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The removal had not been completed more than an hour, when the surgeon made his evening round, and followed the patient to his new quarters.
He paused at sight of the elegantly dressed woman who sat beside the bed, and said, stammeringly,—
“I am informed that No. 7 is your husband, and that you have taken charge of his case, and intend to nurse him. Have you had small-pox?”
“No, sir.”
“Madam, you run a fearful risk.”
“I fully appreciate the hazard, and am prepared to incur it. Do you regard this case as hopeless?”
“Not altogether, though the probabilities are that it will terminate fatally.”
“I have had too little experience to warrant my undertaking the management of the case, and, while I intend to remain here, I wish you to engage the services of some trustworthy nurse who understands the treatment of this disease. Can you recommend such a person?”
“Yes, madam; I can send you a man in whom I have entire confidence, and fortunately he is not at present employed. If you desire it, I will see him within the next hour, and give him all requisite instructions about the patient.”
“Promptness in this matter will greatly oblige me, and I wish to spare no expense in contributing to the comfort and restoration of the sufferer. As I am utterly unknown to you, I prefer to place in your hands a sufficient amount to defray all incidental expenditures.”
She laid a roll of bills upon the table, and as Dr. Clingman counted them, she added,—
“It is possible that I may be attacked by this disease, though I have been repeatedly vaccinated; and if I should die, please recollect that you will find in my purse a memorandum of the disposition I wish made of my body,—also the address of my agent and banker in New York City.”
With mingled curiosity and admiration the physician looked at the pale, handsome woman, who spoke of death as coldly430and unconcernedly as of to-morrow’s sun, or next month’s moon.
“Madam, allow me to ask if you have no friends in this city,—no relatives nearer than New York?”
“None, sir. It is my wish that our conversation should be confined to the symptoms and treatment of your patient.”
Dr. Clingman bowed, and, after writing minute instructions upon a sheet of paper left on the mantelpiece, took his departure.
Securing the door on the inside, Mrs. Carlyle threw aside her bonnet and wrappings, and came back to the sufferer on the bed.
Eight years of reckless excess and dissipation had obliterated every vestige of manly beauty from features that disease now rendered loathsome, and the curling hair and long beard were unkempt and grizzled.
Leaning against the pillow, the lonely woman bent over to scrutinize the distorted, burning face, and softly took into her cool palms one hot and swollen hand, which in other days she had admiringly stroked, and tenderly pressed against her cheek and lips. How totally unlike that countenance, which, handsome as Apollyon, had looked down at her on her bridal day, and fondly whispered—“my wife.”
Memory mercilessly broke open sealed chambers in that wretched woman’s heart, and out of one leaped a wail that made her tremble and moan,—“Oh, Evelyn, my wife, forgive your husband.”
Slowly compassion began to bridge the dark gulf of separation and hate, and as the wife gazed at the writhing form of her husband, her stony face softened, and tears gathered in the large, mournful eyes.
“Ah, Maurice! This world has proved a huge cheat to you and to me,—and well-nigh cost us all peace in the next one. My husband, yet my bitterest foe,—my first, my last, my only love! If I could recall one throb of the old affection, one atom of the old worshipping tenderness and devotion,—but it has withered; my heart is scorched and ashen,—and neither love nor hope haunts its desolate ruins. Poor, polluted,431down-trodden idol! Maurice—Maurice—my husband, I have come. Evelyn, your wife, forgives you, as she hopes for pardon at the hands of her God.”
Kneeling beside the bed, with her snowy fingers clasped around his, she bowed her head, and humbly prayed for his soul, and for her own; and, when the petition ended, that peace which this world can never give,—which had so long been exiled, fluttered back and brooded once more in her storm-riven heart.
Softly she lifted and smoothed the long tangled hair that clung to his forehead, and tears dripped upon his scarlet face, as she said; brokenly,—
“Till death us do part!Poor Maurice! Deserted and despised by your former parasites. After long years, my vows bring me back in the hour of your need. God grant you life, to redeem your past,—to save your sinful soul from eternal ruin.”
Suns rose and set, weary days and solemn nights of vigil succeeded each other, and tirelessly the wife and hired nurse watched the progress of the dreadful disease. Occasionally Mr.Carlyletalked deliriously, and more than once the name of Edith Dexter hung on his lips, and was coupled with tenderer terms than were ever bestowed on the woman who wore his own. Bending over his pillow, the pale watcher heard and noted all, and a sad pitying smile curved her mouth now and then, as she realized that the one holy love of this man’s life triumphed over the wreck of fortune, health, and hope, and kept its hold upon the heart that long years before had sold itself to Lucifer.
Sleeplessly, faithfully, she went to and fro in that darkened room, whose atmosphere was tainted by infection, and at last she found her reward. The crisis was safely passed, and she was assured the patient would recover.
The apartment was so dimly lighted that Mr. Carlyle took little notice of his attendants, but one afternoon when the nurse had gone to procure some refreshments, the sick man turned on his pillow, and looked earnestly at the woman who was engaged in writing at a table near the bed.
