University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

“BRING her into my office. Steady, men! There may be
broken bones, and jarring would be torture. Don't
stumble over that book on the floor. Lay her here
on the sofa, and throw open the blinds.”

“Dr. Grey, is she dead?”

“No, only badly stunned; and the contusion on the head seems
to be very severe. Stand back, all of you, and give her air.
When did it happen?”

“About twenty minutes ago. She is a stout, heavy woman,

and we could not walk very fast with such a burden. Ah! you
intend to bleed her?”

“Yes, I fear nothing else will relieve her. Mitchell, hold the
arm for me.”

“How did she receive this injury?” asked Dr. Mitchell, who
had been holding a consultation with Dr. Grey relative to some
perplexing case.

“Those gray ponies which we were admiring a half hour since,
as they trotted by the door, took fright at a menagerie procession
coming up from the dépot to the Hippodrome, — and ran away.
In steering clear of the elephant, who was covered from head to
foot, and certainly looked frightful, the horses ran into a mass
of lumber and brick at the corner of Fountain and Franklin
streets, where a new store is being erected, and the carriage was
upset. Unfortunately the harness was very strong, and did not
give way until the carriage had been dragged some yards among
the rubbish, and one of the horses finally floundered into a bed
of mortar, and broke the traces. The driver kept his hold upon
the reins to the last, but was badly bruised, and this woman was
thrown out on a pile of bricks and granite-caps. The municipal
authorities should prohibit these menagerie parades, for the
meekest plough-horse in the State could scarcely have faced that
band of musicians, flanked by the covered elephant and giraffe,
and the cages of the beasts, — much less those fiery grays, who
seem snuffing danger even when there is no provocation.”

“Who is this woman?”

“She is a total stranger to me,” answered Dr. Grey, bending
down to put his ear to the heart of the victim.

A bystander seemed better informed, and replied, —

“She is a servant or housekeeper of the lady who lives at
`Solitude.' But here comes the driver, limping and making
wry faces.”

Robert Maclean approached the sofa, and his scratched and
bleeding face paled as he leaned over the prostrate form of his
mother.

“Oh, doctors, surely two of you can save her! For God's
sake, don't let her die! Does she breathe?”

“Yes, the bleeding has already benefited her. She breathes
regularly, and the action of her heart is better. Sit down, my
man, — you look ghastly. Mitchell, give him some brandy, and
sew up that gash in his cheek, while I write a prescription.”

“Never mind me, doctor; only save my poor mother. She
looks like death itself. Mother, mother, it is all over now!
Come, wake up, and speak to me!”

He seized one of her cold hands, and chafed it vigorously between
both of his, while tears and blood mingled, as they dripped
from his face to hers.

“Doctor, tell me the truth; is there any hope?”

“Certainly, my friend; there is every reason to believe she
will ultimately recover, though you need not be surprised if she
remains for some hours in a heavy stupor. Remember, a pile of
brick is not exactly a feather pillow, and it may be some time
before the brain recovers from the severity of the contusion.
What is your name?”

“Robert Maclean.”

“And hers?”

“Elsie Maclean. Poor, dear creature! How she labors in
her breathing. Suppose I lift her head?”

“No; let her rest quietly, just as she is, and I trust all will be
well. Come to the table, and allow me to put some plaster over
that cut which bleeds so freely. Trust me, Maclean, and do not
look so woe-begone. I am not deceiving you. There may be
serious internal injuries that I have not discovered, but this
stupor is not alarming. I can find no fractured bones, and hope
the blow on the head is the most troublesome thing we shall have
to contend with.”

Dr. Grey proceeded to sponge the bruised and stained face;
and, hoping to divert the man's anxious thoughts, said, nonchalantly,
—

“I believe you are in Mrs. Gerome's employment?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long have you been at `Solitude'?”

“I came here, sir, and bought the place, while she was in

Europe. Ah, doctor, if my mother should die, I believe it
would kill my mistress.”

“You are old family servants?”

