"Salome, you look so weary that I must insist upon relieving you. Give
me the book and run out for a breath of fresh air--a glimpse of blue
sky."
Dr. Grey laid his hand on the volume, but the girl shook her head and
pushed aside his fingers.
"I am not at all tired, and even if I were it would make no
difference. Miss Jane desires me to read this sermon aloud, and I
shall finish it."
The invalid, who had been confined to her bed for many days by a
severe attack of rheumatism, partially raised herself on one elbow,
and said,--
"My dear, give him the book, while you take a little exercise. You
have been pent up here long enough, and, moreover, I want to talk to
Ulpian about some business matters. Don't look so sullen, my child; it
makes no difference who reads the sermon to me. Kiss me, and run out
on the lawn."
The orphan relinquished chair and book, but there was no relaxation of
her bent brows, and neither warmth nor lingering pressure in the firm,
hardly drawn lips, which lightly touched the old lady's sallow,
wrinkled cheek. When she had left the room, closing the door after her
with more force than was requisite to bolt it securely, Miss Jane
sighed heavily, and turned to her brother.
"Poor thing! She is so jealous of you; and it distresses me to see
that no friendship grows up between you, as I hoped and believed would
be the case. If you would only notice her a little more I think you
might win her over."
"Leave it to time, Janet. I 'have piped unto her and she would not
dance; I have mourned unto her, and she has not lamented,'--and
concessions only feed her waywardness. If there be a residuum of good
sense and proper feeling in her nature, they will assert themselves
after a while; if not, all extraneous influences are futile. I will
resume the reading, if agreeable to you."
Moody and rebellious, Salome stood for some moments on the threshold
of the front door, staring vacantly out over the lawn; then, snatching
her hat from a hook in the hall, she swiftly crossed the grounds,
climbed over a low lattice fence at the foot of the declivity, and
followed a worn but neglected path leading into the adjoining forest.
The sanctity of the Sabbath afternoon rested like a benison over the
silent glades, where sunshine made golden roads along the smooth brown
pine straw, and glinted on the purple flags that fluttered in the mild
west wind. Even the melancholy plaint of sad-eyed dun doves was
hushed, as they slowly swung in the swaying pine-tops; and two young
lambs, neglected by the wandering flock, lay sleeping quietly, with
their snowy heads pillowed on clustering violets,--far from the fold,
forgotten by their mothers, at the mercy of strolling dogs, watched
only by the Great Shepherd.
Salome's rapid pace soon placed a mile between her and the fence that
bounded the lawn; and, pushing through the dense undergrowth which
betokened the proximity of a stream, she stood ere long on the margin
of a wide pond which supplied the broad, shining sheet of beryl water
that poured over the rocky dam, close to the large irregular building
called "Grey's Mill."
Piles of lumber were bleaching in the sunshine, but the machinery was
at rest, the workmen were all absent, and not a sound broke the
stillness, save the steady, monotonous chant of the water leaping down
into the race, where a thousand foam-flakes danced along towards the
huge wheels, and died on the soft green mosses and lush-creepers that
stole down to bathe in the sparkling wavelets. The knotted roots of an
old beech tree furnished a resting-place, and Salome sat down and
leaned her head against the scarred trunk, where lightning had once
girdled and partially destroyed it,--leaving one-half the branches
leafy, the remainder scorched and barren.
Overhanging willows darkened the edges of the pond; and, in the
centre, one tall, venerable cypress, lonely as some palm in the
desert, rose like a gray shaft tufted with a fine fringe of fresh
green; and occasional clusters of broad, shining leaves, spread
themselves on the surface of the water, cradling large, snowy lilies,
whose gold-powdered stamens trembled ceaselessly. Now and then a trout
leaped up, as if for a breath of May air, and fell back into the
circle that widened until it touched either bank; and not far from a
cow who stood knee-deep in water, browsing on a wild rose that
clambered over the willows to peep at its pink image in the pond, a
proud pair of gray geese convoyed a brood of yellow younglings that
dived and breasted the ripples with evident glee.
