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Checkpoint Solutions
Checkpoint for Section 6.1
6.1 Yes, but not nested
6.2 submit and reset
6.3 <input type="reset" value="let me start over">
6.4 <input type="submit" value ="send it off!">
6.5 <html>
<head>
<title>Checkpoint 6.5</title>
</head>
<body>
<form name = "problems" method = "post" action =
"mailto:[email protected]" enctype = "text/plain">
</form>
</body>
</html>
6.6 A CGI script is a program that tells the computer what to do with form data that is sent to it. It is
stored on a web server, in a cgi-bin folder.
Checkpoint for Section 6.2
6.7 All the names are different. For a radio button group to work, each button must have the same name as
the others.
6.8 function checkIt()
{ document.getElementById("agree").checked = true }
6.9 Textboxes can only have widths configured; textarea boxes can be set to however many rows
and columns are desired.
6.10
<html><head><title>Checkpoint 6.10</title>
<script>
function firstName(name)
{
var fname = document.getElementById(name).value;
document.getElementById('f_name').innerHTML = fname;
}
function lastName(name)
{
var lname = document.getElementById(name).value;
document.getElementById('l_name').innerHTML = lname;
}
</script>
</head>
<body>
<p>Enter your first name:<br />
<input type="text" name="firstname" size = "30" maxlength = "28"
id="firstname">
<input type ="button" onclick="firstName('firstname')" value =
"ok"></button></p>
<p>Enter your last name:<br />
<input type="text" name="lastname" size = "30" maxlength = "29"
id="lastname">
<input type ="button" onclick="lastName('lastname')" value =
"ok"></button></p>
<h3>Your first name: <span id = "f_name"> </span> </h3>
<h3>Your last name: <span id = "l_name"> </span> </h3>
</body></html>
6.11
<form name="myform" method="post" enctype="text/plain" action =
"mailto:[email protected]?Here is the requested
information&[email protected]">
6.12 Each control in the email is identified by its name. The user's selection is listed by the form
control's value.
Checkpoint for Section 6.3
6.13 answers will vary
6.14 add to web page <body>:
<input type ="hidden" name ="sides" id ="sides" value = "add lemon wedge
with salmon, ketchup with fries, dressing with salad " />
6.15 middle = username.substr(4,2);
6.16 var nameLength = username.length;
endChar = username.substr((nameLength – 1), 1);
6.17
<script>
function showWord(pword)
{
var username = document.getElementById(pword).value;
var nameLength = username.length;
var charOne = username.substr(0,1);
var charEnd = username.substr((nameLength - 1),1);
var middleLength = nameLength - 2;
var middle = "";
for (i = 0; i <= middleLength; i++)
middle = middle + "*";
var word = charOne + middle + charEnd;
alert(word);
}
</script>
</head>
<body>
<h3> Enter a password in the box below. </h3>
<p><input type="password" name="user_pwrd" id="passwrd" size =
""/>
<input type ="button" onclick="showWord('passwrd')" value =
"ok"></button></p>
</body>
6.18
<script>
function checkAmp(pword)
{
var checkSpecial = false;
var pword = document.getElementById(pword).value;
var nameLength = pword.length;
for (i = 1; i <= (nameLength - 1); i++)
{
if (pword.charCodeAt(i) == 38)
checkSpecial = true;
}
if (checkSpecial == false)
alert("You don't have an ampersand (&) in your password.");
else
alert("Ampersand (&) found!");
}
</script>
</head>
<body>
<h3> Enter a password in the box below. </h3>
<p><input type="password" name="user_pwrd" id="passwrd" size = ""/>
<input type ="button" onclick="checkAmp('passwrd')" value =
"ok"></button></p>
</body>
Checkpoint for Section 6.4
6.19 size
6.20 multiple
6.21 size = "1"
6.22 answers will vary
6.23 answers will vary
6.24
<select multiple = "multiple" name="cars" size = "2" id="cars">
<option>Ford</option>
<option>Chevrolet</option>
<option>Kia</option>
<option>Lexus</option>
<option>Mercedes Benz</option>
<option>Honda</option>
</select>
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"O, no, no!" Julia cried; "he thinks everything of you! He was so
anxious for you to come here! he said to me, 'Lucy Henderson is a
noble, true-hearted girl, and you will love her at once,' as I did, Lucy,
when I first saw you, but without knowing why, as I now do."
A warm color came into Lucy's face, but she only shook her head
and said nothing.
The two women had just risen from the breakfast-table the next
morning, when a shadow fell into the room through the front
window, and a heavy step was heard on the stone pavement of the
veranda. Julia gave a little start and shriek, and seized Lucy's arm.
