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Title: Wedded by fate
or sister Angela
Author: Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
Release date: May 11, 2025 [eBook #76066]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Dodd, Mead & Company, 1890
Credits: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WEDDED BY FATE ***
WEDDED BY FATE
OR
SISTER ANGELA
BY
MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON
AUTHOR OF
“HIS HEART’S QUEEN,” “MAX,” “THE FORSAKEN BRIDE,” ETC., ETC.
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1890,
—BY—
STREET & SMITH.
COPYRIGHT, 1892,
—BY—
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY
_All Rights Reserved._
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
A Mysterious Applicant, 1
CHAPTER II.
A Narrow Escape and a Wonderful Experiment, 9
CHAPTER III.
Dr. Winthrop becomes Acquainted with Salome, 18
CHAPTER IV.
Dr. Winthrop Makes a Startling Proposal, 28
CHAPTER V.
A Romantic Wedding, 37
CHAPTER VI.
Salome Goes “Home,” 46
CHAPTER VII.
Dr. Winthrop Receives a Despatch, 55
CHAPTER VIII.
Dr. Winthrop is Summarily Arraigned, 64
CHAPTER IX.
Madame Winthrop Refuses Salome as a Daughter, 74
CHAPTER X.
Dr. Winthrop Receives an Imperative Summons Abroad, 84
CHAPTER XI.
A Startling Encounter, 94
CHAPTER XII.
An Explanation Demanded, 104
CHAPTER XIII.
“Your Marriage was Illegal; You are No Wife!” 114
CHAPTER XIV.
Salome Receives her Sentence, 123
CHAPTER XV.
An Appalling Tragedy, 134
CHAPTER XVI.
Dr. Winthrop’s Battle with his Grief, 144
CHAPTER XVII.
The Rochesters are Introduced, 153
CHAPTER XVIII.
Accident Disarranges Dr. Winthrop’s Plans, 162
CHAPTER XIX.
Mrs. and Miss Rochester Receive Startling News, 171
CHAPTER XX.
A Flight from War and Pestilence, 178
CHAPTER XXI.
Dr. Winthrop Passes through Deep Waters, 188
CHAPTER XXII.
An Appalling Discovery, 197
CHAPTER XXIII.
Salome Learns a Startling Fact, 205
CHAPTER XXIV.
A Backward Glance, 215
CHAPTER XXV.
Salome applies for a Situation, 224
CHAPTER XXVI.
Salome Learns a Bit of Miss Leonard’s History, 234
CHAPTER XXVII.
Salome Has a Startling Experience, 245
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Miss Leonard’s Illness, 248
CHAPTER XXIX.
Salome Loses her Valued Friend, 258
CHAPTER XXX.
Salome Becomes the Victim of a Vile Scheme, 269
CHAPTER XXXI.
Salome Witnesses a Heart-Rending Tableau, 278
CHAPTER XXXII.
Salome is Lured into a Trap, 288
CHAPTER XXXIII.
Salome Makes an Attempt to Secure her Liberty, 298
CHAPTER XXXIV.
Salome is Missed, 306
CHAPTER XXXV.
Harriet’s Search for Salome, 313
CHAPTER XXXVI.
Miss Rochester a Victor, 321
CHAPTER XXXVII.
Dr. Winthrop has an Interview with Miss Rochester, 329
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
The Winthrops and Rochesters Leave for Rome, 335
CHAPTER XXXIX.
Sister Angela again, 341
CHAPTER XL.
Tells how Dr. Winthrop Found his Wife, 347
CHAPTER XLI.
“My Wife, Have You Ceased to Love Me?” 354
CHAPTER XLII.
Explanations, 360
CHAPTER XLIII.
Salome Relates Something of her Previous History, 372
CHAPTER XLIV.
Salome Continues her Story, 382
CHAPTER XLV.
“It is All Right, my Darling!” 391
CHAPTER XLVI.
“Sadie Rochester is Already my Wife!” 401
CHAPTER XLVII.
“Salome, You Have Conquered Me,” 412
WEDDED BY FATE.
CHAPTER I.
A MYSTERIOUS APPLICANT.
One dismal day in November—a day when the sky was dull and leaden, when
the wind sighed and moaned mournfully, and, a fine cold rain that was
almost sleet was falling, a young girl, clad in a long, dark ulster, a
brown felt hat upon her head, her face concealed by a thick veil,
entered the reception office of the City Hospital in Boston,
Massachusetts.
Going directly to the clerk, who sat within a little box-office, she
asked:
“Can I see the superintendent?”
The woman eyed her curiously for a moment, then curtly replied:
“This isn’t visitors’ day, miss, and if you’ve come to see any friend,
calling upon the superintendent won’t do you any good, for we never
break our rules.”
“I have no friends here; I have not come to visit any one; I simply
desire to see the superintendent upon a matter of business,” the young
girl quietly returned, but with a certain dignity which appeared to
impress the clerk, for she at once rang the bell, and then bent again
over the book in which she had been writing.
Presently a man appeared.
“What’s wanted?” he briefly asked.
“Is the superintendent in his office?” the clerk inquired, without
lifting her eyes from her book.
“Yes.”
“Tell him there’s a lady here who wishes to see him.”
The man retreated after darting an inquisitive glance at the visitor,
and was absent about five minutes, when he reappeared, and by a sign
indicated that the girl was to follow him. Passing through a narrow
hall, her guide at length opened a door on his left, and told his
companion to enter.
“The superintendent’s in his office with one of the directors, but he’ll
be out presently,” he said, then vanished, closing the door after him.
The girl sat upon a chair near the window, turning her veil back from
her face, a heavy sigh escaping her as she did so. The act disclosed a
pale but strikingly beautiful countenance. The features were perfect,
clear-cut, and with the imprint of the patrician plainly stamped upon
them.
The brow was rather low, but full and beautifully shaped and crowned by
waving black hair, as fine and glossy as silk. A pair of great jet-black
eyes were shaded by long curling lashes. The nose was small and
straight, the cheeks delicately rounded, the mouth a marvel of
loveliness and sweetness, while the prettily rounded chin had a charming
little dimple at its base.
Her complexion was strangely fair for one who had such dark hair and
eyes, and this fairness was enhanced by the vivid scarlet of her lips
and the utter absence of color in her cheeks.
There was an expression of sadness in her eyes, and every now and then a
quiver of pain swept over her red lips and found vent in a deep sigh,
which plainly betrayed that she had some secret anxiety or trouble on
her mind.
She was rather slightly formed and delicate in appearance, yet there was
strength and vigor in her movements, despite the air of depression that
pervaded her attitude.
Presently a door, opposite the one by which she had entered, opened, and
a tall, rather awkward man came into the room.
He eyed his visitor with a keen glance, as he bowed courteously to her,
and then stood waiting for her to state her business.
She arose as he came forward, and, extending a slip of printed paper
toward him, remarked: “I have come to you, sir, in reply to this
advertisement for nurses.”
The man regarded her with surprise.
Her every tone and word and gesture betrayed culture and refinement—that
she had been delicately and even aristocratically reared, and although
adverse circumstances might have driven her to the necessity of working
for her own support, he wondered that she should have chosen the
laborious avocation of a common nurse.
“Have you had any experience in nursing?” he inquired, as he took the
slip from her and ran his eye over it.
“Yes, sir, although I have never been regularly trained. I had a—a
friend”—her voice faltered slightly over the word—“who was an invalid
for several years, and so I have had a great deal of experience in the
sick-room.”
“Hum—how old are you?” asked the superintendent, glancing sharply at the
beautiful face of his companion, and thinking that she seemed very young
for one who professed to know so much regarding the care of invalids.
A delicate flush arose for a moment to her cheek, as if she felt the
touch of irony in his question; but she replied with the utmost
self-possession:
“Twenty-one last month. I would like very much, sir, to become a trained
nurse, and that is why I have applied to you to-day.”
“You are slightly built—you do not look very strong, and I do not need
to tell you that it takes a robust constitution to endure the hardships
of nursing,” the man returned, as he regarded her curiously.
The girl straightened her lithe form with a movement that was replete
with energy.
“I know that I do not have the appearance of being very strong, but I
am,” she said positively. “I have had long and thorough training in
physical culture—I continue the practice of the various exercises daily,
and my muscles and sinews are strong and flexible as steel.”
As she concluded, she threw out her right arm with a movement which
showed that there was great latent strength in it for one apparently so
delicately built.
“You are quite pale, too—you do not look very well,” continued her
companion, without appearing to heed her statements.
“I am naturally pale—it is a complexion that I inherit; but I am never
ill,” she quietly responded.
The superintendent bent his head in thought a moment.
He knew that there was, in some instances, more endurance in persons of
her physique than in those more robust, and that they frequently made
better nurses.
He was greatly prepossessed by the quiet, self-contained manner of the
girl, and a certain reserve force which had made itself apparent from
the moment when she had first spoken, and he felt inclined to give her a
trial.
“We are in great need of nurses at present,” he said at length, “and I
think I will take you on probation, as the Methodists say—that is, if
you can come and begin your duties immediately.”
“I can come at once—I can remain now if you like, since I am entirely at
liberty, and I can send for my trunk by an express messenger,” she
answered with an undercurrent of eagerness that was somewhat at variance
with her previous calmness and self-possession.
“Very well. I would like you to remain. Is your home—are your friends in
this city?”
“No, sir,” was the brief reply.
Again the man glanced sharply at her. A certain sadness that seemed to
pervade her, together with the quiet dignity and self-possession of her
bearing, somehow moved him strangely, while it was evident from the
brevity of her last reply that she intended to guard her previous
history from all inquisitiveness.
“Your name, if you please?” he asked, seating himself at his desk, and
opening a book that lay upon it, although his eyes never left the
applicant’s fair face.
