 | CHAPTER III. Vashti, or, "Until death us do part" |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
“SALOME, you look so weary that I must insist upon
relieving you. Give me the book, and run out for a
breath of fresh air — a glimpse of blue sky.”
Dr. Grey laid his hand on the volume, but the girl shook her
head and pushed aside his fingers.
“I am not at all tired, and even if I were it would make
no difference. Miss Jane desires me to read this sermon aloud,
and I shall finish it.”
The invalid, who had been confined to her bed for many days
by a severe attack of rheumatism, partially raised herself on one
elbow, and said, —
“My dear, give him the book, while you take a little exercise.
You have been pent up here long enough, and, moreover, I want
to talk to Ulpian about some business matters. Don't look so
sullen, my child; it makes no difference who reads the sermon
to me. Kiss me, and run out on the lawn.”
The orphan relinquished chair and book, but there was no
relaxation of her bent brows, and neither warmth nor lingering
pressure in the firm, hardly drawn lips, which lightly touched
the old lady's sallow, wrinkled cheek. When she had left the
room, closing the door after her with more force than was requisite
to bolt it securely, Miss Jane sighed heavily, and turned to
her brother.
“Poor thing! She is so jealous of you; and it distresses me
to see that no friendship grows up between you, as I hoped and
believed would be the case. If you would only notice her a
little more I think you might win her over.”
“Leave it to time, Janet. I `have piped unto her and she
would not dance; I have mourned unto her, and she has not
lamented,' — and concessions only feed her waywardness. If
there be a residuum of good sense and proper feeling in her
nature, they will assert themselves after a while; if not, all
extraneous influences are futile. I will resume the reading, if
agreeable to you.”
Moody and rebellious, Salome stood for some moments on the
threshold of the front door, staring vacantly out over the lawn;
then, snatching her hat from a hook in the hall, she swiftly
crossed the grounds, climbed over a low lattice fence at the foot
of the declivity, and followed a worn but neglected path leading
into the adjoining forest.
The sanctity of the Sabbath afternoon rested like a benison
over the silent glades, where sunshine made golden roads along
the smooth brown pine straw, and glinted on the purple flags
that fluttered in the mild west wind. Even the melancholy
plaint of sad-eyed dun doves was hushed, as they slowly swung
in the swaying pine-tops; and two young lambs, neglected by
the wandering flock, lay sleeping quietly, with their snowy
heads pillowed on clustering violets,—far from the fold, forgotten
the Great Shepherd.
Salome's rapid pace soon placed a mile between her and the
fence that bounded the lawn; and, pushing through the dense
undergrowth which betokened the proximity of a stream, she
stood ere long on the margin of a wide pond which supplied the
broad, shining sheet of beryl water that poured over the rocky
dam, close to the large irregular building called “Grey's Mill.”
Piles of lumber were bleaching in the sunshine, but the
machinery was at rest, the workmen were all absent, and not a
sound broke the stillness, save the steady, monotonous chant of
the water leaping down into the race, where a thousand foam-flakes
danced along towards the huge wheels, and died on the
soft green mosses and lush-creepers that stole down to bathe in
the sparkling wavelets. The knotted roots of an old beech tree
furnished a resting-place, and Salome sat down and leaned her
head against the scarred trunk, where lightning had once girdled
and partially destroyed it, — leaving one-half the branches leafy,
the remainder scorched and barren.
Overhanging willows darkened the edges of the pond; and, in
the centre, one tall, venerable cypress, lonely as some palm in the
desert, rose like a gray shaft tufted with a fine fringe of fresh
green; and occasional clusters of broad, shining leaves, spread
themselves on the surface of the water, cradling large, snowy
lilies, whose gold-powdered stamens trembled ceaselessly. Now
and then a trout leaped up, as if for a breath of May air, and
fell back into the circle that widened until it touched either
bank; and not far from a cow who stood knee-deep in water,
browsing on a wild rose that clambered over the willows to peep
at its pink image in the pond, a proud pair of gray geese
convoyed a brood of yellow younglings that dived and breasted
the ripples with evident glee.
