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“Dr. Grey, I believe my prayer has been heard, and that at last I have discovered a clew to the retreat of my lost Evelyn. Last week I went to a jewelry store in town, to buy a locket which I intended as a birthday gift for Muriel. Several customers had preceded me, and while waiting, my attention was attracted towards one of the workmen who uttered an impatient ejaculation and dashed down some article upon which he was at work. As it fell, I saw that it was an oval ivory miniature,originallysurrounded with very large handsome pearls, the greater portion of which the jeweller had removed and placed in a small glass bowl that stood near him. I leaned down to examine the miniature, and though the paint was blurred and faded, it was impossible to mistake the likeness, and you cannot realize the thrill that ran along my nerves as I recognized the portrait of Evelyn. So great was my astonishment and delight that I must have cried out, for the people in the store all turned and stared at me, and when I snatched the piece of ivory from the work-table, the man looked at me in amazement. Very incoherently I demanded where and how he obtained it, and, beckoning to the proprietor, he said, ‘Just as I told you; this has turned out stolen property.’ Then he opened a drawer and took from it a similar oval slab of ivory, and when I looked at it and saw Maurice’s handsome face, my brain reeled, and I grew so dizzy I almost fell. ‘Madam, do you know these portraits?’ asked the proprietor.
“I told him that I did,—that I had seen these jewelled miniatures eight years before on the dressing-table of a bride, and I implored him to tell me how they came into his possession. He fitted them into a dingy, worn case, which seemed to have been composed of purple velvet, and informed me that he purchased the whole from an Irish lad, who asserted that he picked it up on the beach, where it had evidently drifted in a high tide. On examination, he found that the case had indeed been saturated with sea-water, but the pearls were in such a remarkable state of preservation that he doubted the lad’s statement. He had bought the miniatures in order to secure the pearls, which he assured me were unusually408fine, and to satisfy himself concerning the affair had advertised two ivory miniatures, and invited the owners to come forward and prove property. After the expiration of a week, he discontinued the notice, and finally ordered the pearls removed from their gold frames. When I had given him the names of the originals, he consented that I should take the portraits which were now worthless to him, and gave me also the name of the boy. It was not until two days afterward that I succeeded in finding Thomas Donovan, a lad about fourteen years old, whose mother Phœbe is a laundress, and does up laces and fine muslins. When I called and stated the object of my visit he seemed much confused, but sullenly repeated the assertion made to the jeweller. Yesterday I went again and had a long conversation with his mother, who must be an honest soul, for she assured me she knew nothing of the matter, and would investigate it immediately. The boy was absent, but she promised either to send him here this morning or come in person, to acquaint me with the result. I offered a reward if he would confess where he obtained them; and if he proved obstinate, threatened to have him arrested. Now, Dr. Grey, you can understand why I have so tediously made a full revelation of my past, for I wish to enlist your sympathy and claim your aid in my search for my long-lost friend. These portraits inadequately represent the fascinating beauty of one of the originals, and the sweetness and almost angelic purity of the other.”
She held up the somewhat defaced and faded miniatures for the inspection of her companion, but scarcely glancing at them, he said, abstractedly,—
“You are sure they belong to Mrs. Carlyle?”
“Yes. As she put on her diamonds just before going down stairs she showed me the portraits in her jewelry casket, where she had also placed a similar one of myself. Ah! at this instant I seem to see her beaming face, as she bent down, and sweeping her veil aside, kissed my picture and Maurice’s.”
“Do you imagine that she is in America?”
“No; I fear she is dead, and that these were stolen from409the old nurse. Who is that yonder? Ah, yes,—Phœbe Donovan. Now I shall hear the truth.”
Forgetting her shawl, and unmindful of the fact that the sun was streaming full on her head and face, she hurried to meet the woman who was ascending the avenue, and very soon they entered the house.
A quarter of an hour elapsed ere Phœbe came out, and walked rapidly away; and, unwilling to prolong his suspense, Dr. Grey went in search of the governess.
He met her in the hall, and saw that she was equipped for a walk. Her cheeks were scarlet, her brown eyes all aglow with eager expectation, and her lips twitched, as she exclaimed,—
“Oh, doctor, I hope everything; for I learn that the pictures were found on the lawn at ‘Solitude,’ where Phœbe was once hired as cook; and she recognized the case as the same she had one day seen on a writing-desk in the parlor. The boy confessed that he picked it up from the grass, and, after taking out the contents, soaked the case in a bucket of salt-water. Phœbe says the pictures belong to Mrs. Gerome, the gray-headed woman who owns that place on the beach, and I am almost tempted to believe she is Elsie, who may have married again. At all events, I shall soon know where she obtained the portraits.”
“You are notgoingto ‘Solitude’?”
