"Mother, I am afraid Mrs. Gerome does not like this place, or the
furniture, or something, for she has not spoken a kind word about the
house since she came. She looks closely at everything, but says
nothing. What do you suppose she thinks?"
Robert Maclean, the gardener at "Solitude," paused abruptly, as his
mother pinched his arm sharply and whispered,--
"Whist! There she comes down the azalea walk; and no one likes to
stumble upon their own name when they are not expecting the sound
or sight of it. No; she has turned off towards the cedars, and does
not see us. As to her likes and dislikes, there is nothing this side
of heaven that will content her; and you might have known better
than to suppose she would be much pleased with anything. No matter
what she thinks, she seldom complains, and it is hard to find out her
views; but she told me to tell you that she approved all you had
done, and thanked you for the pains you have taken to arrange things
comfortably."
Old Elsie tied the strings of her white muslin cap, and turned her
back to the wind that was playing havoc with its freshly fluted
frills.
"Mother, I heard her laugh yesterday, for the first time. It was a
short, quick, queer little laugh, but it pleased me greatly. The cook
had set some duck-eggs under that fine black Spanish hen; and, when
they hatched, she marched off with the brood into the fowl-yard, where
they made straight for the duck-pool and sailed in. The hen set up
such a din and clatter that Mrs. Gerome, who happened to get a glimpse
of them, felt sorry for the poor frightened fowl, and tried to drive
the little ones out of the water; but, whenever she put her hand
towards them to catch the nearest, the whole brood would quack and
dive,--and, when she had laughed that one short laugh, she called to
me to look after them and went back to the house. You don't know how
strangely that laugh sounded."
"Don't I? Speak for yourself, Robert. I have heard her laugh twice,
but it was when she was asleep, and it was an uncanny, bitter
sound,--about as welcome to my ears as her death-rattle. Last night
she did not close her eyes,--did not even undress; and the hall clock
was striking three this morning when I heard her open the piano and
play one of those dismal, frantic, wailing things she calls 'fugues,'
that make the hair rise on my head and every inch of my flesh creep as
if a stranger were treading on my grave. When she was a baby, cutting
her eye-teeth, she had a spasm; and seeing her straighten herself out
and roll back her eyes till only the white balls showed, I took it for
granted she was about to die, and, holding her in my arms, I fell on
my knees and prayed that she might be spared. Well, now, Robert, I am
sorry I put up that petition, for the Lord knew best; and it would
have been a crowning mercy if he had paid no attention to my
half-crazy pleadings and taken her home then. What meddling fools we
all are! I thought, at that time, it would break my heart to shroud
her sweet little body; but ah! I would rather have laid my precious
baby in her coffin, with violets under her fingers, than live to see
that desperate, unearthly look, come and house itself in her great,
solemn, hungry, tormenting eyes, that were once as full of sparkles
and merriment as the sky is of stars on a clear, frosty night. My son,
we never know what is good for us; for, many times, when we clamor for
bread we break our teeth on it; and then, again, when we rage and howl
because we think the Lord has dealt out scorpions to us, they prove
better than the fish we craved. So, after all, I conclude Christ
understood the whole matter when he enjoined upon us to say, 'Thy will
be done.'"
The old nurse wiped her eyes with the corner of her black silk apron,
and, leaning against the trunk of a tree, crossed her arms comfortably
over her broad and ample chest, while Robert busied himself in
repotting some choice carnations.
"But, mother, do you really think she will be satisfied to stay here,
after travelling so long up and down in the world?"
"How can I tell what she will or will not do? You know very well that
she goes to sleep with one set of whims and wakes up with new ones.
She catches odd freaks as some people catch diseases. She said
yesterday that she had had enough of travel and change, and intended
to settle and live and die right here; but that does not prove that I
may not receive an order next week to pack her trunks and start to
Jericho or Halifax, and I should not think the world was upside down
and coming to an end if such an order came before breakfast to-morrow.
Poor lamb! My poor lamb! Yonder she comes again. Do you notice how
fast she walks, as if the foul fiend were clutching at her skirts or
she were trying to get away from herself,--trying to run her restless
soul entirely out of her wretched body? Come away, Robert, and let her
have all the grounds to herself. She likes best to be alone."
