Vashti Part 66

"Oh, doctor, I hope everything; for I learn that the pictures were found on the lawn at 'Solitude,' where Phoebe was once hired as cook; and she recognized the case as the same she had one day seen on a writing-desk in the parlor. The boy confessed that he picked it up from the gra.s.s, and, after taking out the contents, soaked the case in a bucket of salt-water. Phoebe says the pictures belong to Mrs.

Gerome, the gray-headed woman who owns that place on the beach, and I am almost tempted to believe she is Elsie, who may have married again.

At all events, I shall soon know where she obtained the portraits."

"You are not going to 'Solitude'?"

"Yes, immediately. I cannot rest till I have learned all. G.o.d grant I may not be mocked in my hopes."

The unwonted excitement had kindled a strange beauty in the whilom pa.s.sive face, and Dr. Grey could for the first time realize how lovely she must have been in the happy days of eld.

"Miss Dexter, Mrs. Gerome will not receive you. She sees no visitors, not even ministers of the gospel."

"She must--she shall--admit me; for I will a.s.sure her that life and death hang upon it."

"How so?"

"If Evelyn is alive, and I can discover her retreat, I will urge her to go to her husband, who needs her care. You know Mrs. Gerome,--she is one of your patients. Come with me, and prevail upon her to receive me."

In her eagerness she laid her hand on his arm, and even then noticed and wondered at the crimson that suddenly leaped into his olive face.

"Some day I will give you good reasons for refusing your request, which it is impossible for me to grant. If you are resolved to hazard the visit, I will take you in my buggy as far as the gate at 'Solitude,' and when you return will confer with you concerning the result. Just now, I can promise no more."

An expression of disappointment clouded her brow.

"I had hoped that you would sympathize with and be more interested in my great sorrow."

"Miss Dexter, my interest is more profound, more intense, than you can imagine, but at this juncture circ.u.mstances forbid its expression. My buggy is at the door."

CHAPTER x.x.x.

Even at mid-day the grounds around "Solitude" were sombre and chill, for across the sky the winds had woven a thin, vapory veil, whose cloud-meshes seemed fine as lacework; and through this gilded netting the sun looked hazy, the light wan and yellow, and rifled of its customary noon glitter.

Following one of the serpentine walks, the governess was approaching the house, when her attention was attracted by the gleaming surface of a tomb, and she turned towards the pyramidal deodars that were swaying slowly in the breeze,--

"Warming their heads in the sun, Checkering the gra.s.s with their shade,"

and photographing fringy images on the shining marble.

A broad circle of violets, blue with bloom, surrounded a s.e.xangular temple, whose dome was terminated by a mural crown and surmounted by a cross. The beautifully polished pillars were fluted, and wreathed with carved ivy that wound up to the richly-sculptured cornices, where poppies cl.u.s.tered and tossed their leaves along the architrave; and, in the centre, visible through all the arches, rose an altar, bearing two angels with fingers on their lips, who guarded an exquisite urn that was inscribed "_cor cordium_."

Beneath the eastern arch, that directly fronted the sea, were two steps leading into the mausoleum, and, as Miss Dexter stood within, she saw that the floor was arranged with slabs for only two tombs close to the altar, one side of which bore in golden tracery,--

"_Elsie Maclean, 68. Amicus Amicorum._"

Around the base of the urn were scattered some fresh geranium-leaves, and very near it stood a tall, slender, Venetian gla.s.s vase filled with odorous flowers, which had evidently been gathered and arranged that day.

For whom had the remaining slab and opposite side of the altar been reserved?

The heart of the governess seemed for a moment to forget its functions, then a vague hope made it throb fiercely; and rapidly the anxious woman directed her steps towards the house, that seemed as silent as the grave behind her.

The hall door had swung partially open, and, dreading that she might be refused admittance if she rang the bell, she availed herself of the lucky accident (which in Elsie's lifetime never happened), and entered unchallenged and un.o.bserved.

From the parlor issued a rather monotonous and suppressed sound, as of some one reading aloud, and, advancing a few steps, the governess stood inside the threshold.

