University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.

“DOCTOR GREY, sister says she wants to see you,
before you go to town.”

Jessie Owen came softly up to the table where
Dr. Grey sat writing, and stood with her hand on his knee.

“Very well. Tell sister I will come to her as soon as I finish
this letter. Where is she?”

“In the library.”

“In ten minutes I shall be at leisure.”

He found Salome with a piece of sewing in her hand, and her
young sister leaning on her lap, chattering merrily about a
nest full of eggs which she and Stanley had found that morning
in a corner of the orchard; while the latter swung on the back
of her chair, winding over his finger a short curl that lay on her
neck. It was a pleasant, peaceful, homelike picture, worthy of
Eastman Johnson's brush, and for thirty years such a group had
not been seen in that quiet old library.

Dr. Grey paused at the threshold, to admire the graceful pose
of Jessie's fairy figure, — the lazy nonchalance of Stanley's posture,
— and the finely shaped head that rose above both, like
some stately lily, surrounded by clustering croci; but Salome
was listening for his footsteps, and turned her head at his
entrance.

“Stanley, take Jessie up to my room, and show her your
Chinese puzzle. When I want either or both of you, I will call
you. Close the door after you, and mind that you do not get to
romping, and shake the house down.”

“How very pretty Jessie has grown during the last year.
Her complexion has lost its muddy tinge, and is almost waxen,”
said the doctor, when the children had left the room and scampered
up stairs.

“She is a very sweet-tempered and affectionate little thing,
but I never considered her pretty. She is too much like her
father.”

“Salome, death veils all blemishes.”

“That depends very much on the character of the survivors;
but we will not discuss abstract propositions, — especially since
I have resolved to follow the old oriental maxim, —

Dr. Grey, the week has ended, and I took the liberty of reminding
you of the fact, as I am anxious to acquaint you with my
purposes for the future.”

He drew a chair near hers, and seated himself.

“Well, Salome, I hope that reflection has changed your views,
and taught you the wisdom of my sister's course with reference
to yourself.”

“On the contrary, the season of deliberation you forced upon
me has only strengthened and intensified my desire to carry
into execution the project I have so long dreamed of; and to-day
I am more than ever firmly resolved to follow, at all hazards,
the dictates of my own judgment, no matter with whose opinions
or wishes they may conflict.”

She expected that he would expostulate, and plead against her
decision, but he merely bowed, and remained silent.

“My object in asking this interview was to ascertain how
soon it would be convenient for you to place in my hands the
legacy of one thousand dollars which was bequeathed to me on
condition that I went upon the stage; and also to inquire what
you intend to do with the children, of whom Miss Jane's will
constitutes you the guardian?”

“You wish me to understand that you are determined to defy
the wishes of your best friend, and take a step which distressed
her beyond expression?”

“I shall certainly go upon the stage.”

“I have no alternative but to accept your decision, which you
are well aware I regard as exceedingly deplorable. The money
can be paid to you to-morrow, if you desire it. Hoping that
you would abandon this freak, I had intended to keep the
children here, under your supervision, while I removed to my
house in town, and left their tuition to Miss Dexter; but since
you have decided otherwise, I shall remain here for the present,
keeping them with me, at least until after Muriel's marriage.
The income from this farm averages two thousand dollars a year,
and will not only amply provide for their wants and education,
but will enable me to lay aside annually a portion of that amount.
When Muriel marries, Miss Dexter may not be willing to remain
here, and if she leaves us I shall endeavor to find as worthy and

reliable a substitute. Have you any objection to this arrangement?”

“I have no right to utter any, since you are the legal guardian
of the children. But contingencies might arise for which it
seems you have not provided.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that I can trust Jessie and Stanley to you, but when
you are married I prefer that they should find another home;
or, if need be, Jessie can come to me.”

An angry flush dyed Dr. Grey's olive face, and kindled a fiery
gleam in his usually mild, clear, blue eyes, but looking at the
girl's compressed and trembling lips, and noting the underlying
misery which her defiant expression could not cover, his displeasure
gave place to profound compassion.