Again a slight flush leaped to her cheek at this question, and she
hesitated an instant before replying; then she said, quietly:
“Salome Howland.”
The superintendent wrote the name, together with her age in his
register, though a queer little smile played over his lips the while;
then, with his pen suspended over the next line, he continued:
“Your birthplace, if you please, and present place of residence?”
“I was born upon the Atlantic Ocean. My present place of residence
is—Boston,” she answered, without changing a muscle of her countenance.
Clearly she intended to keep her identity in as much obscurity as
possible.
Again that peculiar smile curved her companion’s lips, and it was with
no little eagerness and curiosity that he put his next question, for he
was becoming deeply interested in this fair stranger.
“You, of course, have the necessary references?” he observed, in a
matter-of-fact tone. “All nurses who are admitted here are required to
be well recommended.”
A flash of color leaped to her brow, and he could see that her delicate
under lip quivered painfully, while there was a moment of ominous
silence.
Then she turned and confronted him squarely, and lifted her beautiful
face appealingly to him, meeting his glance with her great black eyes
frankly and unflinchingly.
“That is the one weak point in my application, sir,” she said. “I have
no reference—no recommendation to give you. I am alone in the world, and
friendless—obliged to provide for my daily necessities. I came to you
from the death-bed of the only relative I had in the world.” She caught
her breath with a little sob at this, and the man’s heart was touched,
“and what I have told you about my abilities as a nurse is strictly
true. My personal character, I assure you, is above criticism;” this
with a proud uplifting of her small head that carried conviction with
it, and proved to her companion that she was no ordinary person, and
would scorn to do anything that would serve to lower her in the
estimation of others, or the esteem of herself; “But,” she added, “I
have only my own word to prove all this to you, and if such proof is
necessary, I can only give it to you by my daily deportment, during my
term of ‘probation.’”
It was a little out of order for him to receive a nurse under such
circumstances; but the more he saw of her the more interested he became,
and his curiosity to see and know more was excited.
Then, too, there was a certain ward in the hospital that was sorely in
need of nurses. He saw that she was intelligent, cool, and clear-headed,
with more than ordinary reserve force and self-possession, and feeling
confident that she was all she represented herself to be—though he had
some doubt that she had given her real name—he determined to waive the
strict letter of requirement, for once, and engage her without inquiry.
He completed the entry in his register, and then told her that she might
consider herself as engaged for a month upon trial; after which she
could be booked, if she gave satisfaction, as a regular nurse.
An expression of infinite relief swept over her face at this
information—a look which seemed to betray a sense of rest and security,
as if she suddenly felt that a safeguard from dreaded danger had been
thrown around her.
Her magnificent eyes lighted; more of energy and animation than she had
yet shown took possession of her, while the smile with which she thanked
the superintendent revealed two rows of the whitest and most perfect
teeth that he had ever seen.
“I hope she isn’t a coquette,” he mused with some anxiety, as he for the
first time realized the full power of her beauty; “for if she is, she’ll
be turning the heads of the male nurses and young doctors, and make no
end of mischief for us.”
But it was too late to retract now, and after settling a few more
preliminaries and assigning her to the ward wherein she was to serve, he
rose and told her to follow.
He led her from the office building, through the spacious rounds of the
hospital, to the main entrance, and thence to a ward in a large wing.
Then calling the head nurse of that department, he introduced the
novitiate and stated that she was prepared to enter upon her duties
immediately.
* * * * *
Salome Howland’s month of probation passed rapidly, and during that time
she endeared herself to every one with whom she came in contact. The
head nurse of the ward spoke in the highest praise of her. She had never
before had any novice, she said, so efficient—no one so intelligent, or
so thoroughly interested and enthusiastic in her work; while the
patients whom she attended grew to love the very sound of her footstep.
There was no one so gentle, so patient, and sympathetic as Miss Howland,
they affirmed—no one who had so bright a smile, such cheery comforting
words for those who were suffering and depressed; no one whose touch was
so tender and soothing, whose voice was so musically modulated, whose
steps were so light, whose service so willing.
“I am glad that you like her, and that she proves so efficient,” the
superintendent remarked when, at the end of the allotted month, he
sought the head nurse to ascertain if she was giving satisfaction. “I
should have been sorry to have sent her away, for she seemed anxious to
become a trained nurse, and somehow I feel deeply interested in her.”
“She is a treasure! She throws her whole heart and soul into her work;
if it will only last,” the head nurse added, with a sigh, as if she
feared it would not.
“Do you think she is quite well? she looks so pale, while she is not
nearly so robust as most of the nurses,” the superintendent remarked, as
his glance followed the movements of the girl, who in her pretty white
cap and apron seemed even more dainty and delicate than when he had
first seen her, in her felt hat and ulster, in his office.
She was moving lightly about the ward, with a free, elastic but
noiseless step, distributing the flowers that were sent up every day
from the conservatories for the patients, and he did not fail to notice
how every face brightened at her approach, and how fondly the glance of
every one lingered upon her; and surely, he thought, she was a goodly
sight for any one to look upon.
“She seems to be perfectly well and strong,” the nurse responded. “I am
surprised at times to see how strong she is. She looks delicate, I
admit; but her powers of endurance are wonderful, and she can manage
with as little sleep as any one I ever saw. She is remarkably
intelligent and practical too, both regarding her own health and the
treatment of the patients. She obeys rigidly the rules for physical
culture, is regular as a clock about taking her meals and her rest. Most
of the nurses complain that they do not get sleep and rest enough, and
are often dull and stupid upon being called to their duties. But Miss
Howland is always bright and fresh as a daisy. She says it is because
she never allows herself to talk or worry upon retiring, but wills
herself to sleep immediately. I believe her only thought or aim is, how
best to fit herself for her work, and I predict that she will make an
invaluable nurse, if——”
“If what?” inquired the superintendent, with some curiosity, as the
woman abruptly ceased.
“If some one doesn’t find her out, marry her, and take her away from
us,” responded the nurse, somewhat shortly, adding, “She’s far too
bright and pretty, let alone her goodness, not to be appreciated and
captured by somebody. The young doctors all make eyes at her, but she
never sees them—or pretends she doesn’t.”
“Modest—eh!” laughed her companion, while he also might almost have been
accused of “making eyes” at the pretty face that he was watching so
intently.
“Yes, almost to prudishness; but wait—the right one will come along one
of these days, then puff! away she’ll go, like a bit of thistle-down
upon the wings of the wind; it’s the way with all such treasures!”
The superintendent gave vent to a little laugh of amusement at the
woman’s quaint prophecy.
“I am glad you like her so well,” he said, and then went his way to
other duties, while Salome Howland was, for the time at least,
forgotten.
CHAPTER II.
A NARROW ESCAPE AND A WONDERFUL EXPERIMENT.
It was the third day of January. A fearful storm had been raging for two
days, and now the weather was growing intensely cold.
It was late in the evening when a young man arrived at an hotel in
Boston, and registered as Truman H. Winthrop, M.D., New York city.
He was apparently twenty-five years of age, a tall, massively formed
fellow, yet so finely proportioned that he did not really seem so
powerful as he was. A fine brow surmounted by a wealth of curling brown
hair crowned a keen, clear-cut, and intelligent face. A pair of deep
blue eyes gleamed with a kindly light, yet seemed to take in, with swift
comprehensive glances, everything going on around him; while about the
sensitive mouth there lingered an expression of sweetness, which
betokened a tender heart and warm sympathies, though the somewhat heavy
chin betrayed an undercurrent of great strength and firmness of
character.
“Can you give me a comfortable room,” he inquired of the clerk, after he
had entered his name upon the hotel register.
“We are very full to-night,” was the answer, “and the best that I can do
for you will be to give you a room on the third floor over the hall.”
“Hum,” mused the young physician, with a somewhat disappointed look on
his fine face. “How is it heated?” he asked, after a moment of thought.
“By a stove. It was originally used as a storeroom, and steam was not
carried into it when we refitted the hotel,” replied the clerk.
“Well, if that is the best that you can give me, I shall be obliged to
put up with it for one night, as the storm is too severe for me to go
out to hunt up another,” the stranger returned with an air of
resignation.
“I can do better to-morrow, perhaps, as some of our guests may be
leaving,” said the clerk.
“All right, you may order a fire to be lighted at once, so that my room
will be warm by the time I am through supper,” responded the young
physician, and then he turned to follow a servant to the dining-room.
Half an hour later he retired to his room and to bed, having first given
orders to be called at eight o’clock the next morning.
“Make sure that I am awake,” he said to the call-boy, as he went
upstairs, “for I have an important engagement at nine.”
It was well for him that he gave this order, or he would never have
opened his eyes in this world again.
Promptly at eight the next morning the boy rapped upon the door.
There was no response.
Again he knocked, and more vigorously.
Still no answer from within.
“Hallo there!” he cried, at the same time using his knuckles with
redoubled energy. “Wake up, can’t you?”
But the occupant of the little room over the hall was either a very
heavy sleeper, or something was wrong with him.
The man put his ear to the keyhole, and could plainly detect the sound
of heavy breathing.
“Something is amiss; nobody could remain in any natural sleep during
such a racket as I’ve made,” muttered the man, an anxious look coming
into his face.
He hastened below, and reported to the clerk, and together they hurried
back to the physician’s room and tried a second time to arouse him.
It was in vain, however; there was not the slightest movement within,
although they could plainly detect the heavy breathing of the man.
“He’s in a fit of some kind, and we shall have to force the lock or
break the door,” said the clerk.
Both men put their shoulders against it and used all their strength for
this purpose; but in vain, for the door was stronger than they.
A step-ladder was then brought, and a boy with a rope around his body
was sent up to remove the transom, then told to crawl through, when they
would let him down inside the room to unlock the door.