The door opened and Joseph was there. He had risen before
daybreak and taken the earliest train from the city. He had scarcely
slept for two nights; his face was stern and haggard, and the
fatigue, instead of exhausting, had only added to his excitement.
Julia sprang forward, threw her arm around, him, and kissed him
repeatedly. He stood still and passively endured the caress, without
returning it; then, stepping forward, he gave his hand to Lucy. She
felt that it was cold and moist; and she did not attempt to repress
the quick sympathy which came into her face and voice.
Julia guessed something of the truth instantly, and nothing but the
powerful necessity of continuing to play her part enabled her to
conceal the bitter anger which the contrast between Joseph's
greeting to her and to Lucy aroused in her heart. She stood for a
moment as if paralyzed, but in reality to collect herself; then,
approaching her husband, she stammered forth: "O, Joseph—I'm
afraid—I don't dare to ask you what—what news you bring. You
didn't write—I've been so uneasy—and now I see from your face—
that something is wrong."
He did not answer.
"Don't tell me all at once, if it's very bad!" she then cried: "but,
no! it's my duty to hear it, my duty to bear it,—Lucy has taught me
that,—tell me all, tell me all, this moment!"
"You and your father have ruined me: that is all."
"Joseph!" The word sounded like the essence of tender protest, of
heartbreaking reproach. Lucy rose quietly and moved towards the
door.
"Don't leave me, Lucy!" was Julia's appeal.
"It is better that I should go," Lucy answered, in a faint voice, and
left the room.
"But, Joseph," Julia resumed, with a wild, distracted air, "why do
you say such terrible things? I really do not know what you mean.
What have you learned? what have you seen?"
"I have seen the Amaranth!"
"Well! Is there no oil?"
"O yes, plenty of oil!" he laughed; "skunk oil and rattlesnake oil! It
is one of the vilest cheats that the Devil ever put into the minds of
bad men."
"O, poor pa!" Julia cried; "what a terrible blow to him!"
"'Poor pa!' Yes, my discovery of the cheat is a terrible blow to
'poor pa,'—he did not calculate on its being found out so soon.
When I learned from Kanuck that all the stock he holds was given to
him for services,—that is, for getting the money out of the pockets
of innocents like myself,—you may judge how much pity I feel for
poor pa! I told him the fact to his face, last night, and he admitted
it."
"Then," said Julia, "if the others know nothing, he may be able to
sell his stock to-day,—his and yours; and we may not lose much
after all."
"I should have sent you to the oil region, instead of going myself,"
Joseph answered, with a sneer. "You and Kanuck would soon have
come to terms. He offered to take my stock off my hands, provided I
would go back to the city and make such a report of the speculation
as he would dictate."
"And you didn't do it?" Julia's voice rose almost to a scream, as
the words burst involuntarily from her lips.
The expression on Joseph's face showed her that she had been
rash; but the words were said, and she could only advance, not
recede.
"It is perfectly legitimate in business," she continued. "Every
investment in the Amaranth was a venture,—every stockholder knew
that he risked losing his money! There is not one that would not
save himself in that way, if he had the chance. But you pride
yourself on being so much better than other men! Mr. Chaffinch is
right; you have what he calls a 'moral pride'! You—"
"Stop!" Joseph interrupted. "Who was it that professed such
concern about my faith? Who sent Mr. Chaffinch to insult me?"
"Faith and business are two different things: all the churches know
that. There was Mr. Sanctus, in the city: he subscribed ten thousand
dollars to the Church of the Acceptance: he couldn't pay it, and they
levied on his property, and sold him out of house and home! Really,
you are as ignorant of the world as a baby!"
"God keep me so, then!" he exclaimed.
"However," she resumed, after a pause, "since you insist on our
bearing the loss, I shall expect of your moral pride that you bear it
patiently, if not cheerfully. It is far from being ruin to us. The rise in
property will very likely balance it, and you will still be worth what
you were."
"That is not all," he said. "I will not mention my greatest loss, for
you are incapable of understanding it; but how much else have you
saddled me with? Let me have a look at it!"
He crossed the hall and entered the new apartment, Julia
following. Joseph inspected the ceiling, the elaborate and overladen
cornices, the marble chimney-piece, and finally peered into the
boxes and packages, not trusting himself to speak while the extent
of the absurd splendor to which she had committed him grew upon
his mind. Finally he said, striving to make his voice calm, although it
trembled in his throat: "Since you were so free to make all these
purchases, perhaps you will tell me how they are to be paid for?"
"Let me manage it, then," she answered. "There is no hurry.