“My mother took her when she was twelve hours old, and has
never left her since. She loves Mrs. Gerome even better than
she loves me — her own flesh and blood. I can't go home and tell
my mistress I have nearly killed my mother. She would never
endure the sight of me again. Her own mother died the day
after she was born, and she has always looked on that poor dear
soul yonder as her foster-mother.

Robert limped back to the sofa, and, seating himself on a chair,
looked wistfully into his mother's countenance; then hid his face
in his hands.

“Come, be a man, Maclean; and don't give way to nervousness!
Your mother's condition is constantly improving, though
of course it is not so apparent to you as to me. What has been
done with the carriage and horses?”

“Oh, the carriage is a sweet pudding; and the grays — curses
on 'em! — are badly bruised. One of them had his flank laid
open by a saw lying on a lumber-pile; and I only wish it had
sawed across the jugular. They are vicious brutes as ever were
bitted, and it makes my blood run cold sometimes to see their
devilish antics when Mrs. Gerome insists on driving them.
They will break her neck, if I don't contrive to break theirs
first.”

“I should judge from their appearance that it was exceedingly
unsafe for any lady to attempt to control them. They seem very
fiery and unmanageable. What has been done with them?”

“The deuce knows! — knocked in the head, I trust. I asked
two men, who were in the crowd, to take them to the livery-stable.
Mrs. Gerome is not afraid of anything, and one of her
few pleasures is driving those gray imps, who know her voice as
well as I do. I have seen them put up their narrow ears and
neigh when she was a hundred yards off; and sometimes she
wraps the reins around her wrists and quiets them, when their
eyes look like balls of fire. But Rarey himself could not have
stopped them a while ago, when they determined to run over

that menagerie show. My mistress will say it was my fault, and
she will stand by the gray satans through thick and thin. Hist,
doctor, my mother groans!”

“Would it not be best for you to go home and acquaint Mrs.
Gerome with what has occurred?”

“I would not face her without my mother for — twenty kingdoms!
You have no idea how she loves her `old Elsie,' and I
couldn't break the news to her, — I would sooner break my
head.”

“This is not a proper place for your mother, and I advise you
to remove her to the hospital, which is not very far from my
office. She can be carried on a litter.”

“Oh, my mistress would never permit that! She will let no
one else nurse my mother; and, of course, she could not go to a
public place like a hospital, for you know she is so dreadfully
shy of strangers.”

After many suggestions, and much desultory conversation, it
was finally decided that Elsie should be placed on a mattress, in
the bottom of an open wagon, and carried slowly home. A careful
driver was provided, and when Dr. Grey had seen his patient
comfortably arranged, and established Robert on the seat with
the driver, he yielded to the solicitations of the son, that he
would precede them to “Solitude,” and acquaint Mrs. Gerome
with the details of the accident.

Although ten months had elapsed since the latter took possession
of her new home, so complete had been her seclusion that
she remained an utter stranger; and, when visitors flocked from
town and neighborhood to satisfy themselves concerning the
rumors of the elegant furniture and appointments of the house,
they were invariably denied admittance, and informed that since
her widowhood Mrs. Gerome had not re-entered society.

Curiosity was piqued, and gossip wagged her hundred busy
tongues over the tormenting fact that Mrs. Gerome had never
darkened the church-door since her arrival; and, occasionally,
when she rode into town, wore a thick veil that thoroughly
screened her features; and, instead of shopping like other people,

made Elsie Maclean bring the articles to the carriage for her
inspection.

The servants seemed to hold themselves as much aloof as their
mistress, and though Robert and his mother attended service
regularly every Sabbath, they appeared as gravely silent and
ungregarious as Sphinxes. The ministers of various denominations
called to pay their respects to the stranger, but only the
clerical cards succeeded in crossing the threshold; and, while
rumors of her boundless wealth crept teasingly through Newsmongerdom,
no one except Salome Owen had yet seen the
new-comer.

Cases of books and pictures occasionally arrived from Europe,
and never failed to stir the pool of gossip to its dregs; for the
wife of the express-agent was an intimate friend of Mrs. Spiewell,
whose husband was pastor of the church which Elsie and Robert
attended, and who felt personally aggrieved that the Rev. Charles
Spiewell was not welcomed as the spiritual guide of the mistress
of “Solitude.”

