CHAPTER XIX.
“Doctor Grey, are you awake? Dr. Grey, here is a note from ‘Solitude,’ and the messenger begs that you will lose no time, as one of the servants is supposed to be dying.”
Salome had knocked twice at Dr. Grey’s door, without arousing him, and the third time she beat a tattoo that would have broken even heavier slumbers than his.
“I am awake, and will strike a light in a moment.”
She heard him stumbling about the room, and finally there was a crash, as of a broken vase or goblet.
“What is the matter? Can’t you find your matches?”
“No; some one has removed the box from its usual place, and I am fumbling about at random, and smashing things indiscriminately. Will you be so good as to bring me a match?”
“I have a candle in my hand, which you can take, while I order Elbert to get your buggy ready.”
“Thank you, Salome.”
She placed the candle on the mat before his door, laid the note beside it, and went down to the servants’ rooms to call the driver.
It was two o’clock, and Dr. Grey had come home only an hour before, from a patient who resided at some distance.
Dressing himself as expeditiously as possible, he read the blurred and crumpled note.
“Dr. Grey: For God’s sake come as quick as possible. I am afraid my mother is dying.
“Robert Maclean.”
| “Robert Maclean.” |
Three days before, when he visited Elsie, he found her more composed and comfortable than she had been for several weeks, and Mrs. Gerome had seemed almost cheerful, as she sat beside the bed, crimping the borders of the invalid’s muslin caps which the laundress had sent in, stiff and spotless.
Recollecting Elsie’s desire to confide something to him before her death, and dreading the effect which this sudden termination of her life might have upon her mistress, in whom he was daily becoming more deeply interested, Dr. Grey hurried down stairs and met the orphan.
“Elbert is not quite ready, but will be at the door directly. I told him the case was urgent.”
“You are very considerate, Salome, and I am much obliged for your thoughtfulness; though I regret that the messenger waked you, instead of Rachel or me. I have never before known Rachel fail to hear the bell, and I was so weary that I think a ten-inch columbiad would scarcely have aroused me.”
“I was not asleep,—was sitting at my window; and hearing some one slam the gate and gallop up the avenue, I went to the door and opened it, to prevent the ringing of the bell and waking of the entire household.”
“You should have been asleep four hours ago, and I had no idea you were still up, when I came home. There was no light in your room. Are you quite well?”
“Thank you, I am quite well.”
She was dressed as he had seen her at dinner, and now, as she stood resting one hand on the balustrade of the stairway, he thought she looked paler and more weary than he had ever observed her.
The scarlet spray of pelargonium had withered from the heat of her head, where it had rested all the evening, and the large creamy Grand Duke jasmine fastened at her throat by a sprig of coral, was drooping and fading, but still exhaled its strong delicious perfume.
“Your appearance contradicts your assertion. Is your wakefulness attributable to any anxiety or trouble which I can remove?”
“No, sir. I hear Elbert opening the gate. Who is sick at ‘Solitude’?”
“The servant who was so severely injured many months ago, by a fall from a carriage, has grown suddenly worse.”
Salome accompanied him to the front door, in order to lock it after his departure; and, as he descended the steps, he turned and said, in a subdued voice,—
“You have probably heard that Mrs. Gerome is a very peculiar,—indeed, a decidedly eccentric person?”
“Yes, sir; it is reported that she is almost a lunatic.”
“Which is totally false. She is very sensitive, and shrinks from strangers, and consequently has no friends here. If I should find Elsie dying, or if I need you, I wish you to come promptly. It may be necessary to have some one beside the household, and you are the only person I can trust. Try to go to sleep immediately, for I may send for you very early in the morning.”
“I shall be ready to come when I am needed.”
The buggy rolled up to the steps, and Dr. Grey sprang into it and drove swiftly down the avenue.
Salome crept softly back up stairs, but Miss Jane called out,—
“Who is there, in the hall? What is the matter?”
The girl opened the door, and put her head inside.
