University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.
FATE.

The face that so suddenly glared upon them was that
of a Gorgon. The ringlets were still pushed behind her
ears and the narrowness of the brow was entirely revealed;
her eyes were full of cold, steely light; the nostrils were
violently drawn in, and the lips contracted, as if in a spasm,
so that the teeth were laid bare. Her hands were clenched,
and there was a movement in her throat as of imprisoned
words or cries; but for a moment no words came.

Lucy, who had started to her feet at the first sound, felt
the blood turn chill in her veins, and fell, rather than sank,
upon the seat again.

Joseph was hardly surprised, and wholly reckless. This
eavesdropping was nothing worse than he already knew;
indeed, there was rather a comfort in perceiving that he had
not overestimated her capacity for treachery. There was
now no limit; anything was possible.

“There is one just law, after all,” he said, “the law that
punishes listeners. You have heard the truth, for once.
You have snared and trapped me, but I don't take
to my captor more kindly than any other animal.
From this moment I choose my own path, and if you
still wish to appear as my wife, you must adapt your life
to mine!”

“You mean to brazen it out, do you!” Julia cried, in a
strange, hoarse, unnatural voice. “That's not so easy!

I have not listened to no purpose: I have a hold upon your
precious `moral pride' at last!”

Joseph laughed scornfully.

“Yes, laugh, but it is in my hands to make or break you!
There is enough decent sentiment in this neighborhood to
crush a married man who dares to make love to an unmarried
girl! As to the girl who sits still and listens to it,
I say nothing; her reputation is no concern of mine!”

Lucy uttered a faint cry of horror.

“If you choose to be so despicable,” said Joseph, “you
will force me to set my truth against your falsehood.
Wherever you tell your story, I shall follow with mine. It
will be a wretched, a degrading business; but for the sake of
Lucy's good name, I have no alternative. I have borne
suspicion, misrepresentation, loss of credit, — brought upon
me by you, — patiently, because they affected only myself;
but since I am partly responsible in bringing to this house a
guest for your arts to play upon and entrap, I am doubly
bound to protect her against you. But I tell you, Julia,
beware! I am desperate; and it is ill meddling with a desperate
man! You may sneer at my moral pride, but you
dare not forget that I have another quality,—manly self-respect,—which
it will be dangerous to offend.”

If Julia did not recognize, in that moment, that her
subject had become her master, it was because the real,
unassumed rage which convulsed her did not allow her to
perceive anything clearly. Her first impulse was to scream
and shriek, that servant and farm-hand might hear her, and
then to repeat her accusation before them; but Joseph's last
words, and the threatening sternness of his voice withheld
her.

“So?” she said, at last; “this is the man who was all

truth, and trust, and honor! With you the proverb seems
to be reversed; it's off with the new love and on with the
old. You can insult and threaten me in her presence!
Well—go on: play out your little love-scene: I shall
not interrupt you. I have heard enough to darken my
life from this day!”

She walked away from them, up the avenue. Her dress
was torn, her arms scratched and bleeding. She had played
her stake and failed,—miserably, hopelessly failed. Her
knees threatened to give way under her at every step, but
she forced herself to walk erect, and thus reached the house
without once looking back.

Joseph and Lucy mechanically followed her with their
eyes. Then they turned and gazed at each other a moment
without speaking. Lucy was very pale, and the expression
of horror had not yet left her face.

“She told me to come to you,” she stammered. She
begged me, with tears, to try and soften your anger against
her; and then—oh, it is monstrous!”

“Now I see the plan!” Joseph exclaimed; “and I, in
my selfish recklessness, saying what there was no need to
utter, have almost done as she calculated,—have exposed
you to this outrage! Why should I have recalled the past
at all? I was not taking off a mask, I was only showing a
scar—no, not even a scar, but a bruise!—which I ought to
have forgotten. Forget it, too, Lucy, and, if you can, forgive
me!”

“It is easy to forgive—everything but my own blindness,”
Lucy answered. “But there is one thing which I
must do immediately: I must leave this house!”

“I see that,” said Joseph, sadly. Then, as if speaking to
himself, he murmured: “Who knows what friends will

come to it in the future? Well, I will bear what can be
borne; and afterwards,—there is Philip's valley. A free
outlaw is better than a fettered outlaw!”