“Salome, dismiss that cause of anxiety from your mind, and
trust the assurance I offer you now, — that when I marry, my
wife will be worthy to assist me in guiding and governing my
wards.”

She was prepared to hear him retort that the career she had
chosen would render her an unsuitable counsellor for little Jessie;
and conscious that she had deeply wounded him, his calm reply
was the sharpest rebuke he could possibly have administered.

“Dr. Grey, I have no extraordinary amount of tenderness for
the children, because they are indissolubly associated with that
period of my life to which I never recur without pain and humiliation
that you can not possibly realize or comprehend; still,
I am not exactly a brute, and I do not wish them to be trained
to regard me as a Pariah, or to be told that I have forfeited their
respect and affection. When I am gone, let them think kindly
of me.”

“Your request is a reflection upon my friendship, and is so
exceedingly unjust that I am surprised and pained; but let
that pass. I am sure I need not tell you that your wishes shall
be complied with. I have often thought that after Stanley
completed his studies, I would take him into my office, and
teach him my own profession. Have you any objection to this
scheme?”

“No, sir. I am willing to trust him implicitly to you. He
has one terrible fault which I have been trying to correct, and
which I hope you will not lose sight of. The boy seems constitutionally
addicted to telling stories, and prefers falsehood to
truth. I have punished him repeatedly for this habit, and you
must, if possible, save him from the pauper vice of lying,
which is peculiarly detestable to me. I know less of the little
one's character, but believe that she is not afflicted with this
evil tendency.”

“Stanley's fault has not escaped me, and two days ago I was
obliged to punish him for a gross violation of the truth; but as
he grows older, I trust he will correct this defect, and I shall
faithfully endeavor to show him its enormity. Is there anything
else you wish to say to me about the children? I will
very gladly hear any suggestions you can offer.”

“No, sir. I have governed myself so badly, that it ill becomes
me to dictate to you how they should be trained. God
knows, I am heartily glad they were mercifully thrown into
your hands; and if you can only make Stanley Owen such a
man as you are, the old blot on the name may be effaced. From
Mark and Joel I have not heard for several months, and presume
they will be sturdy but unlettered mechanics. If I
succeed, I shall interfere and send them to school; otherwise,
they must take the chances for letters and a livelihood.”

“Salome, you are bartering life-long peace and happiness for
the momentary gratification of a whim, prompted solely by
vanity. How worthless are the brief hollow plaudits of the
world (which will regard you merely as the toy of an hour), in
comparison with the affection and society of your own family?
Here, in your home, how useful, how contented you might
be!”

Her only reply was a hasty, imperious wave of the hand, and
a long silence followed.

In the bright morning light that streamed in through the
tendrils of honeysuckle clambering around the window, Dr.
Grey looked searchingly at the orphan, and could scarcely

realize that this pale, proud, pain-stricken face, was the same
rosy round one, fair and fearless, that had first met his gaze
under the pearly apple-blossoms.

Then, pink flesh, hazel eyes, vermilioned lips, and glossy hair
had preferred incontestable claims to beauty; now, an artist
would have curiously traced the fine lines and curves daintily
drawn about eyes, brow, and mouth, by the stylus of care, of
hopelessness, of wild bursts of passion. Her figure retained its
rounded symmetry, but the countenance traitorously revealed
the struggles, the bitter disappointments, the vindictive jealousy,
and rudely-smitten and blasted hopes, that had robbed her
days of peace and her nights of sleep.

Until this moment, Dr. Grey had not fully appreciated the
change that had been wrought by two tedious years, and as he
scrutinized the sadly sharpened and shadowed features, a painful
feeling of humiliation and almost of self-reproach sprang from
the consciousness that his inability to reciprocate her devoted
love had brought down this premature blight upon a young
and whilom happy, careless girl, — transforming her into a
reckless, hardened, hopeless woman.

While his inexorable conscience fully exonerated him from
censure, his generous heart ached in sympathy for hers, and his
chivalric tenderness for all things weaker than himself, bled at
the reflection that he had been unintentionally instrumental in
darkening a woman's life.

But hope, — beautiful, blue-eyed, sunny-browed hope, —
whispered that this was a fleeting youthful fancy; and that
absence and time would dispel the temporary gloom that now
lay on her heart, like some dense cold vapor which would
grow silvery, and melt in morning sunshine.

