CHAPTER XIV.
“Elsie, it is worse than useless to talk to me. Once I could listen to you,—once I felt as you do now; but that time has gone by forever. I will read to you as often as you desire it, provided you do not make every chapter a text for a sermon. What do you wish to hear this morning?”
“The fortieth Psalm.”
Mrs. Gerome opened the Bible, and, when she had finished the psalm designated, shut the book and laid it back close to Elsie’s pillow.
The old woman placed her hand on the round, white arm of her mistress, who rested carelessly against the bed.
“You know, my child, that David’s afflictions were sore indeed; but he declares, ‘I waited patiently for the Lord, and he inclined unto me, and heard my cry.’ You will not be patient, and God can’t help you till you are. We are like children punished for bad conduct,—as long as we rebel and struggle, of course we must be still further chastised; but the moment we show real penitence, our parents notice that we are bearing correction patiently, and then they throw away the rod and stretch out their arms, and snatch us close to their 175 loving hearts. Even so God holds one hand to draw us tenderly to Him; and, if we are obstinately sinful, with the other He scourges us into the right path,—determined to help us, even against our own wills. Ah, if I could see you waiting patiently for the Lord!”
“You will never see it. Patience was ‘scourged’ out of me, and now I stand still because I am worn out with struggling, waiting—not patiently, but wearily and helplessly—to see the end of my punishment. What have I done that I should feign a penitence I shall never feel? I was a happy, trusting, unoffending woman, when God smote me fiercely; and, because I was so innocent, I could not kiss my stinging rod, I grappled desperately with it. Elsie, don’t stir up the bitter dregs in my soul, and mix them with every thought. Let them settle.”
“My darling, I don’t want them to settle. I pray either that they may be stirred up and taken out, or sweetened by the grace of God. Do you ever think of the day when you will face your sainted mother?”
“No. I think only of enduring this present life until death, my deliverer, comes to my rescue.”
“But, my bairn, you are not fit to die.”
“Fit to die as to live,” answered her mistress, morosely.
“For God’s sake, don’t flout the Almighty in that wicked manner! If you would only be baptized and take refuge in prayer, as every Christian should, you would find peace for your poor, miserable soul.”
“No; peace can’t be poured out of a pitcher with the baptismal water; and all the waves tossing and glittering out there in the ocean could not wash one painful memory from my heart. I have had one baptism, and it was ample and thorough. I went down into the waters of woe, and all their black billows broke over me. Instead of the Jordan, I was immersed in the Dead Sea, and the asphaltum cleaves to me.”
“Oh, dearie, you will break my heart! I wish now that you had died when you were only fourteen months old, for then there would have been one more precious lamb in the flock of the Good Shepherd, safe in heavenly pastures—one 176 more dear little golden head nestling on Jesus’ bosom,—instead of—of—”
Elsie’s emotion mastered her voice, and she sobbed convulsively.
“Why did not you finish? ‘Instead of a gray head waiting to go down into the pit of perdition.’ Yes, it was a terrible blunder that I was not allowed to die in my infancy; but it can’t be helped now, and I wish you would not fret yourself into a fever over the irremediable. Why will you persist in tormenting yourself and me about my want of resignation and faith, when you know that exhortation and persuasion have no more effect upon me than the whistle of the plover down yonder in the sedge and seaweed,—where I heartily wish I were lying, ten feet under the shells? Rather a damp pillow for my fastidious, proud head, but, at least, cool and quiet. Calm yourself, my dear Elsie, for God will not hold you responsible if I miss my place among the saints, when He divides the sheep from the goats, in the last day,—Dies iræ dies illa. Let me straighten your pillow and smooth your cap-border, for I see your doctor coming up the walk. There,—dry your eyes. When you want me, send Robert or Katie to call me.”
Mrs. Gerome leaned over the helpless, prostrate form on the bed, pressed her cheek against that of her nurse, where tears still glistened, and glided swiftly out of the room just before Dr. Grey entered.
Never had he seen his patient so completely unnerved; but, observing her efforts to compose herself, he forbore any allusion to an agitation which he suspected was referable to mental rather than physical causes. Bravely the stubborn woman struggled to steady her voice, and still the twitching tell-tale muscles about her mouth; but the burden of anxiety finally bore down all resolves, and, covering her face with her broad hand, she wept unrestrainedly.
In profound silence Dr. Grey sat beside her for nearly five minutes; then, fearful that the excitement might prove injurious, he said, gently,—
“I hope you are not suffering so severely from bodily pain? 177 What distresses you, my good woman? Perhaps, if I knew the cause, I might be able to render you some service.”
