“He shall not have her, if I sell my soul to thwart him!”
To Ursula’s intense surprise and Evan’s annoyance Stahl followed them into the carriage, with a brief apology for his seeming caprice. No one spoke during the short drive, but as they came into the brilliant rooms Ursula’s surprise deepened to alarm, for in the utter change of mien and manner which had befallen her husband she divined the presence of some newborn purpose, and trembled for the issue. Usually he played the distasteful part of invalid with a grace and skill which made the undisguisable fact a passport to the sympathy and admiration of both men and women. But that night no vigorous young man bore himself more debonnairly, danced more indefatigably, or devoted himself more charminglv to the service of matron, maid and grateful hostess. Lost in amazement, Ursula and Evan watched him, gliding to and fro, vivacious, blithe and bland, leaving a trail of witty, wise or honied words behind him, and causing many glances of approval to follow that singular countenance, for now its accustomed pallor was replaced by a color no art could counterfeit, and the mysterious eyes burned with a fire that fixed and fascinated other eyes.
“What does it mean, Evan?” whispered Ursula, standing apart with her faithful shadow.
“Mischief, if I read it rightly,” was the anxious answer, and at that moment, just before them, the object of their thoughts was accosted by a jovial gentleman, who exclaimed:
“God bless me, Stahl! Rumor said you were dying, like a liar as she is, and here I find vou looking more like a bridegroom than when I left you at the altar six months ago.”
“For once rumor tells the truth, Coventry. I am dying, but one may make their exit gracefully and end their tragedy or comedy with a grateful bow! I have had a generous share of pleasure; I thank the world for it; I make my adieu to-night, and tranquilly go home to rest.”
Spoken with an untroubled smile the words were both touching and impressive, and the friendly Coventry was obliged to clear his voice before he could answer with an assumption of cheery unbelief:
“Not yet, my dear fellow, not yet; we cannot spare you this forty years, and with such a wife what right have you to talk of ending the happy drama which all predict your life will be?” then glad to change the subject, he added: “Apropos of predictions, do take pity on my curiosity and tell me if it is true that you entertained a party with some very remarkable prophecies, or something of that sort, just before vour marriage with Miss Forrest. I lav onee spoke mysteriously of it, but he went to the bad so soon after that I never made him satisfy me.”
“I did comply with a ladv’s wish, but entertainment was not the result. I told Hay, what all the world knew, the next day, that certain dishonorable transactions of his were discovered, and warrants out for his arrest, and they hurried home to find my warning true.”
“Yes, no one dreamed of such an end for the gay captain. I don’t ask how vour discovery was made, but I do venture to inquire if Miss Heath’s tragical death was foretold that night?”
“That which indirectly caused her death was made know n to her that night, but for her sake you will pardon me that I keep the secret.”
“A thousand pardons for asking, and yet I am tempted to put one more question. You look propitious, so pray tell me if your other predictions were fulfilled with equal success?”
“Yes; sooner or later they alw ays are.”
“Upon my life, that’s very singular! Just for the amusement of the thing make one now, and let me see if your skill remains undiminished. Nothing personal, you know’, but some general prediction that any one may know and verify.”
Stahl paused a moment, bending his eves on Ursula, w ho stood unseen by his companion, then answ ered slow ly with a memorable tone and aspect:
“I prophesy that before the month is out the city will be startled by a murder, and the culprit will elude justice by death.”
Coventry’s florid countenance paled visibly, and hastily returning thanks for the undesirable favor so complacently granted, he took himself away to whisper the evil portent in the ears of all he met. As he disappeared Stahl advanced to his wife, asking with an air of soft solicitude:
“Are vou wearv, love? or will you dance? Your cousin is negligent to-night.”
“Oh, no, I have not wished to dance. Let us go now, and Evan, come to me to-morrow evening, when you will find a few friends and much music,” she answered, with an unquiet glance at her husband, a significant one at her cousin, who obeyed it by leaving them with a silent bow.
The homeward drive was as quiet as the other had been, and when they alighted Stahl followed his wife into the drawing-room; there, dropping wearily into a seat, he removed the handkerchief which had been pressed to his lips, and she saw that it was steeped in blood.
“Pardon me — it was unavoidable. Please ring for Marjory,” he said, feebly.
Ursula neither spoke nor stirred, but stood regarding him with an expression which alarmed him, it was so full of a strange, stern triumph. It gave him strength to touch the bell, and when the faithful old woman who had nursed him from his babyhood came hurrying in, to say quietly:
“Take that ugly thing away, and bring my drops; also your mistress’s vinaigrette, she needs it.”
“Not she, the icicle,” muttered Marjory, who adored her master, and heartily disliked her mistress because she did not do likewise.
When the momentary faintness had cleared away Stahl’s quick eye at once took in the scene before him. Marjory was carefully preparing the draught, and Ursula stood watching her with curious intentness.
“What is that?” she asked, as the old woman put down the tiny vial, containing a colorless and scentless liquid.
“Poison, madam, one drop of which will restore life, while a dozen will bring a sure and sudden death.”
Ursula took up the little vial, read the label containing both the medicine and its maker’s name, and laid it back again with a slight motion of head and lips, as if she gave a mute assent to some secret suggestion. Marjory’s lamentations as she moved about him drew the wife’s eyes to her husband, and meeting his she asked coldly:
“Can I help you?”
“Thanks, Marjory will tend me. Good-night, you'll not be troubled with me long.”
“No, I shall not; I have borne enough.”
She spoke low to herself, but both listeners heard her, and the old woman sternly answered:
“May the Lord forgive you for that speech, madam.”
“He will, for He sees the innocent and the guilty, and 1 Ie knows mv sore temptation.”
