"Ulpian, you certainly do not intend to sit up again to-night? Even
brass or whitleather would not stand the wear and tear that your
constitution is subjected to. You really make me unhappy."
"My dear Jane, it would make you still more unhappy if from mere
desire to promote my personal ease and comfort, I could forget the
solemn responsibility imposed by my profession. Moreover, my physical
strength is quite equal to the tax I exact from it."
"I doubt it, for we have all remarked how pale and worn you look."
"My jaded appearance is attributable to mental anxiety, rather than
bodily exhaustion."
"If Mrs. Gerome is so ill as to require such unremitting care and
vigilance, she should have a nurse, instead of expecting a physician
to devote all his time and attention to her. Where is Hester
Denison?"
"I have placed her at the steam-mill above town, where there is a bad
case of small-pox, and even if she were not thus engaged, I should not
take her to 'Solitude.'"
"Pray, why not? She took first-rate care of me when I was so sick last
year."
"Mrs. Gerome is morbidly sensitive at all times, and at this juncture
I should be afraid to introduce a stranger into her sick room."
"When people are so excessively nervous about being seen, I can't help
feeling a little suspicious. Do you suppose that Mrs. Gerome loved her
husband so much better than the majority of widows love theirs, that
seven years after his death she can't bear to be looked at? I like to
see a woman show due respect to her husband's memory, but I tell you
my experience--or rather my observation--leads me to believe that
these young widows who make the greatest parade of their grief, and
load themselves with crape and bombazine till they can scarcely
stagger under their flutings, flounces, and jet-fringes, are the most
anxious to marry again."
"Stop, my darling sister! Who has been filling your tongue and
curdling all the 'milk of human kindness' in your generous heart? If
women refuse to each other due sympathy in sorrow, to what quarter can
they turn for that balm which their natures require? I never before
heard you utter sentiments that trenched so closely upon harsh
uncharitableness. Your lips generally employ only the silvery language
of leniency, which I so much love to hear, but to-day they adopt the
dialect of Libeldom. Recollect, my dear sister, that even the pagan
Athenians would never build a temple to Clemency, which they
contended found her most appropriate altars in human hearts."
"Pooh, Ulpian! You need not preach me such a sermon, as if I were a
heathen. Facts, when they happen to be real facts, are the best
umpires in the world, and to their arbitrament I leave my character
for charity. When Reuben Chalmers died, his wife was so overwhelmed
with grief that she shut herself up like a nun; and when she drove out
for fresh air wore two heavy crape veils, and never allowed any one to
catch a glimpse of her countenance. Not even to church did she
venture, until one morning, at the end of two years, she laid aside
her weeds, clad herself in bridal array, was married in her own
parlor, and the next Sunday made her first appearance in public after
the death of her husband, leaning on the arm of her second spouse.
Now, that is true,--is no libel,--pity it is not! Though 'one swallow
does not make a summer,' I can't help feeling suspicious of very young
and hopelessly inconsolable widows, and am always reminded of
Anastasia Chalmers. So you see, my blue-eyed preacher, when your old
Janet talks of these things, she is not caught 'reckoning without her
host.'"
"One deplorable instance should not bias you against an entire class,
and the beautiful constancy of Panthea ought to neutralize the example
of a hundred Anastasia Chalmers. Is it not unfortunate that poor human
nature so tenaciously recollects all the evil records, and is so
oblivious of the noble acts furnished by history? Do cut the
acquaintance of the huge family of _on dits_, who serve the community
in much the same capacity as did the cook of Tantalus, when he dressed
and garnished Pelops for the banquet table. Unluckily, devouring
malice can not furnish the 'ivory shoulder' requisite to mend its
mischief. We are all prone to forget the injunction, 'Judge not, that
ye be not judged,' and instead of remembering that we are directed to
bear one another's burdens, we gall the shoulders of many, by
increasing the weights we should lighten. Janet, don't flay all the
poor young widows; leave them to such measures of peace as they may
find among their weeds."
Miss Jane listened to her brother's homily with a half-smile lurking
about the puckered corners of her eyes and mouth, and putting her
finger in the button-hole of his coat, drew him closer to her, as they
sat together on the sofa.
"How long since you took the tribe of widows under your special
protection?"
