University of Virginia Library

14. CHAPTER XIV.

“ELSIE, it is worse than useless to talk to me. Once
I could listen to you, — once I felt as you do now;
but that time has gone by forever. I will read to
you as often as you desire it, provided you do not make every
chapter a text for a sermon. What do you wish to hear this
morning?”

“The fortieth Psalm.”

Mrs. Gerome opened the bible, and, when she had finished the
psalm designated, shut the book and laid it back close to Elsie's
pillow.

The old woman placed her hand on the round, white arm of
her mistress, who rested carelessly against the bed.

“You know, my child, that David's afflictions were sore
indeed; but he declares, `I waited patiently for the Lord, and
he inclined unto me, and heard my cry.' You will not be
patient, and God can't help you till you are. We are like
children punished for bad conduct, — as long as we rebel and
struggle, of course we must be still further chastised; but the
moment we show real penitence, our parents notice that we are
bearing correction patiently, and then they throw away the rod
and stretch out their arms, and snatch us close to their loving
hearts. Even so God holds one hand to draw us tenderly
to Him; and, if we are obstinately sinful, with the other He
scourges us into the right path, — determined to help us, even
against our own wills. Ah, if I could see you waiting patiently
for the Lord!”

“You will never see it. Patience was `scourged' out of me,
and now I stand still because I am worn out with struggling,
waiting — not patiently, but wearily and helplessly — to see the
end of my punishment. What have I done that I should feign
a penitence I shall never feel? I was a happy, trusting, unoffending
woman, when God smote me fiercely; and, because I
was so innocent, I could not kiss my stinging rod, I grappled

desperately with it. Elsie, don't stir up the bitter dregs in my
soul, and mix them with every thought. Let them settle.”

“My darling, I don't want them to settle. I pray either
that they may be stirred up and taken out, or sweetened by the
grace of God. Do you ever think of the day when you will
face your sainted mother?”

“No. I think only of enduring this present life until death,
my deliverer, comes to my rescue.”

“But, my bairn, you are not fit to die.”

“Fit to die as to live,” answered her mistress, morosely.

“For God's sake, don't flout the Almighty in that wicked
manner! If you would only be baptized and take refuge in
prayer, as every Christian should, you would find peace for
your poor, miserable soul.”

“No; peace can't be poured out of a pitcher with the baptismal
water; and all the waves tossing and glittering out there
in the ocean could not wash one painful memory from my
heart. I have had one baptism, and it was ample and thorough.
I went down into the waters of woe, and all their black
billows broke over me. Instead of the Jordan, I was immersed
in the Dead Sea, and the asphaltum cleaves to me.”

“Oh, dearie, you will break my heart! I wish now that you
had died when you were only fourteen months old, for then
there would have been one more precious lamb in the flock of
the Good Shepherd, safe in heavenly pastures — one more dear
little golden head nestling on Jesus' bosom, — instead of —
of —”

Elsie's emotion mastered her voice, and she sobbed convulsively.

“Why did not you finish? `Instead of a gray head waiting
to go down into the pit of perdition.' Yes, it was a terrible
blunder that I was not allowed to die in my infancy; but it
can't be helped now, and I wish you would not fret yourself
into a fever over the irremediable. Why will you persist in
tormenting yourself and me about my want of resignation and
faith, when you know that exhortation and persuasion have no
more effect upon me than the whistle of the plover down yonder

in the sedge and sea-weed, — where I heartily wish I were lying,
ten feet under the shells? Rather a damp pillow for my
fastidious, proud head, but, at least, cool and quiet. Calm
yourself, my dear Elsie, for God will not hold you responsible
if I miss my place among the saints, when He divides the sheep
from the goats, in the last day, — Dies irœ, dies illa. Let me
straighten your pillow and smooth your cap-border, for I see
your doctor coming up the walk. There, — dry your eyes.
When you want me, send Robert or Katie to call me.”

Mrs. Gerome leaned over the helpless, prostrate form on the
bed, pressed her cheek against that of her nurse, where tears
still glistened, and glided swiftly out of the room just before
Dr. Grey entered.

Never had he seen his patient so completely unnerved; but,
observing her efforts to compose herself, he forbore any allusion
to an agitation which he suspected was referable to mental
rather than physical causes. Bravely the stubborn woman
struggled to steady her voice, and still the twitching tell-tale
muscles about her mouth; but the burden of anxiety finally
bore down all resolves, and, covering her face with her broad
hand, she wept unrestrainedly.