These country mechanics are always impatient,—I should call them
impertinent, and I should like to teach them a lesson. Sellers are
under obligations to the buyers, and they are bound to be
accommodating. They have so many bills which are never paid, that
an extension of time is the least they can do. Why, they will always
wait a year, two years, three years, rather than lose."
"I suppose so."
"Then," said Julia, deceived by Joseph's quiet tone, "their profits
are so enormous, that it would only be fair to reduce the bills. I am
sure, that if I were to mention that you were embarrassed by heavy
losses, and press them hard, they would compromise with me on a
moderate amount. You know they allow what is called a margin for
losses,—pa told me, but I forget how much,—they always expect to
lose a certain percentage; and, of course, it can make no difference
by whom they lose it. You understand, don't you?"
"Yes: it is very plain."
"Pa could help me to get both a reduction and an extension of
time. The bills have not all been sent, and it will be better to wait
two or three months after they have come in. If the dealers are a
little uneasy in advance, they will be all the readier to compromise
afterwards."
Joseph walked up and down the hollow room, with his hands
clasped behind his back and his eyes fixed upon the floor. Suddenly
he stopped before her and said: "There is another way."
"Not a better one, I am certain."
"The furniture has not yet been unpacked, and can be returned to
them uninjured. Then the bills need not be paid at all."
"And we should be the laughing-stock of the neighborhood!" she
cried, her eyes flashing. "I never heard of anything so ridiculous! If
the worst comes to the worst, you can sell Bishop those fifty acres
over the hill, which he stands ready to take, any day. But you'd
rather have a dilapidated house,—no parlor,—guests received in the
dining-room and the kitchen,—the Hopetons and your friends, the
Helds, sneering at us behind our backs! And what would your credit
be worth? We shall not even get trusted for groceries at the village
store, if you leave things as they are!"
Joseph groaned, speaking to himself rather than answering her:
"Is there no way out of this? What is done is done; shall I submit to
it, and try to begin anew? or—"
He did not finish the sentence. Julia turned her head, so that only
the chimney-piece and the furniture could see the sparkle of triumph
in her eyes. She felt that she had maintained her position; and, what
was far more, she now clearly saw the course by which she could
secure it.
She left the room, drawing a full breath of relief as the door closed
behind her. The first shock of the evil news was over, and it had not
fallen quite so heavily as she had feared. There were plenty of
devices in store whereby all that was lost might be recovered. Had
not her life at home been an unbroken succession of devices? Was
she not seasoned to all manner of ups and downs, and wherefore
should this first failure disconcert her? The loss of the money was, in
reality, much less important to her than the loss of her power over
Joseph. Weak as she had supposed him to he, he had shown a fierce
and unexpected resistance, which must be suppressed now, or it
might crush her whole plan of life. It seemed to her that he was
beginning to waver: should she hasten a scheme by which she
meant to entrap him into submission,—a subtle and dangerous
scheme, which must either wholly succeed, or, wholly failing, involve
her in its failure?
Rapidly turning over the question in her mind, she entered her
bed-room. Locking the door, she walked directly to the looking-glass;
the curtain was drawn from the window, and a strong light fell upon
her face.
"This will never do!" she said to herself. "The anxiety and
excitement have made me thin again, and I seem to have no color."
She unfastened her dress, bared her neck, and pushed the ringlets
behind her ears. "I look pinched; a little more, and I shall look old. If
I were a perfect brunette or a perfect blonde, there would be less
difficulty; but I have the most provoking, unmanageable complexion!
I must bring on the crisis at once, and then see if I can't fill out
these hollows."
She heard the front door opening, and presently saw Joseph on
the lawn. He looked about for a moment, with a heavy, bewildered
air, and then slowly turned towards the garden. She withdrew from
the window, hesitated a moment, murmured to herself, "I will try,
there cannot be a better time!" and then, burying her face in her
hands and sobbing, rushed to Lucy's room.
"O Lucy!" she cried, "help me, or I am lost! How can I tell you? it
is harder than I ever dreamed!"
"Is the loss so very serious,—so much more than you feared?"
Lucy asked.
"Not that—O, if that were all! But Joseph—" Here Julia's sobs
became almost hysterical. "He is so cruel; I did advise him, as I told
you, for his sake, and now he says that pa and I have combined to
cheat him! I don't think he knows how dreadful his words are. I
would sooner die than hear any more of them! Go to him, Lucy; he
is in the garden; perhaps he will listen to you. I am afraid, and I
never thought I should be afraid of him!"
"It is very, very sad," said Lucy. "But if he is in such an excited
condition he will surely resent my coming. What can I say?"
"Say only what you heard me speak! Tell him of my anxiety, my
self-reproach! Tell him that even if he will believe that pa meant to
deceive him, he must not believe it of me! You know, Lucy, how he
wrongs me in his thoughts; if you knew how hard it is to be wronged
by a husband, you would pity me!"
