Vashti Part 52

"I suppose I ought to be grateful to you, Dr. Grey, for Katie and Robert have told me how patiently and carefully you nursed and watched over me, during my illness; but instead of grat.i.tude, I find it difficult to forgive you for what you have done. You fanned into a flame the spark of life that was smouldering and expiring, and baffled the disease that came to me as the handmaid of Mercy. Death, transformed into an angel of pity, kindly opened the door of escape from the woe and weariness of this sin-cursed world, into the calmness and dreamless rest of the vast sh.o.r.eless Beyond; and just when I was pa.s.sing through, you s.n.a.t.c.hed me back to my burdens and my bitter lot.

I know, of course, that you intended only kindness, but you must not blame me if I fail to thank you."

"You forget that life is intended as a season of fiery probation, and that without suffering there is no purification, and no reward.

Remember, 'Calm is not life's crown, though calm is well;' and those who forego the pain must forego the palm."

"I would gladly forego all things for a rest,--a sleep that could know no end. Katie tells me I have been ill a month, and from this brief season of oblivion you have dragged me back to the existence that I abhor. Dr. Grey, I feel to-day as poor Maurice de Guerin felt, when he wrote from Le Val, 'My fate has knocked at the door to recall me; for she had not gone on her way, but had seated herself upon the threshold, waiting until I had recovered sufficient strength to resume my journey. "Thou hast tarried long enough," said she to me; "come forward!" And she has taken me by the hand, and behold her again on the march, like those poor women one meets on the road, leading a child who follows with a sorrowful air.'"

"There is a better guide provided, if you would only accept and yield to his ministrations. For the flint-faced fate that you accuse so virulently, subst.i.tute that tender and loving guardian the Angel of Patience.

'To weary hearts, to mourning homes, G.o.d's meekest Angel gently comes.

There's quiet in that Angel's glance, There's rest in his still countenance!

The ills and woes he may not cure He kindly trains us to endure.

He walks with thee, that Angel kind, And gently whispers, 'Be resigned.'

A moment since, you quoted De Guerin, and perhaps you may recollect one of his declarations, 'I have no shelter but resignation, and I run to it in great haste, all trembling and distracted. Resignation! It is the burrow hollowed in the cleft of some rock, which gives shelter to the flying and long-hunted prey.' You will never find peace for your heart and soul until you bring your will into complete subjection to that of Him 'who doeth all things well.' Defiance and rebellious struggles only aggravate your sorrows and trials."

She listened to the deep, quiet voice, as some unlettered savage might hearken to the rhythmic music of Homer, soothed by the tones, yet incapable of comprehending their import; and as she looked up at the grave, kingly face, her eyes fell upon the broad band of c.r.a.pe that encircled his straw hat, which had been hastily placed on the mantelpiece.

"Dr. Grey, you ought to speak advisedly, for Robert told me that you had recently lost your sister, and that you are now alone in the world. You, who have severe afflictions, should know how far resignation lightens them. I was much pained to learn that your sister died while you were absent,--while you were sitting up with me. Ah, sir! you ought to have watched her, and left me to my release. You have been very kind and considerate toward one who has no claim upon aught but your pity; and I would gladly lie down in your sister's grave, and give her back to your heart and home."

Her countenance softened for an instant, and she held out her hand. He took the delicate fingers in his, and pressed them gently.

"G.o.d grant that your life may be spared, until all doubt and bitterness is removed from your heart, and that when you go down into the grave it may be as bright with the blessed faith of a Christian as that which now contains my sister Janet. Do not allow the gloom of earthly disappointment to cloud your trust, but bear always in mind those cheering words of Saadi,--

'Says G.o.d, "Who comes towards me an inch through doubtings dim, In blazing light I do approach a yard towards him."'"

"If I am to be kept in this world until all the bitterness is scourged out of me, I might as well resign myself to a career as endless as that of Ahasuerus. I tell you, sir, I have been forced to drink out of qua.s.sia-cups until my whole being has imbibed the bitter; and I am like that tree to which Firdousi compared Mahmoud, 'Whose nature is so bitter, that were you to plant it in the garden of Eden, and water it with the ambrosial stream of Paradise, and were you to enrich its roots with virgin honey, it would, after all, discover its innate disposition, and only yield the acrid fruit it had ever borne.'"

"What right have you to expect that existence should prove one continued gala-season? When Christ went down meekly into Gethsemane, that such as you and I might win a place in the Eternal City, how dare you demand exemption from grief and pain, that Jesus, your G.o.d, did not spare Himself? Are you purer than Christ, and wiser than the Almighty, that you impiously deride and question their code for the government of the Universe, in which individual lives seem trivial as the sands of the desert, or the leaves of the forest? Oh! it is pitiable, indeed, to see some worm writhing in the dust, and blasphemously dictating laws to Him who swung suns and asterisms in s.p.a.ce, and breathed into its own feeble fragment of clay the spark that enabled it to insult its G.o.d. Put away such unwomanly scoffing,--such irreverent puerilities; sweep your soul clean of all such wretched rubbish, and when you feel tempted to repine at your lot, recollect the n.o.ble admonition of Dschelaleddin, 'If this world were our abiding-place, we might complain that it makes our bed so hard; but it is only our night-quarters on a journey, and who can expect home comforts?'"

