Vashti; Or, Until Death Us Do Part

by Augusta J. Evans

CHAPTER XXXV.

Since that October day when Ulpian Grey sat on the steps of the tomb, holding in his arms the beautiful white form, whom in life God had denied him the privilege of touching, six months had drifted slowly; yet time had not softened the blow, that, while almost crushing his tender, unselfish heart, had no power to shake the faith which was so securely anchored in Christ.

Among the papers found in Mrs. Carlyle’s desk was one containing the request that Dr. Grey would superintend the erection of a handsome monument over the remains of her husband, 464 whenever and wherever he chanced to die; and her will provided that her fortune should be appropriated as the nucleus of a relief fund for indigent painters.

Her own pictures, to which she had carefully affixed in delicate violet ciphers the name “Agla,” she directed placed on exhibition in a New York gallery, and ultimately sold for the benefit of the orphans of artists. To Robert she bequeathed a sum sufficient to maintain him in ease and comfort; and to Dr. Grey her escritoire, piano, books, and the sapphire ring she had always worn.

The latter was found in the silver casket, and had been folded in a sheet of paper containing these words,—

“According to the teachings of the Buddhists, ‘the sapphire produces equanimity and peace of mind, as well as affording protection against envy and treachery. It produces also prayer and reconciliation with the Godhead, and brings more peace than any other gem of necromancy; but he who would wear it must lead a pure and holy life.’ Finding my sapphire asp mockingly inefficacious in its traditional talismanic powers, I conclude that my melancholy career has been a violation of the stipulated condition, and therefore bequeath it to the only human being whom I deem worthy to wear it with any hope of success.”

While awaiting orders from the naval department, Dr. Grey purchased “Solitude,” whither he removed, with Muriel and Miss Dexter, and temporarily established himself, until the arrival of Mr. Granville.

Immediately after her return from Europe, Salome invested a portion of Mr. Minge’s legacy in the site of the old mill that had fallen to ruin. Here she built a small but tasteful cottage orné on the spot where her father had died, and here, with Jessie and Stanley, she proposed to spend her winters; while Mark and Joel were placed at the “Grassmere Farm,” a mile distant, and entrusted with its management until the younger children should attain their majority.

Too proud to accept the home which Dr. Grey had tendered her, Salome was earnestly endeavoring to imitate the noble example of self-abnegation that lifted him so far above all 465 others whom she had ever known; and the most precious hope of her life was to reach that exalted excellence which alone could compel his admiration and respect.

From the day of Mrs. Carlyle’s death, the orphan had been a comparatively happy woman, for jealousy could not invade or desecrate the grave and its harmless sleeper; and Salome fervently thanked God, that, since she was denied the blessing of Dr. Grey’s love, at least she had been spared the torture of seeing him the fond husband of another.

Time had deepened, but refined, purified, and consecrated her unconquerable affection for the only man who had ever commanded her reverence, and whose quiet influence had so happily remoulded her wayward, fiery nature.

There were seasons when the old element of innate perversity re-asserted itself, but the steady reproving gaze of his clear, true eyes, or the warning touch of his hand on her head, had sufficed to still the rising storm.

Conscientiously the passionate, exacting woman was striving to bring her heart and life into subjection to the law,—into conformity with the precepts of Christ; and though she was impulsive, proud Salome still,—the glaring blemishes in her character were gradually disappearing.

One bright balmy spring morning previous to the day appointed for Muriel’s marriage, and for her guardian’s departure for the fleet in Asiatic waters, where he had been assigned to duty, Dr. Grey drove up the avenue of elms and maples that led to Salome’s pretty villa; and as he ascended the steps, Jessie sprang into his arms, and almost smothered him with caresses.

“Oh, doctor! something so wonderful has happened,—you never could guess, and I am as happy as a bee in a woodbine. Sister will tell you.”

“Where is she?”

“In the parlor, waiting for you.”

The child ran off to join Stanley, who was trying a new pony in the yard, and Dr. Grey went into the cool fragrant room, which was fitted up with more taste than in earlier years he would have ascribed to its owner.

466

Salome sat before the open piano, and at his entrance raised her face, which had been bowed almost to the ivory keys.

“Good morning, Dr. Grey. I am glad you have come to rejoice with me, and I was just thanking God for the unexpected restoration of my voice. Once when it seemed so necessary to me. He suddenly took it from me; and now, when it is a mere luxury to own it, He as unexpectedly gives it to me once more. Verily,—strange as it may appear, my voice is really better than when Professor V—— pronounced it the first contralto in Europe.”

She had risen to greet him, and as he retained her hand in his, she stood close to him, looking earnestly into his face.

There were tears hanging like tremulous dewdrops on the long jet under-lashes,—and the bright red in her polished cheeks, and the crimson curves of her parted lips made a picture pleasant to contemplate.

