"Miss Dexter, where is Muriel?" asked Dr. Grey, glancing around the
library, where the governess sat sewing, while Salome read aloud a
passage in Ariosto.
"She is not very well, and went up stairs, two hours ago, to rest. Do
you wish to see her immediately?"
"Yes. Call her down."
When the teacher left the room, Dr. Grey approached the table where
Salome sat, and looked over her shoulder.
"I went to the Asylum to-day, and found little Jessie very well, but
quite dissatisfied because you visit her so rarely. You should see her
as often as possible, since she is so dependent upon you for sympathy
and affection."
"I do."
"Miss Dexter gives a flattering report of your aptitude for acquiring
languages, and assures me that you will soon speak Italian fluently."
"Miss Dexter doubtless believes that praise of a pupil reflects credit
on the skill of the teacher. Unfortunately for her flattering estimate
of me, I must disclaim all polyglot proclivities, and have no
intention of eclipsing Mezzofanti, Max Muller, or Giovanni Pico
Mirandola. I needed, for a special purpose, a limited acquaintance
with Italian; and, as I have attained what I desired, I shall not
trouble myself much longer with dictionaries and grammars."
"And that special purpose--"
"Concerns nobody else, consequently I keep it to myself."
He turned from her and advanced to meet his ward, who came rapidly
forward, holding out both hands.
"Doctor, where have you been all day? I did not see you at breakfast
or dinner, and it seems quite an age since yesterday afternoon. You
see I am moping, horribly."
"My dear child, I see you are looking pale and weary, which is overt
and unpardonable treason. I sent for you to ask if it would be
agreeable to you to walk, or drive with me."
"Certainly,--either or both."
She had placed her hands in his, and stood looking up joyfully into
his quiet countenance.
"Get your hat, while I order my buggy brought to the door."
"Thank you, my dear doctor. The very thing I longed for, as I noticed
you riding up the avenue. I never saw you on horseback until to-day.
It is a delightful evening for a drive."
She gaily swung his hands, like a gratified child, and started off
for her hat, but, ere she crossed the threshold, turned back, and,
walking up to her guardian, laid her arm on his shoulder and whispered
something.
He laughed, and put his hand under her chin, saying, as he did so,--
"Little witch! How did you know it?"
Her reply was audible only to the ears for which it was framed, and
she darted away, evidently much happier than she had seemed for many
days.
While awaiting her return, Dr. Grey picked up her sketch-book, and was
examining the contents, when Salome rose and hurried towards the door.
As she passed him, his back was turned, and her muslin dress swept
within reach of his spur, which caught the delicate fabric. She
impatiently jerked the dress to disengage it, but it clung to the
steel points, and a long rent was made in the muslin. With a
half-smothered ejaculation, she tried to wrench herself free, but the
dress only tore across the breadth from seam to seam. Dr. Grey turned,
and stooped to assist her.
"Wait an instant, Salome; you have almost ruined your dress."
He was endeavoring to disentangle the shreds from the jagged edge of
the spur, but she bent down, and, seizing the skirt in both hands,
tore it away, leaving a large fragment trailing from the boot-heel.
"'More haste, less speed.' Patience is better than petulance, my young
friend."
His grave, reproving voice, rendered her defiant; and, with a forced,
unnatural laugh, she bowed, and hurried away, saying, as she looked
over her shoulder,--
"And spurs than persuasion? You mistake my nature."
Dr. Grey had been riding, all the morning, across a broken stretch of
country, where the roads were exceedingly insecure, and, as he removed
the troublesome spur and laid it on the mantelpiece, he folded up the
strip of muslin and put it into his pocket.
"I am waiting for you," cried Muriel, from the hall door.
He sighed, and went to his buggy; but the cloud did not melt from his
brow, for, as he drove off, he noticed Salome's gleaming eyes peering
from the window of her room; and pity and pain mingled in the emotions
with which he recalled his sister's warning words.
"Muriel, here is your letter, and, better still, Gerard will be with
us to-morrow. Diplomatic affairs brought him temporarily to
Washington, and he will spend next week with us. I cordially
congratulate you, my dear child, and hastened home to bring you the
good news, which I felt assured you would prefer to receive without
witnesses."
Muriel's blushing face was bent over her letter; but she put her hand
on her guardian's, and pressed it vigorously.