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“Mrs. Smith.”
Mrs. Carlyle rose and approached him.
“Are you Mrs. Smith,—my landlady?”
“No, sir. I am merely your nurse.”
“My nurse? What is the matter with me?”
“Small-pox,—but the danger is now over.”
“Small-pox! Where did I catch it? Am I still in Elm Street?”
“No, sir; you are in the hospital.”
Shading his inflamed eyes with his hand, he mused for some moments, and she saw a perplexed and sorrowful expression cross his features.
“Is there any danger of my dying?”
“That danger is past.”
“What is your name?”
“Mrs. Gerome.”
“Stand a little closer to me. I find I am almost blind. Mrs. Gerome? Your voice is strangely like one that I have not heard for many years,—and it carries me back,—back—to—” He sighed, and pressed his fingers over his eyes.
After a few seconds, he said,—
“Do give me some water. I am as parched as Dives.”
She lifted his head and put the glass to his lips,—and while he drank, his eyes searched her face, and lingered admiringly on her beautiful hand.
“Are you a regular nurse at this hospital?”
“I am engaged for your case.”
“I see no pock-marks on your skin; it is as smooth as ivory. Shall I escape aslightly?”
“It is impossible to tell. Here comes your dinner.”
He caught her arm, and gazed earnestly at her.
“Is your hair really so white, or is it merely an illusion of my inflamed eyes?”
“There is not a dark hair in my head; it is as white as snow.”
While the nurse prepared the food and arranged it on the table, Mrs. Carlyle hastily collected several articles scattered about the apartment, and softly opened the door.
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Standing there a moment, she looked back at the figure comfortably elevated on pillows, and a long sigh of relief crossed her lips.
“Thank God! I have done my duty, and now he needs me no longer. Next time I see your face, Maurice Carlyle, I hope it will be at the last bar, in the final judgment; and then may the Lord have mercy upon us both.”
The words were breathed inaudibly, and, closing the door gently, she hurried down the steps and in the direction of a small room which Dr. Clingman had converted into an office.
As she entered, he looked up and pushed back his spectacles.
“What can I do for you?”
“A little thing, which will cost you no trouble, but will greatly oblige me. Doctor, I have found you a kind and sympathizing gentleman, and am grateful for the delicate consideration with which you have treated me. Mr. Carlyle is beyond danger, and I shall leave him in your care. When he is sufficiently strong to be removed, I desire that you will give him this letter, which contains a check payable to his order. There, examine it, and be so good as to write me a receipt.”
Silently he complied, and when she had re-enclosed the check and sealed the envelope she placed it in his hand.
“Dr. Clingman, is there any other place to which small-pox cases can be carried? To-day I have discovered some symptoms of the disease in my own system, and I feel assured I shall be ill before this time to-morrow.”
“My dear madam, why not remain here?”
“Because I do not wish to be discovered by Mr. Carlyle, and forced to meet him again. I prefer to suffer, and, if need be, die, alone and unknown.”
“If you will trust yourself to me, and to a faithful female nurse whom I can secure, I promise you, upon my honor as a gentleman, that I will allow no one else to see you, living or dead. My dear madam, I beg you to reconsider, and remain where I can watch over, and perhaps preserve your life. I dreaded this. You are feverish now.”
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Wearily she swept her hand across her forehead, and a dreary smile flitted over her wan features.
“My life is a worthless, melancholy thing, useless to others, and a crushing burden to me; and I might as well lay it down here as elsewhere. I accept your promise, Dr. Clingman, and hope you will obtain a room in the quiet and secluded portion of the building. If I should be so fortunate as to die, do not forget the memorandum in this purse. I leave my body in your care, my soul in the hands of Him who alone can give it rest.”
“The burden of my days is hard to bear,But God knows best;And I have prayed,—but vain has been my prayer,—For rest—for rest.”
CHAPTER XXXII.
“Miss Dexter, have you succeeded in seeing Mrs. Gerome since her return?”
“No, sir; she obstinately refuses to admit me, though I have called twice at the house. Yesterday I received a letter in answer to several that I have addressed to her, all of which she returned unopened. Since you have already learned so much of our melancholy history, why should I hesitate to acquaint you with the contents of her letter? You know the object of her journey north, and I will read you the result.”
The governess drew a letter from her pocket, and Dr. Grey leaned his face on his hand and listened.