"Since the moment, that, owing to some inexplicable freak, my dear
Janet suffered 'evil communications to corrupt' her 'good manners,'
and absolutely forgot to be just and generous."
He kissed his sister and rose, but the troubled look that settled once
more on his countenance did not escape her observation.
"Ulpian, is Mrs. Gerome very ill?"
"Yes, I am exceedingly unhappy about her. She is dangerously ill with
a low, nervous, fever that baffles all my remedies."
Dr. Grey walked up and down the room, and Miss Jane pressed her
spectacles closer to her nose, and watched him.
"If the poor woman leads such a lonely, miserable life, I should think
that death would prove a blessed release to her. Of course it is
natural and reasonable that you should desire to save all your
patients, but why are you so very unhappy about her?"
He did not answer immediately, and when he spoke his deep tone was
tremulous with fervent feeling.
"Because I find that she is dearer to me than all the other women in
the world, except my sister; and her death would grieve me more than
any trial that has yet overtaken me--more than you can realize, or
than I can express."
He took Miss Jane's face in his hands, kissed her, and left the room.
Meeting Muriel and Salome in the hall, the former seized his arm, and
exclaimed,--
"You shall not leave home again! Let me tell Elbert to put up your
buggy. If you continue to work yourself down, as you are now doing,
you will be prematurely old, and gray, and decrepit. Come into the
parlor, and let me play you to sleep."
"I heartily wish I could follow your pleasant prescription, but duty
is inexorable, and knows no law but that of obedience."
"Must you sit up to-night? Is that poor lady no better?"
"I can see no improvement, and must remain until I do."
"You are afraid that she will die?"
"I hope that God will spare her life."
His serious tone awed Muriel, who raised his hand to her lips, and
murmured,--
"My dear doctor, I wish I could help you. I wish I could do something
to make you look less troubled."
"You can help me, little one, by being happy yourself, and by aiding
Salome in cheering my sister, while I am forced to spend so much time
away from her. Good evening. Take care of yourselves till I come
home."
Humming a bar of a Genoese barcarole, Muriel ran up stairs to join her
governess; but Salome turned and followed the master of the house to
the front door.
"Dr. Grey, can I render you any assistance at 'Solitude'?"
"Thank you,--the time has passed when you might have aided me. Two
weeks ago, when I requested you to go with me, Mrs. Gerome was
rational and would have yielded to your influence, but now she is
delirious and you could accomplish nothing. The servants are faithful
and attentive, and can be trusted during my absence to execute my
orders."
A bright flush rose to Salome's temples, and her eyes drooped beneath
his, so anxious and yet so calmly sad.
"At the time you spoke to me I could not go, but now I really should
be glad to accompany you. Will you take me?"
"No, Salome."
"Your reason, Dr. Grey?"
"Is one whose utterance would pain you, consequently I trust you will
pardon me for withholding it."
"At my own peril, I demand it."
"The motive which prompts your offer precludes the possibility of my
acceptance."
"How dare you sit in judgment on my motives? You who prate and
homilize of charity! charity! and who quote the 'golden rule' solely
for the edification and guidance of those around you. Example is more
potent than precept, and we are creatures of imitation. Suppose I
should question the disinterestedness of your motives in allowing one
patient to monopolize your attention to the detriment of the
remainder? Of course you would be shocked and think me presumptuous,
for one's sins and follies often play hide and seek, and sometimes we
insult our own pet fault when we find it housed in some other piece of
flesh."
"Good night, Salome. I shall endeavor to forget all this, since I am
too sincerely your friend to desire to set your hasty words in the
storehouse of memory."
He looked down pityingly, sorrowfully, into her angry imperious eyes,
and sudden shame smote her, making her cheeks glow and tingle as if
from the stroke of an open hand.
"Dr. Grey, wait one moment! Let me say something, that will
show,--that will--"
"Only make matters worse. No, Salome, I have little time for trifling,
still less for recrimination, none at all for dissimulation; and, in
your present mood, the least we can say will prove the most powerful
for good."
He went down to his buggy, but stopped and reflected; and fearing that
he might have been too harsh, he turned and approached her, as she
stood leaning against one of the columns of the gallery.
"Do not think me rude. I am not less your friend than formerly, though
I am anxious, and doubtless appear preoccupied. Let us shake hands in
peace."
