University of Virginia Library

21. CHAPTER XXI.

“ULPIAN, you certainly do not intend to sit up again
to-night? Even brass or whitleather would not stand
the wear and tear that your constitution is subjected
to. You really make me unhappy.”

“My dear Jane, it would make you still more unhappy if
from mere desire to promote my personal ease and comfort, I
could forget the solemn responsibility imposed by my profession.
Moreover, my physical strength is quite equal to the tax I exact
from it.”

“I doubt it, for we have all remarked how pale and worn
you look.”

“My jaded appearance is attributable to mental anxiety,
rather than bodily exhaustion.”

“If Mrs. Gerome is so ill as to require such unremitting care
and vigilance, she should have a nurse, instead of expecting a
physician to devote all his time and attention to her. Where is
Hester Denison?”

“I have placed her at the steam-mill above town, where there
is a bad case of small-pox, and even if she were not thus engaged,
I should not take her to `Solitude.'”

“Pray, why not? She took first-rate care of me when I was
so sick last year.”

“Mrs. Gerome is morbidly sensitive at all times, and at this
juncture I should be afraid to introduce a stranger into her
sick room.”

“When people are so excessively nervous about being seen, I
can't help feeling a little suspicious. Do you suppose that Mrs.
Gerome loved her husband so much better than the majority of
widows love theirs, that seven years after his death she can't
bear to be looked at? I like to see a woman show due respect
to her husband's memory, but I tell you my experience — or
rather my observation — leads me to believe that these young
widows who make the greatest parade of their grief, and load
themselves with crape and bombazine till they can scarcely
stagger under their flutings, flounces, and jet-fringes, are the
most anxious to marry again.”

“Stop, my darling sister! Who has been filing your tongue
and curdling all the `milk of human kindness' in your generous
heart? If women refuse to each other due sympathy in
sorrow, to what quarter can they turn for that balm which their
natures require? I never before heard you utter sentiments
that trenched so closely upon harsh uncharitableness. Your
lips generally employ only the silvery language of leniency, which
I so much love to hear, but to-day they adopt the dialect of
Libeldom. Recollect, my dear sister, that even the pagan
Athenians would never build a temple to Clemency, which
they contended found her most appropriate altars in human
hearts.”

“Pooh, Ulpian! You need not preach me such a sermon,
as if I were a heathen. Facts, when they happen to be real
facts, are the best umpires in the world, and to their arbitrament
I leave my character for charity. When Reuben Chalmers
died, his wife was so overwhelmed with grief that she shut herself
up like a nun; and when she drove out for fresh air wore

two heavy crape veils, and never allowed any one to catch a
glimpse of her countenance. Not even to church did she venture,
until one morning, at the end of two years, she laid aside
her weeds, clad herself in bridal array, was married in her own
parlor, and the next Sunday made her first appearance in
public after the death of her husband, leaning on the arm of her
second spouse. Now, that is true, — is no libel, — pity it is not!
Though `one swallow does not make a summer,' I can't help
feeling suspicious of very young and hopelessly inconsolable
widows, and am always reminded of Anastasia Chalmers. So
you see, my blue-eyed preacher, when your old Janet talks of
these things, she is not caught `reckoning without her host.'”

“One deplorable instance should not bias you against an entire
class, and the beautiful constancy of Panthea ought to
neutralize the example of a hundred Anastasia Chalmers. Is it
not unfortunate that poor human nature so tenaciously recollects
all the evil records, and is so oblivious of the noble acts
furnished by history? Do cut the acquaintance of the huge
family of on dits, who serve the community in much the same
capacity as did the cook of Tantalus, when he dressed and garnished
Pelops for the banquet table. Unluckily, devouring
malice can not furnish the `ivory shoulder' requisite to mend
its mischief. We are all prone to forget the injunction, `Judge
not, that ye be not judged,' and instead of remembering that
we are directed to bear one another's burdens, we gall the
shoulders of many, by increasing the weights we should lighten.
Janet, don't flay all the poor young widows; leave them to
such measure of peace as they may find among their weeds.”

Miss Jane listened to her brother's homily with a half-smile
lurking about the puckered corners of her eyes and mouth, and
putting her finger in the button-hole of his coat, drew him
closer to her, as they sat together on the sofa.

“How long since you took the tribe of widows under your
special protection?”