This was soon accomplished, and the moment the clerk stepped inside the
door he comprehended the situation.
The room was full of coal gas.
The man upon the bed was asphyxiated.
Every window in the room was closed, and the damper in the stove-pipe
had, by either the force of a strong draught or a sudden gust of wind,
been shut, and thus the fumes from the burning coal had been thrown into
the room.
The young doctor lay flat upon his back, breathing stertorously, while
his face was ghastly, his skin clammy, and his pulse alarmingly feeble.
By this time quite an excitement prevailed on that floor of the hotel,
and a crowd of curious and awe-stricken people had gathered about, the
proprietor among them.
“A doctor—is there a doctor in the house?” cried some one who had not
been quite so fully paralyzed by the appalling discovery as the others.
This aroused the proprietor to a sense of his duty.
“No, there is none,” he said, “and none nearer than—street, that I know
of. But,” a bright idea suddenly occurring to him, “the City Hospital is
near by; it’ll take no longer to get him there than to get a physician
here, and they have every facility there for every kind of treatment.”
This plan seemed the most feasible of any, and accordingly the young
doctor was warmly wrapped in blankets, a carriage hastily summoned, and
both the proprietor and his clerk accompanied him to the hospital.
Immediately on their arrival, the most energetic measures were adopted
for the man’s recovery, although the attending physicians looked grave
and doubtful as they remarked the failing condition of their patient.
They gave him hypodermic injections of ether and brandy, besides
administering other remedies. His stomach was emptied of its contents,
and then a tube, connected with a great jar of oxygen, was inserted in
his mouth, so that he could breathe pure oxygen instead of air.
But all these efforts proved unavailing, and the doctors then held a
hurried consultation as to whether it would be wise and best to try, as
a last resort, the transfusion of blood.
“He cannot live as he is—it is his only chance, and it is worth
trying—if we can find any one who is willing to give up blood enough to
save him,” the head physician remarked, as he regarded with a sorrowful
glance the splendid physique and intellectual face of the man before
him.
He wanted to save his life, and he would gladly have given all that was
necessary of his own blood, but he knew that he alone could perform that
delicate and difficult operation successfully.
Then they began a hunt for some strong, well person among the nurses,
who would sacrifice some of his life-current.
But it seemed likely to prove a fruitless search, as no one appeared
willing to submit to the experiment of having his veins opened for the
benefit of another.
One man sullenly muttered that he “hadn’t any more blood than he needed
himself.” Others stared vacantly at the doctor, then shook their heads,
turned on their heels and walked away, and it seemed as if the
undertaking must be relinquished and the patient left to die; he seemed
very near death now, for every time he drew in a breath of oxygen his
body shook like a leaf.
“What shall we do? I cannot let him die,” the physician cried in an
agony of anxiety, for every moment was precious.
He turned away in disgust from the strong men who had refused his
appeal, walked to the door and looked out into the long corridor.
No one was in sight, but the next moment a light step in the distance
warned him that some one was approaching, and then one of the nurses
from the women’s department came tripping around the corner from another
hall.
“Ah, Dr. Hunt!” she exclaimed, as she caught sight of him, “I was just
seeking you—the head nurse in ward twelve wants you to come there
immediately—a new and critical case has just arrived.”
“I cannot go at present,” the physician answered. “I am in the greatest
extremity myself, just now, over a case of life or death, and only for
the want of a little pure blood which no one will give.”
Salome Howland, for she was the nurse, was all interest at once, and,
lifting her eager, earnest face to his, asked:
“What is it—tell me, please?”
She was a favorite with Dr. Hunt, and he explained the case to her.
“He’s a magnificent fellow, and it is the greatest pity in the world to
let him die, without giving him this chance,” he said in conclusion.
“And isn’t there anybody who will make so simple a sacrifice for him?”
the girl inquired, a curl of scorn wreathing her lips.
“No. I can’t find a man among all the nurses who has courage enough to
let me open a vein. I’d give my own blood gladly, only there is no one
else who can conduct the operation. Heavens! I am getting desperate
enough to gag and bind some one and forcibly take his blood,” Dr. Hunt
concluded, as he gnawed his under lip savagely.
There was a moment of silence; then the fair girl before him said,
quietly:
“Dr. Hunt, I will give this young man a chance for his life—you shall
take from my veins all the blood that you need.”
The physician started and regarded her with astonishment. He had not
thought of calling upon a woman for his experiment.
“Child!” he cried, “do you mean it?”
“I certainly do, doctor.”
“But,” scanning her face critically, “you do not look as if you had any
blood to spare.”
“Why—because I am pale?” she asked, then added: “That is natural to me,
as you ought to know by this time, though, perhaps, the excitement of
the moment has intensified my paleness a trifle. But I am well and
strong, and I know my blood is pure. I have never been ill. I have no
taint of disease about me. I have perfect confidence in you, Dr. Hunt,
and I know that if I am well cared for afterward my veins will soon be
so replenished as to make up for the blood that you take from me. Do not
hesitate—do not waste precious time, but save this man’s life if you
can,” she concluded, with an earnestness, yet with a calmness which won
both his gratitude and admiration.
He laid his fingers upon her pulse.
It beat full and strong beneath them, with the flowing of the pure
vigorous current of her life.
“You are a noble girl!” he cried, as he ushered her into the room from
which he had but just come. “There is the man who needs your blood!”
Dr. Hunt immediately dispatched a runner to tell the head nurse of the
ward Salome served in that he required her services for the present, and
her place must be filled by another.
Then he hastened the preparations for his vital experiment.
A second cot was moved close beside the one on which the young physician
lay, and a tall screen drawn around them, while all other necessary
appliances were hastily arranged.
Salome was then led forward to the patient.
The girl gazed upon him for a moment, taking in at a glance his grand
physique, his noble head and fine face, and a faint flush stole into her
cream-like cheeks.
“Oh, he must not die!” she cried in a low, intense tone, as she lifted a
pair of appealing eyes to the head physician. “Save him—save him, and be
quick, Dr. Hunt, or it may be too late!”
Then, without a thought of self, she lay down upon the cot prepared for
her, and allowed her sleeve to be cut from her dress, and her arm to be
tightly bandaged about the fleshy portion, even assisting in these
operations herself, without a tremor of fear or dread.
The arm of Dr. Winthrop was prepared in the same way; then a hypodermic
injection of cocaine was administered to Salome, to deaden the pain, and
all was ready for the final act.
With a firm and skilful hand, Dr. Hunt made an opening about two inches
in length in Dr. Winthrop’s right arm, on the outside, just at the bevel
in the elbow. He cut away until he freed the median cephalic vein from
the surrounding tissues, after which he treated Salome’s left arm in the
same manner.
Then taking a long rubber tube, with a bulb in the centre and a
sharp-pointed steel tube at each end, he connected the life-currents of
those two human beings lying side by side.
Successive compressions pumped the blood of the brave girl into the
veins of the strong but helpless man, and she never flinched or moved
once during the operation.
She lay with her eyes fixed in an anxious, eager look upon that ghastly
face opposite her, as if her whole soul was concentrated upon the one
thought of giving him life.
When some ten or twelve ounces of blood had been infused into the
patient, a change began to be perceptible in him; his pulse grew
stronger, and he partly regained consciousness.
The physician then withdrew the tubes, tied the veins, and sewed up the
wounds in the two arms; but before this work was finished the heroic
nurse had fainted from loss of blood and excitement, while, it became
evident that the young doctor was steadily improving, and stimulants,
mixed with strong beef-tea, were frequently administered to him.
With tears in his eyes, Dr. Hunt himself gathered Salome in his arms,
laid her upon a stretcher, and had her carried to one of the best
private rooms in the hospital, where, after restoring her to
consciousness, he gave her temporarily into the hands of another
physician and a competent nurse, while he went back to his other
patient.
It was evident that the experiment was destined to prove a success, for
he found the young man breathing naturally and conscious, although he
could not yet speak.
They continued to give him nourishment and stimulants at frequent
intervals throughout the day, and by evening he was much improved,
although still weak and languid from the terrible ordeal through which
he had passed.
He was able to converse a little with Dr. Hunt, who had worked so
faithfully to save him, when he made his last round for the night. He
told him that he was a physician from New York city, and had come to
Boston at the invitation of a brother physician, to visit the various
hospitals of the city, and they had planned to come that very day to the
institution where he was now a patient.
He said that he feared his friend must be suffering great anxiety upon
his account, as he had agreed to meet him at his office at nine o’clock
that morning, and he would not know where to look for him, as he had
sent him no word at what hotel he would stop.
Dr. Hunt, appreciating the situation, at once dispatched a messenger to
Dr. Cutler, who came early the next morning to the sick man.
But though Dr. Winthrop steadily improved, he was not able to leave his
bed for several days; his system had been so poisoned by the noxious gas
that it took time to eradicate it.
Meantime, he inquired and learned all about the circumstances attending
his critical condition and his almost marvellous restoration.
“That noble girl!” he had exclaimed, upon being told how willingly, even
eagerly, Salome Howland had given up her life-blood for him. “She will
have my everlasting gratitude. Who is she, and where can I find her when
I am able to get away from here?”
“She is one of our nurses,” Dr. Hunt replied, “a young woman of
remarkable nerve and strength of character, and eminently fitted for the
life she has chosen.”
From this brief description, Dr. Winthrop gained the impression that
Salome might have been some strong-minded, rather masculine woman, of
perhaps twenty-five or thirty years, with a heart and brain entirely
devoted to the study and practice of her profession.
He meant to see her as soon as he was able to leave his room, express
his hearty gratitude for the priceless boon she had bestowed upon him,
and assure her of his readiness to befriend her or hers to the extent of
his power, if she should ever require the services of a friend.
