"Doctor Grey, you look weary and anxious."
"I feel so, for this has been a memorable night."
"The servant who opened the gate for us said that the poor old woman
died about day-break."
"Yes; when I arrived I found her speechless, and of course could do
nothing but watch her die. Come down this walk, I wish to talk to you
before you go into the house."
He pointed to a serpentine walk, overarched by laurustinus, and they
had proceeded some yards before he spoke again.
"Salome, I believe you told me that you had met Mrs. Gerome?"
"Yes, sir; once upon the cliffs, a mile below, I saw her for a few
moments."
"She is a very eccentric woman."
"I should judge so, from her appearance."
"Her life seems to have been blighted by early griefs, and she has
grown cynical and misanthropic. Loving no one but her faithful and
devoted nurse, she has completely isolated herself, and consequently
the death of this servant--companion--nay, foster-mother--is a
terrible blow to her. I want your promise that what you may hear or
witness in this house shall not travel beyond its walls to feed the
worse-than-Ugolino hunger of never-satiated scandal and gossip."
Salome's brow contracted and darkened.
"Do you class me among newsmongers and character-cannibals?"
"If I did, you certainly would not be here at this instant. I sent for
you to come and take my place temporarily, as I am compelled to see a
patient many miles distant, who is dangerously ill. The majority of
women might go away, and comment upon the occurrences of this
melancholy day, but I wish to keep sacred all that Mrs. Gerome desires
to screen from public gaze and animadversion. Because she is not fond
of society, it revenges itself by circulating reports detrimental to
the owner of a house which is elegantly furnished, not for popular
praise, but solely for her own comfort and gratification. While I
regard her course as very deplorable, and particularly impolitic for
one so young and unprotected, I am totally unacquainted with the
reasons that control her; and, in this hour of grief and bitterness, I
earnestly desire to shield her from intrusion and impertinent
scrutiny."
"In other words, you wish me to have eyes and yet see not,--and having
ears to hear not? You must indeed have little confidence in my good
sense, and still less in my feminine sympathy for the afflicted, if
you suppose that under existing circumstances I could come to the
house of mourning to collect materials to be rolled as sweet morsels
under the slanderous tongues, that already wag so industriously
concerning 'Solitude' and its solitary mistress. Verily, I occupy a
lofty niche in your estimation, and it would doubtless be pardonably
prudent in you to reconsider, and bid Elbert take me home with all
possible dispatch, before I see Fatima or Bluebeard."
"When will you cease to be childish, and remember that a woman's work
lies before you?"
"You may date that desirable transmogrification from the hour when you
cease to stir up the mud and dregs in my nature, by doubting the
possibility that they will ever settle, and leave a pure medium
between your soul and mine. Just so soon,--and no sooner."
"My young friend, you are too sensitive. I now offer you the strongest
proof of confidence that I can ever hope to command. Will you take
charge of this stricken household in my absence, and not only
superintend the arrangements necessary for the funeral, but watch over
Mrs. Gerome and see that no one disturbs her?"
"You may trust me to execute her wishes and your orders."
"Thank you. There certainly is no one except you whom I would trust in
this emergency. One thing more; if Mrs. Gerome leaves the house, do
not lose sight of her. It may be necessary to keep a very strict
surveillance over her, and I will return as soon as possible, and
relieve you."
As they entered the house, Salome said,--
"You will stop at home and get your breakfast?"
"No, I shall not have time."
"Let me make you a cup of coffee before you start."
"Thank you, it is not necessary; and besides, the house is in such
confusion that it would be difficult to obtain anything. Come with
me."
She followed him into the dim room, where the tall but emaciated form
of Elsie Maclean had been dressed for its last long sleep. The
housemaid sat at the bedside, and Robert stood at one of the windows.
The first passionate burst of grief had spent itself, and the son was
very calm.
At a sign from Dr. Grey he came forward, and bowed to the stranger.
"Robert, I am obliged to be absent for several hours, and Miss Owen
will remain until I return. If you need advice or assistance come to
her, and do not disturb Mrs. Gerome, who is lying on a sofa in the
parlor. I will drive through town, and send your minister out
immediately."
"You are very good, sir. Do you think the funeral should take place
before to-morrow? I want to speak to my mistress about it."
