 | CHAPTER XXIII. Vashti, or, "Until death us do part" |  |
23. CHAPTER XXIII.
IN the pure, clear light of early morning, “Grassmere,”
with its wide, smooth lawn, and old-fashioned brick
house, weather-stained and moss-mantled, looked singularly
peaceful and attractive. Against the sombre mass of tree-foliage,
white and purple altheas raised their circular censers, as
if to greet the sun that was throwing level beams from the eastern
hill-top, and delicate pink, and deep azure, and pearl-pale convolvulus
held up their velvet trumpets all beaded with dew, to be
drained by the first kiss of the great Day-God. Up and down
the comb of the steep roof, beautiful pigeons with necklaces that
rivalled the trappings of Solomon, strutted and cooed; on the
eaves, busy brown wrens peeped into the gutters, —
“And of the news delivered their small souls,” —
partridge whistled for its mate, and shy doves swinging in
the highest elm limbs, moaned plaintively of the last hunting-season,
that had proved a St. Bartholomew's day to the innocent
feathered folk.
On the lawn a flock of turkeys were foraging among the clover-blossoms,
and over the dewy grass a large brood of young guineas
raced after their mother, or played hide-and-seek, like nut-brown
bird-world — always abroad early — no living thing seemed
astir, and the silence that reigned was broken only by the distance-softened
bleating of Stanley's pet lamb.
As Salome walked slowly and wearily up the avenue, she saw
that the house-maid had opened the front door, and when the
orphan ascended the steps, all within was still as a tomb, except
the canary that sprang into its ring and began to warble a reveille
as she approached the cage. Miss Jane was usually an early
riser, and often aroused her servants, but to-day the household
seemed to have overslept themselves, and when Salome had rearranged
her dress, and waked her little brother, she rang the
bell for Rachel, who soon obeyed the summons.
“Is Miss Jane up?”
“No, ma'am, I suppose not, as she has not rung for me. You
know I always wait for her bell.”
“Perhaps she is not very well this morning. I will go and
see whether she intends to get up.”
Salome went down stairs and knocked at the door of Miss
Jane's room, but no sound was audible within, and she softly
turned the bolt and entered.
The lamp was burning very dimly on a table close to the bed,
and upon the open bible lay the spectacles which the old lady
had placed there twelve hours before, when she finished reading
the nightly chapter that generally composed her mind and put
her to sleep.
Salome conjectured that she had forgotten to extinguish the
lamp, and as she cautiously turned the wick down, her eyes
rested on the open page where pencil-lines marked the twelfth
chapter of Ecclesiastes, and enclosed the sixth and seventh
verses, “Or ever the silver cord be loosed, or the golden bowl
be broken, or the pitcher be broken at the fountain, or the
wheel broken at the cistern. Then shall the dust return to the
earth as it was; and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it.”
Removing the glasses, the girl closed the book, and leaned
over the pillow to look at the sleeper. She had turned her face
towards the wall, and one hand lay under her head, pressed
outside of the counterpane.
Very softly she slumbered, with a placid smile half breaking
over her aged, wrinkled features; and unwilling to shorten the
morning nap in which she so rarely indulged, Salome sat down
at the foot of the bed, and leaning her head on her hands, fell
into a painful and profound reverie.
Nearly an hour passed, unheeded by the unhappy girl, whose
anguish rendered her indifferent to all that surrounded her; and
after a while a keen pang thrilled her heart, as she heard Dr.
Grey's pleasant voice jesting with Stanley on the lawn. His
happiness seemed an insult to her misery, and she stopped her
ears to exclude the sound of his quiet laugh.
A half hour elapsed, and then his well-known rap was heard
at the door. Miss Jane did not answer, and Salome was in no
mood to welcome him home; but he waited for neither, and
came in, gently closing the door behind him.
At sight of the orphan, he started slightly, and said, —
“Is my sister sick?”
“I don't know, but she is sleeping unusually late. I thought
it best not to disturb her.”
The look of dread that swept over his countenance frightened
her, and she rose as he moved hastily to the bed-side.
“Salome, open the blinds. Quick! quick!”
She sprang to the window, threw the shutters wide open, and
hastened back. Dr. Grey's hand was on his sister's wrist, and
his ear pressed against her heart, — strained to catch some faint
pulsation. His head went down on her pillow, and Salome held
her breath.
“Oh, Janet! My dear, patient, good sister! This is indeed
hard to bear. To die alone — unsoothed — unnoticed; with
no kind hands about you! To die — without one farewell
word!”