In profound silence Dr. Grey sat beside her for nearly five
minutes; then, fearful that the excitement might prove injurious,
he said, gently, —

“I hope you are not suffering so severely from bodily pain?
What distresses you, my good woman? Perhaps, if I knew
the cause, I might be able to render you some service.”

“It is not my body, — that, you know, is numb, and gives
me no pain, — but my mind! Doctor, I am suffering in mind,
and you have no medicine that can ease that.”

“Possibly I may accomplish more than you imagine is within
reach of my remedies. Of one thing you may rest assured, —
you will never have reason to regret any confidence you may
repose in me.”

“Dr. Grey, I believe you are a Christian; at least, I have
heard so; and, since my affliction, I have been watching you

very closely, and begin to think I can trust you. Are you a
member of the church?”

“I am; although that fact alone should not entitle me to
your confidence. We are all erring, and full of faults, but I
endeavor to live in such a manner that I shall not bring disgrace
upon the holy faith I profess.”

“Shut the door, and come back to me.”

He bolted the door, which stood ajar, and resumed his seat.

“Dr. Grey, I know as well as you do that I can't last a great
while, and I ought to prepare for what may overtake me any
day. I have tried to live in accordance with the law of God,
and I am not afraid to die; but I am afraid to leave my mistress
behind me. When I am gone there will be no one to watch
over and plead with her, and I dread lest her precious soul may
be lost. She won't go to God for herself, or by herself, and
who will pray for her salvation when I am in my shroud? Oh,
I can not die in peace, leaving her alone in the world she hates
and despises! What will become of my poor, bonnie bairn?”

Elsie sobbed aloud, and Dr. Grey asked, —

“Has Mrs. Gerome no living relatives?”

“None, sir, in America. There are some cousins in Scotland,
but she has never seen them, and never will.”

“Where are the members of her husband's family?”

A visible shudder crept over that portion of the woman's
body which was not paralyzed, and her face grew dark and
stern.

“He was an orphan.”

“His loss seems to have had a terrible effect upon Mrs.
Gerome, and rendered her bitter and hopeless.”

“How hopeless, none but she and I and the God above us
know. Once she was the meekest, sweetest spirit, that ever
gladdened a nurse's heart, and I thought the world was blessed
by her coming into it; but now she is sacrilegious and scoffing,
and almost dares the Lord's judgments. Dr. Grey, it would
nearly freeze your blood to hear her sometimes. Poor thing!
she will have no companions, and so has a habit of talking to
herself, and I often hear her arguing with the Almighty about

her life, and the trouble He allowed to fall into it. Last night
she was walking there under my window, begging God to take
her out of the world before I die. Begging, did I say? Nay, —
demanding. My precious, pretty bairn!”

“Elsie, be candid with me. Is not Mrs. Gerome partially
deranged?”

She struggled violently to raise herself, but failing, her head
fell back, and she lifted her finger angrily.

“No more deranged than you or I. That is a vile slander of
busybodies whom she will not receive, and who take it for
granted that no lady in her sound senses would refuse the
privilege of gossiping with them. She is as sane as any one,
though there is an unnatural appearance about her, and if her
heart was only as sound as her head I could die easily. They
started the report of craziness long, long ago, in order to get
hold of her fortune; but it was too infamous a scheme to
succeed.”

Elsie's strong white teeth were firmly set, and her clenched
fingers did not relax.

“Who started the report of her insanity?”

“One who injured her, and made her what you see her.”

“She had no children?”

“Oh, no! Once I begged her to adopt a pretty little orphan
girl we saw in Athens, but she ridiculed me for an old fool, and
asked me if I wished to see her warm a viper to sting what was
left of her heart.”

“Mrs. Gerome has indulged her grief for her husband's loss,
until she has become morbidly sensitive. She should go into
the world, and interest herself in benevolent schemes; and,
ultimately, her diseased thoughts would flow into new and
healthful channels. The secluded life she leads is a hot-bed for
the growth of noxious fungi in heart and mind. If you possess
any influence over her, persuade her to re-enter society. She is
still young enough to find not only a cure for her grief, but an
ample share of even earthly happiness.”

Elsie sighed, and waved her hand impatiently.

“You do not know all, or you would understand that in this

world she can not expect much happiness. Besides, she is
peculiarly sensitive about her appearance; and, of course, when
she is seen, people stare, and wonder how such a young thing
got that pile of white hair. That is the reason she quit travelling
and shut herself up here.”

“Was it grief that prematurely silvered her hair?”