“Solitude,May 10th, 18—.“Edith,—No lingering vestige of affection, no remorseful tenderness, prompted that mission from which I have recently returned, and only the savage scourgings of implacable duty could have driven me, like a galley-slave, to my hated task. The victim of a horrible and disfiguring disease which so435completely changed his countenance that his own mother would scarcely have recognized him,—and the tenant of a charity hospital in the town of ——, I found that man who has proved the Upas of your life and of mine. During his delirium I watched and nursed him—not lovingly (how could I?) but faithfully, kindly, pityingly. When all danger was safely passed, and his clouded intellect began to clear itself, I left him in careful hands, and provided an ample amount for his comfortable maintenance in coming years. I spared him the humiliation of recognizing in his nurse his injured and despised wife; and, as night after night I watched beside the pitiable wreck of a once handsome, fascinating, and idolized man, I fully and freely forgave Maurice Carlyle all the wrongs that so completely stranded my life. To-day he is well, and probably happy, while he finds himself possessed of means by which to gratify his extravagant tastes; but how long his naturally fine constitution can hold at bay the legion of ills that hunt like hungry wolves along the track of reckless dissipation, God only knows.“For some natures it is exceedingly difficult to forgive,—to forget, impossible; and while my husband’s abject wretchedness and degradation disarmed the hate that has for so many years rankled in my heart, I could never again look willingly upon his face. Edith, you and I have nothing in common but miserable memories, which, I beg you to believe, are sufficiently vivid, without the torturing adjunct of your countenance; therefore, pardon me if I decline to receive your visits, and return the letters that are quite as welcome and cheering to my eyes as the little shoes and garments of the long-buried dead to the mother, who would fain look no more upon the harrowing relics. I do not wish to be harsh, but I must be honest, and our intercourse can never be renewed in this world.“In bygone days, when I loved you so fondly and trusted you so fully, it was my intention to share my fortune with you; and, since I find that you have not forfeited my confidence in the purity of your purposes, such is still my wish. I enclose a draft on my banker, which I hope you will deem436sufficient to enable you to abandon the arduous profession in which you have worn out your life. If I can feel assured that I have been instrumental in contributing to the peace and ease of the years that may yet be in store for you, it will serve as one honeyed drop to sweeten the dregs of the cup of woe I am draining. Edith, do not refuse the only aid I can offer you in your loneliness; and accept the earnest assurance that I shall be grateful for the privilege of promoting your comfort. Affection and trust I have not, and a few paltry thousands are all I am now able to bestow. By the love you once professed, and in the name of that compassion you should feel for me, I beg of you, despise not the gift; and let the consciousness that I have saved you from toil and fatigue quiet the soul and ease the heart of a lonely woman, who has shaken hands with every earthly hope. I have done my duty, my conscience is calm and contented, and I sit wearily on the stormy shore of time, waiting for the tide that will drift into eternity the desolate, proud soul of“Vashti Carlyle.”
“Solitude,May 10th, 18—.
“Edith,—No lingering vestige of affection, no remorseful tenderness, prompted that mission from which I have recently returned, and only the savage scourgings of implacable duty could have driven me, like a galley-slave, to my hated task. The victim of a horrible and disfiguring disease which so435completely changed his countenance that his own mother would scarcely have recognized him,—and the tenant of a charity hospital in the town of ——, I found that man who has proved the Upas of your life and of mine. During his delirium I watched and nursed him—not lovingly (how could I?) but faithfully, kindly, pityingly. When all danger was safely passed, and his clouded intellect began to clear itself, I left him in careful hands, and provided an ample amount for his comfortable maintenance in coming years. I spared him the humiliation of recognizing in his nurse his injured and despised wife; and, as night after night I watched beside the pitiable wreck of a once handsome, fascinating, and idolized man, I fully and freely forgave Maurice Carlyle all the wrongs that so completely stranded my life. To-day he is well, and probably happy, while he finds himself possessed of means by which to gratify his extravagant tastes; but how long his naturally fine constitution can hold at bay the legion of ills that hunt like hungry wolves along the track of reckless dissipation, God only knows.
“For some natures it is exceedingly difficult to forgive,—to forget, impossible; and while my husband’s abject wretchedness and degradation disarmed the hate that has for so many years rankled in my heart, I could never again look willingly upon his face. Edith, you and I have nothing in common but miserable memories, which, I beg you to believe, are sufficiently vivid, without the torturing adjunct of your countenance; therefore, pardon me if I decline to receive your visits, and return the letters that are quite as welcome and cheering to my eyes as the little shoes and garments of the long-buried dead to the mother, who would fain look no more upon the harrowing relics. I do not wish to be harsh, but I must be honest, and our intercourse can never be renewed in this world.
“In bygone days, when I loved you so fondly and trusted you so fully, it was my intention to share my fortune with you; and, since I find that you have not forfeited my confidence in the purity of your purposes, such is still my wish. I enclose a draft on my banker, which I hope you will deem436sufficient to enable you to abandon the arduous profession in which you have worn out your life. If I can feel assured that I have been instrumental in contributing to the peace and ease of the years that may yet be in store for you, it will serve as one honeyed drop to sweeten the dregs of the cup of woe I am draining. Edith, do not refuse the only aid I can offer you in your loneliness; and accept the earnest assurance that I shall be grateful for the privilege of promoting your comfort. Affection and trust I have not, and a few paltry thousands are all I am now able to bestow. By the love you once professed, and in the name of that compassion you should feel for me, I beg of you, despise not the gift; and let the consciousness that I have saved you from toil and fatigue quiet the soul and ease the heart of a lonely woman, who has shaken hands with every earthly hope. I have done my duty, my conscience is calm and contented, and I sit wearily on the stormy shore of time, waiting for the tide that will drift into eternity the desolate, proud soul of
“Vashti Carlyle.”
