University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.

“YES, Dr. Grey, I am better than I ever expected or
desired to be in this world.”

“Mrs. Gerome, this is scarcely the recompense
that my anxious vigilance and ceaseless exertions merit at your
hands.”

The invalid leaned far back in her cushioned easy chair, and, as
the physician rested his arm on the mantel-piece and looked down
at her, he thought of the lines that had more than once recurred
to his mind, since the commencement of their acquaintance, —

“I suppose I ought to be grateful to you, Dr. Grey, for Katie
and Robert have told me how patiently and carefully you nursed
and watched over me, during my illness; but instead of gratitude,

I find it difficult to forgive you for what you have done.
You fanned into a flame the spark of life that was smouldering
and expiring, and baffled the disease that came to me as the
handmaid of Mercy. Death, transformed into an angel of pity,
kindly opened the door of escape from the woe and weariness of
this sin-cursed world, into the calmness and dreamless rest of the
vast shoreless Beyond; and just when I was passing through,
you snatched me back to my burdens and my bitter lot. I know,
of course, that you intended only kindness, but you must not
blame me if I fail to thank you.”

“You forget that life is intended as a season of fiery probation,
and that without suffering there is no purification, and
no reward. Remember, `Calm is not life's crown, though calm
is well;' and those who forego the pain must forego the
palm.”

“I would gladly forego all things for a rest, — a sleep that
could know no end. Katie tells me I have been ill a month,
and from this brief season of oblivion you have dragged me back
to the existence that I abhor. Dr. Grey, I feel to-day as poor
Maurice de Guérin felt, when he wrote from Le Val, `My fate
has knocked at the door to recall me; for she had not gone on
her way, but had seated herself upon the threshold, waiting until I
had recovered sufficient strength to resume my journey. “Thou
hast tarried long enough,” said she to me; “come forward!”
And she has taken me by the hand, and behold her again on the
march, like those poor women one meets on the road, leading a
child who follows with a sorrowful air.'”

“There is a better guide provided, if you would only accept
and yield to his ministrations. For the flint-faced fate that you
accuse so virulently, substitute that tender and loving guardian,
the Angel of Patience.

A moment since, you quoted De Guérin, and perhaps you may
recollect one of his declarations, `I have no shelter but resignation,
and I run to it in great haste, all trembling and distracted.
Resignation! It is the burrow hollowed in the cleft of
some rock, which gives shelter to the flying and long-hunted
prey.' You will never find peace for your heart and soul until
you bring your will into complete subjection to that of Him
`who doeth all things well.' Defiance and rebellious struggles
only aggravate your sorrows and trials.”

She listened to the deep, quiet voice, as some unlettered savage
might hearken to the rhythmic music of Homer, soothed by the
tones, yet incapable of comprehending their import; and as she
looked up at the grave, kingly face, her eyes fell upon the broad
band of crape that encircled his straw hat, which had been hastily
placed on the mantel-piece.

“Dr. Grey, you ought to speak advisedly, for Robert told me
that you had recently lost your sister, and that you are now alone
in the world. You, who have severe afflictions, should know
how far resignation lightens them. I was much pained to learn
that your sister died while you were absent, — while you were
sitting up with me. Ah, sir! you ought to have watched her,
and left me to my release. You have been very kind and considerate
toward one who has no claim upon aught but your pity;
and I would gladly lie down in your sister's grave, and give her
back to your heart and home.”

Her countenance softened for an instant, and she held out her
hand. He took the delicate fingers in his, and pressed them
gently.

“God grant that your life may be spared, until all doubt and
bitterness is removed from your heart, and that when you go
down into the grave it may be as bright with the blessed faith
of a Christian as that which now contains my sister Janet. Do

not allow the gloom of earthly disappointment to cloud your
trust, but bear always in mind those cheering words of Saadi, —

“If I am to be kept in this world until all the bitterness is
scourged out of me, I might as well resign myself to a career as
endless as that of Ahasuerus. I tell you, sir, I have been forced
to drink out of quassia-cups until my whole being has imbibed
the bitter; and I am like that tree to which Firdousi compared
Mahmoud, `Whose nature is so bitter, that were you to plant
it in the garden of Eden, and water it with the ambrosial stream
of Paradise, and were you to enrich its roots with virgin honey,
it would, after all, discover its innate disposition, and only yield
the acrid fruit it had ever borne.'”