Finally, a morbid, meddling inquisitiveness goaded the chatty
little woman beyond the bounds of ministerial decorum, and,
having rashly wagered a pair of gloves that she would gain
an entrance to the parlors (whereof the upholsterer's wife told
marvellous tales), she armed herself with a pathetic petition for
aid to build a “Widow's Row,” and, with a subscription-list for
a “Dorcas Society,” and confident of ingress, boldly rang the bell.
Unfortunately, Elsie chanced that day to be on post as sentinel,
and, though she immediately recognized the visitor as the mother
of the small colony of Spiewells who crowded every Sunday
morning into the pew of the pastor, she courtesied, and gave the
stereotyped rebuff, —

“Mrs. Gerome begs to be excused.”

“Ah, indeed! But she does not know who has called, or she
would make an exception in my favor. I am your minister's
wife, and must really see her, if only for two minutes. Take
my card to her, and say I call on important business, which cannot
fail to interest her.”

Not a muscle of Elsie's grave face moved, as she received the
card, and answered, —

“I am very sorry, madam, but Mrs. Gerome sees no visitors,
and my orders are positive.”

Mrs. Spiewell bit her lip, and reddened.

“Then take these papers to her, and ask if she will please be
so good as to examine their claims to her charity. In the mean
time I will wait in the parlor, and must trouble you for a glass
of water.”

She thrust the petitions into Elsie's hand, and attempted to
slip into the hall, through the partial opening of the door which
the servant held during the parley; but, planting her massive
frame directly in the way, the resolute woman effectually barred
entrance, and, pointing to an iron tête-à-tête on the portico, said,
decisively, —

“I beg pardon, madam, but you will find a seat there; and I
will bring the water while Mrs. Gerome reads your letters. If
you are fatigued, I will hand you luncheon and some wine.”

Mortified and enraged, Mrs. Spiewell grew scarlet, but threw
herself into the seat designated, resolved to snatch a glimpse of
the interior the instant the servant had disappeared.

Very softly Elsie closed and securely latched the door on the
inside, knowing that at that moment her mistress was sitting in
the oriel window of the front parlor.

In vain the visitor tried and twisted the bolt, and, completely
baffled, tears of chagrin moistened her eyes. She had scarcely
time to regain her seat, when Elsie reappeared, bearing on a
handsome salver a wine-glass, silver goblet, and an elegant
basket filled with cake.

“Mrs. Gerome presents her compliments, and sends you this
fifty dollar bill for whatever society you represent.”

Too thoroughly discomfited to conceal her pique and indignation,
Mrs. Spiewell snatched letters and donation, and, without lingering
an instant, swept haughtily down the steps, “shaking off the
dust of her feet” against “Solitude” and its incorrigible owner.

An innocent impertinence once coldly frustrated soon takes
unto itself a sting and branding-irons, and thus, what was

originally merely idle curiosity, becomes bitter malice; and
henceforth the worthy minister's gossiping wife lost no opportunity
of inveighing against the superciliousness of the stranger,
and of insinuating that some very extraordinary circumstances
led her “to fear that something was radically wrong about that
poor Mrs. Gerome, for troubles that could not be poured into
the sympathetic ears of pastors and of pastors' wives must be very
dark, indeed.”

Whenever the name of the new-comer was mentioned, Mrs.
Spiewell compressed her lips, shook her head, and shrugged her
round shoulders; and, of course, persons present surmised that
the “minister's lady” was acquainted with melancholy facts
which charity prevented her from divulging.

Many of the grievances and ills that afflict society spring not
from sinful, envenomed hearts, but from weak souls and empty
heads; and Mrs. Spiewell, who sat up with all the measle-stricken,
teething, sick children in her husband's charge, and would have
felt disgraced had she missed a meeting of the “Dorcas Society,”
or of the “Barefeet Relief Club,” would have been duly shocked
if any one had boldly charged her with slandering a woman
whom she had never seen, and of whose antecedents she knew
absolutely nothing. Verily, it is difficult, indeed, even for “the
elect” to keep themselves “unspotted from the world;” and
Zimmerman was a seer when he declared, “Who lives with
wolves must join in their howls.”

