University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.

“DOCTOR GREY, are you awake? Dr. Grey, here is
a note from `Solitude,' and the messenger begs that
you will lose no time, as one of the servants is
supposed to be dying.”

Salome had knocked twice at Dr. Grey's door, without arousing
him, and the third time she beat a tattoo that would have
broken even heavier slumbers than his.

“I am awake, and will strike a light in a moment.”

She heard him stumbling about the room, and finally there
was a crash, as of a broken vase or goblet.

“What is the matter? Can't you find your matches?”

“No; some one has removed the box from its usual place,
and I am fumbling about at random, and smashing things
indiscriminately. Will you be so good as to bring me a match?”

“I have a candle in my hand, which you can take, while I
order Elbert to get your buggy ready.”

“Thank you, Salome.”

She placed the candle on the mat before his door, laid the
note beside it, and went down to the servants' rooms to call
the driver.

It was two o'clock, and Dr. Grey had come home only an
hour before, from a patient who resided at some distance.

Dressing himself as expeditiously as possible, he read the
blurred and crumpled note.

Three days before, when he visited Elsie, he found her more
composed and comfortable than she had been for several weeks,
and Mrs. Gerome had seemed almost cheerful, as she sat beside
the bed, crimping the borders of the invalid's muslin caps,
which the laundress had sent in, stiff and spotless.

Recollecting Elsie's desire to confide something to him before
her death, and dreading the effect which this sudden termination
of her life might have upon her mistress, in whom he was
daily becoming more deeply interested, Dr. Grey hurried down
stairs and met the orphan.

“Elbert is not quite ready, but will be at the door directly.
I told him the case was urgent.”

“You are very considerate, Salome, and I am much obliged
for your thoughtfulness; though I regret that the messenger
waked you, instead of Rachel or me. I have never before known
Rachel fail to hear the bell, and I was so weary that I think a
ten-inch columbiad would scarcely have aroused me.”

“I was not asleep, — was sitting at my window; and hearing
some one slam the gate and gallop up the avenue, I went to
the door and opened it, to prevent the ringing of the bell and
waking of the entire household.”

“You should have been asleep four hours ago, and I had no
idea you were still up, when I came home. There was no light
in your room. Are you quite well?”

“Thank you, I am quite well.”

She was dressed as he had seen her at dinner, and now, as she
stood resting one hand on the balustrade of the stairway, he
thought she looked paler and more weary than he had ever
observed her.

The scarlet spray of pelargonium had withered from the heat
of her head, where it had rested all the evening, and the large
creamy Grand Duke jasmine fastened at her throat by a spring
of coral, was drooping and fading, but still exhaled its strong
delicious perfume.

“Your appearance contradicts your assertion. Is your wakefulness
attributable to any anxiety or trouble which I can
remove?”

“No, sir. I hear Elbert opening the gate. Who is sick at
`Solitude'?”

“The servant who was so severely injured many months ago,
by a fall from a carriage, has grown suddenly worse.”

Salome accompanied him to the front door, in order to lock it

after his departure; and, as he descended the steps, he turned
and said, in a subdued voice, —

“You have probably heard that Mrs. Gerome is a very
peculiar, — indeed, a decidedly eccentric person?”

“Yes, sir; it is reported that she is almost a lunatic.”

“Which is totally false. She is very sensitive, and shrinks
from strangers, and consequently has no friends here. If I
should find Elsie dying, or if I need you, I wish you to come
promptly. It may be necessary to have some one beside the
household, and you are the only person I can trust. Try to go
to sleep immediately, for I may send for you very early in the
morning.”

“I shall be ready to come when I am needed.”

The buggy rolled up to the steps, and Dr. Grey sprang into it
and drove swiftly down the avenue.

Salome crept softly back up stairs, but Miss Jane called
out, —

“Who is there, in the hall? What is the matter?”

The girl opened the door, and put her head inside.

“Dr. Grey has been called to see a sick woman at `Solitude,'
and I have just locked the door after him.”

