University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.

EVEN at mid-day the grounds around “Solitude” were
sombre and chill, for across the sky the winds had
woven a thin, vapory veil, whose cloud-meshes seemed
fine as lace-work; and through this gilded netting the sun
looked hazy, the light wan and yellow, and rifled of its customary
noon glitter.

Following one of the serpentine walks, the governess was
approaching the house, when her attention was attracted by the
gleaming surface of a tomb, and she turned towards the pyramidal
deodars that were swaying slowly in the breeze, —

and photographing fringy images on the shining marble.

A broad circle of violets, blue with bloom, surrounded a
sexangular temple, whose dome was terminated by a mural
crown and surmounted by a cross. The beautifully polished
pillars were fluted, and wreathed with carved ivy that wound
up to the richly-sculptured cornices, where poppies clustered
and tossed their leaves along the architrave; and, in the centre,
visible through all the arches, rose an altar, bearing two angels
with fingers on their lips, who guarded an exquisite urn that
was inscribed “cor cordium.”

Beneath the eastern arch, that directly fronted the sea, were

two steps leading into the mausoleum, and, as Miss Dexter
stood within, she saw that the floor was arranged with slabs for
only two tombs close to the altar, one side of which bore in
golden tracery, —

Around the base of the urn were scattered some fresh geranium-leaves,
and very near it stood a tall, slender, Venetian
glass vase filled with odorous flowers, which had evidently
been gathered and arranged that day.

For whom had the remaining slab and opposite side of the
altar been reserved?

The heart of the governess seemed for a moment to forget its
functions, then a vague hope made it throb fiercely; and rapidly
the anxious woman directed her steps towards the house, that
seemed as silent as the grave behind her.

The hall door had swung partially open, and, dreading that
she might be refused admittance if she rang the bell, she availed
herself of the lucky accident (which in Elsie's lifetime never
happened), and entered unchallenged and unobserved.

From the parlor issued a rather monotonous and suppressed
sound, as of some one reading aloud, and, advancing a few
steps, the governess stood inside the threshold.

The curtains of the south window were looped back, the blinds
thrown open, and the sickly sunshine poured in, lighting the
easel, before which the mistress of the house had drawn an
ottoman and seated herself.

To-day, an air of unwonted negligence marked her appearance,
usually distinguished by extraordinary care and taste.

Her white merino robe de chambre was partially ungirded,
and the blue tassels trailed on the carpet; her luxuriant hair
instead of being braided and classically coiled, was gathered in
three or four large heavy loops, and fastened rather loosely by
the massive silver comb that allowed one long tress to straggle
across her shoulder, while the folds in front slipped low on her
temples and forehead.

Intently contemplating her work, she leaned her cheek on
her hand, and only the profile was visible from the door, as she
repeated, in a subdued tone, —

The easel held the largest of many pictures, upon which she
had lavished time and study, and her present work was a wide
stretch of mid-ocean, lighted by innumerable stars, and a round
glittering polar moon that swung mid-heaven like a globe of
silver, and shed a ghostly lustre on the raging, ragged waves,
above which an Aurora Borealis lifted its gleaming arch of
mysterious white fires.

On the flowery shore of a tropic isle, under clustering boughs
of lime and citron, knelt the venerable figure of Saint Brandan,
— and upon a towering, jagged iceberg, whose crystal cliffs and
diamond peaks glittered with the ghastly radiance reflected from
arctic moon and boreal flames, lay Judas, pressing his hot palms
and burning breast to the frigid bosom of his sailing sapphire
berg.

No hideous, scowling, red-haired arch-apostate was this painted
Iscariot, — but a handsome man, whose features were startlingly
like those in the ivory miniature.

It was a wild, dreary, mournful picture, suggestive of melancholy
mediæval myths, and most abnormal phantasms; and
would more appropriately have draped the walls of some flagellating
ascetic's cell, than the luxuriously furnished room that
now contained it.

