Читать книгу Vashti; Or, Until Death Us Do Part - Augusta J. Evans - Страница 10

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“But we are not prophets, and ravens are not flying about with bags of money under their wings.”

“We do not know what God can do, and if we are only good, He is as much bound to take care of us as of Elijah. He made the sky rain manna and partridges for the starving people in the desert, and He is as much our God as if we came out from Egypt under Moses. I know God will help us, if we ask Him. I am sure of it; for last week I lost Mrs. Collins’ bunch of keys, and, when I could not find them anywhere, I prayed to God to help me, and, sure enough, I remembered I left them in the dairy where I was churning.”

Jessie’s countenance was radiant with hope and faith, which her sister could not share, yet felt unwilling to destroy; and, checking the heavy sigh that rose from her oppressed heart, she hastily quitted the house.

In the midst of confused and perturbed reflections, rose like some lonely rock-based beacon in boiling waves her sacred promise to the trusting child, and ingenuity was racked to devise some means for its prompt fulfilment. Consanguinity began to urge its claim vehemently, and long dormant tenderness pleaded piteously for exiled idols.

“If I were only a Christian, like Dr. Grey! His faith, like strong wings, bears him high above all sloughs of despond, all morasses of moodiness. People cannot successfully or profitably serve two masters. That is eminently true; not because it is scriptural, but vice versa; because it is so obviously true it could not escape a place in the Bible. Half work pays poor wages, and it is not surprising that neither God nor Mammon will patiently submit to it. I suppose the time has come when I must bargain myself to one or the other; for, hitherto, I have declared in favor of neither. I am not altogether sanctified, nor yet desperately wicked, but I hate Satan, who ruined my father, infinitely more than I dislike the restrictions of religion. I owe him a grudge for all the shame and suffering of my childhood,—which, if God did not interfere to prevent, at least there is strong presumptive evidence that he took no pleasure in witnessing. I don’t suppose I have any faith; I scarcely know what it means; but perhaps if I try to 52 serve God instead of myself, it will come to me as it came to Paul and Thomas. I wonder whether mere abstract love of righteousness and of the Lord drives half as many persons into Christian churches as the fear of eternal perdition. I don’t deny that I am afraid of Satan, for if he contrives to smuggle so much sin and sorrow into this world what must his own kingdom be? If there be any truth in the tradition that every human being is afflicted by some besetting sin that crouches at the door of the soul, lying in ambush to destroy it, then my own ‘Dweller of the Threshold,’ is love of mine ease. Time was when I would have bartered my eternal heritage for a good-sized mess of earthly pottage, provided only it was well spiced and garnished; but to-day I have no inclination to be swindled like Esau. Idleness has well-nigh ruined me, so I shall take industry by the horns, and laying thereon all my sins of indolence, drive it before me as the Jews drove Apopompœus.”

She walked on in the direction of the town, turning her head neither to right nor left, and keeping her eyes fixed on the blue air before her, where imagination built a home, through whose spacious halls Stanley and Jessie sported at will. On the principal street stood a fashionable dress-making and millinery establishment, and thither Salome bent her steps, resolved that the sun should not set without having witnessed some effort to redeem the pledge given to Jessie.

Panoplied in Miss Jane’s patronage, she demanded and obtained admission to the inner apartment of this Temple of Fashion, where presided the Pythoness whose oracular utterances swayed le beau monde.

What passed between the two never transpired, even among the apprentices that thronged the adjoining room; but when Salome left the house she carried under her arm a large bundle which furnished work for the ensuing fortnight.

Evening shadows overtook her, while yet a mile distant from home, and as she passed a small cottage, where candle-light flared through the open window, she saw Dr. Grey standing beside the bed, on which, doubtless, lay some sufferer.

Ere many moments had elapsed, she heard his well-known 53 footstep on the rocky road, and involuntarily paused to greet him.

“What called you to old Mrs. Peterson’s?”

“Her youngest grandchild is very ill with brain fever; so ill that I shall return and sit up with him to-night.”

“I was not aware that physicians condescended to act as mere nurses,—to execute their own orders.”

“Then I fear you have formed a very low estimate of the sacred responsibilities of my profession, or of the characters of those who represent it. The true physician combines the offices of surgeon, doctor, nurse, and friend.”

“Mrs. Peterson is almost destitute, and to a great extent dependent on charity; consequently you need not expect to collect any fee.”

“Knowing her poverty, I attend the family gratuitously.”

“Is not your charity-list a very long one?”

“Could I divest myself of sympathy with the sufferings of those who compose it I would not curtail it one iota; for I feel like Boerhaave, who once said, ‘My poor are my best patients; God pays for them.’”

“Then, after all, you are actuated merely by selfishness, and remit payments in earthly dross,—in ‘filthy lucre,’—in order to collect your fees in a better currency, where thieves do not break through nor steal?”

