Vashti Part 72

"Has anything occurred recently to distress or annoy you? You look depressed."

"I feel inexpressibly anxious about Salome, concerning whose fate I can learn nothing that is comforting. In reply to my letter, urging him to make every effort to ascertain her locality and condition, Professor V---- writes, that he is now a confirmed invalid, confined to his room, and unable to conduct the search for his missing pupil.

She left Palermo on a small vessel bound for Monaco, and her farewell note stated that all attempts to discover her retreat would prove futile, as she was resolved to preserve her incognito, and wished her friends in America to remain in ignorance of her mode of life.

Professor V---- surmises that she is in Paris, but gives no good reason for the conjecture, except that she possibly sought the best medical advice for the treatment of her throat and recovery of her voice. His last letter, received yesterday, informed me that one of Salome's most devoted admirers, a Bostonian of immense wealth, was so deeply grieved by her inexplicable disappearance that he was diligently searching for her in Leghorn and Monaco. She left Palermo alone, and with a comparatively empty purse."

"Dr. Grey, are you aware of the suspicions which Muriel has long entertained with reference to Mr. Granville's admiration of Salome, and the efforts of the latter to encourage his attentions?"

"I have very cogent reasons for believing that however amenable to censure Mr. Granville doubtless is, Muriel's distrust of Salome is totally unjust. If she were capable of the despicable course my ward is disposed to impute to her, I should cease to feel any interest in her career or fate; but I cherish the conviction that she would scorn to be guilty of conduct so ign.o.ble. Her defects of character I shall neither deny nor attempt to palliate, but I trust her true womanly heart as I trust my own manly honor; and a stern sense of justice to the absent constrains me to vindicate her from Muriel's hasty and unfounded aspersions. So strong is my faith in Salome's conscientiousness, so earnest my friendship for her, that since the receipt of Professor V----'s letter I have determined to go immediately to Europe, and if possible discover her retreat. My sister's adopted child must not and shall not suffer and struggle among strangers, while I live to aid and protect her."

Miss Dexter rose and laid her thin, feverish hand on his arm, while embarra.s.sment made her voice tremble slightly,--

"I am rejoiced to learn your decision, and G.o.d grant you speedy success in your quest. Do not deem me presumptuous or impertinent if, prompted by a sincere desire to see you happy, I venture to say, that he who lightly values the pure, tender, devoted love of such a woman as Salome Owen,--tramples on treasures that would make his life affluent and blessed--that neither gold can purchase nor royalty compel. Under your guidance, moulded by your influence, she would become a n.o.ble woman,--of whom any man might justly be proud."

Fearful that she had already incurred his displeasure, and unwilling to meet his eye, she turned quickly and made her escape through the open door.

In the bright glow of that lovely spring day, the calm face of Ulpian Grey seemed scarcely older than on the afternoon when he came to make the farm his home; and though paler, and ciphered over by the leaden finger of anxiety, it indexed little of the long, fierce strife, that conscience had waged with heart.

Lighter and more impulsive natures expend themselves in spasmodic and violent ebullitions, but the great deep of this man's serene character had never stirred, until the one mighty love of his life had lashed it into a tempest that tossed his hopes like sea-froth, and finally engulfed the only rosy dream of wedded happiness that had ever flushed his quiet, solitary, sedate existence.

Having kept his heart in holy subjection to the law of Christ, he did not quail and surrender when the great temptation rose, bearing the banner of insurrection; but sternly and dauntlessly fronted the shock, and kept inviolate the citadel, garrisoned by an invincible and consecrated will.

The yearning tenderness of his strong, tranquil soul, had enfolded Mrs. Carlyle, drawing her more and more into the penetralia of his affection; but from the hour in which he learned her history he had torn away the clinging tendrils of love,--had endeavored to expel her from his heart, and to stifle its wail for the lost idol.

Week after week, month after month, he had driven every day within sight of the blue smoke that curled above the trees at "Solitude," but never even for an instant checked his horse to gaze longingly towards the Eden whence he had voluntarily exiled himself.

There were hours when his heart ached for the sight of that white face he had loved so madly, and the sound of the mournfully sweet voice,--and his hand trembled at the recollection of the soft, cold, snowy fingers, that once thrilled his palms; but he treated these utterances of his heart as mercilessly as the hunter who cheers his dogs in the chase where the death-cry of the victim rings above bark and halloo.

No wall of division, no sea of separation, would have proved so effectual, so insurmountable, as his own firm resolve that his earthly path should never cross that of one whom G.o.d's statutes had set apart until death annulled the decree. In this torturing ordeal he was strengthened by the conviction that he alone suffered for his folly,--that Mrs. Carlyle was a stranger to feelings that robbed him of sleep, and clouded his days,--that the heaving tide of his devoted love had broken against her frozen heart as idly as the surges of the sea that die in foam upon the dreary, mysterious ruins of the Serapeon at Pozzuoli.