“It is not my body,—that, you know, is numb, and gives me no pain,—but my mind! Doctor, I am suffering in mind, and you have no medicine that can ease that.”
“Possibly I may accomplish more than you imagine is within reach of my remedies. Of one thing you may rest assured,—you will never have reason to regret any confidence you may repose in me.”
“Dr. Grey, I believe you are a Christian; at least, I have heard so; and, since my affliction, I have been watching you very closely, and begin to think I can trust you. Are you a member of the church?”
“I am; although that fact alone should not entitle me to your confidence. We are all erring, and full of faults, but I endeavor to live in such a manner that I shall not bring disgrace upon the holy faith I profess.”
“Shut the door, and come back to me.”
He bolted the door, which stood ajar, and resumed his seat.
“Dr. Grey, I know as well as you do that I can’t last a great while, and I ought to prepare for what may overtake me any day. I have tried to live in accordance with the law of God, and I am not afraid to die; but I am afraid to leave my mistress behind me. When I am gone there will be no one to watch over and plead with her, and I dread lest her precious soul may be lost. She won’t go to God for herself, or by herself, and who will pray for her salvation when I am in my shroud? Oh, I can not die in peace, leaving her alone in the world she hates and despises! What will become of my poor, bonnie bairn?”
Elsie sobbed aloud, and Dr. Grey asked,—
“Has Mrs. Gerome no living relatives?”
“None, sir, in America. There are some cousins in Scotland, but she has never seen them, and never will.”
“Where are the members of her husband’s family?”
A visible shudder crept over that portion of the woman’s body which was not paralyzed, and her face grew dark and stern.
“He was an orphan.”
“His loss seems to have had a terrible effect upon Mrs. Gerome, and rendered her bitter and hopeless.”
“How hopeless, none but she and I and the God above us know. Once she was the meekest, sweetest spirit, that ever gladdened a nurse’s heart, and I thought the world was blessed by her coming into it; but now she is sacrilegious and scoffing, and almost dares the Lord’s judgments. Dr. Grey, it would nearly freeze your blood to hear her sometimes. Poor thing! she will have no companions, and so has a habit of talking to herself, and I often hear her arguing with the Almighty about her life, and the trouble He allowed to fall into it. Last night she was walking there under my window, begging God to take her out of the world before I die. Begging, did I say? Nay,—demanding. My precious, pretty bairn!”
“Elsie, be candid with me. Is not Mrs. Gerome partially deranged?”
She struggled violently to raise herself, but failing, her head fell back, and she lifted her finger angrily.
“No more deranged than you or I. That is a vile slander of busybodies whom she will not receive, and who take it for granted that no lady in her sound senses would refuse the privilege of gossiping with them. She is as sane as any one, though there is an unnatural appearance about her, and if her heart was only as sound as her head I could die easily. They started the report of craziness long, long ago, in order to get hold of her fortune; but it was too infamous a scheme to succeed.”
Elsie’s strong white teeth were firmly set, and her clenched fingers did not relax.
“Who started the report of her insanity?”
“One who injured her, and made her what you see her.”
“She had no children?”
“Oh, no! Once I begged her to adopt a pretty little orphan girl we saw in Athens, but she ridiculed me for an old fool, and asked me if I wished to see her warm a viper to sting what was left of her heart.”
“Mrs. Gerome has indulged her grief for her husband’s 179 loss, until she has become morbidly sensitive. She should go into the world, and interest herself in benevolent schemes; and, ultimately, her diseased thoughts would flow into new and healthful channels. The secluded life she leads is a hotbed for the growth of noxious fungi in heart and mind. If you possess any influence over her, persuade her to re-enter society. She is still young enough to find not only a cure for her grief, but an ample share of even earthly happiness.”
Elsie sighed, and waved her hand impatiently.
“You do not know all, or you would understand that in this world she can not expect much happiness. Besides, she is peculiarly sensitive about her appearance; and, of course, when she is seen, people stare, and wonder how such a young thing got that pile of white hair. That is the reason she quit travelling and shut herself up here.”
“Was it grief that prematurely silvered her hair?”
“Yes, sir; it was as black as your coat, until her trouble came; and then in a fortnight it turned as gray as you see it now. Doctor, I said she was not deranged, and I spoke truly; but sometimes I have feared that, when I am gone, she might get desperate, and, in her loneliness, destroy herself. You are a sensible man, and can hold your tongue, and I feel that I can trust you. Now, I know that Robert loves her, and while he lives will serve her faithfully; but you are wiser than my son, and I should be better satisfied if I left her in your charge, when I go home. Will you promise me to take care of her, and to try to comfort her in the day when she sees me buried?”