"I do pity you, Julia, from my very heart; and the proof of it is,
that I will try to do what you ask, against my own sense of its
prudence. If Joseph repels my interference, I shall not blame him."
"Heaven bless you, Lucy! He will not repel you, he cannot!" Julia
sobbed. "I will lie down and try to grow calm." She rose from the
bed, upon which she had flung herself, and tottered through the
door. When she had reached her own room, she again looked at her
image in the glass, nodded and smiled.
Lucy walked slowly along the garden paths, plucking a flower or
two, and irresolute how to approach Joseph. At last, descending the
avenue of box, she found him seated in the semicircular enclosure,
gazing steadfastly down the valley, but (she was sure) not seeing
the landscape. As he turned his head at her approach, she noticed
that his eyelids were reddened and his lips compressed with an
expression of intense pain.
"Sit down, Lucy; I am a grim host, to-day," he said, with a
melancholy attempt at a smile.
Lucy had come to him with a little womanly indignation, for Julia's
sake, in her heart; but it vanished utterly, and the tears started into
her eyes. For a moment she found it impossible to speak.
"I shall not talk of my ignorance any more, as I once did," Joseph
continued. "If there is a class in the school of the world, graded
according to experience of human meanness and treachery and
falsehood, I ought to stand at the head."
Lucy stretched out her hand in protest. "Do not speak so bitterly,
Joseph; it pains me to hear you."
"How would you have me speak?"
"As a man who will not see ruin before him because a part of his
property happens to slip from him,—nay, if all were lost! I always
took you to be liberal, Joseph, never careful of money for money's
sake, and I cannot understand how your nature should be changed
now, even though you have been the victim of some dishonesty."
"'Some dishonesty'! You are thinking only of money: what term
would you give to the betrayal of a heart, the ruin of a life?"
"Surely, Joseph, you do not, you cannot mean—"
"My wife, of course. It needed no guessing."
"Joseph!" Lucy cried, seizing the opportunity, "indeed you do her
wrong! I know what anxiety she has suffered during your absence.
She blamed herself for having advised you to risk so much in an
uncertain speculation, dreaded your disappointment, resolved to
atone for it, if she could! She may have been rash and thoughtless,
but she never meant to deceive you. If you are disappointed in some
qualities, you should not shut your eyes and refuse to see others. I
know, now, that I have myself not been fair in my judgment of Julia.
A nearer acquaintance has led me to conceive what disadvantages of
education, for which she is not responsible, she is obliged to
overcome: she sees, she admits them, and she will overcome them.
You, as her husband, are bound to show her a patient kindness—"
"Enough!" Joseph interrupted; "I see that you have touched pitch,
also. Lucy, your first instinct was right. The woman whom I am
bound to look upon as my wife is false and selfish in every fibre of
her nature; how false and selfish I only can know, for to me she
takes off her mask!"
"Do you believe me, then?" Lucy's words were slightly defiant. She
had not quite understood the allusion to touching pitch, and
Joseph's indifference to her advocacy seemed to her unfeeling.
"I begin to fear that Philip was right," said Joseph, not heeding
her question. "Life is relentless: ignorance or crime, it is all the
same. And if God cares less about our individual wrongs than we
flatter ourselves He does, what do we gain by further endurance?
Here is Lucy Henderson, satisfied that my wife is a suffering angel;
thinks my nature is changed, that I am cold-hearted and cruel, while
I know Lucy to be true and noble, and deceived by the very
goodness of her own heart!"
He lifted his head, looked in her face a moment, and then went
on:—
"I am sick of masks; we all wear them. Do you want to know the
truth, Lucy? When I look back I can see it very clearly, now. A little
more than a year ago the one girl who began to live in my thoughts
was you! Don't interrupt me: I am only speaking of what was. When
I went to Warriner's, it was in the hope of meeting you, not Julia
Blessing. It was not yet love that I felt, but I think it would have
grown to that, if I had not been led away by the cunningest arts
ever a woman devised. I will not speculate on what might have
been: if I had loved you, perhaps there would have been no return:
had there been, I should have darkened the life of a friend. But this
I say; I honor and esteem you, Lucy, and the loss of your friendship,
if I now lose it, is another evil service which my wife has done me."
Joseph little suspected how he was torturing Lucy. She must have
been more than woman, had not a pang of wild regret for the lost
fortune, and a sting of bitter resentment against the woman who
had stolen it, wrung her heart. She became deadly pale, and felt
that her whole body was trembling.
"Joseph," she said, "you should not, must not, speak so to me."
