 | CHAPTER VI. Vashti, or, "Until death us do part" |  |
6. CHAPTER VI.
“MOTHER, I am afraid Mrs. Gerome does not like this
place, or the furniture, or something, for she has not
spoken a kind word about the house since she came.
She looks closely at everything, but says nothing. What do you
suppose she thinks?”
Robert Maclean, the gardener at “Solitude,” paused abruptly,
as his mother pinched his arm sharply and whispered, —
“Whist! There she comes down the azalea walk; and no one
likes to stumble upon their own name when they are not expecting
the sound or sight of it. No; she has turned off towards
the cedars, and does not see us. As to her likes and dislikes,
there is nothing this side of heaven that will content her; and
you might have known better than to suppose she would be much
pleased with anything. No matter what she thinks, she seldom
complains, and it is hard to find out her views; but she told me
to tell you that she approved all you had done, and thanked you
for the pains you have taken to arrange things comfortably.”
Old Elsie tied the strings of her white muslin cap, and turned
her back to the wind that was playing havoc with its freshly
fluted frills.
“Mother, I heard her laugh yesterday, for the first time. It
was a short, quick, queer little laugh, but it pleased me greatly.
The cook had set some duck-eggs under that fine black Spanish
hen; and, when they hatched, she marched off with the brood
into the fowl-yard, where they made straight for the duck-pool
and sailed in. The hen set up such a din and clatter that Mrs.
Gerome, who happened to get a glimpse of them, felt sorry for
the poor frightened fowl, and tried to drive the little ones out
of the water; but, whenever she put her hand towards them
to catch the nearest, the whole brood would quack and dive, —
and, when she had laughed that one short laugh, she called to
me to look after them and went back to the house. You don't
know how strangely that laugh sounded.”
“Don't I? Speak for yourself, Robert. I have heard her
laugh twice, but it was when she was asleep, and it was an uncanny,
bitter sound, — about as welcome to my ears as her death-rattle.
Last night she did not close her eyes, — did not even
undress; and the hall clock was striking three this morning
when I heard her open the piano and play one of those dismal,
frantic, wailing things she calls `fugues,' that make the hair rise
on my head and every inch of my flesh creep as if a stranger
were treading on my grave. When she was a baby, cutting her
eye-teeth, she had a spasm; and, seeing her straighten herself
out and roll back her eyes till only the white balls showed, I
took it for granted she was about to die, and, holding her in my
arms, I fell on my knees and prayed that she might be spared.
Well, now, Robert, I am sorry I put up that petition, for the
Lord knew best; and it would have been a crowning mercy if
he had paid no attention to my half-crazy pleadings and taken
her home then. What meddling fools we all are! I thought,
at that time, it would break my heart to shroud her sweet little
body; but ah! I would rather have laid my precious baby in her
coffin, with violets under her fingers, than live to see that desperate,
unearthly look, come and house itself in her great, solemn,
merriment as the sky is of stars on a clear, frosty night. My
son, we never know what is good for us; for, many times, when
we clamor for bread we break our teeth on it; and then, again,
when we rage and howl because we think the Lord has dealt
out scorpions to us, they prove better than the fish we craved.
So, after all, I conclude Christ understood the whole matter
when he enjoined upon us to say, `Thy will be done.'”
The old nurse wiped her eyes with the corner of her black
silk apron, and, leaning against the trunk of a tree, crossed her
arms comfortably over her broad and ample chest, while Robert
busied himself in repotting some choice carnations.
“But, mother, do you really think she will be satisfied to stay
here, after travelling so long up and down in the world?”
“How can I tell what she will or will not do? You know
very well that she goes to sleep with one set of whims and
wakes up with new ones. She catches odd freaks as some people
catch diseases. She said yesterday that she had had enough
of travel and change, and intended to settle and live and die
right here; but that does not prove that I may not receive an
order next week to pack her trunks and start to Jericho or
Halifax, and I should not think the world was upside down and
coming to an end if such an order came before breakfast to-morrow.
Poor lamb! My poor lamb! Yonder she comes again.
Do you notice how fast she walks, as if the foul fiend were
clutching at her skirts or she were trying to get away from
herself, — trying to run her restless soul entirely out of her
wretched body? Come away, Robert, and let her have all the
grounds to herself. She likes best to be alone.”