“Elsie, you impose upon me a duty which I am afraid Mrs. Gerome will not allow me to discharge; and, since she is so exceedingly averse to meeting strangers, I should not feel justified in thrusting myself into her presence.”
“Not even to prevent a crime?”
“I hope that your excited imagination and anxious heart exaggerate the possibility of the danger to which you allude.”
“No; exaggeration is not one of my habits, and I know my mistress better than she knows herself. She thinks that suicide is not a sin, but says it is cowardly; and she utterly detests 180 and loathes cowardice. Dr. Grey, I could not rest quietly in my coffin if she is left alone in this dreary house, after I am carried to my long home. Will you stay here awhile, or take her to your house,—at least for a short time?”
“I will, at all events, promise to comply with your wishes as fully as she will permit. But recollect that I am comparatively a stranger to her, and her haughty reception of me the day I was compelled to come here on your account, does not encourage me to presume in future. Respect for her wishes, however unreasonable, and respect for myself, would forbid an intrusion on my part.”
“If you saw an utter stranger drowning, would fear of being considered presumptuous or impertinent prevent your trying to save him? Your self-love should not hold you back from a Christian duty.”
“And you may rest assured that it never shall, when I feel that interference—no matter how unwelcome or ungraciously received—will prove beneficial. But remember that your mistress is eccentric and shrinking, and all efforts to befriend her must be made very cautiously.”
“True, doctor; yet sometimes, instead of consulting her, it is best to treat her as a wilful child. I believe you could obtain some influence over her if you would only try to break the ice, because she has spoken kindly of you several times since I have been so helpless, and asked what she could do to show her gratitude for your goodness to me. Yesterday she said she intended to direct Robert to take some fine fruit to your house, and she remarked that your eyes were, in comparison with other folks’, what Sabbath is to working week-days,—were so full of rest, that tired anxious people might be refreshed by looking at them. Sir, that is more than I have heard her utter for seven years about anybody; and, therefore, I think you might do her some good.”
Dr. Grey shook his head, but remained silent; and presently Elsie touched his arm, and continued,—
“There is something I wish to say to you before I die, but not now. I want you to promise me that when you see my end 181 is indeed at hand, you will tell me in time to let me talk a little to you. Will you?”
“You may linger for months, and it is possible that you may die quite suddenly; consequently, it might be impracticable for me to fulfil the promise you require. Still, if I can do so, I will certainly comply with your wishes. Would it not be better to tell me at once what you desire me to know?”
“While I live it is not necessary that any one should know, and it is only when I am about to die that I shall speak to you. For my sake, for humanity’s sake, try to become acquainted with my mistress and make her like you, as she certainly will, if she only knows you.”
A tap at the door interrupted the conversation, and soon after, Dr. Grey quitted the sick-room.
He paused in the hall to examine a fine copy of Landseer’s “Old Shepherd’s Chief Mourner,” and, while he stood before it, a large greyhound started up from the mat at the front door, and bounded towards him. Simultaneously Mrs. Gerome appeared at the threshold of the parlor.
“Come here, sir! Poor fellow, come here!”
The dog obeyed her instantly; and, pressing close to her, looked up wistfully in her face.
“Good morning, Mrs. Gerome. I must thank you for coming so promptly to my assistance. I have never seen this dog until to-day, and, consequently, was not on my guard.”
“He arrived only yesterday, and is so overjoyed to be with me once more that he allows no one else to approach.”
“He is by far the handsomest dog I have ever seen in America.”
“Yes, I had great difficulty in obtaining him. My agent assures me that he belongs to the best that are reared in the tribe of Beni Lam; and that he is a genuine Arab, there can be no doubt.”
“How long have you owned him?”
“Two years. Unfortunately he was bitten by a snake one day while wandering with me among the ruins at Pæstum, and was so singularly affected that I was forced to leave him at Naples. Various causes combined to delay his restoration to 182 me until last week, when he crossed the Atlantic; and yesterday he went into ecstasies when I received him from the express agent. Hush! no growling! Down, sir! Take care, Dr. Grey; he will bear no hand but mine, and it is rather dangerous to caress him, as you may judge from the fangs he is showing you.”
The dog was remarkably tall, silky, beautifully formed, and of a soft mole-color; and around his neck a collar formed of four small silver chains, bore an oval silver plate on which was engraved in German text, “Ich Dien—Agla Gerome.”
“I congratulate you upon the possession of such a treasure,” said the visitor, with unfeigned admiration,—as, with the eye of a connoisseur, he noted the fine points about the sleek, slim animal, who eyed him suspiciously.
