 | CHAPTER XX. Vashti, or, "Until death us do part" |  |
20. CHAPTER XX.
“DOCTOR GREY, you look weary and anxious.”
“I feel so, for this has been a memorable night.”
“The servant who opened the gate for us said
that the poor old woman died about daybreak.”
“Yes; when I arrived I found her speechless, and of course
could do nothing but watch her die. Come down this walk, I
wish to talk to you before you go into the house.”
He pointed to a serpentine walk, overarched by laurustinus,
and they had proceeded some yards before he spoke again.
“Salome, I believe you told me that you had met Mrs.
Gerome?”
“Yes, sir; once upon the cliffs, a mile below, I saw her for a
few moments.”
“She is a very eccentric woman.”
“I should judge so, from her appearance.”
“Her life seems to have been blighted by early griefs, and
she has grown cynical and misanthropic. Loving no one but
her faithful and devoted nurse, she has completely isolated
herself, and consequently the death of this servant — companion
— nay, foster-mother — is a terrible blow to her. I
want your promise that what you may hear or witness in this
hunger of never-satiated scandal and gossip.”
Salome's brow contracted and darkened.
“Do you class me among newsmongers and character-cannibals?”
“If I did, you certainly would not be here at this instant. I
sent for you to come and take my place temporarily, as I am
compelled to see a patient many miles distant, who is dangerously
ill. The majority of women might go away, and comment
upon the occurrences of this melancholy day, but I wish
to keep sacred all that Mrs. Gerome desires to screen from
public gaze and animadversion. Because she is not fond of
society, it revenges itself by circulating reports detrimental to
the owner of a house which is elegantly furnished, not for popular
praise, but solely for her own comfort and gratification.
While I regard her course as very deplorable, and particularly
impolitic for one so young and unprotected, I am totally unacquainted
with the reasons that control her; and, in this hour
of grief and bitterness, I earnestly desire to shield her from
intrusion and impertinent scrutiny.”
“In other words, you wish me to have eyes and yet see not,
— and having ears to hear not? You must indeed have little
confidence in my good sense, and still less in my feminine sympathy
for the afflicted, if you suppose that under existing circumstances
I could come to the house of mourning to collect
materials to be rolled as sweet morsels under the slanderous
tongues, that already wag so industriously concerning `Solitude'
and its solitary mistress. Verily, I occupy a lofty niche in
your estimation, and it would doubtless be pardonably prudent
in you to reconsider, and bid Elbert take me home with all
possible dispatch, before I see Fatima or Bluebeard.”
“When will you cease to be childish, and remember that a
woman's work lies before you?”
“You may date that desirable transmogrification from the
hour when you cease to stir up the mud and dregs in my
nature, by doubting the possibility that they will ever settle,
soon, — and no sooner.”
“My young friend, you are too sensitive. I now offer you
the strongest proof of confidence that I can ever hope to command.
Will you take charge of this stricken household in my
absence, and not only superintend the arrangements necessary
for the funeral, but watch over Mrs. Gerome and see that no
one disturbs her?”
“You may trust me to execute her wishes and your orders.”
“Thank you. There certainly is no one except you whom I
would trust in this emergency. One thing more; if Mrs. Gerome
leaves the house, do not lose sight of her. It may be necessary
to keep a very strict surveillance over her, and I will return as
soon as possible, and relieve you.”
As they entered the house, Salome said, —
“You will stop at home and get your breakfast?”
“No, I shall not have time.”
“Let me make you a cup of coffee before you start.”
“Thank you, it is not necessary; and besides, the house is in
such confusion that it would be difficult to obtain anything.
Come with me.”
She followed him into the dim room, where the tall but
emaciated form of Elsie Maclean had been dressed for its last
long sleep. The housemaid sat at the bedside, and Robert stood
at one of the windows.
The first passionate burst of grief had spent itself, and the
son was very calm.
At a sign from Dr. Grey he came forward, and bowed to the
stranger.
“Robert, I am obliged to be absent for several hours, and
Miss Owen will remain until I return. If you need advice or
assistance come to her, and do not disturb Mrs. Gerome, who is
lying on a sofa in the parlor. I will drive through town, and
send your minister out immediately.”
“You are very good, sir. Do you think the funeral should
take place before to-morrow? I want to speak to my mistress
about it.”