In the silent watches of the night, as he pondered the brief, beautiful vision that had so completely fascinated him, he reverently thanked G.o.d that the woman he loved had never reciprocated his affection, and was not sitting in the ashes of desolation, mourning his absence. Striving to interest himself more and more in Stanley and Jessie, who had become inordinately fond of him, his thoughts continually reverted to Salome, and that subtle sympathy which springs from the "fellow-being," that makes us "wondrous kind" to those whose pangs are fierce as ours, began faintly and shyly, but surely, to a.s.sert itself. A shadowy, intangible self-reproach brooded like a phantom over his generous heart, when, amidst the uncertainty that seemed to overhang the orphan's fate, he remembered the numberless manifestations of almost idolatrous affection which he had coldly repulsed.

In the earnest interest that day by day deepened in the absent girl, there was no pitiable vanity, no inflated self-love, but a stern realization of the anguish and humiliation that must now be her portion, and a magnanimous eagerness to endeavor to cheer a heart whose severest woes had sprung from his indifference.

More than a year had elapsed, and no letter had ever reached him,--not even a message in her two brief epistles to Stanley, and Dr. Grey missed the bright, perverse element that no longer thwarted him at every turn.

He longed to see the proud, girlish face, with its flashing eyes, and red lips, and the haughty toss of the large, handsome head; and the angry tones of her voice would have been welcome sounds in the house where she had so long tyrannized. To-day, as Ulpian Grey sat in his own little sitting-room, his eyes were fixed on a copy of Rembrandt's _Nicholas Tulp_, which hung over the mantelpiece; but the mysteries of anatomy no longer riveted his attention, and his thoughts were busy with memories of a fond though wayward girl, whom his indifference had driven to foreign lands,--to unknown and fearful perils.

Through the windows stole the breath of Salome's violets, and the sweet, spicy odor of the Belgian honeysuckle that she had planted and twined around the mossy columns that supported the gallery; and with a sigh he closed his eyes, shut out the anatomy of flesh, and began the dissection of emotions.

Could Salome's radiant face brighten his home, and win his heart from its devouring regret? Would it be possible for him to give her the place whence he had ejected Mrs. Carlyle? Could he ever persuade himself to call that fair, pa.s.sionate young thing, that capricious, obstinate, maliciously perverse girl,--his wife?

Involuntarily he frowned, for while pity pleaded for the refugee from home and happiness, the man's honest nature scouted all shams, and he acknowledged to himself that he could never feel the need of her lips or hands,--could never insult her womanhood, or degrade his own nature, by folding to his heart one whose touch possessed no magnetism, whose presence exerted no spell over his home.

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--

"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 n.o.ble intentions and ign.o.ble 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 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 n.o.ble 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 "Gra.s.smere," 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 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 G.o.d, 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."

It was the final struggle between love and duty, and though the vanquished heart wailed piteously, exultant conscience, like Jupiter of old, triumphantly applauded, "Evan, evoe!"

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

"Wanted!--Information of Salome Owen, who will confer a favor on her friends, and secure a handsome legacy by calling at No. -- ----."

"Dr. Grey, for six months this advertis.e.m.e.nt has appeared every morning in two of the most popular journals in Paris, and as it has elicited no clew to her whereabouts, I am reluctantly compelled to believe that she is no longer in France."

Mr. Granville refolded the newspaper, and busied himself in filling and lighting his meerschaum.

"By whom was that notice inserted?"

"By M. de Baillu, the agent and banker of Mr. Minge of Boston, who was warmly and sincerely attached to your _protegee_, and earnestly endeavored to marry her. When she left Palermo, Mr. Minge came to this city and solicited my aid in discovering her retreat."

"Pardon me, but why did he apply to you?"

"Simply because he knew that I was an old acquaintance, and he had seen me with her, when she first came from America."

"How did you ascertain her presence in Paris?"

"Accidentally; one night, at the opera, whither she accompanied Professor V----, I recognized her, and of course made myself known.

To what shall I ascribe the honor of this rigid cross-questioning?"

"To reasons which I shall very freely give you. But first, permit me to beg that you will resume your narrative at the point where I interrupted you. I wish to learn all that can be told concerning Mr.

Minge."

"He was an elderly man of ordinary appearance, but extraordinary fortune, and seemed completely fascinated by Salome's beauty. He offered a large reward to the police for any clew that would enable him to discover her, and finally found the physician whom she had consulted with reference to some disease of the throat, which occasioned the loss of her voice. He had prescribed for her several times, but knew nothing of her lodging-place, as she always called at his office; and finally, without a.s.signing any reason, her visits ceased. Mr. Minge redoubled his exertions, and at last found her in one of the hospitals connected with a convent. The Sisters of Charity informed him that one bleak day when the rain was falling drearily, they chanced to see a woman stagger and drop on the pavement before their door, and, hurrying to her a.s.sistance, discovered that she had swooned from exhaustion. A bundle of unfinished needlework was hidden under her shawl, and they soon ascertained that she was delirious from some low typhus fever that had utterly prostrated her. For several weeks she was dangerously ill, and was just able to sit up when Mr.

Minge discovered her. He told me that it was distressing and painful beyond expression to witness her humiliation, her wounded pride, her defiant rejection of his renewed offer of marriage. One day he took his sister Constance and a minister of the gospel to the hospital, and implored Salome to become his wife, then and there. He said she wept bitterly, and thanked him, thanked his sister also, but solemnly a.s.sured him she could never marry any one,--she would sooner starve in the--"

Dr. Grey raised his hand, signalling for silence, and for some moments he leaned his forehead against the chair directly in front of him.