"A thousand thanks for all your goodness! Gerard writes that it was
through your influence he was enabled to visit Washington; and,
indeed, dear Dr. Grey, we are both very grateful for your kind
interest in our happiness. Even poor papa could not be more
considerate."
"For several days past I have observed that you were unusually
depressed, and that Miss Dexter looked constrained. Are you not
pleasantly situated in my sister's house. Do not hesitate to speak
frankly."
Muriel's eyes filled with tears, and she answered, evasively,--
"Miss Jane is very kind and affectionate."
"Which means that Salome is not."
"Dr. Grey, why does she dislike me so seriously? I have tried to be
friendly and cordial towards her; but she constantly repels me. I
really admire her very much; but I am afraid she positively hates
me."
"No, that is impossible; but she is a very peculiar, and, I am sorry
to be forced to say, an unamiable girl, and is governed by every idle
caprice. I hope that you will not allow yourself to be annoyed by any
want of courtesy which she may unfortunately have displayed. Although
a member of the household, Salome has no right to dispense or to
withhold the hospitalities of my sister's home, or to insult her
guests; and I trust that her individual whims will have no effect
whatever upon you, unless they create a feeling of compassion and
toleration in your kind heart. She has some good traits hidden under
her _brusquerie_, and when you know her better you will excuse her
rudeness."
"Why is she so moody? I have not seen a pleasant smile on her face
since I came here."
"My dear child, let us select some more agreeable topic for
discussion. Gerard will probably arrive on the early train, which will
enable him to breakfast with us to-morrow. He will endeavor to
persuade you to return at once to Europe; but I must tell you, in
advance of his proposal, that I hope you will not yield to his wishes,
since it would grieve me to part with you so soon."
Muriel turned aside her head to avoid her guardian's penetrating gaze,
and silently listened to his counsel concerning the course she should
pursue towards her betrothed.
For a year they had been affianced without the knowledge of her
father, from whom she had been separated; but the frankness with which
both had discussed the matter with Dr. Grey forbade the possibility of
his withholding his approbation of the engagement; though he assured
them he could not consent to its speedy consummation, as Muriel was
too young and childish to appreciate the grave responsibility of such
a step. Gerard Granville was several years older than his betrothed,
and Dr. Grey had been astonished at his choice; but a long and
intimate acquaintance led him to esteem the young man so highly, that,
while he felt that Muriel was far inferior, he strove to stimulate her
ambition, and hoped she would one day be fully worthy of him.
To-day Dr. Grey drove for an hour through quiet, unfrequented country
roads; and finally, when Muriel expressed herself anxious to catch a
glimpse of the sea and a breath of its brine, he turned into a narrow
track that led down to some fishermen's huts on the beach.
While they paused on the edge of the low, yellow strand, and inhaled
the fresh ocean air, Dr. Grey grew silent, and his companion fell
into a blissful reverie relative to to-morrow's events. Suddenly he
placed his hand on her arm, and said, "Listen! What a wonderfully
sweet, flexible voice! Surely, fishermen's wives are not singing
Mendelssohn's compositions? Did you hear that gush of melody? It
comes not from that house, but seems floating from the opposite
direction. Such strains almost revive one's faith in the Hindoo
_Gandharvas_,--musical genii, filling the air with ravishing sounds.
There! is it not exquisite? Hold these reins while I ascertain who
owns that marvellous voice."
Eager and curious as a boy, he sprang from the buggy, and, following
the bend of the beach, passed two small deserted huts, and plunged
into a grove of stunted trees, whence issued the sound that attracted
his attention. Ere he had proceeded many yards he saw a woman sitting
on a bank of sand and oyster-shells, and singing from an open sheet of
music, while she made rapid gestures with one hand. Her face was
turned from him, but, as he cautiously approached, the _pose_ of the
figure, the noble contour of the head and neck, and a certain muslin
dress which matched the strip in his pocket, made his heart beat
violently. Intent only on solving the mystery, he stepped softly
towards her; but just then a brace of plover started up at his feet,
and, as they whirred away, the woman turned her head, and he found
himself face to face with his musician.
"Salome!"
"Well, Dr. Grey."
She had risen, and a beautiful glow overspread her cheeks, as she met
his eyes.
"What brings you to this lonely spot, three miles from home, when the
sun has already gone down?"
"Have I not as unquestionable a right to walk alone to the seaside as
you to drive your ward whithersoever you list? Poverty, as well as
wealth, sometimes makes people strangely independent. What have you
done with Miss Muriel Manton?"