“Since the moment, that, owing to some inexplicable freak,
my dear Janet suffered `evil communications to corrupt' her
`good manners,' and absolutely forgot to be just and generous.”

He kissed his sister and rose, but the troubled look that
settled once more on his countenance did not escape her observation.

“Ulpian, is Mrs. Gerome very ill?”

“Yes, I am exceedingly unhappy about her. She is dangerously
ill with a low, nervous, fever that baffles all my remedies.”

Dr. Grey walked up and down the room, and Miss Jane
pressed her spectacles closer to her nose, and watched him.

“If the poor woman leads such a lonely, miserable life, I
should think that death would prove a blessed release to her.
Of course it is natural and reasonable that you should desire to
save all your patients, but why are you so very unhappy about
her?”

He did not answer immediately, and when he spoke his deep
tone was tremulous with fervent feeling.

“Because I find that she is dearer to me than all the other
women in the world, except my sister; and her death would
grieve me more than any trial that has yet overtaken me —
more than you can realize, or than I can express.”

He took Miss Jane's face in his hands, kissed her, and left the
room.

Meeting Muriel and Salome in the hall, the former seized his
arm, and exclaimed,—

“You shall not leave home again! Let me tell Elbert to put
up your buggy. If you continue to work yourself down, as
you are now doing, you will be prematurely old, and gray, and
decrepit. Come into the parlor, and let me play you to sleep.”

“I heartily wish I could follow your pleasant prescription, but
duty is inexorable, and knows no law but that of obedience.”

“Must you sit up to-night? Is that poor lady no better?”

“I can see no improvement, and must remain until I do.”

“You are afraid that she will die?”

“I hope that God will spare her life.”

His serious tone awed Muriel, who raised his hand to her
lips, and murmured, —

“My dear doctor, I wish I could help you. I wish I could
do something to make you look less troubled.”

“You can help me, little one, by being happy yourself, and by
aiding Salome in cheering my sister, while I am forced to spend
so much time away from her. Good evening. Take care of
yourselves till I come home.”

Humming a bar of a Genoese barcarole, Muriel ran up stairs
to join her governess; but Salome turned and followed the
master of the house to the front door.

“Dr. Grey, can I render you any assistance at `Solitude'?”

“Thank you, — the time has passed when you might have
aided me. Two weeks ago, when I requested you to go with
me, Mrs. Gerome was rational and would have yielded to your
influence, but now she is delirious and you could accomplish
nothing. The servants are faithful and attentive, and can be
trusted during my absence to execute my orders.”

A bright flush rose to Salome's temples, and her eyes drooped
beneath his, so anxious and yet so calmly sad.

“At the time you spoke to me I could not go, but now I
really should be glad to accompany you. Will you take me?”

“No, Salome.”

“Your reason, Dr. Grey?”

“Is one whose utterance would pain you, consequently I trust
you will pardon me for withholding it.”

“At my own peril, I demand it.”

“The motive which prompts your offer precludes the possibility
of my acceptance.”

“How dare you sit in judgment on my motives? You who
prate and homilize of charity! charity! and who quote the
`golden rule' solely for the edification and guidance of those
around you. Example is more potent than precept, and we are
creatures of imitation. Suppose I should question the disinterestedness
of your motives in allowing one patient to
monopolize your attention to the detriment of the remainder?
Of course you would be shocked and think me presumptuous,
for one's sins and follies often play hide and seek, and sometimes
we insult our own pet fault when we find it housed in some
other piece of flesh.”

“Good night, Salome. I shall endeavor to forget all this,

since I am too sincerely your friend to desire to set your hasty
words in the storehouse of memory.”

He looked down pityingly, sorrowfully, into her angry imperious
eyes, and sudden shame smote her, making her cheeks
glow and tingle as if from the stroke of an open hand.

“Dr. Grey, wait one moment! Let me say something, that
will show, — that will —”

“Only make matters worse. No, Salome, I have little time
for trifling, still less for recrimination, none at all for dissimulation;
and, in your present mood, the least we can say
will prove the most powerful for good.”

He went down to his buggy, but stopped and reflected; and
fearing that he might have been too harsh, he turned and
approached her, as she stood leaning against one of the columns
of the gallery.

“Do not think me rude. I am not less your friend than formerly,
though I am anxious, and doubtless appear preoccupied.
Let us shake hands in peace.”

