The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 10, No. 62, December, 1862

"He laughed, a low, rippling laugh, like the breaking up of ever so many songs all at once; and the notes had not floated down to rest, when mother and Abraham came in. Mr. McKey arose to greet my mother. She stood proudly erect, her regal head unbending, her eyes straight on, into an endless future, in which he must have no part,—that I saw. Whatever he discerned there, he, too, stood before her and my brother. Abraham handed me a letter, saying, 'Read that, for your proof.'

"And I read. The letter bore the signature of Bernard McKey. The date was the night of Alice's death. The words descriptive of the scene chiselled into my brain were on that fair paper-surface; and there were others, words which only one man may write to one woman. I read it on to the end.

"'You are right, Abraham,' I said, 'and I thank you for my proof'; and without one word for the pale, handsome face that stood beseechingly between me and the great future, through which I gazed, I went forth alone into the starry night. Anywhere, to be alone with God, leaving that trio of souls in there; and as I fled past the windows, I heard my mother speak terrible words to one that was, yes, even then, myself. Some angel must have come down the starry way to guide me; for, without seeking it, without consciousness of whither I fled, I found myself near the old church, where, from the day of my solemn baptism within its walls, I had gone up to the weekly worship. I crept up close to the door. In the shadow there no one would see me; and so, upon the hard stones, I writhed through the anguish of the fire and iceberg that made war in my heart.

"Then came unto me the old inheritance, the gift of towering pride; and I said unto myself, 'No one shall think I sorrow; no one shall know that an Axtell has sipped from a poisoned cup; no one shall see a leaf of myrtle in my garden of life'; and from off the friendly granite steps that had received me in my hour of bitterness, I went back to my home.

"What, could have happened there, that I had not been missed? Father was absent from Redleaf. Bernard McKey was coming down the walk. I hid in the shrubbery, and let him pass. Oh, would that I had spoken to him, then, there! It would have saved so much misery on the round globe!

"But I did not. I stood breathless until he entered Doctor Percival's house; then I waited a moment to determine my own course; I wanted to gain my room undiscovered. I saw the same figure come out; I knew it by the light that the open door threw around it; and a moment later, in the still air,—I knew the sound, it was the unlocking of the little white office. Then I stole in, and fled to my refuge. No one had discovered my absence.

"The night went by. I did not sleep. I did not weep,—oh, no! it was not a case for tears; there are some sorrows that cannot be counted out in drops; a flood comes, a great freshet rises in the soul, and whirls spirit, mind, and body on, on, until the Mighty Hand comes down and lifts the poor wreck out of the flood, and dries it in the sun of His absorption.

"It was morning at last. Slowly up the ascent, to heights of glory, walked the stars, waving toward earth, as they went, their wafting of golden light, and sending messages of love to the dark, round world, over which they had kept such solemn watch,—sending them down, borne by rays of early morning; and still I sat beside the window, where all through the night I had suffered. My mother and Abraham had sought to see me, but I had answered, with calm words, that I chose to be alone; and they had left me there, and gone to their nightly rest."

Miss Axtell hid her face a little while; then, lifting it up, she went to the window so often mentioned, beckoned me thither, pointed to the house where my life had commenced, to a door opening out on the eastern side, and said,—

"I wish you to look at that door one moment; out of it came my doom that midsummer's morning. Light had just gained ascendency over darkness, when I saw Chloe come out. I knew instantly that something had happened there. The poor creature crept out of the house,—I saw her go,—and kneeling down behind that great maple-tree, she lifted up her arms to heaven, and I heard, or thought I heard her, moaning. Then, whilst I watched, she got up, looked over at our house, from window to window; once more she raised her hands, as if invoking some power for help, and went in.

"I brushed back the hair that my fingers had idly threaded in unrest, looked one moment, in the dim twilight of morning, to see what changes my war-fare had wrought, then, cautiously, breathlessly, for fear of awakening some one, I went out. The night-dew lay heavy on the lawn. I heeded it not. I knew that trouble had come to Doctor Percival's house. I went to the door that Chloe had opened. No one seemed awake; deep stillness brooded over and in the dwelling. Could I have been mistaken? Whilst I stood in doubt whether to go or stay, there came a long, sobbing moan, that peopled the dwelling with woe.