Mother and son walked off in the direction of the stables, and the
advancing figure emerged from the dense shade where interlacing limbs
roofed one of the winding walks, and paused before the circular stand
on which lemon, rose, white, crimson, and variegated carnations,
nodded their fringed heads and poured spicy aromas from their velvety
chalices.
The face and form of Mrs. Gerome presented a puzzling paradox, in
which old age and youth seemed struggling for mastery; and "death in
life" found melancholy verification. Tall, slender, and faultlessly
made, the perfection of her figure was marred by the unfortunate
carriage of her head, which drooped forward so heavily that the chin
almost touched her throat and nearly destroyed the harmony of the
profile outline. The head itself was nobly rounded, and sternly
classic as any well authenticated antique, but it was no marvel that
it habitually bowed under the heavy glittering mass of silver hair,
which wound in coil after coil and was secured at the back by a comb
of carved jet, thickly studded with small silver stars. The
extraordinary lustrousness of these waves of gray hair that rippled on
her forehead and temples like molten metal, lent a weird and wondrous
effect to the straight, regular, rigid features,--daintily cut as
those of Pallas, and quite as pallid. The delicate and high arch of
the eyebrows was black as ebony, and in conjunction with the long
jetty lashes formed a very singular contrast to the shining white
tresses, which lay piled like freshly fallen snow-drift above them.
The brow was full, round, smooth, and fair as a child's; and more than
one azure thread showed the subtle tracery of veins, whose crimson
currents left no rosy reflex on the firm, gleaming white flesh,
through which they branched.
Beneath that faultless forehead burned unusually large eyes, deep as
mountain tarns, and of that pure bluish gray that tolerates no hint of
green or yellow rays. The dilated pupils intensified the steel color,
and faint violet lines ran out from the iris to meet the central
shadows, while above and below the heavy black fringes enhanced their
sombre depths, where mournful mysteries seemed to float like corpses
just beneath the crystal shroud of ocean waves. The pale, passionless
lips,--perfect in their pure curves, but defrauded of the blood which
resolutely refused to come to the surface and tint the fine satin
skin,--were lined in ciphers that the curious questioned and wondered
over, but which few could read and none fully comprehend. The
beautiful, frigid mouth, where all sweetness was frozen out to make
room for hopelessness and defiance, would have admirably suited some
statue of discrowned and smitten Hecuba; and no amount of sighs and
sobs, no stormy bursts of grief or fierce invective, could rival the
melancholy eloquence of its mute, calm pallor.
The wan face, with its gray globe-like eyes, and the metallic glitter
of the prematurely silvered hair, matched in hue the pearl-colored
muslin dress which fluttered in the wind; and, standing there, this
gray woman of twenty-three looked indeed like Pygmalion's stone
darling,--
"Fair-statured, noble, like an awful thing
Frozen upon the very verge of life,
And looking back along eternity
With rayless eyes that keep the shadow Time."
Her frail, white hands, with their oval nails polished and opalescent,
were exceedingly beautiful; and, where the creamy foam of the fine
lace fell back from the dimpled wrists, quaintly carved jet serpents
with blazing diamond eyes coiled around the throbbing thread-like
pulses of sullen _sang azure_.
Bending over the carnations, she examined the gorgeous hues,--toyed
with their fragile stems,--and then, glancing shyly over her shoulder
like a startled fawn half expectant of hounds and hunter, she glided
rapidly to an artificial mound crowned with a mouldering mossy plaster
image of Ariadne and her pard, and stood surveying her new domain.
"Solitude" filled a semicircular hollow between low wooded hills,
which ran down to lave their grassy flanks in the blue brine of the
Atlantic, and constituted the horns of a crescent bay, on whose
sloping sandy beach the billows broke without barrier.
The old-fashioned brick house--with sharp, peaked roof, turreted
chimneys, and gable window looking down in front upon the clumsily
clustered columns that supported the arched portico--was built upon a
rocky knoll, of which nature laid the foundation and art increased the
height; and, around and above it, towered a dense grove of ancient
trees that shut out the glare of the sea and effectually screened the
mansion from observation. The damp walls were heavily draped with the
sombre verdure of ivy, whose ambitious tendrils clambered to the cleft
chimney-tops, and peered impertinently over the broad stone
window-sills, whence the indignant housemaid remorselessly sheared
them away as often as their encroachments grew perceptible.