He extended his own, but the girl stood motionless, and the
remorseful anguish and humiliation of her uplifted face touched
his heart.

“Dr. Grey, if you really forgive and forget, prove it by
taking me to `Solitude.'”

“Do not ask what you well know I have quite determined it
is best that I should not grant.”

The spark leaped up lurid as ever, in her dilating eyes.

“You take this method to punish me for my refusal to
comply with your wishes a fortnight since?”

“I have neither the right nor inclination to punish you in
any respect, and you must pardon my inability to accede to a
request which my judgment does not approve. Good-by.”

He put his hand into his pocket, and left her; and while she
stood irresolute and disappointed, a servant summoned her to
Miss Jane's presence.

“Can I do anything for you?” asked the orphan, observing
the cloud on the old lady's brow.

“Yes, dear; sit down here and talk to me. I feel lonely,

now that Ulpian is away so constantly. He seems very uneasy
about that woman at `Solitude,' and I never saw him manifest so
much anxiety about any one. By the by, Salome, tell me
something concerning her.”

“I have already told you all I know of her.”

“Wherein consists her attractiveness?”

“Who said she was attractive? She is handsome, and there
is something peculiar and startling about her, but she is by no
means a beauty. I have heard Dr. Grey say that she possessed
remarkable talent, but I have been favored with no exhibition
of it. Why do you not question your brother? Doubtless it
would afford him much pleasure to furnish an inventory of her
charms and accomplishments, and dilate upon them ad libitum.”

“What makes you so savage?”

“Simply because there happens to be a touch of the wild beast
in my nature, and I have not a doubt that if the doctrine of
metempsychosis be true, I was a tawny dappled leopardess or a
green-eyed cougar in the last stage of my existence. Miss Jane,
sometimes I feel as if it would be a luxury — a relief — to
crunch and strangle something or somebody, — which is not an
approved trait of orthodox Christian character, to say nothing
of meek gentility and lady-like refinement.”

She laughed with a degree of indescribable scorn and bitterness
that was pitiable indeed in one so young.

“There is an evil fit on Saul.”

“Yes; and you are neither my harp nor my David.”

“Does my little girl expect to find a `cunning player,' who
will charm away all the barbarous notions that occasionally lead
her astray, and tempt her to wickedness?”

“Verily, — no. The son of Jesse has forsaken his own household,
and made unto himself an idol elsewhere; and I — Saul —
surrender to Asmodeus.”

Miss Jane laid her hand on the girl's arm, and said, in a
hesitating, troubled manner, —

“Has Ulpian told you?”

“Why should he tell me? My eyes sometimes take pity on
my ears, — and seeing very distinctly, save the necessity of

hearing. My vision is quite as keen now as when, in my anterior
existence, I crouched in jungles, watching for my prey. Oh,
Miss Jane! if you could look here, and know all that I have
suffered during the past three weeks, you would not wonder that
the tiger element within me swallows up every other feeling.”

She struck her hand heavily upon her heart, and the old lady
was frightened and distressed by the glitter of the eyes and the
dilation of the slender nostrils.

“When I came in, I knew from your countenance that you
had heard something which you desired to prepare me for, —
which you intended to break gently to me. But your kindness
is unavailing. The truth crashed in on my heart without premonition;
and I saw, and understood, and accepted the inevitable;
and since then, — ah, my God! since then —”

Her head drooped upon her bosom, and a groan concluded
the sentence.

“Perhaps Ulpian only pities the poor woman's desolation, and
will lose his interest in her when she recovers her health. You
know how tenderly he sympathizes with all who suffer, and I
dare say it is more compassion than love.”

“What hypocrites we often are, in our desire to comfort
those whom we see in agony! Miss Jane, your kind heart is
holding a hand over the mouth of conscience, to smother its cries
and protests while you utter things in which you know there is
no truth. You mean well; but you ought to know better than
to expect to deceive me. I understand the difference between
love and compassion, and so do you; and Dr. Grey has not kept
the truth from you. He has given his heart to that gray-haired,
gray-eyed woman, — and if she lives, he will marry her; and
then, if there were twenty oceans, I should want them all
to roll between us. I tell you now, I can not and will not stay
here to see the day that makes that pale gray phantom his wife.
I should go mad, and do something that might add new horrors
to that doomed and abhorred `Solitude,' that has become Dr.
Grey's Mecca. I could live without his love, but I can not stand
tamely by and see him lavish it on another. Some women, —
such, for instance, as we read of in novels, would meekly endure

