CHAPTER XIX.

"Doctor Grey, are you awake? Dr. Grey, here is a note from 'Solitude,' and the messenger begs that you will lose no time, as one of the servants is supposed to be dying."

Salome had knocked twice at Dr. Grey's door, without arousing him, and the third time she beat a tattoo that would have broken even heavier slumbers than his.

"I am awake, and will strike a light in a moment."

She heard him stumbling about the room, and finally there was a crash, as of a broken vase or goblet.

"What is the matter? Can't you find your matches?"

"No; some one has removed the box from its usual place, and I am fumbling about at random, and smashing things indiscriminately. Will you be so good as to bring me a match?"

"I have a candle in my hand, which you can take, while I order Elbert to get your buggy ready."

"Thank you, Salome."

She placed the candle on the mat before his door, laid the note beside it, and went down to the servants' rooms to call the driver.

It was two o'clock, and Dr. Grey had come home only an hour before, from a patient who resided at some distance.

Dressing himself as expeditiously as possible, he read the blurred and crumpled note.

"Dr. Grey: For God's sake come as quick as possible. I am afraid my mother is dying.

"ROBERT MACLEAN."

Three days before, when he visited Elsie, he found her more composed and comfortable than she had been for several weeks, and Mrs. Gerome had seemed almost cheerful, as she sat beside the bed, crimping the borders of the invalid's muslin caps which the laundress had sent in, stiff and spotless.

Recollecting Elsie's desire to confide something to him before her death, and dreading the effect which this sudden termination of her life might have upon her mistress, in whom he was daily becoming more deeply interested, Dr. Grey hurried down stairs and met the orphan.

"Elbert is not quite ready, but will be at the door directly. I told him the case was urgent."

"You are very considerate, Salome, and I am much obliged for your thoughtfulness; though I regret that the messenger waked you, instead of Rachel or me. I have never before known Rachel fail to hear the bell, and I was so weary that I think a ten-inch columbiad would scarcely have aroused me."

"I was not asleep,--was sitting at my window; and hearing some one slam the gate and gallop up the avenue, I went to the door and opened it, to prevent the ringing of the bell and waking of the entire household."

"You should have been asleep four hours ago, and I had no idea you were still up, when I came home. There was no light in your room. Are you quite well?"

"Thank you, I am quite well."

She was dressed as he had seen her at dinner, and now, as she stood resting one hand on the balustrade of the stairway, he thought she looked paler and more weary than he had ever observed her.

The scarlet spray of pelargonium had withered from the heat of her head, where it had rested all the evening, and the large creamy Grand Duke jasmine fastened at her throat by a sprig of coral, was drooping and fading, but still exhaled its strong delicious perfume.

"Your appearance contradicts your assertion. Is your wakefulness attributable to any anxiety or trouble which I can remove?"

"No, sir. I hear Elbert opening the gate. Who is sick at 'Solitude'?"

"The servant who was so severely injured many months ago, by a fall from a carriage, has grown suddenly worse."

Salome accompanied him to the front door, in order to lock it after his departure; and, as he descended the steps, he turned and said, in a subdued voice,--

"You have probably heard that Mrs. Gerome is a very peculiar,--indeed, a decidedly eccentric person?"

"Yes, sir; it is reported that she is almost a lunatic."

"Which is totally false. She is very sensitive, and shrinks from strangers, and consequently has no friends here. If I should find Elsie dying, or if I need you, I wish you to come promptly. It may be necessary to have some one beside the household, and you are the only person I can trust. Try to go to sleep immediately, for I may send for you very early in the morning."

"I shall be ready to come when I am needed."

The buggy rolled up to the steps, and Dr. Grey sprang into it and drove swiftly down the avenue.

Salome crept softly back up stairs, but Miss Jane called out,--

"Who is there, in the hall? What is the matter?"

The girl opened the door, and put her head inside.

"Dr. Grey has been called to see a sick woman at 'Solitude,' and I have just locked the door after him."

"Why could not Rachel do that, and save you from coming down stairs? What time of night is it?"

"About half-past two. Rachel is asleep. Good-night."

"'Solitude,' did you say?"

"Yes, madam."

"Well, if people will persist in burrowing in that unlucky den, they must take the consequences. Ulpian, poor fellow, will be completely worn out. Good-night, dear; don't get up to breakfast, if you feel sleepy."

Salome went to her own room, changed her dress, laid gloves, hat, and shawl in readiness upon the bed, and threw herself down on the lounge to rest, and if possible to sleep.

When Dr. Grey reached "Solitude," he found Robert Maclean pacing the paved walk that led to the gate.

"Oh, doctor! Have you come at last? It seems to me I could have crawled twice to your house, since Jerry came back."

"What change has taken place in your mother's condition? She was better than usual, when I saw her last."

"We thought she was getting along very well, till all of a sudden she became speechless. Go in, sir; don't stop to knock."