"I can not feel resigned to my lot. It is too hard,--too unjust."

"Mrs. Gerome, are you more just and prescient than Jehovah?"

She pa.s.sed her thin hand across her face, and was silent, for his voice and manner awed her. After a little while, she sat erect in her chair, and tried to rise.

"Doctor, if you could look down into the gray ruins of my heart, you would not reprove me so harshly. My whole being seems in some cold eclipse, and my soul is like the Sistine Chapel in Pa.s.sion-week, where all is shrouded in shadow, and no sounds are heard but Misereres and Tenebrae."

"Promise me that in future you will try to keep it like that Christian temple, pure and inviolate from all imprecations and rebellious words.

If gloom there must be, see to it that resignation seals your lips.

What are you trying to do? You are not strong enough to walk alone."

"I want to go into the parlor,--I want my piano. Yesterday I attempted to cross the room, and only Katie's presence saved me from a severe fall."

She stood by her chair, grasping the carved back, and Dr. Grey stepped forward, and drew her arm under his.

In her great weakness she leaned upon him, and when they reached the parlor door, she paused and almost panted.

"You must not attempt to play,--you are too feeble even to sit up longer. Let me take you back to your room."

"No,--no! Let me alone. I know best what is good for me; and I tell you my piano is my only Paraclete."

Holding his arm for support, she drew a chair instead of the piano-stool to the instrument, and seated herself.

Dr. Grey raised the lid, and waited some seconds, expecting her to play, but she sat still and mute, and presently he stooped to catch a glimpse of her countenance.

"I want to see Elsie's grave. Open the blinds."

He threw open the shutters, and came back to the piano.

Through the window, the group of deodars was visible, and there, bathed in the mild yellow suns.h.i.+ne was the mound, and the faded wreath swinging in the breeze.

For many minutes Mrs. Gerome gazed at the quiet spot where her nurse rested, and with her eyes still on the grave, her fingers struck into Chopin's Funeral March.

After a while, Dr. Grey noticed a slight quiver cross her pale lips, and when the mournful music reached its saddest chords, a mist veiled the steely eyes, and very soon tears rolled slowly down her cheeks.

The march ended, she did not pause, but began Mozart's Requiem, and all the while that slow rain of tears dripped down on her white fingers, and splashed upon the ivory keys.

Dr. Grey was so rejoiced at the breaking up of the ice that had long frozen the fountain of her tears, that he made no attempt to interrupt her, until he saw that she tottered in her chair. Taking her hands from the piano, he said gently,--

"You are quite exhausted, and I can not permit this to continue. Come back to your room."

"No; let me stay here. Put me on the sofa in the oriel, and leave the blinds open."

He lifted her from the chair and led her to the sofa, where she sank heavily down upon the cus.h.i.+ons.

Without comment or resistance, she drank a gla.s.s of strong cordial which he held to her lips, and lay with her eyes closed, while tears still trickled through the long jet lashes.

She wore a robe of white merino, and a rich blue shawl of the same soft material which was folded across her shoulders, made the wan face look like some marble seraph's, hovering over an altar where violet light streams through stained gla.s.s.

For some time Dr. Grey walked up and down the long room, glancing now and then at his patient, and when he saw that the tears had ceased, he brought from a basket in the hall an exquisitely beautiful and fragrant bouquet of the flowers which he knew she loved best,--heliotrope, violets, tube-rose, and Grand-Duke jessamine, fringed daintily with spicy geranium leaves, and scarlet fuchsias.

Silently he placed it on her folded hands, and the expression of surprise and pleasure that suddenly lighted her countenance, amply repaid him.

"Dr. Grey, it has been my wish to except services from no one,--to owe no human being thanks; but your unvarying kindness to my poor Elsie and to me, imposes a debt of grat.i.tude that I can not easily liquidate. I fear you are destined to bankrupt me, for how can I hope to repay all your thoughtful, delicate care, and generous interest in a stranger? Tell me in what way I can adequately requite you."

Dr. Grey drew a chair close to the sofa, and answered,--

"Take care lest your zeal prove the contrary, for you know a distinguished philosopher a.s.serts that, 'Too great eagerness to requite an obligation is a species of ingrat.i.tude;' and such an accusation would be unflattering to you, and unpleasant to me."

Turning the bouquet around in order to examine and admire each flower, Mrs. Gerome toyed with the velvet bells, and said, sorrowfully,--

"Their delicious perfume always reminds me of my beautiful home near Funchal, where heliotrope and geraniums grew so tall that they looked in at my window, and hedges of fuchsias bordered my garden walks.

Never have I seen elsewhere such profusion and perfection of flowers."