265
Dr. Grey escorted the party to their carriages, and as he handed Mrs. Spiewell in, she said, in her sharp nasal tones,—
“I heard that Mrs. Gerome was devotedly attached to the poor old creature who had nursed her, but she certainly seems to me very indifferent and heartless.”
“She is more deeply afflicted by her loss than you can possibly realize, and I am exceedingly apprehensive that she will be ill in consequence of her inability to sleep or eat. My dear madam, we must not judge too hastily from appearances, else we shall deserve similar treatment. Who are those two ladies veiled so closely?”
“Friends, I presume, or they would not be here.”
But the little woman seemed uneasy, and flushed under the doctor’s searching gaze.
“I hope dear Miss Jane is as well as one can ever expect her to be in this life. Come, Charles; you forget, my dear, that we have a visit to make before tea-time. I notice, doctor, that you have a new carpet on the floor of your pew, and a new cushion-cover to match; and, indeed, you are so fine that the remainder of the church seems quite faded and shabby. Good evening, doctor; my love to all at home.”
The clergyman’s gray pony trotted off with his master and mistress, and Dr. Grey returned to Salome, who waited for him at the steps of the terrace.
“What do you suppose brought Mrs. Channing and Adelaide to the poor old woman’s funeral?” asked the orphan.
“How did you discover them?”
“I found this handkerchief, whose initials I embroidered two months ago, and recognize as belonging to Mrs. Channing. As for Miss Adelaide, when she moved her veil a little aside to peep at Mrs. Gerome, I caught a glimpse of her pretty face. Do they visit here?”
“Certainly not; nobody visits here but the butcher, baker, and doctor. Those ladies came solely on a tour of inspection, and to gratify a curiosity that is not flattering to their characters. My dear child, you look tired.”
“Dr. Grey, what is there so mysterious about this house266and its owner that all the town is agog and agape when the subject is mentioned? What is Mrs. Gerome’s history?”
“I am totally unacquainted with its details, and only know that since she became a widow, she has been a complete recluse. She is very unhappy, and we must exert ourselves to cheer her. This has been a lonely, dreary day to you, I fear, and I trust it will not be necessary for me to ask you to remain here to-night.”
The sun had set, leaving magnificent cloud-pictures on sky and sea, and while the orphan turned to enjoy the glorious prospect above and around her, Dr. Grey went in search of the lonely women who now continually occupied his thoughts.
She was standing under the pyramidal cedars, looking down at the new grave, where Salome’s wreath hung on the head-board, and hearing approaching footsteps would have moved away, but he said, pleadingly,—
“Do not avoid me.”
She paused, and suddenly held out her hands to him.
“Ah,—is it you? Dr. Grey, what shall I do? How can I bear to live here,—alone,—alone.”
He took her hands and looked down into her white, chill face.
“My dear friend, take your suffering heart to God, and He will heal, and comfort, and strengthen you. If He has sorely afflicted you, try to believe that Infinite love and mercy directed all things, and that ultimately every sorrow of earth will be overruled for your eternal repose and happiness. Remember that this world is but a threshing-floor, where angels use afflictions as flails, to beat the chaff and dust from our hearts, and present them as perfect grain for the garners of God. I know that you are desolate, but you can never be utterly alone, since the precious promise, ‘Lo! I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world.’”
Despairingly she shook her head.
“All that might comfort some people, but it falls on my ears and heart like the sound of the clods on Elsie’s coffin. I have no religion,—no faith,—no hope,—in time or eternity. My miserable past entombs all things.”
267
“Do not unearth your woes,—let the grave seal them. Your life stands waiting to be sanctified,—dedicated to Him who gave it. My dear friend,—
‘Cleanse it and make it pure, and fashion itAfter His image: heal thyself; from griefComes glory, like a rainbow from a cloud.’”
The sound of his voice, more than the import of his words, seemed to soothe her, for her eyes softened; but the effect was transitory, and presently she exclaimed,—
“Mere ‘sounding brass, and a tinkling cymbal!’ Pretty words, and musical; but empty as those polished shells yonder that echo only hollow strains of the never silent sea. Once, Dr. Grey,—”
She paused, and a shiver crept through her stately form; then she slowly continued, in a tone of indescribable pathos,—
“Once I could have listened to your counsel, for once my soul was full of holy aims, and my heart as redolent of pure Christian purposes as a June rose is of perfume; but now,—
‘They are past as a slumber that passes,As the dew of a dawn of old time;More frail than the shadows on glasses,More fleet than a wave or a rhyme.’”
