Julia guessed something of the truth instantly, and nothing but the powerful necessity of continuing to play her part enabled her to conceal the bitter anger which the contrast between Joseph's greeting to her and to Lucy aroused in her heart. She stood for a moment as if paralyzed, but in reality to collect herself; then, approaching her husband, she stammered forth: "O, Joseph—I'm afraid—I don't dare to ask you what—what news you bring. You didn't write—I've been so uneasy—and now I see from your face—that something is wrong."
He did not answer.
"Don't tell me all at once, if it's very bad!" she then cried: "but, no! it's my duty to hear it, my duty to bear it,—Lucy has taught me that,—tell me all, tell me all, this moment!"
"You and your father have ruined me: that is all."
"Joseph!" The word sounded like the essence of tender protest, of heartbreaking reproach. Lucy rose quietly and moved towards the door.
"Don't leave me, Lucy!" was Julia's appeal.
"It is better that I should go," Lucy answered, in a faint voice, and left the room.
"But, Joseph," Julia resumed, with a wild, distracted air, "why do you say such terrible things? I really do not know what you mean. What have you learned? what have you seen?"
"I have seen the Amaranth!"
"Well! Is there no oil?"