Mother and son walked off in the direction of the stables,
and the advancing figure emerged from the dense shade where
interlacing limbs roofed one of the winding walks, and paused
before the circular stand on which lemon, rose, white, crimson,
and variegated carnations, nodded their fringed heads and poured
spicy aromas from their velvety chalices.
The face and form of Mrs. Gerome presented a puzzling
paradox, in which old age and youth seemed struggling for
slender, and faultlessly made, the perfection of her figure was
marred by the unfortunate carriage of her head, which drooped
forward so heavily that the chin almost touched her throat and
nearly destroyed the harmony of the profile outline. The head
itself was nobly rounded, and sternly classic as any well
authenticated antique, but it was no marvel that it habitually
bowed under the heavy glittering mass of silver hair, which
wound in coil after coil and was secured at the back by a comb
of carved jet, thickly studded with small silver stars. The
extraordinary lustrousness of these waves of gray hair that
rippled on her forehead and temples like molten metal, lent a
weird and wondrous effect to the straight, regular, rigid features,
— daintily cut as those of Pallas, and quite as pallid. The
delicate and high arch of the eyebrows was black as ebony, and
in conjunction with the long jetty lashes formed a very singular
contrast to the shining white tresses, which lay piled like freshly
fallen snow-drift above them. The brow was full, round,
smooth, and fair as a child's; and more than one azure thread
showed the subtle tracery of veins, whose crimson currents left
no rosy reflex on the firm, gleaming white flesh, through which
they branched.
Beneath that faultless forehead burned unusually large eyes,
deep as mountain tarns, and of that pure bluish gray that
tolerates no hint of green or yellow rays. The dilated pupils
intensified the steel color, and faint violet lines ran out from the
iris to meet the central shadows, while above and below the
heavy black fringes enhanced their sombre depths, where
mournful mysteries seemed to float like corpses just beneath
the crystal shroud of ocean waves. The pale, passionless lips,
— perfect in their pure curves, but defrauded of the blood which
resolutely refused to come to the surface and tint the fine satin
skin, — were lined in ciphers that the curious questioned and
wondered over, but which few could read and none fully comprehend.
The beautiful, frigid mouth, where all sweetness was
frozen out to make room for hopelessness and defiance, would
have admirably suited some statue of discrowned and smitten
grief or fierce invective, could rival the melancholy eloquence
of its mute, calm pallor.
The wan face, with its gray globe-like eyes, and the metallic
glitter of the prematurely silvered hair, matched in hue the
pearl-colored muslin dress which fluttered in the wind; and,
standing there, this gray woman of twenty-three looked indeed
like Pygmalion's stone darling, —
Frozen upon the very verge of life,
And looking back along eternity
With rayless eyes that keep the shadow Time.”
Her frail, white hands, with their oval nails polished and
opalescent, were exceedingly beautiful; and, where the creamy
foam of fine lace fell back from the dimpled wrists, quaintly
carved jet serpents with blazing diamond eyes coiled around the
throbbing threadlike pulses of sullen sang azure.
Bending over the carnations, she examined the gorgeous
hues, — toyed with their fragile stems, — and then, glancing shyly
over her shoulder like a startled fawn half expectant of hounds
and hunter, she glided rapidly to an artificial mound crowned
with a mouldering mossy plaster image of Ariadne and her
pard, and stood surveying her new domain.
“Solitude” filled a semicircular hollow between low wooded
hills, which ran down to lave their grassy flanks in the blue
brine of the Atlantic, and constituted the horns of a crescent
bay, on whose sloping sandy beach the billows broke without
barrier.
The old-fashioned brick house — with sharp, peaked roof,
turreted chimneys, and gable window looking down in front
upon the clumsily clustered columns that supported the arched
portico — was built upon a rocky knoll, of which nature laid
the foundation and art increased the height; and, around and
above it, towered a dense grove of ancient trees that shut out the
glare of the sea and effectually screened the mansion from
observation. The damp walls were heavily draped with the
the cleft chimney-tops, and peeped impertinently over the
broad stone window-sills, whence the indignant housemaid
remorselessly sheared them away as often as their encroachments
grew perceptible.