“Dr. Grey has been called to see a sick woman at ‘Solitude,’ and I have just locked the door after him.”
“Why could not Rachel do that, and save you from coming down stairs? What time of night is it?”
“About half-past two. Rachel is asleep. Good-night.”
“‘Solitude,’ did you say?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Well, if people will persist in burrowing in that unlucky den, they must take the consequences. Ulpian, poor fellow, will be completely worn out. Good-night, dear; don’t get up to breakfast, if you feel sleepy.”
Salome went to her own room, changed her dress, laid gloves, hat, and shawl in readiness upon the bed, and threw herself down on the lounge to rest, and if possible to sleep.
When Dr. Grey reached “Solitude,” he found Robert Maclean pacing the paved walk that led to the gate.
“Oh, doctor! Have you come at last? It seems to me I could have crawled twice to your house, since Jerry came back.”
“What change has taken place in your mother’s condition? She was better than usual, when I saw her last.”
“We thought she was getting along very well, till all of a sudden she became speechless. Go in, sir; don’t stop to knock.”
Mrs. Gerome sat at the bedside, mechanically chafing one of the hands that lay on the coverlet, and the face of the dying woman was not more ghastly than the one which bent over her. As Dr. Grey approached, the mistress of the house rose, and put out her hands towards him, with a wistful, pleading, childish manner, that touched him inexpressibly.
“Do not let her die.”
He leaned over the pillow, and put his finger on the scarcely palpable pulse.
“Elsie, tell me where or how you suffer.”
A ray of recognition leaped up in her sunken eyes, and she looked at him with a yearning, imploring expression, that was pitiable and distressing indeed.
He saw that she was struggling to articulate, but failing in the effort, a groan escaped her, and tears gathered and trickled down her pinched face. He smoothed her contracted forehead, and said, soothingly,—
“Elsie, you feel that I will do all that I can to relieve you. You can not talk to me, but you know me?”
She inclined her head slightly, and in examining her he discovered that only one side was completely paralyzed, and that she could still partially control her left arm. When he had done all that medical skill could suggest, he stood at her side, and she suddenly grasped his fingers.
He put his face close to hers, and observing her tears start afresh, whispered,—
“You wish to tell me something before you die?”
A gurgling sound, and a faint motion of her lips was the only reply of which she was capable.
He placed a pencil between her fingers, but she could not use it intelligibly, and he noticed that her eyes moved from his to those of her mistress, as if to indicate that she was the subject of the desired conversation.
It was distressing to witness her efforts to communicate her wishes, while the tears dripped on her pillow; and unable to endure the sight of her anguish, Mrs. Gerome sank on her knees and hid her face in the coverlet.
Dr. Grey gently lifted Elsie’s arm and placed her hand on the head of her mistress, and the expression of her face assured him he had correctly interpreted her feelings. Something still disturbed her, and he suggested,—
“Mrs. Gerome, put your hand in hers.”
She silently obeyed him, and then the old woman’s eyes looked once more intently into his. He could not conjecture her meaning, until, in feeling her pulse, he found that she was trying to touch his fingers with hers.
He slipped his own into the palm where Mrs. Gerome’s lay, and, by a last great effort, she pressed them feebly together.
Even then, the touch of those white, soft fingers, thrilled his heart as no other hand had ever done, and he said,—
“Elsie, you mean that you leave her in my care? That you put her in my hands? That you trust her to me?”
It was impossible to mistake the satisfied expression that flashed over her countenance.
“I accept the trust. Elsie, I promise you that while I live she shall never want a true and faithful friend. I will try to take care of her body, and pray for her soul. I will do all that you would have done.”
Once more, but very faintly, she pressed the two hands she had clasped, and closed her eyes.
“Oh, doctor, can’t you save her?” sobbed Robert.
In the solemn silence that ensued Mrs. Gerome lifted her face, and Dr. Grey never forgot the wild, imploring gaze, that met his. He understood its import, and shook his head. She rose instantly, moved away from the bed, and left the room.