There was such a sparkle in her eyes, such a bright flush on her
polished cheeks and parted lips, that Dr. Grey wondered at her beauty,
which had never before impressed him as so extraordinary.
"Salome, why have you concealed your musical gift from me? Who taught
you to sing?"
"I am teaching myself, with such poor aid as I can obtain from that
miserable vagabond, Barilli, who is generally intoxicated three days
out of every six. Did you expect to find Heine's yellow-haired
Loreley, or a treacherous Ligeia, sitting on a rock, wooing passers-by
to speedy destruction?"
"I certainly did not expect to meet my friend Salome alone at this
hour and place. Child, do not trifle with me,--be truthful. Did you
come here to meet any one?"
"One never knows what may or may not happen. I came here to practise
my music lesson, _sans_ auditors, and I meet Dr. Grey,--the last
person I expected or desired to see."
He came a step nearer, and put his hand on her shoulder.
"Salome, you distress and perplex me. My child, are you better or
worse than I think you?"
She lifted her slender hand and laid it lightly on his, which still
rested upon her shoulder.
"I am both,--better and worse. Better in aim than you believe; worse
in execution than you could realize, even if I confessed all, which I
have not the slightest intention of doing. Ah, Dr. Grey, if you read
me thoroughly, you would not be surprised, or consider it presumptuous
that I sometimes think I am that anomalous creature, whom Balzac
defined as 'Angel through love, demon through fantasy, child through
faith, sage through experience, man through the brain, woman through
the heart, giant through hope, and poet through dreams.'"
As Dr. Grey looked down into the splendid eyes, softened and magnified
by a crystal veil of unshed tears, he sighed, and answered,--
"You are, indeed, a bundle of contradictions. Why have you so
sedulously concealed the existence of your fine voice, which the
majority of girls would have been eager to exhibit?"
"It was not lack of vanity, but excess, that prompted me to keep you
in ignorance, until I could astonish you by its perfection. You have
anticipated me only by a few days, and I intended singing for you next
week."
"It is not prudent for you to venture so far from home, especially at
this hour."
"We paupers are not so fastidious as our lucky superiors, and cannot
afford timid airs, and affectation of extreme nervousness. Having no
escort, and expecting none, I walk alone in any direction I choose,
with what fearlessness and contentment I find myself able to
command."
"It will be dark before you can reach the public road."
"No, sir; there is a young moon swinging above the tree-tops, to light
me on my lonesome ramble; and I come here so often that even the
rabbits and whippoorwills know me. Where is Miss Muriel?"
"Waiting in the buggy, on the beach. I must go back to her."
"Yes. Pray do not delay an instant, or she will imagine that some dire
calamity has befallen her knight, who, in hunting a siren, encountered
Scylla or Charybdis. Good evening, Dr. Grey."
"I am unwilling to leave you here so unprotected. Come and ride with
Muriel, and I will walk beside the buggy. My horse is so gentle that a
child can guide him."
"Thank you. Not for a ten-acre lot in Mohammed's Paradise would I mar
Miss Muriel's happiness, or punish myself by a _tete-a-tete_ with her.
It would be positively 'discourteous' in me to accept your proposal;
and, moreover, I abhor division,--_tout ou rien_."
"Wilful, silly child! It is not proper for you to wander along that
dreary road in the dark. Come with me."
"Not I. Make yourself easy by recollecting that 'naught is never in
danger.' See yonder in the west,--
'Where, lo! above the sandy sunset rose
The silver sickle of the green-gowned witch.'"
She laughed lightly, derisively, and collected the sheets of music
scattered on the bank.
Silently Dr. Grey returned to his ward, who exclaimed, at sight of
him,--
"I am glad to see you again, for you stayed so long I was growing
frightened. Did you find the singer?"
"Yes."
"What is the matter? You look troubled and solemn."
"I am merely annoyed by circumstances beyond my control."
"Dr. Grey, who was that sweet singer?"
"Salome Owen."
"How can such a thing be possible, when I have never heard a note from
her lips? You told me she had no musical talent."
"I was not aware that she sang at all, until this afternoon, and your
surprise does not equal mine."
"Where did you find her?"
"Sitting on a mound of sand, singing to the sea."
"Who is with her?"
"No one. I requested her to come with us, and offered to walk beside
my buggy; but she declined. Please be so considerate as to say nothing
about this occurrence, when you reach home; because animadversion only
hardens that poor girl in her whimsical ways. Now we will dismiss the
matter."
