University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.
UNDER THE WATER.

Joseph said nothing that evening concerning the result
of his trip to the city, and Julia, who instantly detected the
signs which a powerful excitement had left upon his face,
thought it prudent to ask no immediate questions. She was
purposely demonstrative in little arrangements for his comfort,
but spared him her caresses; she did not intend to be
again mistaken in choosing the time and occasion of bestowing
them.

The next morning, when he felt that he could speak
calmly, Joseph told her what he had done, carefully avoiding
any word that might seem to express disappointment, or
even doubt.

“I hope you are satisfied that pa will make it easy for
you?” she ventured to say.

“He thinks so.” Then Joseph could not help adding:
“He depends, I imagine, upon your sister Clementina marrying
a Mr. Spelter,—`a man of immense wealth, but, I
regret to say, no refinement.'”

Julia bit her lip, and her eyes assumed that hard, flinty
look which her husband knew so well. “If Clementina
marries immense wealth,” she exclaimed, with a half-concealed
sneer, “she will become simply insufferable! But
what difference can that make in pa's business affairs?”

The answer tingled on Joseph's tongue: “Probably he
expects Mr. Spelter to indorse a promissory note”; but he

held it back. “What I have resolved to do is this,” he
said. “In a day or two—as soon as I can arrange to leave
—I shall make a journey to the oil region, and satisfy myself
where and what the Amaranth is. Your own practical
instincts will tell you, Julia, that this intention of mine must
be kept secret, even from your father.”

She leaned her head upon her hand, and appeared to
reflect. When she looked up her face had a cheerful, confiding
expression.

“I think you are right,” she then said. “If—if things
should not happen to be quite as they are represented,
you can secure yourself against any risk—and pa, too—
before the others know of it. You will have the inside
track; that is, if there is one. On the other hand, if all is
right, pa can easily manage, if some of the others are shaky
in their faith, to get their stock at a bargain. I am sure he
would have gone out there himself, if his official services
were not so important to the government.”

It was a hard task for Joseph to keep his feelings to himself.

“And now,” she continued,—“now I know you will agree
to a plan of mine, which I was going to propose. Lucy
Henderson's school closes this week, and Mrs. Hopeton tells
me she is a little overworked and ailing. It would hardly
help her much to go home, where she could not properly
rest, as her father is a hard, avaricious man, who can't endure
idleness, except, I suppose, in a corpse (so these people
seem to me). I want to ask Lucy to come here. I think
you always liked her” (here Julia shot a swift, stealthy
glance at Joseph), “and so she will be an agreeable guest
for both of us. She shall just rest and grow strong. While
you are absent, I shall not seem quite so lonely. You may

be gone a week or more, and I shall find the separation very
hard to bear, even with her company.”

“Why has Mrs. Hopeton not invited her?” Joseph asked.

“The Hopetons are going to the sea-shore in a few days.
She would take Lucy as a guest, but there is one difficulty
in the way. She thinks Lucy would accept the trip and the
stay there as an act of hospitality, but that she cannot (or
thinks she cannot) afford the dresses that would enable her
to appear in Mrs. Hopeton's circle. But it is just as well:
I am sure Lucy would feel more at home here.”

“Then by all means ask her!” said Joseph. “Lucy
Henderson is a noble girl, for she has forced a true-hearted
man to love her, without return.”

“Ind-e-e-d!”

Julia's drawl denoted surprise and curiosity, but Joseph
felt that once more he had spoken too quickly. He endeavored
to cover his mistake by a hearty acquiescence in
the plan, which was speedily arranged between them, in all
its details, Lucy's consent being taken for granted.

It required, however, the extreme of Julia's powers of
disguise, aided by Joseph's frank and hearty words and Mrs.
Hopeton's influence, to induce Lucy to accept the invitation.
Unable to explain wholly to herself, much less mention to
any other, the instinct which held her back, she found herself,
finally, placed in a false position, and then resolved to blindly
trust that she was doing right, inasmuch as she could not make
it clear that she was doing wrong. Her decision once taken,
she forcibly banished all misgivings, and determined to find
nothing but a cheerful and restful holiday before her.

And, indeed, the first day or two of her residence at the
farm, before Joseph's departure, brought her a more agreeable
experience than she had imagined. Both host and hostess

were busy, the latter in the household and the former in
the fields, and when they met at meals or in the evening, her
presence was an element which compelled an appearance of
harmony. She was surprised to find so quiet and ordered a
life in two persons whom she had imagined to be miserably
unfitted for each other, and began to suspect that she had
been seriously mistaken.