Bending forward to deepen the dark circles which suffering
and remorse had worn beneath the brilliant eyes of the apostle,
the lonely artist added another verse to her quotation, —

The motion loosened a delicate white lily pinned at her throat,
and it fell upon the palette, sullying its purity with the dark
paint to which its petals clung. She removed it, looked at its
defaced loveliness, and tossed it aside, saying moodily, —

“Typical of our souls, originally dowered with a stainless
and well-nigh perfect holiness, but drooping dust-ward continually,
and once tainted by the fall,—hugging the corruption that
ruined it.”

As the governess looked and listened, a half-perplexed, half-frightened
expression passed over her countenance, and at length
she advanced to the arch, and said, tremblingly, —

“Can I have a few moments' conversation with Mrs. Gerome,
on important business?”

“My God! am I verily mad at last? Because I called up
Judas, must I also evoke the partner of his crime?”

With a thrilling, almost blood-curdling cry Mrs. Gerome had
leaped to her feet at the sound of Miss Dexter's voice, and,
dropping palette and brush, confronted her with a look of horror
and hate. The quick and violent movement shook out her
comb, and down came the folds of hair, falling like a silver
cataract to her knees.

Bewildered by memories which the face and form recalled,
the governess looked at the shining white locks, and her lips
blanched, as she stammered, —

“Are you Mrs. Gerome?”

Her scarlet hood had fallen back, disclosing her wealth of
golden hair; and, gazing at her thin but still lovely features,
rouged by a hectic glow that lent strange beauty to the wide,
brown eyes, Mrs. Gerome answered, huskily, —

“I am the mistress of this house. Who is the woman who
has the audacity to intrude upon my seclusion, and vividly remind
me of one whose hated lineaments have cursed my memory
for years? Woman, if I believed she had the effrontery to
thrust herself into my presence, I should fear that at this
instant I am afflicted with the abhorred sight of Edith Dexter,
than whom a legion of devils would be more welcome!”

The name fell hissingly from her stern mouth, and when she

shook back the hair that drooped over her brow, the gray,
globe-like eyes glittered as polished blue steel under some fitful
light.

A low, half-stifled cry escaped the governess, and springing
forward she fell on her knees and grasped the white hands that
had clutched each other.

“Evelyn! It must be Evelyn! despite this gray hair and
wan, changed face! and I could never mistake these beautiful,
beautiful hands — unlike any others in the world! Evelyn,
my lost darling! oh, I thank God I have found you before I
die!”

She covered the cold fingers with kisses, and pressed her face
to a band of the floating hair; but with a gesture of loathing
Mrs. Gerome broke away, and retreated a few steps.

“How dare you come into my presence? Goaded by a desire
to witness the ruin you helped to accomplish? Your audacity
at least astounds me; but fate decrees you the enjoyment of its
reward. Lo! here I am! Behold the gray shadow of what
was once a happy, confiding girl! Behold in the desolate,
lonely woman, who hides her disgrace under the name of Agla
Gerome, that bride of an hour, that Evelyn whose heart you
stabbed! Does the wreck entirely satisfy you? What more
could even fiendish malevolence desire?”

“Evelyn, you wrong me. For mercy's sake do not upbraid
and taunt me so unjustly!”

In vain she held out her hands imploringly, while tears rolled
over her crimsoned cheeks, and sobs impeded her utterance.
Mrs. Gerome laughed bitterly.

“What! I wrong you? Have you gone mad, instead of
your victim? Miss Dexter, you and I can scarcely afford to deal
in mock tragedy, and though you make a pretty picture kneeling
there, I have no mind to paint you yonder, where I put your
colleague, Judas. Is it not a good likeness of your lover, as he
looked that memorable day when the broad banana-leaves overshadowed
his handsome head?”

She rapped the canvas with her clenched hand, and continued,
in accents of indescribable scorn, —

“Do you kneel as penitent or petitioner? You come to
crave my pardon, or my husband?”