“Yes, immediately. I cannot rest till I have learned all. God grant I may not be mocked in my hopes.”
The unwonted excitement had kindled a strange beauty in the whilom passive face, and Dr. Grey could for the first time realize how lovely she must have been in the happy days of eld.
“Miss Dexter, Mrs. Gerome will not receive you. She sees no visitors, not even ministers of the gospel.”
“She must—she shall—admit me; for I will assure her that life and death hang upon it.”
“How so?”
“If Evelyn is alive, and I can discover her retreat, I will urge her to go to her husband, who needs her care. You410know Mrs. Gerome,—she is one of your patients. Come with me, and prevail upon her to receive me.”
In her eagerness she laid her hand on his arm, and even then noticed and wondered at the crimson that suddenly leaped into his olive face.
“Some day I will give you good reasons for refusing your request, which it is impossible for me to grant. If you are resolved to hazard the visit, I will take you in my buggy as far as the gate at ‘Solitude,’ and when you return will confer with you concerning the result. Just now, I can promise no more.”
An expression of disappointment clouded her brow.
“I had hoped that you would sympathize with and be more interested in my great sorrow.”
“Miss Dexter, my interest is more profound, more intense, than you can imagine, but at this juncture circumstances forbid its expression. My buggy is at the door.”
CHAPTER XXX.
Even at mid-day the grounds around “Solitude” were sombre and chill, for across the sky the winds had woven a thin, vapory veil, whose cloud-meshes seemed fine as lacework; and through this gilded netting the sun looked hazy, the light wan and yellow, and rifled of its customary noon glitter.
Following one of the serpentine walks, the governess was approaching the house, when her attention was attracted by the gleaming surface of a tomb, and she turned towards the pyramidal deodars that were swaying slowly in the breeze,—
“Warming their heads in the sun,Checkering the grass with their shade,”
and photographing fringy images on the shining marble.
A broad circle of violets, blue with bloom, surrounded a sexangular temple, whose dome was terminated by a mural crown and surmounted by a cross. The beautifully polished411pillars were fluted, and wreathed with carved ivy that wound up to the richly-sculptured cornices, where poppies clustered and tossed their leaves along the architrave; and, in the centre, visible through all the arches, rose an altar, bearing two angels with fingers on their lips, who guarded an exquisite urn that was inscribed “cor cordium.”
Beneath the eastern arch, that directly fronted the sea, were two steps leading into the mausoleum, and, as Miss Dexter stood within, she saw that the floor was arranged with slabs for only two tombs close to the altar, one side of which bore in golden tracery,—
“Elsie Maclean, 68. Amicus Amicorum.”
Around the base of the urn were scattered some fresh geranium-leaves, and very near it stood a tall, slender, Venetian glass vase filled with odorous flowers, which had evidently been gathered and arranged that day.
For whom had the remaining slab and opposite side of the altar been reserved?
The heart of the governess seemed for a moment to forget its functions, then a vague hope made it throb fiercely; and rapidly the anxious woman directed her steps towards the house, that seemed as silent as the grave behind her.
The hall door had swung partially open, and, dreading that she might be refused admittance if she rang the bell, she availed herself of the lucky accident (which in Elsie’s lifetime never happened), and entered unchallenged and unobserved.
From the parlor issued a rather monotonous and suppressed sound, as of some one reading aloud, and, advancing a few steps, the governess stood inside the threshold.
The curtains of the south window were looped back, the blinds thrown open, and the sickly sunshine poured in, lighting the easel, before which the mistress of the house had drawn an ottoman and seated herself.
To-day, an air of unwonted negligence marked her appearance, usually distinguished by extraordinary care and taste.
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Her white merinorobe de chambrewas partially ungirded, and the blue tassels trailed on the carpet; her luxuriant hair instead of being braided and classically coiled, was gathered in three or four large heavy loops, and fastened rather loosely by the massive silver comb that allowed one long tress to straggle across her shoulder, while the folds in front slipped low on her temples and forehead.
Intently contemplating her work, she leaned her cheek on her hand, and only the profile was visible from the door, as she repeated, in a subdued tone,—
“I stanch with ice my burning breast,With silence balm my whirling brain,O Brandan! to this hour of rest,That Joppan leper’s ease was pain.”
The easel held the largest of many pictures, upon which she had lavished time and study, and her present work was a wide stretch of mid-ocean, lighted by innumerable stars, and a round glittering polar moon that swung mid-heaven like a globe of silver, and shed a ghostly lustre on the raging, ragged waves, above which an Aurora Borealis lifted its gleaming arch of mysterious white fires.