Dr. Grey drew her arm through his, and silently led her to the house, and into the parlor. He noticed that her breathing was quick and short, and that she sank wearily upon the sofa, as if her strength had well-nigh failed her.
He untied her bonnet-strings and removed it, and she threw her head down on the silken cushion, as a spent child might have done.
Taking a vial from his pocket, he dropped a portion of the contents into a wine-glass, and filled it with sherry wine.
“Mrs. Gerome, drink this for me. It will benefit you.”
She swallowed the mixture, and remained quiet for some seconds; then a singularly scornful smile curved her mouth as she said,—
268
“You drugged the wine. Well, so be it. Nepenthe or poison are alike welcome, if they bring me death, or even temporary oblivion.”
Katie came in and lighted the lamp, and Dr. Grey sat beside the sofa and watched the effect of his prescription.
Tired at length of the sober sea and dark gloomy grounds, Salome came back to the house and stood on the threshold of the parlor door, looking curiously at the quiet, silent group, and at the pictures on the walls.
She could see very distinctly the beautiful white face of the mistress pressed against the blue damask cushion, and clear in outline as she had once observed it on the background of ocean; and she noticed that the features were sharper and that the figure was thinner. From the silvery lamp-light the gray hair seemed to have caught a metallic lustre on the ripples that ebbed back from the blue-veined temples, and the woman looked like a marble snow-crowned image, draped in black.
With one elbow on his knee, and his cheek resting in his hand, Dr. Grey leaned forward, studying the features turned towards him, and watching her with almost breathless interest. He was not aware of Salome’s presence, and was unconscious of the strained, troubled gaze, that she fixed upon him.
The tender love that filled his heart looked out of his grave deep eyes, which never wandered from the face so dear to him, and moved his lips in an inaudible prayer for the peace and welfare of the lonely waif whom Providence or fate had brought into his path, to evoke all the tenderness latent in his sturdy, manly nature.
In the twinkling of an eye, Salome had learned the whole truth and standing there, she staggered and grasped the doorway for support, wishing that the heavens and earth would pass away—that death might smite her, and end the agony that never could be patiently endured.
Recently she had tutored herself to bear the loss of his love and the deprivation of his caresses,—she had mapped out a future in which her lot was one of loneliness,—but through all the network of coming years there ran like a golden cord binding269their destinies the precious hope that at least Dr. Grey would die as he had lived hitherto,—without giving to any woman the coveted place in his heart, where the orphan would sooner have reigned than upon the proudest throne in Europe.
She had prayed that, with this assurance, God would help her to be contented—would enable her to make her life useful and pure, and, like Dr. Grey’s, a blessing to those about her.
It had never occurred to her that the man whom she reverenced above all things human or divine, and whose exalted ideal of feminine perfection soared as far above her as the angels in Lebrun’s “Stoning of St. Stephen” soared above the sinning multitude below them—that the man whose fastidiousness concerning womanly character and deportment seemed exaggerated and almost morbid, could admire or defend, much less love that gray-haired widow, whom the world pronounced either a lunatic, or a scoffing, misanthropic infidel.
The discovery was so unexpected, so startling, that it partially stunned her; and, like one addicted to somnambulism, she softly crossed the room and stood behind Dr. Grey’s chair.
He had taken Mrs. Gerome’s hand to examine her pulse, and retained it in his, looking fondly at the dainty moulding of the fingers and the exquisite whiteness of the smooth skin. How long she stood there Salome never knew, for paralysis seemed creeping, numb and cold, over her heart and brain.
Dr. Grey saw that his exhausted patient was asleep, and knew that the opiate he had administered in the wine would not relinquish its hold until morning; and when her breathing became more quiet and regular he bent his head and softly kissed the hand that lay heavily in his.
Salome covered her face and groaned; and rising, he was for the first time cognizant of her presence. His face flushed deeply.
“How long have you been here?”
“Long enough to discover why you visit ‘Solitude’ so often.”
270
He could not see her countenance, but her unnaturally hollow tone pained and shocked him.
“You are very much fatigued, my dear child, and as soon as I have given some directions to Robert, I will take you home. Get your bonnet, and meet me at the door.”