The governess had bowed her face almost to the carpet, like
some fragile flower borne down by a sudden flood; but now she
rose, and, throwing her head back proudly, answered with firm
yet gentle dignity, —

“Of Mrs. Gerome I crave nothing. Of Evelyn Carlyle I
demand justice; simply bare justice.”

“Justice! You are rash, Miss Dexter, to challenge fate;
for, were justice meted out, the burden would prove more intolerable
to you than that King Stork whom Zeus sent down as
a Nemesis to quiet clamorous frogs. Justice, let me tell you,
long ago fled from this hostile and inhospitable earth and took
refuge beyond the stars, where, please God, you and I shall one
day confront her and get our long-defrauded dues. Justice?
Nay, nay! the thing I recognize as justice would crush you
utterly, and you should flee to the Ultima Thule to avoid it.
I divine your mission. You come as envoy-extraordinary from
my honorable and chivalric husband, to demand release from the
bonds that doom me to wear his name and you to live without
that spotless ægis? Since my fortune no longer percolates
through the sieve of his pocket, and legal quibbles can not now
avail to wring thousands from my purse, he desires a divorce,
in order to remove to your fair wrists the fetters which have
proved more galling to mine than those of iron.”

“Evelyn, insult must not be heaped upon injury. As God
hears me, I tell you solemnly that you have seen your husband
since I have. Upon Maurice Carlyle's face I have never looked
since that fatal hour when I last saw yours, ghastly and rigid,
against the background of guava-boughs. From that day until
this, I have neither seen, nor spoken, nor written to him.”

“Then why are you here, to torment me with the sight of
your face, which would darken the precincts of heaven, if I
met it inside of the gates of pearl?”

“I have come to exonerate myself from the aspersions that
in your frenzy you have cast upon me. Evelyn, I am here to
prove that my wrongs are greater than yours, — and if either

should crave pardon, it would best become you to sue for it at
my hands. But for you, I should have been a happy wife,—
blessed with a devoted husband and fond mother; and now in
my loneliness I stand for vindication before her who robbed me
of every earthly hope, and blotted all light, all verdure, all
beauty from my life. You had known Maurice Carlyle six
weeks, when you gave him your hand. I had grown up at his
side, — had loved, trusted, prayed, and labored for him, — had
been his promised wife for seven dreary years of toil and separation,
and was counting the hours until the moment when he
would lead me to the altar. Ah, Evelyn, —”

A violent spell of coughing interrupted the governess, and
when it ended she did not complete the sentence.

Impatiently Mrs. Gerome motioned to her to continue, and,
turning her head which had been averted, the hostess saw that
her guest was endeavoring to stanch a stream of blood that
trickled across her lips. Involuntarily the former started forward
and drew an easy-chair close to the slender figure which
leaned for support against the corner of the piano.

“Are you ill? Pray sit down.”

“It is only a hemorrhage from my lungs, which I have long
had reason to expect.”

Wearily she sank into the chair, and hastily pouring a glass of
water from a gilt-starred crystal carafe, standing on the centre-table,
Mrs. Gerome silently offered it. As the governess drained
and returned the goblet, a drop of blood that stained the rim
fell on the hand of the mistress of the house.

Miss Dexter attempted to remove it with the end of her
plaid shawl, but her companion drew back, and taking a dainty,
perfumed handkerchief from her pocket, shook out its folds and
said, hastily, —

“It is of no consequence. I see your handkerchief is already
saturated; will you accept mine?”

Without waiting for a reply, she laid it on the lap of the
visitor, and left the room.

Soon after, a servant brought in a basin of water and towels,
which she placed on the table, and then, without question or
comment, withdrew.

Some time elapsed before Mrs. Gerome re-entered the parlor,
bearing a glass of wine in her hand. Miss Dexter had bathed
her face, and, looking up, she saw that the gray hair had been
carefully coiled and fastened, and the flowing merino belted at
the waist; but the brow wore its heavy cloud, and the arch of
the lip had not unbent.