With her arms clasped around her knees, Salome sat watching the blue
tendrils of smoke that rose from a clump of elms beyond the mill and
curled lazily upward until they lost themselves in air; and, though
the arching elm boughs hid mossy roof and chimney, she nevertheless
felt that she was looking on the old house where she was born, and
where ten dreary years of sorrow and humiliation had embittered and
perverted her nature.
Those elms had seen her mother die, had heard her father's drunken
revelry, and bent their aged heads to listen on that wild wintry
night, when in blood-curdling curses his soul rent itself from the
degraded tenement of clay. Apparently peace brooded over earth, sky,
and water; but to that lonely figure under the riven beech, every
object within the range of vision babbled horrible tales of the early
years, and memory pointed to a corner of the lumber-shed adjoining the
mill where she had often secreted herself to avoid her father's
brutality,--always keeping her head in the moonshine, because she
dreaded the darkness inside, which childish fancy filled with ghostly
groups. She hated the place as she hated the past, and this was the
second time she had visited it since the day that consigned her to the
poor-house; for it was impossible for her to look at the pond without
recollecting one dark passage in her life, known only to God and
herself. To-day she recalled, with startling vividness a dusky,
starlit June evening, when, maddened by an unmerited and unusually
severe punishment inflicted by her father, she had resolved to drown
herself, and find peace in the mud at the bottom of the mill-pond.
Placing her infant sister on the grass, she had kissed her good-by,
and selecting the deepest portion of the water, had climbed out on a
willow branch and prepared for the final plunge. Putting her fingers
in her ears that she might not hear the bubbling of the murderous
water, she shut her eyes and sprang into the pond; but her long hair
caught the willow twigs, and, half strangled and quite willing to
live, she scrambled up into the low limbs that seemed so anxious to
rescue her from a watery grave; and, dripping and trembling, crept
back to the house, comforting herself with the grim assurance that
whatever else might befall, she certainly was not foreordained to be
either beaten to death or drowned. The impulse which had brought her
on this occasion to a scene so fraught with harrowing memories, was
explicable only by the supposition that its painful surroundings were
in consonance with the bitter and despondent mood in which she found
herself; and, in the gloom that this retrospection shed over her
countenance, her features seemed to grow wan and angular. For several
days she had been sorely disquieted by the realization of Miss Jane's
rapidly failing strength; and the probability of her death, which a
year ago would have been entirely endurable as an avenue to wealth,
now appeared the direst catastrophe that had yet threatened her
ill-starred life.
It was distressing to think of the kind old face growing stiff in a
shroud, but infinitely more appalling to contemplate the possibility
of being turned out of a comfortable home and driven to labor for a
maintenance. Salome had a vague impression that either Providence or
the world owed her a luxurious future, as partial compensation for her
juvenile miseries; but since both seemed disposed to repudiate the
debt, she was reluctantly compelled to ponder her prospective
bankruptcy in worldly goods, and, like the unjust steward, while
unwilling to work she was still ashamed to beg.
Although she strenuously resisted the strong, steady influence so
quietly exerted by Dr. Grey, the best elements of her nature, long
dormant, began to stir feebly, and she was conscious of nobler
aspirations than those which had hitherto swayed her; and of a
dimly-defined self-dissatisfaction that was novel and annoying.
Unwilling to admit that she valued his good opinion, she nevertheless
felt chagrined at her failure to possess it, and gradually she
realized her utter inferiority to this man, whose consistent Christian
character commanded an entire respect which she had never before
entertained for any human being. Immersed in vexing thoughts
concerning her future, she mechanically stretched out her hand to
pluck a bunch of phlox and of lemon-hued primroses that were nodding
in the sunshine close to her feet; but, as she touched the stems, a
large copper-colored snake slowly uncoiled from the tuft of grass
where they nestled and, gliding into the water, disappeared in the
midst of the lilies.
"I wonder if throughout life all the flowers I endeavor to grasp will
prove only Moccasin-beds! Why should they,--unless God abdicates and
Satan reigns? I have found, to my cost, that existence is not made
entirely of rainless June days; but I doubt whether darkness and
storms shut out the warm glow and perpetually curtain the stars.