With her arms clasped around her knees, Salome sat watching
the blue tendrils of smoke that rose from a clump of elms
beyond the mill and curled lazily upward until they lost themselves
in air; and, though the arching elm boughs hid mossy
roof and chimney, she nevertheless felt that she was looking at
of sorrow and humiliation had embittered and perverted her
nature.
Those elms had seen her mother die, had heard her father's
drunken revelry, and bent their aged heads to listen on that wild
wintry night, when in blood-curdling curses his soul rent itself
from the degraded tenement of clay. Apparently peace brooded
over earth, sky, and water; but to that lonely figure under the
riven beech, every object within the range of vision babbled
horrible tales of the early years, and memory pointed to a corner
of the lumber-shed adjoining the mill where she had often
secreted herself to avoid her father's brutality, — always keeping
her head in the moonshine, because she dreaded the darkness
inside, which childish fancy filled with ghostly groups. She
hated the place as she hated the past, and this was the second
time she had visited it since the day that consigned her to the
poor-house; for it was impossible for her to look at the pond
without recollecting one dark passage in her life, known only to
God and herself. To-day she recalled, with startling vividness,
a dusky, star-lit June evening, when, maddened by an unmerited
and unusually severe punishment inflicted by her father, she had
resolved to drown herself, and find peace in the mud at the
bottom of the mill-pond. Placing her infant sister on the grass,
she had kissed her good-by, and selecting the deepest portion of
the water, had climbed out on a willow branch and prepared
for the final plunge. Putting her fingers in her ears that she
might not hear the bubbling of the murderous water, she shut
her eyes and sprang into the pond; but her long hair caught
the willow twigs, and, half strangled and quite willing to live,
she scrambled up into the low limbs that seemed so anxious to
rescue her from a watery grave; and, dripping and trembling,
crept back to the house, comforting herself with the grim assurance
that whatever else might befall, she certainly was not
foreordained to be either beaten to death or drowned. The
impulse which had brought her on this occasion to a scene so
fraught with harrowing memories, was explicable only by the
supposition that its painful surroundings were in consonance
and, in the gloom that this retrospection shed over her
countenance, her features seemed to grow wan and angular.
For several days she had been sorely disquieted by the realization
of Miss Jane's rapidly failing strength; and the probability of her
death, which a year ago would have been entirely endurable
as an avenue to wealth, now appeared the direst catastrophe that
had yet threatened her ill-starred life.
It was distressing to think of the kind old face growing stiff
in a shroud, but infinitely more appalling to contemplate the
possibility of being turned out of a comfortable home and driven
to labor for a maintenance. Salome had a vague impression that
either Providence or the world owed her a luxurious future, as
partial compensation for her juvenile miseries; but since both
seemed disposed to repudiate the debt, she was reluctantly compelled
to ponder her prospective bankruptcy in worldly goods,
and, like the unjust steward, while unwilling to work she was
still ashamed to beg.
Although she strenuously resisted the strong, steady influence
so quietly exerted by Dr. Grey, the best elements of her nature,
long dormant, began to stir feebly, and she was conscious of
nobler aspirations than those which had hitherto swayed her;
and of a dimly-defined self-dissatisfaction that was novel and
annoying. Unwilling to admit that she valued his good opinion,
she nevertheless felt chagrined at her failure to possess it, and
gradually she realized her utter inferiority to this man, whose
consistent Christian character commanded an entire respect
which she had never before entertained for any human being.
Immersed in vexing thoughts concerning her future, she mechanically
stretched out her hand to pluck a bunch of phlox
and of lemon-hued primroses that were nodding in the sunshine
close to her feet; but, as she touched the stems, a large copper-colored
snake slowly uncoiled from the tuft of grass where they
nestled, and, gliding into the water, disappeared in the midst of
the lilies.
“I wonder if throughout life all the flowers I endeavor to
grasp will prove only Moccasin-beds! Why should they, —
cost, that existence is not made entirely of rainless June days;
but I doubt whether darkness and storms shut out the warm
glow and perpetually curtain the stars. Obviously I am no
saint; still, I am disposed to believe I am not altogether wicked.
I have committed no capital sins, nor grievously transgressed
the decalogue, — and why should I despair of my share of the
good things of life? I am neither Cain nor Jezebel, and
therefore Fates and Furies have no warrant to dog my footsteps.
