 | CHAPTER IV. Vashti, or, "Until death us do part" |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
“DON'T strangle me, Jessie! Put down your arms, and
listen to me. Sobbing will not mend matters, and
you might as well make up your mind to be patient.
Of course I should like to take you with me, if I had a home;
but, as I told you just now, we are so poor that we must live
where we can, not where we prefer. Because I wear nice pretty
clothes do you suppose I have a pocketful of money? I have
not a cent to buy even a loaf of bread, and I can't ask Miss Jane
to take care of you as well as of Stanley and myself. Poor little
thing, don't cry so! I know you are lonely here without
Stanley, but it can't be helped. Jessie, don't you see that it can
not be helped?”
“I don't eat so very much, and I could sleep with Buddie,
and wouldn't be in the way, — and I can wear my old clothes.
Oh, please, Salome! I will die if you leave me here.”
“You will do no such thing; you are getting well as fast as
possible. Crying never kills people, — it only makes their heads
ache, and their eyes red and ugly. See here, if you don't stop all
this, I shall quit coming to see you! Do you hear what I say?”
The only reply was a fresh sob, which the child strove to
smother by hiding her face in Salome's lap.
The matron, who sat by the open window, looked up from the
button-hole she was working, and, clearing her throat, said, —
“Better let her have her cry out, — that is the surest cure
for such troubles as hers. She was always manageable and good
enough until Stanley ran away, and since then she does nothing
but mope and bite her finger-nails. Cry away, Jessie, and have
done with it. Ah, miss, the saddest feature about Asylums is
the separation of families; and if the matron had a heart of stone
it would melt sometimes at sight of these little motherless things
clinging to each other. I'm sure I have shed a gallon of tears
since I came here. It is a fearful responsibility to take charge
of an institution like this, for if I try to make the children respect
especially the neighbors, say I am too severe; and if I let
them frolic and romp and make as much din and uproar as they
like, why, then the same folks scandalize me and the managers,
and say there is no sort of discipline maintained. I verily believe,
miss, that if an angel came down from heaven to matronize
these children, before six months elapsed all the godliness would
be worried out of her soul by the slanders of the public and
the squabbles of the children. Now I don't profess to be an
angel, but I do claim a conscience, and God knows I make it a
rule to treat these orphans exactly as I treated my own and
only child, whom I buried three years ago. Do you suppose
that any woman who has laid her first-born in its coffin could
be brutal enough to maltreat poor little motherless lambs? I
don't deny that sometimes I am compelled to punish them, for it
is as much my duty to whip them for bad conduct as to see
that their meals are properly cooked and their clothes kept in
order. Am I to let them grow up thieves and liars? Must
I stand by and see them pull out each other's hair and bite off
one another's ears?”
“Of course not, Mrs. Collins. You must preserve some
discipline.”
“Must I? Well, miss, I will show you how beautifully that
sounds and how poorly it works. There is your brother Stanley
(I mean no offence, miss, but special cases explain better than
generalities), — there's your brother Stanley, who ran away —
for what?”
“Because he was homesick and wanted to see me.”
“No such thing, begging your pardon. Perhaps he told you
that, but remember there are always two sides to every tale.
The truth of the matter is just this: Stanley has an ugly habit
of cursing, which I will not tolerate; and, twice when I heard
him swearing at the other children, I shamed him well and
slapped him soundly. Last week I told him and Joe Clark to
shell a basket of peas, while the cook was making some gingerbread
for them, and before I was out of the room they commenced
quarrelling. They raised such an uproar that I came back and
tried to pacify him, and when he finally threatened to tell me
that Stanley was cursing again, your brother snatched a hatchet
that was lying on the dresser and swore he would kill him if he
did. He aimed a blow at Joe's head, but slipped on the pea-hulls,
and the hatchet struck the boy's right foot, cutting off one
of his toes. Now what would you have done, under the circumstances,
— allowed the children to be tomahawked in that style?