He extended his own, but the girl stood motionless, and the remorseful
anguish and humiliation of her uplifted face touched his heart.
"Dr. Grey, if you really forgive and forget, prove it by taking me to
'Solitude.'"
"Do not ask what you well know I have quite determined it is best that
I should not grant."
The spark leaped up lurid as ever, in her dilating eyes.
"You take this method to punish me for my refusal to comply with your
wishes a fortnight since?"
"I have neither the right nor inclination to punish you in any
respect, and you must pardon my inability to accede to a request which
my judgment does not approve. Good-by."
He put his hand into his pocket, and left her; and while she stood
irresolute and disappointed, a servant summoned her to Miss Jane's
presence.
"Can I do anything for you?" asked the orphan, observing the cloud on
the old lady's brow.
"Yes, dear; sit down here and talk to me. I feel lonely, now that
Ulpian is away so constantly. He seems very uneasy about that woman at
'Solitude,' and I never saw him manifest so much anxiety about any
one. By the by, Salome, tell me something concerning her."
"I have already told you all I know of her."
"Wherein consists her attractiveness?"
"Who said she was attractive? She is handsome, and there is something
peculiar and startling about her, but she is by no means a beauty. I
have heard Dr. Grey say that she possessed remarkable talent, but I
have been favored with no exhibition of it. Why do you not question
your brother? Doubtless it would afford him much pleasure to furnish
an inventory of her charms and accomplishments, and dilate upon them
_ad libitum_."
"What makes you so savage?"
"Simply because there happens to be a touch of the wild beast in my
nature, and I have not a doubt that if the doctrine of metempsychosis
be true, I was a tawny dappled leopardess or a green-eyed cougar in the
last stage of my existence. Miss Jane, sometimes I feel as if it
would be a luxury--a relief--to crunch and strangle something or
somebody,--which is not an approved trait of orthodox Christian
character, to say nothing of meek gentility and lady-like refinement."
She laughed with a degree of indescribable scorn and bitterness that
was pitiable indeed in one so young.
"There is an evil fit on Saul."
"Yes; and you are neither my harp nor my David."
"Does my little girl expect to find a 'cunning player,' who will charm
away all the barbarous notions that occasionally lead her astray, and
tempt her to wickedness?"
"Verily,--no. The son of Jesse has forsaken his own household, and
made unto himself an idol elsewhere; and I--Saul--surrender to
Asmodeus."
Miss Jane laid her hand on the girl's arm, and said, in a hesitating,
troubled manner,--
"Has Ulpian told you?"
"Why should he tell me? My eyes sometimes take pity on my ears,--and
seeing very distinctly, save the necessity of hearing. My vision is
quite as keen now as when in my anterior existence, I crouched in
jungles, watching for my prey. Oh, Miss Jane! if you could look here,
and know all that I have suffered during the past three weeks, you
would not wonder that the tiger element within me swallows up every
other feeling."
She struck her hand heavily upon her heart, and the old lady was
frightened and distressed by the glitter of the eyes and the dilation
of the slender nostrils.
"When I came in, I knew from your countenance that you had heard
something which you desired to prepare me for,--which you intended to
break gently to me. But your kindness is unavailing. The truth crashed
in on my heart without premonition; and I saw, and understood, and
accepted the inevitable; and since then,--ah, my God! since then--"
Her head drooped upon her bosom, and a groan concluded the sentence.
"Perhaps Ulpian only pities the poor woman's desolation, and will lose
his interest in her when she recovers her health. You know how
tenderly he sympathizes with all who suffer, and I dare say it is more
compassion than love."
"What hypocrites we often are, in our desire to comfort those whom we
see in agony! Miss Jane, your kind heart is holding a hand over the
mouth of conscience, to smother its cries and protests while you utter
things in which you know there is no truth. You mean well; but you
ought to know better than to expect to deceive me. I understand the
difference between love and compassion, and so do you; and Dr. Grey
has not kept the truth from you. He has given his heart to that
gray-haired, gray-eyed woman,--and if she lives, he will marry her;
and then, if there were twenty oceans, I should want them all to roll
between us. I tell you now, I can not and will not stay here to see
the day that makes that pale gray phantom his wife. I should go mad,
and do something that might add new horrors to that doomed and
abhorred 'Solitude,' that has become Dr. Grey's Mecca. I could live
without his love, but I can not stand tamely by and see him lavish it
on another. Some women,--such, for instance, as we read of in novels,
would meekly endure this trial, as one appointed by Heaven to wean
them from earth; would fold their hands, and grow devout, and
romantically thin and wan,--and get sweet, patient, martyr expressions
about their unkissed lips; but I am in no respect a model heroine, and
it will prove safer for us all if I am far away when Dr. Grey brings
his bride to receive your sisterly embrace. If you are lonely, send
for Muriel and Miss Dexter, and let them entertain you. Just now, I am
not fit company for any but the dwellers in Padalon; so let me go away
where I can be quiet."