On the flowery shore of a tropic isle, under clustering boughs of lime and citron, knelt the venerable figure of Saint Brandan,—and upon a towering, jagged iceberg, whose crystal cliffs and diamond peaks glittered with the ghastly radiance reflected from arctic moon and boreal flames, lay Judas, pressing his hot palms and burning breast to the frigid bosom of his sailing sapphire berg.
No hideous, scowling, red-haired arch-apostate was this painted Iscariot,—but a handsome man, whose features were startlingly like those in the ivory miniature.
It was a wild, dreary, mournful picture, suggestive of melancholy mediæval myths, and most abnormal phantasms; and would more appropriately have draped the walls of some flagellating ascetic’s cell, than the luxuriously furnished room that now contained it.
Bending forward to deepen the dark circles which suffering413and remorse had worn beneath the brilliant eyes of the apostle, the lonely artist added another verse to her quotation,—
“Once every year, when carols wakeOn earth the Christmas night’s repose,Arising from the sinner’s lakeI journey to these healing snows.”
The motion loosened a delicate white lily pinned at her throat, and it fell upon the palette, sullying its purity with the dark paint to which its petals clung. She removed it, looked at its defaced loveliness, and tossed it aside, saying moodily,—
“Typical of our souls, originally dowered with a stainless and well-nigh perfect holiness, but drooping dust-ward continually, and once tainted by the fall,—hugging the corruption that ruined it.”
As the governess looked and listened, a half-perplexed, half-frightened expression passed over her countenance, and at length she advanced to the arch, and said, tremblingly,—
“Can I have a few moments’ conversation with Mrs. Gerome, on important business?”
“My God! am I verily mad at last? Because I called up Judas, must I also evoke the partner of his crime?”
With a thrilling, almost blood-curdling cry Mrs. Gerome had leaped to her feet at the sound of Miss Dexter’s voice, and, dropping palette and brush, confronted her with a look of horror and hate. The quick and violent movement shook out her comb, and down came the folds of hair, falling like a silver cataract to her knees.
Bewildered by memories which the face and form recalled, the governess looked at the shining white locks, and her lips blanched, as she stammered,—
“Are you Mrs. Gerome?”
Her scarlet hood had fallen back, disclosing her wealth of golden hair; and gazing at her thin but still lovely features, rouged by a hectic glow that lent strange beauty to the wide, brown eyes, Mrs. Gerome answered, huskily,—
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“I am the mistress of this house. Who is the woman who has the audacity to intrude upon my seclusion, and vividly remind me of one whose hated lineaments have cursed my memory for years? Woman, if I believedshehad the effrontery to thrust herself into my presence, I should fear that at this instant I am afflicted with the abhorred sight of Edith Dexter, than whom a legion of devils would be more welcome!”
The name fell hissingly from her stern mouth, and when she shook back the hair that drooped over her brow, the gray globe-like eyes glittered as polished blue steel under some fitful light.
A low, half-stifled cry escaped the governess, and springing forward she fell on her knees and grasped the white hands that had clutched each other.
“Evelyn! It must be Evelyn! despite this gray hair and wan, changed face! and I could never mistake these beautiful, beautiful hands—unlike any others in the world! Evelyn, my lost darling! oh, I thank God I have found you before I die!”
She covered the cold fingers with kisses, and pressed her face to a band of the floating hair; but with a gesture of loathing Mrs. Gerome broke away, and retreated a few steps.
“How dare you come into my presence? Goaded by a desire to witness the ruin you helped to accomplish? Your audacity at least astounds me; but fate decrees you the enjoyment of its reward. Lo! here I am! Behold the gray shadow of what was once a happy, confiding girl! Behold in the desolate, lonely woman, who hides her disgrace under the name of Agla Gerome, that bride of an hour, that Evelyn whose heart you stabbed! Does the wreck entirely satisfy you? What more could even fiendish malevolence desire?”
“Evelyn, you wrong me. For mercy’s sake do not upbraid and taunt me so unjustly!”
In vain she held out her hands imploringly, while tears rolled over her crimsoned cheeks, and sobs impeded her utterance. Mrs. Gerome laughed bitterly.
“What! I wrong you? Haveyougone mad, instead of your victim? Miss Dexter, you and I can scarcely afford415to deal in mock tragedy, and though you make a pretty picture kneeling there, I have no mind to paint you yonder, where I put your colleague, Judas. Is it not a good likeness of your lover, as he looked that memorable day when the broad banana-leaves overshadowed his handsome head?”
She rapped the canvas with her clenched hand, and continued, in accents of indescribable scorn,—
“Do you kneel as penitent or petitioner? You come to crave my pardon, or my husband?”
The governess had bowed her face almost to the carpet, like some fragile flower borne down by a sudden flood; but now she rose, and, throwing her head back proudly, answered with firm yet gentle dignity,—
“Of Mrs. Gerome I crave nothing. Of Evelyn Carlyle I demand justice; simply bare justice.”