You say I must have discipline. Well, miss, I tried to `discipline'
Stanley's wickedness out of him by giving him a whipping, and
the end of the matter was that he ran away that afternoon. That
is not the worst of it, — for the children all know the facts, and
since they find that Stanley Owen can run away and be sustained
in his disobedience, of course it tends to demoralize them. So
I say that if I do my duty I am lashed by the tongues of
people who know nothing of the circumstances; and if I fail to
perform my duty I am lashed by my own conscience, — and
between the two I have a sorrowful time; for I declare to you,
miss, that Stephen's martyrdom was a small affair in comparison
with what I pass through every week. I love the children and
try to be kind to them, but I can't have them cursing and swearing
like sailors, and scalping each other. I must either raise
them like Christians, or resign my situation to some one who is
`wise as serpents and harmless as doves.' It is all very fine to
talk of `proper discipline' in charitable institutions; but, miss,
in the name of common sense, how can I get along unless the
friends of the children sustain me? Did you punish Stanley,
and send him back? On the contrary, you countenanced his bad
conduct and kept him with you, and it is perfectly natural that
little Jessie here should be dissatisfied and anxious to join him.
I can't scold her, for I know she misses her brother, who was
always very tender and considerate in his treatment of her.”
“I appreciate the difficulties which surround you, and believe
that you are conscientiously striving to do your duty towards
these children; but I knew that if I compelled Stanley to return
it would augment instead of correcting the mischief.”
At this juncture the matron was summoned from the room,
lap, wound her thin arms around her neck, and softly rubbed her
pale cheek against the polished rosy face, where perplexity and
annoyance were legibly written.
“Salome, don't you love me a little?”
“Of course I do; Jessie, don't be so foolish.”
“Please let me go with you and Stanley.”
“Do you want to starve, — you poor silly thing?”
“Yes; I would rather starve with Buddie than stay here by
myself.”
“I want to hear no more of such nonsense. You have not
tried starving, and you are too young to know what is really for
your good. Now, listen to me. At present I am obliged to leave
you here, — come, don't begin crying again; but, if you will be
a good girl and try not to fret over what cannot be helped, I
promise you that just as soon as I can possibly support you I
will take you to live with me.”
“How long must I wait?”
“Until I make money enough to feed and clothe you.”
“Can't you guess when you can come for me?”
“No, for as yet I know not how I can earn a dollar; but, if
you will be patient, I promise to work hard for you and
Stanley.”
“I will be good. Salome, I have saved a quarter of a dollar
that the doctor gave me when I was sick, — because I let the
blister stay on my side a half hour longer; and I thought I
would send it to Buddie, to buy him some marbles or a kite; but
I reckon I had better give it to you to help us get a house.”
She drew from her pocket a green calico bag, and, emptying
the contents into her hand, picked out from among brass buttons
and bits of broken glass a silver coin, which she held up
triumphantly.
“No, Jessie, — keep it. Stanley has plenty of playthings, and
you may need it. Besides, your quarter would not go far, and
I don't want it. Good-bye, little darling. Try to give Mrs.
Collins no trouble, and recollect that when I promise you anything
I shall be sure to keep my word.”
Salome drew the child's head to her shoulder, and, as she bent
over and kissed the sweet, pure lips, Jessie whispered, “When
we say our prayers to-night, we will ask God to send us some
money to buy a home, won't we? You know he made the birds
feed Elijah.”
“But we are not prophets, and ravens are not flying about
with bags of money under their wings.”
“We do not know what God can do, and if we are only good,
He is as much bound to take care of us as of Elijah. He made
the sky rain manna and partridges for the starving people in the
desert, and He is as much our God as if we came out from
Egypt under Moses. I know God will help us, if we ask Him.
I am sure of it; for last week I lost Mrs. Collins' bunch of keys,
and, when I could not find them anywhere, I prayed to God to
help me, and, sure enough, I remembered I left them in the dairy
where I was churning.”
Jessie's countenance was radiant with hope and faith, which
her sister could not share, yet felt unwilling to destroy; and,
checking the heavy sigh that rose from her oppressed heart, she
hastily quitted the house.
In the midst of confused and perturbed reflections, rose
like some lonely rock-based beacon in boiling waves her sacred
promise to the trusting child, and ingenuity was racked to devise
some means for its prompt fulfilment. Consanguinity began to
urge its claim vehemently, and long dormant tenderness pleaded
piteously for exiled idols.
“If I were only a Christian, like Dr. Grey! His faith, like
strong wings, bears him high above all sloughs of despond, all
morasses of moodiness. People cannot successfully or profitably
serve two masters. That is eminently true; not because it is
scriptural, but vice versa; because it is so obviously true it
could not escape a place in the Bible. Half work pays poor
wages, and it is not surprising that neither God nor Mammon
will patiently submit to it. I suppose the time has come when
I must bargain myself to one or the other; for, hitherto, I have
declared in favor of neither. I am not altogether sanctified, nor
yet desperately wicked, but I hate Satan, who ruined my father,
him a grudge for all the shame and suffering of my childhood, —
which, if God did not interfere to prevent, at least there is
strong presumptive evidence that he took no pleasure in witnessing.