“For her sake, it is advisable that it should not be delayed
beyond this afternoon. It is very harrowing to know that the
body is lying here, and I think she would prefer to leave all
these matters to you. It would be better for all parties to
have the funeral ceremonies ended this evening.”
“I suppose, sir, you know that my poor mother will be buried
here, in the grounds.”
“For what reason? The cemetery is certainly the best place.”
Robert handed a slip of paper to Dr. Grey, who read, in a
remarkably beautiful chirography, the following words, —
“Robert, it was your mother's desire and is my wish that she
should be buried near that cluster of deodar cedars, just beyond
the mound. Send for an undertaker, and for the minister who
visited her during her illness; and let everything be done as if
it were my funeral instead of hers. Put some geranium leaves
and violets in her dear hands, and upon her breast.”
“When did you receive this?” asked Dr. Grey.
“A moment ago, Phœbe, the cook, brought it to me from my
mistress.”
“Of course you have no choice, but must comply with her
wishes and those of the dead. Still, I regret this decision.”
“Yes, sir; it is ill luck to keep a grave near the eaves of a
house, and it will be bad for my mistress to have it always in
sight; for she mopes enough at best, and does not sleep o'nights,
and the Lord only knows what will become of her with my
poor mother's corpse and coffin within ten yards of her window.
Sir, how does she take this awful blow? It comforted me to
know you were with her.”
“She bears this affliction as she seems to have endured all
others that have overtaken her, in a spirit of rebellious bitterness
and defiance. I am afraid that the excitement will seriously
injure her. Salome, I will return as early as the safety of a
patient will permit.”
Robert followed the doctor to his buggy, to consult him with
reference to some of the sad details of the impending funeral,
and after a hasty glance at the placid countenance of the dead,
Salome went back to the hall, and sat down opposite to the
were strong, healthy, and firm, but the presence of death, the
profound silence that reigned, the chill atmosphere, and dreary
aspect of the house, — all conspired to oppress her heart.
Through the open door she could see the ever restless sea,
and hear its endless murmuring monotone, and imagination
seizing the ill-omened legends she had heard recounted concerning
this spot, peopled the corners of the hall with phantoms,
and every flitting shadow on the lawn became a spectre.
Now and then the servants — two middle-aged women —
passed softly to and fro, and twice Robert crossed the passage,
but not a sound issued from the parlor; and once, when Phœbe
came with her mistress's breakfast on a waiter, and tried the
bolt, she found the door locked. She knocked several times, but
receiving no answer went quietly back to the kitchen.
Weary of sitting on one of the hard, uncomfortable walnut
chairs, that stood with its high carved back close to the wall,
Salome rose, and amused herself by studying the engravings
that surrounded her. In the midst of her investigations she
was startled by a loud, doleful, blood-curdling sound, that
seemed to proceed from some spot immediately beneath the floor
of the hall. It was different from anything she had ever heard
before, but resembled the prolonged howl of a dog, and rose and
fell on the air like a cry from some doomed spirit.
Robert came out of the room which his mother had always
occupied, and, as he passed Salome, she asked, —
“What is the matter? What is the meaning of that horrible
noise?”
“Only the greyhound howling at the dead that he knows is
lying over his head. Ah, ma'am! The poor brute sees what
we can't see, and his death-baying is awful.”
“Where is he? The sound seems to come through the
floor.”
“He is so savage that I was afraid he would hurt some of the
strangers who will come here to-day, so I chained him in the
basement. Hist, ma'am! Did you ever hear anything so dreadful?
It raises the hair of my head.”
He went down stairs, and the howling, which was caused by
the fact that the dog was hungry and unaccustomed to being
chained, ceased as soon as he was set free. Ere long Robert
came back, followed by the greyhound, whose collar he grasped
firmly. At sight of Salome he growled and plunged towards
her, but Robert was on the alert, and held him down. Leading
him to the parlor door, the gardener knocked, and put his
mouth to the key-hole.
“If you please, ma'am, will you let Greyhound in? It won't
do to leave him at large, and when I chain him he almost lifts
the roof with his howls.”
No reply reached Salome's strained ears, but the door was
opened sufficiently to admit the dog, who eagerly bounded in,
and then the click of the lock once more barred intrusion; and
when the joyful barking had ceased, all grew silent once more.
