"Bring her into my office. Steady, men! There may be broken bones, and
jarring would be torture. Don't stumble over that book on the floor.
Lay her here on the sofa, and throw open the blinds."
"Dr. Grey, is she dead?"
"No, only badly stunned; and the contusion on the head seems to be
very severe. Stand back, all of you, and give her air. When did it
happen?"
"About twenty minutes ago. She is a stout, heavy woman, and we could
not walk very fast with such a burden. Ah! you intend to bleed her?"
"Yes, I fear nothing else will relieve her. Mitchell, hold the arm for
me."
"How did she receive this injury?" asked Dr. Mitchell, who had been
holding a consultation with Dr. Grey relative to some perplexing
case.
"Those gray ponies which we were admiring a half-hour since, as they
trotted by the door, took fright at a menagerie procession coming up
from the depot to the Hippodrome,--and ran away. In steering clear of
the elephant, who was covered from head to foot, and certainly looked
frightful, the horses ran into a mass of lumber and brick at the
corner of Fountain and Franklin streets, where a new store is being
erected, and the carriage was upset. Unfortunately the harness was
very strong, and did not give away until the carriage had been dragged
some yards among the rubbish, and one of the horses finally floundered
into a bed of mortar, and broke the traces. The driver kept his hold
upon the reins to the last, but was badly bruised, and this woman was
thrown out on a pile of bricks and granite-caps. The municipal
authorities should prohibit these menagerie parades, for the meekest
plough-horse in the State could scarcely have faced that band of
musicians, flanked by the covered elephant and giraffe, and the cages
of the beasts,--much less those fiery grays, who seem snuffing danger
even when there is no provocation."
"Who is this woman?"
"She is a total stranger to me," answered Dr. Grey, bending down to
put his ear to the heart of the victim.
A bystander seemed better informed, and replied,--
"She is a servant or housekeeper of the lady who lives at 'Solitude.'
But here comes the driver, limping and making wry faces."
Robert Maclean approached the sofa, and his scratched and bleeding
face paled as he leaned over the prostrate form of his mother.
"Oh, doctors, surely two of you can save her! For God's sake, don't
let her die! Does she breathe?"
"Yes, the bleeding has already benefitted her. She breathes regularly,
and the action of her heart is better. Sit down, my man,--you look
ghastly. Mitchell, give him some brandy, and sew up that gash in his
cheek, while I write a prescription."
"Never mind me, doctor; only save my poor mother. She looks like death
itself. Mother, mother, it is all over now! Come, wake up, and speak
to me!"
He seized one of her cold hands, and chafed it vigorously between both
of his, while tears and blood mingled, as they dripped from his face
to hers.
"Doctor, tell me the truth; is there any hope?"
"Certainly, my friend; there is every reason to believe she will
ultimately recover, though you need not be surprised if she remains
for some hours in a heavy stupor. Remember, a pile of brick is not
exactly a feather pillow, and it may be some time before the brain
recovers from the severity of the contusion. What is your name?"
"Robert Maclean."
"And hers?"
"Elsie Maclean. Poor, dear creature! How she labors in her breathing.
Suppose I lift her head?"
"No; let her rest quietly, just as she is, and I trust all will be
well. Come to the table, and allow me to put some plaster over that
cut which bleeds so freely. Trust me, Maclean, and do not look so
woe-begone. I am not deceiving you. There may be serious internal
injuries that I have not discovered, but this stupor is not alarming.
I can find no fractured bones, and hope the blow on the head is the
most troublesome thing we shall have to contend with."
Dr. Grey proceeded to sponge the bruised and stained face and, hoping
to divert the man's anxious thoughts, said, nonchalantly,--
"I believe you are in Mrs. Gerome's employment?"
"Yes, sir."
"How long have you been at 'Solitude'?"
"I came here, sir, and bought the place, while she was in Europe. Ah,
doctor, if my mother should die, I believe it would kill my
mistress."
"You are old family servants?"
"My mother took her when she was twelve hours old, and has never left
her since. She loves Mrs. Gerome even better than she loves me--her
own flesh and blood. I can't go home and tell my mistress I have
nearly killed my mother. She would never endure the sight of me again.
Her own mother died the day after she was born, and she has always
looked on that poor dear soul yonder as her foster-mother."
