Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 20 (18 page)

 
          
“She
might have spared me that!” he panted, as through the heavy beating of his
heart he heard the voice he hated lending music to the song he loved, a song of
lovers parting in the summer night, whose dawn would break upon their
wedding-day. Whatever hope of merciful relenting might have been kindled by one
redeeming power was for ever quenched by that ill-timed air, for with a gesture
of defiant daring, Stahl drew the full vial from his breast, dashed its
contents into the cup, and drained it to the dregs.

 
          
A
long shudder crept over him as he set it down, then a pale peace dawned upon
his face, as, laying his weary head upon the pillow it would never find
sleepless any more, he pressed the rose against his lips, saying, with a bitter
smile that never left his face again:

 
 
          
“I
won my rose, and her thorns have pierced me to the heart; but mv blight is on
her, and no other man will wear her in his bosom when I am gone.”

 
          
“ Stay
, Evan , when the others go; I have much to sav to
you, and a packet of valuable papers to entrust to you. Do not forget.”

 
          
“You
regard me with a strange look,
Ursula,
you speak in a
strange tone. What has happened?”

 
          
“They
tell me that Felix will live, with care and a journey to the South.”

 
          
“I
catch your meaning now. You will go with him.”

 
          
“No,
my journey will be made alone.”

 
          
She
looked beyond him as she spoke, w ith a rapt yet tranquil glance, and such a
sudden brightness shone upon her face that her cousin w atched her half bew
ildered for a moment; then caught at a hope that filled him with a troubled
joy, and w'hispered with beating heart and lowered voice:

 
          
“Shall
I not follow you, Ursula?”

 
          
Her
eye came back to him, clear and calm, vet very tender in its wistfulness, and
though her words sounded propitious his hope died suddenly.

 
          
“I
think you will follow' soon, and I shall wait for you in the safe refuge I am
seeking.”

 
          
They
stood silent for many minutes, thinking thoughts for which they had no w'ords,
then
as a pause fell after music, Ursula said:

 
          
“Now
I must sing again. Give me a draught of water, my throat is parched.”

 
          
Her
cousin served her, but before the water touched her lips the glass fell
shattered at her feet, for a wild, shrill cry rang through the house silencing
the gav sounds below, and rudely breaking the long hush that had reigned above.
For one breathless instant all stood like living images of wonder, fear and
fright, all w aited for what should follow that dread cry. An agitated servant
appeared upon the threshold seeking his mistress. She saw him, yet stood as if
incapable of motion, as he made his way to her through a crowd of pale,
expectant faces.

 
          
“What
is it?” she asked, with lips that could hardly syllable the words.

 
          
“My
master, madam — dead in his bed — old Marjory has just found him. I’ve sent for
Doctor Keen,” began the man, but Ursula only seemed to hear and understand one
word:

 
          
“Dead!”
she echoed — “so suddenly, so soon — it cannot be true. Evan, take me to him.”

 
          
She
stretched out her hands as if she had gone blind, and led by her cousin, left
the room, followed by several guests, in whom curiosity or sympathy was
stronger than etiquette or fear. Up they went, a strange procession, and
entering the dusky room, lighted only by a single shaded lamp, found Marjory
lamenting over her dead master in a paroxysm of the wildest grief. Evan passed
in before his cousin, bent hastilv and listened at the breathless lips, touched
the chill forehead, and bared the wrist to feel if any flutter lingered in the
pulse. But as he pushed back the loose sleeve of the wrapper, upon the wasted
arm appeared a strange device. Two slender serpents twined together like the
ring, and in the circle several Hindoo characters traced in the same deep red
lines. At that sight the arm dropped from his hold, and he fell back daunted by
a nameless fear which he could neither master nor divine.

 
          
As
Ursula appeared the old woman’s grief changed to an almost fierce excitement,
for rising she pointed from the dead husband to the living wife, crying shrilly:

 
          
“Come;
come and see your work, fair-faced devil that you are! Here he lies, safe in
the deadly sleep you gave him. Look at him and deny it if you dare!”

 
          
Ursula
did look, and through the horror that blanched her face many eyes saw the
shadow of remorse, the semblance of guilt. Stahl lay as she left him, his head
pillowed on his arm with the easy grace habitual to him, but the pallor of that
sleeping face was now changed to the awful grayness that living countenances
never wear. A bitter smile still lingered on the white lips, and those
mysterious eyes were wide open, full of a gloomy intelligence that appalled the
beholder with the scornful triumph which still lurked there unconquered even by
death. These defiant eyes appeared fixed on Ursula alone; she could not look
away, nor break the spell that held her own, and through the hurried scene that
followed she seemed to address her dead husband, not her living accuser.

 
          
“My work?
the
sleep I gave?
what
dare I not deny?” she said, below her breath, like one
bewildered.

 
          
“See
her feign innocence with guilt stamped on her face!” cried Marjory, in a
passion of indignant sorrow. “You killed
him, that
is
your work. You drugged that cup with the poison I saw you buy to-day — that is
the sleep you gave him — and you dare not deny that you hated him, wished him
dead, and said last night you’d not be troubled long, for you had borne
enough.”

 
          
“I
did not kill him! You saw me prepare his evening draught, and what
proof have
you that he did not pass away in sleep?” demanded
Ursula, more firmly, yet with an awestruck gaze still fixed upon her husband’s
face.

 
          
“This
is my proof!” and Marjory held up the efripty counterpart of the little vial
that lav on the table.

 
          
“That
here! I left it in my
— ”

 
          
A
hand at Ursula’s lips cut short the perilous admission, as Evan whispered:

 
          
“Hush!
for
God’s sake, own nothing yet.”

