 | CHAPTER VII. Vashti, or, "Until death us do part" |  |
7. CHAPTER VII.
“ULPIAN, why do you look so grave and grieved?
Does your letter contain bad news?”
Miss Jane pushed back her spectacles and glanced
anxiously at her brother, who stood with his brows slightly
knitted, twirling a crumpled envelope between his fingers.
“It is not a letter, but a telegraphic dispatch, summoning me
to the death-bed of my best friend, Horace Manton.”
“The man whose life you saved at Madeira?”
“Yes; and the person to whom, above all other men, I am
most strongly and tenderly attached. His constitution is so
feeble that I have long been uneasy about him; but the end has
come even earlier than I feared.”
“Where does he live?”
“On the Hudson, a few miles above New York City. I have
no time to spare, for I shall take the train that leaves at one
o'clock, and must make some arrangement with Dr. Sheldon to
attend my patients. Will it trouble or tire you too much to
pack my valise while I write a couple of business letters? If
so, I will call Salome to assist you.”
“Trouble me, indeed! Nonsense, my dear boy; of course I
will pack your valise. Moreover, Salome is not at home. How
long will you be absent?”
“Probably a week or ten days, — possibly longer. If poor
Horace lingers, I shall remain with him.”
“Wait one moment, Ulpian. Before you go I want to speak
to you about Salome.”
“Well, Janet, I lend you my ears. Has the girl absolutely
turned pagan and set up an altar to Ceres, as she threatened
some weeks since? Take my word for the fact that she does not
believe or mean one half that she says, and is only amusing herself
by trying to discover how wide her audacious heresies can
expand your dear orthodox eyes. Expostulation and entreaty
will persistently and quietly ignore them, they will shrivel as
rapidly as a rank gourd-vine, uprooted on an August day.”
“Pooh! pooh! my dear boy. How you men do prate sometimes
of matters concerning which you are as ignorant as the
yearling calves and gabbling geese that I suppose your learned
astronomers see driven every day to pasture on that range of
mountains in the moon — Eratosthenes — that modern science
pretends to have discovered, and about which you read so marvellous
a paper last week.”
Miss Jane reverently clung to the dishonored remnants of the
Ptolemaic theory, and scouted the philosophy of Copernicus,
which she vehemently averred was not worth “a pinch of snuff,”
else the water in the well would surely run out once in every
twenty-four hours. Now, as she dived into the depths of her
stocking-basket, collecting the socks neatly darned and rolled
over each other, her brother smiled, and answered, good humoredly,
—
“Dear Janet, I really have not time to follow you to the
moon, nor to prove to you that your astronomical doctrines
have been dead and decently buried for nearly three hundred
years; but I should like to hear what you desire to tell me with
reference to Salome. What is the matter now?”
“Nothing ails her, except a violent attack of industry, which
has lasted much longer than I thought possible; for, to tell you
the truth without stint or varnish, she certainly was the most
sluggish piece of flesh I ever undertook to manage. Study
she would not, keep house she could not, sewing gave her the
headache, and knitting made her cross-eyed; but, behold! she
has suddenly found out that her pretty little pink palms were
made for something better than propping her peach-bloom
cheeks. A few days ago I accidentally discovered that she was
sitting up until long after midnight, and when I questioned her
closely, she finally confessed that she had entered into a contract
to furnish a certain amount of embroidery every month. Bless
the child! can you guess what she intends to do with the money?
Hoard it up in order to rent a couple of rooms, where she can
aim, you must admit.”
“Eminently commendable, and I respect and admire the
motive that incites her to such a laborious course. At present
she is too young and inexperienced to take entire charge of the
children, and I know nothing of your plans or intentions concerning
her future; but, let me assure you, dear Jane, that I
will cordially coöperate in all your schemes for aiding her and
providing a home for them, and my purse shall not prove a laggard
in the race with yours. Recently I have been revolving a
plan for their benefit, but am too much hurried just now to give
you the details. When I return we will discuss it in extenso.”