“Why could not Rachel do that, and save you from coming
down stairs? What time of night is it?”

“About half-past two. Rachel is asleep. Good-night.”

“`Solitude,' did you say?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Well, if people will persist in burrowing in that unlucky
den, they must take the consequences. Ulpian, poor fellow,
will be completely worn out. Good-night, dear; don't get up
to breakfast, if you feel sleepy.”

Salome went to her own room, changed her dress, laid gloves,
hat, and shawl in readiness upon the bed, and threw herself down
on the lounge to rest, and if possible to sleep.

When Dr. Grey reached “Solitude,” he found Robert Maclean
pacing the paved walk that led to the gate.

“Oh, doctor! Have you come at last? It seems to me I could
have crawled twice to your house, since Jerry came back.”

“What change has taken place in your mother's condition?
She was better than usual, when I saw her last.”

“We thought she was getting along very well, till all of a
sudden she became speechless. Go in, sir; don't stop to
knock.”

Mrs. Gerome sat at the bedside, mechanically chafing one of
the hands that lay on the coverlid, and the face of the dying
woman was not more ghastly than the one which bent over her.
As Dr. Grey approached, the mistress of the house rose, and put
out her hands towards him, with a wistful, pleading, childish
manner, that touched him inexpressibly.

“Do not let her die.”

He leaned over the pillow, and put his finger on the scarcely
palpable pulse.

“Elsie, tell me where or how you suffer.”

A ray of recognition leaped up in her sunken eyes, and she
looked at him with a yearning, imploring expression, that was
pitiable and distressing indeed.

He saw that she was struggling to articulate, but failing in
the effort, a groan escaped her, and tears gathered and trickled
down her pinched face. He smoothed her contracted forehead,
and said, soothingly, —

“Elsie, you feel that I will do all that I can to relieve you.
You can not talk to me, but you know me?”

She inclined her head slightly, and in examining her he discovered
that only one side was completely paralyzed, and that
she could still partially control her left arm. When he had
done all that medical skill could suggest, he stood at her side,
and she suddenly grasped his fingers.

He put his face close to hers, and observing her tears start
afresh, whispered, —

“You wish to tell me something before you die?”

A gurgling sound, and a faint motion of her lips was the only
reply of which she was capable.

He placed a pencil between her fingers, but she could not use
it intelligibly, and he noticed that her eyes moved from his to

those of her mistress, as if to indicate that she was the subject
of the desired conversation.

It was distressing to witness her efforts to communicate her
wishes, while the tears dripped on her pillow; and unable to
endure the sight of her anguish, Mrs. Gerome sank on her knees
and hid her face in the coverlid.

Dr. Grey gently lifted Elsie's arm and placed her hand on the
head of her mistress, and the expression of her face assured him
he had correctly interpreted her feelings. Something still disturbed
her, and he suggested, —

“Mrs. Gerome, put your hand in hers.”

She silently obeyed him, and then the old woman's eyes
looked once more intently into his. He could not conjecture
her meaning, until, in feeling her pulse, he found that she was
trying to touch his fingers with hers.

He slipped his own into the palm where Mrs. Gerome's lay,
and, by a last great effort, she pressed them feebly together.

Even then, the touch of those white, soft fingers, thrilled his
heart as no other hand had ever done, and he said, —

“Elsie, you mean that you leave her in my care? That you
put her in my hands? That you trust her to me?”

It was impossible to mistake the satisfied expression that
flashed over her countenance.

“I accept the trust. Elsie, I promise you that while I live
she shall never want a true and faithful friend. I will try to
take care of her body, and pray for her soul. I will do all that
you would have done.”

Once more, but very faintly, she pressed the two hands she
had clasped, and closed her eyes.

“Oh, doctor, can't you save her?” sobbed Robert.

In the solemn silence that ensued, Mrs. Gerome lifted her face,
and Dr. Grey never forgot the wild, imploring gaze, that met
his. He understood its import, and shook his head. She rose
instantly, moved away from the bed, and left the room.