Absorbed by professional engagements, or fiscal cares, the
gentlemen of a community are rarely interested in or informed
of the last wreck of character which the whirlpool of scandal
strews on the strand of society; but vague rumors relative to
Mrs. Gerome's isolation had penetrated even into the quiet
precincts of Dr. Grey's sanctum, and consequently invested his
present mission with extraneous interest.

For the first time since her arrival he approached the confines
of her residence, and, as he threw the reins over the dashboard
of his buggy and stood under the lofty old trees that surrounded
the house, he paused to admire the beauty of the grounds, the

grouping of some statues and pot-plants on a neighboring mound,
and the far-stretching sheen of the rippling sea.

No living thing was visible except a golden pheasant and
scarlet flamingo strutting along the stone terrace at the foot of
the lawn, and silence and repose seemed brooding over house
and yard; when suddenly a rapid, passionate, piano-prelude
smote the stillness till the air appeared to throb and quiver, and
a thrillingly sweet yet intensely mournful voice sang the wailing
strains of Addio del Passato.

The indescribable yet almost overwhelming pathos of the
tones affected Dr. Grey much as the tremolo-stop in some organ-overture
in a dimly-lighted cathedral; and, as the singer seemed
to pour her whole aching heart and wearied soul into the concluding
“Ah! tutto-tutto fini!” he turned, and involuntarily
followed the sound, like one in a dream.

The front door was closed; but the sash of the oriel window
had been raised, and through the delicate lace curtains that were
swaying in the salt breath of ocean he could see what passed in
the parlor. A woman sat before the piano, running her snowy
fingers idly across the keys, now striking fortissimo a wild
stormy fugue theme, and then softly evoking a subtle minor
chord that seemed the utterance of some despairing spirit
breathing its last prayer for peace.

Her Marie-Louise blue dress was girded at the waist by a belt
and buckle of silver, and the loose sleeve of the right arm was
looped and pinned up, showing the dimpled elbow and daintily
rounded wrist encircled by the jet serpent. Around her throat
she had carelessly thrown a lace handkerchief, and, from the
mass of hair that seemed tiny, snow-capped waves, a cluster of
blue nemophila leaned down to touch the white forehead beneath,
and peep at the answering blue gleams in the large, shining,
steely eyes. Her fingers strayed listlessly into a Nocturne; but
from the dreamy expression of the face, upraised to gaze at the
busts on the brackets above, it was evident that her thoughts
had wandered far away from Addio del Passato, and were
treading the drift-strewn strands of melancholy memory.

Presently she rose, walked twice across the room, and came

back to an étagére where stood an azure Bohemian glass vase,
supported by silver Tritons, and filled with late blue hyacinths
and early pancratiums.

Bending her regal head, she inhaled the mingled perfumes,
worthy of Sicilian or Cyprian meadows; and, while her slight
fingers toyed with the fragile petals, a proud smile lent its sad
light to the chill face, and she said aloud, as if striving to comfort
herself, —

With a heavy sigh she turned away, and sat down in the rear
room, near the arch, where an easel now stood, containing a
large, unfinished picture; and, taking her ivory palette and
brushes, she began to retouch the violet robe of one of the
figures.

Dr. Grey had seen more beautiful women among the gilded
pillars and frescoes of palaces, and amid the olives and vineyards
of Parthenope; but in Mrs. Gerome he found a fascinating
mystery that baffled analysis and riveted his attention. Neither
young nor old, she had crowned herself with the glories of both
seasons, and seemed some sweet, dewy spring, wrapped in the
snows and frozen in the icy garb of winter.

He had expected to meet a middle-aged person, habited in
widows' weeds, and meek from the severe scourging of a recent
and terrible bereavement; but that anomalous white face and
proud, queenly form were unlike all other flesh that his keen
eyes had hitherto scanned; and he regarded her as curiously as
he would have examined some abnormal-looking specimen of
nerves and muscles laid upon the marble slab of a dissectingtable.