Under his steady gaze the blood rose slowly to its old signal-station
on her cheeks, and she put up one hand to shield its
scarlet banners.

“Salome, will you tell me when and where you intend to go?
Since you have resolved to leave us, I desire to know in what
way I can aid you, or contribute to the comfort of the journey
you contemplate.”

“From the last letter of Professor V—, declining your proposal
that he should come here and instruct me, I learn that
within the ensuing ten days he will sail for Havre, en route to
Italy, where he intends spending the winter. If possible, I wish
to reach New York before his departure, and to accompany
him. The thousand dollars will defray my expenses until I
have completed my musical training, which will fit me for the
stage, and insure an early engagement in some operatic company.
Knowing your high estimate of Professor V—, both as a gentleman
and as a musician, I am exceedingly anxious to place
myself under his protection; especially since his wife and
children will meet him at Paris, and go on to Naples. Are you
willing to give me a letter of introduction, commending me to
his favorable consideration?”

The hesitating timidity with which this request was uttered,
touched him more painfully than aught that had ever passed
between them.

“My dear child, did you suppose that I would permit you to
travel alone to New York, and thrust yourself upon the notice
of strangers? I will accompany you whenever you go, and not
only present you to the professor, but request him to receive
you into his family as a member of his home-circle.”

A quiver shook out the hard lines around her lips, and she
turned her eyes full on his.

“You are very kind, sir, but that is not necessary; and a
letter of introduction will have the same effect, and save you
from a disagreeable trip. Your time is too valuable to be
wasted on such journeys, and I have no right to expect that
solely on my account you should tear yourself away — from —
those dear to you.”

“I think my time could not be more profitably employed
than in promoting the happiness and welfare of my adopted
sister, who was so inexpressibly dear to my noble Janet. It
is neither pleasant nor proper for a young lady to travel without
an escort.”

He had risen, and laid his hand lightly on the back of her
chair.

“Is it a mercy, think you, Dr. Grey, to foster a fastidiousness
that can only barb the shafts of penury? What right
have toiling paupers to harbor in their thoughts those dainty
scruples that belong appropriately to princesses and palaces?
Why tell me that this, that, or the other step is not `proper,'
when you know that necessity goads me? Sir, I feel now like
that isolated Florentine, and echo her words, —

“You prefer that I should not accompany you to New
York?”

“Yes, sir; but I gratefully accept a letter to Professor
V—.”

“Very well; it shall be in readiness when you wish it.
Have you fixed any time for your departure?”

“This is Friday, — and I shall go on the six o'clock train,
Monday morning.”

“Is there any service that I can render you in the interim?”

“No, thank you.”

“As you have no likeness of the children, would it be agreeable
to you to have their photographs taken to-day, — and, at
the same time, a picture of yourself to be left with them? If
you desire it I will meet you in town, at the gallery, at any
hour you may designate.”

Standing before him, she answered, almost scornfully, —

“I shall not have time. Some day — if I succeed — I will
send them my photograph, taken in gorgeous robes as prima
donna; provided you promise that said robes shall not constitute
a San Benito, and doom the picture to the flames.
I will detain you no longer, Dr. Grey, as the sole object of the
interview has been accomplished.”

“Pardon me; but I have a word to say. Your career will
probably be brilliantly successful, in which event you will feel
no want of admirers and friends, — and will doubtless ignore
me for those who flatter you more, and really love you less.
But, Salome, failure may overtake you, bringing in its train
countless evils that at present you can not realize, — poverty,
disease, desolation, in the midst of strangers, — and all the
woes that, like hungry wolves, attack homeless, isolated women.
I earnestly hope that the leprous hand of disaster and defeat
may never be laid upon your future, but the most cautious
human schemes are fallible — often futile — and if you should
be unsuccessful in your programme, and find yourself unable to
consummate your plans, I ask you now, by the memory of
our friendship, by the sacred memory of the dead, to promise
me that you will immediately write and acquaint me with
all your needs, your wishes, your real condition. Promise me,
dear Salome, that you will turn instantly to me, as you would
to Stanley, were he in my place, — that you will let me prove
myself your elder brother, — your truest, best friend.”