“I hope you are better. Permit me to insist upon your
taking this wine.”

She proffered it, but the governess shook her head, and tears
ran down her cheeks, as she said, —

“Thank you, — but I do not require it; indeed I could not
swallow it.”

The hostess bowed, and, placing the glass within her reach,
walked to the window which looked out on the marble mausoleum,
and stood leaning against the cedarn facing.

Five, ten minutes passed, and the silence was only broken by
the ticking of the bronze clock on the mantelpiece.

“Evelyn.”

The voice was so sweet, so thrilling, so mournfully pleading,
that it might have wooed even stone to pity; but Mrs. Gerome
merely glanced over her shoulder, and said, frigidly, —

“Can I in any way contribute to Miss Dexter's comfort?
The servants tell me there is no conveyance waiting for you;
but, since you seem too feeble to walk away, my carriage is at
your service whenever you wish to return. Shall I order it?”

“No, I will not trouble you. I can walk; and, after a little
while, I will go away forever. Evelyn, do you think me utterly
unprincipled?”

A moment passed before she was answered.

“While you are in my house, courtesy forbids the expression
of my opinion of your character.”

“Oh, Evelyn, my darling! God knows I have not merited
this harshness, this cruelty from your dear hands. Eight tedious,
miserable years I have searched and prayed for you, — have
clung to the hope of finding you, of telling you all, — of hearing
your precious lips utter those words for which my ears have so
long ached, `Edith, I hold you guiltless of my wretchedness.'

But at last, when my search is successful, to be browbeaten,
derided, denounced, insulted, — oh, this is bitter indeed! This
is too hard to be borne!”

Her anguish was uncontrollable, and she sobbed aloud.

Across Mrs. Gerome's white lips crept a quiver, and over her
frozen features rose an unwonted flush; but she did not move a
muscle, or suffer her eyes to wander from the cross and crown
on Elsie's tomb.

“Evelyn, I believe, I hope (and may God forgive me if I sin
in hoping), that I have not many years, or perhaps even months
to live; and it would comfort me in my dying hour to feel that
I had laid before you some facts, of which I know you must be
ignorant. You have harshly and unjustly prejudged me, — have
steeled yourself against me; still I wish to tell you some things
that weigh heavily upon my aching, desolate heart. Will you
allow me to do so now? Will you hear me?”

There was evidently a struggle in the mind of the motionless
woman beside the window, but it was brief, and left no trace in
the cold, ringing voice.

“I will hear you.”

Slowly and impressively the governess began the narrative,
of which she had given Dr. Grey a hasty résumé, and when she
mentioned the midnight labors in which she had engaged, the
copying of legal documents, the sale of her drawings, the hoarding
of her salary in order to aid her mother and her betrothed,
and to remove the obstacles to her marriage, Mrs. Gerome sat
down, and, crossing her arms on the window-sill, hid her face
upon them.

Unflinchingly Miss Dexter detailed all that occurred after
her arrival in New York; and finally, approaching the window,
she insisted that her listener should peruse the last letter
received from her lover, and containing the promise that within
ten days he would come to claim his bride. But the lovely
hand waved it aside, and the proud voice exclaimed impatiently,
—

“I need no additional proof of his perfidy, which, beyond
controversy, was long ago established. Go on! go on!”

Upon all that followed the ceremony, — the departure of the
wife, — and her own despairing grief, the governess dwelt
with touching eloquence and pathos; and, at last, as she spoke
of her fruitless journey to England, — her sad search through
the insane asylums, — Mrs. Gerome lifted her queenly head,
and bent a piercing glance upon the speaker.

Ah! what a hungry, eager expression looked out shyly from
her whilom hopeless eyes, when, with an imperious gesture,
she silenced her visitor, and asked, —

“You spent your hard earnings, not in trousseau, or preparations
for housekeeping; but hunting for me in lunatic
asylums? Suppose you had found me in a mad-house?”