He took a shawl that was lying on the piano and laid it carefully over the sleeper, then bent one knee beside the sofa, and mutely prayed that God would comfort and protect the woman who was becoming so dear to him.
With one long, anxious, tender look into her hopeless yet beautiful face, he left the room and went in search of Robert and Katie. When he had given the requisite directions, and descended the steps, he found Salome waiting, with her fingers grasping the side of the buggy. Silently he handed her in; and, as she sank back in one corner and muffled her face, they drove swiftly through the sombre grounds, where the aged trees seemed murmuring in response to the ceaseless mutter of the sullen sea.
“Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed.Time rules us all. And Life indeed is notThe thing we planned it out ere hope was dead.And then we women cannot choose our lot.”
CHAPTER XXI.
“Ulpian, you certainly do not intend to sit up again to-night? Even brass or whitleather would not stand the wear and tear that your constitution is subjected to. You really make me unhappy.”
“My dear Jane, it would make you still more unhappy if from mere desire to promote my personal ease and comfort, I could forget the solemn responsibility imposed by my profession. Moreover, my physical strength is quite equal to the tax I exact from it.”
271
“I doubt it, for we have all remarked how pale and worn you look.”
“My jaded appearance is attributable to mental anxiety, rather than bodily exhaustion.”
“If Mrs. Gerome is so ill as to require such unremitting care and vigilance, she should have a nurse, instead of expecting a physician to devote all his time and attention to her. Where is Hester Denison?”
“I have placed her at the steam-mill above town, where there is a bad case of small-pox, and even if she were not thus engaged, I should not take her to ‘Solitude.’”
“Pray, why not? She took first-rate care of me when I was so sick last year.”
“Mrs. Gerome is morbidly sensitive at all times, and at this juncture I should be afraid to introduce a stranger into her sick room.”
“When people are so excessively nervous about being seen, I can’t help feeling a little suspicious. Do you suppose that Mrs. Gerome loved her husband so much better than the majority of widows love theirs, that seven years after his death she can’t bear to be looked at? I like to see a woman show due respect to her husband’s memory, but I tell you my experience—or rather my observation—leads me to believe that these young widows who make the greatest parade of their grief, and load themselves with crape and bombazine till they can scarcely stagger under their flutings, flounces, and jet-fringes, are the most anxious to marry again.”
“Stop, my darling sister! Who has been filling your tongue and curdling all the ‘milk of human kindness’ in your generous heart? If women refuse to each other due sympathy in sorrow, to what quarter can they turn for that balm which their natures require? I never before heard you utter sentiments that trenched so closely upon harsh uncharitableness. Your lips generally employ only the silvery language of leniency, which I so much love to hear, but to-day they adopt the dialect of Libeldom. Recollect, my dear sister, that even the pagan Athenians would never build a temple to Clemency,272which they contended found her most appropriate altars in human hearts.”
“Pooh, Ulpian! You need not preach me such a sermon, as if I were a heathen. Facts, when they happen to be real facts, are the best umpires in the world, and to their arbitrament I leave my character for charity. When Reuben Chalmers died, his wife was so overwhelmed with grief that she shut herself up like a nun; and when she drove out for fresh air wore two heavy crape veils, and never allowed any one to catch a glimpse of her countenance. Not even to church did she venture, until one morning, at the end of two years, she laid aside her weeds, clad herself in bridal array, was married in her own parlor, and the next Sunday made her first appearance in public after the death of her husband, leaning on the arm of her second spouse. Now, that is true,—is no libel,—pity it is not! Though ‘one swallow does not make a summer,’ I can’t help feeling suspicious of very young and hopelessly inconsolable widows, and am always reminded of Anastasia Chalmers. So you see, my blue-eyed preacher, when your old Janet talks of these things, she is not caught ‘reckoning without her host.’”
“One deplorable instance should not bias you against an entire class, and the beautiful constancy of Panthea ought to neutralize the example of a hundred Anastasia Chalmers. Is it not unfortunate that poor human nature so tenaciously recollects all the evil records, and is so oblivious of the noble acts furnished by history? Do cut the acquaintance of the huge family ofon dits, who serve the community in much the same capacity as did the cook of Tantalus, when he dressed and garnished Pelops for the banquet table. Unluckily, devouring malice can not furnish the ‘ivory shoulder’ requisite to mend its mischief. We are all prone to forget the injunction, ‘Judge not, that ye be not judged,’ and instead of remembering that we are directed to bear one another’s burdens, we gall the shoulders of many, by increasing the weights we should lighten. Janet, don’t flay all the poor young widows; leave them to such measures of peace as they may find among their weeds.”