“Justice! You are rash, Miss Dexter, to challenge fate; for, were justice meted out, the burden would prove more intolerable to you than that King Stork whom Zeus sent down as a Nemesis to quiet clamorous frogs. Justice, let me tell you, longagofled from this hostile and inhospitable earth and took refuge beyond the stars, where, please God, you and I shall one day confront her and get our long-defrauded dues. Justice? Nay, nay! the thing I recognize as justice would crush you utterly, and you should flee to theUltima Thuleto avoid it. I divine your mission. You come as envoy-extraordinary from my honorable and chivalric husband, to demand release from the bonds that doom me to wear his name and you to live without that spotless ægis? Since my fortune no longer percolates through the sieve of his pocket, and legal quibbles can not now avail to wring thousands from my purse, he desires a divorce, in order to remove to your fair wrists the fetters which have proved more galling to mine than those of iron.”
“Evelyn, insult must not be heaped upon injury. As God hears me, I tell you solemnly that you have seen your husband since I have. Upon Maurice Carlyle’s face I have never looked since that fatal hour when I last saw yours, ghastly and rigid, against the background of guava-boughs. From416that day until this, I have neither seen, nor spoken, nor written to him.”
“Then why are you here, to torment me with the sight of your face, which would darken the precincts of heaven, if I met it inside of the gates of pearl?”
“I have come to exonerate myself from the aspersions that in your frenzy you have cast upon me. Evelyn, I am here to prove that my wrongs are greater than yours,—and if either should crave pardon, it would best become you to sue for it at my hands. But for you, I should have been a happy wife,—blessed with a devoted husband and fond mother; and now in my loneliness I stand for vindication before her who robbed me of every earthly hope, and blotted all light, all verdure, all beauty from my life. You had known Maurice Carlyle six weeks, when you gave him your hand. I had grown up at his side,—had loved, trusted, prayed, and labored for him,—had been his promised wife for seven dreary years of toil and separation, and was counting the hours until the moment when he would lead me to the altar. Ah, Evelyn,—”
A violent spell of coughing interrupted the governess, and when it ended she did not complete the sentence.
Impatiently Mrs. Gerome motioned to her to continue, and, turning her head which had been averted, the hostess saw that her guest was endeavoring to stanch a stream of blood that trickled across her lips. Involuntarily the former started forward and drew an easy-chair close to the slender figure which leaned for support against the corner of the piano.
“Are you ill? Pray sit down.”
“It is only a hemorrhage from my lungs, which I have long had reason to expect.”
Wearily she sank into the chair, and hastily pouring a glass of water from a gilt-starred crystalcarafe, standing on the centre-table, Mrs. Gerome silently offered it. As the governess drained and returned the goblet, a drop of blood that stained the rim fell on the hand of the mistress of the house.
Miss Dexter attempted to remove it with the end of her plaid shawl, but her companion drew back, and taking a417dainty, perfumed handkerchief from her pocket, shook out its folds and said, hastily,—
“It is of no consequence. I see your handkerchief is already saturated; will you accept mine?”
Without waiting for a reply, she laid it on the lap of the visitor, and left the room.
Soon after, a servant brought in a basin of water and towels, which she placed on the table, and then, without question or comment, withdrew.
Some time elapsed before Mrs. Gerome re-entered the parlor, bearing a glass of wine in her hand. Miss Dexter had bathed her face, and, looking up, she saw that the gray hair had been carefully coiled and fastened, and the flowing merino belted at the waist; but the brow wore its heavy cloud, and the arch of the lip had not unbent.
“I hope you are better. Permit me to insist upon your taking this wine.”
She proffered it, but the governess shook her head, and tears ran down her cheeks, as she said,—
“Thank you,—but I do not require it; indeed I could not swallow it.”
The hostess bowed, and, placing the glass within her reach, walked to the window which looked out on the marble mausoleum, and stood leaning against the cedarn facing.
Five, ten minutes passed, and the silence was only broken by the ticking of the bronze clock on the mantelpiece.
“Evelyn.”
The voice was so sweet, so thrilling, so mournfully pleading, that it might have wooed even stone to pity; but Mrs. Gerome merely glanced over her shoulder, and said, frigidly,—
“Can I in any way contribute to Miss Dexter’s comfort? The servants tell me there is no conveyance waiting for you; but, since you seem too feeble to walk away, my carriage is at your service whenever you wish to return. Shall I order it?”
“No, I will not trouble you. I can walk; and, after a little while, I will go away forever. Evelyn, do you think me utterly unprincipled?”
A moment passed before she was answered.