this trial, as one appointed by Heaven to wean them from earth;
would fold their hands, and grow devout, and romantically thin
and wan, — and get sweet, patient, martyr expressions about their
unkissed lips; but I am in no respect a model heroine, and
it will prove safer for us all if I am far away when Dr. Grey
brings his bride to receive your sisterly embrace. If you are
lonely, send for Muriel and Miss Dexter, and let them entertain
you. Just now, I am not fit company for any but the dwellers
in Padalon; so let me go away where I can be quiet.”

“Stay, Salome! Where are you going?”

“To walk.”

The orphan disengaged her dress from Miss Jane's fingers,
which had clutched its folds to detain her, and made her escape
just as Muriel tapped at the door.

During the three weeks that had elapsed since Elsie's death,
Mrs. Gerome had not left the house, and the third day after the
funeral she laid her head down on the pillow from which it
seemed probable she would never again lift it.

A low steady fever seized her, and at length her brain became
so seriously affected that all hope of recovery appeared futile
and delusive. In the early stages of her illness, Dr. Grey
requested Salome to assist him in nursing her, but the girl dared
not trust herself to witness the manifestations of an affection
that nearly maddened her, and had almost rudely refused
compliance.

As the days wore drearily on, and Dr. Grey's haggard, anxious
countenance, told her that her rival was indeed upon the brink
of dissolution, a wild hope whispered that perhaps she might be
spared the fierce ordeal she so much dreaded; that if Mrs.
Gerome died, the future might brighten, — life would be endurable.
In her wonted impulsive manner, the girl had thrown
herself on her knees, and passionately prayed the Almighty to
remove from earth the one woman who proved an obstacle to all
her hopes of peace and contentment.

She did not pause to inquire whether her petition was not an
insult to Him who alone could grant it; she neither analyzed,
nor felt self-rebuked for her sinful emotions and intense hatred

of the sick woman, — but vowed repeatedly that she would lead
a purer, holier life, if God would only interpose and prevent
Dr. Grey from becoming the husband of any one.

She had no faith in the superior wisdom of her Maker, and
would not wait patiently for the developments of His divine
will toward her; but chose her own destiny, and demanded
that Omnipotence should become an ally for its accomplishment.
Like many who are less honest in confessing their faith, this
girl professed allegiance to her Creator only so long as He appeared
a coadjutor in her schemes; and, when thwarted and
disappointed, fierce rebellion broke out in her heart, and annulled
her oaths of fealty and obedience.

Dr. Grey was not ignorant of the emotions that swayed and
controlled her conduct, and when she declared herself ready to
attend the invalid, he was thoroughly cognizant of the fact that
she longed to witness the death which she deemed impending;
and he could not consent to see her eager eyes watching the
feeble breathing of the woman whom he now loved so fervently.

While he believed that in most matters Salome would not
deceive him, he realized that in one of her passionate moods of
jealous hate, irremediable mischief might result, and prudently
resolved to keep her beyond the pale of temptation.

It was almost dark when he reached the secluded house where
he had passed so many days and nights of anxiety, and went
into the quiet room in which only a dim light was permitted to
burn. Katie was sitting near the bed, but rose at his approach,
and softly withdrew.

Emaciated and ghastly, save where two scarlet spots burned
on the hollow cheeks, Mrs. Gerome lay, with her wasted arms
thrown over her head, and her eyes fixed on vacancy. Even
when delirium was at its height she yielded to the physician's
voice and touch, like some wild creature who recognizes no
control save that of its keeper; and from his hand alone would
she take the medicines administered.

Whether the influence was merely magnetic, he did not
inquire, but felt comforted by the assurance that his presence
had power to tranquillize her.

Now, as he drew her arms down from the pillow, and took her
thin hot hand in his cool palms, a shadowy smile stole over her
features, and she fixed her eyes intently on his.

“I knew you would protect me from him.”

“Protect you from whom?”

“From Maurice. He is hiding yonder, — behind the window-curtain.”

She pointed across the room, and a scowl darkened her countenance.

“You have only been dreaming.”