Tears rolled over the governess’ cheeks, and, refolding the letter, she said, sorrowfully,—
“My poor, heart-broken Vashti! She has resumed the name which old Elsie gave her because it was her mother’s; and how mournfully appropriate it has proved. I could be happy if permitted to spend the residue of my days with her; but she decrees otherwise, and I have no alternative but submission to her imperious will.”
Dr. Grey did not lift his face where the shadow of a great, voiceless grief hung heavily, and his low tone indexed deep and painful emotion, when he answered,—
“I sincerely deplore her unfortunate decision, for isolation only augments the ills from which she suffers. Many months have elapsed since I saw her last, but Robert Maclean told me to-day that she was sadly changed in appearance, and seemed in feeble health. She did not tell you that she had been dangerously ill with varioloid, contracted while437nursing her husband. Although not in the least marked or disfigured, the attack must have seriously impaired her constitution, if all that Robert tells me be true. Since her return, one month ago, she has not left her room.”
“Dr. Grey, exert your influence in my behalf, and prevail upon her to admit me.”
“Miss Dexter, you ascribe to me powers of persuasion which, unfortunately, I do not possess; and Mrs. Carlyle’s decree is beyond the reach of human agency. To the few who are earnestly interested in her welfare, there remains but one avenue of aid and comfort,—faithful, fervent prayer.”
“Perhaps you are not aware of the exalted estimate she places on your character, nor of the value she attaches to your opinions. Of all living beings, she told me she reverenced and trusted you most; and you, at least, would not be denied access to her presence.”
She could not see the tremor on his usually firm lips, nor the pallor that overspread his face, and when he spoke his grave voice did not betray the tumult in his aching heart.
“I am no longer a visitor at ‘Solitude,’ and shall not see its mistress unless she requires my professional aid. While I am very deeply interested in her happiness, I could never consent to intrude upon her seclusion.”
“I know my days are numbered, and after a little while I shall sleep well under the ancient cedars that shade the head-stones of my father and mother; but I could die more cheerfully, more joyfully, if Evelyn would only be comforted, and accept some human friendship.”
“For some weeks you have seemed so much better that I hoped warm weather would quite relieve and invigorate you. Spend next winter in Cuba or Mexico, and it will probably add many months, possibly years, to your life.”
She smiled, and shook her head.
“This beautiful springtime has temporarily baffled the disease, but for me there can be no restoration. Day by day I feel the ebbing of strength and energy, and the approach of my deliverer, death; but I realize also, what the Centaur uttered to Melampus, ‘I decline unto my last days438calm as the setting of the constellations; but I feel myself perishing and passing quickly away, like a snow-wreath floating on the stream.’”
As he looked at the thin, pure face where May sunshine streamed warm and bright, and marked the perfect peace that brooded over the changed features, Dr. Grey was reminded of the lines that might have been written for her, so fully were they suited to her case,—
“I saw that one who lost her love in pain,Who trod on thorns, who drank the loathsome cup;The lost in night, in day was found again;The fallen was lifted up.They stood together in the blessed noon,They sang together through the length of days;Each loving face bent sunwards, like a moonNew-lit with love and praise.”
“My friend, the shadows are passing swiftly from your life, and, in the mild radiance of its close, you can well afford to forget the storms that clouded its dawn.”
“Forget? No, Dr. Grey, I neither endeavor nor desire to forget the sorrows that first taught me the emptiness of earthly things, the futility of human schemes,—that snapped the frail reed of flesh to which I clung, and gave me, instead, the blessed support, the immovable arm of an everlasting God. Ah! that woman was deeply versed in the heart-lore of her own sex, who wrote,—
‘When I remember something which I had,But which is gone, and I must do without,
When I remember something promised me,But which I never had, nor can have now,Because the promiser we no more seeIn countries that accord with mortal vow;When I remember this, I mourn,—but yetMy happier days are not the days when I forget.’”
“If Mrs. Carlyle possessed a tithe of your faith and philosophy,439how serene, how tranquilly useful her future years might prove.”
“In God’s own good time her trials will be sanctified to her eternal peace, and she will one day glide from grief to glory, for she can claim the promise of our Lord, ‘The pure in heart shall see God.’ No purer heart than Vashti Carlyle’s throbs this side of the throne where seraphim and cherubim hover.”
In the brief silence that succeeded, the governess observed the unusually grave and melancholy expression of her companion’s countenance, and asked, timidly,—
“Has anything occurred recently to distress or annoy you? You look depressed.”