Recollecting suddenly that, if he did not present himself, the

wagon would arrive before he had accomplished the object of his
visit, he drew a card from his pocket, and, stepping over the low
sill of the oriel window, advanced to the arch.

The mistress of the house sat with her back turned towards
him, and was apparently absorbed in putting purple shadows
into the folds of a mantle that hung from the shoulders of a
kneeling figure on the canvas.

Face-downward on an ottoman near, lay a beautiful copy of
Owen Meredith's poems; and, after a few seconds, she paused,
brush in hand, and, taking up the book, slowly read aloud —
glancing, as she did so, from page to picture, —

Standing immediately behind her, Dr. Grey saw that she had
seized the weird “Vision of Virgins,” and was putting into
pigment that solemn phantasm of the poet's imagination where
five radiant women were passing to their reward, — and five,
wailing over flickering, dying lamps, were huddled helplessly and
hopelessly under a black and starless midnight sky. Although
unfinished, there was marvellous power in the picture, and the
sickly gleam from the expiring wicks made the surrounding
gloom more supernatural, like the deep shadows skulking behind
the lurid glare in some old Flemish painting.

He saw also that she had followed the general outline of the
poem; but one of the faces was so supreme in its mute anguish
that he thought of Reni's “Cenci,” and of a wan “Alcestis,”
and a desperate “Cassandra,” he had seen at Rome; and, in
comparison, the description of the poet seemed almost vapid, —

The room with its costly, quaint, and tasteful furniture, —
the solitary and singularly beautiful woman; the wonderful
picture, growing beneath her hand; the solemn silence, broken
only by the deep, hollow murmur of the dimpling sea that sent
its shimmer in at the window to meet the painted shimmer in a
marine view framed on the wall, — all these wove a spell about
the intruder that temporarily held him a mute captive.

The artist laid a delicate green on the stripped and scattered
leaves from a wreath of Syrian lilies lying on the marble steps
of the bridegroom's mansion, and once more she read a passage
from the open book, —

The sound of her voice, low but clear, and burdened with a
sadness that no language could exhaust or interpret, thrilled Dr.
Grey's steady nerves as no music had ever done, and, stepping
forward, he held out his card, and said, —

“Mrs. Gerome, a painful necessity has compelled me to intrude
upon your seclusion, and I trust you will acquit me of
impertinence.”

Rising, she fronted him with a frown severe as that which
clouded Artemis' brow when profane eyes peered through myrtle
boughs into her sacred retreat, and the changed voice seemed
thick with bristling icicles.

“Your business must be imperative, indeed, if it warrants this
intrusion. What servant admitted you?”

“None. I came in haste, and, seeing the window open,
entered without ringing. Madam, my card will explain my
errand.”

“Has Dr. Grey an unpaid bill? I was not aware the servants
had needed your services; but if so, present your claim to Robert
Maclean, my agent.”

“Mrs. Gerome owes me nothing, and I came here reluctantly
and in compliance with Robert Maclean's request, to inform her
of an accident which happened this afternoon while —”

He paused, awed by the change that swept over her countenance,
filling it with horrible dread.

“Those gray horses?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Not Elsie? Oh! don't tell me that my dear old Elsie was
mangled! Hush! I will not hear it!”

Palette and brushes fell upon the carpet, and she wrung her
fingers until the diamond-eyed asp set its blue fangs in her cold
flesh.

“Robert was merely bruised, but his mother was very badly
injured, and is still insensible. Every precaution has been taken
to counteract the effect of the severe blow on her head, and I
hope that after an hour or two she will recover her consciousness.
Robert is bringing her home as carefully as possible, and
you may expect them momentarily. Only his urgent entreaties
that I would precede him and prepare you for the reception of his
mother could have induced me to waive ceremony and thrust
myself into the presence of a lady who seems little disposed to
pardon the apparent presumption of my visit.”

She evidently did not heed his words, and, suddenly clasping
her hands across her forehead, she said, bitterly, —

“Coward! why can't you speak out, and tell me that the
corpse will soon be here, and a coffin must be ordered? This is
the last blow! Surely, God will let me alone, now; for there is
nothing more that He can send to afflict me. Oh, Elsie, — my
sole comfort! The only one who ever loved me!”