“What right have you to expect that existence should prove
one continued gala-season? When Christ went down meekly
into Gethsemane, that such as you and I might win a place in
the Eternal City, how dare you demand exemption from grief
and pain, that Jesus, your God, did not spare Himself? Are
you purer than Christ, and wiser than the Almighty, that
you impiously deride and question their code for the government
of the Universe, in which individual lives seem trivial as
the sands of the desert, or the leaves of the forest? Oh! it is
pitiable, indeed, to see some worm writhing in the dust, and
blasphemously dictating laws to Him who swung suns and
asterisms in space, and breathed into its own feeble fragment of
clay the spark that enabled it to insult its God. Put away
such unwomanly scoffing, — such irreverent puerilities; sweep
your soul clean of all such wretched rubbish, and when you feel
tempted to repine at your lot, recollect the noble admonition of
Dschelaleddin, `If this world were our abiding-place, we might
complain that it makes our bed so hard; but it is only our
night-quarters on a journey, and who can expect home
comforts?'”

“I can not feel resigned to my lot. It is too hard, — too
unjust.”

“Mrs. Gerome, are you more just and prescient than
Jehovah?”

She passed her thin hand across her face, and was silent, for
his voice and manner awed her. After a little while, she sat
erect in her chair, and tried to rise.

“Doctor, if you could look down into the gray ruins of my
heart, you would not reprove me so harshly. My whole being
seems in some cold eclipse, and my soul is like the Sistine
Chapel in Passion-week, where all is shrouded in shadow, and
no sounds are heard but Misereres and Tenebræ.”

“Promise me that in future you will try to keep it like that
Christian temple, pure and inviolate from all imprecations and
rebellious words. If gloom there must be, see to it that resignation
seals your lips. What are you trying to do? You are
not strong enough to walk alone.”

“I want to go into the parlor, — I want my piano. Yesterday
I attempted to cross the room, and only Katie's presence saved
me from a severe fall.”

She stood by her chair, grasping the carved back, and Dr.
Grey stepped forward, and drew her arm under his.

In her great weakness she leaned upon him, and when they
reached the parlor door, she paused and almost panted.

“You must not attempt to play, — you are too feeble even
to sit up longer. Let me take you back to your room.”

“No, — no! Let me alone. I know best what is good for
me; and I tell you my piano is my only Paraclete.”

Holding his arm for support, she drew a chair instead of the
piano-stool to the instrument, and seated herself.

Dr. Grey raised the lid, and waited some seconds, expecting
her to play, but she sat still and mute, and presently he stooped
to catch a glimpse of her countenance.

“I want to see Elsie's grave. Open the blinds.”

He threw open the shutters, and came back to the piano.

Through the window, the group of deodars was visible, and
there, bathed in the mild yellow sunshine was the mound, and
the faded wreath swinging in the breeze.

For many minutes Mrs. Gerome gazed at the quiet spot

where her nurse rested, and with her eyes still on the grave,
her fingers struck into Chopin's Funeral March.

After a while, Dr. Grey noticed a slight quiver cross her pale
lips, and when the mournful music reached its saddest chords,
a mist veiled the steely eyes, and very soon tears rolled slowly
down her cheeks.

The march ended, she did not pause, but began Mozart's
Requiem, and all the while that slow rain of tears dripped
down on her white fingers, and splashed upon the ivory keys.

Dr. Grey was so rejoiced at the breaking up of the ice that
had long frozen the fountain of her tears, that he made no
attempt to interrupt her, until he saw that she tottered in
her chair. Taking her hands from the piano, he said gently, —

“You are quite exhausted, and I can not permit this to
continue. Come back to your room.”

“No; let me stay here. Put me on the sofa in the oriel, and
leave the blinds open.”

He lifted her from the chair and led her to the sofa, where
she sank heavily down upon the cushions.

Without comment or resistance, she drank a glass of strong
cordial which he held to her lips, and lay with her eyes closed,
while tears still trickled through the long jet lashes.

She wore a robe of white merino, and a rich blue shawl of
the same soft material which was folded across her shoulders,
made the wan face look like some marble seraph's, hovering over
an altar where violet light streams through stained glass.

For some time Dr. Grey walked up and down the long room,
glancing now and then at his patient, and when he saw that the
tears had ceased, he brought from a basket in the hall an exquisitely
beautiful and fragrant bouquet of the flowers which
he knew she loved best, — heliotrope, violets, tube-rose, and
Grand-Duke jessamine, fringed daintily with spicy geranium
leaves, and scarlet fuchsias.

Silently he placed it on her folded hands, and the expression
of surprise and pleasure that suddenly lighted her countenance,
amply repaid him.