“I feel inexpressibly anxious about Salome, concerning whose fate I can learn nothing that is comforting. In reply to my letter, urging him to make every effort to ascertain her locality and condition, Professor V—— writes, that he is now a confirmed invalid, confined to his room, and unable to conduct the search for his missing pupil. She left Palermo on a small vessel bound for Monaco, and her farewell note stated that all attempts to discover her retreat would prove futile, as she was resolved to preserve her incognito, and wished her friends in America to remain in ignorance of her mode of life. Professor V—— surmises that she is in Paris, but gives no good reason for the conjecture, except that she possibly sought the best medical advice for the treatment of her throat and recovery of her voice. His last letter, received yesterday, informed me that one of Salome’s most devoted admirers, a Bostonian of immense wealth, was so deeply grieved by her inexplicable disappearance that he was diligently searching for her in Leghorn and Monaco. She left Palermo alone, and with a comparatively empty purse.”
“Dr. Grey, are you aware of the suspicions which Muriel has long entertained with reference to Mr. Granville’s admiration of Salome, and the efforts of the latter to encourage his attentions?”
“I have very cogent reasons for believing that however440amenable to censure Mr. Granville doubtless is, Muriel’s distrust of Salome is totally unjust. If she were capable of the despicable course my ward is disposed to impute to her, I should cease to feel any interest in her career or fate; but I cherish the conviction that she would scorn to be guilty of conduct so ignoble. Her defects of character I shall neither deny nor attempt to palliate, but I trust her true womanly heart as I trust my own manly honor; and a stern sense of justice to the absent constrains me to vindicate her from Muriel’s hasty and unfounded aspersions. So strong is my faith in Salome’s conscientiousness, so earnest my friendship for her, that since the receipt of Professor V——’s letter I have determined to go immediately to Europe, and if possible discover her retreat. My sister’s adopted child must not and shall not suffer and struggle among strangers, while I live to aid and protect her.”
Miss Dexter rose and laid her thin, feverish hand on his arm, while embarrassment made her voice tremble slightly,—
“I am rejoiced to learn your decision, and God grant you speedy success in your quest. Do not deem me presumptuous or impertinent if, prompted by a sincere desire to see you happy, I venture to say, that he who lightly values the pure, tender, devoted love of such a woman as Salome Owen,—tramples on treasures that would make his life affluent and blessed—that neither gold can purchase nor royalty compel. Under your guidance, moulded by your influence, she would become a noble woman,—of whom any man might justly be proud.”
Fearful that she had already incurred his displeasure, and unwilling to meet his eye, she turned quickly and made her escape through the open door.
In the bright glow of that lovely spring day, the calm face of Ulpian Grey seemed scarcely older than on the afternoon when he came to make the farm his home; and though paler, and ciphered over by the leaden finger of anxiety, it indexed little of the long, fierce strife, that conscience had waged with heart.
Lighter and more impulsive natures expend themselves441in spasmodic and violent ebullitions, but the great deep of this man’s serene character had never stirred, until the one mighty love of his life had lashed it into a tempest that tossed his hopes like sea-froth, and finally engulfed the only rosy dream of wedded happiness that had ever flushed his quiet, solitary, sedate existence.
Having kept his heart in holy subjection to the law of Christ, he did not quail and surrender when the great temptation rose, bearing the banner of insurrection; but sternly and dauntlessly fronted the shock, and kept inviolate the citadel, garrisoned by an invincible and consecrated will.
The yearning tenderness of his strong, tranquil soul, had enfolded Mrs. Carlyle, drawing her more and more into the penetralia of his affection; but from the hour in which he learned her history he had torn away the clinging tendrils of love,—had endeavored to expel her from his heart, and to stifle its wail for the lost idol.
Week after week, month after month, he had driven every day within sight of the blue smoke that curled above the trees at “Solitude,” but never even for an instant checked his horse to gaze longingly towards the Eden whence he had voluntarily exiled himself.
There were hours when his heart ached for the sight of that white face he had loved so madly, and the sound of the mournfully sweet voice,—and his hand trembled at the recollection of the soft, cold, snowy fingers, that once thrilled his palms; but he treated these utterances of his heart as mercilessly as the hunter who cheers his dogs in the chase where the death-cry of the victim rings above bark and halloo.
No wall of division, no sea of separation, would have proved so effectual, so insurmountable, as his own firm resolve that his earthly path should never cross that of one whom God’s statutes had set apart until death annulled the decree. In this torturing ordeal he was strengthened by the conviction that he alone suffered for his folly,—that Mrs. Carlyle was a stranger to feelings that robbed him of sleep, and clouded his days,—that the heaving tide of his devoted love442had broken against her frozen heart as idly as the surges of the sea that die in foam upon the dreary, mysterious ruins of the Serapeon at Pozzuoli.