“Yes, sir; it was as black as your coat, until her trouble
came; and then in a fortnight it turned as gray as you see it
now. Doctor, I said she was not deranged, and I spoke truly;
but sometimes I have feared that, when I am gone, she might
get desperate, and, in her loneliness, destroy herself. You are
a sensible man, and can hold your tongue, and I feel that I can
trust you. Now, I know that Robert loves her, and while he
lives will serve her faithfully; but you are wiser than my son,
and I should be better satisfied if I left her in your charge, when
I go home. Will you promise me to take care of her, and to
try to comfort her in the day when she sees me buried?”

“Elsie, you impose upon me a duty which I am afraid Mrs.
Gerome will not allow me to discharge; and, since she is so
exceedingly averse to meeting strangers, I should not feel
justified in thrusting myself into her presence.”

“Not even to prevent a crime?”

“I hope that your excited imagination and anxious heart
exaggerate the possibility of the danger to which you allude.”

“No; exaggeration is not one of my habits, and I know my
mistress better than she knows herself. She thinks that suicide
is not a sin, but says it is cowardly; and she utterly detests
and loathes cowardice. Dr. Grey, I could not rest quietly in
my coffin if she is left alone in this dreary house, after I am
carried to my long home. Will you stay here awhile, or take
her to your house, — at least for a short time?”

“I will, at all events, promise to comply with your wishes as
fully as she will permit. But recollect that I am comparatively
a stranger to her, and her haughty reception of me the day I was
compelled to come here on your account, does not encourage me
to presume in future. Respect for her wishes, however unreasonable,

and respect for myself, would forbid an intrusion on
my part.”

“If you saw an utter stranger drowning, would fear of being
considered presumptuous or impertinent prevent your trying
to save him? Your self-love should not hold you back from a
Christian duty.”

“And you may rest assured that it never shall, when I feel
that interference — no matter how unwelcome or ungraciously
received — will prove beneficial. But remember that your
mistress is eccentric and shrinking, and all efforts to befriend
her must be made very cautiously.”

“True, doctor; yet sometimes, instead of consulting her, it is
best to treat her as a wilful child. I believe you could obtain
some influence over her if you would only try to break the
ice, because she has spoken kindly of you several times since I
have been so helpless, and asked what she could do to show her
gratitude for your goodness to me. Yesterday she said she
intended to direct Robert to take some fine fruit to your house;
and she remarked that your eyes were, in comparison with other
folks', what Sabbath is to working week-days, — were so full of
rest, that tired anxious people might be refreshed by looking at
them. Sir, that is more than I have heard her utter for seven
years about anybody; and, therefore, I think you might do her
some good.”

Dr. Grey shook his head, but remained silent; and presently
Elsie touched his arm, and continued, —

“There is something I wish to say to you before I die, but
not now. I want you to promise me that when you see my end
is indeed at hand, you will tell me in time to let me talk a little
to you. Will you?”

“You may linger for months, and it is possible that you may
die quite suddenly; consequently, it might be impracticable for
me to fulfil the promise you require. Still, if I can do so, I will
certainly comply with your wishes. Would it not be better to
tell me at once what you desire me to know?”

“While I live it is not necessary that any one should know,
and it is only when I am about to die that I shall speak to you.

For my sake, for humanity's sake, try to become acquainted
with my mistress and make her like you, as she certainly will,
if she only knows you.”

A tap at the door interrupted the conversation, and soon
after, Dr. Grey quitted the sick-room.

He paused in the hall to examine a fine copy of Landseer's
“Old Shepherd's Chief Mourner,” and, while he stood before it,
a large greyhound started up from the mat at the front door,
and bounded towards him. Simultaneously Mrs. Gerome
appeared at the threshold of the parlor.

“Come here, sir! Poor fellow, come here!”

The dog obeyed her instantly; and, pressing close to her,
looked up wistfully in her face.

“Good morning, Mrs. Gerome. I must thank you for coming
so promptly to my assistance. I have never seen this dog until
to-day, and, consequently, was not on my guard.”

“He arrived only yesterday, and is so overjoyed to be with
me once more that he allows no one else to approach.”

“He is by far the handsomest dog I have ever seen in
America.”

“Yes, I had great difficulty in obtaining him. My agent
assures me that he belongs to the best that are reared in the
tribe of Beni Lam; and that he is a genuine Arab, there can be
no doubt.”

“How long have you owned him?”

“Two years. Unfortunately he was bitten by a snake one
day while wandering with me among the ruins at Pæstum, and
was so singularly affected that I was forced to leave him at
Naples. Various causes combined to delay his restoration to
me until last week, when he crossed the Atlantic; and yesterday
he went into ecstasies when I received him from the express
agent. Hush! no growling! Down, sir! Take care, Dr.
Grey; he will bear no hand but mine, and it is rather dangerous
to caress him, as you may judge from the fangs he is showing
you.”