Robert limped back to the sofa, and, seating himself on a chair,
looked wistfully into his mother's countenance; then hid his face in
his hands.
"Come, be a man, Maclean; and don't give way to nervousness! Your
mother's condition is constantly improving, though of course it is not
so apparent to you as to me. What has been done with the carriage and
horses?"
"Oh, the carriage is a sweet pudding; and the grays--curses on
'em!--are badly bruised. One of them had his flank laid open by a saw
lying on a lumber-pile; and I only wish it had sawed across the
jugular. They are vicious brutes as ever were bitted, and it makes my
blood run cold sometimes to see their devilish antics when Mrs. Gerome
insists on driving them. They will break her neck, if I don't contrive
to break theirs first."
"I should judge from their appearance that it was exceedingly unsafe
for any lady to attempt to control them. They seem very fiery and
unmanageable. What has been done with them?"
"The deuce knows!--knocked in the head, I trust. I asked two men, who
were in the crowd, to take them to the livery-stable. Mrs. Gerome is
not afraid of anything, and one of her few pleasures is driving those
gray imps, who know her voice as well as I do. I have seen them put up
their narrow ears and neigh when she was a hundred yards off; and
sometimes she wraps the reins around her wrists and quiets them, when
their eyes look like balls of fire. But Rarey himself could not have
stopped them a while ago, when they determined to run over that
menagerie show. My mistress will say it was my fault, and she will
stand by the gray satans through thick and thin. Hist, doctor, my
mother groans!"
"Would it not be best for you to go home and acquaint Mrs. Gerome with
what has occurred?"
"I would not face her without my mother for--twenty kingdoms! You have
no idea how she loves her 'old Elsie,' and I couldn't break the news
to her,--I would sooner break my head."
"This is not a proper place for your mother, and I advise you to
remove her to the hospital, which is not very far from my office. She
can be carried on a litter."
"Oh, my mistress would never permit that! She will let no one else
nurse my mother; and, of course, she could not go to a public place
like a hospital, for you know she is so dreadful shy of strangers."
After many suggestions, and much desultory conversation, it was
finally decided that Elsie should be placed on a mattress, in the
bottom of an open wagon, and carried slowly home. A careful driver was
provided, and when Dr. Grey had seen his patient comfortably arranged,
and established Robert on the seat with the driver, he yielded to the
solicitations of the son, that he would precede them to "Solitude,"
and acquaint Mrs. Gerome with the details of the accident.
Although ten months had elapsed since the latter took possession of
her new home, so complete had been her seclusion that she remained an
utter stranger; and, when visitors flocked from town and neighborhood
to satisfy themselves concerning the rumors of the elegant furniture
and appointments of the house, they were invariably denied admittance,
and informed that since her widowhood Mrs. Gerome had not re-entered
society.
Curiosity was piqued, and gossip wagged her hundred busy tongues over
the tormenting fact that Mrs. Gerome had never darkened the
church-door since her arrival; and, occasionally, when she rode into
town, wore a thick veil that thoroughly screened her features; and,
instead of shopping like other people, made Elsie Maclean bring the
articles to the carriage for her inspection.
The servants seemed to hold themselves as much aloof as their
mistress, and though Robert and his mother attended service regularly
every Sabbath, they appeared as gravely silent and ungregarious as
Sphinxes. The ministers of various denominations called to pay their
respects to the stranger, but only the clerical cards succeeded in
crossing the threshold; and, while rumors of her boundless wealth
crept teasingly through Newsmongerdom, no one except Salome Owen had
yet seen the new-comer.
Cases of books and pictures occasionally arrived from Europe, and
never failed to stir the pool of gossip to its dregs; for the wife of
the express-agent was an intimate friend of Mrs. Spiewell, whose
husband was pastor of the church which Elsie and Robert attended, and
who felt personally aggrieved that the Rev. Charles Spiewell was not
welcomed as the spiritual guide of the mistress of "Solitude."
Finally, a morbid, meddling inquisitiveness goaded the chatty little
woman beyond the bounds of ministerial decorum, and, having rashly
wagered a pair of gloves that she would gain an entrance to the
parlors (whereof the upholsterer's wife told marvellous tales), she
armed herself with a pathetic petition for aid to build a "Widow's
Row," and, with a subscription-list for a "Dorcas Society," and
confident of ingress, boldly rang the bell. Unfortunately, Elsie
chanced that day to be on post as sentinel, and, though she
immediately recognized the visitor as the mother of the small colony
of Spiewells who crowded every Sunday morning into the pew of the
pastor, she courtesied, and gave the stereotyped rebuff,--
"Mrs. Gerome begs to be excused."