Muriel endeavored to render herself an agreeable companion during the
remainder of the drive; but her guardian, despite his efforts to
become interested in her conversation, was evidently _distrait_, and
both felt relieved when they reached Grassmere, where Miss Jane and
the governess welcomed their return.
Dr. Grey dismissed his buggy and entered the hall; but passed through
the house, and, crossing the orchard, followed the road leading
seaward.
Only a few summer stars were sprinkling their silvery rays over the
gray gloom of twilight, and the shining crescent in the violet west
had slipped down behind the silent hills that girded the rough,
winding road.
When Salome put her fingers on the gloved hand which, in the surprise
of their unexpected meeting, Dr. Grey had involuntarily placed on her
shoulder, she had felt that he shrank instantly from her touch, and
withdrew his hand hastily, as if displeased with the familiarity of
the action. All the turbid elements in her nature boiled up. Could it
be possible that he really loved his rosy-faced, bright-eyed,
prattling ward? She set this conjecture squarely before her, and
forced herself to contemplate it. If he desired to marry Muriel, of
course he would do so whenever he chose, and the thought that he might
call her his wife, and give her his name, his caresses, wrung a cry of
agony from Salome's lips. She threw herself on the sand-bank, and,
resting her chin on her folded arms, gazed vacantly across the yellow
strand at the glassy, leaden sea that stared back mockingly at her.
She was too miserable to feel afraid of anything but Dr. Grey's
marriage; and, moreover, she had so often, during the early years of
her life, gone to and fro in the darkness, that she was a stranger to
that timidity which girls usually indulge under similar circumstances.
The fishermen had abandoned the neighboring huts some months before,
and "Solitude," one mile distant, was the nearest spot occupied by
human beings.
She neither realized nor cared that it was growing darker, and, after
awhile, when the sea was no longer visible through the dun haze that
brooded over it, she shut her eyes and moaned.
Dr. Grey had walked on, hoping every moment to meet her returning
home; and, more than once, he was tempted to retrace his steps,
thinking that she might have taken some direct path across the hills,
instead of the circuitous one bending around their base. Quickening
his pace till it matched his pulse, which an indefinable anxiety
accelerated, he finally saw the huts dimly outlined against the starry
sky and quiet sea.
Pausing, he took off his hat to listen to
"The water lapping on the crag,
And the long ripple washing in the reeds,"
and, while he stood wiping his brow, there came across the beach,--
"A cry that shivered to the tingling stars,
And, as it were one voice, an agony
Of lamentation, like a wind that shrills
All night in a waste land, where no one comes,
Or hath come since the making of the world."
In the uncertain light he ran towards the clump of trees where he had
left Salome, and strained his eyes to discover some moving thing. He
knew that he must be very near the spot, but neither the expected
sound nor object greeted him, and, while he stopped and held his
breath to listen, the silence was profound and death-like. He was
opening his lips to call the girl's name, when he fancied he saw
something move slightly, and simultaneously a human voice smote the
oppressive stillness. She was very near him, and he heard her saying
to herself, with mournful emphasis,--
"Have I brought Joy, and slain her at his feet?
Have I brought Peace, for his cold kiss to kill?
Have I brought youth, crowned with wild-flowers sweet,
With sandals dewy from a morning hill,
For his gray, solemn eyes, to fright and chill?
Have I brought Scorn the pale, and Hope the fleet,
And First Love, in her lily winding-sheet,--
And is he pitiless still?"
Dr. Grey knew now that she was not crying. Her hard, ringing, bitter
tone, forbade all thought of sobs or tears; but his heart ached as he
listened, and surmised the application she was making of the
melancholy lines.
Unwilling that she should know he had overheard her, he waited a
moment, then raised his voice and shouted,--
"Salome! Salome! Where are you?"
There was no answer, and, fearing that she might elude him, he
stretched out his arms, and advanced to the spot, which he felt
assured was only a few yards distant.
She had risen, and, standing in the gloom of the coming night,
deepened by the interlacing boughs above her, she felt Dr. Grey's hand
on her dress, then on her head, where the moisture hung heavily in her
thick hair.
"Salome, why do you not answer me?"
Shame kept her silent.
He passed his hand over her hot face, then groped for her fingers,
which he grasped firmly in his.
"Come home with your best friend."