“Then I should have become an inmate of the same gloomy
walls; and, while you lived, should have shared with faithful
Elsie the care and charge of you. God is my witness, I had
resolved to dedicate my remaining years to the task of cheering
and guarding yours. Oh, Evelyn! not until we stand in the
great Court of Heaven can you realize how sincerely, how
tenderly, and unwaveringly, I love you. My darling, how
can you distrust my faithful heart?”

She sank on her knees, and, throwing her arms around the
tall, slender form, looked with mournful, beseeching tenderness
at the haughty features above her.

For a moment the proud, pale face glowed, — the great
shadowy eyes kindled and shone like wintry planets in some
crystalline sky; but doubt, murderous, cynical doubt, grappled
with hope, and strangled it.

“Edith, I wish I could believe you. I am struggling desperately
to lay hold of the fluttering garments of faith, but
I can not! Suspicion has walked hand in hand with me so
long that I can not shake off her numbing touch, and I distrust
all human things, save the dusty heart that moulders yonder
in my old Elsie's grave.”

She pointed to the white columns of the temple, and then
the uplifted fingers fell heavily on Edith's shoulder.

“Go on. I wish to learn whose treachery betrayed the
secret of my retreat.”

Pressing her feverish lips to the hand she admired so enthusiastically,
Miss Dexter resumed her recital of what had occurred
since her journey to London, and finally ended it with an
account of her removal to `Grassmere,' and of the discovery of
the miniatures that guided her to `Solitude.'

A long pause followed, and a heavy sigh, only partially
smothered, indexed the contest that raged under Mrs. Gerome's
calm exterior.

“Edith, would you have inferred from Dr. Grey's manner
that he was not only acquainted with my history, but yours;
at least, so far as it intersected mine? Did he furnish no hint,
no clew, that aided you in your search?”

“None whatever. On the contrary, he appeared so preoccupied,
so abstracted, that I reproached him with indifference
to my troubles. It is not possible that he knew all, while
I briefly summed up a portion of the past.”

“At that moment he was thoroughly cognizant of everything
that I could tell him. But, at least, one honorable, trustworthy
man yet graces the race; one pure, incorruptible, and consistent
Christian remains to shed lustre upon a church that can nowhere
boast his peer. I confided all to Dr. Grey, and he has
kept the trust. Ah, Edith, if you had only reposed the same
confidence in me, during those halcyon days of our early friendship,
— days that seem to me now as far off, as dim and unreal,
as those starry nights when I lay in my little crib, dreaming
of that mother whose face I never saw, whose smile is one
of the surprises and blessings reserved for eternity, — how different
my lot and yours might have been! Why did you not
trust me with your happy hopes, your lover's name and difficulties?
How differently I would have invested that fortune,
which proved our common ruin, and doomed three lives to
uselessness and woe. To-day you might have proudly worn
the name that I utterly detest; and I, the outcast, the wanderer,
the tireless, friendless waif, drifting despairingly down
the tide of time, — even I, the unloved, might have been, not
a solitary cumberer, not a household upas, — but why taunt

the hideous Actual with a blessed and beautiful Impossible?
Ah, truly, truly, —

She closed her eyes and seemed pondering the past, and
mutely the governess prayed that hallowed memories of their
former affection might soften her apparently petrified heart.

Edith saw a great change overspread the countenance, but
could not accurately interpret its import; and her own heart
began to beat the long-roll.

The heavy black eyelashes lying on Mrs. Gerome's marble
cheeks glistened, trembled, and tears stole slowly across
her face. She raised her hand, but dropped it in her lap,
and frowned slightly and sighed. Then she lifted it once more,
and looking through the shining mist that magnified her splendid
eyes, she laid her fingers on the golden head of the kneeling
woman.