I don't suppose I have any faith; I scarcely know
what it means; but perhaps if I try to serve God instead of
myself, it will come to me as it came to Paul and Thomas. I
wonder whether mere abstract love of righteousness and of the
Lord drives half as many persons into Christian churches as
the fear of eternal perdition. I don't deny that I am afraid of
Satan, for if he contrives to smuggle so much sin and sorrow
into this world what must his own kingdom be? If there be
any truth in the tradition that every human being is afflicted by
some besetting sin that crouches at the door of the soul, lying
in ambush to destroy it, then my own `Dweller of the Threshold,'
is love of mine ease. Time was when I would have
bartered my eternal heritage for a good-sized mess of earthly
pottage, provided only it was well spiced and garnished; but
to-day I have no inclination to be swindled like Esau. Idleness
has well-nigh ruined me, so I shall take industry by the horns,
and laying thereon all my sins of indolence, drive it before me
as the Jews drove Apopompœus.”
She walked on in the direction of the town, turning her head
neither to right nor left, and keeping her eyes fixed on the blue
air before her, where imagination built a home, through whose
spacious halls Stanley and Jessie sported at will. On the principal
street stood a fashionable dress-making and millinery
establishment, and thither Salome bent her steps, resolved that
the sun should not set without having witnessed some effort to
redeem the pledge given to Jessie.
Panoplied in Miss Jane's patronage, she demanded and obtained
admission to the inner apartment of this Temple of
Fashion, where presided the Pythoness whose oracular utterances
swayed le beau monde.
What passed between the two never transpired, even among
the apprentices that thronged the adjoining room; but when
which furnished work for the ensuing fortnight.
Evening shadows overtook her, while yet a mile distant from
home, and as she passed a small cottage, where candle-light
flared through the open window, she saw Dr. Grey standing
beside the bed, on which, doubtless, lay some sufferer.
Ere many moments had elapsed, she heard his well-known
footstep on the rocky road, and involuntarily paused to greet
him.
“What called you to old Mrs. Peterson's?”
“Her youngest grandchild is very ill with brain fever; so ill
that I shall return and sit up with him to-night.”
“I was not aware that physicians condescended to act as mere
nurses, — to execute their own orders.”
“Then I fear you have formed a very low estimate of the
sacred responsibilities of my profession, or of the characters of
those who represent it. The true physician combines the offices
of surgeon, doctor, nurse, and friend.”
“Mrs. Peterson is almost destitute, and to a great extent
dependent on charity; consequently you need not expect to
collect any fee.”
“Knowing her poverty, I attend the family gratuitously.”
“Is not your charity-list a very long one?”
“Could I divest myself of sympathy with the sufferings of
those who compose it I would not curtail it one iota; for I feel
like Boerhaave, who once said, `My poor are my best patients;
God pays for them.'”
“Then, after all, you are actuated merely by selfishness, and
remit payments in earthly dross, — in `filthy lucre,' — in order
to collect your fees in a better currency, where thieves do not
break through nor steal?”
“`He that oppresseth the poor reproacheth his Maker; but
he that honoreth Him, hath mercy on the poor.' If a tinge of
selfishness mingle with the hope of future reward, it will be
forgiven, I trust, by the great Physician, who, in sublimating
human nature, seized upon its selfish elements as powerful
agencies in the regeneration of mankind. An abstract worship
clay; and I am not unwilling to confess that hope of eternal
compensation influences my conduct in many respects. If this
be indeed only subtle selfishness, at least we shall be pardoned
by Him who promised to prepare a place in the Father's mansion
for those who follow His footsteps among the poor.”
She looked up at him, with a puzzled, searching expression,
that arrested his attention, and exclaimed, —
“How singularly honest you are! I believe I could have
faith if there were more like you.”
“Faith in what?”
“In the nobility of my race, — in the possibility of my own
improvement, — in the watchful providence of God.”
“Salome, there is much sound philosophy in the eighty-seventh
and eighty-ninth maxims of cynical Rochefoucauld, `It
is more disgraceful to distrust one's friends than to be deceived
by them. Our mistrust justifies the deceit of others.' My
opportunities have been favorable for studying various classes
of men, and my own experience corroborates the truth of Montaigne's
sagacious remark, `Confidence in another man's virtue
is no slight evidence of a man's own.' Try to cultivate trust
in your fellow creatures, and the bare show of faith will sometimes
create worth.”