How soon and how strangely such a requirement would be forced on him, he
did not dream, neither could he have any suspicion how vitally these
incidents were to affect his whole future life.
CHAPTER III.
DR. WINTHROP BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH SALOME.
Meantime, how fared it with the heroic young nurse, who had so
trustfully surrendered herself into the hands of Dr. Hunt, and
sacrificed so much to save the life of another?
Pale as a snow-flake, and weak as an infant from the loss of blood, of
which the physician, in his eagerness to make sure of the life he was
trying to save, had taken a more generous supply than was perhaps
wise—she lay in a large sunny room, tenderly cared for by an efficient
nurse, and closely and anxiously watched by Dr. Hunt.
She did not rally as rapidly as he had hoped and expected; her blood did
not make as fast as it ought to have done, under the nourishing diet and
judicious treatment that she was receiving, and the good man was greatly
troubled as well as puzzled.
It pained him deeply, and kept him wretchedly anxious to see her lying
there day after day so languid and weak; so spiritless and nerveless—all
her natural energy and vigor apparently exhausted.
“What am I going to do with you, my girl, if you do not hurry up and get
back your strength?” Dr. Hunt asked her one morning, with an assumed
playfulness which he was far from feeling, and experiencing something
very like a sense of guilt beneath the heavy glance of Salome’s great
eyes. “I can hardly forgive myself for having robbed you of your
strength.”
“Pray, do not regret your experiment, since it has proved such a
success,” the young girl began.
“I shall not account it a success if it should result in prolonged
injury to you,” he interrupted gravely.
“Oh, it will not,” she answered, trying to speak reassuringly; “I shall
soon be better. I do not suffer; I am only a little weak. But how is
he—your patient—to-day?” she added, drooping her heavily fringed lids,
while she nervously toyed with her handkerchief.
“He is doing excellently,” Dr. Hunt answered with animation, for he had
been jubilant over the success of his experiment. “So well,” he added,
“that he is going to leave the hospital to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!” breathed Salome, in a startled tone, a faint flush leaping
to her waxen cheek, while her heart began to flutter strangely.
“Yes; it is ten days since he began to rally, and he has improved very
rapidly; but I am afraid he has drawn heavily upon your vitality, my
child,” the physician concluded with a sigh.
Salome smiled slightly; for she realized, if Dr. Hunt did not, something
of the secret of her present weakness; for while she lay upon that other
cot beside that noblelooking man, her whole soul had been concentrated
upon the one thought of giving him life.
“Take the best, the very best that I can give—only let him live!” had
been her continuous prayer as she watched every compression of the bulb
which had served to pump her life-current into his veins, until it had
seemed to her as if she had literally willed and infused her strength
and vigor into him.
“Never mind,” she said, with a quick upward glance, in which he seemed
to read a gleam of exultation, “it will soon come again, and—I am very
glad.”
There was so much of self-abnegation in what she said, that Dr. Hunt
felt a suspicious moisture filling his eyes.
“You are the noblest girl I ever knew,” he said, with evident emotion.
Then he added, with an effort at self-control: “But Dr. Winthrop begs
the favor of an interview with you that he may personally express his
gratitude for the inestimable gift you have bestowed upon him. I was
commissioned to ask if you would receive him to-day—that is, if you feel
able. Or,” as he studied her downcast face critically, “shall I tell him
to wait until you are stronger?”
He was at a loss how to explain her case; he could not understand it; it
baffled him.
He reasoned that, strong and vigorous as her constitution naturally was,
she should have rallied at once; that a couple of weeks, at the most,
should have served to put her where she was before. But nearly two weeks
had already elapsed, and she had scarcely strength to turn on her
pillow, while, strangest of all, she expressed no anxiety or impatience
to get well and go about her duties again.
Could he have read her heart, he would have been puzzled no longer.
Could he have known that from the moment when he had led her to the
young physician’s side, when she had looked into his face, and realized
at a glance the kind of man he was—could he have known that as he was
pumping the blood from her veins into his, all the finest and tenderest
sensibilities of her nature were being absorbed in him, that henceforth
she would feel herself a part of him, that life away from him would
never hold any charm for her—he might not have wondered at her present
condition; it would have explained everything to him, and then, perhaps,
he might have felt that he was responsible for a broken heart as well as
an impaired constitution.
Strange as this may seem in a girl of such mental strength as Salome
Howland, it was nevertheless true.
She realized that she was no longer her own, that she had given herself
with her life-blood to another, and that other a stranger whom she had
seen but once, whom perhaps she might never see again, who—dreadful
thought!—for aught she knew might already be the husband of another.
She felt shamed, humiliated, terrified, when she awoke to a
consciousness of such sentiments as these. Shamed and humiliated,
because she had been so weak as to give her love unsought, and found
that she had no power to rise above it; terrified because of the
miserable blank that seemed to lie before her, if this man were destined
to vanish as suddenly out of her life as he had come into it. How could
she live with the mainspring of life—love—thus rudely wrenched out of
her being forever?
This was why she had no incentive, no real desire to recover—why the
duties which hitherto had been the chief object of her life had suddenly
lost their charm and interest.
This, too, was why, when Dr. Hunt told her that Dr. Winthrop desired an
interview, she was oppressed by a sudden sense of guilt, which caused
her head to droop and the conscious color to leap to her very brow in a
hot crimson tide.
Her judgment told her that it would be better to deny him the interview,
for to see him again would only serve to intensify the sudden and, as
she believed, hopeless passion that had taken possession of her.
Yet, in opposition to this, a feeling of ecstasy thrilled her at the
thought of being again in his presence—his living, conscious presence;
of meeting the glance of his eyes—brown, black, or blue, she knew not
which; or hearing the tones of his voice and, perchance, feeling the
touch of his hand—that hand which, but for her, would now have been cold
and rigid in death.
“Only for once,” she told herself. Just once she would see him and
listen to his voice, and then she would hide the memory of it in the
depths of her heart to live upon during all the lonely future which must
now lie before her.
“Yes, I will see him to-day,” she said to Dr. Hunt, with a little quiver
of her delicate lips; “only please ask him not to speak of—gratitude.”
“Of course he will speak of gratitude, dear child,” returned the
physician. “Pray do not deny him that slight return when you have given
him the most precious boon this side of heaven, and at such a sacrifice,
too.”
Salome flushed again, but of course she could not argue the question
further, and Dr. Hunt remarked, as he turned to leave the room:
“You may look for a call from my other patient between two and three
this afternoon.”
All day, after that, the nurse who cared for her wondered if it was
simply excitement that caused that delicate sea-shell pink to linger in
the cheeks of the fair invalid and her eyes to gleam with a light such
as she had never seen in them before.
At half-past two there came a tap on Salome’s door, and the next moment
Dr. Hunt, followed by Dr. Winthrop, entered the room.
The physician led his companion directly to his patient, saying in his
frank, hearty fashion:
“This, my young friend, is the noble girl who rendered you such valuable
service a while ago. Miss Howland, allow me to introduce Dr. Winthrop to
you.”
A queer little smile wreathed Dr. Hunt’s lips as he performed this
ceremony, while his kind eyes rested admiringly upon the fair invalid
before him.
Hitherto, he had seen Salome in her plain dark dress only, with her
nurse’s cap and apron, and he had thought her very attractive in that
simple garb; but now she appeared strikingly beautiful, despite her
pallor and loss of flesh.
In anticipation of the call, the young girl had sent her nurse to her
room, to bring a pretty crimson cashmere wrapper, which had lain unused
in her trunk ever since her admission to the hospital.
It was beautifully made and richly trimmed with quilted satin of the
same shade, and there were full ruchings at the throat and wrists of
finest Valenciennes lace. The dress was extremely becoming to her
complexion, with her dark hair and eyes, and she certainly was a lovely
vision, with the delicate flush still on her cheeks and that gleam of
light in her eyes.
“There is certainly some mystery about this girl,” said Dr. Hunt to
himself. “She was never intended for a nurse in a common hospital, in
spite of her peculiar adaptation to such work; there is some peculiar
reason for her being here, or I am greatly mistaken. I’d wager a round
sum that she belongs, or has belonged, to some wealthy and aristocratic
family.”
“What a perfectly lovely girl!” was Dr. Winthrop’s mental observation,
as he went forward and bent over and clasped Salome’s white hand, a
thrill of reverence and gratitude stirring his heart.
She raised her eyes to his as she greeted him, and looking into those
deep blue orbs, so kind, so frank, so genial, she read there something
of the man’s nobility of soul, something of his grand and lofty
character, and a feeling of exultation took possession of her.
“My blood flows in his veins—my life mingles with his! I have saved this
man from death!” was the glad thought that leaped to her brain, sending
a deeper flush to her cheeks, a brighter light into her expressive eyes.
Was there some peculiar magnetism in the mutual clasp of their hands?
There might or might not have been—no one can tell; but the fact remains
that during that brief interval, in that simple touch, in that one swift
glance, soul met soul, heart spoke to heart, and each was conscious that
a vital change had suddenly come over their lives; that the hitherto
quiet and undisturbed pool in the depths of their nature had been
agitated by some unseen spirit, and the ripples widening into
ever-increasing circles would influence all their future.
Was it the magnetism—the spirit of love?
All this was concentrated into a moment of time; the next Salome’s eyes
drooped beneath the earnest, admiring look of her companion, and the
color mounted to her temples.
The young man noticed her embarrassment and gently released her hand,
which he found himself holding in a closer clasp than was warrantable in
a total stranger.
“Miss Howland,” he said, in tones that trembled with emotion, “I am
deeply moved by this meeting and all the thoughts it arouses, and I find
myself tongue-tied before you, when I should be eloquent from gratitude
and admiration.”