In the rear of the house, and toward the west, stretched orchard,
vegetable garden, vineyard, and wheat-field, whose rolling green waves
seemed almost to break against the ruddy trunks of cedars that clothed
the hillside. To the left and north lay low, marshy, meadow land,
covered with rank grass and frosted with saline incrustations; while
south of the building extended spacious grounds, studded here and
there with noble groups of deodars, Norway spruce, and various
ornamental shrubs, and bounded by a tall impenetrable hedge of osage
orange. Before the house, which faced the ocean and fronted east, the
lawn sloped gently down to a terrace surmounted by a granite
balustrade; and just beyond, supported by stone piers on the golden
sands, stood an octagonal boat-house, built in the Swiss style, with
red-tiled roof, and floored with squares of white and black marble,
whence a flight of steps led to the little boat chained to one of the
rocky piers. Along the entire length of the terrace a line of giant
poplars lifted their aged, weather-beaten heads, high above all
surrounding objects,--ever on the _qui vive_, looking seaward,--trim
and erect as soldiers on dress parade, and defiant of gales that had
shorn them of many boughs, and left ghastly scars on their glossy
limbs.
Tradition whispered, with bated breath, that in the dim dawn of
colonial settlement a rude log hut had been erected here by pirates,
who came ashore to bury their ill-gotten booty, and rumors were rife
of bloody deeds and midnight orgies,--all of which sprang into more
vigorous circulation, when, in laying the foundations of the
boat-house piers, an iron pot containing a number of old French and
Spanish coins was dug out of the shells and sand.
Melancholy tales of stranded vessels and drowned crews, of a
slaver burned to the water's edge to escape capture, and of charred
corpses strewn on the beach, thickened the atmosphere of legendary
gloom that enveloped the spot,--where the successive demise of
several proprietors certainly sanctioned the feeling of dread and
superstitious distrust with which it was regarded. That the
unenviable celebrity it had attained was referable to local causes
generating disease, appeared almost incredible; for, if miasmatic
exhalations rose dank and poisonous from the densely shaded humid
house, they were promptly dispelled by the strong, invincible
ocean-breeze, which tore aside leafy branches and muslin curtains, and
wafted all noxious vapors inland.
A committee of medical sages having cautiously examined the place,
unanimously averred that its reputed fatality could not justly be
ascribed to any topographical causes. Whereupon the popular nerve,
which closely connected the community with supernaturaldom, thrilled
afresh; and all the calamities, real and imaginary, that had afflicted
"Solitude" from a period so remote that "the memory of man runneth not
to the contrary," were laid upon the galled shoulders of some
red-liveried, sulphur-scented Imp of Abaddon, whose peculiar mission
was to haunt the "piratical nest;" and, in lieu of human victims, to
addle the eggs, blast the grape crop, and make night hideous with
spectral sights and sounds.
To an unprejudiced observer the hills seemed to have gleefully clasped
hands and formed a half-circle, shutting the place in for a quiet
breezy communion with garrulous ocean, whose waves ran eagerly up the
strand to gossip of wrecks and cyclones, with the staid martinet
poplars that nodded and murmured assent to all their wild romances.
Such was the pleasant impression produced upon the mind of the lonely
woman who now owned it, and who hoped to spend here in seclusion and
peace the residue of a life whose radiant dawn had been suddenly
swallowed by drab clouds and starless gloom.
The Scotch are proverbially credulous concerning all preternatural
influences; and, had Robert Maclean been cognizant of half the ghostly
associations attached to the residence which he had selected in
compliance with general instructions from his mistress, it is scarcely
problematical whether the house would not have remained in the hands
of the real-estate broker; but, fortunately for their peace of mind,
Elsie and her son were as yet in blissful ignorance of the dismal
celebrity of their new home.
Resting her folded hands on the bare shoulders of the Ariadne, which
modest lichens and officious wreaths of purple verbena were striving
to mantle, Mrs. Gerome scanned the scene before her; and a quick,
nervous sigh, that was almost a pant, struggled across her lips.