Moreover, how do I know that Destiny is indeed the
hideous, vindictive crone that luckless wretches have painted
her, instead of an amiable, good soul, who is quite as willing to
scatter blessings as curses? Because some dyspeptic Greek
dreamed of three pitiless old weavers, blind to human tears, deaf
to human petitions, why should we wise and enlightened people
of the nineteenth century scare ourselves with the skeleton of
Paganism? I have as inalienable a right to brocades, crown-jewels,
and a string of titles, as any reigning queen, provided I
can only get my hands upon them; and, since life seems to be a
sort of snatch-and-hold game, quick keen eyes and nimble fingers
decide the question. I have never trodden on the world's tender
toes, nor smitten its pet follies, nor set myself aloft to gaze
pityingly on its degradation; therefore, the world honors me
with no special grudge. But one thing is mournfully certain, —
my path is not strewn with loaves and fishes ready baked and
broiled, and I must even go gleaning and fishing for myself.
Almost everybody has some gift or some mission; but I really
do not see in what direction I can set to work. Work! How I
hate the bare thought! I have not sufficient education to teach,
nor genius to write, nor a talent for drawing, and barely music
enough in my soul to enable me to carry the church tunes
respectably. Come, Salome Owen! Shake off your sloth, and
face the abominable fact that you must earn your own bread.
It is a great shame, and I ought not to be obliged to work, for I
am not responsible for my existence, and those who brought me
into the world owed it to me to provide for my wants. I can
not and will not forgive my father and mother; but that will
feed and clothe, and God only knows how I am to accomplish
it. I find myself with youth, health, some beauty, an average
share of intellect, and all the wants pertaining thereunto. If the
worst comes to the worst I suppose I can contrive, like other
poverty-stricken girls, to marry somebody who will support me
comfortably; but that is rather an uncertain speculation, and
meantime Miss Jane might die. Now, if the Bible is true, it
must indeed be a blessed lot to be born a brown sparrow, and
have the Lord for a commissary. I am a genuine child of old
Adam, and labor is the heaviest curse that could possibly be
sent upon me.”
Once or twice during this profitless reverie she had paused
to listen to a singular sound that came from a dense group of
willows not far from the spot where she sat, and now it grew
louder, swelling into a measured cry, as of a child in great
distress.
“Somebody in trouble, but it does not concern me; I have
enough and to spare, of my own.”
She settled herself once more quite comfortably, but the low,
monotonous wail, smote her heart, and womanly sympathy with
suffering strangled her constitutional selfishness. Rising, she
crept cautiously along the edge of the pond until she reached
the thicket whence the sound proceeded, and, as she pushed aside
the low branches and peeped into the cool, green nook, her eyes
fell upon the figure of a little boy who lay on the ground, rolling
from side to side and sobbing violently.
“What is the matter? Are you sick or hungry?”
Startled by the sound of her voice, the child uttered a scream
of terror, and whirled over, hiding his face in the leaves and
grass.
“For Heaven's sake, stop howling! What are you about, —
wallowing here in the mud, ruining your clothes, and yelling
like a hyena? Hush, and get up.”
“Oh, please, ma'am, don't tell on me! Don't carry me back,
and I will hush!”
“Where do you live?”
“Nowhere. Oh! — oh!” And he renewed his cries.
“A probable story. What is your name?”
“Havn't got any name.”
“You have no name, and you live nowhere? Come, little
fellow, this will never do. I am afraid you are a very bad boy,
and have run away from home to escape being punished. Hush,
this instant!”
He had kept his face carefully concealed, and, resolved to
ascertain the truth, Salome stooped and tried to lift him; but
he struggled desperately, and screamed frantically, —
“Let me alone! I won't go back! I will jump into the
pond and drown myself if you don't let me alone.”
He was so hoarse from constant crying that she could recognize
no familiar tones in his voice, but a great dread seized her,
and, suddenly putting her hands under his head, she forced the
face up, and looked at the flushed, swollen features.
“Stanley! Is it possible? My poor little brother!”
The equally astonished boy started up, and stared half wistfully,
half fearfully, at the figure standing before him.