273
Miss Jane listened to her brother’s homily with a half-smile lurking about the puckered corners of her eyes and mouth, and putting her finger in the button-hole of his coat, drew him closer to her, as they sat together on the sofa.
“How long since you took the tribe of widows under your special protection?”
“Since the moment, that, owing to some inexplicable freak, my dear Janet suffered ‘evil communications to corrupt’ her ‘good manners,’ and absolutely forgot to be just and generous.”
He kissed his sister and rose, but the troubled look that settled once more on his countenance did not escape her observation.
“Ulpian, is Mrs. Gerome very ill?”
“Yes, I am exceedingly unhappy about her. She is dangerously ill with a low, nervous, fever that baffles all my remedies.”
Dr. Grey walked up and down the room, and Miss Jane pressed her spectacles closer to her nose, and watched him.
“If the poor woman leads such a lonely, miserable life, I should think that death would prove a blessed release to her. Of course it is natural and reasonable that you should desire to save all your patients, but why are you so very unhappy about her?”
He did not answer immediately, and when he spoke his deep tone was tremulous with fervent feeling.
“Because I find that she is dearer to me than all the other women in the world, except my sister; and her death would grieve me more than any trial that has yet overtaken me—more than you can realize, or than I can express.”
He took Miss Jane’s face in his hands, kissed her, and left the room.
Meeting Muriel and Salome in the hall, the former seized his arm, and exclaimed,—
“You shall not leave home again! Let me tell Elbert to put up your buggy. If you continue to work yourself down, as you are now doing, you will be prematurely old, and gray,274and decrepit. Come into the parlor, and let me play you to sleep.”
“I heartily wish I could follow your pleasant prescription, but duty is inexorable, and knows no law but that of obedience.”
“Must you sit up to-night? Is that poor lady no better?”
“I can see no improvement, and must remain until I do.”
“You are afraid that she will die?”
“I hope that God will spare her life.”
His serious tone awed Muriel, who raised his hand to her lips, and murmured,—
“My dear doctor, I wish I could help you. I wish I could do something to make you look less troubled.”
“You can help me, little one, by being happy yourself, and by aiding Salome in cheering my sister, while I am forced to spend so much time away from her. Good evening. Take care of yourselves till I come home.”
Humming a bar of a Genoese barcarole, Muriel ran up stairs to join her governess; but Salome turned and followed the master of the house to the front door.
“Dr. Grey, can I render you any assistance at ‘Solitude’?”
“Thank you,—the time has passed when you might have aided me. Two weeks ago, when I requested you to go with me, Mrs. Gerome was rational and would have yielded to your influence, but now she is delirious and you could accomplish nothing. The servants are faithful and attentive, and can be trusted during my absence to execute my orders.”
A bright flush rose to Salome’s temples, and her eyes drooped beneath his, so anxious and yet so calmly sad.
“At the time you spoke to me I could not go, but now I really should be glad to accompany you. Will you take me?”
“No, Salome.”
“Your reason, Dr. Grey?”
“Is one whose utterance would pain you, consequently I trust you will pardon me for withholding it.”
“At my own peril, I demand it.”
“The motive which prompts your offer precludes the possibility of my acceptance.”
275
“How dare you sit in judgment on my motives? You who prate and homilize of charity! charity! and who quote the ‘golden rule’ solely for the edification and guidance of those around you. Example is more potent than precept, and we are creatures of imitation. Suppose I should question the disinterestedness of your motives in allowing one patient to monopolize your attention to the detriment of the remainder? Of course you would be shocked and think me presumptuous, for one’s sins and follies often play hide and seek, and sometimes we insult our own pet fault when we find it housed in some other piece of flesh.”
“Good night, Salome. I shall endeavor to forget all this, since I am too sincerely your friend to desire to set your hasty words in the storehouse of memory.”
He looked down pityingly, sorrowfully, into her angry imperious eyes, and sudden shame smote her, making her cheeks glow and tingle as if from the stroke of an open hand.