"For her sake, it is advisable that it should not be delayed beyond
this afternoon. It is very harrowing to know that the body is lying
here, and I think she would prefer to leave all these matters to you.
It would be better for all parties to have the funeral ceremonies
ended this evening."
"I suppose, sir, you know that my poor mother will be buried here, in
the grounds."
"For what reason? The cemetery is certainly the best place."
Robert handed a slip of paper to Dr. Grey, who read, in a remarkably
beautiful chirograph, the following words,--
"Robert, it was your mother's desire and is my wish that she should be
buried near that cluster of deodar cedars, just beyond the mound. Send
for an undertaker, and for the minister who visited her during her
illness; and let everything be done as if it were my funeral instead
of hers. Put some geranium leaves and violets in her dear hands, and
upon her breast."
"When did you receive this?" asked Dr. Grey.
"A moment ago, Phoebe, the cook, brought it to me from my mistress."
"Of course you have no choice, but must comply with her wishes and
those of the dead. Still, I regret this decision."
"Yes, sir; it is ill luck to keep a grave near the eaves of a house,
and it will be bad for my mistress to have it always in sight; for she
mopes enough at best, and does not sleep o' nights, and the Lord only
knows what will become of her with my poor mother's corpse and coffin
within ten yards of her window. Sir, how does she take this awful
blow? It comforted me to know you were with her."
"She bears this affliction as she seems to have endured all others
that have overtaken her, in a spirit of rebellious bitterness and
defiance. I am afraid that the excitement will seriously injure her.
Salome, I will return as early as the safety of a patient will
permit."
Robert followed the doctor to his buggy, to consult him with reference
to some of the sad details of the impending funeral, and after a hasty
glance at the placid countenance of the dead, Salome went back to the
hall, and sat down opposite to the parlor door, which had been pointed
out to her. Her nerves were strong, healthy, and firm, but the
presence of death, the profound silence that reigned, the chill
atmosphere, and dreary aspect of the house,--all conspired to oppress
her heart.
Through the open door she could see the ever restless sea, and hear
its endless murmuring monotone, and imagination seizing the ill-omened
legends she had heard recounted concerning this spot, peopled the
corners of the hall with phantoms, and every flitting shadow on the
lawn became a spectre.
Now and then the servants--two middle-aged women--passed softly to and
fro, and twice Robert crossed the passage, but not a sound issued from
the parlor; and once, when Phoebe came with her mistress's breakfast
on a waiter, and tried the bolt, she found the door locked. She
knocked several times, but receiving no answer went quietly back to
the kitchen.
Weary of sitting on one of the hard, uncomfortable walnut chairs, that
stood with its high carved back close to the wall, Salome rose, and
amused herself by studying the engravings that surrounded her. In the
midst of her investigations she was startled by a loud, doleful,
blood-curdling sound, that seemed to proceed from some spot
immediately beneath the floor of the hall. It was different from
anything she had ever heard before, but resembled the prolonged howl
of a dog, and rose and fell on the air like a cry from some doomed
spirit.
Robert came out of the room which his mother had always occupied, and,
as he passed Salome, she asked,--
"What is the matter? What is the meaning of that horrible noise?"
"Only the greyhound howling at the dead that he knows is lying over
his head. Ah, ma'am! The poor brute sees what we can't see, and his
death-baying is awful."
"Where is he? The sound seems to come through the floor."
"He is so savage that I was afraid he would hurt some of the strangers
who will come here to-day, so I chained him in the basement. Hist,
ma'am! Did you ever hear anything so dreadful? It raises the hair off
my head."
He went down stairs, and the howling, which was caused by the fact
that the dog was hungry and unaccustomed to being chained, ceased as
soon as he was set free. Ere long Robert came back, followed by the
greyhound, whose collar he grasped firmly. At sight of Salome he
growled and plunged towards her, but Robert was on the alert, and held
him down. Leading him to the parlor door, the gardener knocked, and
put his mouth to the key-hole.
"If you please, ma'am, will you let Greyhound in? It won't do to leave
him at large, and when I chain him he almost lifts the roof with his
howls."
No reply reached Salome's strained ears, but the door was opened
sufficiently to admit the dog, who eagerly bounded in, and then the
click of the lock once more barred intrusion; and when the joyful
barking had ceased, all grew silent once more.