In the silent watches of the night, as he pondered the brief, beautiful vision that had so completely fascinated him, he reverently thanked God that the woman he loved had never reciprocated his affection, and was not sitting in the ashes of desolation, mourning his absence. Striving to interest himself more and more in Stanley and Jessie, who had become inordinately fond of him, his thoughts continually reverted to Salome, and that subtle sympathy which springs from the “fellow-being,” that makes us “wondrous kind” to those whose pangs are fierce as ours, began faintly and shyly, but surely, to assert itself. A shadowy, intangible self-reproach brooded like a phantom over his generous heart, when, amidst the uncertainty that seemed to overhang the orphan’s fate, he remembered the numberless manifestations of almost idolatrous affection which he had coldly repulsed.
In the earnest interest that day by day deepened in the absent girl, there was no pitiable vanity, no inflated self-love, but a stern realization of the anguish and humiliation that must now be her portion, and a magnanimous eagerness to endeavor to cheer a heart whose severest woes had sprung from his indifference.
More than a year had elapsed, and no letter had ever reached him,—not even a message in her two brief epistles to Stanley, and Dr. Grey missed the bright, perverse element that no longer thwarted him at every turn.
He longed to see the proud, girlish face, with its flashing eyes, and red lips, and the haughty toss of the large, handsome head; and the angry tones of her voice would have been welcome sounds in the house where she had so long tyrannized. To-day, as Ulpian Grey sat in his own little sitting-room, his eyes were fixed on a copy of Rembrandt’sNicholas Tulp, which hung over the mantelpiece; but the mysteries of anatomy no longer riveted his attention, and his thoughts were busy with memories of a fond though wayward girl,443whom his indifference had driven to foreign lands,—to unknown and fearful perils.
Through the windows stole the breath of Salome’s violets, and the sweet, spicy odor of the Belgian honeysuckle that she had planted and twined around the mossy columns that supported the gallery; and with a sigh he closed his eyes, shut out the anatomy of flesh, and began the dissection of emotions.
Could Salome’s radiant face brighten his home, and win his heart from its devouring regret? Would it be possible for him to give her the place whence he had ejected Mrs. Carlyle? Could he ever persuade himself to call that fair, passionate young thing, that capricious, obstinate, maliciously perverse girl,—his wife?
Involuntarily he frowned, for while pity pleaded for the refugee from home and happiness, the man’s honest nature scouted all shams, and he acknowledged to himself that he could never feel the need of her lips or hands,—could never insult her womanhood, or degrade his own nature, by folding to his heart one whose touch possessed no magnetism, whose presence exerted no spell over his home.
Salome, his friend, his adopted sister, he wished to discover, to claim, and restore to the household; but Salome, his wife,—was a monstrous imaginary incubus that appalled and repelled him.
The difficulties that presented themselves at the outset of his search would have discouraged a less resolute temperament, but it was part of his wise philosophy, that—
“We overstate the ills of life. We walk uponThe shadow of hills across a level thrown,And pant like climbers.”
As a pitying older brother, he thought of Salome’s many foibles,—of her noble intentions and ignoble executions,—of her few feeble triumphs, her numerous egregious failures in the line of duty; and loving Christian charity pleaded eloquently for her, whispering to his generous soul, “We know the ships that come with streaming pennons into the444immortal ports; but we know little of the ships that have taken fire on the way thither,—that have gone down at sea.”
What pure friendship could accomplish he would not withhold, and life at the farm was not so attractive now that he felt regret at the prospect of temporary absence.
The disappointment that had so rudely smitten to the earth the one precious hope born of his acquaintance with “Solitude,” had no power to embitter his nature,—to drape the world in drab, or to shroud the future with gloom; and though his noble face was sadder and paler, Christian faith and resignation rang blessed chimes of peace in heart and soul, and made his life a hallowed labor of love for the needy and grief-stricken. To-day, as he sat alone at the south window, he could overlook the fields of “Grassmere,” where the rich promise of golden harvest “filled in all beauty and fulness the emerald cup of the hills,” and the waving grain rippled in light and shade like the billows of some distant sunset sea. Basking in the balmy sunshine, and contemplating his approaching departure for Europe, a sudden longing seized him to look once more on the face of Vashti Carlyle, before he bade farewell to his home.
She was in feeble health, and might not survive his absence, and, moreover, what harm could result from one final visit to “Solitude,”—from a few parting words to its desolate mistress? She had sent a message through Robert, that she would be glad to see Dr. Grey whenever he could find leisure to call, and now hungry heart and soul cried out savagely,—
“Why not? Why not?”
His heavy brows knitted a little, and his mouth grew rigid as iron, but after some moments the lips relaxed, and with a sad, patient smile, he repeated those stirring words of Richter to Herman,—“Suffer like a man the Alp-pressure of fate. Trust yourself upon the broad, shining wings of yourfaith, and make them bear you over the Dead Sea, so as not to fall spiritually dead within.”
“No, no, Ulpian Grey,—keep yourself ‘unspotted from the world.’ Strangle that one temptation which borrows445the garments of an angel of light and mercy, and dogs you, sleeping and waking. I will see her no more till death snaps her fetters, and I can meet her in the presence of God, who alone can know what separation costs me. May He grant her strength to bear her lonely lot, and give me grace to be patient even unto the end, bringing no reproach on the sacred faith I profess.”
