“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 wras 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.
“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.”
PART III
“ 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 daun
ted 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 gae 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.
All the long summer days Ursula sat alone
in her guarded room, tranquilly enjoying the sunshine that flickered through the leaves with which Evan had tried to mask the bars that shut out liberty but not heaven’s light. All the balmy summer nights she lay on her narrow bed, haunted by dreams that made sleep a penance and not a pleasure, or watched, with wakeful eyes, the black shadow of a cross the moon cast upon her breast as it peered through the barred window like a ghostly face. To no one did she reveal the thoughts that burdened her, whitening her hair, furrowing her face and leaving on her forehead the impress of a great grief which no human joy could ever efface.
One autumn day Evan came hastening in full of a glad excitement, which for the moment seemed to give him back the cheery youthfulness he was fast losing. He found his cousin lying on the couch he had provided for her, for even the prison officers respected that faithful love, and granted every favor in their power. She, too, seemed to be blessed with a happy mood, for the gloom had left her eyes, a peaceful smile sat on her lips, and when she spoke her voice was musical, with an undertone of deep emotion.
“Bless your tranquil face, Ursula! One would think you guessed my tidings without telling. Yes, it is almost certain that the pardon will be granted, in answer to my prayers. One more touch will win the men who hold your fate in their hands, and that touch you can give by clearing up the mystery of Stahl’s strange power over you. For your own sake and for mine do not deny me now.”
“I will not.”
The joy, surprise and satisfaction of the moment caused Evan to forget the sad condition upon which this confidence could be accorded. He thought only of all they had suffered, all they might yet enjoy if the pardon could be gained, and holding that thin hand fast in both his own, he listened, with absorbing interest, to the beloved voice that unfolded to him the romance within a romance, which had made a tragedy of three lives.
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