“You know that I ascribe great importance to blood, but,
strange as it may appear, that girl Salome has always tugged
hard at my heart-strings, as if our proud old blood beat in her
veins; and sometimes I fancy there must be kinship hidden behind
the years, or buried in some unknown grave.”
“Amuse yourself while I am away by digging about the genealogical
tree of the house of Grey, and, if you can trace a fibre
that ramifies in the miller's family, I will gladly bow to my own
blood wherever I find it, and claim cousinship. Meantime, my
dear sister, do keep a corner of your loving heart well swept and
dusted for your errant sailor-boy.”
He hastily kissed her cheek and turned away to write letters,
while she went into the adjoining room to pack his clothes.
When Salome returned from town, whither she had gone to
carry a package of finished work and obtain a fresh supply, she
found Miss Jane alone in the dining-room, and wearing a dejected
expression on her usually cheerful countenance.
“Did Ulpian tell you good-by?”
“No, I have not seen him. Where has he gone?”
“To New York.”
The long walk and sultry atmosphere had unwontedly flushed
the girl's face, and the damp hair clung in glossy rings to her
brow; but, as Miss Jane spoke, the blood ebbed from cheeks and
lips, and sweeping back the dark tresses that seemed to oppress
her, she asked, shiveringly, —
“Is Dr. Grey going back to sea?”
“Oh no, child! An old friend is very ill, and telegraphed for
him. Sit down, dear, — you look faint.”
“Thank you, I don't wish to sit down, and there is nothing
the matter with me. When will he come home?”
“I can not tell precisely, as his stay is contingent upon the
condition of his friend.”
“Is it a man or woman whom he has gone to see?”
The astonishment painted on Miss Jane's face would have
been ludicrous to a careless observer, less interested than the
orphan in her slow and deliberate reply.
“A man, of course.”
“Did he tell you so?”
“Certainly. He went to see Mr. Horace Manton, with whom
he was associated while abroad. But suppose it had been some
winsome, brown-eyed witch of a woman, instead of a dying man,
what then?”
“Then you would have lost your brother, and I my French
pronouncing dictionary, — that is all. Did he leave any message
about my grammar and exercises?”
“No, dear; but he started so hurriedly — so unexpectedly —
he had not time for such trifles. Where are you going?”
“To put away my bonnet and bundle, and look after Stanley,
who is romping with the kittens on the lawn.”
The old lady laid down her knitting, leaned her elbows on the
arms of her rocking-chair, and, clasping her hands, bowed her
chin upon them, while a half-stifled sigh escaped her.
“Mischief, — mischief, where I meant only kindness! I sowed
good seed, and reap thistles and brambles! My charity-cake
turns out miserable dough! But how could I possibly foresee
that the child would be such a simpleton? What right has she to
be so unnecessarily interested in my brother, who is old enough
to have been her father? It is unnatural, absurd, and altogether
unpardonable in Salome to be guilty of such presumptuous
nonsense; and, of course, it is not in the least my fault, for
the possibility of this piece of mischief never once occurred to
me! True, she is as old as Ulpian's mother was when father
white-haired husband, and had set her affections solely on that
Mercer-Street house, with marble steps and plate-glass windows.
How do I know that, after all, Salome is not in love with
Ulpian's fortune instead of the dear boy's blue eyes, and handsome
hair, and splendid teeth? However, I ought not to think
so harshly of the child, for I have no cause to consider her calculating
and selfish. Poor thing! if she really cares for him
there are breakers ahead of her, for I am sure that he is as far
from falling in love with her as I would be with the ghost
of my great-grandfather's uncle. Thank Providence, all this
troublesome, mischievous, Lucifer machinery of love and marriage
is shut out of heaven, where we shall be as the angels are.
Ah, Salome! I fear you are a giddy young idiot, and that I am
a blind old imbecile, and I wish from the bottom of my heart
you had never darkened my doors.”