From a basket of fresh flowers brought in by the boy who assisted
Robert, Salome selected the white ones and made a wreath, which she
laid aside and sprinkled; then gathering some rose and nutmeg
geranium-leaves, and a few violets blooming in jars that stood on the
gallery, she cautiously glided into the chamber of death, and arranged
them in Elsie's rigid hands.
Soon after, the undertaker and minister arrived, and while they
conferred with Robert concerning the burial service, the girl went
back to her vigil before the parlor door, and endeavored to divert her
thoughts by looking into a volume of poems that lay on the hall table.
The book opened at "Macromicros," where a brilliant verbena was
crushed between the leaves, and delicate undulating pencil-lines
enclosed the passage beginning,--
"O woman, woman, with face so pale!
Pale woman, weaving away
A frustrate life at a lifeless loom."
Slowly the hours wore away, and at noon Elsie's body was placed in
the coffin and left on a table in the room opposite the parlor.
It was two o'clock when Dr. Grey came up the steps, looking more
fatigued than Salome had ever seen him. He sat down beside her on the
gallery, and sighed as he caught a glimpse of the men who were
bricking up the grave that yawned on the right hand side of the lawn.
"Where is Mrs. Gerome?"
"In the parlor. Once I heard her pacing the floor very rapidly, and
saying something to her dog. Since then--two hours ago--not a sound
has reached me."
"She has taken no food?"
"No, sir. The servant who prepared her breakfast knocked twice at the
door, but was refused admittance."
Dr. Grey went into the hall, and rapped vigorously on the door, but
there was no movement within.
"Mrs. Gerome, please permit me to speak to you for a few minutes. If
it were not necessary, I would not disturb you."
The appeal produced no effect; and, without hesitating, he walked to
the door of the library or rear parlor,--took the key from his pocket,
opened it, and entered.
The dog was asleep on the velvet rug before the hearth, and his
mistress sat at her escritoire, with her arms resting on the blue
desk, and her face hidden upon them. A number of letters and papers
were scattered about, and, in an open drawer a silver casket was
visible, with a pearl key in its lock.
Before the marble Harpocrates stood two slender violet-colored
Venetian glasses, representing tulips, and filled with fuchsias and
clematis that were dropping their faded velvet petals, and the
atmosphere was sweet with the breath of carnations and mignonette
blooming in the south window.
Dr. Grey hoped that Mrs. Gerome had fallen asleep; but when he bent
over her, he saw in the mirror above her that the large, bright eyes
were gazing vacantly into the recess of the desk.
She noticed his image reflected in the glass, and instantly sat
upright, spreading her hands over her papers as if to screen them. He
drew a chair near hers, and put his finger on her pulse, which
throbbed so rapidly he could scarcely count it.
"Have you slept at all, since I left you this morning?"
"No."
"You promised that you would not attempt to destroy yourself."
"I have kept my word."
"Yes; you 'keep it to our ear, and break it to our hope,' for you must
know that unless you take some rest and refreshment, you will be
seriously ill."
He saw a spark leap up in her eyes, like a bubble tossed into sunshine
by a sudden ripple, and she shook back the hair that seemed to oppress
her.
"Do not tease and torment me, now. I want to be quiet."
"My task is an unpleasant one, therefore I shall not postpone it. In a
short time--within the next hour--Elsie will be buried, and you owe a
last tribute of gratitude and respect to her remains. Will you refuse
it to the faithful friend to whom you are indebted for so much
affection and considerate care?"
"She would not wish me to do anything that is so repugnant, so painful
to me."
"Have you no desire to look at her kind, placid face once more?"
"I wish to remember it as in life,--not rigid and repulsive in
death."
"She looks so tranquil you would think she was sleeping."
"No,--no! Don't ask me. I never saw but one corpse, and that was of
a sailor drowned in mid ocean, and I shall never be able to forget
its ghastliness and distortion as it lay on deck, under sickly
moonshine."
"Mrs. Gerome, you must follow Elsie's body to the grave. Believe that
I have good reasons for this request, and grant it."
She shook her head.
"Your habits of seclusion have subjected you to uncharitable remarks,
and your absence from the funeral would create more gossip than any
woman can afford to give grounds for. There is a rumor that you are
deranged, and the best refutation will be your quiet presence at the
grave of your faithful nurse."
She straightened herself, haughtily.