He knew that she was in no mood to submit to reprimand, to appreciate
argument, or even to listen to entreaty, and that he might as
profitably undertake to knead pig-iron as expostulate with her at this
juncture.
For a mile they walked on without uttering a word; then he felt the
fingers relax, twitch, and twine closely around his own.
"Dr. Grey, where is Muriel? Where is your buggy?"
"Both are at home, where others should have been, long ago."
"You walked back to meet me?"
"I did."
"How did you find me, in the dark?"
"I heard your voice."
"But not the words?"
"Why? Are you ashamed for me to hear what any strolling stranger, any
unscrupulous vagabond, might have listened to?"
"It is such a desolate, lonely place, I thought no one would stumble
upon me, and I have been there so often without meeting a living thing
except the crabs and plover."
"You are no longer a child, and such rashness is altogether
unpardonable. What do you suppose my sister would think of your
imprudent obstinacy?"
They walked another mile, and again Salome convulsively pressed the
cool, steady, strong hand, in which hers lay hot and quivering.
"Dr. Grey, tell me the truth,--don't torture me."
"What shall I tell you? You torture yourself."
"Did you hear what I was saying to my own heart?"
"I heard you repeating some lines which certainly should possess no
relevancy for the real feeling of my young friend."
She snatched her fingers from his, and he knew she covered her face
with them.
They reached the gate at the end of the avenue, and Salome stopped
suddenly, as the lights from the front windows flashed out on the
lawn.
"Go in, and leave me."
She threw herself on the sward, under one of the elm-trees, and leaned
her head against its trunk.
"I shall do no such thing, unless you desire the entire household to
comment upon your reckless conduct."
"Oh, Dr. Grey, I care little now what the whole world thinks or says!
Let me be quiet, or I shall go mad."
"No; come into the house, and sing something to compensate me for the
anxiety and fatigue you have cost me. I do not often ask a favor of
you, and certainly in this instance you will not refuse to grant my
request."
She did not reply, and he bent down and softly stroked the hair that
was damp with dew and sea-fog.
The long-pent storm broke in convulsive sobs, and she trembled from
head to foot, while tears poured over her burning cheeks.
"Poor child! Can you not confide in me?"
"Dr. Grey, will you forget all that has passed to-day? Will you try
never to think of it again?"
"On condition that you never repeat the offence."
"You do not despise me?"
"No."
"You pity me?"
"I pity any human being who is so unfortunate as to possess your
wilful, perverse, passionate disposition. Unless you overcome this
dangerous tendency of character, you may expect only wretchedness and
humiliation in coming years. I am sincerely sorry for you, but I tell
you unhesitatingly, that I find it difficult to tolerate your grave
and obtrusive faults."
She raised her clasped hands, and said, brokenly,--
"This is the last time I shall ever ask you to forgive me. Will you?"
"As freely and fully as a grieved brother ever forgave a wayward
sister."
He took the folded hands, lifted her from the grass, and led her to a
side door opening upon the east gallery.
"Dr. Grey, give me one kind word before I go."
The lamp-light from the hall shone full on his pale face, which was
sterner than she had ever seen it, as he forcibly withdrew his hands
from her tight clasp, and, putting her away from him, said, very
coldly,--
"I exhausted my store of kind thoughts and words when I called you my
sister."
He saw that she understood him, for she tried to hide her face, but a
spasm passed over it, and she would have fallen had he not caught her
in his arms and carried her up to her own room.
Stanley was asleep with his head pillowed on his open geography, but
the candle burned beside him, and Dr. Grey placed Salome on a lounge
near the window, and sprinkled her face with water.
Kneeling by the low couch, he rubbed her hands vigorously with some
cologne he found on her bureau; and, watching her pale, beautiful
features, his heart swelled with compassion, and his calm eyes grew
misty. Consciousness very soon returned, and when she saw the noble,
sorrowful countenance, bent anxiously over her, she covered her face
with her hands and moaned rather than spoke,--
"I can't endure your pity. Leave me with my self-contempt and
degradation."
"My little sister, I leave you in God's merciful hands, and trust you
to the guidance of your womanly pride and self-respect. Good-night. We
will not engrave this unfortunate day on our tablets, but forget its
record, save one fact, that for all time it makes me your brother;
and, Salome,--
"'So we'll not dream, nor look back, dear,
But march right on, content and bold,
To where our life sets heavenly clear,--
Westward, behind the hills of gold.'"