“My dear child, I do indeed cordially congratulate you. God saw that your voice might possibly prove a snare and a curse, by ministering to false pride and exaggerated vanity, and in mercy and wisdom He temporarily deprived you of an instrument that threatened you with danger. Now that you are stronger, more prudent, and patient, He trusts you again with one of the choicest blessings that can be conferred on a woman. You have deserved to recover it, and I joyfully unite my thanks with yours. Let me hear your voice once more.”

Trembling with excess of happiness, she sat down and sang feelingly, eloquently, her favorite “O mon Fernand;” and, as he listened, Dr. Grey looked almost wonderingly at the beautiful flashing face, that had never seemed half so radiant before. There was marvellous witchery in her rich round flexible tones, that wound into the holy-of-holies of the man’s great heart, and elevated his thoughts above the dross and dust of earth.

When she ended, he placed his soft palm tenderly on her head, and smoothed the glossy hair.

“I thank you inexpressibly. Sometimes when sad memories oppress me, how I shall long to have you charm them away by that magical spell that bears my thoughts from this 467 world to the next. There are some songs which you must learn for my sake.”

Ah! at that moment, as she stood there robed in a soft stainless white muslin, with a cluster of double pomegranate flowers glowing in her silky hair, the girl was very lovely, very attractive, so full of youthful grace, so winning in her beautiful enthusiasm,—yet Ulpian Grey’s heart did not wander for an instant from one who slept dreamlessly under the sculptured urn on the marble altar of the mausoleum.

“Why are the dead not dead? Who can undo What time hath done? Who can win back the wind? Beckon lost music from a broken lute? Renew the redness of a last year’s rose? Or dig the sunken sunset from the deep?”

“Dr. Grey, if my voice can chase away one vexing thought, one wearying care or melancholy memory, I shall feel that I have additional reason to thank God for the precious gift.”

“I have not seen you look so happy for three years. Indeed, my little sister, you have much for which to be grateful, and in the midst of your blessings try to recollect those grand words of Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, ‘The soul is a God in exile.’ My child, look to it that your expatriation ends with the shores of time, for—

‘Yea, this is life; make this forenoon sublime, This afternoon a psalm, this night a prayer, And time is conquered, and thy crown is won.’”

For some seconds Salome did not speak, for the shadow on his countenance fell upon her heart, and looking reverently up at him, she thought of Richter’s mournful dictum,—“Great souls attract sorrows, as mountains tempests.”

“Dr. Grey, want of patience is the cause of half my difficulties and defeats, and plunges me continually into the slough of distrust and rebellious questioning. I find it so hard 468 to stand still, and let God do his will, and work in his own way.”

“My dear Salome, patience is only practical faith, and the want of it causes two-thirds of the world’s woes. I often find it necessary to humble my own pride, and tame my restless spirit by recurring to the last words of Schiller, ‘Calmer and calmer! many difficult things are growing plain and clear to me. Let us be patient.’ Child, sing me one song more, and then come out and show me where you propose to place those grape-arbors we spoke of yesterday. This is the last opportunity I shall have to direct your workmen.”

An hour later Salome fastened a sprig of Grand Duke jasmine in the button-hole of his coat,—shook hands with him for the day, and though she smiled in recognition of his final bow as he drove down the avenue, her thoughts were busy with the dreaded separation that awaited her on the morrow and, while her lips were mute, the cry of her heart was,—

... “O Beloved, it is plain I am not of thy worth, nor for thy place. And yet because I love thee, I obtain From that same love this vindicating grace, To live on still in love,—and yet in vain,— To bless thee, yet renounce thee to thy face.”

Dr. Grey spent the remainder of the day in visiting his patients, and as he rode from cottage to hovel, bidding adieu to those whose lives had so often been committed to his professional guardianship, he was received with tearful eyes, and trembling hands; and numerous benedictions were invoked upon his head.

Silver threads were beginning to weave an aureola in his chestnut hair, and the smooth white forehead showed incipient furrows, but the deep blue eyes were as tranquil and trusting as of yore, and full of tenderer light for the few he loved, for all in suffering and bereavement.

With a sublime and increasing faith in the overruling wisdom and mercy of God, he patiently and hopefully bore his 469 loneliness and grievous loss,—comforting himself with the assurance that, “the evening of life brings with it its lamp;” and looking eagle-eyed across the storm-drenched plain of the present to the gleaming jasper walls of the Eternal Beyond.

... “My wine has run Indeed out of my cup, and there is none To gather up the bread of my repast Scattered and trampled,—yet I find some good In earth’s green herbs, and streams that bubble up, Clear from the darkling ground,—content until I sit with angels before better food. Dear Christ! when thy new vintage fills my cup, This hand shall shake no more, nor that wine spill.”

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