For nearly an hour Dr. Grey hung over the prostrate form,
which lay with closed eyes, and gradually sank into the heavy
lethargic sleep, from which he knew she could never awake.

Leaving her to the care of Robert and two female servants,
he went in search of the mistress of the silent and dreary
house.

Taking a lamp from the escritoire in the back parlor, he went
from room to room, finding nowhere the object he sought, and
at length became alarmed. As he stood in the front door, perplexed
and anxious, the thought presented itself that she might
have gone down to the beach. He went back to the apartment
occupied by the dying woman, — felt once more the sinking
pulse, and took a last look at the altered and almost rigid face.

“Robert, I can do her no good. Her soul will very soon be
with her God.”

“Oh, sir, don't leave her! Don't give her up, while there is
life in her body!” cried the son, grasping the doctor's sleeve.

Dr. Grey put his hand on the Scotchman's shoulder, and
whispered, —

“I am going to hunt for Mrs. Gerome. She is not in the
house. I may be able to render her some service, but your
mother is beyond all human aid.”

“Is there any pulse?”

“It is so feeble now, I can scarcely count it.”

“Please, doctor, stay here by her while she breathes. Don't
desert the dear soul. My poor mother!”

Robert lost all control of himself, and wept like a child.

Loth to forsake him in this hour of direst trial, Dr. Grey
leaned against the bed, and for some moments watched the
irregular convulsive heaving of the woman's chest.

“Oh, sir, if my mistress hadn't a heart of stone, she would
have let her die peacefully. She might at least have granted
her dying prayer.”

“What was it?”

“All of yesterday afternoon she pleaded with her to be
baptized. My mother — God bless her dear soul! — my mother
told her that she could not consent to die until she saw her
baptized; and, with the tears pouring down her poor face, she
begged and prayed that I might fetch the minister from town,
and that she might see the ceremony performed. But my mistress

walked up and down the floor, and said, `Never! never.
I have done with mockeries. I have washed my hands of all
that, — long, long ago.' And now — it is too late; and my
poor mother can never — God be merciful to us! is it all
over?”

Dr. Grey raised the head, but the breathing was imperceptible,
and, after a little while, he softly pressed down the lids that were
partially lifted from the glazed eyes, and quitted the room.

His buggy stood at the rear gate, and the driver was asleep,
but his master's voice aroused him.

“Elbert, go home, and ask Miss Salome please to come over
as soon as you can drive her here.”

The east was purple and gold, the sea a purling mass of molten
amber, and only two stars were visible low in the west, where a
waning moon swung on the edge of the distant misty hills. The
air was chill, and a silvery haze hung above the moaning waves,
and partially veiled the windings of the beach. Under the
trees that clustered so closely around the house, the gloom of
night still lingered like a pall, but as Dr. Grey approached the
terrace, he felt the pure fresh presence of the new day. Up and
down the sands his eyes wandered, hoping to discern a woman's
figure, but no living thing was visible, except the flamingo and
yellow pheasant still perched where they had spent the night,
on the stone balustrade that bordered the terrace. He took
off his hat to enjoy the crystalline atmosphere, and while he
faced the brightening east, the sharp peculiar bark of the Arab
greyhound broke the solemn silence that brooded over sea and
land.

The sound proceeded from the boat-house, and he hastened
towards it, startling a mimic army of crabs and fiddlers that
had not yet ended their nightly marauding. The tide was
higher than usual at this early hour, and the waves were breaking
sullenly against the stone piers.

As Dr. Grey ascended the iron steps leading to the pavilion,
the dog growled and showed his teeth, but the visitor succeeded
in partially winning him over, and now passed unmolested
into the circular room. A cushioned seat extended around the

wall, where windows opened at the four points of the compass;
and on the round table in the centre of the marble-tiled floor
lay a telescope.

At the eastern window sat Mrs. Gerome, with her head resting
on her crossed arms. Although Dr. Grey's steps echoed
heavily, as he trod the damp mosaic where the mist had condensed,
she gave no evidence of having discovered his presence
until he stood close beside her. Then she raised one hand, with a
quick gesture of caution and silence. He sat down near her, and
watched the countenance that was fully exposed to his scrutiny.