It was the final struggle between love and duty, and though the vanquished heart wailed piteously, exultant conscience, like Jupiter of old, triumphantly applauded, “Evan, evoe!”
CHAPTER XXXIII.
“Wanted!—Information of Salome Owen, who will confer a favor on her friends, and secure a handsome legacy by calling at No. — ——.”
“Dr. Grey, for six months this advertisement has appeared every morning in two of the most popular journals in Paris, and as it has elicited no clew to her whereabouts, I am reluctantly compelled to believe that she is no longer in France.”
Mr.Granville refolded the newspaper, and busied himself in filling and lighting his meerschaum.
“By whom was that notice inserted?”
“By M. de Baillu, the agent and banker of Mr. Minge of Boston, who was warmly and sincerely attached to yourprotégée, and earnestly endeavored to marry her. When she left Palermo, Mr. Minge came to this city and solicited my aid in discovering her retreat.”
“Pardon me, but why did he apply to you?”
“Simply because he knew that I was an old acquaintance, and he had seen me with her, when she first came from America.”
“How did you ascertain her presence in Paris?”
“Accidentally; one night, at the opera, whither she accompanied Professor V——, I recognized her, and of course446made myself known. To what shall I ascribe the honor of this rigid cross-questioning?”
“To reasons which I shall very freely give you. But first, permit me to beg that you will resume your narrative at the point where I interrupted you. I wish to learn all that can be told concerning Mr. Minge.”
“He was an elderly man of ordinary appearance, but extraordinary fortune, and seemed completely fascinated by Salome’s beauty. He offered a large reward to the police for any clew that would enable him to discover her, and finally found the physician whom she had consulted with reference to some disease of the throat, which occasioned the loss of her voice. He had prescribed for her several times, but knew nothing of her lodging-place, as she always called at his office; and finally, without assigning any reason, her visits ceased. Mr. Minge redoubled his exertions, and at last found her in one of the hospitals connected with a convent. The Sisters of Charity informed him that one bleak day when the rain was falling drearily, they chanced to see a woman stagger and drop on the pavement before their door, and, hurrying to her assistance, discovered that she had swooned from exhaustion. A bundle of unfinished needlework was hidden under her shawl, and they soon ascertained that she was delirious from some low typhus fever that had utterly prostrated her. For several weeks she was dangerously ill, and was just able to sit up when Mr. Minge discovered her. He told me that it was distressing and painful beyond expression to witness her humiliation, her wounded pride, her defiant rejection of his renewed offer of marriage. One day he took his sister Constance and a minister of the gospel to the hospital, and implored Salome to become his wife, then and there. He said she wept bitterly, and thanked him, thanked his sister also, but solemnly assured him she could never marry any one,—she would sooner starve in the—”
Dr.Grey raised his hand, signalling for silence, and for some moments he leaned his forehead against the chair directly in front of him.
447
Mr. Granville cleared his throat several times, and loosened his neck-tie, which seemed to impede his breathing.
“Shall I go on? There is little more to tell.”
“If you please, Granville.”
“Mr. Minge would not abandon the hope of finally persuading her to accept his hand, but next day when he called to inquire about her health, and to request the sisters to watch her movements, and prevent her escape, he was shocked to learn that she had disappeared the previous night, leaving a few lines written in pencil on a handkerchief, in which she had wrapped her superb suit of hair. They were addressed to the Sisters of Charity, and briefly expressed her gratitude for their kindness in providing for her wants, while she assured them that as soon as possible she would return and compensate them for their services in her behalf. Meantime, knowing the high price of hair, she had carefully cut off her own, which was unusually long and thick, and tendered it in part payment. When she was taken into the building, her nurse found concealed in her dress a very elegant watch, bearing her name in diamond letters, and she requested that the sisters would hold it in pawn, until she was able to redeem it. During her illness, it had been locked up, and they supposed she left it, fearing that an application for it would arouse suspicions of her intended flight. Mr. Minge bought the hair and handkerchief, and, after a liberal remuneration for their care of the invalid, he took charge of the watch, and left his address to be given her when she called for her property. That her mind had become seriously impaired, there can be little doubt, since nothing but insanity can explain her refusal to accept one of the handsomest estates in America. Unfortunately, a few days subsequent to her departure from the hospital, Mr. Minge was taken very violently ill with pneumonia, and died. Conscious of his condition, he prepared a codicil to his will, and bequeathed to Salome twenty-five thousand dollars, and an elegant house and lot in New York City. He exacted from his sister a solemn promise that she would leave no means untried to ferret out the wanderer, to whom he was so devotedly448attached; and, should all efforts fail, at the expiration of five years the legacy should revert to the hospital which had sheltered her in the hour of her destitution. The watch he left with his sister Constance; the hair, he ordered buried with him. Three months have elapsed, and no tidings have reached Miss Minge, who remains in Paris for the purpose of complying with her brother’s dying request.”