Obviously I am no saint; still, I am disposed to believe I am not
altogether wicked. I have committed no capital sins, nor grievously
transgressed the decalogue,--and why should I despair of my share of
the good things of life? I am neither Cain nor Jezebel, and therefore
Fates and Furies have no warrant to dog my footsteps. Moreover, how do
I know that Destiny is indeed the hideous, vindictive crone that
luckless wretches have painted her, instead of an amiable, good soul,
who is quite as willing to scatter blessings as curses? Because some
dyspeptic Greek dreamed of three pitiless old weavers, blind to human
tears, deaf to human petitions, why should we wise and enlightened
people of the nineteenth century scare ourselves with the skeleton of
Paganism? I have as inalienable a right to brocades, crown-jewels, and
a string of titles, as any reigning queen, provided I can only get my
hands upon them; and, since life seems to be a sort of snatch-and-hold
game, quick keen eyes and nimble fingers decide the question. I have
never trodden on the world's tender toes, nor smitten its pet follies,
nor set myself aloft to gaze pityingly on its degradation, therefore,
the world honors me with no special grudge. But one thing is
mournfully certain,--my path is not strewn with loaves and fishes
ready baked and broiled, and I must even go gleaning and fishing for
myself. Almost everybody has some gift or some mission; but I really
do not see in what direction I can set to work. Work! How I hate the
bare thought! I have not sufficient education to teach, nor genius to
write, nor a talent for drawing, and barely music enough in my soul to
enable me to carry the church tunes respectably. Come, Salome Owen!
Shake off your sloth, and face the abominable fact that you must earn
your own bread. It is a great shame, and I ought not to be obliged to
work, for I am not responsible for my existence, and those who brought
me into the world owed it to me to provide for my wants. I cannot and
will not forgive my father and mother; but that will not mend matters,
since, nevertheless, here I am, with a body to feed and clothe, and
God only knows how I am to accomplish it. I find myself with youth,
health, some beauty, an average share of intellect, and all the wants
pertaining thereunto. If the worst comes to the worst I suppose I can
contrive, like other poverty-stricken girls, to marry somebody who
will support me comfortably; but that is rather an uncertain
speculation, and meantime Miss Jane might die. Now, if the Bible is
true, it must indeed be a blessed lot to be born a brown sparrow, and
have the Lord for a commissary. I am a genuine child of old Adam, and
labor is the heaviest curse that could possibly be sent upon me."
Once or twice during this profitless reverie she had paused to listen
to a singular sound that came from a dense group of willows not far
from the spot where she sat, and now it grew louder, swelling into a
measured cry, as of a child in great distress.
"Somebody in trouble, but it does not concern me; I have enough and to
spare, of my own."
She settled herself once more quite comfortably, but the low,
monotonous wail, smote her heart, and womanly sympathy with suffering
strangled her constitutional selfishness. Rising, she crept cautiously
along the edge of the pond until she reached the thicket whence the
sound proceeded, and, as she pushed aside the low branches and peeped
into the cool, green nook, her eyes fell upon the figure of a little
boy who lay on the ground, rolling from side to side and sobbing
violently.
"What is the matter? Are you sick or hungry?"
Startled by the sound of her voice, the child uttered a scream of
terror, and whirled over, hiding his face in the leaves and grass.
"For Heaven's sake, stop howling! What are you about,--wallowing here
in the mud, ruining your clothes, and yelling like a hyena? Hush, and
get up."
"Oh, please, ma'am, don't tell on me! Don't carry me back, and I will
hush!"
"Where do you live?"
"Nowhere. Oh!--oh!" And he renewed his cries.
"A probable story. What is your name?"
"Haven't got any name."
"You have no name, and you live nowhere? Come, little fellow, this
will never do. I am afraid you are a very bad boy and have run away
from home to escape being punished. Hush this instant!"
He had kept his face carefully concealed, and, resolved to ascertain
the truth, Salome stooped and tried to lift him; but he struggled
desperately, and screamed frantically,--
"Let me alone! I won't go back! I will jump into the pond and drown
myself if you don't let me alone."
He was so hoarse from constant crying that she could recognize no
familiar tones in his voice, but a great dread seized her, and,
suddenly putting her hands under his head, she forced the face up, and
looked at the flushed, swollen features.
"Stanley! Is it possible? My poor little brother!"