He put his hand on her head, but she recoiled haughtily from
his touch.

“Dr. Grey, I promise you,

I promise you that if misfortune, failure, and penury lay hold
of me, you shall be the last human being who will learn it;
for I will cloak myself under a name that will not betray me,
and crawl into some lazaretto, and be buried in some potter's
field, among other mendicants, — unknown, `unwept, unhonored,
and unsung.'”

If some motherless young chamois, rescued from destruction,
and pampered and caressed, had suddenly turned, and savagely
bitten and lacerated the hand that fondled and fed it, Dr. Grey
would not have been more painfully startled; but experience
had taught him the uselessness of expostulation during her

moods of perversity, and he took his hat and turned away, saying,
almost sternly, —

“Bear in mind that neither palace nor potter's field can
screen you from the scrutiny of your Maker, or mask and
shelter your shivering soul in the solemn hour when He
demands its last reckoning.”

“Which `reckoning,' your eminently Christian charity assures
you will prove more terrible for me than the Bloody Assizes.
`By the memory of our friendship!' Oh, shallow sham!
Pinning my faith to the dictum, `The tide of friendship does
not rise high on the bank of perfection,' my fatuity led me
to expect that your friendship was wide as the universe, and
lasting as eternity. Wise Helvetius told me that, `To be loved,
we should merit but little esteem; all superiority attracts awe
and aversion;' ergo, since my credentials of unworthiness
were in disputable, I laid claim to a vast share of your favor.
But, alas! the logic of the seers is well-nigh as hollow as my
hopes.”

He looked over his shoulder at her, with an expression of
pity as profound as that which must have filled the eyes of the
angel, who, standing in the blaze of the sword of wrath, watched
Adam and Eve go mournfully forth into the blistering heats of
unknown lands. Before he could reply, she laughed contemptuously,
and continued, —

“Nil desperandum, Dr. Grey. Remember that, `Faith and
persistency are life's architects; while doubt and despair bury
all under the ruins of any endeavor.' When I have trilled a
fortune into that abhorred vacuum, my pocket, I shall go
down to the Tigris, and catch the mate to Tobias' fish, and by
the cremation thereof, fumigate my pestiferous soul, and smoke
out the Asmodeus that has so long and comfortably dwelt
there.”

“God grant you a Raphael, as guide on your journey,” was
his calm, earnest reply, as he disappeared, closing the door after
him.

When the sound of his buggy-wheels on the gravelled avenue

told her he had gone, she threw herself on the floor, and crossing
her arms on a chair, hid her face in them.

During Saturday, no opportunity presented itself for renewing
the conversation, and early on Sunday morning Dr. Grey sent
to her room a package marked $1,000.00 — though really containing
$1,500.00 — and a letter addressed to Professor V—.
Without examining either, she threw them into her trunk,
which was already packed, and went down to breakfast.

She declined accompanying Miss Dexter and Muriel to church,
alleging, as an excuse, that it was the last day she could spend
with the children.

Dr. Grey approached her when the remainder of the family
had left the table, where she sat abstractedly jingling her fork
and spoon.

He noticed that her breakfast was untasted, and said, very
gently, —

“I suppose that you wish to visit our dear Jane's grave,
before you leave us, and, if agreeable to you, I shall be glad to
have you accompany me there to-day.”

“Thank you; but if I go, it will be alone.”

He stooped to kiss Jessie, who leaned against her sister's
chair, and, when he left the room, Salome caught the child in
her arms, and pressed her lips twice to the spot where his had
rested.

Late in the afternoon she eluded the children's watchful eyes,
and stole away from the house, taking the road that led towards
“Solitude.” In one portion of the osage hedge that surrounded
the place, the lower branches had died, leaving a small opening,
and here Salome gained access to the grounds. Walking cautiously
under the thick and dark masses of shrubbery and trees,
she reached the arched path near the clump of pyramidal
deodars, whose long, drooping plumes were fluttering in the
evening wind.