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“While you are in my house, courtesy forbids the expression of my opinion of your character.”
“Oh, Evelyn, my darling! God knows I have not merited this harshness, this cruelty from your dear hands. Eight tedious, miserable years I have searched and prayed for you,—have clung to the hope of finding you, of telling you all,—of hearing your precious lips utter those words for which my ears have so long ached, ‘Edith, I hold you guiltless of my wretchedness.’ But at last, when my search is successful, to be browbeaten, derided, denounced, insulted,—oh, this is bitter indeed! This is too hard to be borne!”
Her anguish was uncontrollable, and she sobbed aloud.
Across Mrs. Gerome’s white lips crept a quiver, and over her frozen features rose an unwonted flush; but she did not move a muscle, or suffer her eyes to wander from the cross and crown on Elsie’s tomb.
“Evelyn, I believe, I hope (and may God forgive me if I sin in hoping), that I have not many years, or perhaps even months to live; and it would comfort me in my dying hour to feel that I had laid before you some facts, of which I know you must be ignorant. You have harshly and unjustly prejudged me,—have steeled yourself against me; still I wish to tell you some things that weigh heavily upon my aching, desolate heart. Will you allow me to do so now? Will you hear me?”
There was evidently a struggle in the mind of the motionless woman beside the window, but it was brief, and left no trace in the cold, ringing voice.
“I will hear you.”
Slowly and impressively the governess began the narrative, of which she had given Dr. Grey a hastyrésumé, and when she mentioned the midnight labors in which she had engaged, the copying of legal documents, the sale of her drawings, the hoarding of her salary in order to aid her mother and her betrothed, and to remove the obstacles to her marriage, Mrs. Gerome sat down, and, crossing her arms on the window-sill, hid her face upon them.
Unflinchingly Miss Dexter detailed all that occurred after419her arrival in New York; and finally, approaching the window, she insisted that her listener should peruse the last letter received from her lover, and containing the promise that within ten days he would come to claim his bride. But the lovely hand waved it aside, and the proud voice exclaimed impatiently,—
“I need no additional proof of his perfidy, which, beyond controversy, was long ago established. Go on! go on!”
Upon all that followed the ceremony,—the departure of the wife,—and her own despairing grief, the governess dwelt with touching eloquence and pathos; and, at last, as she spoke of her fruitless journey to England,—her sad search through the insane asylums,—Mrs. Gerome lifted her queenly head, and bent a piercing glance upon the speaker.
Ah! what a hungry, eager expression looked out shyly from her whilom hopeless eyes, when, with an imperious gesture, she silenced her visitor, and asked,—
“You spent your hard earnings, not introusseau, or preparations for housekeeping; but hunting for me in lunatic asylums? Suppose you had found me in a mad-house?”
“Then I should have become an inmate of the same gloomy walls; and, while you lived, should have shared with faithful Elsie the care and charge of you. God is my witness, I had resolved to dedicate my remaining years to the task of cheering and guarding yours. Oh, Evelyn! not until we stand in the great Court of Heaven can you realize how sincerely, how tenderly, and unwaveringly, I love you. My darling, how can you distrust my faithful heart?”
She sank on her knees, and, throwing her arms around the tall, slender form, looked with mournful, beseeching tenderness at the haughty features above her.
For a moment the proud, pale face glowed,—the great shadowy eyes kindled and shone like wintry planets in some crystalline sky; but doubt, murderous, cynical doubt, grappled with hope, and strangled it.
“Edith, I wish I could believe you. I am struggling desperately to lay hold of the fluttering garments of faith, but I cannot! Suspicion has walked hand in hand with me so420long that I cannot shake off her numbing touch, and I distrust all human things, save the dusty heart that moulders yonder in my old Elsie’s grave.”
She pointed to the white columns of the temple, and then the uplifted fingers fell heavily on Edith’s shoulder.
“Go on. I wish to learn whose treachery betrayed the secret of my retreat.”
Pressing her feverish lips to the hand she admired so enthusiastically, Miss Dexter resumed her recital of what had occurred since her journey to London, and finally ended it with an account of her removal to ‘Grassmere,’ and of the discovery of the miniatures that guided her to ‘Solitude.’
A long pause followed, and a heavy sigh, only partially smothered, indexed the contest that raged under Mrs. Gerome’s calm exterior.
“Edith, would you have inferred from Dr. Grey’s manner that he was not only acquainted with my history, but yours, at least, so far as it intersected mine? Did he furnish no hint, no clew, that aided you in your search?”
“None whatever. On the contrary, he appeared so preoccupied, so abstracted, that I reproached him with indifference to my troubles. It is not possible that he knew all, while I briefly summed up a portion of the past.”
