"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 catastrophe2."
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 guilt3," 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 ascertained4 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 miserable5 strife6 of the last few weeks. Who could imagine that this would follow?"
Even as he spoke7 the words Joseph remembered the tempting8 fancy which had passed through his own mind,—and the fear of Philip,—as he stood on the brink9 of the rock, above the dark, sliding water. He covered his face with his hands and sat down. What right had he to condemn10 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 groaned11 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 undone12!
Tho 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 conjecture13, 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 entirely14 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 arsenic15 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 exigencies16 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 chamber17 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. Bishop18, 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 contemplated19 the scene, the long strain upon his nerves relaxed: he leaned upon Philip's shoulder, as they sat side by side, and wept passionately20.
"If she had not died!" he murmured, at last.
Philip was hardly prepared for this exclamation21, 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 narrative22 made itself clear to his mind; his instinctive23 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 fathom24. Her rage he could easily understand; her apparent submission25 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 justified27 him in this view of her nature, yet at the same time rendered her death more inexplicable28.
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 victorious29!"
"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 descended30 the hill Mrs. Bishop had arrived, and the startled household was reduced to a kind of dreary31 order. Dennis, who had driven with speed, brought Rachel Miller32 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 soothed33 him more than any words.
The reaction from so much fatigue34 and excitement almost prostrated35 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 torment36, from which he could not escape. He was caught and helplessly ensnared by the phantoms37, until, late in the night, the strong claim of nature drove them away and left him in a dead, motionless, dreamless slumber38.
Philip returned in the morning, and devoted39 the day not less to the arrangements which must necessarily be made for the funeral than to standing40 between Joseph and the awkward and inquisitive41 sympathy of the neighbors. Joseph's continued weariness favored Philip's exertions42, while at the same time it blunted the edge of his own feelings, and helped him over that cold, bewildering, dismal43 period, during which a corpse44 is lord of the mansion45 and controls the life of its inmates46.
Towards evening Mr. and Mrs. Blessing47, 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 rigid48, Mr. Blessing flushed and lachrymose49. Philip conducted them first to the chamber of the dead and then to Joseph.
"It is so sudden, so shocking!" Mrs. Blessing sobbed50; "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 foes51 in the citadel52 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 exclamations53, 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 prospects54 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 inevitable55. 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 effacing56 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 rigidly57 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 discursive58 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 foundered59 ship! I was never cut out for the tragic60 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 tyro61 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 random62 scientific fancies. It occurred to mo that since the main Chowder wells are 'spouting,' their source or reservoir must be considerably63 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 repose64 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 awaken65 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 expenditure66 of another cent, you understand—to rig a jury-mast on the wreck67, 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 labor68 will be to deserve it."
He wrung69 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 flask70.
Then came the weariest and dreariest71 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 consolations72 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 gathering73 of the neighbors from far and near. The impression seemed to be—and Philip was ready to substantiate74 it—that Julia had died in consequence of a violent convulsive spasm75, which some attributed to one cause and some to another.
The Rev26. 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 courteous76, 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 bent77 over his chair. "It is an inscrutable visitation, but I trust you submit, in all obedience78?"
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 awfully79 and tenderly moved to approach Him?"
Joseph sat, with bowed head, listening to the smooth, unctuous80, 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 yearning81 towards the pure Divine Light in which all confusions of the soul are disentangled; but now some opaque82 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 stony83, sunken face. He was seated here and led there; he was dimly conscious of a crowd, of murmurs84 and steadfast85 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 stupor86 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 Blessings87 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.
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1
agonized
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| v.使（极度）痛苦，折磨( agonize的过去式和过去分词 )；苦斗；苦苦思索；感到极度痛苦 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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4
ascertained
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| v.弄清，确定，查明( ascertain的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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5
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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strife
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| n.争吵，冲突，倾轧，竞争 | |
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7
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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8
tempting
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| a.诱人的, 吸引人的 | |
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9
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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10
condemn
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| vt.谴责，指责；宣判(罪犯)，判刑 | |
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11
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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12
undone
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| a.未做完的，未完成的 | |
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13
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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14
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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15
arsenic
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| n.砒霜，砷；adj.砷的 | |
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exigencies
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| n.急切需要 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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bishop
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| n.主教，（国际象棋）象 | |
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contemplated
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| adj. 预期的 动词contemplate的过去分词形式 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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21
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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22
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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fathom
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| v.领悟，彻底了解 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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28
inexplicable
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| adj.无法解释的，难理解的 | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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30
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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31
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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32
miller
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| n.磨坊主 | |
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33
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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34
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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35
prostrated
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| v.使俯伏，使拜倒( prostrate的过去式和过去分词 )；（指疾病、天气等）使某人无能为力 | |
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36
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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38
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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39
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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41
inquisitive
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| adj.求知欲强的，好奇的，好寻根究底的 | |
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42
exertions
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| n.努力( exertion的名词复数 )；费力；（能力、权力等的）运用；行使 | |
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43
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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44
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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45
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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46
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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47
blessing
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| n.祈神赐福；祷告；祝福，祝愿 | |
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48
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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49
lachrymose
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| adj.好流泪的，引人落泪的；adv.眼泪地，哭泣地 | |
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50
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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51
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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52
citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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53
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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54
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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55
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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56
effacing
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| 谦逊的 | |
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57
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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58
discursive
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| adj.离题的，无层次的 | |
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foundered
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| v.创始人( founder的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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tyro
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| n.初学者；生手 | |
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random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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awaken
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| vi.醒，觉醒；vt.唤醒，使觉醒，唤起，激起 | |
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expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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69
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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flask
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| n.瓶，火药筒，砂箱 | |
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dreariest
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| 使人闷闷不乐或沮丧的( dreary的最高级 )； 阴沉的； 令人厌烦的； 单调的 | |
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consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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substantiate
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| v.证实；证明...有根据 | |
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spasm
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| n.痉挛，抽搐；一阵发作 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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opaque
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| adj.不透光的；不反光的，不传导的；晦涩的 | |
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stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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murmurs
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| n.低沉、连续而不清的声音( murmur的名词复数 )；低语声；怨言；嘀咕 | |
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steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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stupor
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| v.昏迷；不省人事 | |
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blessings
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| n.（上帝的）祝福( blessing的名词复数 )；好事；福分；因祸得福 | |
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