The quiet current of Miss Jane's secluded life had never been
ruffled by a serious affaire du cœur; consequently she indulged
little charity towards those episodes, which displayed what she
considered the most humiliating weakness of her sex.
While puzzling over the best method of extricating her protégé
from the snare into which she was disposed to apprehend
that her own well-meant but mistaken kindness had betrayed
her, she saw an unsealed note lying beneath the table, and, by the
aid of her crutch, drew it within reach of her fingers. A small
sheet of paper, carelessly folded and addressed to Salome, merely
contained these words, —
“I congratulate you, my young friend, on the correctness of
your French themes, which I leave in the drawer of the library-table.
When I return I will examine those prepared during my
absence; and, in the interim, remain,
Miss Jane wiped her glasses, and read the note twice; then
held it between her thumb and third finger, and debated the
honor revolted at the first suggestion of interference, but an intense
aversion to “love-scrapes” finally strengthened her prudential
inclination to crush this one in its incipiency; and she
deliberately tore the paper into shreds, which she tossed out of
the window.
“If Ulpian only had his eyes open he would never have scribbled
one line to her; and, since I know what I know, and see
what I see, it is my duty to take the responsibility of destroying
all fuel within reach of a flame that may prove as dangerous as
a torch in a hay-rick.”
Limping into the library, she took from the drawer the two
books containing French exercises and laid them in a conspicuous
place on the table, where they could not fail to arrest the attention
of their owner; after which she resumed her knitting,
consoling herself with the reflection that she had taken the
first step towards smothering the spark that threatened the
destruction of all her benevolent schemes.
Up and down, under the spreading trees in the orchard,
wandered Salome, anxious to escape scrutiny, and vaguely conscious
that she had reached the cross-roads in her life, where
haste or inadvertence might involve her in inextricable difficulties.
She was neither startled, nor shocked, nor mortified, that the
unceremonious departure of the master of the house stabbed her
heart with pangs that made her firm lips writhe, for she had
long been cognizant of the growth of feelings whose discovery
had so completely astounded Miss Jane.
The orphan had not eagerly watched and listened for the
sight of his face — the sound of his voice — without fully comprehending
herself; for, however ingeniously and indefatigably
women may mask their hearts from public gaze and comment,
they do not mock their own reason by such flimsy shams, and
Salome could find no prospect of gain in playing a game of brag
with her inquisitive soul.
In the quiet orchard, where all things seemed drowsy — where
the only spectators were the mellowing apples that reddened the
that nestled in the tall grass, and the shy cicadæ ambushed under
the clover leaves — her pent-up pain and disappointment bubbled
over in a gush of passionate words.
“Gone without giving me a syllable, a word, a touch! Gone,
for an indefinite period, without even a cold `good-by, Salome!'
You call yourself a Christian, Dr. Grey, and yet you are cruel,
now and then, and make me writhe like a worm on a fish-hook!
He told Stanley he would return in two or three weeks, perhaps
sooner, — but I know better. I have a dull monitor here that
says it will be a long, dreary time, before I see him again. A
wall of ice is rising to divide us — but it shall not! it shall not!
I will have my own! I will look into his calm eyes! I will
touch his soft, warm, white palms! I will hear his steady, low,
clear voice, that makes music in my ears and heaven in my heart!
It is three months since he shook hands with me, but all time
cannot remove the feeling from my fingers; and some day I can
cling to his hand and lean my cheek against it, — and who dare
dispute my right? He says he never loved any woman! I
heard him tell his sister he had yet to meet the woman whom he
could marry, — and, if truth lingers anywhere in this world of
sin, it finds a sanctuary in his soul! He never loved any
woman! Thank God! I can't afford to doubt it. No one but his
sister has touched his lips, or his noble, beautiful forehead. How I
envied little Jessie when he put his arm around her and stooped
and laid his cheek on hers. Oh, Dr. Grey, nobody else will ever
love you as I do! I know I am unworthy, but I will make
myself good and great to match you! I know I am beneath you,
but I will climb to your proud height, — and, so help me God,
I will be all that your lofty standard demands! He does not
care for me now, — does not even think of me; but I must be
patient and merit his notice, for my own folly sank me in his
good opinion. When these apples were pale, pink blossoms, I
dreaded his coming, and hoped the vessel would be wrecked;
now, ere they are ripe, I am disposed to curse the cause of his
temporary absence and think myself ill-used that no farewell
privileges were granted me. Now I can understand why people
do but pray while he is away? Oh, I shall not, cannot, will
not, miss my way to heaven if he gets there before me!”