“Thank you. How is Elsie to-day?”
“More nervous than I have seen her since the accident, and some of her symptoms are rather discouraging, though there is no immediate danger. Do not look so hopeless; she may be spared to you for many months.”
“Why will you not let me hope that she may ultimately recover?”
“Because it is utterly futile, and I have no desire to deceive you, even for an instant. Good morning, Robert.”
The gardener approached with a large basket filled with peaches and nectarines, and, taking off his hat, bowed profoundly.
“My mistress ordered these placed in your buggy, as I believe our nectarines ripen earlier than any others in the neighborhood.”
“Thank you, Maclean. Mrs. Gerome is exceedingly kind, and I have an invalid sister who will enjoy this beautiful fruit. Those nectarines would not disgrace Smyrna or Damascus, and are the first of the season.”
Robert passed through the hall, bearing the basket to the buggy; and at that instant there was a startling crash, as of some heavy article falling in the parlor. The dog sprang up with a howl, and Dr. Grey followed Mrs. Gerome into the room to ascertain the cause of the noise. A glance sufficed 183 to explain that a picture in a heavy frame had fallen from a hook above the mantelpiece, and in its descent overturned some tall vases, which now lay shattered on the hearth. Dr. Grey lifted the painting from the rubbish, and, as he turned the canvas towards the light, Mrs. Gerome said,—
“‘Une tristesse implacable, une effroyable fatalité pèse sui l’œuvre de l’artiste. Cela ressemble à une malediction amère, lancée sur le sort de l’humanité.’ There is, indeed, some fatality about that copy of Durer’s ‘Knight, Death, and the Devil,’ which seems really ill-omened, for this is the second time it has fallen. Thank you, sir. The frame only is injured, and I will not trouble you to remove it. Let it lean against the grate, until I have it rehung more securely.”
“It is too grim a picture for these walls, and stares at its companions like the mummy at Egyptian banquets.”
“On the contrary, it impresses me as grotesque in comparison with Durer’s ‘Melancholy,’ yonder, or with Holbein’s ‘Les Simulachres de la mort.’”
“Durer’s figure of ‘Melancholy’ has never satisfied me, and there is more ferocity than sadness in the countenance, which would serve quite as well for one of the Erinney hunting Orestes, even in the adytum at Delphi. The face is more sinister than sorrowful.”
“Since your opinion of that picture coincides so entirely with mine, tell me whether I have successfully grasped Coleridge’s dim ideal.”
Mrs. Gerome drew from a corner of the rear room an easel containing a finished but unframed picture; and, gathering up the lace curtain drooping before the arch, she held the folds aside, to allow the light to fall full on the canvas.
“Before you examine it, recall the description that suggested it.”
“I am sorry to say that my recollection of the passage is exceedingly vague and unsatisfactory. Will you oblige me by repeating it?”
“Excuse me; your hand is resting upon the book, which is open at the fragment.”
Dr. Grey bowed, and, lifting the volume from the table 184 glanced rapidly over the lines designated, then turned to the picture, where, indeed,
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“Stretched on a mouldering abbey’s broadest wall, Where ruining ivies propped the ruins steep, Her folded arms wrapping her tattered pall, Had Melancholy mused herself to sleep. The fern was pressed beneath her hair, The dark green adder’s tongue was there; And still as past the flagging sea-gale weak, The long, lank leaf bowed fluttering o’er her cheek. That pallid cheek was flushed; her eager look Beamed eloquent in slumber! Inly wrought, Imperfect sounds her moving lips forsook, And her bent forehead worked with troubled thought.” |
The beautiful face of the reclining figure was dreamily hopeless and dejected, yet pathetically patient; and, in the strange amber light reflected from a sunset sea, the fringy shadow of a cluster of fern-leaves seemed to quiver over the pale brow and still mouth, and floating raven hair, where the green snake glided with crest erect and forked tongue within an inch of one delicate, pearly ear. The gray stones of the lichen-spotted wall, the graceful sweep of the shrouding drab drapery, whose folds clung to the form and thence swung down from the edge of the rocky battlement, the mouldering ruins leaning against the quiet sky in the rear, and the glassy stretch of topaz-tinted sea in the foreground, were all painted with pre-Raphaelite exactness and verisimilitude, and every detail attested the careful, tender study, with which the picture had been elaborated.
Was it by accident or design that the woman on the painted wall bore a vague, mournful resemblance to the owner and creator? Dr. Grey glanced from Durer’s “Melancholy” to the canvas on the easel; then his fascinated eyes dwelt on the dainty features of the artist, and he thought involuntarily of another Coleridgean image,—of the “pilgrim in whom the spring and the autumn, and the melancholy of both, seemed to have combined.”