“Pray, do not magnify a simple duty,” Salome began, lifting an appealing
glance to him.
“A simple duty!” he repeated, interrupting her. “It was a priceless gift
that you bestowed upon me—I feel it a debt that I can never repay.”
“Do not say that,” she returned, looking slightly troubled. Then she
added with a smile and a glance that made his heart leap, “a free gift
can never become a debt, so please do not be longer burdened, Dr.
Winthrop.”
“Heaven bless you, Miss Howland,” the young man said, leaning toward
her, and speaking with evident effort. “I see that you are sensitive
upon the subject of my obligation,” he added, “but just let me tell you
that henceforth my life will be doubly precious, since something of the
life of so noble a woman is mingled with it, and I shall treasure the
memory of your lofty deed as the most sacred of all memories. Now tell
me that you are really better to-day, for if my strength has been
restored at the permanent sacrifice of yours I fear it will be a
perpetual burden upon my conscience.”
“Yes, I am better,” Salome answered brightly. “Truly, I feel stronger
this afternoon. If,” with a shy smile and a saucy little nod at the
elder physician “if Dr. Hunt would not make quite such a baby of me, I
believe I should get about my duties more quickly.”
“Baby, indeed!” retorted the good doctor, “when people have only the
pulse of a baby they must be treated accordingly; eh, Winthrop?”
He came forward as he spoke and laid his skilled fingers upon her wrist.
But it was no baby’s pulse that he counted then!
Her blood was rushing at a racehorse speed through her veins, and the
man regarded her with a curious glance, while he marvelled at her almost
bewildering beauty, heightened as it was by the brilliant flush on her
cheeks and the light in her eyes.
“I trust that Miss Howland will be patient and allow herself to be
properly cared for until she entirely recovers her strength,” Dr.
Winthrop gravely remarked, while his glance lingered wistfully upon her
face.
“We shall have her in a fever if we subject her to too much excitement,”
Dr. Hunt remarked, with his fingers still upon her bounding pulse, “so,
Winthrop, if you please, we will not prolong our call to-day.”
The young physician arose at once.
“I hope we have not already taxed your strength too much by this
interview, Miss Howland?” he said regretfully. “I shall be in Boston for
two or three weeks longer, and, if you will allow me—if I shall not
intrude, it would give me pleasure to call upon you again and see for
myself how you are. Believe me, I shall not know a moment’s peace until
you are entirely recovered.”
“You are very kind, Dr. Winthrop,” Salome responded, with downcast eyes
and a rapidly beating heart, “and I shall be glad to see you if you care
to come again.”
“Thank you,” he heartily returned; then, after a handclasp in farewell,
he followed Dr. Hunt from the room.
“What an exquisitely beautiful girl!” he exclaimed, as they passed down
the long corridor together, “she is an entirely different person from
what I imagined from your description of her.”
“Hum! I didn’t know she was quite so pretty myself until to-day,” said
Dr. Hunt reflectively. “I’ve never seen her in anything but the hospital
uniform before—perhaps that’s the reason.”
“Is she obliged to make nursing her business?” inquired the younger man.
“I suppose so; at least, I imagine she is obliged to do something for
her own support, and perhaps, having a love for this profession, she
chose it in preference to anything else.”
Dr. Winthrop looked thoughtful, but did not speak again until they
reached Dr. Hunt’s office, when he took leave of him, and departed to
meet his friend, Dr. Cutler, and begin his tour of investigation in the
different institutions of the city.
Two days later he made another call upon Salome, and thought her
somewhat better.
He chatted nearly an hour, and was surprised to find her as cultivated
mentally as she was beautiful personally.
He took pains to draw her out, and Salome, delighted to find her
companion so genial and interesting, forgot herself and was really
charming.
“She is far too lovely to bury herself in a sick-room—nursing is too
hard, too thankless a task for one so gifted, mentally and physically,
as she,” the young man mused as he left her.
The next morning a basket of luscious fruit and a great cluster of
Maréchal Niel roses found their way to Salome’s room, and in the midst
of the latter, she discovered a card bearing the name of “T. H.
Winthrop, M. D.”
She seemed greatly changed from the sad-eyed, grave-faced girl who had
applied for entrance to the hospital as a nurse on that dismal November
day. She was brighter and more animated in her manner; there was always
a happy smile on her lips, a brilliant, almost joyous light in her eyes,
and yet she did not seem to gain strength. The slightest exertion set
her panting like a frightened hare. If she attempted to walk from her
bed to her chair she would be exhausted, almost fainting from the
effort, and Dr. Hunt was greatly exercised over her peculiar symptoms.
“If this experiment of mine should develop an affection of the heart, I
should find it hard to forgive myself for having taken her blood,” he
muttered one day on leaving her, after imagining that he had detected
signs of such a disorder.
Dr. Winthrop went almost every day to see her, and always with some
dainty offering of fruit or flowers, or perchance some entertaining book
or periodical—these latter were often productive of an interesting
discussion—and when he was unable to pay his usual call, he sent some
reminder of himself.
Salome was very generous with these gifts, and shared them with many a
suffering patient, but she was never without some bud or spray of these
precious mementos in her hands or on her breast, while every day she
became more and more conscious that she was growing to love the giver
even to the verge of idolatry.
She would not, however, allow herself to analyze her feelings, though
she was now and then smitten with a consciousness of approaching sorrow
or danger. She simply lived from day to day in the joyful expectation of
his coming, and the delight of his presence, without questioning the
wisdom of thus bestowing the wealth of her love upon him, or what life
would be to her when he should return to his home and practice in New
York.
One day he told her that he was to spend the whole of the coming week in
that hospital, to witness two or three critical operations and their
subsequent treatment.
Salome’s heart leaped with sudden joy.
For a whole week she was to live beneath the same roof with him, and see
him every day, perhaps oftener.
The rich color surged up over her face, and her lips quivered in a
tender smile.
“After that,” added Dr. Winthrop with an unconscious sigh, “I must go
home to my duties.”
A sudden blindness, a sense of dizziness, rushed over her as she
realized what his departure would mean to her. For the first time she
fully comprehended how blank, how devoid of all that could make life
desirable to her the world would be when he should be gone. A deadly
paleness overspread her features, she gasped once or twice, and then
sank quietly back in her chair, where she lay without life or motion,
like some beautiful spirit from another world.
CHAPTER IV.
DR. WINTHROP MAKES A STARTLING PROPOSAL.
Dr. Winthrop had not been looking at Salome when he made the
announcement of his contemplated departure. He was gazing out of the
window beside which he sat, at some of the patients who were strolling
in the park—for the day was very mild, almost spring-like, and those who
were well enough had been allowed to go out to take the air—and he had
not a suspicion of the effect which his words had produced.
After a moment or two, however, not receiving any reply, and the silence
becoming oppressive, he turned to glance at Salome, and was dismayed to
find her unconscious.
He sprang to her side, gathered her in his arms, and laid her upon the
bed, and fortunately at that moment Dr. Hunt entered the room.
“What is the matter here?” he sharply demanded, a look of concern on his
honest face.
Dr. Winthrop, all unconscious that the announcement of his approaching
departure had caused the swoon, explained that he had turned to the
window to watch the patients in the park, and when he looked back again
he found Miss Howland unconscious.
“I am afraid there is something very serious the trouble with Miss
Howland,” he added, with a very grave face. “I have been watching her
very closely of late, and I have begun to fear atrophy of the heart,
superinduced by the loss of blood.”
“You are right. I have feared the same myself, yet I was as sparing as I
dared to be and make sure of your life,” Dr. Hunt replied, with a
regretful look into Salome’s white face. “But,” he added, “unless this
trouble, that has recently shown itself is arrested at once, I can only
predict the worse.”
Dr. Winthrop looked deeply distressed.
“And I am accountable for it,” he said, in a pained tone.
“Tut—tut! You are no more accountable for it than I am—nor so much,
perhaps,” responded the physician somewhat sharply, for he keenly felt
the responsibility of having consented to accept Salome’s generous
sacrifice in that critical experiment.
“She would tell you,” he went on, “that no one but herself should be
blamed—we did what we thought was best, time was precious, and a longer
delay would have been fatal to you; but, Heaven willing, I hope she may
be saved even yet. I only wish she had a happy home in this city. She
needs constant watching and diversion without excitement, as well as the
kind and loving attention of friends.”
“She will have to give up her profession as a nurse—she will not be
strong enough for such a life,” Dr. Winthrop remarked thoughtfully.
“No, at least, not for some time to come; and a great pity it is, too,
for a more faithful, conscientious little nurse I never saw,” Dr. Hunt
responded, as he administered a second potion to revive the unconscious
girl and anxiously watched for its effect.
“Where are her friends?” Dr. Winthrop inquired.
“I don’t know—I doubt if she has any; but, hush! she is reviving,” was
the swift, subdued reply, as Salome slowly unclosed her eyes and heaved
a deep sigh.
Something of this, however, Salome had heard, indistinctly or as if she
had been in a dream; but the meaning of it came to her gradually
afterward, when she was able to think over what had occurred, and it
filled her with dismay.
Atrophy of the heart.
She was familiar enough with medical terms to understand what Dr.
Winthrop meant, and she knew, also, that there would be no more nursing
for her at present, if indeed ever, if their fears should be verified.
Must she surrender all her hopes—all her plans? Must she go away from
the seclusion of her present retreat—out again into the world from which
she had been hiding, away from that haven of safety where she had felt
so content, so sure that no one could find her, and where she had begun
to feel that she was doing so much good?
What could she do? Whither could she turn without a home, or friends to
give her the care which she needed?