“At that moment he was thoroughly cognizant of everything that I could tell him. But, at least, one honorable, trustworthy man yet graces the race; one pure, incorruptible, and consistent Christian remains to shed lustre upon a church that can nowhere boast his peer. I confided all to Dr. Grey, and he has kept the trust. Ah, Edith, if you had only reposed the same confidence in me, during those halcyon days of our early friendship,—days that seem to me now as far off, as dim and unreal, as those starry nights when I lay in my little crib, dreaming of that mother whose face I never saw, whose smile is one of the surprises and blessings reserved for eternity,—how different my lot and yours might have been! Why did you not trust me with your happy hopes, your lover’s name and difficulties? How differently I would have invested that fortune, which proved our common ruin,421and doomed three lives to uselessness and woe. To-day you might have proudly worn the name that I utterly detest; and I, the outcast, the wanderer, the tireless, friendless waif, drifting despairingly down the tide of time,—even I, the unloved, might have been, not a solitary cumberer, not a household upas,—but why taunt the hideous Actual with a blessed and beautiful Impossible? Ah, truly, truly,—
“‘Whatmight have been, I know, is not:What must be, must be borne;But ah! what hath been will not be forgot,Never, oh! never, in the years to follow!’”
She closed her eyes and seemed pondering the past, and mutely the governess prayed that hallowed memories of their former affection might soften her apparently petrified heart.
Edith saw a great change overspread the countenance, but could not accurately interpret its import; and her own heart began to beat the long-roll.
The heavy black eyelashes lying on Mrs. Gerome’s marble cheeks glistened, trembled, and tears stole slowly across her face. She raised her hand, but dropped it in her lap, and frowned slightly and sighed. Then she lifted it once more, and looking through the shining mist that magnified her splendid eyes, she laid her fingers on the golden head of the kneeling woman.
“You and I have innocently wronged and ruined each other; you with your beauty, I with my accursed gold. Time was when at your bidding I would have laid my throbbing heart at your feet, provided I could thereby save you one pang; for I loved you as women very rarely love one another. But now, lonely and hopeless, I have lost the power, the capacity to love anything, and I have no heart left in my bosom. I acquit you of much for which I formerly held you responsible, and I honor the purity of purpose that forbade your receiving the visits or letters of him who must one day answer for our worthless lives. I fully forgive you the suffering that made me prematurely old; but my affection is as dead as all my girlish hopes, and buried under the crushing years that422have dragged themselves over my poor, proud, pain-bleached head. You are more fortunate, more enviable than I, for you have the comforting anticipation of a speedy release, the precious assurance that your torture will ere long be ended; while I must front the prospect of perhaps fourscore and ten years: for, despite my ivory skin and fever-blanched locks, I am maddeningly healthy. Friend of my childhood, friend of my happy, sunny, sinless days, I cordially congratulate you on your approaching deliverance. God knows I would pay you my fortune, if I could innocently and successfully inject into my veins and lungs the poison that will soon rob you of care and regret. If I was harsh to-day, forgive and forget it, for nothing rankles in the grave; and now, Edith, go away quickly, before I repent and recant the words I here utter. God comfort you, Edith Dexter, and remember that I hold you guiltless of my wrecked destiny.”
“Oh, Evelyn! add one thing more. Say, ‘Edith, I love you.’”
A strangely mournful smile parted Mrs. Gerome’s perfect lips over her dazzling teeth, as she pushed the kneeling figure from her, and said coldly,—
“Rise, and leave me. I love no living thing, brute or human, for even my faithful dog lies buried a few yards hence. Maurice treated my warm, loving nature, as Tofana did her unsuspecting victims, and for that slow poison there is no antidote. The sole interest I have in life centres in my art, and when death mercifully remembers me, some pictures I have patiently wrought out will be given to the public; and the next generation will, perhaps,—
‘Hear the world applaud the hollow ghost,Which blamed the living woman,’
and, smiling grimly in my coffin, I shall echo,—
‘Hither to come, and to sleep,Under the wings of renown.’”
Both rose, and the two so long divided faced each other sorrowfully.
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“Dear Evelyn, do not hug despair so stubbornly to your bosom. You might brighten your solitary existence if you would, and be comparatively happy in this lovely seaside home.”
“You think ‘Solitude’ a very desirable and beautiful retreat? Do you remember the gay raiment and glittering jewels that covered the radiant bride of Giacopone di Todi? One day an accident at a public festival mangled her mortally, and when her gorgeous garments were torn off, lo!
‘A robe of sackcloth next the smooth, white skin.’”
A sudden pallor crept over the delicate face of the governess, and, folding her hands, she exclaimed with passionate vehemence,—
“I cannot, I must not shrink from the chief object of my visit here. I came not only to exonerate myself, but to plead for poor Maurice.”