In the rear of the house, and toward the west, stretched
orchard, vegetable garden, vineyard, and wheat-field, whose
rolling green waves seemed almost to break against the ruddy
trunks of cedars that clothed the hillside. To the left and
north lay low, marshy, meadow land, covered with rank grass
and frosted with saline incrustations; while south of the building
extended spacious grounds, studded here and there with
noble groups of deodars, Norway spruce, and various ornamental
shrubs, and bounded by a tall impenetrable hedge of
osage orange. Before the house, which faced the ocean and
fronted east, the lawn sloped gently down to a terrace surmounted
by a granite balustrade; and just beyond, supported
by stone piers on the golden sands, stood an octagonal boat-house,
built in the Swiss style, with red-tiled roof, and floored
with squares of white and black marble, whence a flight of steps
led to the little boat chained to one of the rocky piers. Along
the entire length of the terrace a line of giant poplars lifted
their aged, weather-beaten heads, high above all surrounding
objects, — ever on the qui vive, looking seaward, — trim and erect
as soldiers on dress parade, and defiant of gales that had shorn
them of many boughs, and left ghastly scars on their glossy
limbs.
Tradition whispered, with bated breath, that in the dim
dawn of colonial settlement a rude log hut had been erected
here by pirates, who came ashore to bury their ill-gotten booty,
and rumors were rife of bloody deeds and midnight orgies, — all
of which sprang into more vigorous circulation, when, in laying
the foundations of the boat-house piers, an iron pot containing a
number of old French and Spanish coins was dug out of the
shells and sand.
Melancholy tales of stranded vessels and drowned crews, of
a slaver burned to the water's edge to escape capture, and of
of legendary gloom that enveloped the spot, — where the
successive demise of several proprietors certainly sanctioned the
feeling of dread and superstitious distrust with which it was
regarded. That the unenviable celebrity it had attained was
referable to local causes generating disease, appeared almost
incredible; for, if miasmatic exhalations rose dank and poisonous
from the densely shaded humid house, they were promptly
dispelled by the strong, invincible ocean-breeze, which tore aside
leafy branches and muslin curtains, and wafted all noxious
vapors inland.
A committee of medical sages having cautiously examined
the place, unanimously averred that its reputed fatality could
not justly be ascribed to any topographical causes. Whereupon
the popular nerve, which closely connected the community with
supernaturaldom, thrilled afresh; and all the calamities, real
and imaginary, that had afflicted “Solitude” from a period so
remote that “the memory of man runneth not to the contrary,”
were laid upon the galled shoulders of some red-liveried,
sulphur-scented Imp of Abaddon, whose peculiar mission was
to haunt the “piratical nest;” and, in lieu of human victims,
to addle the eggs, blast the grape crop, and make night hideous
with spectral sights and sounds.
To an unprejudiced observer the hills seemed to have
gleefully clasped hands and formed a half-circle, shutting the
place in for a quiet breezy communion with garrulous ocean,
whose waves ran eagerly up the strand to gossip of wrecks and
cyclones, with the staid martinet poplars that nodded and murmured
assent to all their wild romances.
Such was the pleasant impression produced upon the mind of
the lonely woman who now owned it, and who hoped to spend
here in seclusion and peace the residue of a life whose radiant
dawn had been suddenly swallowed by drab clouds and starless
gloom.
The Scotch are proverbially credulous concerning all preternatural
influences; and, had Robert Maclean been cognizant
of half the ghostly associations attached to the residence which
mistress, it is scarcely problematical whether the house would
not have remained in the hands of the real-estate broker; but,
fortunately for their peace of mind, Elsie and her son were as
yet in blissful ignorance of the dismal celebrity of their new
home.
Resting her folded hands on the bare shoulders of the
Ariadne, which modest lichens and officious wreaths of purple
verbena were striving to mantle, Mrs. Gerome scanned the
scene before her; and a quick, nervous sigh, that was almost a
pant, struggled across her lips.