“Did Christ's show of confidence in Judas save him from
betrayal?”
“Let us hope that he was the prototype of a very limited
class. You must not expect to find mankind divided into two
great castes — one all angels, the other comprising hopeless
demons. On the contrary, noble and most ignoble impulses
alternately sway the actions and thoughts of the majority of
our race; and the saint of to-day is not unfrequently tempted
to become the fiend of to-morrow. Remember that the conflict
with sinful promptings begins in the cradle — ends only in the
coffin, — and try to be more charitable in your judgments.”
They walked a few yards in silence, and at length Salome
asked, —
“Were you not kept up all of last night?”
“Yes; I was obliged to ride fifteen miles to set a dislocated
shoulder.”
“Then you must be exhausted from fatigue, and unfit for
watching to-night. Will you not allow me to relieve you, and
take charge of Mrs. Peterson's grandchild? I admit I am
very ignorant; but I will faithfully follow your directions, and
I think you may venture to trust me.”
Confusion flushed her face as she made this proposition, but
in the pale, pearly lustre of the summer starlight, it was not
visible.
“Thank you heartily, Salome. I could implicitly trust your
intentions, but the case is almost hopeless, and I fear you are
too inexperienced to render it safe for me to commit the child to
your care. I appreciate your kindness, but am too much interested
in the boy to leave him when the disease is at its crisis,
and a cup of coffee will strengthen me for the vigil. You have
been to the Asylum this afternoon; tell me something about
little Jessie.”
“She is still rather pale, but otherwise seems quite well again.
Of course she is dissatisfied since Stanley has left, and thinks
she ought to be allowed to follow his example; but I finally
persuaded her to remain there patiently, at least for the present.
It is well that the poor have their sensibilities blunted early in
life, for they are spared many sorrows that afflict those who are
pampered by fortune and rendered morbidly sensitive by years
of indulgence and prosperity.”
A metallic ring had crept into her voice, hardening it, and
although he could not distinctly see her countenance, he knew
that the words came through set teeth.
“Salome, I hope that I misunderstand you.”
“No; unfortunately, you thoroughly comprehend me. Dr.
Grey, were you situated precisely as I find myself, do you suppose
you would feel your degradation as little as I seem to do?
Do you think you would relish the bread of charity as keenly
as one, who, for courtesy's sake, shall be nameless? Could
you calmly stand by, and with utter sang froid see your
brothers and sisters — your own flesh and blood — drift on
on a stormy, treacherous sea? Would not your family pride
bleed and die, and your self-respect wail and shrivel and
expire?”
“You have so grossly exaggerated and overcolored your
picture that I recognize little likeness to reality.”
“I neither gloze nor mask; I simply front the facts, which
are, briefly, that you were nurtured in independence and trained
to abhor the crumbs that fall from other people's tables, while
all heroic aspirations and proud chivalric dreams were fed by the
milk that nourished you; whereas, I grew up in the wan, sickly
atmosphere of penury; glad to grasp the crust that chance
offered; taught to consider the bread of dependence precious as
ambrosia; willing to forget family ties that were fraught only
with humiliation and wretchedness; coveting bounty that I had
not sufficient ambition to merit; and eager to live on charity, as
long as it could be coaxed, hoodwinked, or scourged into supporting
me comfortably. Yesterday I read a sentence that
might have been written for me, so felicitously does it photograph
me, `Temperament is a fate oftentimes, from whose
jurisdiction its victims hardly escape, but do its bidding herein,
be it murder or martyrdom. Virtues and crimes are mixed in
one's cup of nativity, with the lesser or larger margin of choice.
Blood is a destiny.' You, Ulpian Grey, are what you are
because your father was a gentleman, and all your surroundings
were luxurious and refined; and I, the miller's child, am what
you see me because my father was coarse and brutal; because
my body and soul struggled with staring starvation, — physical,
mental, and moral. Be just, and remember these things when
you are tempted to despise me as a pitiable, spiritless parasite.”
“My little friend, you have most unnecessarily tortured yourself,
and grieved and mortified me. Have I ever treated you
with contempt or disrespect?”
“You evidently pity me, and compassion is about as welcome
to my feelings as a vitriol bath to fresh wounds.”
“Are you not conscious of having more than once acted in
such a manner as to necessitate my compassion?”