No tears had dimmed the wide, mournful, almost despairing
eyes, that gazed with strange intentness over the amber sea, at
the golden radiance that heralded the coming sun; and every
line and moulding of her delicate features seemed cold and rigid
enough for a cenotaph. Even the lips were still and compressed,
and a bluish shadow lay about their dimpled corners, and under
the heavy jet eyelashes. Her silver comb had become loosened,
and was finally dragged down by the coil of hair that slipped
slowly until it fell upon the morocco cushion of the seat, and
the glistening waves of gray hair rolled around her shoulders,
and rippled low on her brow. Sea fog had dampened and sea
wind tossed this mass of white locks, till it made a singular
burnished frame for the wan face that looked out hopeless and
painfully quiet.

Her silk robe de chambre of leaden gray, bordered with blue,
was unbuttoned at the throat, and showed its faultless curve and
contour; while the full, open sleeves, blown back by the strong
breeze, bared the snowy arms, where one of the jet serpents
that formed her bracelets, pressed so heavily on the white flesh
that a purple band was visible when the hand was raised and
the bracelet slipped back.

Watching her intently, Dr. Grey could not detect the slightest
quiver of nerve or muscle; and she breathed so low and softly
that he might have doubted whether she was really conscious,
if he had not correctly interpreted the strained expression of
the unwinking gray eyes, whose pupils contracted as the sky
flushed and kindled.

On the floor lay a dainty handkerchief, and stooping to pick
it up, he inhaled the delicate, tenacious perfume of tube-rose,
which, blended with orange-flowers, he had frequently discovered
when standing near her.

Placing it within reach of her fingers, he said, very gently and
more tenderly than he was aware of, —

“Mrs. Gerome, —”

“Hush! I know what you have come to tell me. I knew
it when I came away. Let me alone, now.”

She raised her head, and turned her eyes to meet his, and he
shuddered at the hard, bitter look, that came swiftly over the
blanched features. For some seconds they gazed full at each
other, and Dr. Grey's eyes filled with a mist that made hers
seem large and radiant as wintry stars.

He knew then that his heart was no longer his own, — that
this wretched, solitary woman, had installed herself in its most
sacred penetralia; that she had not suddenly, but gradually,
become the dearest object that earth possessed.

He did not ask himself whether she filled all his fastidious
and lofty requirements, — whether she rose full-statured to his
noble standard, — whether reverence, perfect confidence, and
unqualified admiration would follow in the footsteps of mere
affection. He neither argued, nor trifled, nor deceived himself,
but bravely confessed to his own true soul, that, for the first
time in his life, he loved warmly and tenderly the only woman
whose touch had power to stir his quiet, steady pulses.

He had not intended to surrender his affections to the custody
of any one until reason and judgment had analyzed, weighed,
and cordially endorsed the wisdom of his choice; and now,
although surprised at the rashness with which his heart, hitherto
so tractable and docile, vehemently declared allegiance to a new
sovereign, he did not attempt to mask or varnish the truth.
Thoroughly comprehending the fact that it was neither friendship
nor compassion, he gravely looked the new feeling in the
face, and acknowledged it, — the tyrant which sooner or later
wields the sceptre in every human heart.

Had he faithfully kept his compact with himself, and followed

the injunction of Joubert, “Choose for a wife only the
woman, whom, were she a man, you would choose for your
friend”?

Because he found a fascination in her society, should he conclude
that it was a healthful atmosphere for his sturdy, exacting,
uncompromising nature?

To-day he swept aside all these protests and questions, postponing
the arraignment of his heart before the tribunal of
slighted and indignant reason, and allowed the newly mitred
pontiff to lead him whither she chose.