The dog was remarkably tall, silky, beautifully formed, and
of a soft mole-color; and around his neck a collar formed of

four small silver chains, bore an oval silver plate on which was
engraved in German text, “Ich Dien — Agla Gerome.”

“I congratulate you upon the possession of such a treasure,”
said the visitor, with unfeigned admiration, — as, with the eye
of a connoisseur, he noted the fine points about the sleek,
slim animal, who eyed him suspiciously.

“Thank you. How is Elsie to-day?”

“More nervous than I have seen her since the accident, and
some of her symptoms are rather discouraging, though there is
no immediate danger. Do not look so hopeless; she may be
spared to you for many months.”

“Why will you not let me hope that she may ultimately
recover?”

“Because it is utterly futile, and I have no desire to deceive
you, even for an instant. Good morning, Robert.”

The gardener approached with a large basket filled with
peaches and nectarines, and, taking off his hat, bowed profoundly.

“My mistress ordered these placed in your buggy, as I
believe our nectarines ripen earlier than any others in the
neighborhood.”

“Thank you, Maclean. Mrs. Gerome is exceedingly kind,
and I have an invalid sister who will enjoy this beautiful fruit.
Those nectarines would not disgrace Smyrna or Damascus, and
are the first of the season.”

Robert passed through the hall, bearing the basket to the
buggy; and at that instant there was a startling crash, as of
some heavy article falling in the parlor. The dog sprang up
with a howl, and Dr. Grey followed Mrs. Gerome into the room
to ascertain the cause of the noise. A glance sufficed to explain
that a picture in a heavy frame had fallen from a hook above
the mantel-piece, and in its descent overturned some tall vases,
which now lay shattered on the hearth. Dr. Grey lifted the
painting from the rubbish, and, as he turned the canvas towards
the light, Mrs. Gerome said, —

“`Une tristesse implacable, une effroyable fatalité pèse sur
l'œuvre de l'artiste. Cela ressemble à une malediction amère,

lancée sur le sort de l'humanité.' There is, indeed, some fatality
about that copy of Durer's `Knight, Death, and the Devil,'
which seems really ill-omened, for this is the second time it has
fallen. Thank you, sir. The frame only is injured, and I will
not trouble you to remove it. Let it lean against the grate,
until I have it rehung more securely.”

“It is too grim a picture for these walls, and stares at its
companions like the mummy at Egyptian banquets.”

“On the contrary, it impresses me as grotesque in comparison
with Durer's `Melancholy,' yonder, or with Holbein's `Les
Simulachres de la mort.'”

“Durer's figure of `Melancholy' has never satisfied me, and
there is more ferocity than sadness in the countenance, which
would serve quite as well for one of the Erinney hunting
Orestes, even in the adytum at Delphi. The face is more sinister
than sorrowful.”

“Since your opinion of that picture coincides so entirely with
mine, tell me whether I have successfully grasped Coleridge's
dim ideal.”

Mrs. Gerome drew from a corner of the rear room an easel
containing a finished but unframed picture; and, gathering up
the lace curtain drooping before the arch, she held the folds
aside, to allow the light to fall full on the canvas.

“Before you examine it, recall the description that suggested
it.”

“I am sorry to say that my recollection of the passage is
exceedingly vague and unsatisfactory. Will you oblige me by
repeating it?”

“Excuse me; your hand is resting upon the book, which is
open at the fragment.”

Dr. Grey bowed, and, lifting the volume from the table,
glanced rapidly over the lines designated, then turned to the
picture, where, indeed,

The beautiful face of the reclining figure was dreamily hopeless
and dejected, yet pathetically patient; and, in the strange
amber light reflected from a sunset sea, the fringy shadow of a
cluster of fern-leaves seemed to quiver over the pale brow and
still mouth, and floating raven hair, where the green snake
glided with crest erect and forked tongue within an inch of one
delicate, pearly ear. The gray stones of the lichen-spotted wall,
the graceful sweep of the shrouding drab drapery, whose folds
clung to the form and thence swung down from the edge of the
rocky battlement, the mouldering ruins leaning against the
quiet sky in the rear, and the glassy stretch of topaz-tinted sea
in the foreground, were all painted with pre-Raphaelite exactness
and verisimilitude, and every detail attested the careful,
tender study, with which the picture had been elaborated.

Was it by accident or design that the woman on the painted
wall bore a vague, mournful resemblance to the owner and
creator? Dr. Grey glanced from Durer's “Melancholy” to
the canvas on the easel; then his fascinated eyes dwelt on
the dainty features of the artist, and he thought involuntarily
of another Coleridgean image, — of the “pilgrim in whom
the spring and the autumn, and the melancholy of both, seemed
to have combined.”