“Oh! my future will be desolate indeed if I cannot work—if I cannot have
any object in life—more desolate than ever, now that my path has crossed
his. How can I bear it?” she moaned, when the next day after her attack,
she was trying to think of a way out of the slough in which she had
suddenly found herself sinking. Weakened by her illness, she had not the
self-control which she usually possessed, and sobs broke from her pale
lips—tears streamed over her wan cheeks.
In the midst of this emotion her nurse opened the door and announced:
“Dr. Winthrop, miss.”
Before she could wipe her tears or check her sobs, he had entered and
she could not conceal her grief.
He came toward her, deep concern written upon his face, while the nurse,
glad to be relieved, slipped away again.
“Miss Howland!” he exclaimed, “are you in trouble? Am I intruding? Shall
I go away?”
She looked up at him and tried to smile, as she hastily brushed the
bright drops from her cheeks.
“No, do not go,” she said; “perhaps I am nervous, and need cheerful
company to help me forget myself.”
He brought a chair and sat beside her, a sudden determination seizing
him to know the cause of her tears.
He laid his usual offering upon her lap as he seated himself—a dainty
bouquet of lilies of the valley.
“Oh, how lovely!” she cried, and her face brightened instantly; “they
are so sweet!”
“Yes, they signify ‘unconscious sweetness,’ and are like some people
whom I know,” said the young man significantly. “And now, Miss Howland,”
he continued in a tone of gentle authority, “tell me why I find you so
depressed—what is it that troubles you?”
Salome met his glance with grave, sad eyes, her brightness all
vanishing, and said frankly:
“I was not wholly unconscious yesterday, Dr. Winthrop. I heard what you
and Dr. Hunt said, regarding my condition, and I have studied _materia
medica_ enough to know what atrophy of the heart means.”
“Did you hear our conversation?” cried Dr. Winthrop regretfully. “And
yet,” he added, “I do not know but it is better, on the whole, that you
should be warned in season. Give up your work and return to your friends
to be cared for. Where is your home, Miss Howland?”
Salome’s white face flushed for an instant, and then grew paler than
before.
“I—have no home, Dr. Winthrop. I have no friends,” she replied, after a
moment of hesitation. “And,” she continued, her now pallid lips
quivering painfully, “if I have atrophy of the heart, and can never work
any more, I—am—ready—to die. I hope I may die soon.”
“Oh, no, you must not die—it is not so bad as that—you shall not die!”
the young physician cried, startled out of his usual self-possession by
her hopeless words, while a spasm of pain contracted his brow. “You are
too young for such a fate—you must live. Salome!” with a sudden thrill
in his tone, that was like the influence of old wine in her veins, “live
for me! be my wife, and let me cherish you and win you back to
health—let me throw around you the tenderness and care which you need at
this time. Ah!” as he marked the swift, rich color that suffused her
face, “do not let this excite you; I know it must seem sudden—forced,
perhaps; but the exigency of the case demands prompt action. Will you,
Salome? will you give yourself to me, who owe you so much? could you
learn to love me well enough to be my wife?”
He reached out, took both her hands in his, and looked beseechingly down
upon her face.
For a moment she was too surprised and agitated to speak or even to
fully comprehend all that this astounding proposal meant to her. It
seemed like a beautiful dream, an entrancing vision which must vanish if
she moved or answered him.
Then a quiver of deep, deep joy went thrilling along her nerves like an
electric current, the burning blush mounted to her forehead and was lost
in the waves of her hair, and her lips trembled with the excess of
unexpected happiness.
She lifted her eyes to his in one brief questioning glance as if to
assure herself that her ears had not deceived her. It was full of trust,
of love, of the deep joy that pervaded her whole being, and Truman
Winthrop read all that he wished to know—read that she loved him with
her whole soul. But he dared not betray the wild joy that went surging
through him at the knowledge, for fear of exciting her.
He simply raised those two white hands that lay so unresistingly in his
clasp, and pressed his lips first upon one and then the other.
“Salome, you love me—you will be my wife?” he breathed, and she longed
to throw herself upon his breast and surrender herself wholly to the
delight of loving and being loved.
Then sudden terror seized her.
If she was to be an invalid for long years, or if she was doomed, and
had not long to live, it would be wrong to clog his life, to burden him
at the very beginning of his career, with a sick and dying wife. Loving
him as she did, she could not bear the thought of bringing such trouble
and sorrow upon him. Better to live out her little life alone, even
though her heart yearned so strongly for his love and care, and might
break in the sacrifice for his sake.
He was watching her and waiting for her answer with what calmness he
could assume. He had tried to repress his feelings, and hold himself in
check as much as possible, in making this proposal to her, for his
knowledge of her condition warned him that any excessive excitement
might bring on another fainting turn and do her great injury, and so his
full heart was nearly bursting with the wealth of his repressed love;
for he had learned to love her during this short acquaintance, as he had
never believed it possible that he could love any woman.
“Salome!” he entreated, as she was still silent, struggling between love
and duty; “answer me, please.”
“How can I? I ought not to burden you, all broken in health as I am,”
she murmured tremulously.
“But you love me?” he questioned eagerly, and trying to look into her
downcast eyes.
“Yes—oh, yes! but I must not clog your life.”
His face became suddenly glorified—if she could have seen it, maybe she
would not have judged him as she did later—but ever thoughtful of her
good he held himself well in hand.
“Clog my life,” he repeated, in a low, intense, yet calm tone. “To whom
do I owe the life that I have to-day? To whom have you sacrificed the
strength that you lack to-day? Do not reason thus, Salome—you will be no
burden, no clog; you will get well with the right kind of care. I shall
take you away from here to a more genial atmosphere—wherever you wish to
go—wherever you can be happiest—until you are well and strong; then you
shall help me in my work, for a doctor often needs aid and counsel from
his wife.”
“Do you really believe that I shall ever be well and strong again?”
Salome asked doubtfully, lifting her grave eyes to his face, and
searching it earnestly.
“I certainly do, under the right conditions—if you can be happy,
care-free, and have proper treatment. Will you marry me, Salome? I dare
not excite you too much, but I am very anxious for my answer.”
And lifting a flushed and happy face to him, she whispered:
“Yes.”
He had put such a relentless curb upon himself for her sake, that this
sudden granting of his request was almost more than he could calmly
bear, and for a moment he grew ghastly pale from the very intensity of
his emotion—this, too, she remembered later, and judged him for it—then
he bent quietly forward and touched his lips to her forehead, thus
sealing their betrothal.
At that moment the footsteps of the returning nurse sounded in the
corridor, and quickly releasing the hands of his betrothed, Dr. Winthrop
arose and going to a table, poured out a few quieting drops from a vial,
and gave them to Salome. He saw that, in spite of her great new
happiness, the interview had been a severe tax upon her small amount of
strength, for she was trembling visibly.
A few moments later he took his leave, but promised that he would look
in upon her again before evening.
For more than an hour after his departure, Salome lay back in her chair,
weak and weary from her recent emotion and excitement, but happier than
she had ever expected to be in this world.
She was very pale, but a smile of peace was on her lips, and the light
of a new joy shone in her eyes.
“Who would have thought that such a blessed lot was in store for me when
I came to this place of suffering, to toil for others, on that dreary
day when I was so lonely, so friendless, and thought only of hiding
myself from every one who had ever known me?” she mused, as she went
over and over again in her mind every incident connected with that
recent interview.
She could hardly realize, even now, that she was to be the wife of that
grand man; for grand she was sure he was in every sense of the word,
although she knew comparatively nothing of him—nothing of his family nor
what her life was to be in connection with them.
She only knew that she loved him and trusted him implicitly; that life
without him would not be worth an effort to prolong; but with him she
felt that she could battle for it with all the power of her strong will.
Already it almost seemed as if new vigor had been infused in her veins,
and when the nurse brought up her dinner she felt really and thoroughly
hungry for the first time during her illness, and she ate heartily,
greatly to the delight of her attendant, who had taken especial pains to
prepare something tempting and appetizing.
About the middle of the afternoon Dr. Hunt made his appearance, and
looked the astonishment he experienced upon seeing her toying with some
pretty fancy work.
“Well, well, well!” he exclaimed, and a gleam of amusement began to
twinkle in his kind eyes.
After counting her pulse, he playfully pulled one of her ears and
inquired, with a roguish smile:
“What is this you have been doing, my young lady?” and he assumed a tone
of mock displeasure. “Allowing a strange doctor to come here and steal
away one of my best nurses! Give an account of yourself, Miss Howland.”
Salome blushed delightfully, and the sweetest little laugh in the world
rippled over her lips and was real music in the doctor’s ears.
“I don’t believe there will be any further shrinking of that heart,” he
continued with a chuckle. “I no longer fear atrophy; on the contrary, I
predict a fatal enlargement of that organ.”
“Fatal?” repeated Salome, still blushing, but not quite comprehending
his meaning.
“Yes, fatal,” he answered, without changing a muscle of his countenance,
“for Miss Howland will soon be no more.”
“Oh,” breathed Salome, with renewed confusion, and darting an appealing
glance at him as she made a gesture toward the nurse.
“Oh, it is an open secret,” retorted the doctor, enjoying her
embarrassment, while the attendant smiled wisely. “Your New York
physician evidently intends to carry matters with a high hand and not
waste any precious time, for he formally announced his engagement this
morning; so of course the news has spread like wildfire.”
Doubtless he thought that he had jested enough upon the subject, for he
changed the topic.
After a few questions he sent the attendant from the room upon some
errand; then he said abruptly and earnestly to Salome:
“My dear,” with a tender inflection, for he had become very fond of the
girl, “I just want to assure myself that everything is all right, for
somehow I have grown to feel a deep interest in you, and I should be
very sorry to have any sorrow come to you in the future, because of a
too hasty decision upon so important a matter. You are sure, my child,
that you will be happy in the life opening before you? Tell me, Salome,
frankly, as you would tell your own father.”