"Ah, indeed! But she does not know who has called, or she would make
an exception in my favor. I am your minister's wife, and must really
see her, if only for two minutes. Take my card to her, and say I call
on important business, which cannot fail to interest her."
Not a muscle of Elsie's grave face moved, as she received the card,
and answered,--
"I am very sorry, madam, but Mrs. Gerome sees no visitors, and my
orders are positive."
Mrs. Spiewell bit her lip, and reddened.
"Then take these papers to her, and ask if she will please be so good
as to examine their claims to her charity. In the meantime I will wait
in the parlor, and must trouble you for a glass of water."
She thrust the petitions into Elsie's hand, and attempted to slip into
the hall, through the partial opening of the door which the servant
held during the parley; but, planting her massive frame directly in
the way, the resolute woman effectually barred entrance, and, pointing
to an iron _tete-a-tete_ on the portico, said, decisively,--
"I beg pardon, madam, but you will find a seat there; and I will bring
the water while Mrs. Gerome reads your letters. If you are fatigued, I
will hand you luncheon and some wine."
Mortified and enraged, Mrs. Spiewell grew scarlet, but threw herself
into the seat designated, resolved to snatch a glimpse of the interior
the instant the servant had disappeared.
Very softly Elsie closed and securely latched the door on the inside,
knowing that at that moment her mistress was sitting in the oriel
window of the front parlor.
In vain the visitor tried and twisted the bolt, and, completely
baffled, tears of chagrin moistened her eyes. She had scarcely time to
regain her seat, when Elsie reappeared, bearing on a handsome salver a
wine-glass, silver goblet, and an elegant basket filled with cake.
"Mrs. Gerome presents her compliments, and sends you this fifty dollar
bill for whatever society you represent."
Too thoroughly discomfited to conceal her pique and indignation, Mrs.
Spiewell snatched letters and donation, and, without lingering an
instant, swept haughtily down the steps, "shaking off the dust of her
feet" against "Solitude" and its incorrigible owner.
An innocent impertinence once coldly frustrated soon takes unto itself
a sting and branding-irons, and thus, what was originally merely idle
curiosity, becomes bitter malice; and henceforth the worthy minister's
gossiping wife lost no opportunity of inveighing against the
superciliousness of the stranger, and of insinuating that some very
extraordinary circumstances led her "to fear that something was
radically wrong about that poor Mrs. Gerome, for troubles that could
not be poured into the sympathetic ears of pastors and of pastors'
wives must be very dark, indeed."
Whenever the name of the new-comer was mentioned, Mrs. Spiewell
compressed her lips, shook her head, and shrugged her round shoulders;
and, of course, persons present surmised that the "minister's lady"
was acquainted with melancholy facts which charity prevented her from
divulging.
Many of the grievances and ills that afflict society spring not from
sinful, envenomed hearts, but from weak souls and empty heads; and
Mrs. Spiewell, who sat up with all the measle-stricken, teething, sick
children in her husband's charge, and would have felt disgraced had
she missed a meeting of the "Dorcas Society," or of the "Barefeet
Relief Club," would have been duly shocked if any one had boldly
charged her with slandering a woman whom she had never seen, and of
whose antecedents she knew absolutely nothing. Verily, it is
difficult, indeed, even for "the elect" to keep themselves "unspotted
from the world;" and Zimmerman was a seer when he declared, "Who lives
with wolves must join in their howls."
Absorbed by professional engagements, or fiscal cares, the gentlemen
of a community are rarely interested in or informed of the last wreck
of character which the whirlpool of scandal strews on the strand of
society; but vague rumors relative to Mrs. Gerome's isolation had
penetrated even into the quiet precincts of Dr. Grey's sanctum, and
consequently invested his present mission with extraneous interest.
For the first time since her arrival he approached the confines of
her residence, and, as he threw the reins over the dashboard of his
buggy and stood under the lofty old trees that surrounded the house,
he paused to admire the beauty of the grounds, the grouping of some
statues and pot plants on a neighboring mound, and the far-stretching
sheen of the rippling sea.