Mrs. Gerome sat at the bedside, mechanically chafing one of the hands that lay on the coverlet, and the face of the dying woman was not more ghastly than the one which bent over her. As Dr. Grey approached, the mistress of the house rose, and put out her hands towards him, with a wistful, pleading, childish manner, that touched him inexpressibly.

"Do not let her die."

He leaned over the pillow, and put his finger on the scarcely palpable pulse.

"Elsie, tell me where or how you suffer."

A ray of recognition leaped up in her sunken eyes, and she looked at him with a yearning, imploring expression, that was pitiable and distressing indeed.

He saw that she was struggling to articulate, but failing in the effort, a groan escaped her, and tears gathered and trickled down her pinched face. He smoothed her contracted forehead, and said, soothingly,--

"Elsie, you feel that I will do all that I can to relieve you. You can not talk to me, but you know me?"

She inclined her head slightly, and in examining her he discovered that only one side was completely paralyzed, and that she could still partially control her left arm. When he had done all that medical skill could suggest, he stood at her side, and she suddenly grasped his fingers.

He put his face close to hers, and observing her tears start afresh, whispered,--

"You wish to tell me something before you die?"

A gurgling sound, and a faint motion of her lips was the only reply of which she was capable.

He placed a pencil between her fingers, but she could not use it intelligibly, and he noticed that her eyes moved from his to those of her mistress, as if to indicate that she was the subject of the desired conversation.

It was distressing to witness her efforts to communicate her wishes, while the tears dripped on her pillow; and unable to endure the sight of her anguish, Mrs. Gerome sank on her knees and hid her face in the coverlet.

Dr. Grey gently lifted Elsie's arm and placed her hand on the head of her mistress, and the expression of her face assured him he had correctly interpreted her feelings. Something still disturbed her, and he suggested,--

"Mrs. Gerome, put your hand in hers."

She silently obeyed him, and then the old woman's eyes looked once more intently into his. He could not conjecture her meaning, until, in feeling her pulse, he found that she was trying to touch his fingers with hers.

He slipped his own into the palm where Mrs. Gerome's lay, and, by a last great effort, she pressed them feebly together.

Even then, the touch of those white, soft fingers, thrilled his heart as no other hand had ever done, and he said,--

"Elsie, you mean that you leave her in my care? That you put her in my hands? That you trust her to me?"

It was impossible to mistake the satisfied expression that flashed over her countenance.

"I accept the trust. Elsie, I promise you that while I live she shall never want a true and faithful friend. I will try to take care of her body, and pray for her soul. I will do all that you would have done."

Once more, but very faintly, she pressed the two hands she had clasped, and closed her eyes.

"Oh, doctor, can't you save her?" sobbed Robert.

In the solemn silence that ensued Mrs. Gerome lifted her face, and Dr. Grey never forgot the wild, imploring gaze, that met his. He understood its import, and shook his head. She rose instantly, moved away from the bed, and left the room.

For nearly an hour Dr. Grey hung over the prostrate form, which lay with closed eyes, and gradually sank into the heavy lethargic sleep, from which he knew she could never awake.

Leaving her to the care of Robert and two female servants, he went in search of the mistress of the silent and dreary house.

Taking a lamp from the escritoire in the back parlor, he went from room to room, finding nowhere the object he sought, and at length became alarmed. As he stood in the front door, perplexed and anxious, the thought presented itself that she might have gone down to the beach. He went back to the apartment occupied by the dying woman,--felt once more the sinking pulse, and took a last look at the altered and almost rigid face.

"Robert, I can do her no good. Her soul will very soon be with her God."

"Oh, sir, don't leave her! Don't give her up, while there is life in her body!" cried the son, grasping the doctor's sleeve.

Dr. Grey put his hand on the Scotchman's shoulder, and whispered,--

"I am going to hunt for Mrs. Gerome. She is not in the house. I may be able to render her some service, but your mother is beyond all human aid."

"Is there any pulse?"

"It is so feeble now, I can scarcely count it."

"Please, doctor, stay here by her while she breathes. Don't desert the dear soul. My poor mother!"

Robert lost all control of himself, and wept like a child.

Loth to forsake him in this hour of direst trial, Dr. Grey leaned against the bed, and for some moments watched the irregular convulsive heaving of the woman's chest.

"Oh, sir, if my mistress hadn't a heart of stone, she would have let her die peacefully. She might at least have granted her dying prayer."

"What was it?"

"All of yesterday afternoon she pleaded with her to be baptized. My mother--God bless her dear soul!--my mother told her that she could not consent to die until she saw her baptized; and, with the tears pouring down her poor face, she begged and prayed that I might fetch the minister from town, and that she might see the ceremony performed. But my mistress walked up and down the floor, and said, 'Never! never! I have done with mockeries. I have washed my hands of all that,--long, long ago.' And now--it is too late; and my poor mother can never--God be merciful to us! is it all over?"