She was silent for some moments; but as they entered the
avenue, she said, impetuously, —
“I want you to respect me.”
“If you respect yourself and merit my good opinion, I shall
not withhold it. But of one thing let me assure you; my
standard of womanly delicacy, nobility, gentleness, and Christian
faith is very exalted; and I cannot and will not lower it,
even to meet the requirements of those who claim my friendship.
Thoroughly cognizant of my opinions concerning several subjects,
you have more than once, premeditatedly and obtrusively,
outraged them, and while I can and do most cordially overlook
the offence, you should not deem it possible for me to entertain
a very lofty estimate of the offender. When I came home you
took such extraordinary pains to convince me that not a single
noble aspiration actuated you that I confess you almost succeeded
in your aim; but, Salome, I hope you are far more
generous than you deign to prove yourself, and I promise you
my earnest respect shall not lag behind, — shall promptly keep
pace with your deserts. You can, if you so determine, make
yourself an attractive, brilliant, noble woman; an ornament —
and, better still — a useful, honored member of society; but the
faults of your character are grave, and only prayer and conscientious,
persistent efforts can entirely correct them. I am
neither so unreasonable nor so unjust as to hold you accountable
for circumstances beyond your control; and, while I warmly
sympathize with all your sorrows, I know that you are still
sufficiently young to rectify the unfortunate warping that your
nature received in its mournful early years. To ask me to
respect you is as idle and useless and impotent as the soft
murmur of this June breeze in the elm boughs above us; but
you can command my perfect confidence and friendship solely
on condition that you merit it. Salome, something very unusual
has influenced you to-day, forcing you to throw aside the rubbish
that you patiently piled over your better self until it was effectually
concealed; and, if you are willing to be frank with
me, I should be glad to know what has so healthfully affected
you. I believe I can guess: has not little Jessie wooed and
its holiest recesses?”
At this moment Stanley bounded down the steps to meet
them, and, bending over to receive his kiss and embrace, Salome
gladly evaded a reply. That night, after she had taught her
brother his lessons for the next day and made him repeat the
prayer learned in the dormitory of the Asylum, — when she had
read Miss Jane to sleep and seen the doctor set out on his
mission of mercy, she brightened the lamplight in her own room,
and, opening the parcel, drew out and commenced the dainty
embroidery which she had promised should be completed at an
early day.
The night was warm, but the sea-breeze sang a lullaby in the
trees that peeped in at her window, and now and then a strong
gust blew the flame almost to the top of the lamp-chimney.
Stanley slept soundly in his trundle-bed, occasionally startling
her by half-uttered exclamations, as in his dreams he chased
rabbits or found partridge-eggs. Oblivious of passing hours,
and profoundly immersed in speculations concerning her future,
the girl sewed on, working scallop after scallop, and flower after
flower, in the gossamer cambric between her slender fingers.
Stars that looked upon her early in the night had gone down
into blue abysms below the horizon, and the midnight song of a
mocking-bird, swinging in a lemon-tree beneath her window, had
long since hushed itself with the chirp of crickets and gossip of
the katydids.
A tap on the facing of her open door finally aroused her, and
she hastily attempted to hide her work, as Dr. Grey asked, —
“What keeps you up so late? Are you dressing a doll for
Jessie?”
“What brings you home so early? Is your patient better?”
“Yes; in one sense he is certainly better; for, free from all
pain, he rests with his God.”
“What time is it?”
“Half-past three. Little Charles died about an hour ago,
and, as I shall be very busy to-morrow, I came upstairs to ask if
you will oblige me by going over to Mrs. Peterson's and remaining
is an unpleasant duty, and unless you are perfectly willing I will
not request you to perform it.”
“Certainly, sir; I will go at once. Why should I hesitate?”
“Come down as soon as you are ready, and I will make
Harrison drive you over in my buggy. As it is only a mile,
I walked home.”
When she stood before him, waiting for the servant to adjust
some portion of the harness, Dr. Grey wrapped her shawl more
closely around her, and said, —
“What new freak keeps you awake till four o'clock?”
“It is no freak, but the beginning of a settled purpose that
reaches in numberless ramifications through all my coming years.
It does not concern you, so ask me no more. Good-night. I
suppose I ought to tender you my thanks for deeming me worthy
of this melancholy mission; and if so, pray be pleased to accept
them.”
| CHAPTER IV. Vashti, or, "Until death us do part" | |