"Miss Dexter, have you succeeded in seeing Mrs. Gerome since her
return?"
"No, sir; she obstinately refuses to admit me, though I have called
twice at the house. Yesterday I received a letter in answer to several
that I have addressed to her, all of which she returned unopened.
Since you have already learned so much of our melancholy history, why
should I hesitate to acquaint you with the contents of her letter? You
know the object of her journey north, and I will read you the
result."
The governess drew a letter from her pocket, and Dr. Grey leaned his
face on his hand and listened.
"SOLITUDE, _May 10th, 18--_.
"_Edith_,--No lingering vestige of affection, no remorseful
tenderness, prompted that mission from which I have recently
returned, and only the savage scourgings of implacable duty could
have driven me, like a galley-slave, to my hated task. The victim
of a horrible and disfiguring disease which so completely changed
his countenance that his own mother would scarcely have recognized
him,--and the tenant of a charity hospital in the town of ----, I
found that man who has proved the Upas of your life and of mine.
During his delirium I watched and nursed him--not lovingly (how
could I?) but faithfully, kindly, pityingly. When all danger was
safely passed, and his clouded intellect began to clear itself, I
left him in careful hands, and provided an ample amount for his
comfortable maintenance in coming years. I spared him the
humiliation of recognizing in his nurse his injured and despised
wife; and, as night after night I watched beside the pitiable
wreck of a once handsome, fascinating, and idolized man, I fully
and freely forgave Maurice Carlyle all the wrongs that so
completely stranded my life. To-day he is well, and probably
happy, while he finds himself possessed of means by which to
gratify his extravagant tastes; but how long his naturally fine
constitution can hold at bay the legion of ills that hunt like
hungry wolves along the track of reckless dissipation, God only
knows.
"For some natures it is exceedingly difficult to forgive,--to
forget, impossible; and while my husband's abject wretchedness and
degradation disarmed the hate that has for so many years rankled
in my heart, I could never again look willingly upon his face.
Edith, you and I have nothing in common but miserable memories,
which, I beg you to believe, are sufficiently vivid, without the
torturing adjunct of your countenance; therefore, pardon me if I
decline to receive your visits, and return the letters that are
quite as welcome and cheering to my eyes as the little shoes and
garments of the long-buried dead to the mother, who would fain
look no more upon the harrowing relics. I do not wish to be harsh,
but I must be honest, and our intercourse can never be renewed in
this world.
"In bygone days, when I loved you so fondly and trusted you so
fully, it was my intention to share my fortune with you; and,
since I find that you have not forfeited my confidence in the
purity of your purposes, such is still my wish. I enclose a draft
on my banker, which I hope you will deem sufficient to enable you
to abandon the arduous profession in which you have worn out your
life. If I can feel assured that I have been instrumental in
contributing to the peace and ease of the years that may yet be in
store for you, it will serve as one honeyed drop to sweeten the
dregs of the cup of woe I am draining. Edith, do not refuse the
only aid I can offer you in your loneliness; and accept the
earnest assurance that I shall be grateful for the privilege of
promoting your comfort. Affection and trust I have not, and a few
paltry thousands are all I am now able to bestow. By the love you
once professed, and in the name of that compassion you should feel
for me, I beg of you, despise not the gift; and let the
consciousness that I have saved you from toil and fatigue quiet
the soul and ease the heart of a lonely woman, who has shaken
hands with every earthly hope. I have done my duty, my conscience
is calm and contented, and I sit wearily on the stormy shore of
time, waiting for the tide that will drift into eternity the
desolate, proud soul of
"VASHTI CARLYLE."
Tears rolled over the governess' cheeks, and, refolding the letter,
she said, sorrowfully,--
"My poor, heart-broken Vashti! She has resumed the name which old
Elsie gave her because it was her mother's; and how mournfully
appropriate it has proved. I could be happy if permitted to spend the
residue of my days with her; but she decrees otherwise, and I have no
alternative but submission to her imperious will."
Dr. Grey did not lift his face where the shadow of a great, voiceless
grief hung heavily, and his low tone indexed deep and painful emotion,
when he answered,--
"I sincerely deplore her unfortunate decision, for isolation only
augments the ills from which she suffers. Many months have elapsed
since I saw her last, but Robert Maclean told me to-day that she was
sadly changed in appearance, and seemed in feeble health. She did not
tell you that she had been dangerously ill with varioloid, contracted
while nursing her husband. Although not in the least marked or
disfigured, the attack must have seriously impaired her constitution,
if all that Robert tells me be true. Since her return, one month ago,
she has not left her room."
"Dr. Grey, exert your influence in my behalf, and prevail upon her to
admit me."