“Dr. Grey, wait one moment! Let me say something, that will show,—that will—”
“Only make matters worse. No, Salome, I have little time for trifling, still less for recrimination, none at all for dissimulation; and, in your present mood, the least we can say will prove the most powerful for good.”
He went down to his buggy, but stopped and reflected; and fearing that he might have been too harsh, he turned and approached her, as she stood leaning against one of the columns of the gallery.
“Do not think me rude. I am not less your friend than formerly, though I am anxious, and doubtless appear preoccupied. Let us shake hands in peace.”
He extended his own, but the girl stood motionless, and the remorseful anguish and humiliation of her uplifted face touched his heart.
“Dr. Grey, if you really forgive and forget, prove it by taking me to ‘Solitude.’”
“Do not ask what you well know I have quite determined it is best that I should not grant.”
The spark leaped up lurid as ever, in her dilating eyes.
276
“You take this method to punish me for my refusal to comply with your wishes a fortnight since?”
“I have neither the right nor inclination to punish you in any respect, and you must pardon my inability to accede to a request which my judgment does not approve. Good-by.”
He put his hand into his pocket, and left her; and while she stood irresolute and disappointed, a servant summoned her to Miss Jane’s presence.
“Can I do anything for you?” asked the orphan, observing the cloud on the old lady’s brow.
“Yes, dear; sit down here and talk to me. I feel lonely, now that Ulpian is away so constantly. He seems very uneasy about that woman at ‘Solitude,’ and I never saw him manifest so much anxiety about any one. By the by, Salome, tell me something concerning her.”
“I have already told you all I know of her.”
“Wherein consists her attractiveness?”
“Who said she was attractive? She is handsome, and there is something peculiar and startling about her, but she is by no means a beauty. I have heard Dr. Grey say that she possessed remarkable talent, but I have been favored with no exhibition of it. Why do you not question your brother? Doubtless it would afford him much pleasure to furnish an inventory of her charms and accomplishments, and dilate upon themad libitum.”
“What makes you so savage?”
“Simply because there happens to be a touch of the wild beast in my nature, and I have not a doubt that if the doctrine of metempsychosis be true, I was a tawny dappled leopardess or a green-eyed cougar in the last stage of my existence. Miss Jane, sometimes I feel as if it would be a luxury—a relief—to crunch and strangle something or somebody,—which is not an approved trait of orthodox Christian character, to say nothing of meek gentility and lady-like refinement.”
She laughed with a degree of indescribable scorn and bitterness that was pitiable indeed in one so young.
“There is an evil fit on Saul.”277
“Yes; and you are neither my harp nor my David.”
“Does my little girl expect to find a ‘cunning player,’ who will charm away all the barbarous notions that occasionally lead her astray, and tempt her to wickedness?”
“Verily,—no. The son of Jesse has forsaken his own household, and made unto himself an idol elsewhere; and I—Saul—surrender to Asmodeus.”
Miss Jane laid her hand on the girl’s arm, and said, in a hesitating, troubled manner,—
“Has Ulpian told you?”
“Why should he tell me? My eyes sometimes take pity on my ears,—and seeing very distinctly, save the necessity of hearing. My vision is quite as keen now as when in my anterior existence, I crouched in jungles, watching for my prey. Oh, Miss Jane! if you could look here, and know all that I have suffered during the past three weeks, you would not wonder that the tiger element within me swallows up every other feeling.”
She struck her hand heavily upon her heart, and the old lady was frightened and distressed by the glitter of the eyes and the dilation of the slender nostrils.
“When I came in, I knew from your countenance that you had heard something which you desired to prepare me for,—which you intended to break gently to me. But your kindness is unavailing. The truth crashed in on my heart without premonition; and I saw, and understood, and accepted the inevitable; and since then,—ah, my God! since then—”
Her head drooped upon her bosom, and a groan concluded the sentence.
“Perhaps Ulpian only pities the poor woman’s desolation, and will lose his interest in her when she recovers her health. You know how tenderly he sympathizes with all who suffer, and I dare say it is more compassion than love.”