After Joseph left, the two women were much together.
Julia insisted that she should do nothing, and amiably protested
at first against Lucy giving her so much of her society;
but, little by little, the companionship was extended and became
more frank and intimate. Lucy was in a charitable
mood, and found it very easy to fancy that Julia's character
had been favorably affected by the graver duties which had
come with her marriage. Indeed, Julia found many indirect
ways of hinting as much: she feared she had seemed
flighty (perhaps a little shallow); looking back upon her past
life she could see that such a charge would not be unjust.
Her education had been so superficial; all city education of
young women was false; they were taught to consider external
appearances, and if they felt a void in their nature
which these would not fill, whither could they turn for counsel
or knowledge?

Her face was sad and thoughtful while she so spoke; but
when, shaking her dark curls with a pretty impatience, she
would lift her head and ask, with a smile: “But it is not
too late, in my case, is it? I'm really an older child, you
know,”—Lucy could only answer: “Since you know what
you need, it can never be too late. The very fact that you
do know, proves that it will be easy for you.”

Then Julia would shake her head again, and say, “O, you
are too kind, Lucy; you judge my nature by your own.”

When the friendly relation between them had developed a
little further, Julia became—though still with a modest reticence—more
confiding in relation to Joseph.

“He is so good, so very, very true and good,” she said, one
day, “that it grieves me, more than I can tell, to be the cause
of a little present anxiety of his. As it is only a business
matter, some exaggerated report of which you have probably
heard (for I know there have been foolish stories afloat in
the neighborhood), I have no hesitation about confiding it
to you. Perhaps you can advise me how to atone for my
error; for, if it was an error, I fear it cannot be remedied
now; if not, it will be a relief to me to confess it.”

Thereupon she gave a minute history of the Amaranth
speculation, omitting the energy of her persuasion with
Joseph, and presenting very strongly her father's views of a
sure and splendid success soon to follow. “It was for
Joseph's sake,” she concluded, “rather than my own, that
I advised the investment; though, knowing his perfect unselfishness,
I fear he complied only for mine. He had
guessed already, it seems to me now, that we women like
beauty as well as comfort about our lives; otherwise, he
would hardly have undertaken these expensive improvements
of our home. But, Lucy, it terrifies me to think that
pa and Joseph and I may have been deceived! The more I
shut my mind against the idea the more it returns to torment
me. I, who brought so little to him, to be the instrument
of such a loss! O, if you were not here, how could I endure
the anxiety and the absence?”

She buried her face in her handkerchief, and sobbed.

“I know Joseph to be good and true,” said Lucy, “and I
believe that he will bear the loss cheerfully, if it should
come. But it is never good to `borrow trouble,' as we say

in the country. Neither the worst nor the best things
which we imagine ever come upon us.”

“You are wrong!” cried Julia, starting up and laughing
gleefully; “I have the best thing, in my husband! And yet,
you are right, too: no worst thing can come to me, while I
keep him!”

Lucy wished to visit the Hopetons before their departure
for the sea-shore, and Julia was quite ready to accompany
her. Only, with the wilfulness common to all selfish natures,
she determined to arrange the matter in her own way.
She drove away alone the next morning to the post-office,
with a letter for Joseph, but never drew rein until she had
reached Coventry Forge. Philip being absent, she confided
to Madeline Held her wish (and Lucy's) that they should all
spend an afternoon together, on the banks of the stream,—
a free society in the open air instead of a formal one within
doors. Madeline entered into the plan with joyous readiness,
accepting both for herself and for Philip. They all met
together too rarely, she said: a lunch or a tea under the trees
would be delightful: there was a little skiff which might be
borrowed, and they might even catch and cook their own
fish, as the most respectable people did in the Adirondacks.

Julia then drove to the Hopetons in high spirits. Mr.
Hopeton found the proposed party very pleasant, and said
at once to his wife: “We have still three days, my dear:
we can easily spare to-morrow?”

“Mrs. Asten is very kind,” she replied; “and her proposition
is tempting: but I should not like to go without you,
and I thought your business might—”

“O, there is nothing pressing,” he interrupted. “I shall
enjoy it exceedingly, especially the boat, and the chance of
landing a few trout.”

So it was settled. Lucy, it is true, felt a dissatisfaction
which she could scarcely conceal, and possibly did not, to
Julia's eyes; but it was not for her own sake. She must
seem grateful for a courtesy meant to favor both herself and
her friend, and a little reflection reconciled her to the plan.
Mrs. Hopeton dared not avoid Philip Held, and it might be
well if she carried away with her to the sea-shore a later and
less alarming memory of him. Lucy's own desire for a quiet
talk with the woman in whom she felt such a loving interest
was of no consequence, if this was the result.