"Miss Dexter, you ascribe to me powers of persuasion which,
unfortunately, I do not possess; and Mrs. Carlyle's decree is
beyond the reach of human agency. To the few who are earnestly
interested in her welfare, there remains but one avenue of aid and
comfort,--faithful, fervent prayer."
"Perhaps you are not aware of the exalted estimate she places on your
character, nor of the value she attaches to your opinions. Of all
living beings, she told me she reverenced and trusted you most; and
you, at least, would not be denied access to her presence."
She could not see the tremor on his usually firm lips, nor the pallor
that overspread his face, and when he spoke his grave voice did not
betray the tumult in his aching heart.
"I am no longer a visitor at 'Solitude,' and shall not see its
mistress unless she requires my professional aid. While I am very
deeply interested in her happiness, I could never consent to intrude
upon her seclusion."
"I know my days are numbered, and after a little while I shall sleep
well under the ancient cedars that shade the head-stones of my father
and mother; but I could die more cheerfully, more joyfully, if Evelyn
would only be comforted, and accept some human friendship."
"For some weeks you have seemed so much better that I hoped warm
weather would quite relieve and invigorate you. Spend next winter in
Cuba or Mexico, and it will probably add many months, possibly years,
to your life."
She smiled, and shook her head.
"This beautiful springtime has temporarily baffled the disease, but
for me there can be no restoration. Day by day I feel the ebbing of
strength and energy, and the approach of my deliverer, death; but I
realize also, what the Centaur uttered to Melampus, 'I decline unto my
last days calm as the setting of the constellations; but I feel
myself perishing and passing quickly away, like a snow-wreath floating
on the stream.'"
As he looked at the thin, pure face where May sunshine streamed warm
and bright, and marked the perfect peace that brooded over the changed
features, Dr. Grey was reminded of the lines that might have been
written for her, so fully were they suited to her case,--
"I saw that one who lost her love in pain,
Who trod on thorns, who drank the loathsome cup;
The lost in night, in day was found again;
The fallen was lifted up.
They stood together in the blessed noon,
They sang together through the length of days;
Each loving face bent sunwards, like a moon
New-lit with love and praise."
"My friend, the shadows are passing swiftly from your life, and, in
the mild radiance of its close, you can well afford to forget the
storms that clouded its dawn."
"Forget? No, Dr. Grey, I neither endeavor nor desire to forget the
sorrows that first taught me the emptiness of earthly things, the
futility of human schemes,--that snapped the frail reed of flesh to
which I clung, and gave me, instead, the blessed support, the
immovable arm of an everlasting God. Ah! that woman was deeply versed
in the heart-lore of her own sex, who wrote,--
'When I remember something which I had,
But which is gone, and I must do without,
* * * * *
When I remember something promised me,
But which I never had, nor can have now,
Because the promiser we no more see
In countries that accord with mortal vow;
When I remember this, I mourn,--but yet
My happier days are not the days when I forget.'"
"If Mrs. Carlyle possessed a tithe of your faith and philosophy, how
serene, how tranquilly useful her future years might prove."
"In God's own good time her trials will be sanctified to her eternal
peace, and she will one day glide from grief to glory, for she can
claim the promise of our Lord, 'The pure in heart shall see God.' No
purer heart than Vashti Carlyle's throbs this side of the throne where
seraphim and cherubim hover."
In the brief silence that succeeded, the governess observed the
unusually grave and melancholy expression of her companion's
countenance, and asked, timidly,--
"Has anything occurred recently to distress or annoy you? You look
depressed."
"I feel inexpressibly anxious about Salome, concerning whose fate I
can learn nothing that is comforting. In reply to my letter, urging
him to make every effort to ascertain her locality and condition,
Professor V---- writes, that he is now a confirmed invalid, confined
to his room, and unable to conduct the search for his missing pupil.
She left Palermo on a small vessel bound for Monaco, and her farewell
note stated that all attempts to discover her retreat would prove
futile, as she was resolved to preserve her incognito, and wished her
friends in America to remain in ignorance of her mode of life.
Professor V---- surmises that she is in Paris, but gives no good
reason for the conjecture, except that she possibly sought the best
medical advice for the treatment of her throat and recovery of her
voice. His last letter, received yesterday, informed me that one of
Salome's most devoted admirers, a Bostonian of immense wealth, was so
deeply grieved by her inexplicable disappearance that he was
diligently searching for her in Leghorn and Monaco. She left Palermo
alone, and with a comparatively empty purse."
"Dr. Grey, are you aware of the suspicions which Muriel has long
entertained with reference to Mr. Granville's admiration of Salome,
and the efforts of the latter to encourage his attentions?"