"It came from Mary's room. Thither I went. There stood Doctor and Mrs. Percival beside Mary, and she—was dead.

"I shudder now, as I did then, though eighteen years have rolled their wheels of misery between,—shudder, as I look in memory into that room again, and see your father standing in the awful grief that has no voice, see your mother lifting up her words of moaning, up where I so late had watched the feet of stars walking into heaven. I don't know how long it was, I had lost the noting of time, but I remember growing into rigidness. I remember Bernard McKey's wild, wretched face in the room; I remember hearing him ask if it was all over. I remember Abraham's coming in; I felt, when through his life the east-wind went, withering it up within him. I do not know how I went home. I asked no questions. Mary was dead; she had gone whither Alice went. It seemed little consolation to me to ask when or how she died.

"Father came home that day. Mother forgot me for Abraham: love of him was her life. Father did not know, no one had told him, the events of the night before; he thought me sorrowing for Mary, and so I was; my grief seemed weak and small before this reality of sorrow.

"It was late in the day, and I was trying to get some sleep, when Chloe sent a request to see me. I had not seen her since I knew why she had hid her suffering behind the tree in the morning. I saw that she had something to say beside telling me of Mary; for she looked cautiously around the room, as if fearing other ears might be there to hear.

"'Oh! oh! Miss Lettie,' she said, 'I stayed with Miss Mary last night. I must have gone to sleep when she went away; but I'm afraid, I'm afraid it wasn't the sickness that killed her.'

"'What then? what was it, Chloe?' I asked, whilst the tears fell fast from her eyes.

"'Doctor Percival gave her some medicine just afore he went to bed, and she said she was "very sick"; she said so a good many times, Miss Lettie, afore I went to sleep.'

"'You don't think it was the medicine that killed her?'—for a horrible thought had come in to me.

"'I hope not, but I'm afraid'; and with a still lower, whispering tone, and another frightened look about the room, Chloe took from under her shawl a small cup. She held it up close to me, and her voice penetrated with its meaning all the folds of my thought,—'Chloe's afraid Miss Mary drank her death in here.'

"'Give it to me,' I said; and I snatched at the cup. Catching it from her, I looked into it. The draught had been taken; the sediment only lay dried upon it.

"'You think so, Chloe? How could it have been? You say Doctor Percival gave it to her?'

"She said that 'Mr. Abraham had been in to see her a little while,—only a few moments. Something was the matter with him. Miss Mary talked, just a few words; what they were she did not hear,—she was in the next room,—only, when he went away, she heard her say, "Don't do it; you may be wrong, and then you'll be sorry as long as you live"; and then Mr. Abraham shut the door heavy-like and was gone. Afterwards Doctor Percival came up,—said Miss Mary must sleep, she had more fever; asked her so many kind questions, and was just going down to go to the office for something to give her, when he met Master McKey coming in. I heard my master ask him to go for it. And I doesn't know anything more, Miss Lettie. I came to tell you.'

"I asked her 'if she had told any one else? if any one had seen the cup?'

"She said, 'No'; and I made her promise me that she would never mention it, never speak of it to any living soul.

"She promised, and she has kept her promise faithfully to this day."

I thought, at this pause in the story, of Chloe's hiding chloroform from me.

"I had myself seen Bernard McKey go out to the office that night. Had he given poison to Mary Percival? And with the question the hot answer came, 'Never!—he did not do it!'

"Chloe went, leaving the cup with me.

"I knew that I must see Bernard. How? The household were absorbed in Abraham. His condition perilled his reason. Doctor Percival came over every hour to see him, and I was sure that his hair whitened from time to time. It was terrible to hear Abraham declaring that he had killed Mary,—that he might have granted her request. And as often as his eyes fell upon me, his words changed to, 'It was for you that I did it,—for my sister!' And whilst all sorrowed and watched him, I sought my opportunity. 'It would never come to me,' I thought, 'I must go to it'; and under cover of looking upon the face of Mary, I went out to seek Bernard.