Thence she could command a view of the house and grounds
in front, and thence she saw that concerning which she had
come to satisfy herself, — believing that the evidence of her own

eyes would fortify her for the approaching trial of separation.
Dr. Grey's horse and buggy stood near the side gate, and Dr.
Grey was walking very slowly up and down the avenue leading
to the beach, while Mrs. Gerome's tall form leaned on his arm,
and the greyhound followed sulkily.

Salome had barely time to look upon the spectacle that fired
her heart and well-nigh maddened her, ere the dog lifted his
head, gave one quick, savage bark, and darted in the direction
of the cedars.

Dread of detection and of Dr. Grey's pitying gaze was more
potent than fear of the brute, and she ran swiftly towards the
gap in the hedge, by which she had effected an entrance into
the secluded grounds. Just as she reached it, the greyhound
bounded up, and they met in front of the opening. He set his
teeth in her clothes, tearing away a streamer of her black dress,
and, as she silently struggled, he bit her arm badly, mangling
the flesh, from which the blood spouted. Disengaging a shawl
which she wore around her shoulders, she threw it over his
head, and, as the meshes caught in his collar, and temporarily
entangled him, she sprang through the gap, and seized a heavy
stick which lay within reach. He followed, snarling and pawing
at the shawl that ultimately dropped at Salome's feet; but finding
himself beyond the boundary he was expected to guard, and
probably satisfied with the punishment already inflicted, he retreated
before a well-aimed blow that drove him back into the
enclosure.

The instant he started towards the cedars Dr. Grey suspected
mischief, and, placing Mrs. Gerome on a bench that surrounded
an elm, he hurried in the same direction.

When he reached the spot, the dog was snuffing at a patch of
bombazine that lay on the grass; and, confirmed in his sad suspicion,
the doctor passed through the opening in the hedge and
looked about for the figure which he dreaded, yet expected to
see.

Bushy undergrowth covered the ground for some distance,
and, hoping that nothing more serious than fright had resulted

from the escapade, he stowed away the bombazine fragment in
his coat pocket, and slowly retraced his steps.

Secreted by two friendly oaks that spread their low boughs
over her, Salome had seen his anxious face peering around for
the intruder, and when he abandoned the search and disappeared,
she smothered a bitter laugh, and strove to stanch the
blood that trickled from the gash by binding her handkerchief
over it. Torn muscles and tendons ached and smarted; but the
great agony that seemed devouring her heart rendered her
almost oblivious of physical pain. In the dusk of coming
night she crossed the gloomy forest, where a whippoorwill was
drearily lamenting, and, walking over an unfrequented portion
of the lawn, went up to her own room.

She bathed and bound up the wound as securely as the use of
only one hand would permit, and put on a dress whose sleeves
fastened closely at the wrist.

Ere long, Dr. Grey's clear voice echoed through the hall, and
the sound made her wince, like the touch of some glowing
brand.

“Jessie, where is sister Salome? Tell her tea is ready.”

The orphan went down and took her seat, but did not even
glance at the master of the house, who looked anxiously at her
as she entered.

During the meal Jessie asked for some sweetmeats that were
placed in front of her sister, and, as the latter drew the glass
dish nearer, and proceeded to help her, the child exclaimed, —

“Oh, look there! What is that dripping from your sleeve?
Ugh! it is blood.”

“Nonsense, Jessie! don't be silly. Hush! and eat your
supper.”

Two drops of blood had fallen on the table-cloth, and the girl
instantly set her cup and saucer over them.

She felt the slow stream trickling down to her wrist, and put
her arm in her lap.

“Is anything the matter?” asked Dr. Grey, who had observed
the quick movement.

“I hurt my arm a little, that is all.”

Her tone forbade a renewal of inquiry, and, as soon as possible,
she withdrew to her room, to adjust the bandage.

The children were playing in the library, and Muriel was
walking with her governess on the wide piazza.

While Salome was trying by the aid of fingers and teeth to
draw a strip of linen tightly over her wound, a tap at the door
startled her.

“I am engaged, and can see no one just now.”

“Salome, I want to speak to you, and shall wait here until
I do.”

“Excuse me, Dr. Grey. I will come down in ten minutes.”