For nearly an hour Dr. Grey hung over the prostrate form, which lay with closed eyes, and gradually sank into the heavy lethargic sleep, from which he knew she could never awake.
Leaving her to the care of Robert and two female servants, he went in search of the mistress of the silent and dreary house.
Taking a lamp from the escritoire in the back parlor, he went from room to room, finding nowhere the object he sought, and at length became alarmed. As he stood in the front door, perplexed and anxious, the thought presented itself that she might have gone down to the beach. He went back to the apartment occupied by the dying woman,—felt once more the sinking pulse, and took a last look at the altered and almost rigid face.
“Robert, I can do her no good. Her soul will very soon be with her God.”
“Oh, sir, don’t leave her! Don’t give her up, while there is life in her body!” cried the son, grasping the doctor’s sleeve.
Dr. Grey put his hand on the Scotchman’s shoulder, and whispered,—
“I am going to hunt for Mrs. Gerome. She is not in the house. I may be able to render her some service, but your mother is beyond all human aid.”
“Is there any pulse?”
“It is so feeble now, I can scarcely count it.”
“Please, doctor, stay here by her while she breathes. Don’t desert the dear soul. My poor mother!”
Robert lost all control of himself, and wept like a child.
Loth to forsake him in this hour of direst trial, Dr. Grey leaned against the bed, and for some moments watched the irregular convulsive heaving of the woman’s chest.
“Oh, sir, if my mistress hadn’t a heart of stone, she would have let her die peacefully. She might at least have granted her dying prayer.”
“What was it?”
“All of yesterday afternoon she pleaded with her to be 247 baptized. My mother—God bless her dear soul!—my mother told her that she could not consent to die until she saw her baptized; and, with the tears pouring down her poor face, she begged and prayed that I might fetch the minister from town, and that she might see the ceremony performed. But my mistress walked up and down the floor, and said, ‘Never! never! I have done with mockeries. I have washed my hands of all that,—long, long ago.’ And now—it is too late; and my poor mother can never—God be merciful to us! is it all over?”
Dr. Grey raised the head, but the breathing was imperceptible and, after a little while, he softly pressed down the lids that were partially lifted from the glazed eyes, and quitted the room.
His buggy stood at the rear gate, and the driver was asleep, but his master’s voice aroused him.
“Elbert, go home, and ask Miss Salome please to come over as soon as you can drive her here.”
The east was purple and gold, the sea a purling mass of molten amber, and only two stars were visible low in the west, where a waning moon swung on the edge of the distant misty hills. The air was chill, and a silvery haze hung above the moaning waves, and partially veiled the windings of the beach. Under the trees that clustered so closely around the house, the gloom of night still lingered like a pall, but as Dr. Grey approached the terrace, he felt the pure fresh presence of the new day. Up and down the sands his eyes wandered, hoping to discern a woman’s figure, but no living thing was visible, except the flamingo and yellow pheasant still perched where they had spent the night, on the stone balustrade that bordered the terrace. He took off his hat to enjoy the crystalline atmosphere, and while he faced the brightening east, the sharp peculiar bark of the Arab greyhound broke the solemn silence that brooded over sea and land.
The sound proceeded from the boat-house, and he hastened towards it, startling a mimic army of crabs and fiddlers that had not yet ended their nightly marauding. The tide was 248 higher than usual at this early hour, and the waves were breaking sullenly against the stone piers.
As Dr. Grey ascended the iron steps leading to the pavilion, the dog growled and showed his teeth, but the visitor succeeded in partially winning him over, and now passed unmolested into the circular room. A cushioned seat extended around the wall, where windows opened at the four points of the compass; and on the round table in the centre of the marble-tiled floor lay a telescope.
At the eastern window sat Mrs. Gerome, with her head resting on her crossed arms. Although Dr. Grey’s steps echoed heavily, as he trod the damp mosaic where the mist had condensed, she gave no evidence of having discovered his presence until he stood close beside her. Then she raised one hand, with a quick gesture of caution and silence. He sat down near her, and watched the countenance that was fully exposed to his scrutiny.