"We met before I reached the house; we should have passed in silence, had I not spoken. It was the same hour as that in which we had come from the sands the night before. What a horrible lifetime had intervened! I said that 'I had some words for him.' He stood still in the air that throbbed in waves over me. He was speechlessly calm just then.

"'I expected no words after my judgment,' at length he said,—for I knew not how to open my terrible theme; 'will you tell me on what evidence you judge?'

"What a trifle then seemed any merely human love in the presence of Death! I was almost angry that he should once think of it.

"'It is something of more importance than the human affection with which you play,' I said. 'It is a life, the life of Mary Percival, that last night went out,—and how? Was it by this cup?'—and I handed the cup to him.

"He looked simple amazement, as he would have done, had it been a rock or flower; he did not offer to take it,—still I held it out.

"'Will you examine the contents,' I asked, 'and report to me the result?'

"'Certainly I will, Miss Axtell,' he said; and with it he walked to the office.

"I watched him through the window. I saw him coolly apply various tests.

The third one seemed satisfactory.

"He came to the door. I was very near, and went in

"'This is nothing Miss Mary had,—it is poison,' he said.

"He was innocent; I knew it in the very depth of my soul. How could I tell him the deed his hand had done? But I must, and I did. I told him how Chloe had brought the cup to me. When I had done, he said,—

"'You believe this of me?'

"I answered,—

"'The cup is now in your hand; judge you of its work'; and I told him how I had seen him come out the night before,—that I was in the shrubbery when he went to the office.

"The words of his answer came; they were iron in my heart, though spoken not to me.

"'O my God, why hast Thou let me do this?' he cried, and went past me out of the little white office,—out, as I had done, into the open air, in my sorrow, the night before.

"I would not lose sight of him; I followed on; and, as I went, I thought I heard a rustling in the leaves. A momentary horror swept past me, lest some one had been watching,—listening, perhaps,—but I did not pause. I must know how, where, Bernard would hide his misery. It was not quite dark; I could not run through the night, as I had done before; I must follow on at a respectable pace, stop to greet the village-people who were come out in the cool of the evening, and all the while keep in view that figure, hastening, for what I knew not, but on to the sands, whilst those whom I met stayed me to ask how Mary Percival died. I passed the last of the village-houses. There was nothing before me now but Nature and this unhappy soul. I lost sight of him; I came to the sands; I saw only long, low flats stretching far out,—beyond them the line of foam. The moon was not yet gone; but its crescent momently lessened its light. I went up and down the shore two or three times, going on a little farther each time, meeting nothing,—nothing but the fear that stood on the sands before me, whichever way I turned. It bent down from the sky to tell me of its presence; it came surging up behind me; and one awful word was on its face and in its voice. I remember shutting my eyes to keep it out; I remember putting my fingers into my ears to still its voice. I was so helpless, so alone to do, so threadless of action, that—I prayed.

"People pray in this world from so many causes,—it matters not what or how; the hour for prayer comes into every life at some time of its earthly course, whether softly falling and refreshing as the early rain, or by the north-wind's icy path. Mine came then, on the sands; my spirit went out of my mortality unto God for help,—solely because that which I wanted was not in me, not in all the earth.

"I stooped down to see if the figure I sought was outlined on the rim of sky that brightened at the sea's edge: it was not there, not seaward. I tried to call: the air refused the weight of my voice; it went no farther than the lips, out of which it quivered and fell: I could not call. I took the dark tide-mark for my guide, and began searching landward. I went a little way, then stopped to look and listen: no sight, no sound. The long sedge-grass gave rustling sighs of motion, as I passed near, and disturbed the air for a moment. A night-bird uttered its cry out of the tall reeds. The moon went down. The tide began to come in; with it came up the wind. The memory of Alice, of Mary, walked with and did not leave me, until I gained the little cove wherein Mary's boat lay secure. The tide had not reached it. Mary's boat! I remember thinking—a mere drop of thought it was, as I hurried on, but it held all the animalcules of emotion that round out a lifetime—that Mary never more would come to unloose the bound boat, never more in it go forth to meet the joys that wander in from unknown shores. I saw the boat lying dark along the water's edge. 'I would run down a moment,' I thought, 'run down to speak a word of comfort, as if it were a living thing.'