“Is it you, Salome? I did not know you.”
“How came you here? When did you leave the Asylum?”
“I ran away, three days ago.”
“Why?”
“Because I was tired of living there, and I wanted to come
back home.”
“Home, indeed! You miserable beggar, don't you know
you have no home but the Orphan Asylum?”
“Yes, I have. I want to come back yonder. Don't you
see home yonder, among the trees, with the pretty white and
speckled pigeons flying over it?”
He pointed across the pond to the old house beyond the mill,
whose outlines were visible through the openings in the elms;
and, as he gazed upon it with that intense longing so touching
in a child's face, his sobs increased.
“Stanley, that is not your home now. Other people live
there, and you have no right to come back. Why did you run
away from the Asylum? Did they treat you unkindly?”
“No, — yes. They whipped me because I cried and said I
hated to stay there, and wanted to come home.”
Salome looked at the soiled, torn clothes, and sorrowful face;
and, bursting into tears, she bent forward and drew her brother
to her bosom. He put his arms around her neck, and kissed
her cheek several times, saying, softly and coaxingly, —
“Sister Salome, you won't send me back, will you? Please
let me stay with you, and I will be a good boy.”
For some minutes she was unable to reply, and wept silently
as she smoothed the tangled hair back from the child's white
forehead and pressed her lips to it.
“Stanley, how is Jessie? Where did you leave her?”
“She is well, and I left her at the Asylum. She had a long
cry the night I ran away, and said she wanted to see you, and
she thought you had forgotten us both. You know, Salome, it
is over a year since you came to see us, and Jessie and I are so
lonesome there, we hate the place.”
“What were you crying so bitterly about when I found you,
just now?”
“I am so hungry, and the man who lives yonder at home
drove me away. He said I was prowling around to steal something,
and if he saw me there any more he would shoot me.
I ate my last piece of biscuit yesterday.”
“Why did you not come to me instead of the miller?”
“I was afraid you would send me back to the Asylum; but
you won't, — I know you won't, Salome.”
“Suppose I had not happened to hear you crying, — what
would have become of you? Did you intend to starve here in
the swamp?”
“I thought I would wait till the miller left home, and then
beg his wife to give me some bread, and, if I could get nothing,
I was going to pull up some carrots that I saw growing in
a field back of the house. Oh, Salome, I am so hungry and so
tired!”
She sat down on a heap of last year's leaves, which autumn
winds and winter rains had driven against the trunk of a decayed
and fallen sweet-gum, and, drawing the weary head with
own face with her hands to hide the hot tears that streamed
over her cheeks.
“Salome, are you very mad with me?”
“Yes, Stanley; you have behaved very badly, and I don't
know what I ought to do with you.”
He tried to put aside one of her shielding hands, and failing,
would his arms around her waist, and nestled as close as possible.
“Sister, please let me stay and live with you, and I promise
— I declare — I will be a good boy.”
“Poor little fellow! You don't in the least know what you
are talking about. How can you live with me when I have no
home, and not a dollar?”
“I thought you stayed with a rich lady, and had everything
nice that you wanted.”
“I do not expect to have even a shelter much longer. The
lady who takes care of me is sick, and cannot live very long;
and, when she dies, I don't know where I shall go or what I
may be obliged to do.”
“If you will only keep me I will help you work. At the
Asylum I saw wood, and pick peas, and pull out grass and
weeds from the strawberry vines, and sometimes I sweep the
yards. Just try me a little while, Salome, and see how smart I
can be.”
“Would you be willing to leave poor little Jessie at the
Asylum? If she felt so lonesome when you were there, how
will she get along without you?”
“Oh, we could steal her out some night, and keep her with
us. Salome, I tell you I don't mean to go back there. I will
die first. I will drown myself, or run away to sea. I would
rather starve to death here in the swamp. Everybody else can
get a home, and why can't we?”
“Because your father was a drunkard, and left his children
to the charity of the poor-house; and, God knows, I heartily
wish we were all screwed down in the same coffin with him.