From a basket of fresh flowers brought in by the boy who
assisted Robert, Salome selected the white ones and made a
wreath, which she laid aside and sprinkled; then gathering some
rose and nutmeg geranium-leaves, and a few violets blooming in
jars that stood on the gallery, she cautiously glided into the
chamber of death, and arranged them in Elsie's rigid hands.
Soon after, the undertaker and minister arrived, and while
they conferred with Robert concerning the burial service, the
girl went back to her vigil before the parlor door, and endeavored
to divert her thoughts by looking into a volume of poems that
lay on the hall table. The book opened at “Macromicros,” where
a brilliant verbena was crushed between the leaves, and delicate
undulating pencil-lines enclosed the passage beginning, —
Pale woman, weaving away
A frustrate life at a lifeless loom.”
Slowly the hours wore away, and at noon Elsie's body was
placed in the coffin and left on a table in the room opposite the
parlor.
It was two o'clock when Dr. Grey came up the steps, looking
more fatigued than Salome had ever seen him. He sat down
the men who were bricking up the grave that yawned on the
right hand side of the lawn.
“Where is Mrs. Gerome?”
“In the parlor. Once I heard her pacing the floor very
rapidly, and saying something to her dog. Since then — two
hours ago — not a sound has reached me.”
“She has taken no food?”
“No, sir. The servant who prepared her breakfast knocked
twice at the door, but was refused admittance.”
Dr. Grey went into the hall, and rapped vigorously on the
door, but there was no movement within.
“Mrs. Gerome, please permit me to speak to you for a few
minutes. If it were not necessary, I would not disturb you.”
The appeal produced no effect; and, without hesitation, he
walked to the door of the library or rear parlor, — took the key
from his pocket, opened it, and entered.
The dog was asleep on the velvet rug before the hearth, and
his mistress sat at her escritoire, with her arms resting on the
blue desk, and her face hidden upon them. A number of letters
and papers were scattered about, and, in an open drawer a silver
casket was visible, with a pearl key in its lock.
Before the marble Harpocrates stood two slender violet-colored
Venetian glasses, representing tulips, and filled with
fuchsias and clematis that were dropping their faded velvet
petals, and the atmosphere was sweet with the breath of carnations
and mignonette blooming in the south window.
Dr. Grey hoped that Mrs. Gerome had fallen asleep; but
when he bent over her, he saw in the mirror above her that the
large, bright eyes were gazing vacantly into the recess of the
desk.
She noticed his image reflected in the glass, and instantly sat
upright, spreading her hands over her papers as if to screen
them. He drew a chair near hers, and put his finger on her
pulse, which throbbed so rapidly he could scarcely count it.
“Have you slept at all, since I left you this morning?”
“No.”
“You promised that you would not attempt to destroy
yourself.”
“I have kept my word.”
“Yes; you `keep it to our ear, and break it to our hope,'
for you must know that unless you take some rest and refreshment,
you will be seriously ill.”
He saw a spark leap up in her eyes, like a bubble tossed
into sunshine by a sudden ripple, and she shook back the hair
that seemed to oppress her.
“Do not tease and torment me, now. I want to be quiet.”
“My task is an unpleasant one, therefore I shall not postpone
it. In a short time — within the next hour — Elsie will be
buried, and you owe a last tribute of gratitude and respect to
her remains. Will you refuse it to the faithful friend to whom
you are indebted for so much affection and considerate care?”
“She would not wish me to do anything that is so repugnant,
so painful to me.”
“Have you no desire to look at her kind, placid face once
more?”
“I wish to remember it as in life, — not rigid and repulsive
in death.”
“She looks so tranquil you would think she was sleeping.”
“No, — no! Don't ask me. I never saw but one corpse, and
that was of a sailor drowned in mid ocean, and I shall never be
able to forget its ghastliness and distortion as it lay on deck,
under sickly moonshine.”
“Mrs. Gerome, you must follow Elsie's body to the grave.
Believe that I have good reasons for this request, and grant it.”
She shook her head.
“Your habits of seclusion have subjected you to uncharitable
remarks, and your absence from the funeral would create
more gossip than any woman can afford to give grounds for.
There is a rumor afloat that you are deranged, and the best
refutation will be your quiet presence at the grave of your
faithful nurse.”