"Unto this last nook of refuge have I come; and, expecting little,
find much. Shut out from the world, locked in with the sea,--no
neighbors, no visitors, no news, no gossip,--solitary, shady, cool,
and quiet,--surely I can rest here. Forked tongues of scandal can not
penetrate through those rock-ribbed hills yonder, nor dart across that
defying sea; and neither wail nor wassail of men or women can disturb
me more. But how do I know that it will not prove a mocking cheat like
Baiae and Maggiore, or Copais and Cromarty? I have fled in disgust and
_ennui_ from far lovelier spots than this, and what right have I to
suppose that contentment has housed itself as my guest in that old,
mossy, brick pile, where mice and wrens run riot? Like Cain and
Cartophilus, my curse travels with me, and I no sooner pitch my tent,
than lo! the rattle and grin of my skeleton, for which earth is not
wide enough to furnish a grave! Well! well! at least I shall not be
stared to death here,--shall not be tormented by eye-glasses and
sketch-books; can live in that dim, dark, greenish den yonder,
unobserved and possibly forgotten and finally sleep undisturbed in the
dank shade of those deodars, with twittering birds overhead and a
sobbing sea at my feet. How long--how long before that dreamless
slumber will fall upon my heavy lids,--weary with waiting? Only
twenty-three yesterday! My God, if I should live to be an old woman!
The very thought threatens insanity! Ten--twenty--possibly thirty
years ahead of me. No; I could not endure it,--I should go mad, or
destroy myself! If I were a delicate woman, if I only had weak lungs
or a dropsical heart, or a taint of any hereditary infirmity that
would surely curtail my days, I could be tolerably patient, hoping
daily for the symptoms to develop themselves. But, unfortunately,
though my family all died early, no two members, selected the same
mode of escape from this bastile of clay; and my flesh is sound, and I
am as strong and compact as that granite balustrade, and--ha!
ha!--quite as hard. _Au pis aller_, if the burden of life becomes
utterly intolerable I can shuffle it off as quickly as did that proud
Roman, who, 'when the birds began to sing' in the dawn of a day
heralded by tempestuous winds laden with perfume from the vales of
Sicily, shut his eyes forever from the warm sparkling Mediterranean
billows that broke in the roads of Utica, and pricked the memory of
inattentive Azrael with the point of a sword. Neither Phaedo, family,
nor fame, could coax Cato to respect the prerogative of Atropos; and
if he, 'the only free and unconquered man,' quailed and fled before
the apparition of numerous advancing years, what marvel that I, who am
neither sage nor Roman, should be tempted some fine morning when the
birds are sounding _reveille_ around my chamber windows, to imitate
'what Cato did, and Addison approved'? After all, what despicable
cowards are human hearts, and how much easier to die like Socrates,
Seneca, and Zeno, than stagger and groan under the load of hated,
torturing years, that are about as welcome to my shoulders as the 'old
man of the sea' to Sinbad's! How long?--oh, how long?"
The gloomy gray eyes had kindled into a dull flicker that resembled
the fitful, ghostly gleam of sheet lightning, falling through painted
windows upon crumbling and defiled altars in some lonely ruined
cathedral; and her low, shuddering tones, were full of a hopeless,
sneering bitterness, as painfully startling and out of place in a
woman's voice as would be the scream of a condor from the irised
throats of brooding doves, or the hungry howl of a wolf from the
tender lips of unweaned lambs. In the gloaming light of a soft gray
sky powdered by a few early stars, stood this desolate gray woman,
about whose face and dress there was no stain of color save the blue
glitter of a large sapphire ring, curiously cut in the form of a
coiled asp, with hooded head erect and brilliant diamond eyes that
twinkled with every quiver of the marble-white fingers.
Impatiently she turned her imperial head, when the sound of
approaching steps broke the stillness; and her tone was sharp as that
of one suddenly roused from deep sleep,--
"Well, Elsie! What is it?"
"Tea, my child, has been waiting half-an-hour."
"Then go and get your share of it. I want none."
"But you ate no dinner to-day. Does your head ache?"
"Oh, no; my heart jealously monopolizes that privilege!"
The old woman sighed audibly, and Mrs. Gerome added,--
"Pray, do not worry yourself about me! When I feel disposed to come in
I can find the way to the door. Go and get your supper."
The nurse passed her wrinkled hand over the drab muslin sleeves and
skirt, and touched the folds of hair.