Dr. Grey raised the head, but the breathing was imperceptible and, after a little while, he softly pressed down the lids that were partially lifted from the glazed eyes, and quitted the room.

His buggy stood at the rear gate, and the driver was asleep, but his master's voice aroused him.

"Elbert, go home, and ask Miss Salome please to come over as soon as you can drive her here."

The east was purple and gold, the sea a purling mass of molten amber, and only two stars were visible low in the west, where a waning moon swung on the edge of the distant misty hills. The air was chill, and a silvery haze hung above the moaning waves, and partially veiled the windings of the beach. Under the trees that clustered so closely around the house, the gloom of night still lingered like a pall, but as Dr. Grey approached the terrace, he felt the pure fresh presence of the new day. Up and down the sands his eyes wandered, hoping to discern a woman's figure, but no living thing was visible, except the flamingo and yellow pheasant still perched where they had spent the night, on the stone balustrade that bordered the terrace. He took off his hat to enjoy the crystalline atmosphere, and while he faced the brightening east, the sharp peculiar bark of the Arab greyhound broke the solemn silence that brooded over sea and land.

The sound proceeded from the boat-house, and he hastened towards it, startling a mimic army of crabs and fiddlers that had not yet ended their nightly marauding. The tide was higher than usual at this early hour, and the waves were breaking sullenly against the stone piers.

As Dr. Grey ascended the iron steps leading to the pavilion, the dog growled and showed his teeth, but the visitor succeeded in partially winning him over, and now passed unmolested into the circular room. A cushioned seat extended around the wall, where windows opened at the four points of the compass; and on the round table in the centre of the marble-tiled floor lay a telescope.

At the eastern window sat Mrs. Gerome, with her head resting on her crossed arms. Although Dr. Grey's steps echoed heavily, as he trod the damp mosaic where the mist had condensed, she gave no evidence of having discovered his presence until he stood close beside her. Then she raised one hand, with a quick gesture of caution and silence. He sat down near her, and watched the countenance that was fully exposed to his scrutiny.

No tears had dimmed the wide, mournful, almost despairing eyes, that gazed with strange intentness over the amber sea, at the golden radiance that heralded the coming sun; and every line and moulding of her delicate features seemed cold and rigid enough for a cenotaph. Even the lips were still and compressed, and a bluish shadow lay about their dimpled corners, and under the heavy jet eyelashes. Her silver comb had become loosened, and was finally dragged down by the coil of hair that slipped slowly until it fell upon the morocco cushion of the seat, and the glistening waves of gray hair rolled around her shoulders, and rippled low on her brow. Sea fog had dampened and sea wind tossed this mass of white locks, till it made a singular burnished frame for the wan face that looked out hopeless and painfully quiet.

Her silk _robe de chambre_ of leaden gray, bordered with blue, was unbuttoned at the throat, and showed its faultless curve and contour; while the full, open sleeves, blown back by the strong breeze, bared the snowy arms, where one of the jet serpents that formed her bracelets, pressed so heavily on the white flesh that a purple band was visible when the hand was raised and the bracelet slipped back.

Watching her intently, Dr. Grey could not detect the slightest quiver of nerve or muscle; and she breathed so low and softly that he might have doubted whether she was really conscious, if he had not correctly interpreted the strained expression of the unwinking gray eyes whose pupils contracted as the sky flushed and kindled.

On the floor lay a dainty handkerchief, and stooping to pick it up, he inhaled the delicate, tenacious perfume of tube-rose, which, blended with orange-flowers, he had frequently discovered when standing near her.

Placing it within reach of her fingers, he said, very gently and more tenderly than he was aware of,--

"Mrs. Gerome,--"

"Hush! I know what you have come to tell me. I knew it when I came away. Let me alone, now."

She raised her head, and turned her eyes to meet his, and he shuddered at the hard, bitter look, that came swiftly over the blanched features. For some seconds they gazed full at each other, and Dr. Grey's eyes filled with a mist that made hers seem large and radiant as wintry stars.

He knew then that his heart was no longer his own,--that this wretched, solitary woman, had installed herself in its most sacred penetralia; that she had not suddenly, but gradually, become the dearest object that earth possessed.

He did not ask himself whether she filled all his fastidious and lofty requirements,--whether she rose full-statured to his noble standard,--whether reverence, perfect confidence, and unqualified admiration would follow in the footsteps of mere affection. He neither argued, nor trifled, nor deceived himself, but bravely confessed to his own true soul, that, for the first time in his life, he loved warmly and tenderly the only woman whose touch had power to stir his quiet, steady pulses.

He had not intended to surrender his affections to the custody of any one until reason and judgment had analyzed, weighed, and cordially endorsed the wisdom of his choice; and now, although surprised at the rashness with which h