“‘He that oppresseth the poor reproacheth his Maker; but he that honoreth Him, hath mercy on the poor.’ If a tinge of selfishness mingle with the hope of future reward, it will be forgiven, I trust, by the great Physician, who, in sublimating human nature, seized upon its selfish elements as powerful agencies in the regeneration of mankind. An abstract worship of virtue is scarcely possible while humanity is clothed with clay, and I am not unwilling to confess that hope of eternal compensation influences my conduct in many respects. If this be indeed only subtle selfishness, at least we shall be pardoned by Him who promised to prepare a place in the Father’s mansion for those who follow His footsteps among the poor.”

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She looked up at him, with a puzzled, searching expression, that arrested his attention, and exclaimed,—

“How singularly honest you are! I believe I could have faith if there were more like you.”

“Faith in what?”

“In the nobility of my race,—in the possibility of my own improvement,—in the watchful providence of God.”

“Salome, there is much sound philosophy in the eighty-seventh and eighty-ninth maxims of cynical Rochefoucauld, ‘It is more disgraceful to distrust one’s friends than to be deceived by them. Our mistrust justifies the deceit of others.’ My opportunities have been favorable for studying various classes of men, and my own experience corroborates the truth of Montaigne’s sagacious remark, ‘Confidence in another man’s virtue is no slight evidence of a man’s own.’ Try to cultivate trust in your fellow creatures, and the bare show of faith will sometimes create worth.”

“Did Christ’s show of confidence in Judas save him from betrayal?”

“Let us hope that he was the prototype of a very limited class. You must not expect to find mankind divided into two great castes—one all angels, the other comprising hopeless demons. On the contrary, noble and most ignoble impulses alternately sway the actions and thoughts of the majority of our race; and the saint of to-day is not unfrequently tempted to become the fiend of to-morrow. Remember that the conflict with sinful promptings begins in the cradle—ends only in the coffin,—and try to be more charitable in your judgments.”

They walked a few yards in silence, and at length Salome asked,—

“Were you not kept up all of last night?”

“Yes; I was obliged to ride fifteen miles to set a dislocated shoulder.”

“Then you must be exhausted from fatigue, and unfit for watching to-night. Will you not allow me to relieve you, and take charge of Mrs. Peterson’s grandchild? I admit I am 55 very ignorant; but I will faithfully follow your directions, and I think you may venture to trust me.”

Confusion flushed her face as she made this proposition, but in the pale, pearly lustre of the summer starlight, it was not visible.

“Thank you heartily, Salome. I could implicitly trust your intentions, but the case is almost hopeless, and I fear you are too inexperienced to render it safe for me to commit the child to your care. I appreciate your kindness, but am too much interested in the boy to leave him when the disease is at its crisis, and a cup of coffee will strengthen me for the vigil. You have been to the Asylum this afternoon; tell me something about little Jessie.”

“She is still rather pale, but otherwise seems quite well again. Of course she is dissatisfied since Stanley has left, and thinks she ought to be allowed to follow his example; but I finally persuaded her to remain there patiently, at least for the present. It is well that the poor have their sensibilities blunted early in life, for they are spared many sorrows that afflict those who are pampered by fortune and rendered morbidly sensitive by years of indulgence and prosperity.”

A metallic ring had crept into her voice, hardening it, and although he could not distinctly see her countenance, he knew that the words came through set teeth.

“Salome, I hope that I misunderstand you.”

“No; unfortunately, you thoroughly comprehend me. Dr. Grey, were you situated precisely as I find myself, do you suppose you would feel your degradation as little as I seem to do? Do you think you would relish the bread of charity as keenly as one, who, for courtesy’s sake, shall be nameless? Could you calmly stand by, and with utter sang froid see your brothers and sisters—your own flesh and blood—drift on every chance wave, like some sodden crust or withered weed on a stormy, treacherous sea? Would not your family pride bleed and die, and your self-respect wail and shrivel and expire?”

“You have so grossly exaggerated and overcolored your picture that I recognize little likeness to reality.”

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“I neither gloze nor mask; I simply front the facts, which are, briefly, that you were nurtured in independence and trained to abhor the crumbs that fall from other people’s tables, while all heroic aspirations and proud chivalric dreams were fed by the milk that nourished you; whereas, I grew up in the wan, sickly atmosphere of penury; glad to grasp the crust that chance offered; taught to consider the bread of dependence precious as ambrosia; willing to forget family ties that were fraught only with humiliation and wretchedness; coveting bounty that I had not sufficient ambition to merit; and eager to live on charity, as long as it could be coaxed, hoodwinked, or scourged into supporting me comfortably. Yesterday I read a sentence that might have been written for me, so felicitously does it photograph me, ‘Temperament is a fate oftentimes, from whose jurisdiction its victims hardly escape, but do its bidding herein, be it murder or martyrdom. Virtues and crimes are mixed in one’s cup of nativity, with the lesser or larger margin of choice. Blood is a destiny.’ You, Ulpian Grey, are what you are because your father was a gentleman, and all your surroundings were luxurious and refined; and I, the miller’s child, am what you see me because my father was coarse and brutal; because my body and soul struggled with staring starvation,—physical, mental, and moral. Be just, and remember these things when you are tempted to despise me as a pitiable, spiritless parasite.”