Mrs. Gerome started back, and the pitiless gleam came instantly into her softened eyes.
“Do not mention his name again. I thought you had neither seen nor heard from him.”
“I must plead his wretched cause, since he is denied the privilege of appealing to your mercy. Evelyn, my friends write me that he is almost in a state of destitution. Only last night I received this letter, which I leave for your perusal, and which assures me he is in want, and, moreover, is dangerously ill. Who has the right, the privilege,—whose is the duty, imperative and stern, to hasten to his bedside, to alleviate his suffering, to provide for his needs? Yours, Evelyn Carlyle, and yours alone. Where are the marriage-vows that you snatched from my lips eight years ago, and eagerly took upon your own? Did you not solemnly swear in the presence of heaven and earth to serve him and keep him in sickness, and, forsaking all others, to hold him from that day forward, for better, for worse, until death did part ye? Oh, Evelyn! do not scowl, and turn away. However unworthy, he is your husband in the sight of God and man, and your wedding424oath calls you to him in this hour of his terrible need. Can you sleep peacefully, knowing that he is tossing with paroxysms of pain, and perhaps hungering and thirsting for that which you could readily supply? If it were right,—if I dared, I would hasten to him; but my conscience inexorably forbids the thought, and consigns my heart to torture, for which there is no name. You will tell me that you provided once, twice, for all reasonable wants,—that he has recklessly squandered liberal allowances. But will that satisfy your conscience, while you still possess ample means to aid him? Will you permit the man whose name you bear to live on other charity than your own,—and finally, to fill a pauper’s grave? Oh, Evelyn! was it for this that you took my darling, my idol, from my clinging, loving arms? Will you see his body writhing in the agony of disease, and his precious, immortal soul in fearful jeopardy, while you stand afar off, surrounded by every luxury that ingenuity can suggest, and gold purchase? Oh, Evelyn! be merciful; do your duty. Like a brave, true, though injured woman, go to Maurice, and strive to make him comfortable; to lighten, by your pardon, his sad, heavily laden heart. By your past, your memories of your betrothal, your hopes of heaven, and above all, by your marriage vows, I implore you to discharge your sacred duties.”
A bitter smile twisted the muscles about Mrs. Gerome’s mouth, as she gazed into the quivering, eloquent face of her companion, and listened to the impetuous appeal that poured so pathetically over her burning lips.
“Edith, you amaze me. Is it possible that after all your injuries you can cling so fondly, so madly, to the man who slighted, and humiliated, and blighted you?”
“Ah! you are his wife, and I am the ridiculed and pitied victim of his flirtation, so says the world; but my affection outlives yours. Evelyn, I have loved him from the time when I can firstrecollect; I loved him with a deathless devotion that neither his unworthiness, nor time, nor eternity can conquer; and to-day, I tell you that he is dear to me,—dear to me as some precious corpse, over which a gravestone has gathered moss for eight weary, dreary years. The angels in425heaven would not blush for the feeling in my heart towards Maurice Carlyle; and the God who must soon judge me will not condemn the pure and sacred love I cherish for the only man who could ever have been my husband, but whom I have resolutely refused to see, even when the world believed you dead. I cannot go to him, and comfort, and provide for him now; but, in the name of God, and your oath, and if not for your own sake, at least for his and for mine, I ask you once more, Evelyn Carlyle, will you hasten to your erring but unhappy husband?”
Her scarlet cheeks and lips, her glowing brown eyes, and waving yellow hair, formed a singular contrast to the colorless, cold face of her listener; whose steely gaze was fixed on the distant sea, that lay like a beryl mirror beneath the hazy sky.
When the sound of the sweet but strained voice had died away, Mrs. Gerome turned her eyes towards the governess, and answered,—
“I will do my duty, no matter how revolting.”
“Thank God! When will you go?”
“If at all, at once.”
“Evelyn, when you come home, will you not let me see you, now and then, and win my way back to my old place in your dear heart? Oh! my pale, peerless darling, do not deny me this.”
“Home? I have no home. My heart is grayer than my head,—and your old niche is full of dust, and skeletons, and murdered hopes. Let me see you no more in this world; and perhaps in the Everlasting Rest I shall forget my hideous past, which your face recalls.”
“Oh, my poor bruised darling! do not banish me,” wailed the governess, endeavoring to fold her arms about the queenly form, which silently but effectually held her back.
“At least, dear Evelyn, let me kiss you once more, in token that you cherish no bitterness against me.”
“Good-by, Edith. I hold you innocent of my injuries. May God help you, and call us both speedily to our dreamless sleep under moss and marble.”
426
She bent down, and with firm, icy lips, lightly touched the forehead of the governess, and walked away, unheeding the burst of tears with which the frigid caress was welcomed.
