University of Virginia Library

26. CHAPTER XXVI.
THE ACCUSATION.

For a few days it almost seemed to Joseph that the
old order of his existence had been suddenly restored, and
the year of his betrothal and marriage had somehow been intercalated
into his life simply as a test and trial. Rachel
Miller was back again, in her old capacity, and he did not
yet see—what would have been plain to any other eyes—
that her manner towards him was far more respectful and
considerate than formerly. But, in fact, she made a wide
distinction between the “boy” that he had been and the
man and widower which he had come to be. At first, she
had refused to see the dividing line: having crossed it, her
new course soon became as natural and fixed as the old.
She was the very type of a mechanically developed old
maid,—inflexibly stern towards male youth, devotedly obedient
to male maturity.

Joseph had been too profoundly moved to lose at once the
sense of horror which the manner of Julia's death had left
in his heart. He could not forgive himself for having,
though never so ignorantly, driven her to madness. He
was troubled, restless, unhappy; and the mention of his loss
was so painful that he made every effort to avoid hearing it.
Some of his neighbors, he imagined, were improperly curious
in their inquiries. He felt bound, since the doctor had
suggested it, since Philip and Lucy had acquiesced, and Mrs.
Blessing had expressed so much alarm lest it might become

known, to keep the suicide a secret; but he was driven so
closely by questions and remarks that his task became more
and more difficult.

Had the people taken offence at his reticence? It seemed
so; for their manner towards him was certainly changed.
Something in the look and voice; an indefinable uueasiness
at meeting him; an awkward haste and lame excuses for it,—
all these things forced themselves upon his mind. Elwood
Withers, alone, met him as of old, with even a tenderer
though a more delicately veiled affection; yet in Elwood's
face he detected the signs of a grave trouble. It could not
be possible, he thought, that Elwood had heard some surmise,
or distorted echo, of his words to Lucy in the garden,—that
there had been another listener besides Julia!

There were times, again, when he doubted all these signs,
when he ascribed them to his own disturbed mind, and decided
to banish them from his memory. He would stay
quietly at home, he resolved, and grow into a healthier
mood: he would avoid the society of men, until he should
cease to wrong them by his suspicions.

First, however, he would see Philip; but on reaching
the Forge he found Philip absent. Madeline received him
with a subdued kindness in which he felt her sympathy;
but it was also deeper, he acknowledged to himself, than he
had any right to claim.

“You do not see much of your neighbors, I think, Mr.
Asten?” she asked. The tone of her voice indicated a
slight embarrassment.

“No,” he answered; “I have no wish to see any but my
friends.”

“Lucy Henderson has just left us. Philip took her to
her father's, and was intending to call at your place on his

way home. I hope you will not miss him. That is,” she
added, while a sudden flush of color spread over her face,
“I want you to see him to-day. I beg you won't take my
words as intended for a dismissal.”

“Not now, certainly,” said Joseph. But he rose from
his seat as he spoke.

Madeline looked both confused and pained. “I know
that I spoke awkwardly,” she said, “but indeed I was very
anxious. It was also Lucy's wish. We have been talking
about you this morning.”

“You are very kind. And yet—I ought to wish you a
more cheerful subject.”

What was it in Madeline's face that haunted Joseph on
his way home? The lightsome spirit was gone from her
eyes, and they were troubled as if by the pressure of tears,
held back by a strong effort. Her assumed calmness at
parting seemed to cover a secret anxiety; he had never
before seen her bright, free nature so clouded.

Philip, meanwhile, had reached the farm, where he was
received by Rachel Miller.

“I am glad to find that Joseph is not at home,” he said;
“there are some things which I need to discuss with you,
before I see him. Can you guess what they are? Have
you heard nothing,—no stories?”

Rachel's face grew pale, yet there was a strong fire of
indignation in her eyes. “Dennis told me an outrageous
report he had heard in the village,” she said: “if you mean
the same thing, you did well to see me first. You can help
me to keep this insult from Joseph's knowledge.”

“If I could I would, Miss Rachel. I share your feeling
about it; but suppose the report were now so extended—
and of course in a more exaggerated form the farther it

goes—that we cannot avoid its probable consequences?
This is not like a mere slander, which can be suffered to die
of itself. It is equivalent to a criminal charge, and must
be faced.”

She clasped her hands, and stared at him in terror.