The equally astonished boy started up, and stared half wistfully, half
fearfully, at the figure standing before him.
"Is it you, Salome? I did not know you."
"How came you here? When did you leave the Asylum?"
"I ran away, three days ago."
"Why?"
"Because I was tired of living there, and I wanted to come back
home."
"Home, indeed! You miserable begger, don't you know you have no home
but the Orphan Asylum?"
"Yes, I have. I want to come back yonder. Don't you see home yonder,
among the trees, with the pretty white and speckled pigeons flying
over it?"
He pointed across the pond to the old house beyond the mill, whose
outlines were visible through the openings in the elms; and, as he
gazed upon it with that intense longing so touching in a child's face,
his sobs increased.
"Stanley, that is not your home now. Other people live there, and you
have no right to come back. Why did you run away from the Asylum? Did
they treat you unkindly?"
"No,--yes. They whipped me because I cried and said I hated to stay
there, and wanted to come home."
Salome looked at the soiled, torn clothes, and sorrowful face; and,
bursting into tears, she bent forward and drew her brother to her
bosom. He put his arms around her neck, and kissed her cheek several
times, saying, softly and coaxingly,--
"Sister Salome, you won't send me back, will you? Please let me stay
with you, and I will be a good boy."
For some minutes she was unable to reply, and wept silently as she
smoothed the tangled hair back from the child's white forehead and
pressed her lips to it.
"Stanley, how is Jessie? Where did you leave her?"
"She is well, and I left her at the Asylum. She had a long cry the
night I ran away, and said she wanted to see you, and she thought you
had forgotten us both. You know, Salome, it is over a year since you
came to see us, and Jessie and I are so lonesome there, we hate the
place."
"What were you crying so bitterly about when I found you, just now?"
"I am so hungry, and the man who lives yonder at home drove me away.
He said I was prowling around to steal something, and if he saw me
there any more he would shoot me. I ate my last piece of biscuit
yesterday."
"Why did you not come to me instead of the miller?"
"I was afraid you would send me back to the Asylum; but you won't,--I
know you won't, Salome."
"Suppose I had not happened to hear you crying,--what would have
become of you? Did you intend to starve here in the swamp?"
"I thought I would wait till the miller left home, and then beg his
wife to give me some bread, and, if I could get nothing, I was going
to pull up some carrots that I saw growing in a field back of the
house. Oh, Salome, I am so hungry and so tired!"
She sat down on a heap of last year's leaves, which autumn winds and
winter rains had driven against the trunk of a decayed and fallen
sweet-gum, and, drawing the weary head with its shock of matted yellow
curls to her lap, she covered her own face with her hands to hide the
hot tears that streamed over her cheeks.
"Salome, are you very mad with me?"
"Yes, Stanley; you have behaved very badly, and I don't know what I
ought to do with you."
He tried to put aside one of her shielding hands, and failing, wound
his arms around her waist, and nestled as close as possible.
"Sister, please let me stay and live with you, and I promise--I
declare--I will be a good boy."
"Poor little fellow! You don't in the least know what you are talking
about. How can you live with me when I have no home, and not a
dollar?"
"I thought you stayed with a rich lady, and had everything nice that
you wanted."
"I do not expect to have even a shelter much longer. The lady who
takes care of me is sick, and cannot live very long; and, when she
dies, I don't know where I shall go or what I may be obliged to do."
"If you will only keep me I will help you work. At the Asylum I saw
wood, and pick peas, and pull out grass and weeds from the strawberry
vines, and sometimes I sweep the yards. Just try me a little while,
Salome, and see how smart I can be."
"Would you be willing to leave poor little Jessie at the Asylum? If
she felt so lonesome when you were there, how will she get along
without you?"
"Oh, we could steal her out some night, and keep her with us. Salome,
I tell you I don't mean to go back there. I will die first. I will
drown myself, or run away to sea. I would rather starve to death here
in the swamp. Everybody else can get a home, and why can't we?"