“Dr. Hunt, you have been very kind to me ever since I came here, and I
will confide in you freely,” Salome answered, with heightened color.
“From the moment that you began to infuse the life-current from my veins
into Dr. Winthrop’s I have felt as if I belonged to him and he to me—as
if our very souls had been united with the union of our blood. Doubtless
some people would affirm that this was only a sentimental idea. It may
be so; if it is I cannot help it. To me it is a veritable fact, and I
believe if we had been separated—if Dr. Winthrop had gone away and I had
never seen him again—he would have carried away so much of my life with
him that I should never have rallied; I should have died in spite of all
your kind care.”
Dr. Hunt believed it too, even while he marvelled at the curious result
which his experiment had produced; a result of which he had not had the
remotest presentiment.
“You love him, Salome?” he said, regarding her with increasing
tenderness.
“With all my heart,” she murmured tremulously.
“Then Heaven bless you! I believe you will be a very happy woman in the
future,” the good physician said heartily, adding: “Dr. Winthrop is an
unusually talented man and a skilled physician. I believe he is a noble
man, too—upright and conscientious, and I value his friendship highly.
He belongs to a fine family, as perhaps you already know—a very wealthy
family, too, and considering all things, I am only too glad to surrender
my favorite nurse to him, since I cannot keep her here. And I also
believe, Salome, that you will get well and strong under the influence
of this new happiness.”
“I know I shall,” she responded confidently, for, with the deep joy in
her heart, the conviction had been growing upon her all day.
CHAPTER V.
A ROMANTIC WEDDING.
Salome grew very thoughtful after Dr. Hunt left her.
She had not given a thought to Truman Winthrop’s position in life nor to
the possibility of his having a family who might not approve of his
choice of a wife, and she became quite troubled in spirit.
His family was a very wealthy one—Dr. Hunt had said—consequently they
were liable to be a very proud family. Would they be willing to receive
a poor young nurse as the bride of the aristocratic and brilliant
physician?
She had nothing to give him in return for the wealth and position he
would bestow on her, but her true love and a very weak and insufficient
hand; while he, situated as he was, might have won almost any one, from
the higher walks of life, to be his wife.
More than this, there were certain circumstances connected with her own
life which she had forgotten to tell him, during the excitement of his
proposal—indeed, he had given her no opportunity to do so, in his
eagerness to gain her consent—but which might make him hesitate to marry
her.
“I must tell him,” she murmured with a troubled brow. “I ought to have
told him before he bound himself to me. I must not allow him to
sacrifice himself nor his future interests. I must not run the risk of
alienating him from his family; I love him far too well to wish to mar
his life in any way.”
But these thoughts and resolutions made her very nervous and anxious,
and when Dr. Winthrop came again late in the afternoon, as he had
promised, he found her excited and feverish.
“What is it—what troubles you, Salome?” he inquired as he took her hot,
dry hand and was startled by the almost spasmodic twitching of her small
fingers.
“I have been thinking—I have something to tell you—I ought to have told
you before, all about myself and my family——” she began tremulously.
“Hush!” he commanded, with gentle authority, “you shall tell me nothing
while you are in this state; you are not even to think of anything that
annoys you——”
“But——”
“I care nothing about your genealogy or previous history just now,” he
said, stopping her short; then added, “I am sure there can be nothing
connected with either for which you have cause to blush.”
“No, indeed!” interposed Salome, with a proud uplifting of her small
head, a smile of conscious rectitude curling her lips. “As a child I was
very tenderly reared; I had every advantage, I was happy, beloved, and
while my mother lived there was not a more harmonious family in the
world; but—later——” a shiver ran over her as certain painful memories
suddenly arose.
“Hush!” said Dr. Winthrop again, for she had begun to tremble violently,
and grow red and white by turns, “this excites you, and you shall not
talk any more about it. I am satisfied with you as you are, Salome; you
have told me that you are alone in the world, and so your antecedents
cannot affect me in any way since you have assured me that no taint
rests upon them. Just see how unnerved you are becoming, my child,” as
in her weak state her teeth actually began to chatter. “You are not to
talk any more on this subject now; some other time when you are strong
and well you shall tell me all the trials and troubles of your past,
which you think I ought to know. I am sure, however, that there will be
nothing that I could condemn; the only thing I could not forgive would
be a wilful deception on your part regarding your affection for me—you
are sure that you love me, Salome?”
His tone was grave and earnest, and he regarded her searchingly as he
asked the question.
She lifted her beautiful eyes to his, and he read in them only truth and
constancy, even before she answered:
“Oh, with my whole soul!” and her fingers closed almost convulsively
over the hand that was holding hers.
“And you have never loved any one before?”
“No—no; never,” she said, with strange vehemence, while another shiver,
like a sudden chill, ran over her frame.
“That is all I want to know of your past at present,” he said. “And now,
when will you be my wife, Salome? You are ill, and though you might
perhaps have the best of care here, I do not feel that I can leave my
betrothed in a city hospital, when it is in my power to provide her with
every comfort. I must leave for New York by the last of this week, and I
want to take you with me; so there will have to be a little knot tied
right away.”
“So soon,” murmured Salome, but with a thrill of joy over the knowledge
that he was unwilling to be separated from her.
“Yes—so soon,” he repeated, smiling, “as soon as to-morrow, or the next
day at the farthest.”
“But your family—they do not know—what will they think? How will they
receive me?” she stammered, her face crimson, her heart fluttering.
“My family can have comparatively little to do with this most vital
question of my life,” Dr. Winthrop gravely replied. “They are all in
Europe at present—my father and mother, my brother and sister; but when
they return, they will assuredly accord my wife a proper reception.”
His tone was not reassuring; somehow it seemed to confirm her fears that
they were proud, haughty, and exclusive.
She looked up into his face, a troubled expression upon hers.
“What is it?” he asked kindly.
“Dr. Hunt tells me that they are wealthy, aristocratic; I am only a poor
nurse—are you sure you will never regret? are you sure——”
“I shall never regret choosing you for my wife, Salome,” he answered
quietly. “Of what else do you wish me to be sure?”
“That—that you—love me!” she whispered, trembling.
Oh, how he longed to catch her to his heart, smother her with kisses,
and caresses, and pour out all the passionate love that was surging so
fiercely within him; but he dared not. Already she was laboring under
far more excitement than was good for her, and he was afraid to augment
it.
But again he made a mistake, for the surest way to have soothed and
quieted her would have been to assure her of his deep and absorbing
affection. He did not realize, in his anxiety to care for her health,
that he was withholding just the food which her hungry heart craved and
needed most. She longed for the spontaneous overflow of a love akin to
her own, and could not be quite satisfied with the quiet, self-contained
manner in which he had wooed her.
He passed his arm about her slight form and asked, with something of
reproach in the forced calmness of his tone:
“Can you doubt it, Salome, when I asked you to assume the most sacred
relations to me? Can you not trust me?”
“Yes,” she answered, regarding him wistfully, and beginning to feel very
weary—too weary to longer argue the point; but still not quite
satisfied.
It had occurred to her that perhaps gratitude for what she had done for
him, and pity for her in her illness, her homeless and friendless
condition, might perhaps have influenced him somewhat in asking her to
marry him; that, perchance, he felt he owed it to her to take care of
her and try to restore her to health, in return for her sacrifice in
saving his life.
But such an interpretation of his motives was like a dagger in her
heart, and she put it quickly away, telling herself that he could not be
so untrue to himself and her; that his calm, quiet, dignified manner was
natural to him, and like deep waters whose powerful undercurrent could
not be detected upon the surface.
“Thank you,” he said, a tender smile illuminating his face, which she
did not see unfortunately, as her wistful glance had drooped an instant
before. “And may I tell Dr. Hunt and the superintendent that you will
become my wife to-morrow?”
“Yes.”
As well, perhaps better, to-morrow than later, she thought in her
weakness, only too glad to leave the decision and all arrangements to
him.
* * * * *
The next afternoon there was a quiet wedding in the reception-room
belonging to the matron of the hospital. It was witnessed only by the
nurse who had attended Salome, the matron, the superintendent, and good
Dr. Hunt, who asked the privilege of giving the bride away.
It was a strange wedding, but an impressive one, for there were certain
elements of romance and mystery connected with it which could not fail
to make themselves felt. The critical condition and delicacy of the
bride, together with her apparent friendlessness, made the occasion
extremely pathetic to all save Salome herself, who was surprisingly
calm. There was a light upon her face and in her eyes which plainly
revealed her great love for the man to whose care and keeping she had so
freely given herself, and for whom she had yielded her precious
life-blood.
She looked very lovely in her pretty dress of gray silk—another treasure
which had been stored away in her trunk, and which had caused the nurse,
who acted as maid, to open her eyes in surprise as she remarked its
richness of texture and trimming.
“One would never believe you to be a poor nurse with such lovely clothes
as you have, Miss Howland,” she had remarked as her glance lingered upon
other dainty articles in the well-filled trunk from which it had been
exhumed.
Salome made no reply, but a curious little smile in which there was a
tinge of bitterness curved her beautiful lips as she shook out the folds
of her lustrous silk and then gave it to her to be made ready for her
bridal.
Her only ornament when she was dressed was an exquisite bouquet of
long-stemmed white roses tied with a heavy white ribbon, which the
thoughtful groom had provided for her.
When the clergyman called for the seal to their vows, Dr. Winthrop
produced a heavy band of gold and slipped it upon Salome’s finger,
solemnly repeating the words, “With this ring I thee wed and with all my
worldly goods I thee endow.” But the shining circlet proved to be far
too large, and came near falling off again, a circumstance which made
the bride turn pale and shiver slightly, as some imp of misery suddenly
suggested it was perhaps ominous, and that this great new happiness
might even now slip from her grasp as the ring seemed ready to slip from
her finger.
