University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

Agreeably to his suggestion, Frederick Wurth
went to bed; and if in his heart there were any
uneasy sensations, they were soon lulled into quiet.
The rain beat against the windows, and the wind
dashed itself in stormy gusts against the roof, but
happily the snug warm chamber was very different
from the outer world, of which the fretful turbulence,
as he listened, became a lullaby that soothed him into sleep.

Against the windows of a lofty chamber, not
many miles away, the same storm was beating, but
the heavy sweep of the wind was broken by the
contiguity of massive walls, so that it was in baffled
and subdued moanings rather than in tempestuous

threats that it sounded above the roof. The shutters
were closed round, to soften as much as might
be the tumult of the elements, and the lamp was
so shaded that its light scarcely penetrated the gorgeous
folds of the curtains, that swept from glittering
and elaborate cornices, against the roses and
blue bells which were sunken in the soft costly
carpet, as in a fleece.

The profusion of pictures, and sculptures, illustrating
schools of contemporary art—luxurious
chairs, divans, and ottomans, of daintily carved
rose-wood, and cushioned with crimson velvet—
the bed's canopy of azure and gold, and heavily
sweeping silken draperies—all reflected in ample
mirrors that reached from the floor to the ceiling,
indicated the presence of wealth, and the most unhesitating
liberality in its use.

Before the glowing anthracite—guarded by statues,
of Parian whiteness, whose extended hands
were locked above the generous heat—a small table
was drawn—the foot, a lion couchant, of dark wood,
and the top of Egyptian marble, inlaid with lilies
of pearl—upon which were set in a stand of chased
gold half a dozen bottles of Bohemian glass, so
costly and beautiful as to be fit receptacles for the
most delicious wines that come from Italy or sunny
Teneriffe.

And besides liquors and confects there was on

the table a small basket, made of fairy-like shells, of
every hue and form ever brought by adventurous
sailor from shores of farthest seas, in which were
little skeins of scarlet, blue, and yellow worsted, a
needle-book with covers curiously wrought, a golden
thimble with a band of gems—perhaps but counterfeits—and
a spectacle-case of pearl, elaborately
inlaid—doubtless a souvenir of some recent service.

And in a low and easy chair with a high carved
back, beside this table, sat a little woman who had
heard the storms of at least half a century and was
no longer startled or disturbed by their wild music.
On both her cheeks, which were a little hollow and
of an even colorless tone, stood—for they did not
fall or wave—two or three stiff curls of yellowish
or sorrel hair, and over her white lace collar fell the
blue floats of as tasteful a cap as any gentlewoman
of her order need desire.

Her black satin gown was the very model of
precision, notwithstanding three narrow ruffles or
flounces at the bottom of the skirt, which was
shortened just sufficiently for a partial revealing of
the lace points of her petticoat. The bodice—setting
aside any nice punctilio—fitted closely over
a bust that would never serve for an artist's model,
however it might have done, relieved of the pressure
of thirty years or so. The brooch, fastening
the collar, was a miniature, perhaps of some long-ago

lover, perhaps only of her lamented grandsire,
for the lineaments were not defined with sufficient
accuracy to make the age of the subject a matter
easily to be guessed. A heavy gilt buckle, of an
antique fashion, clasped the belt exactly over the
middle seam of the bodice, and if by chance (for
chance may disarrange the buckle of a spinster as
well as anything else) it slipped to the left or right,
even so much as the thickness of a rose-leaf, it was
immediately adjusted.

This lady was just now—that is, on the aforementioned
stormy night—concentrating her artistical
abilities for the insertion of two little black
dots at an accurately ascertained distance from one
little red dot—the black dots to constitute the eyes,
as did the red dot the lower extremity of the nose,
of a white poodle, wrought of the worsted contained
in the pretty shell basket, on a bit of canvas.

She held the work close to her eyes, and, whether
or not she saw clearly, wore no spectacles. It
would have seemed that her sight was failing, from
the fact that the dots had been several times picked
out with a fine needle, and carefully put in again:
and yet one was perceptibly farther than the other
from the red top of the poodle's nose.

An uneasy twitch of the muscles followed the
discovery of this awry business, and an involuntary
reaching toward the spectacles, but, instead of

drawing forth the needful glasses, she deftly arranged
the skeins in such way as to quite conceal
their handsome case.

On the opposite side of the table rested a hand,
small and exceedingly delicate—its diminutive size
set off, to the best advantage by the frill of the
wristband. The taper fingers sparkled with rings—
some but plain bands, others glittering with diamonds,
and others containing polished stones, the
value of which remained to most beholders a mystery.

That hand was none of your vulgar hands; not
by any possibility could it have hewed a shaft or
laid an architrave or forged an iron chain or felled
so much as a green bole; but such a hand it was
as most ladies admire, and within which, in case of
courtesy or compulsion, they will not greatly shrink
from resting their own—provided the infliction be
of transient duration, and its owner be well entitled
to assume such custody. In the present instance
the hand was not too flattering a voucher, for its
master was certainly prepossessing, although asleep.
He was not less neat than the lady working at the
black dots, but he lacked something of her prim
formality.

His head rested against the high-cushioned back
of his easy chair. His eyes were closed, and his
lips, a little parted, disclosed a set of teeth remarkably

white and sound. His right hand, in which
was muffled a snowy cambric handkerchief, smelling
rather of drugs than essences, was placed on his left
knee, and his slippered feet were half sunken in
the cushion on which they rested.