"Stay, Salome! Where are you going?"
"To walk."
The orphan disengaged her dress from Miss Jane's fingers, which had
clutched its folds to detain her, and made her escape just as Muriel
tapped at the door.
During the three weeks that had elapsed since Elsie's death Mrs.
Gerome had not left the house, and the third day after the funeral she
laid her head down on the pillow from which it seemed probable she
would never again lift it.
A low steady fever seized her, and at length her brain became so
seriously affected that all hope of recovery appeared futile and
delusive. In the early stages of her illness, Dr. Grey requested
Salome to assist him in nursing her, but the girl dared not trust
herself to witness the manifestations of an affection that nearly
maddened her, and had almost rudely refused compliance.
As the days wore drearily on, and Dr. Grey's haggard, anxious
countenance, told her that her rival was indeed upon the brink of
dissolution, a wild hope whispered that perhaps she might be spared
the fierce ordeal she so much dreaded; that if Mrs. Gerome died, the
future might brighten,--life would be endurable. In her wonted
impulsive manner, the girl had thrown herself on her knees, and
passionately prayed the Almighty to remove from earth the one woman
who proved an obstacle to all her hopes of peace and contentment.
She did not pause to inquire whether her petition was not an insult to
Him who alone could grant it; she neither analyzed, nor felt
self-rebuked for her sinful emotions and intense hatred of the sick
woman,--but vowed repeatedly that she would lead a purer, holier life,
if God would only interpose and prevent Dr. Grey from becoming the
husband of any one.
She had no faith in the superior wisdom of her Maker, and would not
wait patiently for the developments of His divine will toward her; but
chose her own destiny, and demanded that Omnipotence should become an
ally for its accomplishment. Like many who are less honest in
confessing their faith, this girl professed allegiance to her Creator
only so long as He appeared a coadjutor in her schemes; and, when
thwarted and disappointed, fierce rebellion broke out in her heart,
and annulled her oaths of fealty and obedience.
Dr. Grey was not ignorant of the emotions that swayed and controlled
her conduct, and when she declared herself ready to attend the
invalid, he was thoroughly cognizant of the fact that she longed to
witness the death which she deemed impending; and he could not consent
to see her eager eyes watching the feeble breathing of the woman whom
he now loved so fervently.
While he believed that in most matters Salome would not deceive him,
he realized that in one of her passionate moods of jealous hate,
irremediable mischief might result, and prudently resolved to keep her
beyond the pale of temptation.
It was almost dark when he reached the secluded house where he had
passed so many days and nights of anxiety, and went into the quiet
room in which only a dim light was permitted to burn. Katie was
sitting near the bed, but rose at his approach, and softly withdrew.
Emaciated and ghastly, save where two scarlet spots burned on the
hollow cheeks, Mrs. Gerome lay, with her wasted arms thrown over her
head, and her eyes fixed on vacancy. Even when delirium was at its
height she yielded to the physician's voice and touch, like some wild
creature who recognizes no control save that of its keeper; and from
his hand alone would she take the medicines administered.
Whether the influence was merely magnetic, he did not inquire, but
felt comforted by the assurance that his presence had power to
tranquillize her.
Now, as he drew her arms down from the pillow, and took her thin hot
hand in his cool palms, a shadowy smile stole over her features, and
she fixed her eyes intently on his.
"I knew you would protect me from him."
"Protect you from whom?"
"From Maurice. He is hiding yonder,--behind the window-curtain."
She pointed across the room, and a scowl darkened her countenance.
"You have only been dreaming."
"No, I am awake; and if you look behind the curtain you will find him.
His eyes are burning my face."
Willing to dispel this fantasy, Dr. Grey went to the window, and,
drawing aside the lace drapery, showed her the vacant recess.