Unconscious of the emotions that brought an unusual glow to
his face and light to his eyes, Mrs. Gerome had dropped her
head once more on her arms, and the weary, despairing expression
of her countenance, as she looked at the gilded horizon,
where sea and sky seemed divided only by a belt of liquid gold,
— might have served for the face of some careless Vestal, who,
having allowed the fire to expire on the altar she had sworn to
guard sleeplessly, sat hopeless, desolate, and doomed, — watching
from the dim, cheerless temple of Hestia, the advent of that sun
whose rays alone could rekindle the sacred flame, and which, ere
its setting, would witness the execution of her punishment.

Dr. Grey bent over her, and said, —

“I came here in quest of you, hoping to persuade you to
return to the house.”

“No. You came to tell me that Elsie is dead. You came to
break the news as gently as possible, — and to pity and try to
comfort me. You are very good, I dare say; but I wish to be
alone.”

“You have been too long alone, and I can not consent to
leave you here.”

At the sound of his subdued voice, she turned her face towards
him, and, for a moment, —

“Dr. Grey, my loneliness transcends all parallels, and is beyond
remedy. Why should I not stay here? All places are alike to
me, now. That cold, silent corpse at the house, is not Elsie;
and, since she has been taken, I shall be utterly alone, go
where I may.”

She shivered, and he picked up a crape shawl lying in a heap
under the table, and wrapped it around her. The soft folds
were damp, and, as he lifted the veil of hair, to draw the shawl
closer about her shoulders and throat, he felt that it was moist
from the humid atmosphere.

“Sir, I am not cold, — I wish I were. It is useless to
wrap up my body so warmly, and leave my heart shivering
until death freezes it utterly.”

Dr. Grey took her beautiful white hands in his warm palms,
and held them firmly.

“Mrs. Gerome, you do not know what is best for you, and
must be guided by one who will prove himself your truest
friend.”

“Don't mock my misery! I never had but one friend, and
henceforth must live friendless. I knew what was before me,
and therefore I dreaded this dark, dark day, and begged you
to save her. She was the world to me. She supplied the
place of father, mother, husband, society, and because God
saw that her loving sympathy and care made my existence
a trifle less purgatorial than He saw fit to render it, He took
her away. My poor Elsie would quit the highest throne in
heaven to come back to her desolate, dependent child; for only
she knew how and why I trusted and leaned upon her. Ah,
God! it is hard that I who have so long shunned strangers
should be at their mercy, in the last hour of trial that can be
devised by fiends, or allowed by heaven to afflict me.”

She struggled to free her hands and hide her face, but her
companion clasped them in one of his, and attempted to draw
her head down to his shoulder.

“No, sir! The grave is the only resting-place for my poor,
accursed head. Do not touch me.”

She shrank as far as possible from him, and her voice, hitherto
so firm and dry, trembled.

“Mrs. Gerome, I intend to take Elsie's place. You had confidence
in her sagacity and penetration, and know that she was
cautious in all things. During her long illness she studied my
character and antecedents, and finally begged me to take you
under my guardianship when she could no longer watch over
you. She was importunate in her appeal, and to comfort and
compose her I gave her a solemn promise that at her death I
would take her place. You may deem me intrusive, and perhaps
presumptuously impertinent, but time proves all things,
and, after a little while, you will cling to me as you so long
clung to her. I shall wait patiently for your confidence; shall
deserve, — and then exact it. You need a strong arm to curb
and guide you, — you need a true, honest heart, to sympathize
with your sorrows and difficulties, — you need a fearless friend
to defend you from the assaults of gossip and malice; and all
these, if God spares my life, I am resolved to be to you. You
can not repulse, or offend, or chill, or wound me, for my word is
sacredly pledged to the dead; and, by the grace of God, I will
strictly and fully redeem it, when we meet at the last day.”

The earnestness of his manner, the grave resolution of his
tone, and the invincible fearlessness with which his clear, calm,
penetrating eyes, looked into hers, seemed momentarily to overawe
her; and she sat quite still, pondering his unexpected
words. Pressing her cold fingers very gently, he continued, —

“Elsie had such confidence in my discretion, and friendly
interest in your welfare, that she requested me to warn her of
her approaching dissolution in order that she might communicate
something, which she assured me she desired to confide to
me before her death. The paralysis of her tongue prevented
the fulfilment of her wish, but you saw how keenly she suffered
from her inability to utter what was pressing on her heart.
You can not have forgotten that her last act was to put your
hand in mine, and you heard my solemn acceptance of the charge
committed to me.”