She straightened herself, haughtily.
“Seven years ago I turned my back upon the world, and
scorned its verdict.”
“The men or women who defy public opinion invite social
impalement, and rarely fail to merit the branding and opprobrium
they invariably receive. Madam, I should imagine that
to a nature so refined and shrinking as yours, almost any trial
would seem slight in comparison with the certainty of becoming
a target for sarcasm, pity, and malice, in every kitchen in the
neighborhood. Permit my prudence to prevail over your reluctance
to the step I have advised, and some day you will thank
me for my persistency. You have time to make the proper
changes in your dress, and, when the hour arrives, I will knock
at your own door. My dear madam, do not delay.”
She rose, and began to replace the papers in the drawers of
her desk, which she closed and locked.
“Dr. Grey, why should you care if I am slandered?”
“Because I am now your best friend, and must tell you
frankly your foibles and dangers, and endeavor to guard you
from the faintest breath of detraction.”
“I am very suspicious concerning the motives of all who
come about me; and, at times, I have been so unjust as to
ascribe even my poor Elsie's devotion to a desire to control
my fortune for the benefit of herself and child. Do you expect
me to trust you more implicitly than I ever trusted her?”
“I shall make it impossible for you to doubt me. Come to
your room. Elsie's few acquaintances will soon be here.”
Mrs. Gerome thrust the key of her desk into her pocket, but
a moment after, when she drew out her handkerchief, it fell on
the carpet, and without observing it, she passed swiftly across
the hall, and into her own apartment.
As Dr. Grey lingered to secure the door, his eye fell upon the
silver key on the floor; and, placing it in his vest pocket, he
rejoined Salome.
At four o'clock several of Robert's friends came and seated
themselves in the room where the coffin sat wreathed with
flowers; and immediately after, Mr. and Mrs. Spiewell made
their appearance, accompanied by two ladies whose features
joined them, and Salome stole into the room and sat down in
one corner.
Dr. Grey tapped softly at the door of Mrs. Gerome's apartment,
and she came out instantly, and walked firmly forward
till she stood in the presence of the dead. She was dressed in
black silk, and wore two heavy lace veils over her bonnet,
which effectually screened her countenance. Crossing the floor,
she stood at Robert's side, and the minister rose and began the
burial service.
When a prayer was offered, all the other persons present
bowed their heads, but the mistress of the mansion remained
erect and motionless; and, as the pall-bearers took up the coffin
and proceeded to the grave, she followed Robert.
Dr. Grey stepped to her side and offered his arm, but she took
no notice of the act, and walked on as if she were an automaton.
The service was concluded, the coffin lowered, and, amid
Robert's half-smothered sobs, the mound was raised under the
deodars, whose long shadows slanted athwart it, in the dying
sunlight.
The little group dispersed, and Mr. Spiewell led his wife to
the owner of “Solitude.”
“Mrs. Gerome, Mrs. Spiewell and I have long desired the
pleasure of your acquaintance, and hope, if you need friends,
you will permit us —”
“Thank you for your kindness in visiting my faithful old
Elsie.”
The tall, veiled figure had cut short his speech by a quick,
imperative gesture of her hand; and, turning instantly away,
disappeared in one of the densely shaded walks that wound
through the grounds.
Dr. Grey escorted the party to their carriages, and as he
handed Mrs. Spiewell in, she said, in her sharp nasal tones, —
“I heard that Mrs. Gerome was devotedly attached to the
poor old creature who had nursed her, but she certainly seems
to me very indifferent and heartless.”
“She is more deeply afflicted by her loss than you can
will be ill in consequence of her inability to sleep or eat. My
dear madam, we must not judge too hastily from appearances,
else we shall deserve similar treatment. Who are those two
ladies veiled so closely?”
“Friends, I presume, or they would not be here.”
But the little woman seemed uneasy, and flushed under the
doctor's searching gaze.
“I hope dear Miss Jane is as well as one can ever expect
her to be in this life. Come, Charles; you forget, my dear,
that we have a visit to make before tea-time. I notice, doctor,
that you have a new carpet on the floor of your pew, and a new
cushion-cover to match; and, indeed, you are so fine that the
remainder of the church seems quite faded and shabby. Good
evening, doctor; my love to all at home.”