“My little friend, you have most unnecessarily tortured yourself, and grieved and mortified me. Have I ever treated you with contempt or disrespect?”

“You evidently pity me, and compassion is about as welcome to my feelings as a vitriol bath to fresh wounds.”

“Are you not conscious of having more than once acted in such a manner as to necessitate my compassion?”

She was silent for some moments; but as they entered the avenue, she said, impetuously,—

“I want you to respect me.”

“If you respect yourself and merit my good opinion, I shall not withhold it. But of one thing let me assure you; my 57 standard of womanly delicacy, nobility, gentleness, and Christian faith is very exalted; and I cannot and will not lower it, even to meet the requirements of those who claim my friendship. Thoroughly cognizant of my opinions concerning several subjects, you have more than once, premeditatedly and obtrusively outraged them, and while I can and do most cordially overlook the offence, you should not deem it possible for me to entertain a very lofty estimate of the offender. When I came home you took such extraordinary pains to convince me that not a single noble aspiration actuated you that I confess you almost succeeded in your aim; but, Salome, I hope you are far more generous than you deign to prove yourself, and I promise you my earnest respect shall not lag behind,—shall promptly keep pace with your deserts. You can, if you so determine, make yourself an attractive, brilliant, noble woman; an ornament—and better still—a useful, honored member of society; but the faults of your character are grave, and only prayer and conscientious, persistent efforts can entirely correct them. I am neither so unreasonable nor so unjust as to hold you accountable for circumstances beyond your control; and, while I warmly sympathize with all your sorrows, I know that you are still sufficiently young to rectify the unfortunate warping that your nature received in its mournful early years. To ask me to respect you is as idle and useless and impotent as the soft murmur of this June breeze in the elm boughs above us; but you can command my perfect confidence and friendship solely on condition that you merit it. Salome, something very unusual has influenced you to-day, forcing you to throw aside the rubbish that you patiently piled over your better self until it was effectually concealed; and, if you are willing to be frank with me, I should be glad to know what has so healthfully affected you. I believe I can guess: has not little Jessie wooed and won her sister’s heart, melting all its icy selfishness and warming its holiest recesses?”

At this moment Stanley bounded down the steps to meet them, and, bending over to receive his kiss and embrace, Salome gladly evaded a reply. That night, after she had 58 taught her brother his lessons for the next day and made him repeat the prayer learned in the dormitory of the Asylum,—when she had read Miss Jane to sleep and seen the doctor set out on his mission of mercy, she brightened the lamp-light in her own room, and, opening the parcel, drew out and commenced the dainty embroidery which she had promised should be completed at an early day.

The night was warm, but the sea-breeze sang a lullaby in the trees that peeped in at her window, and now and then a strong gust blew the flame almost to the top of the lamp-chimney. Stanley slept soundly in his trundle-bed, occasionally startling her by half-uttered exclamations, as in his dreams he chased rabbits or found partridge-eggs. Oblivious of passing hours, and profoundly immersed in speculations concerning her future, the girl sewed on, working scallop after scallop, and flower after flower, in the gossamer cambric between her slender fingers. Stars that looked upon her early in the night had gone down into blue abysms below the horizon, and the midnight song of a mocking-bird, swinging in a lemon-tree beneath her window, had long since hushed itself with the chirp of crickets and gossip of the katydids.

A tap on the facing of her open door finally aroused her, and she hastily attempted to hide her work, as Dr. Grey asked,—

“What keeps you up so late? Are you dressing a doll for Jessie?”

“What brings you home so early? Is your patient better?”

“Yes; in one sense he is certainly better; for, free from all pain, he rests with his God.”

“What time is it?”

“Half-past three. Little Charles died about an hour ago, and, as I shall be very busy to-morrow, I came upstairs to ask if you will oblige me by going over to Mrs. Peterson’s and remaining with her until the neighbors assemble in the morning. It is an unpleasant duty, and unless you are perfectly willing I will not request you to perform it.”

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“Certainly, sir; I will go at once. Why should I hesitate?”

“Come down as soon as you are ready, and I will make Harrison drive you over in my buggy. As it is only a mile I walked home.”

When she stood before him, waiting for the servant to adjust some portion of the harness, Dr. Grey wrapped her shawl more closely around her, and said,—

“What new freak keeps you awake till four o’clock?”

“It is no freak, but the beginning of a settled purpose that reaches in numberless ramifications through all my coming years. It does not concern you, so ask me no more. Good-night. I suppose I ought to tender you my thanks for deeming me worthy of this melancholy mission; and if so, pray be pleased to accept them.”