“My poor, perverse Salome! To what desperate extremities has she been reduced by her unfortunate wilfulness. Gerard, will you tell me frankly your own conjecture concerning her fate?”
“If alive, I believe she has left Europe.”
“Upon what do you base your supposition?”
“Mr. Minge was convinced that her attachment to some one in America was the insurmountable barrier to his success as a suitor; and, if so, she probably returned to her native land. Dr. Grey, I will speak candidly to you of a matter which has doubtless given you some disquiet. Muriel informs me that you have no confidence in the sincerity of my attachment to her, and that upon that fact is founded your refusal to allow the consummation of our engagement, so long as she continues your ward. I confess I am not free from censure, but, while I have acted weakly, I am not devoid of principle. Sir, I was strangely and powerfully attracted to Salome Owen, and she exerted a species of fascination over me which I scarcely endeavored to resist. In an evil hour, infatuated by her face and her marvellous voice, I was wild enough to offer her my hand, and resolved to ask Muriel to release me. Dr. Grey, even at my own expense, I wish to exonerate Salome, who never for an instant, by word or look, encouraged my madness. She repulsed my advances, refused every attention, and when I rashly uttered words, which, I admit, were treasonable to Muriel, she almost overwhelmed me with her fiery contempt and indignation,—threatening to acquaint Muriel with my inconstancy, and appealing to my honor as a gentleman to keep inviolate my betrothal vows. Dr. Grey, if my heart temporarily wandered from its allegiance to your ward, it was not Salome’s449fault, for in every respect her conduct towards me was that of a noble, unselfish woman, who scorned to gratify her vanity at the expense of another’s happiness. She shamed me out of my folly, and her stern honesty and nobility saved me from a brief and humiliating career of dishonorable duplicity. Whether living or dead, I owe this tribute to the pure character of Salome Owen.”
“Thank Heaven! I had faith in her. I believed her too generous to stoop to a flirtation with the lover of her friend; and, deplorable as was your own weakness, I am rejoiced, Gerard, to find that you have conquered it. Tell Muriel all that you have confided to me, and in her hands we will leave the decision.”
“Do you intend to prosecute the search which has proved so fruitless?”
“I do. She has not returned to America,—she is here somewhere; and, living or dead, I must and will find her.”
Dr. Grey seemed lost in perplexing thought for some time, then drew a sheet of paper before him, and wrote, “Ulpian Grey wishes to see Salome Owen, in order to communicate some facts which will induce her return to her family; and he hopes she will call immediately at No. Rue ——.”
“Gerard, please be so good as to have this inserted in all the leading journals in the city; and give me the address of Mr. Minge’s agent.”
At the expiration of a month, spent in the most diligent yet unsuccessful efforts to obtain some information of the wanderer, Dr. Grey began to feel discouraged,—to yield to melancholy forebodings that an untimely death had ended her struggles and suffering.
Once, while pacing the walks in the Champs-Elysées, he caught a glimpse of a face that recalled Salome’s, and started eagerly forward; but it proved that of a Parisianbonne, who was romping with her juvenile charge.
Again, one afternoon, as he came out of the Church of St. Sulpice, his heart bounded at sight of a woman who leaned against the railing, and watched the play of the fountain. When he approached her and peered eagerly into her countenance,450blue eyes and yellow curls mocked his hopes. One morning, while he walked slowly along theRue du Faubourg St. Honoré, his attention was attracted by the glitter of pretty baubles in theMaison de la Pensée, and he entered the establishment to purchase something for Jessie.
While waiting for his parcel, a woman came out of a rear apartment and passed into the street, and, almost snatching his package from the counter, he followed.
A few yards in advance was a graceful but thin figure, clad in a violet-colored muslin, with a rather dingy silk scarf wound around her shoulders. A straw hat, with a wreath of faded pink roses, drooped over her face, and streamers of black lace hung behind, while over the whole she had thrown a thin gray veil.
Dr. Grey had not seen a feature, but theposeof the shoulders, the haughty poise of the head, the quick, nervous, elastic step, and, above all, the peculiar, free, childish swinging of the left arm, made his despondent heart throb with renewed hope.
Keeping sufficiently near not to lose sight of her, he walked on and on, down cross streets, up narrow alleys, towards a quarter of the city with which he was unacquainted. The woman never looked back, rarely turned her head, even to glance at those who passed her, and only once she paused before a flower-stall, and seemed to price a bunch of carnations, which she smelled, laid down again, and then hurried on.
Dr. Grey quickly paid for the cluster, and hastened after her.
In turning a corner, she dropped a small parcel that she had carried under her scarf, and as she stooped to pick it up, her veil floated off. She caught it ere it reached the ground, and when she raised her hands to spread it over her hat, the loose open sleeves of her dress slipped back, and there, on the left arm, was a long, zigzag scar, like a serpentine bracelet.
With great difficulty Dr. Grey stifled a cry of joy, and waited until she had gained some yards in advance.