No living thing was visible except a golden pheasant and scarlet
flamingo strutting along the stone terrace at the foot of the lawn,
and silence and repose seemed brooding over house and yard; when
suddenly a rapid, passionate, piano-prelude smote the stillness till
the air appeared to throb and quiver, and a thrillingly sweet yet
intensely mournful voice sang the wailing strains of _Addio del
Passato_.
The indescribable yet almost overwhelming pathos of the tones affected
Dr. Grey much as the tremolo-stop in some organ-overture in a
dimly-lighted cathedral; and, as the singer seemed to pour her whole
aching heart and wearied soul into the concluding "_Ah! tutto-tutto
fini!_" he turned, and involuntarily followed the sound, like one in a
dream.
The front door was closed; but the sash of the oriel window had been
raised, and through the delicate lace curtains that were swaying in
the salt breath of ocean he could see what passed in the parlor. A
woman sat before the piano, running her snowy fingers idly across the
keys, now striking _fortissimo_ a wild stormy _fugue_ theme, and then
softly evoking a subtle minor chord that seemed the utterance of some
despairing spirit breathing its last prayer for peace.
Her Marie-Louise blue dress was girded at the waist by a belt and
buckle of silver, and the loose sleeve of the right arm was looped and
pinned up, showing the dimpled elbow and daintily rounded wrist
encircled by the jet serpent. Around her throat she had carelessly
thrown a lace handkerchief, and from the mass of hair that seemed
tiny, snow-capped waves, a cluster of blue nemophila leaned down to
touch the white forehead beneath, and peep at the answering blue
gleams in the large, shining, steely eyes. Her fingers strayed
listlessly into a _Nocturne_; but from the dreamy expression of the
face, upraised to gaze at the busts on the brackets above, it was
evident that her thoughts had wandered far away from _Addio del
Passato_, and were treading the drift-strewn strands of melancholy
memory.
Presently she rose, walked twice across the room, and came back to an
_etagere_ where stood an azure Bohemian glass vase, supported by
silver Tritons, and filled with late blue hyacinths and early
pancratiums.
Bending her regal head, she inhaled the mingled perfumes, worthy of
Sicilian or Cyprian meadows; and, while her slight fingers toyed with
the fragile petals, a proud smile lent its sad light to the chill
face, and she said aloud, as if striving to comfort herself,--
"'Not the ineffable stars that interlace
The azure canopy of Zeus himself
Have surer sweetness than my hyacinths
When they grow blue, in gazing on blue heaven,
Than the white lilies of my rivers, when
In leafy spring Selene's silver horn
Spills paleness, peace, and fragrance.'"
With a heavy sigh she turned away, and sat down in the rear room, near
the arch, where an easel now stood, containing a large, unfinished
picture; and, taking her ivory palette and brushes, she began to
retouch the violet robe of one of the figures.
Dr. Grey had seen more beautiful women among the gilded pillars and
frescoes of palaces, and amid the olives and vineyards of Parthenope;
but in Mrs. Gerome he found a fascinating mystery that baffled
analysis and riveted his attention. Neither young nor old, she had
crowned herself with the glories of both seasons, and seemed some
sweet, dewy spring, wrapped in the snows and frozen in the icy garb of
winter.
He had expected to meet a middle-aged person, habited in widow's
weeds, and meek from the severe scourging of a recent and terrible
bereavement; but that anomalous white face and proud, queenly form
were unlike all other flesh that his keen eyes had hitherto scanned;
and he regarded her as curiously as he would have examined some
abnormal-looking specimen of nerves and muscles laid upon the marble
slab of a dissecting-table.
Recollecting suddenly that, if he did not present himself, the wagon
would arrive before he had accomplished the object of his visit, he
drew a card from his pocket, and, stepping over the low sill of the
oriel window, advanced to the arch.
The mistress of the house sat with her back turned towards him, and
was apparently absorbed in putting purple shadows into the folds of a
mantle that hung from the shoulders of a kneeling figure on the
canvas.