In utter abandonment she threw herself down in the long
yellow sedge-grass, — frightening a whole covey of gossiping
young partridges and a couple of meek doves, all of which
whirred away to an adjacent pea-field, leaving her with her face
buried in her hands, and watched by trembling mute crickets
and cicadæ.
On the topmost twig of the tallest tree a mocking-bird poised
himself, and sympathetically poured out his vesper canticle, — a
song of condolence to the prostrate figure who, just then, would
have preferred the echo of a man's deep voice to all Pergolese's
strains.
After a little while pitying Venus swung her golden globe in
among the apple-boughs, peeping compassionately at her luckless
votary; and, finally, in the violet west, —
Eve in her cradle opening her eyes.”
Two weeks dragged themselves away without bringing any
tidings of the absent master; but, towards the close of the third,
a brief letter informed his sister that the invalid friend was still
alive, though no hope of his recovery was entertained, and that
it was impossible to fix any period for the writer's return.
Salome asked no questions, but the eager, hungry expression,
with which she eyed the letter as it lay on the top of the
stocking-basket, touched Miss Jane's tender heart; and, knowing
that it contained no allusion to the orphan, she put it into her
hand, and noticed the cloud of disappointment that gathered
over her features as she perused and refolded it. Another week
— monotonous, tedious, almost interminable — crept by, and
one morning as Salome passed the post-office she inquired for
letters, and received one post-marked New York and addressed to
Miss Jane.
Hurrying homeward with the precious missive, her pace
would well-nigh have distanced Hermes, and the dusty winding
pressed on; but at last she reached the gate, sped up the
avenue, and, pausing a moment at the threshold to catch her
breath and appear nonchalant, she demurely entered Miss Jane's
apartment. The only occupant was a servant sewing near the
window, and who, in reply to an eager question, informed Salome
that the mistress had gone to spend the day with a friend whose
residence was six miles distant.
The girl bit her lip until the blood started, and, to conceal her
chagrin, took refuge in the parlor, where the quiet dimness offered
a covert. Locking the door, she sat down in one of the
cushioned rocking-chairs and looked at the letter lying between
her fingers. The gilt clock on the mantel uttered a dull, clicking
sound, and a little green and gold-colored bird hopped out
and “cuckooed” ten times. Miss Jane would not probably
return before seven, possibly eight o'clock, and what could be
done to strangle those intervening nine hours?
The blood, heated by exercise and impatience, throbbed fiercely
in her temples and thumped heavily at her heart, producing a
half-suffocating sensation; and, in her feverish anxiety, the doom
of Damiens appeared tolerable in comparison with the torturing
suspense of nine hours on the rack.
The envelope was an ordinary white one, merely sealed with
a solution of gum arabic, and dexterous fingers could easily open
and reclose it without fear of detection, especially by eyes so
dim and uncertain as those for which it had been addressed.
A damp cloth laid upon the letter would in five minutes prove
an open sesame to its coveted contents, and a legion of fiends
patted the girl's tingling fingers and urged her to this prompt
and feasible relief from her goading impatience. Secure from
intrusion and beyond the possibility of discovery, she turned the
envelope up and down and over, examining the seal; and the
amber gleams lying perdu under the shadows of her pupils
rayed out, glowing with a baleful Lucifer light, as infallibly indicative
of evil purposes as the sudden kindling in a crouching
cat's or cougar's gaze, just as they spring upon their prey.