Lucy feared that his mind was wandering. He straightened
himself to his full height, drew a deep breath, and
exclaimed: “Action is a sedative in such cases, isn't it?
Dennis has gone to the mill; I will get the other horse
from the field and drive you home. Or, stay! will you not
go to Philip Held's cottage for a day or two? I think his
sister asked you to come.”

“No, no!” cried Lucy; “you must not go! I will wait
for Dennis.”

“No one must suspect what has happened here this morning,
unless Julia compels me to make it known, and I don't
think she will. It is, therefore, better that I should take
you. It will put me, I hope, in a more rational frame of
mind. Go quietly to your room and make your preparations.
I will see Julia, and if there is no further scene
now, there will be none of the kind henceforth. She is
cunning when she is calm.”

On reaching the house Joseph went directly to his wife's
bed-room. The necessity of an immediate interview could
not be avoided, since Lucy was to leave. When he opened
the door, Julia, who was bending over an open drawer of
her bureau, started up with a little cry of alarm. She closed
the drawer hastily, and began to arrange her hair at the
mirror. Her face in the glass was flushed, but its expression
was sullen and defiant.

“Julia,” he said, as coolly as possible, “I am going to
take Lucy home. Of course you understand that she cannot
stay here an hour longer. You overheard my words to
her, and you know just how much they were worth. I

expect now, that—for your sake as much as hers or mine—
you will behave towards her at parting in such a way that
the servants may find no suggestions of gossip or slander.”

“And if I don't choose to obey you?”

“I am not commanding. I propose a course which your
own mind must find sensible. You have `a deuced sharp
intellect,' as your father said, on our wedding-day.”

Joseph bit his tongue: he felt that he might have omitted
this sting. But he was so little accustomed to victory, that
he did not guess how thoroughly he had already conquered.

“Pa loved me, nevertheless,” she said, and burst into
tears.

Her emotion seemed real, but he mistrusted it.

“What can I do?” she sobbed: “I will try. I thought
I was your wife, but I am not much more than your slave.”

The foolish pity again stole into Joseph's heart, although
he set his teeth and clenched his hands against it. “I am
going for the horse,” he said, in a kinder tone. “When I
come back from this drive, this afternoon, I hope I shall
find you willing to discuss our situation dispassionately, as
I mean to do. We have not known each other fairly before
to-day, and our plan of life must be rearranged.”

It was a relief to walk forth, across the silent, sunny
fields; and Joseph had learned to accept a slight relief as
a substitute for happiness. The feeling that the inevitable
crisis was over, gave him, for the first time in months, a
sense of liberation. There was still a dreary and painful
task before him, and he hardly knew why he should be so
cheerful; but the bright, sweet currents of his blood were
again in motion, and the weight upon his heart was lifted
by some impatient, joyous energy.

The tempting vision of Philip's valley, which had haunted

him from time to time, faded away. The angry tumult
through which he had passed appeared to him like a fever,
and he rejoiced consciously in the beginning of his spiritual
convalescence. If he could simply suspend Julia's active
interference in his life, he might learn to endure his
remaining duties. He was yet young; and how much
strength and knowledge had come to him—through sharpest
pain, it was true—in a single year! Would he willingly
return to his boyish innocence of the world, if that year
could be erased from his life? He was not quite sure.
Yet his nature had not lost the basis of that innocent
time, and he felt that he must still build his future years
upon it.

Thus meditating, he caught the obedient horse, led him
to the barn, and harnessed him to the light carriage which
Julia was accustomed to use. His anxiety concerning her
probable demeanor returned as he entered the house. The
two servant-women were both engaged, in the hall, in some
sweeping or scouring operation, and might prove to be very
inconvenient witnesses. The workmen in the new parlor—
fortunately, he thought—were absent that day.

Lucy Henderson, dressed for the journey, sat in the
dining-room. “I think I will go to Madeline Held for a
day or two,” she said; “I made a half-promise to visit her
after your return.”

“Where is Julia?”

“In her bed-room. I have not seen her. I knocked at
the door, but there was no answer.”

Joseph's trouble returned. “I will see her myself,” he
said, sternly; “she forgets what is due to a guest.”

“No, I will go again,” Lucy urged, rising hastily; “perhaps
she did not hear me.”