The curtains of the south window were looped back, the blinds thrown open, and the sickly sunshine poured in, lighting the easel, before which the mistress of the house had drawn an ottoman and seated herself.

To-day, an air of unwonted negligence marked her appearance, usually distinguished by extraordinary care and taste.

Her white merino _robe de chambre_ was partially ungirded, and the blue ta.s.sels trailed on the carpet; her luxuriant hair instead of being braided and cla.s.sically coiled, was gathered in three or four large heavy loops, and fastened rather loosely by the ma.s.sive silver comb that allowed one long tress to straggle across her shoulder, while the folds in front slipped low on her temples and forehead.

Intently contemplating her work, she leaned her cheek on her hand, and only the profile was visible from the door, as she repeated, in a subdued tone,--

"I stanch with ice my burning breast, With silence balm my whirling brain, O Brandan! to this hour of rest, That Joppan leper's ease was pain."

The easel held the largest of many pictures, upon which she had lavished time and study, and her present work was a wide stretch of mid-ocean, lighted by innumerable stars, and a round glittering polar moon that swung mid-heaven like a globe of silver, and shed a ghostly l.u.s.tre on the raging, ragged waves, above which an Aurora Borealis lifted its gleaming arch of mysterious white fires.

On the flowery sh.o.r.e of a tropic isle, under cl.u.s.tering boughs of lime and citron, knelt the venerable figure of Saint Brandan,--and upon a towering, jagged iceberg, whose crystal cliffs and diamond peaks glittered with the ghastly radiance reflected from arctic moon and boreal flames, lay Judas, pressing his hot palms and burning breast to the frigid bosom of his sailing sapphire berg.

No hideous, scowling, red-haired arch-apostate was this painted Iscariot,--but a handsome man, whose features were startlingly like those in the ivory miniature.

It was a wild, dreary, mournful picture, suggestive of melancholy mediaeval myths, and most abnormal phantasms; and would more appropriately have draped the walls of some flagellating ascetic's cell, than the luxuriously furnished room that now contained it.

Bending forward to deepen the dark circles which suffering and remorse had worn beneath the brilliant eyes of the apostle, the lonely artist added another verse to her quotation,--

"Once every year, when carols wake On earth the Christmas night's repose, Arising from the sinner's lake I journey to these healing snows."

The motion loosened a delicate white lily pinned at her throat, and it fell upon the palette, sullying its purity with the dark paint to which its petals clung. She removed it, looked at its defaced loveliness, and tossed it aside, saying moodily,--

"Typical of our souls, originally dowered with a stainless and well-nigh perfect holiness, but drooping dust-ward continually, and once tainted by the fall,--hugging the corruption that ruined it."

As the governess looked and listened, a half-perplexed, half-frightened expression pa.s.sed over her countenance, and at length she advanced to the arch, and said, tremblingly,--

"Can I have a few moments' conversation with Mrs. Gerome, on important business?"

"My G.o.d! am I verily mad at last? Because I called up Judas, must I also evoke the partner of his crime?"

With a thrilling, almost blood-curdling cry Mrs. Gerome had leaped to her feet at the sound of Miss Dexter's voice, and, dropping palette and brush, confronted her with a look of horror and hate. The quick and violent movement shook out her comb, and down came the folds of hair, falling like a silver cataract to her knees.

Bewildered by memories which the face and form recalled, the governess looked at the shining white locks, and her lips blanched, as she stammered,--

"Are you Mrs. Gerome?"

Her scarlet hood had fallen back, disclosing her wealth of golden hair; and gazing at her thin but still lovely features, rouged by a hectic glow that lent strange beauty to the wide, brown eyes, Mrs.

Gerome answered, huskily,--

"I am the mistress of this house. Who is the woman who has the audacity to intrude upon my seclusion, and vividly remind me of one whose hated lineaments have cursed my memory for years? Woman, if I believed _she_ had the effrontery to thrust herself into my presence, I should fear that at this instant I am afflicted with the abhorred sight of Edith Dexter, than whom a legion of devils would be more welcome!"