It was a mighty temptation, cunningly devised and opportunely
Apollyon who contrived it would not have lasted five minutes;
but, in some natures, love for a human being will work marvels
which neither the fear of God, nor the hope of heaven, nor yet
the promptings of self-respect have power to accomplish.
Now while Salome dallied with the tempter and gave audience
to the clamors of her rebellious heart, she looked up and met the
earnest gaze of a pair of sunny blue eyes in a picture that hung
directly opposite.
It was an admirable portrait of Dr. Grey, clad in full uniform
as surgeon in the U. S. Navy, and painted when he was twenty-eight
years old. Up at that calm, cloudless countenance, the girl
looked breathlessly, spell-bound as if in the presence of a
reproving angel; and, after some seconds had elapsed, she hurled
the unopened letter across the room, and lifted her hands
appealingly,—
“No, — no! I did not — I can not — I will not act so basely!
I must not soil fingers that should be pure enough to touch
yours. I was sorely tempted, my beloved; but, thank God,
your blessed blue eyes saved me. It is hard to endure nine
hours of suspense, but harder still to bear the thought that I
have stooped to a deed that would sink me one iota in your
good opinion. I will root out the ignoble tendencies of my
nature, and keep my heart and lips and hands stainless, — hold
them high above the dishonorable things that you abhor, and
live during your absence as if your clear eyes took cognizance of
every detail. Yea, — search me as you will, dear deep-blue eyes,
— I shall not shrink; for the rule of my future years shall be
to scorn every word, thought, and deed that I would not freely
bare to the scrutiny of the man whose respect I would sooner
die than forfeit. Oh, my darling, it were easier for me to front
the fiercest flames of Tophet than face your scorn! I can wait
till Miss Jane sees fit to show me the letter, and, if it bring good
news of your speedy coming, I shall have my reward; if not,
why should I hasten to meet a bitter disappointment which may
be lagging out of mercy to me?”
Picking up the letter as suspiciously as if it had been dropped
stepped upon a table and inserted the corner of the envelope in
the crevice between the canvas and the portrait-frame, repeating
the while a favorite passage that she had first heard from
Dr. Grey's lips, —
From saying “yes” this morning. I say no, — no!
I tie up “no” upon His altar-horns,
Quite out of reach of perjury!'”
Young though she was, experience had taught her that the
most effectual method of locking the wheels of time consisted in
sitting idly down to watch and count their revolutions; consequently,
she hastened up-stairs and betook herself vigorously to
the work of embroidering a parterre of flowers on the front-breadth
of an infant's christening-dress which her employer had
promised should be completed before the following Sabbath.
Stab the laggard seconds as she might with her busy needle,
the day was drearily long; and few genuine cuckoo-carols have
been listened to with such grateful rejoicing as greeted those
metallic gutturals that once in every sixty minutes issued from
the throat of the gaudy automaton caged in the gilt clock.
True, nine hours are intrinsically nine hours under all circumstances,
whether decapitation or coronation awaits their
expiration; but to the doomed victim or the heir-apparent they
appear relatively shorter or longer. At last Salome saw that
the shadows on the grass were lengthening. Her head ached,
her eyes burned from steady application to her trying work, and
laying aside the cambric, she leaned against the window-facing
and looked out over the lawn, where Time seemed to have fallen
asleep in the mild autumn sunshine.
How sweet and welcome was the distance-muffled sound of
tinkling cow-bells, and the low bleating of homeward-strolling
flocks, wending their way across the hills through which the
road crawled like a dusty gray serpent.
A noisy club of black-birds that had been holding an indignation
meeting in the top of a walnut tree near the gate, adjourned
of the house; and Stanley's pigeons, which had been cooing and
strutting in the avenue, went to roost in the pretty painted
pagoda Dr. Grey had erected for their comfort. Finally, the
low-swung, heavy carriage, with its stout dappled horses, gladdened
Salome's strained eyes; and, soon after, she heard the
thump of Miss Jane's crutches and her cheerful voice, asking, —
“Where are the children? Tell them I have come home.