“But why,” she faltered—“why does any one dare to
make such a charge? And against the best, the most innocent—”

“The fact of the poisoning cannot be concealed,” said
Philip. “It appears, moreover, that one of the women who
was in the house on the day of Julia's death heard her cry
out to Joseph: `Go away,—you have killed me!' I need
not take up the reports any further; there is enough in
these two circumstances to excite the suspicions of those
who do not know Joseph as we do. It is better, therefore,
to meet those suspicions before they come to us in a legal
form.”

“What can we do?” cried Rachel; “it is terrible!”

“One course is clear, if it is possible. We must try to
discover not only the cause of Julia's suicide, but the place
where she procured the poison, and her design in procuring
it. She must have had it already in the house.”

“I never thought of that. And her ways were so quiet
and sly! How shall we ever find it out? O, to think that,
dead and gone as she is, she can yet bring all this upon
Joseph!”

“Try to be calm, Miss Rachel,” said Philip. “I want
your help, and you must have all your wits about you.
First, you must make a very careful examination of her
clothing and effects, even to the merest scrap of paper. A
man's good name—a man's life, sometimes—hangs upon a
thread, in the most literal sense. There is no doubt that

Julia meant to keep a secret, and she must have had a
strong reason; but we have a stronger one, now, to discover
it. First, as to the poison; was there any arsenic in the
house when Julia came?”

“Not a speck! I never kept it, even for rats.”

“Then we shall begin with ascertaining where she bought
it. Let us make our investigations secretly, and as speedily
as possible. Joseph need not know, at present, what we
have undertaken, but he must know the charge that hangs
over him. Unless I tell him, he may learn it in a more
violent way. I sent Elwood Withers to Magnolia yesterday,
and his report leaves me no choice of action.”

Rachel Miller felt, from the stern gravity of Philip's
manner, that he had not exaggerated Joseph's danger. She
consented to be guided by him in all things; and this point
being settled, they arranged a plan of action and communication,
which was tolerably complete by the time Joseph
returned.

As gently as possible Philip broke the unwelcome news;
but, lightly as he pretended to consider it, Joseph's instinct
saw at once what might be the consequences. The circumstances
were all burned upon his consciousness, and it
needed no reflection to show him how completely he was
entangled in them.

“There is no alternative,” he said, at last. “It was a
mistake to conceal the cause of her death from the public:
it is easy to misunderstand her exclamation, and make my
crime out of her madness. I see the whole connection!
This suspicion will not stop where it is. It will go further;
and therefore I must anticipate it. I must demand a legal
inquiry before the law forces one upon me. If it is not my
only method of defence, it is certainly my best!”

“You are right!” Philip exclaimed. “I knew this
would be your decision; I said so to Madeline this morning.”

Now Madeline's confused manner became intelligible to
Joseph. Yet a doubt still lingered in his mind. “Did she,
did Madeline question it?” he asked.

“Neither she nor Lucy Henderson. If you do this, I
cannot see how it will terminate without a trial. Lucy may
then happen to be an important witness.”

Joseph started. “Must that be!” he cried. “Has not
Lucy been already forced to endure enough for my sake?
Advise me, Philip! Is there any other way than that I
have proposed?”

“I see no other. But your necessity is far greater than
that for Lucy's endurance. She is a friend, and there can
be no sacrifice in so serving you. What are we all good for,
if not to serve you in such a strait?”

“I would like to spare her, nevertheless,” said Joseph,
gloomily. “I meant so well towards all my friends, and my
friendship seems to bring only disgrace and sorrow.”

“Joseph!” Philip exclaimed, “you have saved one
friend from more than disgrace and sorrow! I do not know
what might have come, but you called me back from the
brink of an awful, doubtful eternity! You have given me
an infinite loss and an infinite gain! I only ask you, in
return, to obey your first true, proud instinct of innocence,
and let me, and Lucy, and Elwood be glad to take its consequences,
for your sake!”

“I cannot help myself,” Joseph answered. “My rash impatience
and injustice will come to light, and that may be the
atonement I owe. If Lucy will spare herself, and report me
truly, as I must have appeared to her, she will serve me best.”

“Leave that, now! The first step is what most concerns
us. When will you be ready to demand a legal investigation?”

“At once!—to-morrow!”

“Then we will go together to Magnolia. I fear we cannot
change the ordinary forms of procedure, and there must
be bail for your appearance at the proper time.”

“Already on the footing of a criminal?” Joseph murmured,
with a sinking of the heart. He had hardly comprehended,
up to this moment, what his position would be.

