Salome, his friend, his adopted sister, he wished to discover, to claim, and restore to the household; but Salome, his wife,—was a monstrous imaginary incubus that appalled and repelled him.
The difficulties that presented themselves at the outset of his search would have discouraged a less resolute temperament, but it was part of his wise philosophy, that—
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“We overstate the ills of life. We walk upon The shadow of hills across a level thrown, And pant like climbers.” |
As a pitying older brother, he thought of Salome’s many foibles,—of her noble intentions and ignoble executions,—of her few feeble triumphs, her numerous egregious failures in the line of duty; and loving Christian charity pleaded eloquently for her, whispering to his generous soul, “We know the ships that come with streaming pennons into the 444 immortal ports; but we know little of the ships that have taken fire on the way thither,—that have gone down at sea.”
What pure friendship could accomplish he would not withhold, and life at the farm was not so attractive now that he felt regret at the prospect of temporary absence.
The disappointment that had so rudely smitten to the earth the one precious hope born of his acquaintance with “Solitude,” had no power to embitter his nature,—to drape the world in drab, or to shroud the future with gloom; and though his noble face was sadder and paler, Christian faith and resignation rang blessed chimes of peace in heart and soul, and made his life a hallowed labor of love for the needy and grief-stricken. To-day, as he sat alone at the south window, he could overlook the fields of “Grassmere,” where the rich promise of golden harvest “filled in all beauty and fulness the emerald cup of the hills,” and the waving grain rippled in light and shade like the billows of some distant sunset sea. Basking in the balmy sunshine, and contemplating his approaching departure for Europe, a sudden longing seized him to look once more on the face of Vashti Carlyle, before he bade farewell to his home.
She was in feeble health, and might not survive his absence, and, moreover, what harm could result from one final visit to “Solitude,”—from a few parting words to its desolate mistress? She had sent a message through Robert, that she would be glad to see Dr. Grey whenever he could find leisure to call, and now hungry heart and soul cried out savagely,—
“Why not? Why not?”
His heavy brows knitted a little, and his mouth grew rigid as iron, but after some moments the lips relaxed, and with a sad, patient smile, he repeated those stirring words of Richter to Herman,—“Suffer like a man the Alp-pressure of fate. Trust yourself upon the broad, shining wings of your faith, and make them bear you over the Dead Sea, so as not to fall spiritually dead within.”
“No, no, Ulpian Grey,—keep yourself ‘unspotted from the world.’ Strangle that one temptation which borrows 445 the garments of an angel of light and mercy, and dogs you, sleeping and waking. I will see her no more till death snaps her fetters, and I can meet her in the presence of God, who alone can know what separation costs me. May He grant her strength to bear her lonely lot, and give me grace to be patient even unto the end, bringing no reproach on the sacred faith I profess.”