They met in the afternoon, on the eastern side of the
stream, just below the Forge, where a little bay of level
shore, shaded by superb trees, was left between the rocky
bluffs. Stumps and a long-fallen trunk furnished them with
rough tables and seats; there was a natural fireplace among
some huge tumbled stones; a spring of icy crystal gushed
out from the foot of the bluff; and the shimmering, murmuring
water in front, with the meadows beyond burning
like emerald flame in the sunshine, offered a constant delight
to the senses.

All were enchanted with the spot, which Philip and Madeline
claimed as their discovery. The gypsy spirit awoke in
them, and while they scattered here and there, possessed with
the influences of the place, and constantly stumbling upon
some new charm or convenience, Lucy felt her heart grow
light for her friend, and the trouble of her own life subside.
For a time no one seemed to think of anything but the
material arrangements. Mr. Hopeton's wine-flasks were
laid in the spring to cool; Philip improvised a rustic table
upon two neighboring stumps; rough seats were made comfortable,
dry sticks collected for fire-wood, stores unpacked
and placed in readiness, and every little preliminary of

labor, insufferable in a kitchen, took on its usual fascination
in that sylvan nook.

Then they rested from their work. Mr. Hopeton and
Philip lighted cigars and sat to leeward, while the four
ladies kept their fingers busy with bunches of maiden-hair
and faint wildwood blossoms, as they talked. It really
seemed as if a peace and joy from beyond their lives had
fallen upon them. Madeline believed so, and Lucy hoped
so: let us hope so, too, and not lift at once the veil which
was folded so closely over two restless hearts!

Mr. Hopeton threw away the stump of his cigar, adjusted
his fishing-tackle, and said: “If we are to have a trout
supper, I must begin to troll at once.”

“May I go with you?” his wife asked.

“Yes,” he answered, smiling, “if you will not be nervous.
But I hardly need to make that stipulation with you, Emily.”

Philip assisted her into the unsteady little craft, which
was fastened to a tree. Mr. Hopeton seated himself carefully,
took the two light, short oars, and held himself from
the shore, while Philip loosened the rope.

“I shall row up stream,” he said, “and then float back to
you, trolling as I come. When I see you again, I hope I
can ask you to have the coals ready.”

Slowly, and not very skilfully, he worked his way against
the current, and passed out of sight around a bend in the
stream. Philip watched Mrs. Hopeton's slender figure as
she sat in the stern, listlessly trailing one hand in the water.
“Does she feel that my eyes, my thoughts, are following
her?” he asked; but she did not once turn her head.

“Philip!” cried Madeline, “here are three forlorn maidens,
and you the only Sir Isumbras, or whoever is the
proper knight! Are you looking into the stream, expecting

the `damp woman' to arise? She only rises for fishermen:
she will come up and drag Mr. Hopeton down. Let me
invoke the real nymph of this stream!” She sang:—

Madeline did not know what she was doing. She could
not remark Philip's paleness in the dim green light where
they sat, but she was struck by the startled expression of
his eyes.

“One would think you really expected Sabrina to come,”
she laughed. “Miss Henderson, too, looks as if I had
frightened her. You and I, Mrs. Asten, are the only cool,
unimaginative brains in the party. But perhaps it was all
owing to my poor voice? Come now, confess it! I don't
expect you to say,—

“I was trying to place the song,” said Lucy; “I read it
once.”

“If any one could evoke a spirit, Madeline,” Philip replied,
“it would be you. But the spirit would be no
nymph; it would have little horns and hoofs, and you
would be glad to get rid of it again.”

They all laughed at this, and presently, at Julia's suggestion,
arranged the wood they had collected, and kindled a
fire. It required a little time and patience to secure a
strong blaze, and in the great interest which the task called
forth the Hopetons were forgotten.

At last Philip stepped back, heated and half stifled, for a
breath of fresher air, and, turning, saw the boat between
the trees gliding down the stream. “There they are!” he
cried; “now, to know our luck!”

The boat was in midstream, not far from a stony strip
which rose above the water. Mrs. Hopeton sat musing with
her hands in her lap, while her husband, resting on his
knees and one hand, leaned over the bow, watching the fly
which trailed at the end of his line. He seemed to be
quite unconscious that an oar, which had slowly loosened
itself from the lock, was floating away behind the boat.

“You are losing your oars!” Philip cried.

Mr. Hopeton started, as from a dream of trout, dropped
his line and stretched forward suddenly to grasp the oar.
The skiff was too light and unbalanced to support the motion.
It rocked threateningly; Mrs. Hopeton, quite forgetting
herself, started to her feet, and, instantly losing her
equilibrium, was thrown headlong into the deeper water.
The skiff whirled back, turned over, and before Mr. Hopeton
was aware of what had happened, he plunged full length,
face downwards, into the shallower current.