"Because your father was a drunkard, and left his children to the
charity of the poor-house; and, God knows, I heartily wish we were all
screwed down in the same coffin with him. You and I, Jessie, and Mark,
and Joel are all beggars--miserable beggars! Hush, Stanley, you will
sob yourself into a fever! Stop crying, I say, if you do not want to
drive me crazy! I thought I had trouble enough, without being
tormented by the sight of your poor, wretched face; and now, what to
do with you I am sure I don't know. There--do be quiet. Take your arms
away; I don't want you to kiss me any more."
In the long silence that succeeded, the child, spent with grief and
fatigue, fell into a sound sleep, and Salome sat with his head in her
lap and her clasped hands resting on her knee.
The afternoon slowly wore away, and the dimpled pond caught
lengthening shadows on its surface as the sun dipped into the forest.
The measured tinkle of a distant bell told that the cows were wending
quietly homeward; and, while the miller's wife drove her geese into
the yard, the pigeons nestled in their leafy coverts high among the
elm arches, and the solemn serenity of coming summer night stole with
velvet tread over the scene, silencing all things save the silvery
barcarolle of the falling water, and the sweet, lonely vesper hymn of
a whippoorwill, half hidden in the solitary cypress.
Although tears came very rarely to her eyes, the orphan had wept
bitterly, and, surprised at finding herself so completely unnerved on
this occasion, she made a powerful effort to regain her composure and
usual stolidity of expression. Shaking the little sleeper, she
said,--
"Wake up, Stanley. Get your hat and come with me, at least for
to-night."
The child was too weary to renew the conversation, and, hand in hand,
the two walked silently on until they approached the confines of the
farm, when Salome suddenly paused at sight of Dr. Grey, who was
crossing the pine forest just in front of them. Pressing his sister's
hand, Stanley looked up and asked, timidly,--
"What are you going to do with me?"
"Hush! I have not fully decided."
She endeavored to elude observation by standing close to the body of a
large pine, but Dr. Grey caught a glimpse of her fluttering dress,
and came forward rapidly, carrying in his arms one young lamb and
driving another before him.
"Salome, will you be so good as to assist me in shepherding this
obstinate little waif? It has been running hither and thither for
nearly half an hour, taking every direction but the right one. If you
will either walk on and lower the bars for me or drive this lamb while
I go forward, you will greatly oblige me. Pardon me,--you look
distressed. Something painful has occurred, I fear."
The girl's usually firm mouth trembled as she laid her hand on the
torn straw hat that shaded Stanley's features, and answered,
hurriedly,--
"Yes. We have both stumbled upon stray lambs; but mine, unfortunately,
happens to prove my youngest brother, and, since I am neither Reuben
nor Judah, I could not leave him in the woods to perish. Stanley, run
on and pull down the bars yonder, where you see the sheep looking
through the fence."
"How old is he?"
"About eight years, I believe, but he is small for his age."
"He does not in the least resemble you."
"No; pitiable little wretch, he looks like nothing but destitution!
When a poor man dies, leaving a houseful of beggarly orphans, the
State ought to require the undertaker who buries him to shoot or hang
the whole brood, and lay them all in the Potter's Field out of the
world's way."
"Such words and sentiments are strangely at variance with the
affectionate gentleness and resignation which best become womanly
lips, and I pity the keen suffering that wrings them from yours. He
who 'setteth the solitary in families' never yet failed in loving
guardianship of trusting orphanage, and certainly you have no cause to
upbraid fate, or impiously murmur against the decrees of your God."
He stood before her, with one hand stroking the head of the lamb that
nestled on his bosom; but his face was sterner, his voice far more
severe, than she had ever known either before, and her eyes fell
beneath the grave and sorrowful rebuke which looked out from his.
"Your brother ran away from the Asylum, three days ago."
"How did you ascertain that fact?"
"About an hour after you left the house, the matron of the Asylum sent
to inquire whether you were aware of his absence, and to notify you
that your little sister Jessie is quite ill. I was searching for you,
when I accidentally found these lambs, deserted by their mother. Thank
you, Stanley; I will put up the bars, and you can go to the house with
your sister. Salome, the carriage is ready, and if you desire to see
Jessie immediately I will take you over as soon as possible. There is
a full moon, and you can return with me or remain at the Asylum until
morning. Confer with my sister concerning the disposal of this little
refugee."
He patted the boy's head, and entered the sheepfold, while Salome
stood leaning against the fence, looking vacantly down at the bleating
flock.