"But, my bairn, the dew is thick on your head and has taken all the
starch out of your dress. Please come out of this fog that is creeping
up like a serpent from the sea. You are not used to such damp air, and
it might give you rheumatic cramps."
"Well, suppose it should? Does not my white head entitle me to all
such luxuries of old age and decrepitude? Don't bother me, Elsie."
She put out her hand with a repellent gesture, but Elsie seized it,
and clasping both her palms over the cold fingers, said, with
irresistible tenderness,--
"Come, dearie!--come, my dearie!"
Without a word Mrs. Gerome turned and followed her across the lawn and
into the house, whose internal arrangement was somewhat at variance
with its unpretending exterior.
The rooms were large, with low ceilings; and fire-places, originally
wide and deep, had been recently filled and fitted up with handsome
grates, while the heavy mantelpieces of carved cedar, that once
matched the broad facings of the windows and the massive panels of the
doors, were exchanged for costly _verd antique_ and lumachella. The
narrow passage running through the centre of the building was also
wainscoted with cedar and adorned with fine engravings of Landseer's
best pictures, whose richly carved walnut frames looked almost cedarn
in the pale chill light that streamed upon them through the
violet-colored glass which surrounded the front door and effectually
subdued the hot golden glare of the sunny sun. The old-fashioned
folding doors that formerly connected the parlor and library had been
removed to make room for a low, wide arch, over which drooped lace
curtains, partially looped with blue silk cord and tassels, and both
apartments were furnished with sofas and chairs of rosewood and blue
satin damask, while the velvet carpet, with its azure ground strewn
with wreaths of white roses and hyacinths, corresponded in color.
Handsome book-cases, burdened with precious lore, lined the walls of
the rear room; and on either side of a massive ormolu _escritoire_,
bronze candelabra shed light on the blue velvet desk where lay
delicate sheets of gossamer paper with varied and _outre_ monograms,
guarded by an exquisite marble statuette of Harpocrates, which stood
in the mirror-panelled recess reserved for pen, ink, and sealing-wax.
The air was fragrant with the breath of flowers that nodded to each
other from costly vases scattered through both apartments; and, before
one of the windows, rose a bronze stand containing china jars filled
with pelargoniums, in brilliant bloom. An Erard piano occupied one
corner of the parlor, and the large harp-shaped stand at its side was
heaped with books and unbound sheets of music. Here two long wax
candles were now burning brightly, and, on the oval marble table in
the centre of the floor, was a superb silver lamp representing Psyche
bending over Cupid, and supporting the finely-cut globe, whose soft
radiance streamed down on her burnished wings and eagerly-parted sweet
Greek lips. The design of this exceedingly beautiful lamp would not
have disgraced Benvenuto Cellini, nor its execution have reflected
discredit upon the genius of Felicie Fauveau, though to neither of
these distinguished artificers could its origin have been justly
ascribed. In its mellow, magical glow, the fine paintings suspended on
the walls seemed to catch a gleam of "that light that never was on
sea or land," for their dim, purplish Alpine gorges were filled with
snowy phantasmagoria of rushing avalanches; their foaming cataracts
braided glittering spray into spectral similitude of Undine tresses
and Undine faces; their desolate red deserts grew vaguely populous
with mirage mockeries; their green dells and grassy hill-sides,
couching careless herds, and fleecy flocks, borrowed all Arcadia's
repose; and the marble busts of Beethoven and of Handel, placed on
brackets above the piano, shone as if rapt, transfigured in the mighty
inspiration that gave to mankind "_Fidelio_" and the "_Messiah_."
On the sofa which partially filled the oriel window, where the lace
drapery was looped back to admit the breeze, lay an ivory box
containing materials and models for wax-flowers; and, in one corner,
half thrust under the edge of the silken cushion, was an unfinished
wreath of waxen convolvulus and a cluster of gentians. There, too,
open at the page that narrated the death-struggle, lay Liszt's "Life
of Chopin," pressed face downwards, with two purple pansies crushed
and staining the leaves; and a small gold thimble peeping out of a
crevice in the damask tattled of the careless feminine fingers that
had left these traces of disorder.