“Unto this last nook of refuge have I come; and, expecting
little, find much. Shut out from the world, locked in with the
sea, — no neighbors, no visitors, no news, no gossip, — solitary,
shady, cool, and quiet, — surely I can rest here. Forked tongues
of scandal can not penetrate through those rock-ribbed hills
yonder, nor dart across that defying sea; and neither wail nor
wassail of men or women can disturb me more. But how do I
know that it will not prove a mocking cheat like Baiæ and
Maggiore, or Copais and Cromarty? I have fled in disgust and
ennui from far lovelier spots than this, and what right have I to
suppose that contentment has housed itself as my guest in that
old, mossy, brick pile, where mice and wrens run riot? Like
Cain and Cartophilus, my curse travels with me, and I no
sooner pitch my tent, than lo! the rattle and grin of my skeleton,
for which earth is not wide enough to furnish a grave! Well!
well! at least I shall not be stared to death here, — shall not be
tormented by eye-glasses and sketch-books; can live in that dim,
dark, greenish den yonder, unobserved and possibly forgotten,
and finally sleep undisturbed in the dank shade of those deodars,
with twittering birds overhead and a sobbing sea at my feet.
How long — how long before that dreamless slumber will fall
upon my heavy lids, — weary with waiting? Only twenty-three
yesterday! My God, if I should live to be an old woman!
The very thought threatens insanity! Ten — twenty — possibly
thirty years ahead of me. No; I could not endure it, — I should
go mad, or destroy myself! If I were a delicate woman, if I
hereditary infirmity that would surely curtail my days, I could
be tolerably patient, hoping daily for the symptoms to develop
themselves. But, unfortunately, though my family all died
early, no two members selected the same mode of escape from
this bastile of clay; and my flesh is sound, and I am as strong
and compact as that granite balustrade, and — ha! ha! — quite
as hard. Au pis aller, if the burden of life becomes utterly
intolerable I can shuffle it off as quickly as did that proud
Roman, who, `when the birds began to sing' in the dawn of a
day heralded by tempestuous winds laden with perfume from
the vales of Sicily, shut his eyes forever from the warm sparkling
Mediterranean billows that broke in the roads of Utica, and
pricked the memory of inattentive Azrael with the point of a
sword. Neither Phædo, family, nor fame, could coax Cato to
respect the prerogative of Atropos; and if he, `the only free
and unconquered man,' quailed and fled before the apparition of
numerous advancing years, what marvel that I, who am neither
sage nor Roman, should be tempted some fine morning when the
birds are sounding reveille around my chamber windows, to
imitate `what Cato did, and Addison approved'? After all,
what despicable cowards are human hearts, and how much easier
to die like Socrates, Seneca, and Zeno, than stagger and groan
under the load of hated, torturing years, that are about as welcome
to my shoulders as the `old man of the sea' to Sinbad's!
How long? — oh, how long?”
The gloomy gray eyes had kindled into a dull flicker that
resembled the fitful, ghostly gleam of sheet lightning, falling
through painted windows upon crumbling and defiled altars in
some lonely ruined cathedral; and her low, shuddering tones,
were full of a hopeless, sneering bitterness, as painfully startling
and out of place in a woman's voice as would be the scream of a
condor from the irised throats of brooding doves, or the hungry
howl of a wolf from the tender lips of unweaned lambs. In the
gloaming light of a soft gray sky powdered by a few early stars,
stood this desolate gray woman, about whose face and dress
there was no stain of color save the blue glitter of a large
hooded head erect and brilliant diamond eyes that twinkled
with every quiver of the marble-white fingers.
Impatiently she turned her imperial head, when the sound of
approaching steps broke the stillness; and her tone was sharp as
that of one suddenly roused from deep sleep, —
“Well, Elsie! What is it?”
“Tea, my child, has been waiting half-an-hour.”
“Then go and get your share of it. I want none.”
“But you ate no dinner to-day. Does your head ache?”
“Oh, no; my heart jealously monopolizes that privilege!”
The old woman sighed audibly, and Mrs. Gerome added, —
“Pray, do not worry yourself about me! When I feel disposed
to come in I can find the way to the door. Go and get your
supper.”
The nurse passed her wrinkled hand over the drab muslin
sleeves and skirt, and touched the folds of hair.