He hid his face in his hands, and Salome staggered to the bed,
and grasped Miss Jane's rigid, icy fingers.
In the silence of midnight, Death stole her spirit from its clay
garments, and while she slept peacefully had borne her beyond
Celestial.
A life dedicated to pure aims and charitable deeds had been
rewarded with a death as painless as the slumber of a tired child
on its mother's bosom, and, without struggle or premonition, the
soul had slipped from the bondage of flesh into the Everlasting
Peace that remaineth for the children of God.
It was impossible to decide at what hour she had died; and
when the members of the appalled household were questioned,
Muriel and Miss Dexter stated that she had kissed them good-night
and appeared as well as usual at her customary time of
retiring; and Rachel testified that after she was in bed, she rang
her bell and directed her to tell the cook that as Dr. Grey would
probably come home about daylight, she must get up early and
have a cup of coffee ready when he arrived. Sobbing passionately,
Rachel added, —
“When I asked her if I should put out the lamp, she said,
`No; Ulpian may lose his patient, and come home sad, and
then he will come in and talk to me awhile.' And just as
I was leaving the room, she called to me, `Rachel, what
coat did Ulpian wear? It turns so cool now before daylight
that he will take cold if he has on that linen one.' I told
her I did not know, and she would not be satisfied till I went to
his room and found that the linen coat was hanging in the closet,
and the gray flannel one was missing. Then she opened her
bible and said, `Ah, that is all right. The flannel one will
do very well, and my boy will be comfortable.'”
Dr. Grey's grief was deep, but silent; and, during the dreary
day and night that succeeded, he would allow no one to approach
him except Muriel, whose soft little hands, and tearful, tender
caresses, seemed in some degree to comfort him.
One month before, Salome would have wept and mourned
with him, but the fountain of her tears was exhausted and
scorched by the intense bitterness and despairing hate that had
taken possession of her since the day of Elsie's burial; and
stunned and dry-eyed, she watched the preparations for the
obsequies of her benefactress.
Her love for Miss Jane had never been sufficiently fervent to
render her distress very poignant; but in the death of this devoted
friend she was fully aware that at last she was set once
more adrift in the world, without chart or rudder save that
furnished by her will.
Life to-day was not the beautiful web, all aglow with the
tangling of gold and silver threads, that had once charmed and
dazzled her, for the mildew of hopelessness had tarnished the
gilding, and the mesh was only a mass of dark knots, and subtle
crossings, and inextricable confusion.
Like that lost star that once burned so luridly in Cassiopeia,
and flickered out, leaving a gulf of gloom where stellar glory
was, the one most precious hope that lights and sanctifies a
woman's heart had waned and grown sickly, and finally had
gone out utterly, and dust and ashes and darkness filled the
void. In natures such as hers, this hope is not allied to the
phœnix, and, once crushed, knows no resurrection; consequently
she cheated herself with no vain expectation that the mighty
wizard, Time, could evoke from corpse or funeral-pyre even a
spark to cheer the years that were thundering before her.
A few months ago the future had glistened as peaceful and
silvery as the Dead Sea at midnight, when a full-orbed Syrian
moon glares down, searching for the palms and palaces that once
marked Gomorrah's proud places; and, like some thirsty traveller
smitten with surface sheen, she had laid her fevered lips to
the treacherous margin, and, drinking eagerly, had been repaid
with brine and bitumen.
Disappointment was with her no meek, mute affair, but a
savage fiend that browbeat and anathematized fate, accusing
her of rendering existence a mere Nitocris banquet, where, while
every sense is sharpened and pampered, and fruition almost
touches the outstretched hands of eager trust, the flood-gates of
the mighty Nile of despair are lifted, and its chill, dusky waves
make irremediable wreck of all.
With the quiet thoughtfulness and good sense that characterized
her unobtrusive conduct, Miss Dexter had prepared from
Muriel's wardrobe an entire suit of mourning, which she prevailed
the funeral, the latter went down early into the draped and
darkened parlor, where the coffin and its cold tenant awaited
the last offices that dust can perform for dust.
She had not spoken to Dr. Grey for twenty-four hours, and,
finding him beside the table where his sister's body lay, the
orphan would have retreated, but he caught the rustling sound
of her crape and bombazine, and held out his hand.
“Come in, Salome.”
She took no notice of the offered fingers, but passed him, and
went around the table to the opposite side.
The wrinkled, sallow face, still wore its tranquil half-smile,
and, under the cap-border of fine lace, the grizzled hair lay
smooth and glossy on the sunken temples.