The collection of pictures was unlike those usually brought from
Europe by cultivated tourists, for it contained no Madonnas, no
Magdalenes, no Holy Families, no Descents or Entombments, no Saints,
or Sibyls, or martyrs; and consisted of wild mid-mountain scenery, of
solemn surf-swept strands, of lonely moonlit moors, of crimson sunsets
in Cobi or Sahara, and of a few gloomy, ferocious faces, among which
the portrait of Salvator Rosa smiled sardonically, and a head of
frenzied Jocasta was preeminently hideous.
As Mrs. Gerome entered the parlor and brightened the flame of the
Psyche lamp, her eyes accidentally fell upon the bust of Beethoven,
where, in gilt letters, she had inscribed his own triumphant
declaration, "_Music is like wine, inflaming men to new achievements;
and I am the Bacchus who serves it out to them_." While she watched
the rayless marble orbs, more eloquent than dilating darkening human
pupils, a shadow dense and mysterious drifted over her frigid face,
and, without removing her eyes from the bust above her, she sat down
before the piano, and commenced one of those marvellous symphonies
which he had commended to the study of Goethe.
Ere it was ended Elsie came in, bearing a waiter on which stood a
silver _epergne_ filled with fruit, a basket of cake, and a goblet of
iced tea.
"My child, I bring your supper here because the dining-room looks
lonesome at night."
"No,--no! take it away. I tell you I want nothing."
"But, for my sake, dear--"
"Let me alone, Elsie! There,--there! Don't teaze me."
The nurse stood for some moments watching the deepening gloom of the
up-turned countenance, listening to the weird strains that seemed to
drip from the white fingers as they wandered slowly across the keys;
then, kneeling at her side, grasped the hands firmly, and covered them
with kisses.
"Precious bairn! don't play any more to-night. For God's sake, let me
shut up this piano that is making a ghost of you! You will get so
stirred up you can't close your eyes,--you know you will; and then I
shall cry till day-break. If you don't care for yourself, dearie, do
try to care a little for the old woman who loves you better than her
life, and who never can sleep till she knows your precious head is on
its pillow. My pretty darling, you are killing me by inches, and I
shall stay here on my knees until you leave the piano, if that is not
till noon to-morrow. You may order me away; but not a step will I
stir. God help you, my bairn!"
Mrs. Gerome made an effort to extricate her hands, but the iron grasp
was relentless; and, in a tone of great annoyance, she exclaimed,--
"Oh, Elsie! You are an intolerable--"
"Well, dear, say it out,--an intolerable old fool! Isn't that what you
mean?"
"Not exactly; but you presume upon my forbearance. Elsie, you must not
interrupt and annoy me, for I tell you now I will not submit to it.
You forget that I am not a child."
"Darling, you will never be anything but a child to me,--the same
pretty child I took from its dead mother's arms and carried for years
close to my heart. So scold me as you may, my pet, I shall love you
and try to take care of you just as long as there is breath left in my
body."
She ended by kissing the struggling hands; and, striving to conceal
her vexation, Mrs. Gerome finally turned and said,--
"If you will eat your supper, and stay with Robert, and leave me in
peace, I promise you I will close the piano, which your flinty Scotch
soul can no more appreciate than the brick and mortar that compose
these walls. You mean well, my dear, faithful Elsie, but sometimes you
bore me fearfully. I know I am often wayward; but you must bear with
me, for, after all, how could I endure to lose you,--you the only
human being who cares whether I live or die? There,--go! Good night!"
She threw her arms around Elsie's neck, leaned her wan cheek for an
instant only on her shoulder, then pushed her away and hastily closed
the piano.
Two hours later, when the devoted servant stole up on tip-toe, and
peeped through the half-open door that led into the hall, she found
the queenly figure walking swiftly and lightly across the room from
oriel to arch, with her hands clasped over the back of her head, and
the silvery lamp-light shining softly on the waves of burnished hair
that rippled around her pure, polished forehead.
As she watched her mistress, Elsie's stout frame trembled, and hot
tears streamed down her furrowed face while she lifted her heart in
prayer, for the dreary, lonely, lovely woman, who had long ago ceased
to pray for herself. But when the quivering lips of one breathed a
petition before the throne of God, the beautiful cold mouth of the
other was muttering bitterly,--
"Yea, love is dead, and by her funeral bier
Ambition gnaws the lips, and sheds no tears;
And, in the outer chamber Hope sits wild,--
Hope, with her blue eyes dim with looking long."