The clergyman's gray pony trotted off with his master and
mistress, and Dr. Grey returned to Salome, who waited for him
at the steps of the terrace.
“What do you suppose brought Mrs. Channing and Adelaide
to the poor old woman's funeral?” asked the orphan.
“How did you discover them?”
“I found this handkerchief, whose initials I embroidered
two months ago, and recognize as belonging to Mrs. Channing.
As for Miss Adelaide, when she moved her veil a little aside to
peep at Mrs. Gerome, I caught a glimpse of her pretty face.
Do they visit here?”
“Certainly not; nobody visits here but the butcher, baker,
and doctor. Those ladies came solely on a tour of inspection,
and to gratify a curiosity that is not flattering to their characters.
My dear child, you look tired.”
“Dr. Grey, what is there so mysterious about this house
and its owner that all the town is agog and agape when the
subject is mentioned? What is Mrs. Gerome's history?”
“I am totally unacquainted with its details, and only know
that since she became a widow, she has been a complete recluse.
She is very unhappy, and we must exert ourselves to cheer her.
This has been a lonely, dreary day to you, I fear, and I trust
to-night.”
The sun had set, leaving magnificent cloud-pictures on sky
and sea, and while the orphan turned to enjoy the glorious
prospect above and around her, Dr. Grey went in search of the
lonely woman who now continually occupied his thoughts.
She was standing under the pyramidal cedars, looking down
at the new grave, where Salome's wreath hung on the head-board,
and hearing approaching footsteps would have moved
away, but he said, pleadingly, —
“Do not avoid me.”
She paused, and suddenly held out her hands to him.
“Ah, — is it you? Dr. Grey, what shall I do? How can
I bear to live here, — alone, — alone.”
He took her hands and looked down into her white, chill face.
“My dear friend, take your suffering heart to God, and He
will heal, and comfort, and strengthen you. If He has sorely
afflicted you, try to believe that Infinite love and mercy directed
all things, and that ultimately every sorrow of earth will be
overruled for your eternal repose and happiness. Remember
that this world is but a threshing-floor, where angels use afflictions
as flails, to beat the chaff and dust from our hearts, and
present them as perfect grain for the garners of God. I know
that you are desolate, but you can never be utterly alone, since
the precious promise, `Lo! I am with you alway, even unto
the end of the world.'”
Despairingly she shook her head.
“All that might comfort some people, but it falls on my ears
and heart like the sound of the clods on Elsie's coffin. I have
no religion, — no faith, — no hope, — in time or eternity. My
miserable past entombs all things.”
“Do not unearth your woes, — let the grave seal them.
Your life stands waiting to be sanctified, — dedicated to Him
who gave it. My dear friend, —
After His image: heal thyself; from grief
Comes glory, like a rainbow from a cloud.'”
The sound of his voice, more than the import of his words,
seemed to soothe her, for her eyes softened; but the effect was
transitory, and presently she exclaimed, —
“Mere `sounding brass, and a tinkling cymbal!' Pretty
words, and musical; but empty as those polished shells yonder,
that echo only hollow strains of the never silent sea. Once,
Dr. Grey, —”
She paused, and a shiver crept through her stately form;
then she slowly continued, in a tone of indescribable pathos,—
“Once I could have listened to your counsel, for once my
soul was full of holy aims, and my heart as redolent of pure
Christian purposes as a June rose is of perfume; but now,—
As the dew of a dawn of old time;
More frail than the shadows on glasses,
More fleet than a wave or a rhyme.'”
Dr. Grey drew her arm through his, and silently led her to
the house, and into the parlor. He noticed that her breathing
was quick and short, and that she sank wearily upon the sofa,
as if her strength had well-nigh failed her.
He untied her bonnet-strings and removed it, and she threw
her head down on the silken cushion, as a spent child might
have done.
Taking a vial from his pocket, he dropped a portion of the
contents into a wine-glass, and filled it with sherry wine.
“Mrs. Gerome, drink this for me. It will benefit you.”
She swallowed the mixture, and remained quiet for some
seconds; then a singularly scornful smile curved her mouth as
she said, —
“You drugged the wine. Well, so be it. Nepenthe or
poison are alike welcome, if they bring me death, or even temporary
oblivion.”