“But, my bairn, the dew is thick on your head and has taken
all the starch out of your dress. Please come out of this fog
that is creeping up like a serpent from the sea. You are not
used to such damp air, and it might give you rheumatic cramps.”
“Well, suppose it should? Does not my white head entitle
me to all such luxuries of old age and decrepitude? Don't
bother me, Elsie.”
She put out her hand with a repellent gesture, but Elsie
seized it, and, clasping both her palms over the cold fingers, said,
with irresistible tenderness, —
“Come, dearie! — come, my dearie!”
Without a word Mrs. Gerome turned and followed her across
the lawn and into the house, whose internal arrangement was
somewhat at variance with its unpretending exterior.
The rooms were large, with low ceilings; and fire-places,
originally wide and deep, had been recently filled and fitted up
with handsome grates, while the heavy mantel-pieces of carved
cedar, that once matched the broad facings of the windows and
the massive panels of the doors, were exchanged for costly verd
antique and lumachella. The narrow passage running through
adorned with fine engravings of Landseer's best pictures, whose
richly carved walnut frames looked almost cedarn in the pale
chill light that streamed upon them through the violet-colored
glass which surrounded the front door and effectually subdued
the hot golden glare of the sunny sun. The old-fashioned folding
doors that formerly connected the parlor and library had been
removed to make room for a low, wide arch, over which drooped
lace curtains, partially looped with blue silk cord and tassels;
and both apartments were furnished with sofas and chairs of
rosewood and blue satin damask, while the velvet carpet, with its
azure ground strewn with wreaths of white roses and hyacinths,
corresponded in color. Handsome book-cases, burdened with
precious lore, lined the walls of the rear room; and on either
side of a massive ormolu escritoire, bronze candelabra shed light
on the blue velvet desk where lay delicate sheets of gossamer
paper with varied and outré monograms, guarded by an exquisite
marble statuette of Harpocrates, which stood in the mirror-panelled
recess reserved for pen, ink, and sealing-wax. The air
was fragrant with the breath of flowers that nodded to each other
from costly vases scattered through both apartments; and, before
one of the windows, rose a bronze stand containing china jars
filled with pelargoniums, in brilliant bloom. An Erard piano
occupied one corner of the parlor, and the large harp-shaped
stand at its side was heaped with books and unbound sheets of
music. Here two long wax candles were now burning brightly,
and, on the oval marble table in the centre of the floor, was a
superb silver lamp representing Psyche bending over Cupid, and
supporting the finely-cut globe, whose soft radiance streamed
down on her burnished wings and eagerly-parted sweet Greek
lips. The design of this exceedingly beautiful lamp would not
have disgraced Benvenuto Cellini, nor its execution have reflected
discredit upon the genius of Felicie Fauveau, though to
neither of these distinguished artificers could its origin have been
justly ascribed. In its mellow, magical glow, the fine paintings
suspended on the walls seemed to catch a gleam of “that light
that never was on sea or land,” for their dim, purplish Alpine
their foaming cataracts braided glittering spray into
spectral similitude of Undine tresses and Undine faces; their
desolate red deserts grew vaguely populous with mirage mockeries;
their green dells and grassy hill-sides, couching careless
herds, and fleecy flocks, borrowed all Arcadia's repose; and the
marble busts of Beethoven and of Handel, placed on brackets
above the piano, shone as if rapt, transfigured in the mighty
inspiration that gave to mankind “Fidelio” and the “Messiah.”
On the sofa which partially filled the oriel window, where the
lace drapery was looped back to admit the breeze, lay an ivory
box containing materials and models for wax-flowers; and, in
one corner, half thrust under the edge of the silken cushion, was
an unfinished wreath of waxen convolvulus and a cluster of
gentians. There, too, open at the page that narrated the death-struggle,
lay Liszt's “Life of Chopin,” pressed face downwards,
with two purple pansies crushed and staining the leaves; and a
small gold thimble peeping out of a crevice in the damask tattled
of the careless feminine fingers that had left these traces of
disorder.