Bless me, the house is as dark as a dungeon! Rachel, have we
neither lamps nor candles?”
The orphan stole down the steps, climbed upon the table in
the parlor, and, seizing the letter, hurried into the dining-room,
where, quite exhausted by the fatigue of the day, the old lady
lay on the sofa.
She held out her hand and drew the girl's face within reach of
her lips, saying, —
“My child, I am afraid you have had rather a lonely day.”
“Decidedly the loneliest and longest I ever spent, and I believe
I never was half so glad to see you come home as just now
when the carriage stopped at the door.”
Ah, what hypocrisy is sometimes innocently masked by the
earnest utterance of the truth! And what marvels of industry
are accomplished by self-love, which seeks more assiduously than
bees for the honied drops of flattery that feed its existence!
Miss Jane was pardonably proud that her presence was so
essential to the happiness of the orphan whom she fondly loved,
and gratification spread a pleasant smile over her worn features.
“Where is Stanley? The child ought not to be out so
late.”
“He went down to the sheep-pen to count the lambs and
look after one that broke its leg yesterday. Miss Jane, are you
too much fatigued to read a letter which I found this morning
in your box at the post-office?”
“Is it from Ulpian? I was wondering to-day why I did not
hear from him. Dear me, what have I done with my spectacles?
They are the torment of my life, for the instant I take
them off my nose they seem to find wings. Give me the letter,
bonnet.”
Salome went into the next room and unsuccessfully searched
the bed, bureau, table, and wardrobe; and, in an agony of impatience,
returned to the invalid.
“You must have lost them before you came home; I can't
find them anywhere. Let me read the letter to you.”
“No; I must have my glasses. Perhaps I dropped them in
the carriage. Send word to the driver to look for them. It
was very careless in me to lose them, but I am growing so forgetful.
Rachel, do hunt for my spectacles.”
Salome ground her teeth to suppress a cry of vexation; and, to
conceal her impatience, joined heartily in the search.
Finally she found the glasses on the front steps, where they
had fallen when their owner left the carriage; and, feeling that
adverse fate could no longer keep her in suspense, she hurried
into the house and adjusted them on Miss Jane's eagle nose.
Conscious that she was fast losing control over the nerves
that were quivering from long-continued tension, Salome stepped
to the open window and stood waiting. Would the old lady
never finish the perusal? The minutes seemed hours, and the
pulsing of the blood in the girl's ears sounded like muttering
thunder.
Miss Jane sighed heavily, — cleared her throat, and sighed
again.
“It is very sad, indeed! It is too bad, — too bad!”
Salome turned around, and exclaimed, savagely, —
“Why can't you speak out? What is the matter? What
has happened?”
“Ulpian's friend is dead.”
“Thank God!”
“For shame! How can you be so heartless?”
“If the man could not recover I should think you would be
glad that he is at rest, and that your brother can come home.”
“But the worst of the matter is that Ulpian is not coming
home. Mr. Manton wished him to act as guardian for his
daughter, who is in Europe, and Ulpian will sail in the next
the estate. It is too provoking, isn't it? He says it is impossible
to tell when we shall see him again.”
There was no answer, and, when Miss Jane wiped her eyes
and looked around, she saw the girl tottering towards the door,
groping her way like one blind.
“Salome, — come here, child!”
But the figure disappeared in the hall, and when the moonlight
looked into the orphan's chamber the soft rays showed a
girlish form kneeling at the window, with a white face drenched
by tears, and quivering lips that moaned in feeble, broken
accents, —
“God help me! I might have known it, for I had a presentiment
of terrible trouble when he went away. How can I
trust God and be patient, while the Atlantic raves and surges
between me and my idol? After all, it was an angel of mercy
whose tender white hands held back this bitter blow for nine
hours. Gone to Europe, and not one word — not one line — to
me! Oh, my darling! you are trampling under your feet the
heart that loves you better than everything else in the
universe, — better than life, and its hopes of heaven!”
| CHAPTER VII. Vashti, or, "Until death us do part" | |