Vashti Part 44

"Do not unearth your woes,--let the grave seal them. Your life stands waiting to be sanctified,--dedicated to Him who gave it. My dear friend,--

'Cleanse it and make it pure, and fashion it After His image: heal thyself; from grief Comes glory, like a rainbow from a cloud.'"

The sound of his voice, more than the import of his words, seemed to soothe her, for her eyes softened; but the effect was transitory, and presently she exclaimed,--

"Mere 'sounding bra.s.s, and a tinkling cymbal!' Pretty words, and musical; but empty as those polished sh.e.l.ls yonder that echo only hollow strains of the never silent sea. Once, Dr. Grey,--"

She paused, and a shiver crept through her stately form; then she slowly continued, in a tone of indescribable pathos,--

"Once I could have listened to your counsel, for once my soul was full of holy aims, and my heart as redolent of pure Christian purposes as a June rose is of perfume; but now,--

'They are past as a slumber that pa.s.ses, As the dew of a dawn of old time; More frail than the shadows on gla.s.ses, More fleet than a wave or a rhyme.'"

Dr. Grey drew her arm through his, and silently led her to the house, and into the parlor. He noticed that her breathing was quick and short, and that she sank wearily upon the sofa, as if her strength had well-nigh failed her.

He untied her bonnet-strings and removed it, and she threw her head down on the silken cushion, as a spent child might have done.

Taking a vial from his pocket, he dropped a portion of the contents into a wine-gla.s.s, and filled it with sherry wine.

"Mrs. Gerome, drink this for me. It will benefit you."

She swallowed the mixture, and remained quiet for some seconds; then a singularly scornful smile curved her mouth as she said,--

"You drugged the wine. Well, so be it. Nepenthe or poison are alike welcome, if they bring me death, or even temporary oblivion."

Katie came in and lighted the lamp, and Dr. Grey sat beside the sofa and watched the effect of his prescription.

Tired at length of the sober sea and dark gloomy grounds, Salome came back to the house and stood on the threshold of the parlor door, looking curiously at the quiet, silent group, and at the pictures on the walls.

She could see very distinctly the beautiful white face of the mistress pressed against the blue damask cushion, and clear in outline as she had once observed it on the background of ocean; and she noticed that the features were sharper and that the figure was thinner. From the silvery lamp-light the gray hair seemed to have caught a metallic l.u.s.tre on the ripples that ebbed back from the blue-veined temples, and the woman looked like a marble snow-crowned image, draped in black.

With one elbow on his knee, and his cheek resting in his hand, Dr.

Grey leaned forward, studying the features turned towards him, and watching her with almost breathless interest. He was not aware of Salome's presence, and was unconscious of the strained, troubled gaze, that she fixed upon him.

The tender love that filled his heart looked out of his grave deep eyes, which never wandered from the face so dear to him, and moved his lips in an inaudible prayer for the peace and welfare of the lonely waif whom Providence or fate had brought into his path, to evoke all the tenderness latent in his st.u.r.dy, manly nature.

In the twinkling of an eye, Salome had learned the whole truth and standing there, she staggered and grasped the doorway for support, wishing that the heavens and earth would pa.s.s away--that death might smite her, and end the agony that never could be patiently endured.

Recently she had tutored herself to bear the loss of his love and the deprivation of his caresses,--she had mapped out a future in which her lot was one of loneliness,--but through all the network of coming years there ran like a golden cord binding their destinies the precious hope that at least Dr. Grey would die as he had lived hitherto,--without giving to any woman the coveted place in his heart, where the orphan would sooner have reigned than upon the proudest throne in Europe.

She had prayed that, with this a.s.surance, G.o.d would help her to be contented--would enable her to make her life useful and pure, and, like Dr. Grey's, a blessing to those about her.

It had never occurred to her that the man whom she reverenced above all things human or divine, and whose exalted ideal of feminine perfection soared as far above her as the angels in Lebrun's "Stoning of St. Stephen" soared above the sinning mult.i.tude below them--that the man whose fastidiousness concerning womanly character and deportment seemed exaggerated and almost morbid, could admire or defend, much less love that gray-haired widow, whom the world p.r.o.nounced either a lunatic, or a scoffing, misanthropic infidel.

The discovery was so unexpected, so startling, that it partially stunned her; and, like one addicted to somnambulism, she softly crossed the room and stood behind Dr. Grey's chair.

He had taken Mrs. Gerome's hand to examine her pulse, and retained it in his, looking fondly at the dainty moulding of the fingers and the exquisite whiteness of the smooth skin. How long she stood there Salome never knew, for paralysis seemed creeping, numb and cold, over her heart and brain.

Dr. Grey saw that his exhausted patient was asleep, and knew that the opiate he had administered in the wine would not relinquish its hold until morning; and when her breathing became more quiet and regular he bent his head and softly kissed the hand that lay heavily in his.

Salome covered her face and groaned; and rising, he was for the first time cognizant of her presence. His face flushed deeply.