Then without another look or word she left them with the aspect of one walking in an evil dream.
All night Marjory hovered about her master, and early in the morning his physician came. A few words assured Stahl that his hour was drawing very near, and that whatever work remained to be done must be accomplished speedily. He listened calmly to the truth which he had forced from the reluctant doctor, and when he paused made no lament, but said, with more than his accustomed gentleness:
“You will oblige me by concealing this fact from my wife. It is best to let it break upon her by merciful degrees.”
“I understand, sir, I will be dumb; but I must caution you not to exert or agitate yourself in the least, for any undue exertion or excitement would be fatal in your weak state.”
The worthy doctor spoke earnestly, but to his infinite amazement and alarm his patient rose suddenly from the couch on w hich he lav half dressed, and standing erect before him, said forcibly, while his hollow cheeks burned crimson, and his commanding eye almost enforced belief in his assertion:
“You are mistaken; I am not w eak, for 1 have done with fear as well as hope, and if I choose to barter my month ot life for one hour, one moment of exertion or excitement, I have the right to do it.”
He paused, took breath and added:
“My wife intended to receive her friends tonight; she must not be disappointed, therefore you will not only tell her I am in no danger, but add th
at an unexpected crisis in my malady has come, and that with care and a season at the South I shall yet be a hale and hearty man. Grant me this favor, I shall not torget it.”
The doctor was both a poor and a timid man; his generous but eccentric patient w as a fortune to him; the falsehood seemed a kind one; the hint of a rich remembrance was irresistible, and bowing his acquiescence, he departed to obey directions to the letter.
All that day Ursula sat in her room w riting steadily, and all that day her husband watched and waited for her coming, but sent no invitation and received no message. At dusk she went out alone. Her departure was unheard and unseen by any but the invalid, whose every sense was alert; his quick ear caught the soft rustle of her dress as she passed his door, and dragging himself to the window he saw her glide away, wrapped in a shrouding cloak. At that sight Stahl’s hand was lifted to the bell, but he dropped it, saying to himself:
“No, if she did not mean to return she would have taken care to tell me she was coming back; women always betray themselves by too much art. I have it! she has been writing, Marjory says; the letter is to Evan; she fears he may not come to-night, and trusts no one but herself to post it. I must assure myself of this.”
Nerved with new strength, he went down into the dainty room so happily prepared and dedicated to Ursula’s sole use. It was empty, but the charm of her presence lingered there, and every graceful object spoke of her. Lights burned upon the writing-table; the ink was still wet in the pen, and scattered papers confirmed the report of her day’s employment; but no written word was visible, no note or packet anywhere appeared. A brief survey satisfied her husband, and assured him of the truth of his suspicion.
“Oh, for an hour of my old strength to end this entanglement like a man, instead of being forced to wait for time and chance to aid me like a timorous woman,” he sighed, looking out into the wild March night, tormented by an impotent desire to follow his truant wife, yet conscious that it was impossible unless he left a greater work undone, for hourly he felt his pow er decline, and one dark purpose made him tenacious of the life fast slipping from his hold.
For many moments he stood thinking deeply, so deeply that the approach of a light, rapid step roused him too late for escape. It was his wife’s step; why was she returning so soon? had her heart failed her? had some unforeseen occurrence thwarted her? She had not been absent long enough to post a letter to reach Evan’s lodgings, or the house of any friend, then w'here had she been? An uncontrollable impulse caused Stahl to step noiselessly into the shadow of a curtained recess as these thoughts flashed through his mind, and hardly had he done so when Ursula hurried in wet, wild-eyed and breathless, but wearing a look of pale determination which gave place to an expression of keen anxiety as she glanced about the room as if in search of something. Presently she murmured half aloud, “He shall never say again that I do not trust his honor. Lie there in safety till I need you, little friend,” and lifting the cover of a carved ivory casket that ornamented the low chim- nevpiece, she gave some treasure to its keeping, saying, as she turned away with an air of feverish excitement, “Now for Evan and — my liberty!”
Nothing stirred in the room but the flicker of the fire and the softly moving pendulum of the clock that pointed to the hour of seven, till the door of Ursula’s distant dressing-room closed behind her and a bell had summoned her maid. Then, from the recess, Stahl went straight to the ivory ornament and laid his hand upon its lid, yet paused long before he lifted it. The simple fact of her entire trust in him at anv other time would have been the earnest safeguard of her secret; even now it restrained him by appealing to that inconsistent code of honor which governs many a man w ho would shoot his dearest friend for a hot word, and yet shrink with punctilious pride from breaking the seal of any letter that did not bear his name. Stahl hesitated till her last words stung his memory, making his own perfidv seem slight compared to hers. “I have a right to know,” he said, “for when she forgets her honor I must preserve mine at anv cost.” A rapid gesture uncovered the casket, and showed him nothing but a small, sealed bottle, lying alone upon the velvet lining. A harmless little thing it looked, yet Stahl’s face whitened terribly, and he staggered to a seat, as if the glance he gave had shown him his own death-w arrant. He believed it had, for in size, shape, label and colorless contents the little vial was the counterpart of another last seen in Ursula’s hand, one difference only in the two — that had been nearly empty, this was lull to the up.
In an instant her look, tone, gesture of the preceding night returned to him, and w ith the vivid recollection came the firm conviction that Ursula had yielded to a black temptation, and in her husband’s name had purchased her husband’s death. 1 ill now no feeling but the intensest love had tilled his heart towards her; Evan he had learned to hate, himself to despise, but of his wife he had made an idol and worshipped her with a blind passion that would not see defects, own disloyalty or suspect deceit.
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 las
t 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:
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