“You and I have innocently wronged and ruined each other;
you with your beauty, I with my accursed gold. Time was
when at your bidding I would have laid my throbbing heart
at your feet, provided I could thereby save you one pang;
for I loved you as women very rarely love one another. But
now, lonely and hopeless, I have lost the power, the capacity
to love anything, and I have no heart left in my bosom. I acquit
you of much for which I formerly held you responsible,
and I honor the purity of purpose that forbade your receiving
the visits or letters of him who must one day answer for our
worthless lives. I fully forgive you the suffering that made
me prematurely old; but my affection is as dead as all my girlish
hopes, and buried under the crushing years that have dragged
themselves over my poor, proud, pain-bleached head. You
are more fortunate, more enviable than I, for you have the
comforting anticipation of a speedy release, the precious assurance
that your torture will ere long be ended; while I must

front the prospect of perhaps fourscore and ten years; for,
despite my ivory skin and fever-blanched locks, I am maddeningly
healthy. Friend of my childhood, friend of my happy,
sunny, sinless days, I cordially congratulate you on your
approaching deliverance. God knows I would pay you my
fortune, if I could innocently and successfully inject into my
veins and lungs the poison that will soon rob you of care and
regret. If I was harsh to-day, forgive and forget it, for nothing
rankles in the grave; and now, Edith, go away quickly, before
I repent and recant the words I here utter. God comfort you,
Edith Dexter, and remember that I hold you guiltless of my
wrecked destiny.”

“Oh, Evelyn! add one thing more. Say, `Edith, I love
you.'”

A strangely mournful smile parted Mrs. Gerome's perfect
lips over her dazzling teeth, as she pushed the kneeling figure
from her, and said coldly, —

“Rise, and leave me. I love no living thing, brute or human,
for even my faithful dog lies buried a few yards hence. Maurice
treated my warm, loving nature, as Tofana did her unsuspecting
victims, and for that slow poison there is no antidote. The
sole interest I have in life centres in my art, and when death
mercifully remembers me, some pictures I have patiently
wrought out will be given to the public; and the next generation
will, perhaps, —

and, smiling grimly in my coffin, I shall echo, —

Both rose, and the two so long divided faced each other sorrowfully.

“Dear Evelyn, do not hug despair so stubbornly to your
bosom. You might brighten your solitary existence if you

would, and be comparatively happy in this lovely seaside
home.”

“You think `Solitude' a very desirable and beautiful retreat?
Do you remember the gay raiment and glittering jewels
that covered the radiant bride of Giacopone di Todi? One
day an accident at a public festival mangled her mortally,
and when her gorgeous garments were torn off, lo!

A sudden pallor crept over the delicate face of the governess,
and, folding her hands, she exclaimed with passionate vehemence,
—

“I can not, I must not shrink from the chief object of my
visit here. I came not only to exonerate myself, but to plead
for poor Maurice.”

Mrs. Gerome started back, and the pitiless gleam came instantly
into her softened eyes.

“Do not mention his name again. I thought you had neither
seen nor heard from him.”

“I must plead his wretched cause, since he is denied the
privilege of appealing to your mercy. Evelyn, my friends
write me that he is almost in a state of destitution. Only last
night I received this letter, which I leave for your perusal,
and which assures me he is in want, and, moreover, is dangerously
ill. Who has the right, the privilege, — whose is the
duty, imperative and stern, to hasten to his bedside, to alleviate
his suffering, to provide for his needs? Yours, Evelyn Carlyle,
and yours alone. Where are the marriage vows that you
snatched from my lips eight years ago, and eagerly took upon
your own? Did you not solemnly swear in the presence of
heaven and earth to serve him and keep him in sickness,
and, forsaking all others, to hold him from that day forward
for better, for worse, until death did part ye? Oh, Evelyn!
do not scowl, and turn away. However unworthy, he is your
husband in the sight of God and man, and your wedding oath
calls you to him in this hour of his terrible need. Can you
sleep peacefully, knowing that he is tossing with paroxysms