"I have very cogent reasons for believing that however amenable
to censure Mr. Granville doubtless is, Muriel's distrust of Salome
is totally unjust. If she were capable of the despicable course my
ward is disposed to impute to her, I should cease to feel any
interest in her career or fate; but I cherish the conviction that
she would scorn to be guilty of conduct so ignoble. Her defects of
character I shall neither deny nor attempt to palliate, but I trust
her true womanly heart as I trust my own manly honor; and a stern
sense of justice to the absent constrains me to vindicate her from
Muriel's hasty and unfounded aspersions. So strong is my faith in
Salome's conscientiousness, so earnest my friendship for her, that
since the receipt of Professor V----'s letter I have determined to
go immediately to Europe, and if possible discover her retreat. My
sister's adopted child must not and shall not suffer and struggle
among strangers, while I live to aid and protect her."
Miss Dexter rose and laid her thin, feverish hand on his arm, while
embarrassment made her voice tremble slightly,--
"I am rejoiced to learn your decision, and God grant you speedy
success in your quest. Do not deem me presumptuous or impertinent if,
prompted by a sincere desire to see you happy, I venture to say, that
he who lightly values the pure, tender, devoted love of such a woman
as Salome Owen,--tramples on treasures that would make his life
affluent and blessed--that neither gold can purchase nor royalty
compel. Under your guidance, moulded by your influence, she would
become a noble woman,--of whom any man might justly be proud."
Fearful that she had already incurred his displeasure, and unwilling
to meet his eye, she turned quickly and made her escape through the
open door.
In the bright glow of that lovely spring day, the calm face of Ulpian
Grey seemed scarcely older than on the afternoon when he came to make
the farm his home; and though paler, and ciphered over by the leaden
finger of anxiety, it indexed little of the long, fierce strife, that
conscience had waged with heart.
Lighter and more impulsive natures expend themselves in spasmodic and
violent ebullitions, but the great deep of this man's serene character
had never stirred, until the one mighty love of his life had lashed it
into a tempest that tossed his hopes like sea-froth, and finally
engulfed the only rosy dream of wedded happiness that had ever flushed
his quiet, solitary, sedate existence.
Having kept his heart in holy subjection to the law of Christ, he did
not quail and surrender when the great temptation rose, bearing the
banner of insurrection; but sternly and dauntlessly fronted the shock,
and kept inviolate the citadel, garrisoned by an invincible and
consecrated will.
The yearning tenderness of his strong, tranquil soul, had enfolded
Mrs. Carlyle, drawing her more and more into the penetralia of his
affection; but from the hour in which he learned her history he had
torn away the clinging tendrils of love,--had endeavored to expel her
from his heart, and to stifle its wail for the lost idol.
Week after week, month after month, he had driven every day within
sight of the blue smoke that curled above the trees at "Solitude," but
never even for an instant checked his horse to gaze longingly towards
the Eden whence he had voluntarily exiled himself.
There were hours when his heart ached for the sight of that white face
he had loved so madly, and the sound of the mournfully sweet
voice,--and his hand trembled at the recollection of the soft, cold,
snowy fingers, that once thrilled his palms; but he treated these
utterances of his heart as mercilessly as the hunter who cheers his
dogs in the chase where the death-cry of the victim rings above bark
and halloo.
No wall of division, no sea of separation, would have proved so
effectual, so insurmountable, as his own firm resolve that his earthly
path should never cross that of one whom God's statutes had set apart
until death annulled the decree. In this torturing ordeal he was
strengthened by the conviction that he alone suffered for his
folly,--that Mrs. Carlyle was a stranger to feelings that robbed him
of sleep, and clouded his days,--that the heaving tide of his devoted
love had broken against her frozen heart as idly as the surges of the
sea that die in foam upon the dreary, mysterious ruins of the Serapeon
at Pozzuoli.
In the silent watches of the night, as he pondered the brief,
beautiful vision that had so completely fascinated him, he reverently
thanked God that the woman he loved had never reciprocated his
affection, and was not sitting in the ashes of desolation, mourning
his absence. Striving to interest himself more and more in Stanley and
Jessie, who had become inordinately fond of him, his thoughts
continually reverted to Salome, and that subtle sympathy which springs
from the "fellow-being," that makes us "wondrous kind" to those whose
pangs are fierce as ours, began faintly and shyly, but surely, to
assert itself. A shadowy, intangible self-reproach brooded like a
phantom over his generous heart, when, amidst the uncertainty that
seemed to overhang the orphan's fate, he remembered the numberless
manifestations of almost idolatrous affection which he had coldly
repulsed.
In the earnest interest that day by day deepened in the absent girl,
there was no pitiable vanity, no inflated self-love, but a stern
realization of the anguish and humiliation that must now be her
portion, and a magnanimous eagerness to endeavor to cheer a heart
whose severest woes had sprung from his indifference.