"Seven years ago I turned my back upon the world, and scorned its
verdict."
"The men or women who defy public opinion invite social impalement,
and rarely fail to merit the branding and opprobrium they invariably
receive. Madam, I should imagine that to a nature so refined and
shrinking as yours, almost any trial would seem slight in comparison
with the certainty of becoming a target for sarcasm, pity, and malice,
in every kitchen in the neighborhood. Permit my prudence to prevail
over your reluctance to the step I have advised, and some day you will
thank me for my persistency. You have time to make the proper changes
in your dress, and, when the hour arrives, I will knock at your own
door. My dear madam, do not delay."
She rose, and began to replace the papers in the drawers of her desk,
which she closed and locked.
"Dr. Grey, why should you care if I am slandered?"
"Because I am now your best friend, and must tell you frankly your
foibles and dangers, and endeavor to guard you from the faintest
breath of detraction."
"I am very suspicious concerning the motives of all who come about me;
and, at times, I have been so unjust as to ascribe even my poor
Elsie's devotion to a desire to control my fortune for the benefit of
herself and child. Do you expect me to trust you more implicitly than
I ever trusted her?"
"I shall make it impossible for you to doubt me. Come to your room.
Elsie's few acquaintances will soon be here."
Mrs. Gerome thrust the key of her desk into her pocket, but a moment
after, when she drew out her handkerchief, it fell on the carpet, and
without observing it, she passed swiftly across the hall, and into her
own apartment.
As Dr. Grey lingered to secure the door, his eye fell upon the silver
key on the floor; and, placing it in his vest pocket, he rejoined
Salome.
At four o'clock several of Robert's friends came and seated themselves
in the room where the coffin sat wreathed with flowers; and
immediately after, Mr. and Mrs. Spiewell made their appearance,
accompanied by two ladies whose features were concealed by thick
veils. Robert and the servants soon joined them, and Salome stole into
the room and sat down in one corner.
Dr. Grey tapped softly at the door of Mrs. Gerome's apartment, and she
came out instantly, and walked firmly forward till she stood in the
presence of the dead. She was dressed in black silk, and wore two
heavy lace veils over her bonnet, which effectually screened her
countenance. Crossing the floor, she stood at Robert's side, and the
minister rose and began the burial service.
When a prayer was offered, all the other persons present bowed their
heads, but the mistress of the mansion remained erect and motionless;
and, as the pall-bearers took up the coffin and proceeded to the
grave, she followed Robert.
Dr. Grey stepped to her side and offered his arm, but she took no
notice of the act, and walked on as if she were an automaton.
The service was concluded, the coffin lowered, and, amid Robert's
half-smothered sobs, the mound was raised under the deodars, whose
long shadows slanted athwart it, in the dying sunlight.
The little group dispersed, and Mr. Spiewell led his wife to the owner
of "Solitude."
"Mrs. Gerome, Mrs. Spiewell and I have long desired the pleasure of
your acquaintance, and hope, if you need friends, you will permit
us--"
"Thank you for your kindness in visiting my faithful old Elsie."
The tall, veiled figure had cut short his speech by a quick,
imperative gesture of her hand; and, turning instantly away,
disappeared in one of the densely shaded walks that wound through the
grounds.
Dr. Grey escorted the party to their carriages, and as he handed Mrs.
Spiewell in, she said, in her sharp nasal tones,--
"I heard that Mrs. Gerome was devotedly attached to the poor old
creature who had nursed her, but she certainly seems to me very
indifferent and heartless."
"She is more deeply afflicted by her loss than you can possibly
realize, and I am exceedingly apprehensive that she will be ill in
consequence of her inability to sleep or eat. My dear madam, we must
not judge too hastily from appearances, else we shall deserve similar
treatment. Who are those two ladies veiled so closely?"
"Friends, I presume, or they would not be here."
But the little woman seemed uneasy, and flushed under the doctor's
searching gaze.
"I hope dear Miss Jane is as well as one can ever expect her to be in
this life. Come, Charles; you forget, my dear, that we have a visit to
make before tea-time. I notice, doctor, that you have a new carpet on
the floor of your pew, and a new cushion-cover to match; and, indeed,
you are so fine that the remainder of the church seems quite faded and
shabby. Good evening, doctor; my love to all at home."