No tears had dimmed the wide, mournful, almost despairing eyes, that gazed with strange intentness over the amber sea, at the golden radiance that heralded the coming sun; and every line and moulding of her delicate features seemed cold and rigid enough for a cenotaph. Even the lips were still and compressed, and a bluish shadow lay about their dimpled corners, and under the heavy jet eyelashes. Her silver comb had become loosened, and was finally dragged down by the coil of hair that slipped slowly until it fell upon the morocco cushion of the seat, and the glistening waves of gray hair rolled around her shoulders, and rippled low on her brow. Sea fog had dampened and sea wind tossed this mass of white locks, till it made a singular burnished frame for the wan face that looked out hopeless and painfully quiet.
Her silk robe de chambre of leaden gray, bordered with blue, was unbuttoned at the throat, and showed its faultless curve and contour; while the full, open sleeves, blown back by the strong breeze, bared the snowy arms, where one of the jet serpents that formed her bracelets, pressed so heavily on the white flesh that a purple band was visible when the hand was raised and the bracelet slipped back.
Watching her intently, Dr. Grey could not detect the slightest quiver of nerve or muscle; and she breathed so low and softly that he might have doubted whether she was really conscious, if he had not correctly interpreted the strained expression of the unwinking gray eyes whose pupils contracted as the sky flushed and kindled.
On the floor lay a dainty handkerchief, and stooping to pick it up, he inhaled the delicate, tenacious perfume of tube-rose, which, blended with orange-flowers, he had frequently discovered when standing near her.
Placing it within reach of her fingers, he said, very gently and more tenderly than he was aware of,—
“Mrs. Gerome,—”
“Hush! I know what you have come to tell me. I knew it when I came away. Let me alone, now.”
She raised her head, and turned her eyes to meet his, and he shuddered at the hard, bitter look, that came swiftly over the blanched features. For some seconds they gazed full at each other, and Dr. Grey’s eyes filled with a mist that made hers seem large and radiant as wintry stars.
He knew then that his heart was no longer his own,—that this wretched, solitary woman, had installed herself in its most sacred penetralia; that she had not suddenly, but gradually, become the dearest object that earth possessed.
He did not ask himself whether she filled all his fastidious and lofty requirements,—whether she rose full-statured to his noble standard,—whether reverence, perfect confidence, and unqualified admiration would follow in the footsteps of mere affection. He neither argued, nor trifled, nor deceived himself, but bravely confessed to his own true soul, that, for the first time in his life, he loved warmly and tenderly the only woman whose touch had power to stir his quiet, steady pulses.
He had not intended to surrender his affections to the custody of any one until reason and judgment had analyzed, weighed, and cordially endorsed the wisdom of his choice; and now, although surprised at the rashness with which his heart, hitherto so tractable and docile, vehemently declared allegiance to a new sovereign, he did not attempt to mask or 250 varnish the truth. Thoroughly comprehending the fact that it was neither friendship nor compassion, he gravely looked the new feeling in the face, and acknowledged it,—the tyrant which sooner or later wields the sceptre in every human heart.
Had he faithfully kept his compact with himself, and followed the injunction of Joubert, “Choose for a wife only the woman, whom, were she a man, you would choose for your friend”?
Because he found a fascination in her society, should he conclude that it was a healthful atmosphere for his sturdy, exacting, uncompromising nature?
To-day he swept aside all these protests and questions, postponing the arraignment of his heart before the tribunal of slighted and indignant reason, and allowed the newly mitred pontiff to lead him whither she chose.
Unconscious of the emotions that brought an unusual glow to his face and light to his eyes, Mrs. Gerome had dropped her head once more on her arms, and the weary, despairing expression of her countenance, as she looked at the gilded horizon, where sea and sky seemed divided only by a belt of liquid gold,—might have served for the face of some careless Vestal, who, having allowed the fire to expire on the altar she had sworn to guard sleeplessly, sat hopeless, desolate, and doomed,—watching from the dim, cheerless temple of Hestia, the advent of that sun whose rays alone could rekindle the sacred flame, and which, ere its setting, would witness the execution of her punishment.
