Alcott, Louisa May - SSC 20 (17 page)

 
          
Discovery
of the Poison

 
          
From
any other human being the treachery would not have been so base, but from her
it was doubly bitter, for she knew and owned her knowledge of his exceeding
love. “Am I not dying fast enough for her impatience? Could she not w ait a
little, and let me go happy in my ignorance?” he cried within himself,
forgetting in the anguish of that moment the falsehood told her at his bidding,
for the furtherance of another purpose as sinful but less secret than her own.
How time passed he no longer knew' nor cared, as leaning his head upon his
hands, he took counsel with his own unquiet heart, for all the evil passions,
the savage impulses of his nature were aroused, and raged rcbclliously in utter
defiance of the feeble prison that confined them. Like all strong yet selfish
souls, the wrongs he had committed looked to him very light compared w ith
this, and seeing only his own devotion, faith and patience, no vengeance seemed
too heavy for a crime that would defraud him of his poor remnant of unhappy
life. Suddenly he lifted up his head, and on his face was stamped a ruthless,
reckless purpose, which no earthly
pow
er could change
or stay. An awesome smile touched his white lips, and the ominous fierceness
glittered in his eye — for he was listening to a devil that sat whispering in
his heart.

 
          
“I
shall have my hour of excitement sooner than I thought,” he said low' to
himself, as he left the room, carrying the vial w ith him. “My last prediction
will be verified, although the victim and the culprit are one, and Evan shall
live to wish that Ursula had died before me.”

 
          
An hour later Ursula came to him as he sat gloomily before his
chamber fire, while Marjory stood tempting him to taste the cordial she had
brought.
As if some impassable and unseen abyss already yaw
ned
between them, she gave him neither wifely caress nor
evening greeting, but pausing opposite, said, with an inclination of her
handsome head, which would have seemed a haughty courtesy but for the gentle
coldness of.her tone:

 
          
“I
have obeyed the request you sent me, and made ready to receive the friends
whose coming would else have been delayed. Is it your pleasure that I excuse
you to them, or will you join us as you have often done when other invalids
would fear to leave their beds?”

 
          
Her
husband looked at her as she spoke, wondering what woman’s whim had led her to
assume a dress rich in itself, but lustreless and sombre as a mourning garb;
its silken darkness relieved only by the gleam of fair arms through folds of
costly lace, and a knot of roses, scarcely whiter than the bosom they adorned.

 
          
“Thanks
for your compliance, Ursula. I will come down later in the evening for a moment
to receive congratulations on the restoration promised me. Shall I receive
yours then?”

 
          
“No,
now, for now I can wish you a long and happy life, can rejoice that time is given
you to learn a truer faith, and ask you to forgive me if in thought, or word,
or deed I have wronged or wounded you.”

 
          
Strangely
sweet and solemn was her voice, and for the first time in many months her old
smile shed its serenest sunshine on her face, touching it with a meeker beauty
than that which it had lost. Her husband shot one glance at her as the last
words left her lips, then veiled the eyes that blazed with sudden scorn and
detestation. His voice was always under his control, and tranquilly it answered
her, while his heart cried out within him:

 
          
“I
forgive as I would be forgiven, and trust that the coming years will be to you
all that I desire to have them. Go to your pleasures, Ursula, and let me hear
you singing, whether I am there or here.” “Can I do nothing else for you,
Felix, before I go?” she asked, pausing, as she turned away, as if some
involuntary impulse ruled her.

           
Stahl smiled a strange smile as he
said,
pointing to the goblet and the minute bottle Marjory
had just placed on the table at his side: “You shall sweeten a bitter draught
for me by mixing it, and I will drink to you when I take it by-and-by.”

           
His eye was on her now, keen, cold
and steadfast, as she drew near to serve him. He saw the troubled look she
fixed upon the cup, he saw her hand tremble as she poured the one sale drop,
and heard a double meaning in her words:

 
          
“This
is the first, I hope it may he the last time that I shall need to pour this
dangerous draught for you.”

 
          
She
laid down the nearly emptied vial, replaced the cup and turned to go. But, as
if bent on trying her to the utmost, though each test tortured him, Stahl
arrested her by saving, with an unwonted tremor in his voice, a rebellious
tenderness in his eves:

 
          
“Stay,
Ursula, I may fall asleep and so not see you until — morning. Bid me
good-night, my wife.”

 
          
She
went to him, as if drawn against her will, and for a moment they stood face to
face, looking their last on one another in this life. Then Stahl snatched her
to him with an embrace almost savage in its passionate fervor, and Ursula
kissed him once with the cold lips, that said, without a smile, “Good-night, my
husband,
sleep
in peace!”