"Ah, he has escaped! Well, perhaps it is better so, and there will be
no blood shed. Let him go back to Edith,--'golden-haired Edith
Dexter,'--and live out the remnant of his days. He came hoping to find
me dead, but I am not as accommodating now as formerly. Where are
those violets? Tell Elsie to bring the jars in, where I can smell
them."
He took a bunch of the fragrant flowers from his coat pocket, and put
them in her hand, for during her illness she was never satisfied
unless there was a bouquet near her; and now, having feebly smelled
them, her eyes closed.
More than once she had mentioned the name of Edith Dexter, always
coupling it with that of Maurice, who she evidently believed was
lurking with evil purposes around her home; and Dr. Grey was sorely
perplexed to follow the thread that now and then appeared, but failed
to guide him to any satisfactory solution of the mystery. He knew that
since she made "Solitude" her place of residence, Mrs. Gerome had
never met Muriel's governess, and he conjectured that she had either
known her in earlier years or now alluded to another person bearing
the same name. Miss Dexter was very fair, with a profusion of light
yellow hair, and suited in all respects the incoherent description
that fell from the sick woman's lips.
While at home for a short time that afternoon, Dr. Grey had spoken of
the dangerous condition of his patient, and asked the governess if she
had ever seen or known Mrs. Gerome. Without hesitation, Edith Dexter
quietly replied in the negative.
Formerly he had indulged little curiosity with reference to the
widow's history, but since she had become endeared to him, he was
conscious of an earnest desire to possess himself of a record of all
that had so darkened and chilled the life of the only woman he had
ever loved.
Once she had been merely an interesting psychological puzzle, and in
some degree a physiological anomaly: but from the day of Elsie's
death, his heart had yielded more and more to the strange fascination
she exerted over him; and now, as he sat looking into her face, so
mournfully sharpened and blanched by disease, he acknowledged to his
own soul that if she should die the brightest and dearest hopes that
ever gladdened his life would be buried in her grave.
Thoroughly convinced that his happiness depended on her recovery, he
prayed continually that if consistent with God's will, He would spare
her to him, and save him from the anguish of a lonely life, which her
love might bless and brighten.
But above the petition,--above all the strife of human love, and hope,
and fear,--rose silvery clear, "Nevertheless, Father, not my will, but
Thine."
During his long vigils he had allowed imagination to paint beautiful
pictures of the To-Come, wherein shone the figure of a lovely wife
whose heart was divided only between God and her husband,--whose life
was consecrated first to Christ, secondly to promoting the happiness
of the man who loved her so truly.
The apprehension of losing her was rendered still more acute by the
reflection that her soul was not prepared for its exit from the realm
of probation, and the thought of a separation that would extend
through endless aeons, was well-nigh intolerable.
If she survived this attack, he believed that his influence would
redeem and sanctify her life; if she died, would God have mercy on her
wretched soul?
His faith in Providence was no jagged, quivering reed, but a strong,
staunch, firm staff that had never yet failed him, and in this hour of
severe trial he leaned his aching heart confidently and calmly upon
it.
That some mysterious circumstances veiled the earlier portion of Mrs.
Gerome's life, he had inferred from Elsie's promise of confidence, and
since death denied her the desired revelation, he had put imagination
upon the rack, in order to solve the riddle.
What could the old nurse wish to tell him, that she was unwilling to
divulge until her latest breath? Could the stain of crime cling to
that pale face on the pillow, or to those white hands that rested so
helplessly in his? Had she soiled her life by any deed that would
bring a blush to those thin sunken cheeks, or a flush of shame to the
brow of the man who loved her? Now bending fondly over her, the
language of his heart was,--
"Let her dead past bury its dead! Let the bygone be what it may,--come
sorrow, come humiliation, but I will dauntlessly shield her with my
name, defend her with my strong arm, uphold her by my honor, save her
soul by my prayers, comfort and gladden her heart with my deathless
love."
He was well aware that this night must decide her fate,--that her
feeble frame could not much longer struggle with the disease that had
almost vanquished it,--and leaning his forehead against her hand, he
silently prayed that God would speedily restore her to health, or give
him additional grace to bear the bitter bereavement.