Katie came in and lighted the lamp, and Dr. Grey sat beside
the sofa and watched the effect of his prescription.
Tired at length of the sober sea and dark gloomy grounds,
Salome came back to the house and stood on the threshold of
at the pictures on the walls.
She could see very distinctly the beautiful white face of the
mistress pressed against the blue damask cushion, and clear in
outline as she had once observed it on the background of ocean;
and she noticed that the features were sharper and that the
figure was thinner. From the silvery lamp-light the gray hair
seemed to have caught a metallic lustre on the ripples that
ebbed back from the blue-veined temples, and the woman looked
like a marble snow-crowned image, draped in black.
With one elbow on his knee, and his cheek resting in his
hand, Dr. Grey leaned forward, studying the features turned
towards him, and watching her with almost breathless interest.
He was not aware of Salome's presence, and was unconscious of
the strained, troubled gaze, that she fixed upon him.
The tender love that filled his heart looked out of his grave
deep eyes, which never wandered from the face so dear to him,
and moved his lips in an inaudible prayer for the peace and
welfare of the lonely waif whom Providence or fate had brought
into his path, to evoke all the tenderness latent in his sturdy,
manly nature.
In the twinkling of an eye, Salome had learned the whole
truth; and standing there, she staggered and grasped the doorway
for support, wishing that the heavens and earth would
pass away — that death might smite her, and end the agony that
never could be patiently endured.
Recently she had tutored herself to bear the loss of his love
and the deprivation of his caresses, — she had mapped out a
future in which her lot was one of loneliness, — but through all
the network of coming years there ran like a golden cord binding
their destinies the precious hope that at least Dr. Grey
would die as he had lived hitherto, — without giving to any
woman the coveted place in his heart, where the orphan would
sooner have reigned than upon the proudest throne in Europe.
She had prayed that, with this assurance, God would help her
to be contented — would enable her to make her life useful and
pure, and, like Dr. Grey's, a blessing to those about her.
It had never occurred to her that the man whom she reverenced
above all things human or divine, and whose exalted
ideal of feminine perfection soared as far above her as the angels
in Lebrun's “Stoning of St. Stephen” soared above the sinning
multitude below them — that the man whose fastidiousness concerning
womanly character and deportment seemed exaggerated
and almost morbid, could admire or defend, much less love
that gray-haired widow, whom the world pronounced either a
lunatic, or a scoffing, misanthropic infidel.
The discovery was so unexpected, so startling, that it partially
stunned her; and, like one addicted to somnambulism, she softly
crossed the room and stood behind Dr. Grey's chair.
He had taken Mrs. Gerome's hand to examine her pulse, and
retained it in his, looking fondly at the dainty moulding of the
fingers and the exquisite whiteness of the smooth skin. How
long she stood there Salome never knew, for paralysis seemed
creeping, numb and cold, over her heart and brain.
Dr. Grey saw that his exhausted patient was asleep, and knew
that the opiate he had administered in the wine would not relinquish
its hold until morning; and when her breathing became
more quiet and regular he bent his head and softly kissed the
hand that lay heavily in his.
Salome covered her face and groaned; and rising, he was
for the first time cognizant of her presence. His face flushed
deeply.
“How long have you been here?”
“Long enough to discover why you visit `Solitude' so
often.”
He could not see her countenance, but her unnaturally hollow
tone pained and shocked him.
“You are very much fatigued, my dear child, and as soon as
I have given some directions to Robert, I will take you home.
Get your bonnet, and meet me at the door.”
He took a shawl that was lying on the piano and laid it carefully
over the sleeper, then bent one knee beside the sofa, and
mutely prayed that God would comfort and protect the woman
who was becoming so dear to him.
With one long, anxious, tender look into her hopeless yet beautiful
face, he left the room and went in search of Robert and
Katie. When he had given the requisite directions, and descended
the steps, he found Salome waiting, with her fingers
grasping the side of the buggy. Silently he handed her in;
and, as she sank back in one corner and muffled her face, they
drove swiftly through the sombre grounds, where the aged trees
seemed murmuring in response to the ceaseless mutter of the
sullen sea.
Time rules us all. And Life indeed is not
The thing we planned it out ere hope was dead.
And then we women can not choose our lot.”
| CHAPTER XX. Vashti, or, "Until death us do part" | |