The next day they drove to the county town. The step
had not been taken a moment too soon, for such representations
had been made that a warrant for Joseph's arrest was
in the hands of the constable, and would have been served
in a few hours. Philip and Mr. Hopeton, who also happened
to be in the town by a fortunate chance (though
Philip knew how the chance came), offered to accept whatever
amount of bail might be demanded. The matter was
arranged as privately as possible, but it leaked out in some
way, and Philip was seriously concerned lest the curiosity—
perhaps, even, the ill-will—of a few persons might be manifested
towards Joseph. He visited the offices of the county
papers, and took care that the voluntary act should be
stated in such a manner as to set its character properly
before the people. Everything, he felt, depended on securing
a fair and unprejudiced judgment of the case.

This, indeed, was far more important than even he suspected.
In a country where the press is so entirely free,
and where, owing to the lazy, indifferent habit of thought—
or, rather, habit of no thought—of the people, the editorial
views are accepted without scrutiny, a man's good name
or life may depend on the coloring given to his acts by a few

individual minds, it is especially necessary to keep the
balance even, to offset one statement by another, and prevent
a partial presentation of the case from turning the
scales in advance. The same phenomena were as likely to
present themselves here, before a small public, as in the
large cities, where the whole population of the country
become a more or less interested public. The result might
hinge, not upon Joseph's personal character as his friends
knew it, but upon the political party with which he was affiliated,
the church to which he belonged,—nay, even upon
the accordance of his personal sentiments with the public
sentiment of the community in which he lived. If he had
dared to defy the latter, asserting the sacred right of his own
mind to the largest liberty, he was already a marked man.
Philip did not understand the extent and power of the external
influences which control what we complacently call
“justice,” but he knew something of the world, and acted in
reality more prudently than he supposed.

He was calm and cheerful for Joseph's sake; yet, now
that the matter was irrevocably committed to the decision
of a new, uninterested tribunal, he began to feel the gravity
of his friend's position.

“I almsot wish,” Joseph said, as they drove homewards,
“that no bail had been granted. Since the court meets in
October, a few weeks of seclusion would do me no harm;
whereas now I am a suspected person to nearly all whom I
may meet.”

“It is not agreeable,” Philip answered, “but the discipline
may be useful. The bail terminates when the trial
commences, you understand, and you will have a few nights
alone, as it is,—quite enough, I imagine, to make you satisfied
with liberty under suspicion. However I have one

demand to make, Joseph! I have thought over all possible
lines of defence; I have secured legal assistance for you,
and we are agreed as to the course to be adopted. I do
not think you can help us at all. If we find that you
can, we will call upon you; in the mean time, wait and
hope!”

“Why should I not?” Joseph asked. “I have nothing
to fear, Philip.”

“No!” But Philip's emphatic answer was intended to
deceive. He was purposely false, knew himself to be so,
and yet his conscience never troubled him less!

When they reached the farm, Philip saw by Rachel Miller's
face that she had a communication to make. It required
a little management to secure an interview with her
without Joseph's knowledge; but some necessity for his
presence at the barn favored his friend. No sooner were
they alone than Rachel approached Philip hastily and said,
in a hurried whisper:—

“Here! I have found something, at last! It took a
mighty search: I thought I never should come upon the
least bit that we could make anything of: but this was in
the upper part of a box where she kept her rings and
chains, and such likes! Take it,—it makes me uncomfortable
to hold it in my fingers!”

She thrust a small paper into his hand.

It was folded very neatly, and there was an apothecary's
label on the back. Philip read: “Ziba Linthicum's Drug
store, No. 77 Main St., Magnolia.” Under this printed
address was written in large letters the word “Arsenic.”
On unfolding the paper he saw that a little white dust
remained in the creases: quite enough to identify the character
of the drug.

“I shall go back to-morrow!” he said. “Thank Heaven,
we have got one clew to the mystery! Joseph must
know nothing of this until all is explained; but while I am
gone make another and more thorough search! Leave no
corner unexplored: I am sure we shall find something
more.”

“I'd rip up her dresses!” was Rachel's emphatic reply.
“That is, if it would do any good. But perhaps feeling
of the lining and the hems might be enough. I'll take
every drawer out, and move the furniture! But I must
wait for daylight: I'm not generally afeared, but there is
some things, you know, which a body would as lief not do
by night, with cracks and creaks all around you, which you
don't seem to hear at other times.”