She followed him into the hall. Scarcely had he set his
foot upon the first step of the staircase, when the bed-room
door above suddenly burst open, and Julia, with a shriek of
mortal terror, tottered down to the landing. Her face was
ashy, and the dark-blue rings around her sunken eyes made
them seem almost like the large sockets of a skull. She
leaned against the railing, breathing short and hard.

Joseph sprang up the steps, but as he approached her she
put out her right hand, and pushed against his breast with
all her force, crying out: “Go away! You have killed
me!”

The next moment she fell senseless upon the landing.

Joseph knelt and tried to lift her. “Good God! she is
dead!” he exclaimed.

“No,” said Lucy, after taking Julia's wrist, “it is only a
fainting fit. Bring some water, Susan.”

The frightened woman, who had followed them, rushed
down the stairs.

“But she must be ill, very ill,” Lucy continued. “This
is not an ordinary swoon. Perhaps the violent excitement
has brought about some internal injury. You must send
for a physician as soon as possible.”

“And Dennis not here! I ought not to leave her; what
shall I do?”

“Go yourself, and instantly! The carriage is ready. I
will stay and do all that can be done during your absence.”

Joseph delayed until, under the influence of air and
water, Julia began to recover consciousness. Then he understood
Lucy's glance,—the women were present and she
dared not speak,—that he should withdraw before Julia
could recognize him.

He did not spare the horse, but the hilly road tried his

patience. It was between two and three miles to the house
of the nearest physician, and he only arrived, anxious and
breathless, to find that the gentleman had been called away
to attend another patient. Joseph was obliged to retrace
part of his road, and drive some distance in the opposite
direction, in order to summon a second. Here, however, he
was more fortunate. The physician was just sitting down to
an early dinner, which he persisted in finishing, assuring
Joseph, after ascertaining such symptoms of the case as the
latter was able to describe, that it was probably a nervous
attack, “a modified form of hysteria.” Notwithstanding he
violated his own theory of digestion by eating rapidly, the
minutes seemed intolerably long. Then his own horse must
be harnessed to his own sulky, during which time he prepared
a few doses of valerian, belladonna, and other palliatives,
which he supposed might be needed.

Meanwhile, Lucy and the woman had placed Julia in her
own bed, and applied such domestic restoratives as they
could procure, but without any encouraging effect. Julia appeared
to be conscious, but she shook her head when they
spoke to her, and even, so Lucy imagined, attempted to turn
it away. She refused the tea, the lavender and ginger they
brought, and only drank water in long, greedy draughts. In
a little while she started up, with clutchings and incoherent
cries, and then slowly sank back again, insensible.

The second period of unconsciousness was longer and
more difficult to overcome. Lucy began to be seriously
alarmed as an hour, two hours, passed by, and Joseph did
not return. Dennis was despatched in search of him, carrying
also a hastily pencilled note to Madeline Held, and then
Lucy, finding that she could do nothing more, took her seat
by the window and watched the lane, counting the seconds,

one by one, as they were ticked off by the clock in
the hall.

Finally a horse's head appeared above the hedge, where it
curved around the shoulder of the hill: then the top of a
carriage,—Joseph at last! The physician's sulky was only
a short distance in the rear. Lucy hurried down and met
Joseph at the gate.

“No better,—worse, I fear,” she said, answering his
look.

“Dr. Hartman,” he replied,—“Worrall was away from
home,—thinks it is probably a nervous attack. In that case
it can soon be relieved.”

“I hope so, but I fancy there is danger.”

The doctor now arrived, and after hearing Lucy's report,
shook his head. “It is not an ordinary case of hysteria,”
he remarked; “let me see her at once.”

When they entered the room Julia opened her eyes languidly,
fixed them on Joseph, and slowly lifted her hand to
her head. “What has happened to me?” she murmured, in
a hardly audible whisper.

“You had a fainting fit,” he answered, “and I have
brought the doctor. This is Dr. Hartman; you do not
know him, but he will help you; tell him how you feel,
Julia!”

“Cold!” she said, “cold! Sinking down somewhere!
Will he lift me up?”

The physician made a close examination, but seemed to
become more perplexed as he advanced. He administered
only a slight stimulant, and then withdrew from the bedside.
Lucy and the servant left the room, at his request, to prepare
some applications.