An expression of dread that bordered on horror, came over

her ghastly face, and her hands grasped his, almost spasmodically.

“Did she hint what she wished to tell you? Did you guess
it all?”

“No. Whatever her secret may have been, it passed unuttered
into that realm where all mysteries are solved. I
neither know nor surmise the nature of her desired revelation,
but some day when you fully understand me, I shall ask you to
tell me that which she believed I ought to know. My dear
madam, when I come to you and demand your confidence, I
have no fear that you will withhold it.”

She closed her eyes as if to shut out some painful vision, and
drooped her head lower, till it rested on her chest.

The sun flashed up from his ocean bed, and, as the first beams
fell on the woman's hair, Dr. Grey softly passed his broad white
hand over its perfumed masses, redolent of orange flowers.

“The air is too damp for you. Come with me to the
house.”

She did not heed his words, and perhaps his touch on her
head recalled some exquisitely painful memory, for she shook it
off, and exclaimed, —

“Doubtless, like the remainder of the curious herd, you are
wondering at my `crown of glory,' — and conjecturing what dire
tragedy bequeathed it to me. Sir, —

Dr. Grey, I understand you; but you need not stay here to
keep guard over me, as if I were an imbecile or a refugee from
an insane asylum. That I am not the one or the other, is
attributable to the fact that my powers of endurance are almost
fabulous. You fear that in my loneliness and complete isolation
I may turn coward, at the last ordeal I am put through, —
and, like Zeno cry out, and in a fit of desperation strangle
myself? Dr. Grey, make yourself easy. I do not love my
Creator so devotedly that I must needs hurry into his presence,
before He sees proper to send me a summons.”

“I am afraid to leave you here, for any woman who does not
love and reverence her Maker, requires a guardian. Of course
you will do as you like, but I shall remain here as long as
you do.”

He rose, and crossing his arms on his chest, began to walk
about the pavilion. She caught up her hair, twisted it hastily
into a knot, and secured it with her comb. As she did so, a
small cluster of double violets dropped into her lap. She had
gathered them the preceding afternoon, had carried them as an
offering to Elsie, who insisted that she should wear them in her
hair, “they looked so bonnie just behind the little roguish ear.”
At her request Mrs. Gerome had placed them at the side of her
head, and the old woman made her lean down that she might
smell them, and leave a kiss on their blue petals. Now the
sight of the withered flowers melted her icy composure, and, as
she lifted the little crushed, faded bouquet, and pressed it
against her wan cheek, a moan broke from her colorless lips.

“Oh, Elsie, — Elsie! How could you desert me? You knew
you were all I had to love and trust, — and how could you die
and leave me alone, — utterly alone, in this miserable world
that has so cruelly injured me!”

She clasped her hands passionately over the flowers, and the
motion caused the sapphire ring, which was now much too
large, to slip from the thin finger, and roll ringing across the
marble floor.

Dr. Grey picked it up, and as he replaced it, drew her hand
under his arm, and led her out of the boat-house. They walked
slowly, and as they ascended the steps, he saw his buggy approaching
the side gate.

Opening the parlor door, he drew his companion into the
room, where the Psyche lamp still burned brightly.

“Mrs. Gerome, will you trust me?”

He had hoped that a return to the house would touch her
heart and make her weep, but the cold, dry glitter of her eyes
disappointed him.

“Dr. Grey, I trust neither men nor women, nor even the
angels in heaven; for one of them turned serpent, and if
tradition be true, made earth the dismal `Bochim' I have
found it.”

She turned from him, and threw herself wearily upon the
divan that filled the recess of the oriel window.

Securing the door of the library, he extinguished the lamp,
and closing the parlor went out to meet Salome.