Vashti Part 26

"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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d. 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 G.o.d'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 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 sh.e.l.ls? Rather a damp pillow for my fastidious, proud head, but, at least, cool and quiet. Calm yourself, my dear Elsie, for G.o.d 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 irae 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? 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 a.s.sured,--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 ent.i.tle 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 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 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.