Face-downward on an ottoman near, lay a beautiful copy of Owen
Meredith's poems; and, after a few seconds, she paused, brush in hand,
and, taking up the book, slowly read aloud--glancing, as she did so,
from page to picture,--
... "'Then I could perceive
A glory pouring through an open door,
And in the light five women. I believe
They wore white vestments, all of them. They were
Quite calm; and each still face unearthly fair,
Unearthly quiet. So like statues all,
Waiting they stood without that lighted hall;
And in their hands, like a blue star, they held
Each one a silver lamp.'"
Standing immediately behind her, Dr. Grey saw that she had seized the
weird "_Vision of Virgins_," and was putting into pigment that solemn
phantasm of the poet's imagination where five radiant women were
passing to their reward,--and five wailing over flickering, dying
lamps, were huddled helplessly and hopelessly under a black and
starless midnight sky. Although unfinished, there was marvellous power
in the picture, and the sickly gleam from the expiring wicks made the
surrounding gloom more supernatural, like the deep shadows skulking
behind the lurid glare in some old Flemish painting.
He saw also that she had followed the general outline of the poem; but
one of the faces was so supreme in its mute anguish that he thought of
Reni's "Cenci," and of a wan "Alcestis," and a desperate "Cassandra,"
he had seen at Rome; and, in comparison, the description of the poet
seemed almost vapid,--
... "One as still as death
Hollowed her hands about her lamp, for fear
Some motion of the midnight, or her breath,
Should fan out the last flicker. Rosy clear
The light oozed through her fingers o'er her face.
There was a ruined beauty hovering there
Over deep pain, and dashed with lurid grace
A waning bloom."
The room with its costly, quaint, and tasteful furniture,--the
solitary and singularly beautiful woman; the wonderful picture,
growing beneath her hand; the solemn silence, broken only by the deep,
hollow murmur of the dimpling sea that sent its shimmer in at the
window to meet the painted shimmer in a marine view framed on the
wall,--all these wove a spell about the intruder that temporarily held
him a mute captive.
The artist laid a delicate green on the stripped and scattered leaves
from a wreath of Syrian lilies lying on the marble steps of the
bridegroom's mansion, and once more she read a passage from the open
book,--
... "'Then I beheld
A shadow in the doorway. And One came
Crown'd for a feast. I could not see the Face.
The Form was not all human. As the Flame
Streamed over it, a presence took the place
With awe. He, turning, took them by the hand
And led them each up the wide stairway, and
The door closed.'"
The sound of her voice, low but clear, and burdened with a sadness
that no language could exhaust or interpret, thrilled Dr. Grey's
steady nerves as no music had ever done, and, stepping forward, he
held out his card, and said,--
"Mrs. Gerome, a painful necessity has compelled me to intrude upon
your seclusion, and I trust you will acquit me of impertinence."
Rising, she fronted him with a frown severe as that which clouded
Artemis' brow when profane eyes peered through myrtle boughs into her
sacred retreat, and the changed voice seemed thick with bristling
icicles.
"Your business must be imperative, indeed, if it warrants this
intrusion. What servant admitted you?"
"None. I came in haste, and, seeing the window open, entered without
ringing. Madam, my card will explain my errand."
"Has Dr. Grey an unpaid bill? I was not aware the servants had needed
your services; but if so, present your claim to Robert Maclean, my
agent."
"Mrs. Gerome owes me nothing, and I came here reluctantly and in
compliance with Robert Maclean's request, to inform her of an accident
which happened this afternoon while--"
He paused, awed by the change that swept over her countenance, filling
it with horrible dread.
"Those gray horses?"
"Yes, madam."
"Not Elsie? Oh! don't tell me that my dear old Elsie was mangled!
Hush! I will not hear it!"
Palette and brushes fell upon the carpet, and she wrung her fingers
until the diamond-eyed asp set its blue fangs in her cold flesh.
"Robert was merely bruised, but his mother was very badly injured, and
is still insensible. Every precaution has been taken to counteract the
effect of the severe blow on her head, and I hope that after an hour
or two she will recover her consciousness. Robert is bringing her home
as carefully as possible, and you may expect them momentarily. Only
his urgent entreaties that I would precede him and prepare you for the
reception of his mother could have induced me to waive ceremony and
thrust myself into the presence of a lady who seems little disposed to
pardon the apparent presumption of my visit."
She evidently did not heed his words, and, suddenly clasping her hands
across her forehead, she said, bitterly,--
"Coward! why can't you speak out, and tell me that the corpse will
soon be here, and a coffin must be ordered? This is the last blow!