“There is something unusual here,” he whispered, drawing

Joseph aside. “She has been sinking rapidly since the
first attack. The vital force is very low: it is in conflict
with some secret enemy, and it cannot resist much longer,
unless we discover that enemy at once. I will do my best to
save her, but I do not yet see how.”

He was interrupted by a noise from the bed. Julia was
vainly trying to rise: her eyes were wide and glaring.
“No, no!” came from her lips, “I will not die! I heard
you. Joseph, I will try—to be different—but—I must
live—for that!”

Then her utterance became faint and indistinct, and she
relapsed into unconsciousness. The physician re-examined
her with a grave, troubled face. “She need not be conscious,”
he said, “for the next thing I shall do. I will not
interrupt this syncope at once; it may, at least, prolong the
struggle. What have they been giving her?”

He picked up, one by one, the few bottles of the household
pharmacy which stood upon the bureau. Last of all, he
found an empty glass shoved behind one of the supports of
the mirror. He looked into it, held it against the light, and
was about to set it down again, when he fancied that there
was a misty appearance on the bottom, as if from some delicate
sediment. Stepping to the window, he saw that he had
not been mistaken. He collected a few of the minute granulations
on the tip of his forefinger, touched them to his
tongue, and, turning quickly to Joseph, whispered:—

“She is poisoned!”

“Impossible!” Joseph exclaimed; “she could not have
been so mad!”

“It is as I tell you! This form of the operation of
arsenic is very unusual, and I did not suspect it; but now
I remember that it is noted in the books. Repeated syncopes,

utter nervous prostration, absence of the ordinary
burning and vomiting, and signs of rapid dissolution; it fits
the case exactly! If I had some oxy-hydrate of iron, there
might still be a possibility, but I greatly fear—”

“Do all you can!” Joseph interrupted. “She must have
been insane! Do not tell me that you have no antidote!”

“We must try an emetic, though it will now be very
dangerous. Then oil, white of egg,”—and the doctor hastened
down to the kitchen.

Joseph walked up and down the room, wringing his
hands. Here was a horror beyond anything he had imagined.
His only thought was to save the life which she, in
the madness of passion, must have resolved to take; she
must not, must not, die now; and yet she seemed to be
already in some region on the very verge of darkness, some
region where it was scarcely possible to reach and pull her
back. What could be done? Human science was baffled;
and would God, who had allowed him to be afflicted through
her, now answer his prayer to continue that affliction?
But, indeed, the word “affliction” was not formed in his
mind; the only word which he consciously grasped was
“Life! life!”

He paused by the bedside and gazed upon her livid skin,
her sunken features: she seemed already dead. Then, sinking
on his knees, he tried to pray, if that was prayer which
was the single intense appeal of all his confused feelings.
Presently he heard a faint sigh; she slightly moved; consciousness
was evidently returning.

She looked at him with half-opened eyes, striving to fix
upon something which evaded her mind. Then she said, in
the faintest broken whisper: “I did love you—I did—and
do—love you! But—you—you hate me!”

A pang sharper than a knife went through Joseph's
heart. He cried, through his tears: “I did not know what
I said! Give me your forgiveness, Julia! Pardon me, not
because I ask it, but freely, from your heart, and I will
bless you!”

She did not speak, but her eyes softened, and a phantom
smile hovered upon her lips. It was no mask this time:
she was sacredly frank and true. Joseph bent over her
and kissed her.

“O Julia!” he said, “why did you do it? Why did
you not wait until I could speak with you? Did you think
you would take a burden off yourself or me?”

Her lips moved, but no voice came. He lifted her head,
supported her, and bent his ear to her mouth. It was like
the dream of a voice:—

“I—did—not—mean—”

There it stopped. The doctor entered the room, followed
by Lucy.

“First the emetic,” said the former.

“For God's sake, be silent!” Joseph cried, with his ear
still at Julia's lips. The doctor stepped up softly and
looked at her. Then, seating himself on the bed beside
Joseph, he laid his hand upon her heart. For several minutes
there was silence in the room.

Then the doctor removed his hand, took Julia's head out
of Joseph's arms, and laid it softly upon the pillow.

She was dead.