In accordance with a wish which she had often expressed, the
ghostly shroud was abandoned, and Miss Jane was dressed in
her favorite black silk. Salome had gathered a small bouquet of
the fragile white blossoms of apple-geranium, of which the old
lady was particularly fond, and, bending over the coffin, she
laid them between the fingers that were interlaced on the pulseless
heart.
With a quiet mournfulness, more eloquent than passionate
grief, the girl stood looking for the last time at the placid countenance
that had always beamed kindly and lovingly upon her
since that dreary day, when, under the flickering shadow of the
mulberry-tree, she had called her from the poor-house and given
her a happy home.
She stooped to kiss the livid lips, that had never spoken
harshly to her; and, for some seconds, her face was hidden on
the bosom of the dead. When she raised it, the dry, glittering
eyes and firm mouth, betokened the bitterness of soul that no
invectives could exhaust, no language adequately express.
“Dr. Grey, if the exchange could be made, I would not only
willingly, but gladly, thankfully, lie down here in this coffin, and
give your sister back to your arms. The Reaper, Death, has
cut down the perfect, golden grain, and left the tares to shiver
in the coming winter. Some who are useless and life-weary
them, and they wither slowly among the stubble.”
He looked at her, and found it difficult to realize that the
pale, quiet, stern woman, standing there in sombre weeds, was
the same fair young face that he had seen thirty-six hours before
in the moonlight that brightened Elsie's grave. He thought
that only the slow, heavy rolling of years could have worn those
lines about her faded lips, and those dark purplish hollows
under the steady, undimmed eyes. That composed, frigid Salome,
watching him from across the corpse and coffin, seemed a mere
chill shadow of the fiery, impetuous, radiant girl, whose passionate
waywardness had so often annoyed and grieved him. The
alabaster vase was still perfect in form, but the lamp that had
hitherto burned within, lending a rosy glow to clay, had fluttered
and expired, and the change was painful indeed.
His attention was so riveted upon the extraordinary alteration
in her appearance, that her words fell on his ear, as empty, as
meaningless, as the echoes heard in dreams, and when she ceased
speaking, he looked perplexed, and sighed heavily.
“What did you say? I do not think I understand you; my
mind was abstracted when you spoke.”
“True; you never will understand me. Only the dead sleeping
here between us fully comprehended me, and even unto the
end of my life-chapter I must walk on misapprehended. When
the coffin-lid is screwed down over that dear, kind face, I shall
have bidden adieu to my sole and last friend; for in the Hereafter
she will not know me. Ah, Miss Jane! you tried hard to
teach me Christianity, but it was like geometry, I had no talent
for it, — could not take hold of it, — and it all slipped through
my fingers. If there is indeed an inexorable and incorruptible
Justice reigning behind the stars, you will be so happy that I,
and my sins, and my desolation will not trouble you. Good-by,
dear Miss Jane; it is not your fault that I missed my chance
of being coaxed into the celestial fold with the elect sheep, and
find myself scourged out with the despised goats. God grant
you His everlasting rest.”
She turned, but Dr. Grey stretched his arm across his sister's
body, and caught the orphan's dress.
“Salome, God has called my own sister to her blessed rest in
Christ, but my adopted sister He has left to comfort, to sympathize
with me. Here, in the sacred presence of my dear dead,
I ask you to take her place, and be to me throughout life the
true, loving, faithful friend whom nothing can alienate, and of
whom only death can deprive me. My little sister, let the
future ripen and sanctify our confidence, affection, and friendship.”
“No, sir; sinners can not fill the niches of the saints; and to-day
we are more completely divided than if the ocean roared
between us. Once I struggled hard to cure myself of my faults,
— to purify and fashion my nature anew, but the incentive has
died, and I have no longer the proud aspirations that lifted me
like eagle's wings high above the dust into which I have now
fallen, — and where I expect to remain. You need not fear that
I shall commit some capital sin, and go down in disgrace to my
grave; for there must be some darling hope, some precious aim,
that goads people to crime, — and neither of these have I. I do
not want your friendship, and I will not allow your dictation;
and, if you are as generous as I have believed you, I think you
will spare me the manifestation of your pity. Miss Jane was the
only link that united us in any degree, and now we are asunder
and adrift. You see at least I am honest, and since I have
not your confidence, I decline your compassion and espionage,
and refuse to accept a sham friendship, — to trust myself upon
a gossamer web that stretches across a dismal gulf of gloom, and
wretchedness, and endless altercation. When I am in one continent,
and you are in another, we shall be better friends than
now.”