The clergyman's gray pony trotted off with his master and mistress,
and Dr. Grey returned to Salome, who waited for him at the steps of
the terrace.
"What do you suppose brought Mrs. Channing and Adelaide to the poor
old woman's funeral?" asked the orphan.
"How did you discover them?"
"I found this handkerchief, whose initials I embroidered two months
ago, and recognize as belonging to Mrs. Channing. As for Miss
Adelaide, when she moved her veil a little aside to peep at Mrs.
Gerome, I caught a glimpse of her pretty face. Do they visit here?"
"Certainly not; nobody visits here but the butcher, baker, and doctor.
Those ladies came solely on a tour of inspection, and to gratify a
curiosity that is not flattering to their characters. My dear child,
you look tired."
"Dr. Grey, what is there so mysterious about this house and its owner
that all the town is agog and agape when the subject is mentioned?
What is Mrs. Gerome's history?"
"I am totally unacquainted with its details, and only know that since
she became a widow, she has been a complete recluse. She is very
unhappy, and we must exert ourselves to cheer her. This has been a
lonely, dreary day to you, I fear, and I trust it will not be
necessary for me to ask you to remain here to-night."
The sun had set, leaving magnificent cloud-pictures on sky and sea,
and while the orphan turned to enjoy the glorious prospect above and
around her, Dr. Grey went in search of the lonely women who now
continually occupied his thoughts.
She was standing under the pyramidal cedars, looking down at the
new grave, where Salome's wreath hung on the head-board, and
hearing approaching footsteps would have moved away, but he said,
pleadingly,--
"Do not avoid me."
She paused, and suddenly held out her hands to him.
"Ah,--is it you? Dr. Grey, what shall I do? How can I bear to live
here,--alone,--alone."
He took her hands and looked down into her white, chill face.
"My dear friend, take your suffering heart to God, and He will
heal, and comfort, and strengthen you. If He has sorely afflicted you,
try to believe that Infinite love and mercy directed all things, and
that ultimately every sorrow of earth will be overruled for your
eternal repose and happiness. Remember that this world is but a
threshing-floor, where angels use afflictions as flails, to beat
the chaff and dust from our hearts, and present them as perfect
grain for the garners of God. I know that you are desolate, but you
can never be utterly alone, since the precious promise, 'Lo! I am
with you alway, even unto the end of the world.'"
Despairingly she shook her head.
"All that might comfort some people, but it falls on my ears and heart
like the sound of the clods on Elsie's coffin. I have no religion,--no
faith,--no hope,--in time or eternity. My miserable past entombs all
things."
"Do not unearth your woes,--let the grave seal them. Your life stands
waiting to be sanctified,--dedicated to Him who gave it. My dear
friend,--
'Cleanse it and make it pure, and fashion it
After His image: heal thyself; from grief
Comes glory, like a rainbow from a cloud.'"
The sound of his voice, more than the import of his words, seemed to
soothe her, for her eyes softened; but the effect was transitory, and
presently she exclaimed,--
"Mere 'sounding brass, and a tinkling cymbal!' Pretty words, and
musical; but empty as those polished shells yonder that echo only
hollow strains of the never silent sea. Once, Dr. Grey,--"
She paused, and a shiver crept through her stately form; then she
slowly continued, in a tone of indescribable pathos,--
"Once I could have listened to your counsel, for once my soul was full
of holy aims, and my heart as redolent of pure Christian purposes as a
June rose is of perfume; but now,--
'They are past as a slumber that passes,
As the dew of a dawn of old time;
More frail than the shadows on glasses,
More fleet than a wave or a rhyme.'"
Dr. Grey drew her arm through his, and silently led her to the house,
and into the parlor. He noticed that her breathing was quick and
short, and that she sank wearily upon the sofa, as if her strength had
well-nigh failed her.
He untied her bonnet-strings and removed it, and she threw her head
down on the silken cushion, as a spent child might have done.
Taking a vial from his pocket, he dropped a portion of the contents
into a wine-glass, and filled it with sherry wine.
"Mrs. Gerome, drink this for me. It will benefit you."
She swallowed the mixture, and remained quiet for some seconds; then a
singularly scornful smile curved her mouth as she said,--
"You drugged the wine. Well, so be it. Nepenthe or poison are alike
welcome, if they bring me death, or even temporary oblivion."