“No, I am awake; and if you look behind the curtain you will
find him. His eyes are burning my face.”

Willing to dispel this fantasy, Dr. Grey went to the window,
and, drawing aside the lace drapery, showed her the vacant
recess.

“Ah, he has escaped! Well, perhaps it is better so, and
there will be no blood shed. Let him go back to Edith, —
`golden-haired Edith Dexter,' — and live out the remnant of
his days. He came hoping to find me dead, but I am not as
accommodating now as formerly. Where are those violets?
Tell Elsie to bring the jars in, where I can smell them.”

He took a bunch of the fragrant flowers from his coat pocket,
and put them in her hand, for during her illness she was never
satisfied unless there was a bouquet near her; and now, having
feebly smelled them, her eyes closed.

More than once she had mentioned the name of Edith Dexter,
always coupling it with that of Maurice, who she evidently
believed was lurking with evil purposes around her home;
and Dr. Grey was sorely perplexed to follow the thread that
now and then appeared, but failed to guide him to any satisfactory
solution of the mystery. He knew that since she made
“Solitude” her place of residence, Mrs. Gerome had never met
Muriel's governess, and he conjectured that she had either
known her in earlier years or now alluded to another person
bearing the same name. Miss Dexter was very fair, with a
profusion of light yellow hair, and suited in all respects the
incoherent description that fell from the sick woman's lips.

While at home for a short time that afternoon, Dr. Grey had
spoken of the dangerous condition of his patient, and asked the
governess if she had ever seen or known Mrs. Gerome. Without
hesitation, Edith Dexter quietly replied in the negative.

Formerly he had indulged little curiosity with reference to
the widow's history, but since she had become endeared to him,
he was conscious of an earnest desire to possess himself of a
record of all that had so darkened and chilled the life of the
only woman he had ever loved.

Once she had been merely an interesting psychological puzzle,
and in some degree a physiological anomaly; but from the day
of Elsie's death, his heart had yielded more and more to the
strange fascination she exerted over him; and now, as he sat
looking into her face, so mournfully sharpened and blanched
by disease, he acknowledged to his own soul that if she should
die the brightest and dearest hopes that ever gladdened his life
would be buried in her grave.

Thoroughly convinced that his happiness depended on her
recovery, he prayed continually that if consistent with God's
will, He would spare her to him, and save him from the
anguish of a lonely life, which her love might bless and
brighten.

But above the petition, — above all the strife of human love,
and hope, and fear, — rose silvery clear, “Nevertheless, Father,
not my will, but Thine.”

During his long vigils he had allowed imagination to paint
beautiful pictures of the To-Come, wherein shone the figure of
a lovely wife whose heart was divided only between God and
her husband, — whose life was consecrated first to Christ,
secondly to promoting the happiness of the man who loved her
so truly.

The apprehension of losing her was rendered still more acute
by the reflection that her soul was not prepared for its exit from
the realm of probation, and the thought of a separation that
would extend through endless æons, was well-nigh intolerable.

If she survived this attack, he believed that his influence

would redeem and sanctify her life; if she died, would God
have mercy on her wretched soul?

His faith in Providence was no jagged, quivering reed, but a
strong, staunch, firm staff that had never yet failed him, and
in this hour of severe trial he leaned his aching heart confidently
and calmly upon it.

That some mysterious circumstances veiled the earlier portion
of Mrs. Gerome's life, he had inferred from Elsie's promise of
confidence, and since death denied her the desired revelation,
he had put imagination upon the rack, in order to solve the
riddle.

What could the old nurse wish to tell him, that she was
unwilling to divulge until her latest breath? Could the stain
of crime cling to that pale face on the pillow, or to those
white hands that rested so helplessly in his? Had she soiled
her life by any deed that would bring a blush to those thin
sunken cheeks, or a flush of shame to the brow of the man
who loved her? Now bending fondly over her, the language
of his heart was, —

“Let her dead past bury its dead! Let the by-gone be what
it may, — come sorrow, come humiliation, but I will dauntlessly
shield her with my name, defend her with my strong arm, uphold
her by my honor, save her soul by my prayers, comfort
and gladden her heart with my deathless love.”

He was well aware that this night must decide her fate, —
that her feeble frame could not much longer struggle with the
disease that had almost vanquished it, — and leaning his forehead
against her hand, he silently prayed that God would
speedily restore her to health, or give him additional grace to
bear the bitter bereavement.