"I suppose not," he answered, letting his head sink wearily; "it is
certainly not conventional; but it is true, for all that! I could tell you
the whole story, for I can read it backwards, from now to the
beginning, without misunderstanding a word. It would make no
difference; she is simple, natural, artless, amiable, for all the rest of
the world, while to me—"
There was such despondency in his voice and posture, that Lucy,
now longing more than ever to cheer him, and yet discouraged by
the failure of her first attempt, felt sorely troubled.
"You mistake me, Joseph," she said, at last, "if you think you have
lost my friendship, my sincerest sympathy. I can see that your
disappointment is a bitter one, and my prayer is that you will not
make it bitterer by thrusting from you the hopeful and cheerful spirit
you once showed. We all have our sore trials."
Lucy found her own words very mechanical, but they were the
only ones, that came to her lips. Joseph did not answer; he still sat,
stooping, with his elbows on his knees, and his forehead resting on
his palms.
"If I am deceived in Julia," she began again, "it is better to judge
too kindly than too harshly. I know you cannot change your
sentence against her now, nor, perhaps, very soon. But you are
bound to her for life, and you must labor—it is your sacred duty—to
make that life smoother and brighter for both. I do not know how,
and I have no right to condemn you if you fail. But, Joseph, make
the attempt now, when the most unfortunate experience that is
likely to come to you is over; make it, and it may chance that, little
by little, the old confidence will return, and you will love her again."
Joseph started to his feet. "Love her!" he exclaimed, with
suppressed passion,—"love her! I hate her!"
There was a hissing, rattling sound, like that of some fierce animal
at bay. The thick foliage of two of the tall box-trees was violently
parted. The branches snapped and gave way: Julia burst through,
and stood before them.
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 hear 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.
CHAPTER XXV.
THE MOURNERS.
"It cannot be!" cried Joseph, looking at the doctor with an
agonized face; "it is too dreadful!"
"There is no room for doubt in relation to the cause. I suspect that
her nervous system has been subjected to a steady and severe
tension, probably for years past. This may have induced a condition,
or at least a temporary paroxysm, during which she was—you
understand me—not wholly responsible for her actions. You must
have noticed whether such a condition preceded this catastrophe."
Lucy looked from one to the other, and back to the livid face on
the pillow, unable to ask a question, and not yet comprehending that
the end had come. Joseph arose at the doctor's words.
"That is my guilt," he said. "I was excited and angry, for I had
been bitterly deceived. I warned her that her life must henceforth
conform to mine: my words were harsh and violent. I told her that
we had at last ascertained each other's true natures, and proposed a
serious discussion for the purpose of arranging our common future,
this afternoon. Can she have misunderstood my meaning? It was not
separation, not divorce: I only meant to avoid the miserable strife of
the last few weeks. Who could imagine that this would follow?"
Even as he spoke the words Joseph remembered the tempting
fancy which had passed through his own mind,—and the fear of
Philip,—as he stood on the brink of the rock, above the dark, sliding
water. He covered his face with his hands and sat down. What right
had he to condemn her, to pronounce her mad? Grant that she had
been blinded by her own unbalanced, excitable nature rather than
consciously false; grant that she had really loved him, that the love
survived under all her vain and masterful ambition,—and how could
he doubt it after the dying words and looks?—it was then easy to
guess how sorely she had been wounded, how despair should follow
her fierce excitement! Her words, "Go away! you have killed me!"
were now explained. He groaned in the bitterness of his self-
accusation. What were all the trials he had endured to this? How
light seemed the burden from which he was now free! how gladly
would he bear it, if the day's words and deeds could be unsaid and
undone!
The doctor, meanwhile, had explained the manner of Julia's death
to Lucy Henderson. She, almost overcome with this last horror, could
only agree with his conjecture, for her own evidence confirmed it.
Joseph had forborne to mention her presence in the garden, and she
saw no need of repeating his words to her; but she described Julia's
convulsive excitement, and her refusal to admit her to her room, half
an hour before the first attack of the poison. The case seemed
entirely clear to both.
"For the present," said the doctor, "let us say nothing about the
suicide. There is no necessity for a post-mortem examination: the
symptoms, and the presence of arsenic in the glass, are quite
sufficient to establish the cause of death. You know what a foolish
idea of disgrace is attached to families here in the country when
such a thing happens, and Mr. Asten is not now in a state to bear
much more. At least, we must save him from painful questions until
after the funeral is over. Say as little as possible to him: he is not in
a condition to listen to reason: he believes himself guilty of her
death."
"What shall I do?" cried Lucy: "will you not stay until the man
Dennis returns? Mr. Asten's aunt must be fetched immediately."