A bluish pallor settled about her mouth, and Dr. Grey shuddered
as he looked into the dry, defiant eyes, so beautiful in form
and color but so mournfully desperate in their expression.

“Mrs. Gerome, your servant is neither dead nor dying, and I
have told you the worst. Down the road I can see the wagon
coming slowly, and I would advise you to call the household
together, in order to assist in lifting Elsie, who is very stout and
heavy. Calm yourself, madam, and trust your favorite servant
to my care.”

“Servant! Sir, she is mother, father, husband, friends, —
all, — everything to me! She is the only human being who
cares for, or understands, or sympathizes with me, — and I could
not live without her. Oh, sir, do not ask me to trust you! The
time has gone by when I could trust anybody but Elsie. You
are a physician, — you ought to know what should be done for
her; and, Dr. Grey, if you have any pity in your soul, and any
skill in your profession, save my old Elsie's life! Dr. Grey —”

She paused a few seconds, and added, in a whisper, —

“If she dies, I am afraid I might grow desperate, and commit
what you happy people call a crime.”

He felt an unwonted moisture dim his eyes, as he watched the
delicate face, white as the hair that crowned it, and wondered if
the wide, populous world could match her regal form and perfect
features.

“Mrs. Gerome, I think I can promise that Elsie will recover
from her injuries; but a prayer for her safety would bring you
more comfort than my feeble words of assurance and encouragement.
The mercy of God is surer than the combined medical
skill of the universe.”

“The mercy of God!” she repeated, with a gesture of scorn
and impatience. “No, no! God set his face like a flint against
me, long, long ago, and I do not mock myself by offering prayers
that only call down smitings upon me. Seven years since I
prayed my last prayer, which was for speedy death; and, from
that hour, I seem to have taken a new lease on life. Now I
stand still and keep silent, and I hoped that God had forgotten
me.”

She covered her face with her hands, and Dr. Grey drew a
chair close to her and endeavored to make her sit down, but she
resisted and shrank from his touch on her arm.

“Madam, the wagon has stopped at the door. Will you direct
your servants, or shall I?”

“If she is not dead, tell Robert to carry her into my room.
Oh, Dr. Grey, you will not let her die!”

As she looked up imploringly into his calm, noble face, she
met his earnest gaze, brimming with compassion and sympathy,
and her lips and chin quivered.

“Trust your God, and have faith in me.”

He went out to assist in removing his patient, and when they
had carried the mattress and its occupant into the room opposite
the parlor and laid it on the carpet near the window, he had the
satisfaction of observing a favorable change in Elsie's condition.
While he stood by a table preparing some medicine, Robert stole
up, and asked:

“Do you notice any improvement? She groaned twice on
the road, and once I am sure she opened her eyes.”

“Yes; I think that very soon she will be able to speak, for
her pulse is gaining strength every hour.”

“How did my mistress take it?”

“She was much shocked and grieved. Maclean, where are
her friends and relatives?”

There was no reply, and, glancing over his shoulder to repeat
the inquiry, Dr. Grey saw Mrs. Gerome leaning against the
door.

“Robert, have you killed her?”

“Oh, no, ma'am! She is doing very well, the doctor says.”

She crossed the room, and sat down on the edge of the mattress,
taking one of the large brown hands in both of hers and
bending her face over the pillow.

“Elsie! mother! Elsie, speak to your poor child!”

That wailing voice pierced the stupor, and Dr. Grey was
surprised to see the woman's eyes unclose and rest wonderingly
upon the countenance hovering over her.

“My dear Elsie, don't you know me?”

“Yes, my bairn. What ails you?”

She spoke indistinctly, and shut her eyes once more, as if
exhausted.

“If she was in her coffin, I verily believe she would rise, if
she heard your voice calling her,” said Robert, wiping away the
tears of joy that trickled across his sunburnt cheeks.

Dr. Grey stooped to put his finger on Elsie's pulse, and Mrs.
Gerome threw herself down on the carpet, and buried her face
in the pillow, where her silver hair mingled with the grizzled
locks that straggled from beneath the old woman's torn lace
cap.