“What hypocrites we often are, in our desire to comfort those whom we see in agony! Miss Jane, your kind heart is holding a hand over the mouth of conscience, to smother its cries and protests while you utter things in which you know there is no truth. You mean well; but you ought to know278better than to expect to deceive me. I understand the difference between love and compassion, and so do you; and Dr. Grey has not kept the truth from you. He has given his heart to that gray-haired, gray-eyed woman,—and if she lives, he will marry her; and then, if there were twenty oceans, I should want them all to roll between us. I tell you now, I can not and will not stay here to see the day that makes that pale gray phantom his wife. I should go mad, and do something that might add new horrors to that doomed and abhorred ‘Solitude,’ that has become Dr. Grey’s Mecca. I could live without his love, but I can not stand tamely by and see him lavish it on another. Some women,—such, for instance, as we read of in novels, would meekly endure this trial, as one appointed by Heaven to wean them from earth; would fold their hands, and grow devout, and romantically thin and wan,—and get sweet, patient, martyr expressions about their unkissed lips; but I am in no respect a model heroine, and it will prove safer for us all if I am far away when Dr. Grey brings his bride to receive your sisterly embrace. If you are lonely, send for Muriel and Miss Dexter, and let them entertain you. Just now, I am not fit company for any but the dwellers in Padalon; so let me go away where I can be quiet.”
“Stay, Salome! Where are you going?”
“To walk.”
The orphan disengaged her dress from Miss Jane’s fingers, which had clutched its folds to detain her, and made her escape just as Muriel tapped at the door.
During the three weeks that had elapsed since Elsie’s death Mrs. Gerome had not left the house, and the third day after the funeral she laid her head down on the pillow from which it seemed probable she would never again lift it.
A low steady fever seized her, and at length her brain became so seriously affected that all hope of recovery appeared futile and delusive. In the early stages of her illness, Dr. Grey requested Salome to assist him in nursing her, but the girl dared not trust herself to witness the manifestations of279an affection that nearly maddened her, and had almost rudely refused compliance.
As the days wore drearily on, and Dr. Grey’s haggard, anxious countenance, told her that her rival was indeed upon the brink of dissolution, a wild hope whispered that perhaps she might be spared the fierce ordeal she so much dreaded; that if Mrs. Gerome died, the future might brighten,—life would be endurable. In her wonted impulsive manner, the girl had thrown herself on her knees, and passionately prayed the Almighty to remove from earth the one woman who proved an obstacle to all her hopes of peace and contentment.
She did not pause to inquire whether her petition was not an insult to Him who alone could grant it; she neither analyzed, nor felt self-rebuked for her sinful emotions and intense hatred of the sick woman,—but vowed repeatedly that she would lead a purer, holier life, if God would only interpose and prevent Dr. Grey from becoming the husband of any one.
She had no faith in the superior wisdom of her Maker, and would not wait patiently for the developments of His divine will toward her; but chose her own destiny, and demanded that Omnipotence should become an ally for its accomplishment. Like many who are less honest in confessing their faith, this girl professed allegiance to her Creator only so long as He appeared a coadjutor in her schemes; and, when thwarted and disappointed, fierce rebellion broke out in her heart, and annulled her oaths of fealty and obedience.
Dr. Grey was not ignorant of the emotions that swayed and controlled her conduct, and when she declared herself ready to attend the invalid, he was thoroughly cognizant of the fact that she longed to witness the death which she deemed impending; and he could not consent to see her eager eyes watching the feeble breathing of the woman whom he now loved so fervently.
While he believed that in most matters Salome would not deceive him, he realized that in one of her passionate moods of jealous hate, irremediable mischief might result, and prudently resolved to keep her beyond the pale of temptation.
280
It was almost dark when he reached the secluded house where he had passed so many days and nights of anxiety, and went into the quiet room in which only a dim light was permitted to burn. Katie was sitting near the bed, but rose at his approach, and softly withdrew.
Emaciated and ghastly, save where two scarlet spots burned on the hollow cheeks, Mrs. Gerome lay, with her wasted arms thrown over her head, and her eyes fixed on vacancy. Even when delirium was at its height she yielded to the physician’s voice and touch, like some wild creature who recognizes no control save that of its keeper; and from his hand alone would she take the medicines administered.
Whether the influence was merely magnetic, he did not inquire, but felt comforted by the assurance that his presence had power to tranquillize her.
Now, as he drew her arms down from the pillow, and took her thin hot hand in his cool palms, a shadowy smile stole over her features, and she fixed her eyes intently on his.
“I knew you would protect me from him.”
“Protect you from whom?”