It was not a quarter of an hour before Dennis arrived, followed by
Philip and Madeline Held.
Lucy, who had already despatched Dennis, with a fresh horse, to
Magnolia, took Philip and Madeline into the dining-room, and
hurriedly communicated to them the intelligence of Julia's death.
Philip's heart gave a single leap of joy; then he compelled himself to
think of Joseph and the exigencies of the situation.
"You cannot stay here alone," he said. "Madeline must keep you
company. I will go up and take care of Joseph: we must think of
both the living and the dead."
No face could have been half so comforting in the chamber of
death as Philip's. The physician had, in the mean time, repeated to
Joseph the words he had spoken to Lucy, and now Joseph said,
pointing to Philip, "Tell him everything!"
Philip, startled as he was, at once comprehended the situation. He
begged Dr. Hartman to leave all further arrangements to him, and to
summon Mrs. Bishop, the wife of one of Joseph's near neighbors, on
his way home. Then, taking Joseph by the arm, he said:—
"Now come with me. We will leave this room awhile to Lucy and
Madeline; but neither must you be alone. If I am anything to you,
Joseph, now is the time when my presence should be some slight
comfort. We need not speak, but we will keep together."
Joseph clung the closer to his friend's arm, without speaking, and
they passed out of the house. Philip led him, mechanically, towards
the garden, but as they drew near the avenue of box-trees Joseph
started back, crying out:—
"Not there!—O, not there!"
Philip turned in silence, conducted him past the barn into the
grass-field, and mounted the hill towards the pin-oak on its summit.
From this point the house was scarcely visible behind the fir-trees
and the huge weeping-willow, but the fair hills around seemed
happy under the tender sky, and the melting, vapory distance, seen
through the southern opening of the valley, hinted of still happier
landscapes beyond. As Joseph contemplated the scene, the long
strain upon his nerves relaxed: he leaned upon Philip's shoulder, as
they sat side by side, and wept passionately.
"If she had not died!" he murmured, at last.
Philip was hardly prepared for this exclamation, and he did not
immediately answer.
"Perhaps it is better for me to talk," Joseph continued. "You do not
know the whole truth, Philip. You have heard of her madness, but
not of my guilt. What was it I said when we last met? I cannot recall
it now: but I know that I feared to call my punishment unjust. Since
then I have deserved it all, and more. If I am a child, why should I
dare to handle fire? If I do not understand life, why should I dare to
set death in motion?"
He began, and related everything that had passed since they
parted on the banks of the stream. He repeated the words that had
been spoken in the house and in the garden, and the last broken
sentences that came from Julia's lips. Philip listened with breathless
surprise and attention. The greater part of the narrative made itself
clear to his mind; his instinctive knowledge of Julia's nature enabled
him to read much further than was then possible to Joseph; but
there was a mystery connected with the suicide which he could not
fathom. Her rage he could easily understand; her apparent
submission to Joseph's request, however,—her manifest desire to
live, on overhearing the physician's fears,—her last incomplete
sentence, "I—did—not—mean—" indicated no such fatal intention,
but the reverse. Moreover, she was too inherently selfish, even in the
fiercest paroxysm of disappointment, to take her own life, he
believed. All the evidence justified him in this view of her nature, yet
at the same time rendered her death more inexplicable.
It was no time to mention these doubts to Joseph. His only duty
was to console and encourage.
"There is no guilt in accident," he said. "It was a crisis which must
have come, and you took the only course possible to a man. If she
felt that she was defeated, and her mad act was the consequence,
think of your fate had she felt herself victorious!"
"It could have been no worse than it was," Joseph answered. "And
she might have changed: I did not give her time. I have accused my
own mistaken education, but I had no charity, no pity for hers!"
When they descended the hill Mrs. Bishop had arrived, and the
startled household was reduced to a kind of dreary order. Dennis,
who had driven with speed, brought Rachel Miller at dusk, and Philip
and Madeline then departed, taking Lucy Henderson with them.
Rachel was tearful, but composed; she said little to her nephew, but
there was a quiet, considerate tenderness in her manner which
soothed him more than any words.
The reaction from so much fatigue and excitement almost
prostrated him. When he went to bed in his own guest-room, feeling
like a stranger in a strange house, he lay for a long time between
sleep and waking, haunted by all the scenes and personages of his
past life. His mother's face, so faded in memory, came clear and
fresh from the shadows; a boy whom he had loved in his school-
days floated with fair, pale features just before his closed eyes; and
around and between them there was woven a web of twilights and
moonlights, and sweet sunny days, each linked to some grief or
pleasure of the buried years. It was a keen, bitter joy, a fascinating
torment, from which he could not escape. He was caught and
helplessly ensnared by the phantoms, until, late in the night, the
strong claim of nature drove them away and left him in a dead,
motionless, dreamless slumber.