“Pardon me, but I insist upon seeing you here, and hope you
will not compel me to force the door open.”

She wrapped a towel around her arm, drew down her sleeve,
and opened the door.

“To what am I indebted for the honor of this interview?”

“To my interest in your welfare, which cannot be baffled.
Salome, what is the matter? You looked so pale that I
noticed you particularly, and saw the blood on the table-cloth.
My dear child, I will not be trifled with. Tell me where you
are hurt.”

“Pray give yourself no uneasiness. I merely scraped and
bruised my arm. It is a matter of no consequence.”

“Of that I beg to be considered the best judge. Show me
your arm.”

“I prefer not to trouble you.”

He gently but firmly took hold of it, unwound the towel, and
she saw him start and shudder at sight of the mangled flesh.

“An ugly gash! Tell me how you hurt yourself so
severely.”

“It is a matter that I do not choose to discuss; but since
you have seen it, I wish you would be so good as to dress and
bandage the wound.”

“Oh, my little sister! Will you never learn to trust your
brother?”

“Oh, Dr. Grey! will you never learn to let me alone, when

I am indulging the `Imp of the Perverse' in an audience, and
do not wish to be interrupted?”

She mimicked his pleading tone so admirably that his face
flushed.

“Come to the sitting-room. No one can disturb us there,
and I will attend to your injury, which is really serious.”

She followed him, and stood without flinching one iota,
while he clipped away the jagged pieces of flesh, covered the
long gash with adhesive plaster, and carefully bandaged the
whole.

“Salome, you must dismiss all idea of starting to-morrow, for
indeed it would not be safe for you to travel alone, with your
arm in this condition. It may give you much trouble and
suffering.”

“Which, of course, nolens volens, I must bear as best I may;
but, so surely as I live to see daylight, I shall start, even if I
knew I should have to stop en route and bury my pretty arm,
and be forced to buy a cork one, wherewith to gesticulate gracefully
when I die as `Azucena.' There! thank you, Dr. Grey;
of course you are very good, — you always are. Shall I bid
you all good-by now, or wait till morning? Better make my
adieu to-night, so that I may not disturb the matutinal slumbers
of the household.”

There was a dangerous, starry sparkle in her eyes, that he
would not venture to defy, and, sighing heavily, he answered,
—

“I shall accompany you to the depôt, and place you under
the protection of the conductor.”

“I do not desire to give you that trouble, and —”

“Hush! Do not grieve me any more than you have already
done, by your hasty, unkind, unfriendly speeches. I shall see
you in the morning.”

He left the room abruptly, to conceal the distress which he
did not desire her to discover; and having found Muriel and
Miss Dexter, Salome bade them good-by, requested them not to
disturb themselves next morning on her account, and called
the children to her room.

For two hours they sat beside her on the lounge, crying over
her impending departure, but when she had promised to take
them as far as the depôt, their thoughts followed other currents,
and very soon after, both slumbered soundly in their trundle-bed.

With her cheek resting on her hand, Salome sat looking at
them, noting the glossiness of their curling hair, the flush on
their round faces, the regular breathing of peaceful childhood's
sleep. Once she could have wept, and would have knelt and
prayed over them; but now her own overmastering misery had
withered all the tenderness in her heart, and, while her eyes of
flesh rested on the orphans, her mental vision was filled with the
figure of that gray-haired woman hanging on Dr. Grey's arm.
In a dull, cold, abstract way, she hoped that the little ones
would be happy, — how could they be otherwise when fortune
had committed them to Dr. Grey's guardianship? But a numb,
desperate feeling had seized her, and she cared for nothing,
loved nothing, prayed for nothing.

How the hours of that night of wretchedness passed she never
knew; but when the little bird in the parlor clock “cuckooed”
three times, she was aroused from her reverie by the tramp of
horses' hoofs on the gravel, and then the sharp clang of the bell
echoed through the silent house.

It was not unusual for messengers to summon Dr. Grey
during the night, and she was not surprised when, some moments
later, she heard his voice in the hall. After the lapse of
a quarter of an hour, his firm, well-known step approached and
paused at her threshold.

“Salome, are you up?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come into the passage.”