Dr. Grey bent over her, and said,—
“I came here in quest of you, hoping to persuade you to return to the house.”
“No. You came to tell me that Elsie is dead. You came to break the news as gently as possible,—and to pity and try to comfort me. You are very good, I dare say; but I wish to be alone.”
“You have been too long alone, and I can not consent to leave you here.”
At the sound of his subdued voice, she turned her face towards him, and, for a moment,—
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“A strange slow smile grew into her eyes, As though from a great way off it came And was weary ere down to her lips it fluttered, And turned into a sigh, or some soft name Whose syllables sounded likest sighs Half-smothered in sorrow before they were uttered.” |
“Dr. Grey, my loneliness transcends all parallels, and is beyond remedy. Why should I not stay here? All places are alike to me, now. That cold, silent corpse at the house, is not Elsie; and, since she has been taken, I shall be utterly alone, go where I may.”
She shivered, and he picked up a crape shawl lying in a heap under the table, and wrapped it around her. The soft folds were damp, and, as he lifted the veil of hair, to draw the shawl closer about her shoulders and throat, he felt that it was moist from the humid atmosphere.
“Sir, I am not cold,—I wish I were. It is useless to wrap up my body so warmly, and leave my heart shivering until death freezes it utterly.”
Dr. Grey took her beautiful white hands in his warm palms, and held them firmly.
“Mrs. Gerome, you do not know what is best for you, and must be guided by one who will prove himself your truest friend.”
“Don’t mock my misery! I never had but one friend, and henceforth must live friendless. I knew what was before me, and therefore I dreaded this dark, dark day, and begged you to save her. She was the world to me. She supplied the place of father, mother, husband, society, and because God saw that her loving sympathy and care made my existence a trifle less purgatorial than He saw fit to render it, He took her away. My poor Elsie would quit the highest throne in heaven to come back to her desolate, dependent child; for only she knew how and why I trusted and leaned upon her. Ah, God! it is hard that I who have so long shunned strangers should be at their mercy, in the last hour of trial that can be devised by fiends, or allowed by heaven to afflict me.”
She struggled to free her hands and hide her face, but her 252 companion clasped them in one of his, and attempted to draw her head down to his shoulder.
“No, sir! The grave is the only resting-place for my poor, accursed head. Do not touch me.”
She shrank as far as possible from him, and her voice, hitherto so firm and dry, trembled.
“Mrs. Gerome, I intend to take Elsie’s place. You had confidence in her sagacity and penetration, and know that she was cautious in all things. During her long illness she studied my character and antecedents, and finally begged me to take you under my guardianship when she could no longer watch over you. She was importunate in her appeal, and to comfort and compose her I gave her a solemn promise that at her death I would take her place. You may deem me intrusive, and perhaps presumptuously impertinent, but time proves all things, and, after a little while, you will cling to me as you so long clung to her. I shall wait patiently for your confidence; shall deserve,—and then exact it. You need a strong arm to curb and guide you,—you need a true, honest heart, to sympathize with your sorrows and difficulties,—you need a fearless friend to defend you from the assaults of gossip and malice; and all these, if God spares my life, I am resolved to be to you. You can not repulse, or offend, or chill, or wound me, for my word is sacredly pledged to the dead; and, by the grace of God, I will strictly and fully redeem it, when we meet at the last day.”
The earnestness of his manner, the grave resolution of his tone, and the invincible fearlessness with which his clear, calm, penetrating eyes, looked into hers, seemed momentarily to overawe her; and she sat quite still, pondering his unexpected words. Pressing her cold fingers very gently, he continued,—
“Elsie had such confidence in my discretion, and friendly interest in your welfare, that she requested me to warn her of her approaching dissolution in order that she might communicate something, which she assured me she desired to confide to me before her death. The paralysis of her tongue prevented the fulfilment of her wish, but you saw how keenly she 253 suffered from her inability to utter what was pressing on her heart. You can not have forgotten that her last act was to put your hand in mine, and you heard my solemn acceptance of the charge committed to me.”