Suddenly, perhaps to case her sight, the lady
leaves off work, and diligently surveys the sleeper.
Her clear gray eyes open something wider than is
their wont. “Bless me!” she is saying to herself,
“how white his hair is! Yet—he can't be less than
sixty, fresh and fair as he looks!” Here she buried
the handsome spectacle case quite in the bottom of
the basket, and tipped off the pretty skeins with
the gold thimble, on which was engraven—Araminta
Crum.

This accomplished, she looked again at the sleeping
gentleman. The footstool had slipped forward,
and, with most kindly regard, she reädjusted it.
Her whitehaired companion half unclosed his blue
eyes—smiled graciously, as if to say, “Thank you,
Miss Crum,” and nestled again under the wing of

“Oh, pshaw!” said the lady, grieved that she
had disturbed his repose. It must have been so,
for she added, in a moment, “Beg pardon, Doctor,
I had really no intention of waking you out of that
sweet sleep.”

“Ah, madam, no apology is required. My excessive
fatigue to-night would medicine a much
ruder jostling.” And the doctor threw the cambric
handkerchief over his head, turned from the lamp,
and from Miss Crum, and burying quite the jeweled
hand in his trowsers pocket, presently, as was
indicated by his even breathing, walked again in
the unsubstantial realm of dreams.

The eyes of Miss Crum's little dog were forgotten.
She grew restless. “I wish I only knew the
time,” she thought. “I wonder if I could take the
doctor's watch from his fob without annoying him.”
She drew it forth, and, having seen the time, opened
it just to brush off a speck of dust she saw on the
face, and clasped it, with a snap that she could not
have designed; there was however no evil consequence,
for the doctor slept on, even though she
replaced it without any special cautiousness.

“If I am so light fingered, he will think I am
trying to steal,” she thought, half audibly.

The room seemed very lonely. Death might be
near, too, for aught she knew; but, though she
looked toward the bed, she did not approach it to
see the condition of the pale, patient sufferer. She
would always rather be alone, than have any one
pretend to sit with her, and sleep all the time.

She stirred with her delicate hand the fire, and
then summoned a servant to add to it a scuttle of

coal—but all the ancient kingdom of Night held
not so inveterate a sleeper.

All at once across the ruffled sea of her thought
fell the shadow of some sweet prophetic star, and,
taking up the lamp, she walked on tip-toe with it
to a mirror, and holding it first high, then low,
then just level with the golden buckle, she contemplated
her personal attractions.

A satisfied smile came over her face, which still
retained traces of fair looks, but an amendment
suggested itself, and she began to pull the stiff
curls into more graceful length; but, alas! the
string by which the false front was attached to the
gray knot behind, gave way, and down it came,
leaving her no alternative but to take off the lace
cap and blue floats, mend the string, and decently
compose the whole as soon as possible.

It would have been perhaps a frightful sight to
see, but to Miss Crum—and, for her care, only to
that lady—it was so familiar as to induce no terror,
nor even a recollection of the contrasting appearances
of that head, thirty, or twenty, or even a
dozen years before.

Now she was silent as a dream; her hair, “done
up in any simple knot,” but put a little higher, she
thought, would show the handsome comb to more
advantage, and also give the cap a prettier effect;
and in pursuance of the thought she proceeded.

Both hands were in that ungraceful employment
of tying up the hair: one end of a yard of black
tape was held between her teeth, and the other
binding together the slim remnant of once auburn
tresses—thus making an unbecoming indenture
across one cheek—when suddenly an arm was
thrown around her, and a voice was heard—

“Good heavens! Miss Crum, what has happened?
no suicidal attempt, I trust!” and applying his
jeweled fingers to the disfigured cheek, the doctor
said more calmly, “The incision is not fatal, not
dangerous; allow me—” and he endeavored to support
her to a sofa.

has been written by some poet for an exigency
to task a hero's powers; and perhaps the line
flashed through the brain of the surprised Miss
Crum, for in affected fright she upset the lamp,
and before it could be relighted, she managed to
adjust, in some sort, the curls and the cap. It was
a terrible mishap, but thereby good might come;
by no other chance, it may be, could the doctor's
evidently gentle and tender mood have been induced.

Seating herself close beside him, she explained,
that noticing his silver locks awakened curiosity to
see if her own were fading, and she had taken off

her cap for that purpose; the rest—whatever he
might fancy he had seen—must have been a shadow,
or haply shapes of dreams, that lingered in his
imperfect wakefulness.

“You see,” she said, coquettishly taking his
jeweled fingers in her own, “You see there is no
blood on your hand.”

“An optical illusion: I understand;” and the
doctor withdrew his hand as if to examine it
himself.

The lady looked as if offended, hitched her chair
to the other side of the table, and took up her
worsted dog, to add three stitches to the tail.

“What a beautiful little creature!” said the doctor,
taking the embroidery from her, and gazing
at it with seeming admiration.

“What is my work to you?” said Miss Crum,
with sentimental dryness.

“Why—this ingenious handiwork of yours has
given me pleasure—nothing more.”

“Selfish, selfish man,” replied Miss Crum, in a
reproachful tone.

“My dear madam,” replied the old gentleman—
but what he would have said we do not know, and
cannot tell.

A thin, white hand put aside the silken drapery
of the bed, and a tremulous low voice called.

In a moment both were bending over the pillow.

“It is all over,” said the doctor, laying the end
of a finger on the fluttering lids.

The nurse took the baby from the chilled bosom
and relaxing clasp; on the golden tide of a new
love, the pure spirit of the gentle wife and mother
had floated over the stormy midnight and across
the wild river of death, to rest in eternity. Her
heart was trusting and devotional in life, and in the
fond blindness of woman, her last prayer had been
for Frederick, and not for herself. Heaven sent its
softest answer.