It was all over before Madeline and Lucy reached the
bank, and Philip was already in the stream. A few strokes
brought him to Mrs. Hopeton, who struggled with the current
as she rose to the surface, but made no outcry. No
sooner had she touched Philip than she seized and locked
him in her arms, and he was dragged down again with her.
It was only the physical clinging to life: if some feeble recognition
at that moment told her whose was the form she
held and made powerless, it could not have abated an atom
of her frantic, instinctive force.

Philip felt that they had drifted into water beyond his

depth. With great exertion he freed his right arm and
sustained himself and her a moment at the surface. Mrs.
Hopeton's head was on his shoulder; her hair drifted
against his face, and even the desperation of the struggle
could not make him insensible to the warmth of her breast
upon his own. A wild thought flashed upon and stung his
brain: she was his at last—his in death, if not in life!

His arm slackened, and they sank slowly together. Heart
and brain were illuminated with blinding light, and the
swift succession of his thoughts compressed an age into the
fragment of a second. Yes, she was his now: clasping him
as he clasped, their hearts beating against each other, with
ever slower pulsations, until they should freeze into one.
The world, with its wrongs and prejudices, lay behind them;
the past was past, and only a short and painless atonement
intervened between the immortal possession of souls! Better
that it should end thus: he had not sought this solution,
but he would not thrust it from him.

But, even as his mind accepted it, and with a sense of
perfect peace, he heard Joseph's voice, saying, “We must
shape our lives according to the law which is above, not
that which is below us.” Through the air and the water, on
the very rock which now overhung his head, he again saw
Joseph bending, and himself creeping towards him with outstretched
hand. Ha! who was the coward now? And
again Joseph spake, and his words were: “The very wrong
that has come upon us makes God necessary.” God? Then
how would God in his wisdom fashion their future life?
Must they sweep eternally, locked in an unsevering embrace,
like Paolo and Francesca, around some dreary circle of
hell? Or must the manner of entering that life together
be the act to separate them eternally? Only the inevitable

act dare ask for pardon; but here, if not will or purpose,
was at least submission without resistance! Then it seemed
to him that Madeline's voice came again to him, ringing like
a trumpet through the waters, as she sang:—

He pressed his lips to Mrs. Hopeton's unconscious brow,
his heart saying, “Never, never again!” released himself by
a sudden, powerful effort, seized her safely, as a practised
swimmer, shot into light and air, and made for the shallower
side of the stream. The upturned skiff was now within
reach, and all danger was over.

Who could guess that the crisis of a soul had been reached
and passed in that breath of time under the surface? Julia's
long, shrill scream had scarcely come to an end; Mr. Hopeton,
bewildered by his fall, was trying to run towards them
through water up to his waist, and Lucy and Madeline
looked on, holding their breath in an agony of suspense.
In another moment Philip touched bottom, and raising Mrs.
Hopeton in his arms, carried her to the opposite bank.

She was faint and stunned, but not unconscious. She
passively allowed Philip to support her until Mr. Hopeton,
struggling through the shallows, drew near with an expression
of intense terror and concern on his broad face. Then,
breaking from Philip, she half fell, half flung herself into
his arms, laid her head upon his shoulder, and burst into a
fit of hysterical weeping.

Tears began to run down the honest man's cheeks, and
Philip, turning away, busied himself with righting the boat
and recovering the oars.

“O, my darling!” said Mr. Hopeton, “what should I do
if I had lost you?”

“Hold me, keep me, love me!” she cried. “I must not
leave you!”

He held her in his arms, he kissed her, he soothed her
with endearing words. She grew calm, lifted her head, and
looked in his eyes with a light which he had never yet seen
in them. The man's nature was moved and stirred: his
lips trembled, and the tears still slowly trickled from his
eyes.

“Let me set you over!” Philip called from the stream.
“The boat is wet, but then neither of us is dry. We have,
fortunately, a good fire until the carriage can be brought for
Mrs. Hopeton, and your wine will be needed at once.”

They had no trout, nor indeed any refreshment, except
the wine. Philip tried to rally the spirits of the party, but
Julia was the only one who at all seconded his efforts; the
others had been too profoundly agitated. Mr. and Mrs.
Hopeton were grave; it seemed scarcely possible for them
to speak, and yet, as Lucy remarked with amazement, the
faces of both were bright and serene.

“I shall never invoke another water-nymph,” said Madeline,
as they were leaving the spot.

“Yes!” Philip cried, “always invoke Sabrina, and the
daughter of Locrine will arise for you, as she arose to-day.”

“That is, not at all?”

“No,” said Philip, “she arose.”