“From Maurice. He is hiding yonder,—behind the window-curtain.”
She pointed across the room, and a scowl darkened her countenance.
“You have only been dreaming.”
“No, I am awake; and if you look behind the curtain you will find him. His eyes are burning my face.”
Willing to dispel this fantasy, Dr. Grey went to the window, and, drawing aside the lace drapery, showed her the vacant recess.
“Ah, he has escaped! Well, perhaps it is better so, and there will be no blood shed. Let him go back to Edith,—‘golden-haired Edith Dexter,’—and live out the remnant of his days. He came hoping to find me dead, but I am not as accommodating now as formerly. Where are those violets? Tell Elsie to bring the jars in, where I can smell them.”
He took a bunch of the fragrant flowers from his coat pocket, and put them in her hand, for during her illness she281was never satisfied unless there was a bouquet near her; and now, having feebly smelled them, her eyes closed.
More than once she had mentioned the name of Edith Dexter, always coupling it with that of Maurice, who she evidently believed was lurking with evil purposes around her home; and Dr. Grey was sorely perplexed to follow the thread that now and then appeared, but failed to guide him to any satisfactory solution of the mystery. He knew that since she made “Solitude” her place of residence, Mrs. Gerome had never met Muriel’s governess, and he conjectured that she had either known her in earlier years or now alluded to another person bearing the same name. Miss Dexter was very fair, with a profusion of light yellow hair, and suited in all respects the incoherent description that fell from the sick woman’s lips.
While at home for a short time that afternoon, Dr. Grey had spoken of the dangerous condition of his patient, and asked the governess if she had ever seen or known Mrs. Gerome. Without hesitation, Edith Dexter quietly replied in the negative.
Formerly he had indulged little curiosity with reference to the widow’s history, but since she had become endeared to him, he was conscious of an earnest desire to possess himself of a record of all that had so darkened and chilled the life of the only woman he had ever loved.
Once she had been merely an interesting psychological puzzle, and in some degree a physiological anomaly: but from the day of Elsie’s death, his heart had yielded more and more to the strange fascination she exerted over him; and now, as he sat looking into her face, so mournfully sharpened and blanched by disease, he acknowledged to his own soul that if she should die the brightest and dearest hopes that ever gladdened his life would be buried in her grave.
Thoroughly convinced that his happiness depended on her recovery, he prayed continually that if consistent with God’s will, He would spare her to him, and save him from the anguish of a lonely life, which her love might bless and brighten.
282
But above the petition,—above all the strife of human love, and hope, and fear,—rose silvery clear, “Nevertheless, Father, not my will, but Thine.”
During his long vigils he had allowed imagination to paint beautiful pictures of the To-Come, wherein shone the figure of a lovely wife whose heart was divided only between God and her husband,—whose life was consecrated first to Christ, secondly to promoting the happiness of the man who loved her so truly.
The apprehension of losing her was rendered still more acute by the reflection that her soul was not prepared for its exit from the realm of probation, and the thought of a separation that would extend through endless æons, was well-nigh intolerable.
If she survived this attack, he believed that his influence would redeem and sanctify her life; if she died, would God have mercy on her wretched soul?
His faith in Providence was no jagged, quivering reed, but a strong, staunch, firm staff that had never yet failed him, and in this hour of severe trial he leaned his aching heart confidently and calmly upon it.
That some mysterious circumstances veiled the earlier portion of Mrs. Gerome’s life, he had inferred from Elsie’s promise of confidence, and since death denied her the desired revelation, he had put imagination upon the rack, in order to solve the riddle.
What could the old nurse wish to tell him, that she was unwilling to divulge until her latest breath? Could the stain of crime cling to that pale face on the pillow, or to those white hands that rested so helplessly in his? Had she soiled her life by any deed that would bring a blush to those thin sunken cheeks, or a flush of shame to the brow of the man who loved her? Now bending fondly over her, the language of his heart was,—
“Let her dead past bury its dead! Let the bygone be what it may,—come sorrow, come humiliation, but I will dauntlessly shield her with my name, defend her with my strong283arm, uphold her by my honor, save her soul by my prayers, comfort and gladden her heart with my deathless love.”
He was well aware that this night must decide her fate,—that her feeble frame could not much longer struggle with the disease that had almost vanquished it,—and leaning his forehead against her hand, he silently prayed that God would speedily restore her to health, or give him additional grace to bear the bitter bereavement.