Her cold, slow, measured accents, and the calm pallor of her
features told how complete was the change that had set its stern
seal on body and soul; and Dr. Grey's heart ached, as he realized
how withering was the blight that had fallen on her once
buoyant, sanguine nature.
“My dear Salome, for Janet's sake, and in memory of all
can only result in utter —”
“Dr. Grey, let there be silence and peace between us, at least
in the presence of the dead. Expostulation from your lips only
exasperates and hardens me; so pray be quiet. No! do not
touch me! Our hands have not clasped each other so often nor
so closely that they must needs miss the warmth and pressure
in the coming years of separation, and I will not soil your palm
with mine.”
She coldly put aside the hand that endeavored to take hers,
and, after one long, sad gaze at the marble face in the coffin,
turned away, and went back to her own room.
Miss Jane's charities had carried her name even to the secluded
nooks of the county, and, when her death was announced,
many humble beneficiaries of her bounty came to offer the last
testimonial of respect and gratitude, by following the remains to
their final resting-place. As the hour approached for the solemn
rites, the house was filled with friends and acquaintances; and
the members of the profession to which Dr. Grey belonged came
to attend the funeral, and officiate as pall-bearers.
Seated beside Dr. Grey, on one of the sofas, Salome's dry
eyes noted all that passed while the services were performed;
and, when the hearse moved down the avenue, she took his
offered arm, and was placed in the same carriage.
It was a long, dreary drive to the distant cemetery, and she
was relieved to some extent when they found themselves at the
family vault. Miss Jane had always desired to be buried under
the slab that covered her brother, and had directed a space
left for that purpose. Now the marble was removed, and the
coffins of Jane and Enoch Grey rested side by side. The voice
of the minister ceased, and only little Stanley's sobs broke that
mournful silence which always ensues while spade or trowel does
its sad work. Then the sculptured slab was replaced, and
brother and sister were left to that blessed repose which is
granted only to the faithful when “He giveth His beloved
sleep.”
Because they rest,'... because their toil is o'er.
The voice of weeping shall be heard no more
In the Eternal City. Neither dying
Nor sickness, pain nor sorrow, neither crying,
For God shall wipe away all tears. Rest, — rest.”
In the death of his sister, Dr. Grey mourned the loss of the
only mother he had ever known, for his earliest recollections
were of Miss Jane's tender care and love, and his affection was
rather that of a devoted son than brother; consequently, the
blow was doubly painful: but he bore it with a silent fortitude,
a grave and truly Christian resignation, that left an indelible
impression upon the minds of Miss Dexter and Muriel, and
taught them the value of a faith that could bring repose and
trust in the midst of a trial so severe.
His continued vigils at “Solitude,” and the profound grief
that could not find vent in tears or words, had printed characters
on his pale, wearied face, that should have commanded the
sympathy of all who shared his friendship; but the sight of his
worn features and the sound of his slow step only embittered
the heart of the orphan, who saw in these evidences of fatigue
and anxiety new manifestations of affection for the patient who
was not yet entirely beyond danger.
Four days after the funeral, Dr. Grey came in to breakfast
later than usual, having driven over very early to “Solitude;”
and, as he seated himself at the table and received from Muriel's
hand a cup of coffee, he leaned forward and kissed her rosy
cheek.
“Thank you, my child. You are very kind to wait for me.”
“How is that poor Mrs. Gerome? Will she never be well
enough to dispense with your services?”
Once, Salome would have answered, “He hopes not;” but
now she merely turned her head a little, to catch his reply.
“She is better to-day than I feared I should find her, as some
alarming symptoms threatened her yesterday; but now I think
I can safely say the danger has entirely passed.”
Muriel hung over the back of his chair, pressing him to try
several dishes that she pronounced excellent, but he gently
refused all except the coffee; and, when he had pushed aside the
empty cup, he drew the face of his ward close to his own, and
murmured a few words that deepened the glow on her fair
cheeks, while she hastily left the room to read a letter.
For some moments he sat with his head resting on his hand,
thinking of the dear old face that usually watched him from the
corner of the fire-place, and of the kind words that were
showered on him while he breakfasted; but to-day the faded
lips were frozen forever, and the dim eyes would never again
brighten at his approach.
He sighed, brushed back the hair that clustered in glossy
brown rings on his forehead, and rose.
“Salome, if you are not particularly engaged this morning,
I should be glad to see you in the library.”
“At what hour?”
“Immediately, if you are at leisure.”
The orphan put aside the fold of crape which she was converting
into a collar, and inclined her head slightly.