 
          
“Judas!”
he muttered, as she vanished, leaving him spent with the controlled emotions of
that brief interview. Old Marjory heard the word, and from that involuntary
betrayal seemed to gather courage for a secret which had burned upon her tongue
for two mortal hours. As Stahl sunk again into his cushioned seat, and seemed
about to relapse into his moody reverie, she leaned towards him, saving in a
whisper:

 
          
“May
1
tell you something, sir?”

 
          
“Concerning
w hat or w hom, my old gossip?” he answ ered, listlessly, yet with even more
than usual kindliness, for now' this humble, faithful creature seemed his only
friend.

 
          
“My
mistress, sir,” she said, nodding significantly.

 
          
His
face woke then, he sat erect, and w ith an eager gesture bade her speak.

 
          
“I’ve
long mistrusted her; for ever since her cousin came she has not been the woman
or the w
ife
she was at first. It’s not tor me to meddle, but it’s clear to see that
if you were gone there’d be a wedding soon.”

 
          
Stahl
frowned, eyed her keenlv, seemed to catch some helpful hint from her indignant
countenance, and answered, with a pensive smile:

 
          
“I
know it, I forgive it; and am sure that, for my sake, you will be less frank to
others.Ts
this what
you wished to tell me, Marjory?”

 
          
“Bless
your unsuspecting heart, I wish it was, sir. I heard her words last night, I
watched her all to-dav, and when she went out at dusk I followed her, and saw
her buy it.”

 
          
Stahl
started, as if about to give vent to some sudden passion, but repressed it, and
w ith a look of well-feigned wonder, asked:

 
          
“Buy
what?”

 
          
Marjory
pointed silently to the
table,
upon w hich lay three
objects, the cup, the little vial and a rose that had fallen from Ursula’s
bosom as she bent to render her husband the small service he had asked of her.
There w
^r
as no time to feign horror, grief or doubt, for a paroxysm
of real pain seized him in its gripe, and served him better than any
counterfeit of mental suffering could have done. 1 Ie conquered it by the
pow
er of an inflexible spirit that would not yield yet, and
laying his thin hand on Marjory’s arm, he w hispered, hastily:

 
          
“Hush!
Never hint that again, I charge you. I bade her get it, my store was nearly
gone, and I feared I should need it in the night.”

 
          
The
old woman read his answer as he meant she should, and laid her withered cheek
down on his hand, saying, with the tearless grief of age:

 
          
“Always so loving, generous and faithful!
You may forgive
her, but I never can.”

 
          
Neither
spoke for several minutes, then Stahl said:

 
          
“I
will lie dow n and try to rest a little before I go
— ”

 
          
The
sentence remained unfinished, as, w ith a weary yet wistful
air,
he glanced about the shadowy room, asking, dumbly, “Where?” Then he shook off
the sudden influence of some deeper sentiment than fear that for an instant
thrilled and startled him.

 
          
“Leave
me, Marjory, set the door ajar, and let me be alone until I ring.

 
          
She
went, and for an hour he lay listening to the steps of gathering guests, the
sound of music, the soft murmur of conversation, and the pleasant stir of life
that filled the house with its social charm, making his solitude doubly deep,
his mood doubly bitter.

 
          
Once
Ursula stole in, and finding him apparently asleep, paused for a moment
studying the wan face, with its stirless lids, its damp forehead and its pale
lips, scarcely parted by the fitful breath, then, like a sombre shadow, flitted
from the room again, unconscious that the closed eyes flashed wide to watch her
go.

 
          
Presently
there came a sudden hush, and borne on the wings of an entrancing air Ursula’s
voice came floating up to him, like the sweet, soft whisper of some better
angel, imploring him to make a sad life noble by one just and generous action
at its close. No look, no tone, no deed of patience, tenderness or
self-sacrifice of hers but rose before him now, and pleaded for her with the
magic of that unconscious lay. No ardent hope, no fair ambition, no high
purpose of his youth, but came again to show the utter failure of his manhood,
and in the hour darkened by a last temptation his benighted soul groped blindly
for a firmer faith than that which superstition had defrauded of its virtue.
Like many another man, for one short hour Felix Stahl wavered between good and
evil, and like so many a man in whom passion outweighs principle, evil won. As
the magical music ceased, a man’s voice took up the strain, a voice mellow,
strong and clear, singing as if the exultant song were but the outpouring of a
hopeful, happy heart. Like some wild creature wounded suddenly, Stahl leaped
from his couch and stood listening with an aspect which would have appalled the
fair musician and struck the singer dumb.