She slept more quietly than she had been able to do for some
days, and Dr. Grey sent for Robert, who was pacing the walk
that led to the stables. They sat down together on the steps at
the rear of the house, and the gardener asked in a frightened,
husky tone, —

“Is there bad news?”

“I see little change since noon, except that she is more quiet,

which is certainly favorable; but she is so very ill that I
thought it best to consult you about several matters. Do you
know whether she has made a will?”

“No, sir. How should I know it, even if she had?”

“Who is her agent?”

Robert hesitated, and pretended to be busy filling and lighting
his pipe.

“Maclean, I have no desire to pry into Mrs. Gerome's affairs,
but it is necessary that those who direct or control her estate
should be apprised of her condition. It is supposed that her
fortune is ample, and her heirs should be informed of her
illness.”

“She has no heirs, except —”

He paused, and after a few seconds exclaimed, —

“Don't ask me! All I know is that I heard her say she
intended to leave her fortune to poor painters.”

“To whom shall I write, or rather telegraph? Where did
she live before she came to `Solitude'? Who were her
friends?”

“Mr. Simonton, of New York, is her lawyer and agent. Two
letters have come from him since she has been sick. Of course
I did not open them, but I know his handwriting. They are
behind the clock in the back parlor.”

“Would it not be better to telegraph him at once?”

“What good could he do? Better send for the minister,
and have her baptized. Oh! but this is truly a world of
trouble, and I almost wish I was safely out of it.”

“If she were conscious, she would not submit to baptism;
and it would not be right to take advantage of her delirium and
force a ceremony to which she is opposed.”

“Not even, sir, to save her soul?”

“Her soul can not be affected by the actions of others, unless
her will coöperates, which is impossible in her present condition.
Robert, after your mother was partially paralyzed, she
said that she desired to confide something to me just before
her death, and intimated that it referred to Mrs. Gerome. She
wished me to befriend her mistress, and felt that I ought to

know the particulars of her early history. Unfortunately, Elsie
was speechless when I arrived, and could not tell me what she
had intended to acquaint me with. I mention this fact to
assure you that if your mother could trust me, you need not
regard me so suspiciously.”

“Dr. Grey, as far as I am concerned, you are very welcome to
every thought in my head and feeling in my heart; but where
it touches my mistress I have nothing to say. I will not deny
that I know more than you do, but when my poor mother told
me, she held my hand on the Bible and made me swear a solemn
oath that what she told me should never pass my lips to any
man, woman, or child. So you must not blame me, sir.”

“Certainly not, Robert. But if she has any friends it is
your duty to send for them at once.”

Dr. Grey rose and went into the library, where for some moments
he walked to and fro, perplexed and grieved. As his eye
rested on the escritoire, he recollected the key which he had
kept in his pocket since the hour that he picked it up from the
carpet.

Doubtless a few minutes' search in its drawers and casket
would place him in possession of the facts which Elsie wished
to confide; but notwithstanding the circumstances that might
almost have justified an investigation, his delicate sense of honor
forbade the thought. Taking the letters from the mantelpiece,
he turned them to the lamp-light.

Mrs. Agla Gerome,
Care of Robert Maclean,
Box 20.
— —.

They were post-marked New York, and from the size and
appearance of the envelopes he suspected that they contained
legal documents. Perhaps one of them might prove a will,
awaiting signature and witnesses. Dr. Grey carried them into
the room where his patient still slept, and placed them on the
dressing-table. Accidentally his glance fell on a large worn
Bible that lay contiguous, and brightening the light, he opened
the volume, and turned to the record of births.

“Vashti Evelyn, born June 10th, 18—.

“Henderson Flewellyn, born April 17th, 18—.

“Vashti Flewellyn, born January 30th, 18—.”

On the marriage record he found, —

“Married, July 1st, 18—, Vashti Evelyn to Henderson
Flewellyn.

“Married, September 8th, 18—, Evelyn Flewellyn to Maurice
Carlyle.”

The only deaths recorded were those of Henderson and Vashti
Flewellyn.

Whatever the mystery might be, Dr. Grey resolved to pursue
the subject no further; but wait patiently and learn all from the
beautiful lips of the white-faced sphinx, who alone possessed
the right to unseal the record of her blighted life.