She slept more quietly than she had been able to do for some days, and
Dr. Grey sent for Robert, who was pacing the walk that led to the
stables. They sat down together on the steps at the rear of the house,
and the gardener asked in a frightened, husky tone,--
"Is there bad news?"
"I see little change since noon, except that she is more quiet, which
is certainly favorable; but she is so very ill that I thought it best
to consult you about several matters. Do you know whether she has made
a will?"
"No, sir. How should I know it, even if she had?"
"Who is her agent?"
Robert hesitated, and pretended to be busy filling and lighting his
pipe.
"Maclean, I have no desire to pry into Mrs. Gerome's affairs, but it
is necessary that those who direct or control her estate should be
appraised of her condition. It is supposed that her fortune is ample,
and her heirs should be informed of her illness."
"She has no heirs, except--"
He paused, and after a few seconds exclaimed,--
"Don't ask me! All I know is that I heard her say she intended to
leave her fortune to poor painters."
"To whom shall I write, or rather telegraph? Where did she live before
she came to 'Solitude'? Who were her friends?"
"Mr. Simonton, of New York, is her lawyer and agent. Two letters have
come from him since she has been sick. Of course I did not open them,
but I know his handwriting. They are behind the clock in the back
parlor."
"Would it not be better to telegraph him at once?"
"What good could he do? Better send for the minister, and have her
baptized. Oh! but this is truly a world of trouble, and I almost wish
I was safely out of it."
"If she were conscious, she would not submit to baptism; and it would
not be right to take advantage of her delirium and force a ceremony to
which she is opposed."
"Not even, sir, to save her soul?"
"Her soul can not be affected by the actions of others, unless her
will cooperates, which is impossible in her present condition. Robert,
after your mother was partially paralyzed, she said that she desired
to confide something to me just before her death, and intimated that
it referred to Mrs. Gerome. She wished me to befriend her mistress,
and felt that I ought to know the particulars of her early history.
Unfortunately, Elsie was speechless when I arrived, and could not tell
me what she had intended to acquaint me with. I mention this fact to
assure you that if your mother could trust me, you need not regard me
so suspiciously."
"Dr. Grey, as far as I am concerned, you are very welcome to every
thought in my head and feeling in my heart; but where it touches my
mistress I have nothing to say. I will not deny that I know more than
you do, but when my poor mother told me, she held my hand on the Bible
and made me swear a solemn oath that what she told me should never
pass my lips to any man, woman, or child. So you must not blame me,
sir."
"Certainly not, Robert. But if she has any friends it is your duty to
send for them at once."
Dr. Grey rose and went into the library, where for some moments he
walked to and fro, perplexed and grieved. As his eye rested on the
escritoire, he recollected the key which he had kept in his pocket
since the hour that he picked it up from the carpet.
Doubtless a few minutes' search in its drawers and casket would place
him in possession of the facts which Elsie wished to confide; but
notwithstanding the circumstances that might almost have justified an
investigation, his delicate sense of honor forbade the thought. Taking
the letters from the mantelpiece, he turned them to the lamp-light.
_Mrs. Agla Gerome,
Care of Robert Maclean,
Box 20._
---- ----.
They were post-marked New York, and from the size and appearance of
the envelopes he suspected that they contained legal documents.
Perhaps one of them might prove a will, awaiting signature and
witnesses. Dr. Grey carried them into the room where his patient still
slept, and placed them on the dressing-table. Accidentally his glance
fell on a large worn Bible that lay contiguous, and brightening the
light, he opened the volume, and turned to the record of births.
"Vashti Evelyn, born June 10th, 18--.
"Henderson Flewellyn, born April 17th, 18--.
"Vashti Flewellyn, born January 30th, 18--."
On the marriage record he found,
"Married, July 1st, 18--, Vashti Evelyn to Henderson Flewellyn.
"Married, September 8th, 18--, Evelyn Flewellyn to Maurice Carlyle."
The only deaths recorded were those of Henderson and Vashti
Flewellyn.
Whatever the mystery might be, Dr. Grey resolved to pursue the subject
no further; but wait patiently and learn all from the beautiful lips
of the white-faced sphinx, who alone possessed the right to unseal the
record of her blighted life.
"Who might have been--ah, what, I dare not think!
We all are changed. God judges for us best.
God help us do our duty, and not shrink,
And trust in heaven humbly for the rest."