She opened the door, and stood with the candle in her
hand.

“I regret exceedingly that I am compelled to leave here immediately,
as I must hasten to see a man and child who have
been horribly burned and injured by the falling in of a roof.
The parties live some distance in the country, and I fear I shall

not be able to get back in time to go with you to the cars. I
shall drive as rapidly as possible, and hope to accompany you,
but if I should be detained, here is a note which I hastily scribbled
to Mr. Miller, the conductor, whom you will find a very
kind and courteous gentleman. I sincerely deplore this summons,
but the sufferers are old friends of my sister, and I hope
you will believe that nothing but a case of life and death would
prevent me from seeing you aboard the train.”

“I am sorry, sir, that you thought it necessary to apologize.”

She was not yet prepared to part from him forever, — she
had been nerving herself for the final interview at the depôt;
but now it came with a shock that utterly stunned her, and she
reeled against the door-facing, as if recoiling from some fearful
blow.

The livid pallor of her lips, and the spasm of agony that contracted
her features, frightened him, and, as he sprang closer
to her, the candle fell from her fingers. He caught it, ere it
reached the mat, and placed it on a chair.

“My dear child, your arm pains you, and I beg you to defer
your journey at least until Tuesday. I shall be anxious and
miserable about you, if you go this morning, and, for my sake,
Salome, if not for your own, remain here one day longer. I
have not asked many things of you, and I trust you will not
refuse this last request I may ever be allowed to make.”

She attempted to speak, but there came only a quiver across
her mouth, and a sickly smile that flickered over the ghastly
proud face, like the dying sunshine of Indian summer on
marble cenotaphs.

“Salome, you will, to oblige me, wait until Tuesday?”

She shook her head, and mastered her weakness.

“No, Dr. Grey; I must go at once. I take all the hazard.”

“Then you will find on the mantel-piece in my room, a paper
containing directions for the treatment of your arm, which
demands care and attention. I am sorry you are so obstinate,
and, if I possessed the authority, I would forbid your departure.”

He could not endure the despairing expression of her eyes,
which seemed supernaturally large and brilliant, and his own
quailed, for the first time within his recollection. She knew
that she was going away forever, to avoid the sight of his happiness
with Mrs. Gerome; that, in comparison with that torture,
all other trials, even separation, would be endurable; but the
least evil was more severe than she had dreaded. Now, as she
looked up at his noble face, overshadowed with anxiety and
regret, and paler than she had ever seen it, the one prayer of
her heart was, that, ere a wife's lips touched his, death might
claim him for its prey.

“Salome, I am deeply pained by the course you persist in
following, but I will not provoke and annoy you by renewed expression
of a disapprobation that has proved so ineffectual in influencing
your decision. God grant that the results may sanction
your confidence in your own judgment, — your distrust of mine.
I promised you once that I would pray for you, and I wish to
assure you, that, while I live, I shall never lay my head upon my
pillow without having first committed you to the mercy and
loving care of that Guardian who never `slumbers, nor sleeps.'
May God bless and guide you, my dear young friend, and if not
again in this world, grant that we may meet in the Everlasting
City of Peace. Little sister, be sure to meet me in the Kingdom
of Rest, where dear Janet waits for us both.”

His calm eyes filled with tears, and his voice grew tremulous,
as he took Salome's cold, passive hand, and kissed it.

“Good-by, Dr. Grey; if I find my way to heaven, it will be
because you are there. When I am gone, let my name and
memory be like that of the dead.”

She stood erect, with her fingers lying in his palm, and the
ring of her voice was like the clashing of steel against steel.

He bent down, and, for the first time, pressed his lips to her
forehead; then turned quickly and walked away. When he
reached the head of the stairs, he looked back and saw her
standing in the door, with the candle-light flaring over her face;
and in after years, he could never recall, without a keen pang,
that vision of a girlish form draped in mourning, and of fair,

rigid features, which hope and happiness could never again
soften and brighten.

Her splendid eyes followed him, as if the sole light of her life
were passing away forever; and, with a heavy sigh, he hurried
down the steps, realizing all the mournful burden of that
Portuguese sonnet, —