The collection of pictures was unlike those usually brought
from Europe by cultivated tourists, for it contained no Madonnas,
no Magdalenes, no Holy Families, no Descents or Entombments,
no Saints, or Sibyls, or martyrs; and consisted of wild
mid-mountain scenery, of solemn surf-swept strands, of lonely
moonlit moors, of crimson sunsets in Cobi or Sahara, and of a
few gloomy, ferocious faces, among which the portrait of Salvator
Rosa smiled sardonically, and a head of frenzied Jocasta was
preëminently hideous.
As Mrs. Gerome entered the parlor and brightened the flame
of the Psyche lamp, her eyes accidentally fell upon the bust
of Beethoven, where, in gilt letters, she had inscribed his own
triumphant declaration, “Music is like wine, inflaming men to
new achievements; and I am the Bacchus who serves it out to
them.” While she watched the rayless marble orbs, more eloquent
than dilating darkening human pupils, a shadow dense
and mysterious drifted over her frigid face, and, without removing
and commenced one of those marvellous symphonies which he
had commended to the study of Goethe.
Ere it was ended Elsie came in, bearing a waiter on which
stood a silver epergne filled with fruit, a basket of cake, and a
goblet of iced tea.
“My child, I bring your supper here because the dining-room
looks lonesome at night.”
“No, — no! take it away. I tell you I want nothing.”
“But, for my sake, dear —”
“Let me alone, Elsie! There, — there! Don't teaze me.”
The nurse stood for some moments watching the deepening
gloom of the up-turned countenance, listening to the wierd strains
that seemed to drip from the white fingers as they wandered
slowly across the keys; then, kneeling at her side, grasped the
hands firmly, and covered them with kisses.
“Precious bairn! don't play any more to-night. For God's
sake, let me shut up this piano that is making a ghost of you!
You will get so stirred up you can't close your eyes, — you know
you will; and then I shall cry till day-break. If you don't care
for yourself, dearie, do try to care a little for the old woman
who loves you better than her life, and who never can sleep
till she knows your precious head is on its pillow. My pretty
darling, you are killing me by inches, and I shall stay here on
my knees until you leave the piano, if that is not till noon to-morrow.
You may order me away; but not a step will I stir.
God help you, my bairn!”
Mrs. Gerome made an effort to extricate her hands, but the
iron grasp was relentless; and, in a tone of great annoyance, she
exclaimed, —
“Oh, Elsie! You are an intolerable —”
“Well, dear, say it out, — an intolerable old fool! Isn't that
what you mean?”
“Not exactly; but you presume upon my forbearance. Elsie,
you must not interrupt and annoy me, for I tell you now I will
not submit to it. You forget that I am not a child.”
“Darling, you will never be anything but a child to me, — the
for years close to my heart. So scold me as you may, my pet,
I shall love you and try to take care of you just as long as there
is breath left in my body.”
She ended by kissing the struggling hands; and, striving to
conceal her vexation, Mrs. Gerome finally turned and said, —
“If you will eat your supper, and stay with Robert, and leave
me in peace, I promise you I will close the piano, which your
flinty Scotch soul can no more appreciate than the brick and
mortar that compose these walls. You mean well, my dear,
faithful Elsie, but sometimes you bore me fearfully. I know I
am often wayward; but you must bear with me, for, after all,
how could I endure to lose you, — you the only human being
who cares whether I live or die? There, — go! Good night!”
She threw her arms around Elsie's neck, leaned her wan cheek
for an instant only on her shoulder, then pushed her away and
hastily closed the piano.
Two hours later, when the devoted servant stole up on tiptoe,
and peeped through the half-open door that led into the hall, she
found the queenly figure walking swiftly and lightly across the
room from oriel to arch, with her hands clasped over the back
of her head, and the silvery lamp-light shining softly on the
waves of burnished hair that rippled around her pure, polished
forehead.
As she watched her mistress, Elsie's stout frame trembled,
and hot tears streamed down her furrowed face while she lifted
her heart in prayer, for the dreary, lonely, lovely woman, who
had long ago ceased to pray for herself. But when the quivering
lips of one breathed a petition before the throne of God, the
beautiful cold mouth of the other was muttering bitterly, —
Ambition gnaws the lips, and sheds no tear;
And, in the outer chamber Hope sits wild, —
Hope, with her blue eyes dim with looking long.”
| CHAPTER VI. Vashti, or, "Until death us do part" | |