An expression of dread that bordered on horror, came over her ghastly face, and her hands grasped his, almost spasmodically.
“Did she hint what she wished to tell you? Did you guess it all?”
“No. Whatever her secret may have been, it passed unuttered into that realm where all mysteries are solved. I neither know nor surmise the nature of her desired revelation, but some day when you fully understand me, I shall ask you to tell me that which she believed I ought to know. My dear madam, when I come to you and demand your confidence, I have no fear that you will withhold it.”
She closed her eyes as if to shut out some painful vision, and drooped her head lower, till it rested on her chest.
The sun flashed up from his ocean bed, and, as the first beams fell on the woman’s hair, Dr. Grey softly passed his broad white hand over its perfumed masses, redolent of orange flowers.
“The air is too damp for you. Come with me to the house.”
She did not heed his words, and perhaps his touch on her head recalled some exquisitely painful memory, for she shook it off, and exclaimed,—
“Doubtless, like the remainder of the curious herd, you are wondering at my ‘crown of glory,’—and conjecturing what dire tragedy bequeathed it to me. Sir,—
|
‘My hair was black, but white my life: The colors in exchange are cast! The white upon my hair is rife, The black upon my life has passed.’ |
Dr. Grey, I understand you; but you need not stay here to keep guard over me, as if I were an imbecile or a refugee from 254 an insane asylum. That I am not the one or the other, is attributable to the fact that my powers of endurance are almost fabulous. You fear that in my loneliness and complete isolation I may turn coward, at the last ordeal I am put through,—and, like Zeno cry out, and in a fit of desperation strangle myself? Dr. Grey, make yourself easy. I do not love my Creator so devotedly that I must needs hurry into his presence before He sees proper to send me a summons.’”
“I am afraid to leave you here, for any woman who does not love and reverence her Maker, requires a guardian. Of course you will do as you like, but I shall remain here as long as you do.”
He rose, and crossing his arms on his chest, began to walk about the pavilion. She caught up her hair, twisted it hastily into a knot, and secured it with her comb. As she did so, a small cluster of double violets dropped into her lap. She had gathered them the preceding afternoon, had carried them as an offering to Elsie, who insisted that she should wear them in her hair, “they looked so bonnie just behind the little roguish ear.” At her request Mrs. Gerome had placed them at the side of her head, and the old woman made her lean down that she might smell them, and leave a kiss on their blue petals. Now the sight of the withered flowers melted her icy composure, and, as she lifted the little crushed, faded bouquet, and pressed it against her wan cheek, a moan broke from her colorless lips.
“Oh, Elsie,—Elsie! How could you desert me? You knew you were all I had to love and trust,—and how could you die and leave me alone,—utterly alone, in this miserable world that has so cruelly injured me!”
She clasped her hands passionately over the flowers, and the motion caused the sapphire ring, which was now much too large, to slip from the thin finger, and roll ringing across the marble floor.
Dr. Grey picked it up, and as he replaced it, drew her hand under his arm, and led her out of the boat-house. They walked slowly, and as they ascended the steps, he saw his buggy approaching the side gate.
Opening the parlor door, he drew his companion into the room, where the Psyche lamp still burned brightly.
“Mrs. Gerome, will you trust me?”
He had hoped that a return to the house would touch her heart and make her weep, but the cold, dry glitter of her eyes disappointed him.
“Dr. Grey, I trust neither men nor women, nor even the angels in heaven; for one of them turned serpent, and if tradition be true, made earth the dismal ‘Bochin’ I have found it.”
She turned from him, and threw herself wearily upon the divan that filled the recess of the oriel window.
Securing the door of the library, he extinguished the lamp, and closing the parlor went out to meet Salome.