More than a year had elapsed, and no letter had ever reached him,--not
even a message in her two brief epistles to Stanley, and Dr. Grey
missed the bright, perverse element that no longer thwarted him at
every turn.
He longed to see the proud, girlish face, with its flashing eyes, and
red lips, and the haughty toss of the large, handsome head; and the
angry tones of her voice would have been welcome sounds in the house
where she had so long tyrannized. To-day, as Ulpian Grey sat in his
own little sitting-room, his eyes were fixed on a copy of Rembrandt's
_Nicholas Tulp_, which hung over the mantelpiece; but the mysteries of
anatomy no longer riveted his attention, and his thoughts were busy
with memories of a fond though wayward girl, whom his indifference
had driven to foreign lands,--to unknown and fearful perils.
Through the windows stole the breath of Salome's violets, and the
sweet, spicy odor of the Belgian honeysuckle that she had planted and
twined around the mossy columns that supported the gallery; and with a
sigh he closed his eyes, shut out the anatomy of flesh, and began the
dissection of emotions.
Could Salome's radiant face brighten his home, and win his heart from
its devouring regret? Would it be possible for him to give her the
place whence he had ejected Mrs. Carlyle? Could he ever persuade
himself to call that fair, passionate young thing, that capricious,
obstinate, maliciously perverse girl,--his wife?
Involuntarily he frowned, for while pity pleaded for the refugee from
home and happiness, the man's honest nature scouted all shams, and he
acknowledged to himself that he could never feel the need of her lips
or hands,--could never insult her womanhood, or degrade his own
nature, by folding to his heart one whose touch possessed no
magnetism, whose presence exerted no spell over his home.
Salome, his friend, his adopted sister, he wished to discover, to
claim, and restore to the household; but Salome, his wife,--was a
monstrous imaginary incubus that appalled and repelled him.
The difficulties that presented themselves at the outset of his search
would have discouraged a less resolute temperament, but it was part of
his wise philosophy, that--
"We overstate the ills of life. We walk upon
The shadow of hills across a level thrown,
And pant like climbers."
As a pitying older brother, he thought of Salome's many foibles,--of
her noble intentions and ignoble executions,--of her few feeble
triumphs, her numerous egregious failures in the line of duty; and
loving Christian charity pleaded eloquently for her, whispering to his
generous soul, "We know the ships that come with streaming pennons
into the immortal ports; but we know little of the ships that have
taken fire on the way thither,--that have gone down at sea."
What pure friendship could accomplish he would not withhold, and life
at the farm was not so attractive now that he felt regret at the
prospect of temporary absence.
The disappointment that had so rudely smitten to the earth the one
precious hope born of his acquaintance with "Solitude," had no power
to embitter his nature,--to drape the world in drab, or to shroud the
future with gloom; and though his noble face was sadder and paler,
Christian faith and resignation rang blessed chimes of peace in heart
and soul, and made his life a hallowed labor of love for the needy and
grief-stricken. To-day, as he sat alone at the south window, he could
overlook the fields of "Grassmere," where the rich promise of golden
harvest "filled in all beauty and fulness the emerald cup of the
hills," and the waving grain rippled in light and shade like the
billows of some distant sunset sea. Basking in the balmy sunshine, and
contemplating his approaching departure for Europe, a sudden longing
seized him to look once more on the face of Vashti Carlyle, before he
bade farewell to his home.
She was in feeble health, and might not survive his absence,
and, moreover, what harm could result from one final visit to
"Solitude,"--from a few parting words to its desolate mistress? She
had sent a message through Robert, that she would be glad to see
Dr. Grey whenever he could find leisure to call, and now hungry
heart and soul cried out savagely,--
"Why not? Why not?"
His heavy brows knitted a little, and his mouth grew rigid as iron,
but after some moments the lips relaxed, and with a sad, patient
smile, he repeated those stirring words of Richter to Herman,--"Suffer
like a man the Alp-pressure of fate. Trust yourself upon the broad,
shining wings of your _faith_, and make them bear you over the Dead
Sea, so as not to fall spiritually dead within."
"No, no, Ulpian Grey,--keep yourself 'unspotted from the world.'
Strangle that one temptation which borrows the garments of an angel
of light and mercy, and dogs you, sleeping and waking. I will see her
no more till death snaps her fetters, and I can meet her in the
presence of God, who alone can know what separation costs me. May He
grant her strength to bear her lonely lot, and give me grace to be
patient even unto the end, bringing no reproach on the sacred faith I
profess."
It was the final struggle between love and duty, and though the
vanquished heart wailed piteously, exultant conscience, like Jupiter
of old, triumphantly applauded, "Evan, evoe!"