Surely, God will let me alone, now; for there is nothing more that He
can send to afflict me. Oh, Elsie,--my sole comfort! The only one who
ever loved me!"
A bluish pallor settled about her mouth, and Dr. Grey shuddered as he
looked into the dry, defiant eyes, so beautiful in form and color but
so mournfully desperate in their expression.
"Mrs. Gerome, your servant is neither dead nor dying, and I have told
you the worst. Down the road I can see the wagon coming slowly, and I
would advise you to call the household together, in order to assist in
lifting Elsie, who is very stout and heavy. Calm yourself, madam, and
trust your favorite servant to my care."
"Servant! Sir, she is mother, father, husband, friends,--all,--everything
to me! She is the only human being who cares for, or understands, or
sympathizes with me,--and I could not live without her. Oh, sir, do not
ask me to trust you! The time has gone by when I could trust anybody
but Elsie. You are a physician,--you ought to know what should be done
for her; and, Dr. Grey, if you have any pity in your soul, and any
skill in your profession, save my old Elsie's life! Dr. Grey--"
She paused a few seconds, and added, in a whisper,--
"If she dies, I am afraid I might grow desperate, and commit what you
happy people call a crime."
He felt an unwonted moisture dim his eyes, as he watched the delicate
face, white as the hair that crowned it, and wondered if the wide,
populous world could match her regal form and perfect features.
"Mrs. Gerome, I think I can promise that Elsie will recover from her
injuries; but a prayer for her safety would bring you more comfort
than my feeble words of assurance and encouragement. The mercy of God
is surer than the combined medical skill of the universe."
"The mercy of God!" she repeated, with a gesture of scorn and
impatience. "No, no! God set his face like a flint against me, long,
long ago, and I do not mock myself by offering prayers that only call
down smitings upon me. Seven years since I prayed my last prayer,
which was for speedy death; and, from that hour, I seem to have taken
a new lease on life. Now I stand still and keep silent, and I hoped
that God had forgotten me."
She covered her face with her hands and Dr. Grey drew a chair close to
her and endeavored to make her sit down, but she resisted and shrank
from his touch on her arm.
"Madam, the wagon has stopped at the door. Will you direct your
servants, or shall I?"
"If she is not dead, tell Robert to carry her into my room. Oh, Dr.
Grey, you will not let her die!"
As she looked up imploringly into his calm, noble face, she met his
earnest gaze, brimming with compassion and sympathy, and her lips and
chin quivered.
"Trust your God, and have faith in me."
He went out to assist in removing his patient, and when they had
carried the mattress and its occupant into the room opposite the
parlor and laid it on the carpet near the window, he had the
satisfaction of observing a favorable change in Elsie's condition.
While he stood by a table preparing some medicine, Robert stole up,
and asked:
"Do you notice any improvement? She groaned twice on the road, and
once I am sure she opened her eyes."
"Yes; I think that very soon she will be able to speak, for her pulse
is gaining strength every hour."
"How did my mistress take it?"
"She was much shocked and grieved. Maclean, where are her friends and
relatives?"
There was no reply, and, glancing over his shoulder to repeat the
inquiry, Dr. Grey saw Mrs. Gerome leaning against the door.
"Robert, have you killed her?"
"Oh, no, ma'am! She is doing very well, the doctor says."
She crossed the room, and sat down on the edge of the mattress, taking
one of the large brown hands in both of hers and bending her face over
the pillow.
"Elsie! mother! Elsie, speak to your poor child!"
That wailing voice pierced the stupor, and Dr. Grey was surprised to
see the woman's eyes unclose and rest wonderingly upon the countenance
hovering over her.
"My dear Elsie, don't you know me?"
"Yes, my bairn. What ails you?"
She spoke indistinctly, and shut her eyes once more, as if exhausted.
"If she was in her coffin, I verily believe she would rise, if she
heard your voice calling her," said Robert, wiping away the tears of
joy that trickled across his sunburnt cheeks.
Dr. Grey stooped to put his finger on Elsie's pulse, and Mrs. Gerome
threw herself down on the carpet, and buried her face in the pillow,
where her silver hair mingled with the grizzled locks that straggled
from beneath the old woman's torn lace cap.