses? Either
she was horribly, incredibly false,—worse than he
dared dream her to be,—or so fatally unconscious of her nature
that nothing short of a miracle could ever enlighten
her. One thing only was certain: there was now no confidence
between them, and there might never be again.

He walked slowly forth from the house, seeing nothing,
and unconscious whither his feet were leading him.