Philip returned in the morning, and devoted the day not less to
the arrangements which must necessarily be made for the funeral
than to standing between Joseph and the awkward and inquisitive
sympathy of the neighbors. Joseph's continued weariness favored
Philip's exertions, while at the same time it blunted the edge of his
own feelings, and helped him over that cold, bewildering, dismal
period, during which a corpse is lord of the mansion and controls the
life of its inmates.
Towards evening Mr. and Mrs. Blessing, who had been summoned
by telegraph, made their appearance. Clementina did not accompany
them. They were both dressed in mourning: Mrs. Blessing was grave
and rigid, Mr. Blessing flushed and lachrymose. Philip conducted
them first to the chamber of the dead and then to Joseph.
"It is so sudden, so shocking!" Mrs. Blessing sobbed; "and Julia
always seemed so healthy! What have you done to her, Mr. Asten,
that she should be cut off in the bloom of her youth?"
"Eliza!" exclaimed her husband, with his handkerchief to his eyes;
"do not say anything which might sound like a reproach to our heart-
broken son! There are many foes in the citadel of life: they may be
undermining our—our foundations at this very moment!"
"No," said Joseph; "you, her father and mother, must hear the
truth. I would give all I have in the world if I were not obliged to tell
it."
It was, at the best, a painful task; but it was made doubly so by
exclamations, questions, intimations, which he was forced to hear.
Finally, Mrs. Blessing asked, in a tone of alarm:—
"How many persons know of this?"
"Only the physician and three of my friends," Joseph answered.
"They must be silent! It might ruin Clementina's prospects if it
were generally known. To lose one daughter and to have the life of
another blasted would be too much."
"Eliza," said her husband, "we must, try to accept whatever is
inevitable. It seems to me that I no more recognize Julia's usually
admirable intellect in her—yes, I must steel myself to say the word!
—her suicide, than I recognized her features just now! unless
Decay's effacing fingers have already swept the lines where beauty
lingers. I warned her of the experiment, for such I felt it to be; yet in
this last trying experience I do not complain of Joseph's
disappointment, and his temporary—I trust it is only temporary—
suspicion. We must not forget that he has lost more than we have."
"Where is—" Joseph began, endeavoring to turn the conversation
from this point.
"Clementina? I knew you would find her absence unaccountable.
We instantly forwarded a telegram to Long Branch; the answer said,
'My grief is great, but it is quite impossible to come.' Why impossible
she did not particularize, and we can only conjecture. When I
consider her age and lost opportunities, and the importance which a
single day, even a fortunate situation, may possess for her at
present, it seems to remove some of the sharpness of the serpent's
tooth. Neither she nor we are responsible for Julia's rash taking off;
yet it is always felt as a cloud which lowers upon the family. There
was a similar case among the De Belsains, during the Huguenot
times, but we never mention it. For your sake silence is rigidly
imposed upon us; since the preliminary—what shall I call it?—dis-
harmony of views?—would probably become a part of the narrative."
"Pray do not speak of that now!" Joseph groaned.
"Pardon me; I will not do so again. Our minds naturally become
discursive under the pressure of grief. It is easier for me to talk at
such times than to be silent and think. My power of recuperation
seems to be spiritual as well as physical; it is congenital, and
therefore exposes me to misconceptions. But we can close over the
great abyss of our sorrow, and hide it from view in the depth of our
natures, without dancing on the platform which covers it."
Philip turned away to hide a smile, and even Mrs. Blessing
exclaimed: "Really, Benjamin, you are talking heartlessly!"
"I do not mean it so," he said, melting into tears, "but so much
has come upon me all at once! If I lose my buoyancy, I shall go to
the bottom like a foundered ship! I was never cut out for the tragic
parts of life; but there are characters who smile on the stage and
weep behind the scenes. And, you know, the Lord loveth a cheerful
giver."
He was so touched by the last words he spoke, that he leaned his
head upon his arms and wept bitterly.
Then Mrs. Blessing, weeping also, exclaimed: "O, don't take on so,
Benjamin!"
Philip put an end to the scene, which was fast becoming a torment
to Joseph. But, later in the evening, Mr. Blessing again sought the
latter, softly apologizing for the intrusion, but declaring that he was
compelled, then and there, to make a slight explanation.