 
          
“Too
late for that,” screamed Marjory, more and more excited
bv
each word. “I found it in the ashes where she flung it in her haste, believing
it was destroyed. I saw it glitter w hen I went to mend the fire before I woke
my master. I knew it
bv
the freshness of the label,
and in a moment felt that my poor master w as past all waking of mine, and
found it so. I saw her buy it, I told him of it, but he loved her still and
tried to deceive me w ith the kind lie that he bade her do it. I showed him
that I knew the truth, and he only said, ‘I know' it, I forgive her, keep the
secret for my sake,’ and trusting her to the last, paid for his blind faith w ith
his life.”

 
          
“No,
no, I never murdered him! I found him sleeping like a child an hour ago, and in
that sleep he died,” said Ursula, wringing her hands like one well nigh
distraught.

 
          
“An hour ago!
hear
that and mark it
all of you,” cried Marjory.

 
 
         
“Two
hours ago she bade him good night before me, and he called her ‘Judas,’ as she
kissed him and went. Now she owns that she returned and found him safely
sleeping — God forgive me that I ever left him!
for
then she must have remixed the draught in which he drank his death. Oh, madam!
could
you have no pity, could you not remember how he loved
you?
see
your rose fast shut in his poor dead hand —
could you not leave him the one little month of life he had to live before you
were set free?”

 
          
“One
month!” said Ursula, with a startled look. “They told me he would live to be a
hale, old man. Why was I so deceived?”

 
          
“Because he would not mar your pleasure even for a single night.
He meant to tell you the sad truth gently, for he thought you had a woman’s
heart, and would mourn him a little though you could not love.”

 
          
Paler
Ursula could not become, but as mesh after mesh of the net in which she had
unconsciously helped to snare herself appeared, her husband’s purpose flashed
upon her, yet seemed too horrible for belief, till the discovery of that last
deceit was made; then like one crushed by an overwhelming blow, she covered up
her face and sunk down at Evan’s feet. He did not raise her up, and though a
gust of eager, agitated voices went whispering through the room, no one spoke
to
her,
no one offered comfort to the widow, counsel
to the woman, pity to the culprit. They listened only to old Marjory, who
poured forth her story w ith such genuine grief, such perfect sincerity, that
all felt its pathos and few doubted its entire truth. Evan alone believed in
Ursula’s denial, even while to himself he ow
ned
that
she had borne enough to make any means of liberation tempting. He saw more
clearly than the rest how' every act, look and word of hers condemned her; and
felt with a bitter pang that such an accusation, even if proved false, must
cast a shadow' on her name and darken all her life.

 
          
Suddenly,
when the stir w as at its height, Ursula rose, calm, cold and steady; yet few
who saw' her then ever forgot the desolate despair which made that beautiful
face a far more piteous sight than the dead one. Turning w ith all her wonted
dignity, she confronted the excited group, and w ithout a tear in her eye, a
falter in her voice, a trace of shame, guilt or fear in mien or manner, she
said clearly, solemnly,

 
          
“I
am guilty of murder in my heart, for I did w ish that man dead; but I did not
kill him. The words I spoke that night were the expression of a resolve made in
a moment of despair, a resolve to end my own life, w hen I could bear no more.
To-day I w as told that he would live; then my time seemed come, and believing
this to be my last night on earth, I bade nn husband farewell as we parted, and
in a few hours hoped to lav down the burden he had made heavier than I could
bear. That poison was purchased for
myself
, not him;
he discovered it, believed I meant his death, and w ith a black art, w hich
none can fathom but myself, so distorted my acts and w ords, before a witness,
that the deed committed by himself should doom me to ignominy and avenge his
wrong. I have no hope that any one will credit so wild a tale, and therein his
safety lies; but God knows I speak the truth, and I Ie w ill judge between us
at a more righteous bar than any I can stand at here.
Now do
with me as you will, I am done.”

 
          
Through
all the bitter scenes of public accusation, trial and condemnation Ursula
preserved the same mournful composure, as if having relinquished
both hope
and fear, no emotion remained to disturb the
spirit of entire self-abnegation w hich had taken possession of her. All her
cousins entreaties, commands and prayers failed to draw from her the key to the
mystery of her strange marriage; even w hen, after many merciful delays,
sentence w as at length pronounced upon her, and captivity tor life was known
to be her doom, she still refused to confess, saying:

 
          
“This
fate is worse than death; but till I lie on my deathbed I will prove faithful
to the promise made that man, traitorous as he was to me. I have done with the
world, so leave me to such peace as I can know, and go your way, dear Kvan, to
forget that such a mournful creature lives.”

 
          
But
when all others fell away, when so-called triends proved timid, when enemies
grew insolent and the w hole world seemed to cast her off, one man was true to
her, one man still loved, believed and honored her, still labored to save her
when all others ga\e her up as lost, still stood between her and the curious,
sharp-tongued, heavy-handed world, earning a great compassion for himself, and,
in time, a juster, gentler sentiment in favor of the woman whose sin and shame
he had so nobly helped to bear.

 
          
Weeks
and months went heavily by, the city wearied itself with excited conjectures,
conflicting rumors, varying opinions, and slowly came to look with more lenient
eyes upon the beautiful culprit,
whose
tragic fate,
with its unexplained mystery, began to plead for her more eloquently than the
most gifted advocate. Few doubted her guilt, and, as she feared, few believed
the accusations she brought against her dead husband; but the plea of temporary
insanity had been made by her counsel, and though she strenuously denied its
truth, there were daily growing hopes of pardon for an offense which, thanks to
Evan’s tireless appeals, now wore a far less heinous aspect than at first.