“Mrs. Gerome, in this wonderful embodiment of Coleridge's
fragmentary ideal you have painted your own portrait.”

“No, sir. Look again. My `Melancholia' has a patient
face, hinting of possible peace. When I design its companion,
`Desolation,' I may be pardoned if my canvas reflects what
always fronts it.”

“May I ask when you wrought out this extraordinary conception?”

“During the past month. The last touch was given this
morning, and the paint is not yet dry on that cluster of purplish
seaweed clinging to the base of the battlement. Last night I
dreamed that Coleridge stood looking over my shoulder, and
while I worked he touched the sea, and it flushed a ruby red,
brighter than laudanum; and then he leaned down, and with a
pencil wrote Dele across the fragment in his `Sibylline
Leaves.' To-day I tried the effect of the hint, but the amber
water mellows the woman's features, and the ruby light rendered
them sullen and rigid.”

“Were I to judge from the bizarre themes that you select, I
should be tempted to fear that the wizard spell of opium evoked
some of these strangely beautiful creations of your brush. What
suggested this picture?”

“You merely wish to complete your diagnosis of my psychological
condition? If so, there is no reason why I should hesitate
to tell you that while I was playing one of Chopin's Nocturnes
the significance of the Polish `Zäl' perplexed me. In
striving to analyze it, Coleridge's `Melancholy' occurred to my
mind, and teased and haunted me until I wrought it out
palpably. My work there means more than his fragment, and
includes something which I suppose Chopin meant by that
insynonymous word `Zäl.'”

Standing under the arch, with one hand holding back the
lace drapery, the other hanging nerveless at her side, she looked
as weird as any of her ideal creations; and, in the greenish sea-shine
breaking through the dense foliage of the trees about the
house, her wan face, snowy muslin dress, and floating white
ribbons, seemed unsubstantial as the figures on the wall. To-day
there was no spot of color in face or dress, save the azure gleam
of the large, brilliant ring, on her uplifted hand; and, as Dr.
Grey scrutinized her appearance, he found it difficult to realize
that blood pulsed in that marble flesh, and warm breath fluttered
in that firm, frigid mouth. Glancing around the rooms, he
said, —

“Solitude is indeed a misnomer for a home peopled with such
creations as adorn these walls.”

“No. Have you forgotten the definition of Epictetus? `To
be friendless is solitude.'”

“I hope, madam, that you may never find yourself in that
unfortunate category, and certainly there are —”

“Sir, I know what Michael Angelo felt when he wrote from
Rome, `I have no friends; I need none.'”

She interrupted him with an indescribably haughty gesture,
and an anomalous spasm of the lips that belonged to no known
class of smiles.

“On the contrary, Mrs. Gerome, the hunger for true friends
has rendered you morose and cynical.”

He did not shrink from the wide eyes that flashed like blue
steel in moonshine; and as his own, calm, steady, and magnetic,
dwelt gravely on her face, he fancied she winced, slightly.

“No, sir. When I hunt or recognize friends, I shall borrow
Diogenes' lantern. Good morning, Dr. Grey.”

“Pardon me if I detain you for a moment to inquire who
taught you to paint.”

“The absolute necessity of self-forgetfulness.”

“But you surely had some tuition in the art?”

“Yes; I had the usual boarding-school privilege of a master
for perspective, and pastel. Dr. Grey, have you been to
Europe?”

“Yes, madam; on several occasions.”

“You visited Dresden?”

“I did.”

“Step forward a little, — there. Now, sir, do you know that
painting hanging over my escritoire?”

“It is Ruysdael's `Churchyard,' and, from this distance,
seems a remarkably fine copy of that sombre, desolate, ghoul-haunted
picture.”

“Thank you. That is the only piece of work of which I feel
really proud. Some day, when the light is pure and strong,
come in and examine it. Now there is a greenish tinge over
all things in the room thrown by sea-shimmer through the

clustering leaves. Ah, what a long, low, presageful moan that
was, which broke from foaming lips, on yonder strand!”

“Good morning, Mrs. Gerome. The inspection of your
pictures has yielded me so much pleasure that I must tender
you my very sincere thanks for your courtesy.”

She bowed distantly; and, when he reached his buggy, he
glanced back and saw that perfect, pallid face, pressed against
the cedar facing of the oriel, looking seaward. He lifted his
hat, but she did not observe the salute; and, as he drove away,
she kept her eyes upon the murmuring waves, and repeated, as
was her habit, the lines that chanced to present themselves, —