Catching her brother's hand, she hurried to the house, bathed his
face, brushed his disordered hair, and gave him a bountiful supper of
bread and milk; after which, Jane Grey ordered the little culprit
brought to her bedside, where she delivered a kind lecture on his
sinful disobedience. When Dr. Grey entered the room, Salome was
standing at the window, while Stanley clung to her dress, hiding his
face in its folds, vowing vehemently that he would not return to the
Asylum, and protesting with many sobs that he would be the best boy in
the world if he were only allowed to remain at the farm.
"Salome, do quiet him; he will fret himself into a fever," said Miss
Jane, whose nerves began to quiver painfully.
"He has it already," answered the girl, without turning her head. She
did not observe Dr. Grey's entrance, and when he approached the
window, where the mellow moonshine streamed full on her face, he saw
tears stealing over her cheeks, and noticed that her fingers were
clenched tightly.
"Salome, do you wish to see Jessie to-night? She has had convulsions
during the day, and may not live until morning."
She looked up at his grave, noble countenance, and her lips fluttered
as she answered, huskily,--
"I can do nothing for her, and why should I see her die?"
"To whose care was she committed by her dying mother?"
"To mine."
"Have you faithfully kept the sacred trust?"
"I did all that I could until Miss Jane placed her in the asylum."
"Does your conscience acquit you?"
She silently dropped her face in her hands, and for some seconds he
watched her anxiously.
"Have you and Janet decided what shall be done with Stanley?"
"No; the longer I ponder the matter, the more confused my mind
becomes."
"Will you leave it in my hands, and abide by my decision?"
"Yes, gladly."
"You promise to be satisfied with any course upon which I may
resolve?"
Looking up quickly, she exclaimed,--
"Oh, yes; I trust you, fully. Do what you think best."
Dr. Grey put his hand under Stanley's chin, and, lifting his face,
examined his countenance and felt his pulse.
"He is only frightened and fatigued. Put him to bed at once in your
room, and then let me take you to see little Jessie. If you fail to
go, you might reproach yourself in coming years."
It was nine o'clock when the carriage stopped at the door of the
Asylum, and Salome and Dr. Grey went up to the "Infirmary," where the
faithful matron sat beside one of the little beds, watching the deep
slumber of the flushed and exhausted sleeper.
The disease had almost spent its force, the crisis was passed, and the
attending physician had pronounced the patient much better; still,
when Salome stooped to kiss her sister, the matron held her back,
assuring her that perfect quiet was essential for her recovery.
Kneeling there beside the motherless girl, Salome noted the changes
that time and suffering had wrought on the delicate features; and, as
she listened to the quick, irregular breathing, the fountain of
tenderness was suddenly unsealed in her own nature, and she put out
her arms, yearning to clasp Jessie to her heart. So strong were her
emotions, so keen was her regret for past indifference and neglect,
that she lost all self-control, and, unable to check her passionate
weeping, Dr. Grey led her from the room, promising to bring her again
when the sick child was sufficiently strong to bear the interview.
During the ride homeward he made no effort to divert her thoughts or
relieve her anxiety, knowing that although severe it was a healthful
regimen for her long indurated heart, and was the _renaissance_ of her
better nature.
When they arrived at home, the moon was shining bright and full, and,
as they waited on the gallery for a servant to open the door, Dr. Grey
drew most favorable auguries from the chastened, blanched face, with
its humbled and grieved expression.
"Salome, I shall for the present keep Stanley here; and, until I can
make some satisfactory arrangement with reference to his education, I
would be glad to have you hear his recitations every day. Have you the
requisite leisure to superintend his lessons?"
"Yes, sir. I have not deserved this kindness from you, Dr. Grey; but I
thank you, from my inmost heart. You are good enough to forgive my
many offences, and I shall not soon forget it."
"Salome, you owe me no gratitude, but there is much for which you
should go down on your knees and fervently thank your merciful God. My
young friend, will you do this?"
He extended his hand, and, unable to utter a word, Salome gave him
hers, for a second only, and hastened to her own room, where Stanley's
fair face lay in the golden moonlight, radiant with happy dreams of
white pigeons and pet lambs.