Since that brief and painful interview held beside Miss Jane's
coffin, not a syllable had passed between them, and the girl
shrank with a vague, shivering dread from the impending têteà-tête.
Silently she followed the master of the house into the library,
where Dr. Grey drew two chairs to the table, and, when she had
seated herself in one, he took possession of the other.
Opening a drawer, he selected several papers from a mass of
what appeared to be legal documents, and spread them before
her.
“I wish to acquaint you with the contents of my sister's will,
which I examined last night. Will you read it, or shall I briefly
state her wishes?”
“Tell me what you wish me to know.”
She swept the papers into a pile, and pushed them away.
“Have you ever read a will?”
“No, sir.”
She leaned her elbows on the table, and rested her face in her
hands.
“All these pages amount simply to this, — dear Jane made
her will immediately after my return from Europe, and its provisions
are: that this place, with house, land, furniture, and
stock, shall be given to and settled upon you; and moreover,
that, for the ensuing five years, you shall receive every January
the sum of one thousand dollars. Until the expiration of that
period, she desired that I should act as your guardian. By reference
to the date and signature of these papers, you will find
that this will was made as soon as she was able to sit up, after her
illness produced by pneumonia; but appended to the original is
a codicil, stating that the validity of the distribution of her
estate, contained in the former instrument, is contingent upon
your conduct. Feeling most earnestly opposed to your contemplated
scheme of going upon the stage as a prima donna,
she solemnly declares, that, if you persist in carrying your
decision into execution, the foregoing provisions shall be cancelled,
and the house, land, and furniture shall be given to
Jessie and Stanley; while only one thousand dollars is set apart
as your portion. This codicil was signed one month ago.”
Dr. Grey glanced over the sheets of paper, and refolded them,
allowing his companion time for reflection and comment, but
she remained silent, and he added, —
“However your views may differ from those entertained by
my sister, I hope you will not permit yourself to doubt that a
sincere desire to promote your life-long happiness prompted the
course she has pursued.”
Five minutes elapsed, and the orphan sat mute and still.
“Salome, are you disappointed? My dear friend, deal frankly
with me.”
She lifted her pale, quiet face, and, for the first time in many
weeks, he saw unshed tears shining in her eyes, and glittering
on her lashes.
“I should be glad to know whether Miss Jane consulted you,
in the preparation of her will?”
“She conferred with me concerning the will, and I cordially
— Mr. Lindsay — called my attention to it yesterday afternoon.”
“You are very generous, Dr. Grey, and no one but you
would willingly divide your sister's estate with paupers, who
have so long imposed upon her bounty. I had no expectation
that Miss Jane would so munificently remember me, and I have
not deserved the kindness which she has lavished on me. For
Jessie and Stanley I gratefully accept her noble gift, and it will
place them far beyond the possibility of want; while the only
regret of which I am conscious, is, that I feel compelled to
pursue a career, which my best, my only friend disapproved.
In the name of poor little Jessie and Stanley, I thank you, sir,
for consenting to such a generous bequest of property that is
justly yours. You, who —”
“Pray do not mention the matter, for independent of the
large legacy left me by my sister, my own fortune is so ample
that I deserve no thanks for willingly sharing that which I do
not need. My little sister, you must not rashly decide a question
which involves your future welfare, and I can not and will not
hear your views at present. Take one week for calm deliberation,
weigh the matter prayerfully and thoughtfully, and at the
expiration of that time, meet me here, and I will accept your
decision.”
She shook her head, and a dreary smile passed swiftly over
her passionless face.
“Twenty years of reflection would not alter, or in any degree
bend my determination, which is as firmly fixed as the base
of the Blue-Ridge; and —”
“Pardon me, Salome, but, until the week has elapsed, I do not
wish or intend to receive your verdict. Before this day week,
recollect all the reasons which dear Janet urged against your
scheme; recall the pain she suffered from the bare contemplation
of such a possibility, and her tender pleadings and wise counsel.
Ah, Salome, you are young and impulsive, but I trust you will
not close your ears against your brother's earnest protest and
appeal. If I were not sincerely attached to you, I should not
perils and annoyances that you can not now realize. Hush!
I will not listen to you to-day.”
He rose, and laying his hands softly on her head, added, in a
solemn but tremulously tender tone, —
“And may God in His infinite wisdom and mercy overrule
all things for your temporal and eternal welfare, and so guide
your decision, that peace and usefulness will be your portion,
now and forever.”
| CHAPTER XXIII. Vashti, or, "Until death us do part" | |