of pain, and perhaps hungering and thirsting for that which
you could readily supply? If it were right, — if I dared, I
would hasten to him; but my conscience inexorably forbids
the thought, and consigns my heart to torture, for which there
is no name. You will tell me that you provided once, twice,
for all reasonable wants, — that he has recklessly squandered
liberal allowances. But will that satisfy your conscience, while
you still possess ample means to aid him? Will you permit
the man whose name you bear to live on other charity than
your own, — and finally, to fill a pauper's grave? Oh, Evelyn!
was it for this that you took my darling, my idol, from my
clinging, loving arms? Will you see his body writhing in
the agony of disease, and his precious, immortal soul in fearful
jeopardy, while you stand afar off, surrounded by every luxury
that ingenuity can suggest, and gold purchase? Oh, Evelyn!
be merciful; do your duty. Like a brave, true, though injured
woman, go to Maurice, and strive to make him comfortable;
to lighten, by your pardon, his sad, heavily laden heart. By
your past, your memories of your betrothal, your hopes of
heaven, and above all, by your marriage vows, I implore you
to discharge your sacred duties.”

A bitter smile twisted the muscles about Mrs. Gerome's
mouth, as she gazed into the quivering, eloquent face of her
companion, and listened to the impetuous appeal that poured
so pathetically over her burning lips.

“Edith, you amaze me. Is it possible that after all your
injuries you can cling so fondly, so madly, to the man who
slighted, and humiliated, and blighted you?”

“Ah! you are his wife, and I am the ridiculed and pitied
victim of his flirtation, so says the world; but my affection
outlives yours. Evelyn, I have loved him from the time
when I can first recollect; I loved him with a deathless devotion
that neither his unworthiness, nor time, nor eternity can
conquer; and to-day, I tell you that he is dear to me, — dear
to me as some precious corpse, over which a gravestone has
gathered moss for eight weary, dreary years. The angels in
heaven would not blush for the feeling in my heart towards

Maurice Carlyle; and the God who must soon judge me
will not condemn the pure and sacred love I cherish for the
only man who could ever have been my husband, but whom
I have resolutely refused to see, even when the world believed
you dead. I can not go to him, and comfort, and provide for
him now; but, in the name of God, and your oath, and if not
for your own sake, at least for his and for mine, I ask you
once more, Evelyn Carlyle, will you hasten to your erring
but unhappy husband?”

Her scarlet cheeks and lips, her glowing brown eyes, and
waving yellow hair, formed a singular contrast to the colorless,
cold face of her listener; whose steely gaze was fixed on the
distant sea, that lay like a beryl mirror beneath the hazy sky.

When the sound of the sweet but strained voice had died
away, Mrs. Gerome turned her eyes towards the governess,
and answered, —

“I will do my duty, no matter how revolting.”

“Thank God! When will you go?”

“If at all, at once.”

“Evelyn, when you come home, will you not let me see you,
now and then, and win my way back to my old place in your
dear heart? Oh! my pale, peerless darling, do not deny me
this.”

“Home? I have no home. My heart is grayer than my
head, — and your old niche is full of dust, and skeletons, and
murdered hopes. Let me see you no more in this world; and
perhaps in the Everlasting Rest I shall forget my hideous past,
which your face recalls.”

“Oh, my poor bruised darling! do not banish me,” wailed the
governess, endeavoring to fold her arms about the queenly
form, which silently but effectually held her back.

“At least, dear Evelyn, let me kiss you once more, in token
that you cherish no bitterness against me.”

“Good-by, Edith. I hold you innocent of my injuries. May
God help you, and call us both speedily to our dreamless sleep
under moss and marble.”

She bent down, and with firm, icy lips, lightly touched the

forehead of the governess, and walked away, unheeding the
burst of tears with which the frigid caress was welcomed.