You and I, Jessie, and Mark, and Joel, are all beggars — miserable
fever! Stop crying, I say, if you do not want to drive me
crazy! I thought I had trouble enough, without being tormented
by the sight of your poor, wretched face; and now,
what to do with you I am sure I don't know. There — do be
quiet. Take your arms away; I don't want you to kiss me any
more.”
In the long silence that succeeded, the child, spent with grief
and fatigue, fell into a sound sleep, and Salome sat with his head
in her lap and her clasped hands resting on her knee.
The afternoon slowly wore away, and the dimpled pond caught
lengthening shadows on its surface as the sun dipped into the
forest. The measured tinkle of a distant bell told that the cows
were wending quietly homeward; and, while the miller's wife
drove her geese into the yard, the pigeons nestled in their leafy
coverts high among the elm arches, and the solemn serenity of
coming summer night stole with velvet tread over the scene,
silencing all things save the silvery barcarolle of the falling
water, and the sweet, lonely vesper hymn of a whippoorwill,
half hidden in the solitary cypress.
Although tears came very rarely to her eyes, the orphan had
wept bitterly, and, surprised at finding herself so completely
unnerved on this occasion, she made a powerful effort to regain
her composure and usual stolidity of expression. Shaking the
little sleeper, she said, —
“Wake up, Stanley. Get your hat and come with me, at
least for to-night.”
The child was too weary to renew the conversation, and,
hand in hand, the two walked silently on until they approached
the confines of the farm, when Salome suddenly paused at sight
of Dr. Grey, who was crossing the pine forest just in front of
them. Pressing his sister's hand, Stanley looked up and asked,
timidly, —
“What are you going to do with me?”
“Hush! I have not fully decided.”
She endeavored to elude observation by standing close to the
body of a large pine, but Dr. Grey caught a glimpse of her fluttering
young lamb and driving another before him.
“Salome, will you be so good as to assist me in shepherding
this obstinate little waif? It has been running hither and
thither for nearly half an hour, taking every direction but the
right one. If you will either walk on and lower the bars for
me or drive this lamb while I go forward, you will greatly
oblige me. Pardon me, — you look distressed. Something
painful has occurred, I fear.”
The girl's usually firm mouth trembled as she laid her hand
on the torn straw hat that shaded Stanley's features, and answered,
hurriedly, —
“Yes. We have both stumbled upon stray lambs; but mine,
unfortunately, happens to prove my youngest brother, and,
since I am neither Reuben nor Judah, I could not leave him in
the woods to perish. Stanley, run on and pull down the bars
yonder, where you see the sheep looking through the fence.”
“How old is he?”
“About eight years, I believe, but he is small for his age.”
“He does not in the least resemble you.”
“No; pitiable little wretch, he looks like nothing but destitution!
When a poor man dies, leaving a houseful of beggarly
orphans, the State ought to require the undertaker who buries
him to shoot or hang the whole brood, and lay them all in the
Potter's Field out of the world's way.”
“Such words and sentiments are strangely at variance with
the affectionate gentleness and resignation which best become
womanly lips, and I pity the keen suffering that wrings them
from yours. He who `setteth the solitary in families' never
yet failed in loving guardianship of trusting orphanage, and
certainly you have no cause to upbraid fate, or impiously murmur
against the decrees of your God.”
He stood before her, with one hand stroking the head of the
lamb that nestled on his bosom; but his face was sterner, his
voice far more severe, than she had ever known either before,
and her eyes fell beneath the grave and sorrowful rebuke which
looked out from his.
“Your brother ran away from the Asylum, three days ago.”
“How did you ascertain that fact?”
“About an hour after you left the house, the matron of the
Asylum sent to inquire whether you were aware of his absence,
and to notify you that your little sister Jessie is quite ill. I
was searching for you, when I accidentally found these lambs,
deserted by their mother. Thank you, Stanley; I will put up
the bars, and you can go to the house with your sister. Salome,
the carriage is ready, and if you desire to see Jessie immediately
I will take you over as soon as possible. There is a full moon,
and you can return with me or remain at the Asylum until
morning. Confer with my sister concerning the disposal of this
little refugee.”
He patted the boy's head, and entered the sheepfold, while
Salome stood leaning against the fence, looking vacantly down
at the bleating flock.