"How long have you been here?"

"Long enough to discover why you visit 'Solitude' so often."

He could not see her countenance, but her unnaturally hollow tone pained and shocked him.

"You are very much fatigued, my dear child, and as soon as I have given some directions to Robert, I will take you home. Get your bonnet, and meet me at the door."

He took a shawl that was lying on the piano and laid it carefully over the sleeper, then bent one knee beside the sofa, and mutely prayed that G.o.d would comfort and protect the woman who was becoming so dear to him.

With one long, anxious, tender look into her hopeless yet beautiful face, he left the room and went in search of Robert and Katie. When he had given the requisite directions, and descended the steps, he found Salome waiting, with her fingers grasping the side of the buggy.

Silently he handed her in; and, as she sank back in one corner and m.u.f.fled her face, they drove swiftly through the sombre grounds, where the aged trees seemed murmuring in response to the ceaseless mutter of the sullen sea.

"Whom first we love, you know, we seldom wed.

Time rules us all. And Life indeed is not The thing we planned it out ere hope was dead.

And then we women cannot choose our lot."

CHAPTER XXI.

"Ulpian, you certainly do not intend to sit up again to-night? Even bra.s.s or whitleather would not stand the wear and tear that your const.i.tution is subjected to. You really make me unhappy."

"My dear Jane, it would make you still more unhappy if from mere desire to promote my personal ease and comfort, I could forget the solemn responsibility imposed by my profession. Moreover, my physical strength is quite equal to the tax I exact from it."

"I doubt it, for we have all remarked how pale and worn you look."

"My jaded appearance is attributable to mental anxiety, rather than bodily exhaustion."

"If Mrs. Gerome is so ill as to require such unremitting care and vigilance, she should have a nurse, instead of expecting a physician to devote all his time and attention to her. Where is Hester Denison?"

"I have placed her at the steam-mill above town, where there is a bad case of small-pox, and even if she were not thus engaged, I should not take her to 'Solitude.'"

"Pray, why not? She took first-rate care of me when I was so sick last year."

"Mrs. Gerome is morbidly sensitive at all times, and at this juncture I should be afraid to introduce a stranger into her sick room."

"When people are so excessively nervous about being seen, I can't help feeling a little suspicious. Do you suppose that Mrs. Gerome loved her husband so much better than the majority of widows love theirs, that seven years after his death she can't bear to be looked at? I like to see a woman show due respect to her husband's memory, but I tell you my experience--or rather my observation--leads me to believe that these young widows who make the greatest parade of their grief, and load themselves with c.r.a.pe and bombazine till they can scarcely stagger under their flutings, flounces, and jet-fringes, are the most anxious to marry again."

"Stop, my darling sister! Who has been filling your tongue and curdling all the 'milk of human kindness' in your generous heart? If women refuse to each other due sympathy in sorrow, to what quarter can they turn for that balm which their natures require? I never before heard you utter sentiments that trenched so closely upon harsh uncharitableness. Your lips generally employ only the silvery language of leniency, which I so much love to hear, but to-day they adopt the dialect of Libeldom. Recollect, my dear sister, that even the pagan Athenians would never build a temple to Clemency, which they contended found her most appropriate altars in human hearts."

"Pooh, Ulpian! You need not preach me such a sermon, as if I were a heathen. Facts, when they happen to be real facts, are the best umpires in the world, and to their arbitrament I leave my character for charity. When Reuben Chalmers died, his wife was so overwhelmed with grief that she shut herself up like a nun; and when she drove out for fresh air wore two heavy c.r.a.pe veils, and never allowed any one to catch a glimpse of her countenance. Not even to church did she venture, until one morning, at the end of two years, she laid aside her weeds, clad herself in bridal array, was married in her own parlor, and the next Sunday made her first appearance in public after the death of her husband, leaning on the arm of her second spouse.

Now, that is true,--is no libel,--pity it is not! Though 'one swallow does not make a summer,' I can't help feeling suspicious of very young and hopelessly inconsolable widows, and am always reminded of Anastasia Chalmers. So you see, my blue-eyed preacher, when your old Janet talks of these things, she is not caught 'reckoning without her host.'"

"One deplorable instance should not bias you against an entire cla.s.s, and the beautiful constancy of Panthea ought to neutralize the example of a hundred Anastasia Chalmers. Is it not unfortunate that poor human nature so tenaciously recollects all the evil records, and is so oblivious of the n.o.ble acts furnished by history? Do cut the acquaintance of the huge family of _on dits_, who serve the community in much the same capacity as did the cook of Tantalus, when he dressed and garnished Pelops for the banquet table. Unluckily, devouring malice can not furnish the 'ivory shoulder' requisite to mend its mischief. We are all p.r.o.ne to forget the injunction, 'Judge not, that ye be not judged,' and instead of remembering that we are directed to bear one another's burdens, we gall the shoulders of many, by increasing the weights we should lighten. Janet, don't flay all the poor young widows; leave them to such measures of peace as they may find among their weeds."