“And I think, in the lives of most women and men,There’s a moment when all would go smooth and even,If only the dead could find out whenTo come back, and be forgiven.”
CHAPTER XXXI.
“Madam, are you aware that you breathe an infected atmosphere?—that this building is assigned to small-pox cases? Pray do not cross the threshold.”
The superintendent of the hospital laid aside his pipe, and advanced to meet the stranger whose knock had startled him from apost-prandialdoze.
“I am not afraid of contagion, and came to see the patient who was brought here yesterday from No. 139 Elm Street.”
“Have you a permit to visit here?”
“Yes; you will find it on this paper, given me by the proper authorities.”
“What is the name of the person you desire to see?”
The superintendent opened a book that lay on the table beside him, and drew his finger up and down the page.
“Maurice Carlyle.”
“Ah, yes,—I have it now. Maurice Carlyle, Ward 3,—cot No. 7. Madam, may I ask,—”
“No, sir; I have no inclination to answer idle questions. Will you show me the way, or shall I find it?”
“Certainly, I will conduct you; but I was about to remark that a death has just occurred in Ward No. 3, and I am under the impression that it was the Elm Street case. Madam, you look faint; shall I bring you a glass of water?”
“No. Show me the body of the dead.”
“This way, if you please.”
He walked down a dim, low-vaulted passage, and paused at427the entrance of a room lined with cots, where the nurse was slowly passing from patient to patient.
“Nurse, show this lady to cot No. 7.”
Swiftly the tall figure of the visitor glided down the room, and placing her hand on the arm of the nurse, she said huskily,—
“Where is the man who has just died? Quick! do not keep me in suspense.”
“There, to the right; shall I uncover the face?”
Under the blue check coverlet that was spread smoothly over the cot, the stiff outlines of a human form were clearly defined; and, when the nurse stooped, the stranger put out one arm and held him back, while her whole frame trembled violently.
“Stop! be good enough to leave me.”
The attendant withdrew a few yards, and curiously watched the queenly woman, who stood motionless, with her fingers tightly interlaced.
She was dressed in a gray suit of some shining fabric, and a long gossamer veil of the same hue hung over her features. After a few seconds she swept back the veil, and, as she bent forward, a stray sunbeam dipped through the closed shutters, and flashed across a white horror-stricken face, crowned with clustering braids of silver hair.
She shut her eyes an instant, grasped the coverlet, and drew it down; then caught her breath, and looked at the dead.
It was a young, boyish face, horribly swollen and distorted, and coarse red locks were matted around his brow and temples.
“Thank God, Maurice Carlyle still lives.”
She involuntarily raised her hands towards heaven, and the expression of dread melted from her countenance.
Slowly and reverently she re-covered the corpse, and approached the nurse.
“I am searching for my husband. Which cot is No. 7?”
“That on your left,—next to the dead.”
Mrs. Carlyle turned, and gazed at the bloated crimson mass of disease that writhed on the narrow bed, and a long shudder crept over her, as she endeavored to discover in that loathsome428hideous visage some familiar feature—some trace of the manly beauty that once rendered it so fascinating.
The swollen blood-shot eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling, and, while delirious muttering fell upon the ears of the visitor, she saw that his cheeks were somewhat lacerated, and his hands, partially confined, were tearing at the inflamed flesh.
She shivered with horror, and a groan broke from her pitying heart.
“What an awful retribution! My God, have mercy upon him! He is sufficiently punished.”
Drawing her perfumed lace handkerchief from her pocket, she leaned over and wiped away the bloody foam that oozed across his lips, and lifting his hot head turned it sufficiently to expose the right ear, where a large mole was hidden by the thick hair.
“Maurice Carlyle! But what a fearful wreck?”
She covered her eyes with her hand, and moaned.
The nurse came nearer, and said hesitatingly,—
“Madam, surely he is not your husband? His clothes are almost in tatters, while yours are—ahem!—”
“Spare me all comments on the comparison. Can I obtain a comfortable, quiet room, in this building, and have him removed to it at once? You hesitate? I will compensate you liberally, will pay almost any price for an apartment where he can at least have silence and seclusion.”
“We can accommodate you, but of course if the patient is carried from this ward to a private room, we shall be compelled to charge extra.”
“Charge what you choose, only arrange the matter as promptly as possible. How soon can you make the change?”
“In twenty minutes, madam.”
The nurse rang for an assistant, to whom the necessary instructions were given, and in theinterimMrs. Carlyle leaned against the cot, and brushed away the flies that buzzed about the pitiable victims.
Two men carried the sufferer up a flight of steps, and ere long he was transferred to a large comfortable bed in an airy, well-furnished apartment.