Catching her brother's hand, she hurried to the house, bathed
his face, brushed his disordered hair, and gave him a bountiful
supper of bread and milk; after which, Jane Grey ordered the
little culprit brought to her bedside, where she delivered a kind
lecture on his sinful disobedience. When Dr. Grey entered the
room, Salome was standing at the window, while Stanley clung
to her dress, hiding his face in its folds, vowing vehemently
that he would not return to the Asylum, and protesting with
many sobs that he would be the best boy in the world if he
were only allowed to remain at the farm.
“Salome, do quiet him; he will fret himself into a fever,”
said Miss Jane, whose nerves began to quiver painfully.
“He has it already,” answered the girl, without turning her
head. She did not observe Dr. Grey's entrance, and when he
approached the window, where the mellow moonshine streamed
full on her face, he saw tears stealing over her cheeks, and
noticed that her fingers were clenched tightly.
“Salome, do you wish to see Jessie to-night? She has had
convulsions during the day, and may not live until morning.”
She looked up at his grave, noble countenance, and her lips
fluttered as she answered, huskily, —
“I can do nothing for her, and why should I see her die?”
“To whose care was she committed by her dying mother?”
“To mine.”
“Have you faithfully kept the sacred trust?”
“I did all that I could until Miss Jane placed her in the
asylum.”
“Does your conscience acquit you?”
She silently dropped her face in her hands, and for some
seconds he watched her anxiously.
“Have you and Janet decided what shall be done with
Stanley?”
“No; the longer I ponder the matter, the more confused my
mind becomes.”
“Will you leave it in my hands, and abide by my decision?”
“Yes, gladly.”
“You promise to be satisfied with any course upon which I
may resolve?”
Looking up quickly, she exclaimed, —
“Oh, yes; I trust you, fully. Do what you think best.”
Dr. Grey put his hand under Stanley's chin, and, lifting his
face, examined his countenance and felt his pulse.
“He is only frightened and fatigued. Put him to bed at
once in your room, and then let me take you to see little Jessie.
If you fail to go, you might reproach yourself in coming years.”
It was nine o'clock when the carriage stopped at the door of
the Asylum, and Salome and Dr. Grey went up to the
“Infirmary,” where the faithful matron sat beside one of the
little beds, watching the deep slumber of the flushed and
exhausted sleeper.
The disease had almost spent its force, the crisis was passed,
and the attending physician had pronounced the patient much
better; still, when Salome stooped to kiss her sister, the matron
held her back, assuring her that perfect quiet was essential for her
recovery. Kneeling there beside the motherless girl, Salome noted
the changes that time and suffering had wrought on the delicate
features; and, as she listened to the quick, irregular breathing, the
fountain of tenderness was suddenly unsealed in her own nature,
So strong were her emotions, so keen was her regret for past
indifference and neglect, that she lost all self-control, and, unable
to check her passionate weeping, Dr. Grey led her from the
room, promising to bring her again when the sick child was
sufficiently strong to bear the interview.
During the ride homeward he made no effort to divert her
thoughts or relieve her anxiety, knowing that although severe
it was a healthful regimen for her long indurated heart, and was
the rénaissance of her better nature.
When they arrived at home, the moon was shining bright and
full, and, as they waited on the gallery for a servant to open the
door, Dr. Grey drew most favorable auguries from the chastened,
blanched face, with its humbled and grieved expression.
“Salome, I shall for the present keep Stanley here; and, until
I can make some satisfactory arrangement with reference to his
education, I would be glad to have you hear his recitations every
day. Have you the requisite leisure to superintend his lessons?”
“Yes, sir. I have not deserved this kindness from you, Dr.
Grey; but I thank you, from my inmost heart. You are good
enough to forgive my many offences, and I shall not soon forget
it.”
“Salome, you owe me no gratitude, but there is much for
which you should go down on your knees and fervently thank
your merciful God. My young friend, will you do this?”
He extended his hand, and, unable to utter a word, Salome
gave him hers, for a second only, and hastened to her own room,
where Stanley's fair face lay in the golden moonlight, radiant
with happy dreams of white pigeons and pet lambs.
| CHAPTER III. Vashti, or, "Until death us do part" | |