“Dr. Grey, it has been my wish to except services from no

one, — to owe no human being thanks; but your unvarying
kindness to my poor Elsie and to me, imposes a debt of gratitude
that I can not easily liquidate, I fear you are destined to
bankrupt me, for how can I hope to repay all your thoughtful,
delicate care, and generous interest in a stranger? Tell me in
what way I can adequately requite you.”

Dr. Grey drew a chair close to the sofa, and answered, —

“Take care lest your zeal prove the contrary, for you know a
distinguished philosopher asserts that, `Too great eagerness to
requite an obligation is a species of ingratitude;' and such an
accusation would be unflattering to you, and unpleasant to
me.”

Turning the bouquet around in order to examine and admire
each flower, Mrs. Gerome toyed with the velvet bells, and said,
sorrowfully, —

“Their delicious perfume always reminds me of my beautiful
home near Funchal, where heliotrope and geraniums grew so
tall that they looked in at my window, and hedges of fuchsias
bordered my garden walks. Never have I seen elsewhere such
profusion and perfection of flowers.”

“When were you in Madeira?”

“Two years ago. The villa I occupied was situated on the
side of a mountain, whose base was covered with vineyards;
and from a grove of lemon and oleanders that stood in front of
the house I could see the surging Atlantic at my feet, and
the crest of the mountain clothed with chestnuts, high above
and behind me. In one corner of my vineyard stood a solitary
palm, which tradition asserted was planted when Zarco discovered
the island; and the groves of orange, citron, and pomegranate
trees were always peopled with humming-birds, and
flocks of green canaries. There, surrounded by grand and
picturesque scenery of which I never wearied, I resolved to live
and die; but Elsie's desire to return to America, which held the
ashes of her husband and child, overruled my inclination
and the dictates of judgment, and reluctantly I left my mountain
Eden and came here. Now, when I smell violets and heliotrope,
regret mingles with their aroma; and, after all, the sacrifice was

in vain, and Elsie would have slept as calmly there, under palm
and chestnut, as yonder, where the deodar-shadows fall.”

“Is your life here a faithful transcript of that portion of it
passed at Funchal?”

“Yes; except that there I saw no human being but the
servants, who transacted any business that demanded interviews
with the consul.”

“It was fortunate that Elsie's wise counsel prevailed over
your caprice, for many of your griefs proceed from the complete
isolation to which you so strangely doom yourself; and until you
become a useful member of that society you are so fully fitted
to adorn and elevate, you need not hope or expect the peace of
mind that results only from the consciousness of having nobly
discharged the sacred obligations to God, and to your race.
`Bear ye one another's burdens,' was the solemn admonition of
Him who sublimely bore the burdens of an entire world.
Now tell me, have you ever stretched out a finger to aid the
toiling multitudes whose cry for help wails over even the
most prosperous lands? What have you done to strengthen
trembling hands, or comfort and gladden oppressed hearts?
How dare you hoard within your own home the treasure of
fortune, talent, and sympathy, which were temporarily entrusted
to your hands, to be sown broadcast in noble charities, — to be
judiciously invested in promoting the cause of Truth in the
fierce war Evil wages against it? Hitherto you have lived
solely for yourself, which is a sin against humanity; and have
pampered a morbid and rebellious spirit, that is a grievous
sin against your God. Shake off your lethargy and cynicism,
and let a busy future redeem a vagrant and worthless past.
`He that goeth forth and weepeth, bearing precious seed, shall
doubtless come again with rejoicing, bringing his sheaves with
him.'”

The flowers dropped on her bosom, and, clasping her hands
across her forehead, she turned her face towards the sea, and
seemed pondering his words.

“Dr. Grey, my purse has always been open to the needy, and
Elsie was my almoner. Whenever you find a destitute family,

or hear an appeal for help, I shall gladly respond, and constitute
you the agent for the distribution of my charity-fund. As for
bearing the sorrows of others, pray excuse me. I am so
weighed down with my own burdens that I have no strength
or leisure to spare to my neighbors, and since I ask no aid,
must not be censured for rendering none. It is utterly useless
to urge me to enter society, for like that sad pilgrim in Brittany,
`In losing solitude I lose the half of my soul. I go out
into the world with a secret horror. When I withdraw, I
gather together and lock up my scattered treasure, but I put
away my ideas sorely handled, like fruits fallen from the tree
upon stones.' No no; in seclusion I find the only modicum
of peace that earth can ever yield me, and can readily understand
why Chateaubriand avoided those crowds which he
denominated, `The vast desert of men.'”

