“Pardon me, Salome, but, until the week has elapsed, I do not wish or intend to receive your verdict. Before this day week, recollect all the reasons which dear Janet urged against your scheme; recall the pain she suffered from the bare contemplation of such a possibility, and her tender pleadings and wise counsel. Ah, Salome, you are young and impulsive, but I trust you will not close your ears against your brother’s earnest protest and appeal. If I were not sincerely attached to you, I should not so persistently oppose your favorite plan, which is fraught with perils and annoyances that you can not now realize. Hush! I will not listen to you to-day.”
He rose, and laying his hands softly on her head, added, in a solemn but tremulously tender tone,—
“And may God in His infinite wisdom and mercy overrule all things for your temporal and eternal welfare, and so guide your decision, that peace and usefulness will be your portion, now and forever.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
“Yes, Dr. Grey, I am better than I ever expected or desired to be in this world.”
“Mrs. Gerome, this is scarcely the recompense that my anxious vigilance and ceaseless exertions merit at your hands.”
The invalid leaned far back in her cushioned easy-chair, and, as the physician rested his arm on the mantelpiece and looked down at her, he thought of the lines that had more than once recurred to his mind, since the commencement of their acquaintance,—
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“What finely carven features! Yes, but carved From some clear stuff, not like a woman’s flesh, And colored like half-faded, white-rose leaves. ’Tis all too thin, and wan, and wanting blood, To take my taste. No fulness, and no flush! A watery half-moon in a wintry sky Looks less uncomfortably cold. And ... well, I never in the eyes of a sane woman Saw such a strange, unsatisfied regard.” |