"When you called the other evening," he said, "I was worn out,
and not competent to grapple with such an unexpected revelation of
villainy. I had been as ignorant of Kanuck's real character as you
were. All our experience of the world is sometimes at fault; but
where the Reverend Dr. Lellifant was first deceived, my own case
does not seem so flagrant. Your early information, however, enabled
me (through third parties) to secure a partial sale of the stock held
by yourself and me,—at something of a sacrifice, it is true; but I
prefer not to dissociate myself entirely from the enterprise. I do not
pretend to be more than the merest tyro in geology; nevertheless,
as I lay awake last night,—being, of course, unable to sleep after the
shock of the telegram,—I sought relief in random scientific fancies.
It occurred to me that since the main Chowder wells are 'spouting,'
their source or reservoir must be considerably higher than the
surface. Why might not that source be found under the hills of the
Amaranth? If so, the Chowder would be tapped at the fountain-head
and the flow of Pactolean grease would be ours! When I return to
the city I shall need instantly—after the fearful revelations of to-day
—some violently absorbing occupation; and what could be more
appropriate? If anything could give repose to Julia's unhappy shade,
it would be the knowledge that her faith in the Amaranth was at last
justified! I do not presume to awaken your confidence: it has been
too deeply shaken; all I ask is, that I may have the charge of your
shares, in order—without calling upon you for the expenditure of
another cent, you understand—to rig a jury-mast on the wreck, and,
D. V., float safely into port!"
"Why should I refuse to trust you with what is already worthless?"
said Joseph.
"I will admit even that, if you desire. 'Exitus acta probat' was
Washington's motto; but I don't consider that we have yet reached
the exitus! Thank you, Joseph! Your question has hardly the air of
returning confidence, but I will force myself to consider it as such,
and my labor will be to deserve it."
He wrung Joseph's hand, shed a few more tears, and betook
himself to his wife's chamber. "Eliza, let us be calm: we never know
our strength until it has been tried," he said to her, as he opened his
portmanteau and took from it the wicker-covered flask.
Then came the weariest and dreariest day of all,—when the house
must be thrown open to the world; when in one room the corpse
must be displayed for solemn stares and whispered comments, while
in another the preparation of the funeral meats absorbs all the
interest of half a dozen busy women; when the nearest relatives of
the dead sit together in a room up stairs, hungering only for the
consolations of loneliness and silence; when all talk under their
voices, and uncomfortably fulfil what they believe to be their solemn
duty; and when even Nature is changed to all eyes, and the
mysterious gloom of an eclipse seems to fall from the most
unclouded sun.
There was a general gathering of the neighbors from far and near.
The impression seemed to be—and Philip was ready to substantiate
it—that Julia had died in consequence of a violent convulsive spasm,
which some attributed to one cause and some to another.
The Rev. Mr. Chaffinch made his way, as by right, to the chamber
of the mourners. Rachel Miller was comforted in seeing him, Mr. and
Mrs. Blessing sadly courteous, and Joseph strengthened himself to
endure with patience what might follow. After a few introductory
words, and a long prayer, the clergyman addressed himself to each,
in turn, with questions or remarks which indicated a fierce necessity
of resignation.
"I feel for you, brother," he said, as he reached Joseph and bent
over his chair. "It is an inscrutable visitation, but I trust you submit,
in all obedience?"
Joseph bowed silently.
"He has many ways of searching the heart," Mr. Chaffinch
continued. "Your one precious comfort must be that she believed,
and that she is now in glory. O, if you would but resolve to follow in
her footsteps! He shows His love, in that He chastens you: it is a
stretching out of His hand, a visible offer of acceptance, this on one
side, and the lesson of our perishing mortality on the other! Do you
not feel your heart awfully and tenderly moved to approach Him?"
Joseph sat, with bowed head, listening to the smooth, unctuous,
dismal voice at his ear, until the tension of his nerves became a
positive physical pain. He longed to cry aloud, to spring up and rush
away; his heart was moved, but not awfully and tenderly. It had
been yearning towards the pure Divine Light in which all confusions
of the soul are disentangled; but now some opaque foreign
substance intervened, and drove him back upon himself. How long
the torture lasted he did not know. He spake no word, and made no
further sign.
Then Philip took him and Rachel Miller down, for the last
conventional look at the stony, sunken face. He was seated here and
led there; he was dimly conscious of a crowd, of murmurs and
steadfast faces; he heard some one whisper, "How dreadfully pale he
looks!" and wondered whether the words could possibly refer to him.
Then there was the welcome air and the sunshine, and Dennis
driving them slowly down the lane, following a gloomy vehicle, in
which something—not surely the Julia whom he knew—was carried.
He recalled but one other such stupor of the senses: it was during
the performance of the marriage ceremony.
But the longest day wears out at last; and when night came only
Philip was beside him. The Blessings had been sent to Oakland
Station for the evening train to the city, and Joseph's shares in the
Amaranth Company were in their portmanteau.
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.