“You must not be offended, if, in reply, I remind you of the
rude but vigorous words of that prince of cynics, Schopenhauer,
`Society is a fire at which the wise man from a prudent
distance warms himself; not plunging into it, like the fool who
after getting well blistered, rushes into the coldness of solitude,
and complains that the fire burns.' Of the two evils, reckless
dissipation and gloomy isolation, the latter is probably an
economy of sin; but since neither is inevitable, we should all
endeavor to render ourselves useful members of society, and
unfurl over our circle the banner of St. Paul, `Use this world
as not abusing it.' Mrs. Gerome, do not obstinately mar the
present and future, by brooding bitterly over the trials of the
past; but try to believe that, indeed, —

He watched her eagerly yet gravely, hoping that her face
would soften; but she raised her hand with a proud, impatient
motion.

“You talk at random, concerning matters of which you

know nothing. I hate the world and have abjured it, and you
might as well go down yonder and harangue the ocean on the
sin of its ceaseless muttering, as expect to remodel my aimless,
blank life.”

Pained and disappointed, he remained silent, and, as if conscious
of a want of courtesy, she added, —

“Do not allow your generous heart to be disquieted on my
account, but leave me to a fate which can not be changed, —
which I have endured seven years, and must bear to my grave.
Now that you see how desolate I am, pity me, and be silent.”

“It will be difficult for you to regain your strength here,
where so many mournful associations surround you, and I came
to-day to beg you to take a trip somewhere, by sea or land.
Almost any change of scene and air will materially benefit you,
and you need not be absent more than a few weeks. Will you
take the matter under consideration?”

“No, sir; why should I? Can hills or waves, dells or
lakes, cure a mind which you assure me is diseased? Can sea
breeze or mountain air fan out recollections that have jaundiced
the heart, or furnish an opiate that will effectually deaden
and quiet regret? I long ago tried your remedy — travelling,
and for four years I wandered up and down, and over the face
of the old world; but amid the crumbling columns of Persepolis,
I was still Agla Gerome, the wretched; and when I stood
on the margin of the Lake of Wan, I saw in its waves the reflection
of the same hopeless woman who now lies before you.
Change of external surroundings is futile, and no more affects
the soul than the roar of surface-surf changes the hollows of an
ocean bed where the dead sleep; and, verily, —

He saw that in her present mood expostulation would only
aggravate the evil he longed to correct, and hoping to divert the
current of her thoughts, he said, —

“I trust you will not deem me impertinently curious if I ask
what singular freak bestowed upon you the name of `Agla'?”

A startling change swept over her features, and her tone was
haughtily challenging.

“What interest can Dr. Grey find in a matter so trivial? If
I were named Hecate or Persephone, would the world have a
right to demur, to complain, or to criticise?”

“When a lady bears the mystic name, which, in past ages, was
given to the Deity, by a race who, if superstitious, were at
least devout and reverent, she should not be surprised if it
excites wonder and comment. Forgive me, however, if my inquiry
annoyed you.”

He rose and took his hat, but her hand caught his arm.

“Do you know the import of the word?”

“Yes; I understand the significance of the letters, and the
wonderful power attributed to them when arranged in the triangles
and called the `Shield of David.' Knowing that it was
considered talismanic, I could not imagine why you were christened
with so mystical a name.”

“I was never christened.”

He could not explain the confusion and displeasure which the
question excited, and anxious to relieve her of any feeling of
annoyance, he added, —

“Have you ever looked into the nature of the Aglaophotis?”

She struggled up from her cushions, and exclaimed, with a
vehemence that startled him, —

“What induced you to examine it? I know that it is a
strange plant, growing out of solid marble, and accounted a
charm by Arab magicians. Well, Dr. Grey, do not I belong
to that species? You see before you a human specimen of
Aglaophotis, growing out of a marble heart.”

Sometimes an exaggerated whimsicality trenches so closely
upon insanity, that it is difficult to discriminate between them;
and, as Dr. Grey noted the peculiarly cold glitter of her large
eyes, and the restless movement of her usually quiet hands,
he dreaded that the crushing weight on her heart would ultimately
impair her mind. Now he abruptly changed the topic.

“Mrs. Gerome, whenever it is agreeable to you to drive down
the beach, or across the woods and among the hills, it will

afford me much pleasure to place my horse, buggy, and myself
at your disposal; and, in fine weather like this, a drive of a few
miles would invigorate you.”