She slept more quietly than she had been able to do for some days, and Dr. Grey sent for Robert, who was pacing the walk that led to the stables. They sat down together on the steps at the rear of the house, and the gardener asked in a frightened, husky tone,—
“Is there bad news?”
“I see little change since noon, except that she is more quiet, which is certainly favorable; but she is so very ill that I thought it best to consult you about several matters. Do you know whether she has made a will?”
“No, sir. How should I know it, even if she had?”
“Who is her agent?”
Robert hesitated, and pretended to be busy filling and lighting his pipe.
“Maclean, I have no desire to pry into Mrs. Gerome’s affairs, but it is necessary that those who direct or control her estate should be appraised of her condition. It is supposed that her fortune is ample, and her heirs should be informed of her illness.”
“She has no heirs, except—”
He paused, and after a few seconds exclaimed,—
“Don’t ask me! All I know is that I heard her say she intended to leave her fortune to poor painters.”
“To whom shall I write, or rather telegraph? Where did she live before she came to ‘Solitude’? Who were her friends?”
“Mr. Simonton, of New York, is her lawyer and agent. Two letters have come from him since she has been sick. Of course I did not open them, but I know his handwriting. They are behind the clock in the back parlor.”
284
“Would it not be better to telegraph him at once?”
“What good could he do? Better send for the minister, and have her baptized. Oh! but this is truly a world of trouble, and I almost wish I was safely out of it.”
“If she were conscious, she would not submit to baptism; and it would not be right to take advantage of her delirium and force a ceremony to which she is opposed.”
“Not even, sir, to save her soul?”
“Her soul can not be affected by the actions of others, unless her will coöperates, which is impossible in her present condition. Robert, after your mother was partially paralyzed, she said that she desired to confide something to me just before her death, and intimated that it referred to Mrs. Gerome. She wished me to befriend her mistress, and felt that I ought to know the particulars of her early history. Unfortunately, Elsie was speechless when I arrived, and could not tell me what she had intended to acquaint me with. I mention this fact to assure you that if your mother could trust me, you need not regard me so suspiciously.”
“Dr. Grey, as far as I am concerned, you are very welcome to every thought in my head and feeling in my heart; but where it touches my mistress I have nothing to say. I will not deny that I know more than you do, but when my poor mother told me, she held my hand on the Bible and made me swear a solemn oath that what she told me should never pass my lips to any man, woman, or child. So you must not blame me, sir.”
“Certainly not, Robert. But if she has any friends it is your duty to send for them at once.”
Dr. Grey rose and went into the library, where for some moments he walked to and fro, perplexed and grieved. As his eye rested on the escritoire, he recollected the key which he had kept in his pocket since the hour that he picked it up from the carpet.
Doubtless a few minutes’ search in its drawers and casket would place him in possession of the facts which Elsie wished to confide; but notwithstanding the circumstances that285might almost have justified an investigation, his delicate sense of honor forbade the thought. Taking the letters from the mantelpiece, he turned them to the lamp-light.
Mrs. Agla Gerome,Care of Robert Maclean,Box 20.—— ——.
They were post-marked New York, and from the size and appearance of the envelopes he suspected that they contained legal documents. Perhaps one of them might prove a will, awaiting signature and witnesses. Dr. Grey carried them into the room where his patient still slept, and placed them on the dressing-table. Accidentally his glance fell on a large worn Bible that lay contiguous, and brightening the light, he opened the volume, and turned to the record of births.
“Vashti Evelyn, born June 10th, 18—.
“Henderson Flewellyn, born April 17th, 18—.
“Vashti Flewellyn, born January 30th, 18—.”
On the marriage record he found,
“Married, July 1st, 18—, Vashti Evelyn to Henderson Flewellyn.
“Married, September 8th, 18—, Evelyn Flewellyn to Maurice Carlyle.”
The only deaths recorded were those of Henderson and Vashti Flewellyn.
Whatever the mystery might be, Dr. Grey resolved to pursue the subject no further; but wait patiently and learn all from the beautiful lips of the white-faced sphinx, who alone possessed the right to unseal the record of her blighted life.
“Who might have been—ah, what, I dare not think!We all are changed. God judges for us best.God help us do our duty, and not shrink,And trust in heaven humbly for the rest.”