Katie came in and lighted the lamp, and Dr. Grey sat beside the sofa
and watched the effect of his prescription.
Tired at length of the sober sea and dark gloomy grounds, Salome came
back to the house and stood on the threshold of the parlor door,
looking curiously at the quiet, silent group, and at the pictures on
the walls.
She could see very distinctly the beautiful white face of the mistress
pressed against the blue damask cushion, and clear in outline as she
had once observed it on the background of ocean; and she noticed that
the features were sharper and that the figure was thinner. From the
silvery lamp-light the gray hair seemed to have caught a metallic
lustre on the ripples that ebbed back from the blue-veined temples,
and the woman looked like a marble snow-crowned image, draped in
black.
With one elbow on his knee, and his cheek resting in his hand, Dr.
Grey leaned forward, studying the features turned towards him, and
watching her with almost breathless interest. He was not aware of
Salome's presence, and was unconscious of the strained, troubled gaze,
that she fixed upon him.
The tender love that filled his heart looked out of his grave deep
eyes, which never wandered from the face so dear to him, and moved his
lips in an inaudible prayer for the peace and welfare of the lonely
waif whom Providence or fate had brought into his path, to evoke all
the tenderness latent in his sturdy, manly nature.
In the twinkling of an eye, Salome had learned the whole truth and
standing there, she staggered and grasped the doorway for support,
wishing that the heavens and earth would pass away--that death might
smite her, and end the agony that never could be patiently endured.
Recently she had tutored herself to bear the loss of his love and the
deprivation of his caresses,--she had mapped out a future in which her
lot was one of loneliness,--but through all the network of coming
years there ran like a golden cord binding their destinies the
precious hope that at least Dr. Grey would die as he had lived
hitherto,--without giving to any woman the coveted place in his heart,
where the orphan would sooner have reigned than upon the proudest
throne in Europe.
She had prayed that, with this assurance, God would help her to be
contented--would enable her to make her life useful and pure, and,
like Dr. Grey's, a blessing to those about her.
It had never occurred to her that the man whom she reverenced above
all things human or divine, and whose exalted ideal of feminine
perfection soared as far above her as the angels in Lebrun's "Stoning
of St. Stephen" soared above the sinning multitude below them--that
the man whose fastidiousness concerning womanly character and
deportment seemed exaggerated and almost morbid, could admire or
defend, much less love that gray-haired widow, whom the world
pronounced either a lunatic, or a scoffing, misanthropic infidel.
The discovery was so unexpected, so startling, that it partially
stunned her; and, like one addicted to somnambulism, she softly
crossed the room and stood behind Dr. Grey's chair.
He had taken Mrs. Gerome's hand to examine her pulse, and retained it
in his, looking fondly at the dainty moulding of the fingers and the
exquisite whiteness of the smooth skin. How long she stood there
Salome never knew, for paralysis seemed creeping, numb and cold, over
her heart and brain.
Dr. Grey saw that his exhausted patient was asleep, and knew that the
opiate he had administered in the wine would not relinquish its hold
until morning; and when her breathing became more quiet and regular he
bent his head and softly kissed the hand that lay heavily in his.
Salome covered her face and groaned; and rising, he was for the first
time cognizant of her presence. His face flushed deeply.
"How long have you been here?"
"Long enough to discover why you visit 'Solitude' so often."
He could not see her countenance, but her unnaturally hollow tone
pained and shocked him.
"You are very much fatigued, my dear child, and as soon as I have
given some directions to Robert, I will take you home. Get your
bonnet, and meet me at the door."
He took a shawl that was lying on the piano and laid it carefully over
the sleeper, then bent one knee beside the sofa, and mutely prayed
that God would comfort and protect the woman who was becoming so dear
to him.
With one long, anxious, tender look into her hopeless yet beautiful
face, he left the room and went in search of Robert and Katie. When he
had given the requisite directions, and descended the steps, he found
Salome waiting, with her fingers grasping the side of the buggy.
Silently he handed her in; and, as she sank back in one corner and
muffled her face, they drove swiftly through the sombre grounds, where
the aged trees seemed murmuring in response to the ceaseless mutter of
the sullen sea.
"Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed.
Time rules us all. And Life indeed is not
The thing we planned it out ere hope was dead.
And then we women cannot choose our lot."