“Thank you. I shall not trouble you, for I have my low-swung
easy carriage, and my grays — my fatal grays. Ah! if
they would only serve me as they did my poor Elsie! When
I am strong enough to take the reins, I will allow them an
opportunity. Dr. Grey, if I seem rude, forgive me. You are
very kind and singularly patient, and sometimes when you have
left me, I feel ashamed of my inability to prove my sincere
appreciation of your goodness. For these beautiful flowers, I
thank you cordially.”

She held out her hand, and, as he accepted it, he drew from
his pocket the silver key which he had so carefully preserved.

“Accident made me the custodian of this key, which I found
on the floor the day of Elsie's burial. Knowing that it belonged
to your escritoire, whence I saw you take it, I thought it best
not to commit it to a servant's care, and have kept it in my
pocket until I thought you might need it.”

Although the room was growing dim, he detected the expression
of dread that crossed her countenance, and saw her bite her
thin lip with vexation.

“You have worn for one month the key of my desk, where lie
all my papers and records; and when I was so desperately ill, I
presume you looked into the drawers, merely to ascertain whether
I had prepared my will?”

The mockery of her tone stung him keenly, but he allowed no
evidence of the wound to escape him. Bending over her as she
sat partially erect, supported by cushions, he took her white face
tenderly in his hands, and said, very calmly and gently, —

“When you know me better, you will realize how groundless
is your apprehension that I have penetrated into the recesses of
your writing-desk. Knowing that it contained valuable papers,
I guarded it as jealously as you could have done; and, upon the
honor of a gentleman, I assure you I am as ignorant of its contents
as if I had never entered the house. When I consider it
essential to my peace of mind to become acquainted with your

antecedents, I shall come to you and ask what I desire to learn.
While you were so ill, I told Robert that your friends should be
notified of your imminent danger, and inquired of him whether
you had made a will, as I deemed it my duty to inform your
agent of your alarming condition. He either could not or would
not give me any satisfactory reply, and there the matter ended.
When I am gone, do not reproach yourself for having so unjustly
impugned my motives, for I shall not allow myself to believe
that you really entertain so contemptible an opinion of me; and
shall ascribe your hasty accusation to mere momentary chagrin
and pique.”

“Ah, sir! you ought not to wonder that I am so suspicious;
you — but how can you understand the grounds of my distrust,
unless —”

“Hush! We will not discuss a matter which can only excite
and annoy you. Mrs. Gerome, under all circumstances you may
unhesitatingly trust me, and I beg to assure you I shall never
divulge anything confided to me. You need a friend, and perhaps
some day you may consider me worthy to serve you in that
capacity; meantime, as your physician, I shall continue to watch
over and control you. To-day you have cruelly overtasked your
exhausted system, and I can not permit you to remain here any
longer. Come immediately to your own room.”

His manner was so quietly authoritative that she obeyed
instantly, and when he lifted her from the sofa, she took his arm,
and walked towards the door. Before they had crossed the hall,
he felt her reel and lean more heavily against him, and silently
he took the thin form in his arms, and carried her to her room.

The gray head was on his shoulder, and the cold marble cheek
touched his, as he laid her softly down on her bed and arranged
her pillows. He rang for Katie, and, in crossing the floor,
stepped on something hard. It was too dusky in the closely
curtained apartment to see any object so small, but he swept
his hand across the carpet and picked up the key that had
slipped from her nerveless fingers. Placing it beside her, he
smiled and said, —

“You are incorrigibly careless. Are you not afraid to tax

my curiosity so severely, and tempt me so pertinaciously, by
strewing your keys in my path? The next time I pick up this
one, which belongs to your escritoire, I shall engage some one to
act as your guardian. Katie, be sure she takes that tonic
mixture three times a day. Good-night.”

When the sound of his retreating footsteps died away, Mrs.
Gerome thrust the key under her pillow, and murmured, —

“I wonder whether this Ulpian can be as true, as trusty, as
nobly fearless as his grand old Roman namesake, whom not even
the purple of Severus could save from martyrdom? Ah! if
Ulpian Grey is really all that he appears. But how dare I
hope, much less believe it? Verily, he reminds me of Madame
de Chatenay's description of Joubert, `He seems to be a soul
that by accident had met with a body, and tried to make the best
of it.'”

“Did you speak to me, ma'am?” asked Katie, who was
bustling about, preparing to light the lamp.

“No. The room is like a tomb. Open the blinds and loop
back all the curtains, so that I can look out.”