“Mrs. Gerome, in this wonderful embodiment of Coleridge’s fragmentary ideal you have painted your own portrait.”
“No, sir. Look again. My ‘Melancholia’ has a patient face, hinting of possible peace. When I design its companion, ‘Desolation,’ I may be pardoned if my canvas reflects what always fronts it.”
“May I ask when you wrought out this extraordinary conception?”
“During the past month. The last touch was given this morning, and the paint is not yet dry on that cluster of purplish seaweed clinging to the base of the battlement. Last night I dreamed that Coleridge stood looking over my shoulder and while I worked he touched the sea, and it flushed a ruby red brighter than laudanum; and then he leaned down, and with a pencil wrote Dele across the fragment in his Sibylline Leaves.’ To-day I tried the effect of the hint, but the amber water mellows the woman’s features, and the ruby light rendered them sullen and rigid.”
“Were I to judge from the bizarre themes that you select, I should be tempted to fear that the wizard spell of opium evoked some of these strangely beautiful creations of your brush. What suggested this picture?”
“You merely wish to complete your diagnosis of my psychological condition? If so, there is no reason why I should hesitate to tell you that while I was playing one of Chopin’s Nocturnes the significance of the Polish ‘Zäl’ perplexed me. In striving to analyze it, Coleridge’s ‘Melancholy’ occurred to my mind, and teased and haunted me until I wrought it out palpably. My work there means more than his fragment, and includes something which I suppose Chopin meant by that insynonymous word ‘Zäl.’”
Standing under the arch, with one hand holding back the lace drapery, the other hanging nerveless at her side, she looked as weird as any of her ideal creations; and, in the greenish seashine breaking through the dense foliage of the trees about the house, her wan face, snowy muslin dress, and floating white ribbons, seemed unsubstantial as the figures on 186 the wall. To-day there was no spot of color in face or dress, save the azure gleam of the large, brilliant ring, on her uplifted hand; and, as Dr. Grey scrutinized her appearance, he found it difficult to realize that blood pulsed in that marble flesh, and warm breath fluttered in that firm, frigid mouth. Glancing around the rooms, he said,—
“Solitude is indeed a misnomer for a home peopled with such creations as adorn these walls.”
“No. Have you forgotten the definition of Epictetus? ‘To be friendless is solitude.’”
“I hope, madam, that you may never find yourself in that unfortunate category, and certainly there are—”
“Sir, I know what Michael Angelo felt when he wrote from Rome, ‘I have no friends; I need none.’”
She interrupted him with an indescribably haughty gesture, and an anomalous spasm of the lips that belonged to no known class of smiles.
“On the contrary, Mrs. Gerome, the hunger for true friends has rendered you morose and cynical.”
He did not shrink from the wide eyes that flashed like blue steel in moonshine; and as his own, calm, steady, and magnetic, dwelt gravely on her face, he fancied she winced, slightly.
“No, sir. When I hunt or recognize friends, I shall borrow Diogenes’ lantern. Good morning, Dr. Grey.”
“Pardon me if I detain you for a moment to inquire who taught you to paint.”
“The absolute necessity of self-forgetfulness.”
“But you surely had some tuition in the art?”
“Yes; I had the usual boarding-school privilege of a master for perspective, and pastel. Dr. Grey, have you been to Europe?”
“Yes, madam; on several occasions.”
“You visited Dresden?”
“I did.”
“Step forward a little,—there. Now, sir, do you know that painting hanging over my escritoire?”
“It is Ruysdael’s ‘Churchyard,’ and, from this distance, 187 seems a remarkably fine copy of that sombre, desolate, ghoul-haunted picture.”
“Thank you. That is the only piece of work of which I feel really proud. Some day, when the light is pure and strong, come in and examine it. Now there is a greenish tinge over all things in the room thrown by sea-shimmer through the clustering leaves. Ah, what a long, low, presageful moan that was, which broke from foaming lips, on yonder strand!”
“Good morning, Mrs. Gerome. The inspection of your pictures has yielded me so much pleasure that I must tender you my very sincere thanks for your courtesy.”
She bowed distantly; and, when he reached his buggy, he glanced back and saw that perfect, pallid face, pressed against the cedar facing of the oriel, looking seaward. He lifted his hat, but she did not observe the salute; and, as he drove away, she kept her eyes upon the murmuring waves, and repeated, as was her habit, the lines that chanced to present themselves,—
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“Listen! you hear the solemn roar Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence, slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in. Sophocles, long ago, Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery.” |