She was obliged to close her hand in order to hold it in its place, and
the constant care of it distracted her and made her nervous.
The ceremony was followed by brief congratulations from those present,
after which they were served with cake and wine, Dr. Hunt’s kind
provision for the occasion.
“I shall forbid the cake, Mrs. Winthrop,” the good man smilingly said,
as he approached Salome with a little salver on which, for form’s sake,
he had placed a plate containing a liberal supply of the forbidden
luxury and a glass of wine, “but the wine I prescribe for you; and now,”
lifting his own glass, “permit me to drink to your health and future
happiness, my dear madam.”
Salome blushed at her new name, smiled brightly, and then with exquisite
grace touched the brim of her glass to his and drank with him.
Her manner was perfect, and Dr. Winthrop, watching her with a proud
light in his eyes, marvelled at it.
“One would think she had been reared amid all the formal observances of
etiquette,” he said to himself, and experienced no little satisfaction
over the fact.
But he was careful not to allow her to become wearied, and soon took her
back to her room.
He led her to her easy-chair and gently seated her; then before he
released her hand—her left hand—he glanced at the ring which he had so
recently placed there.
“It is too large, dear,” he said with a smile. “I knew it would be, and
chose it so purposely, for I expect that these frail fingers will soon
fill out again. In that case, if the ring had fitted now, it would have
had to be removed to be enlarged, and that I could not think of
allowing, so I have a guard to keep it where it belongs.”
As he spoke he quietly slipped another ring upon her finger, and,
glancing down, Salome was astonished to behold a magnificent solitaire—a
diamond of the purest water, heavily and substantially set.
“Oh!” she cried, flushing, “a simple band would have done just as
well—this is very costly.”
Dr. Winthrop’s eyes twinkled with amusement.
“Well, what of that? you had no betrothal ring; you can regard this as
such if you like,” he said.
“But—something not so expensive would have answered just as well,” she
replied.
“No, dear, it would not—allow me to be the judge,” he quietly returned.
“I consider diamonds none too good for my wife, as I will prove still
further to you.” And he drew from his pocket a black morocco case, and
opening it he laid it on her lap, adding, “Mrs. Winthrop, accept your
husband’s wedding-gift.”
Salome was almost dazzled by the gleam of light that shot up into her
eyes, for before her there lay, upon a crimson satin cushion, a
beautiful pair of diamond earrings and a lace pin in which there were
five exquisite stones to match the others.
“Why! why!” she cried, astonished, almost dismayed by such lavishness.
“Well, do they not please you?” he questioned, secretly amused by her
perplexed expression.
“They are beautiful, and you are very kind,” she said; “but——”
“You are afraid that I am extravagant—that I cannot afford such
expenditure—is that it?” he asked.
She nodded, smiling a little that he should have read her thoughts so
readily.
“Do not trouble your pretty head about anything so intensely practical
on your wedding-day, Mrs. Winthrop,” he laughingly returned. “The stones
are very fine ones, I am willing to admit, but none too fine for you;
besides, I feel very rich just now.”
“Rich?” she repeated, not quite comprehending the look that he bent upon
her.
“Yes, I regard myself as the richest man in the United States at this
moment, in the possession of the dearest wife that man ever won. Salome,
you have not yet greeted your husband,” and he knelt beside her, looking
wistfully into her eyes.
Oh, how foolish now seemed her ominous fears of the insecurity of her
wedding-ring and her future happiness! And she was conscience-smitten
for having entertained them for a moment.
She flushed a quick scarlet at his words, and impulsively laid her white
hands upon his shoulders, lifted her fair face to his, and kissed him
softly on the lips.
“You do love me,” she murmured.
He started slightly and searched her eyes.
“Have you doubted it?” he questioned, a shadow of pain crossing his
brow.
“I—I hoped you did not merely pity me because I was ill and alone in the
world,” she faltered. “I could not have borne that out of simple
gratitude you should have wished to give me your protection.”
“Child! child! did you fear that?” he asked reproachfully. “What can I
say to relieve such doubts? You must trust me more fully than that,
Salome, or I fear you will not be very happy.”
He spoke gently, fondly, but even then he did not pour out his great
love into her yearning ears. It had become so natural to him to be
cautious and to repress all outward demonstrations that he did not
realize how much he was depriving her of.
Still he had revealed so much more than he had hitherto, that she was
very happy, and she was sorry that she had betrayed her foolish fears.
“Forgive me,” she said, with starting tears.
He lifted her downcast face and returned the caress she had just given
him.
“It is easy to pardon you,” he said, smiling—then added: “Now, little
woman, you must rest for an hour or two, then I am going to take you
away from here to some more fitting place, and to-morrow we will go
home.”
Home! How her heart thrilled at the word, and beneath his caress.
Home! She had not realized until that moment how much of happiness was
already hers, in possessing such a husband and the right to share his
home; and she pictured in her own mind how delightful she would make it
for him, if she could but recover her strength; how she would try, with
all her will, to get strong, so that she could minister to his comfort,
and make herself all that he could desire in a wife.
“Would you prefer to go home by boat or rail?” he asked, breaking in
upon these thoughts.
“Oh, by rail, if it will be just as agreeable to you,” she answered
eagerly.
“But are you strong enough to endure so long a ride? You could sleep,
you know, on board a steamer,” he returned.
“Yes, I am strong enough, and do not wish to sleep the journey away. I
love to travel, and even though it is winter, and the scenery will be
gray and sombre, I am sure it will be very enjoyable—with _you_,” she
said shyly.
His face lighted; it thrilled him to see how she loved to be in his
presence.
“Then it shall be as you wish,” he said, something of his gladness
vibrating in his tones. “Now, dear, let me see you comfortably resting,
and then I must go to make arrangements for our departure.”
He gathered her slight form in his strong arms, before she was aware of
his intention, and, bearing her across the room, laid her gently upon
her bed; then once more touching her forehead with his lips, he went
away, and ten minutes later Salome was quietly sleeping, but with a
smile of perfect content lighting her pale face.
CHAPTER VI.
SALOME GOES “HOME.”
Salome was surprised, when she awoke, to find that she had slept only
half an hour, for she usually had a nap of two hours during the
afternoon.
But she felt refreshed and very happy, and it was such a delightful
sensation, after all the sorrow and loneliness of the past, to feel that
she belonged to some one who was so tenderly thoughtful of her comfort
and pleasure, and to know that she need have no care or anxiety for her
future.
Her diamonds were still clasped in her hands, and her heart thrilled
anew with deepest joy as she recalled her husband’s fond words upon
presenting them to her; how he had sued for her first caress and the
response to it.
“He loves me. I will believe that he loves me as fondly as I love him,”
she murmured; “and yet I wish he were a little more free—a little less
self-contained and dignified or reserved. Perhaps,” she added with a
faint sigh, “it will wear away as we grow to know each other better.”
By and by the nurse came to her for directions for the packing of her
trunk, and before this was completed she caught the sound of her
husband’s step in the corridor, and the red blood mounted to her brow,
her lips quivered in a happy smile, and her eyes grew luminous with joy.
“My husband!” she murmured, and turned her glad face toward him as he
came into the room, while she noticed that he carried a large box in his
hand.
“Have you rested well, my Peace?” he asked, in a low tone, as he reached
her side.
Her heart leaped at his tone. Surely it was fonder than she had ever
heard it before!
“Yes, thank you; but—why do you call me that?” she asked, wondering at
the form of his address.
“Salome means peaceful, does it not?” he said, smiling, “and you always
give me a feeling of peace when I come near you.”
She flushed again happily at his words, and put out her hand to him with
a confiding movement.
He caught it and pressed it fondly.
“Are you ready to go with me?” he asked.
“Oh, yes; quite ready, if you wish me to go now.”
“I have arranged to go to an hotel for to-night near the station, where
we shall take the train for New York to-morrow at nine o’clock, so you
will not be fatigued with a long ride before starting. Now, nurse,
please bring Mrs. Winthrop’s wraps, for our carriage is at the door.”
Salome was quickly clad in the long, dark ulster and the same simple
brown felt hat and thick veil which she had worn when she first came to
the hospital. She wondered with a quiet smile, as she put them on, if
ever a bride was fitted out for her wedding journey with so little fuss
before.
Dr. Winthrop watched every article as it was put on; but when she was
ready he quietly remarked, as he cut the string to the box which he had
brought with him:
“I do not dare to allow you to go out this first time since your
illness, unless you are very warmly clad; so let me wrap this about
you.”
He drew forth a beautiful fur-lined cloak as he spoke, and, throwing it
around her, bent down to fasten the clasp at the neck with his own
hands.
The nurse looked on with astonishment.
“He must be made of money,” she said to herself, as she slyly felt the
heavy satin.
Salome’s lips quivered at this fresh evidence of his thoughtfulness.
“How good you are to me, Dr. Winthrop,” she murmured.
He drew back and looked down into her face, his hands still holding the
clasp of the cloak.
“I am Dr. Winthrop to my patients, Salome,” he said gravely, but with a
little twinkle in his eyes.
She understood him.
“What shall I call you?” she asked, flushing, her eyes drooping from
embarrassment, though her face dimpled with suppressed amusement over
the ridiculousness of the situation, for, strange to say, she did not
know the Christian name of the man whom she had married!
Dr. Hunt had introduced him, and always spoken of him simply as Dr.
Winthrop. The card accompanying his first floral gift had had “T. H.
Winthrop, M.D.,” inscribed upon it; he had never told her what the
initials stood for, and she had shrunk from asking.
He looked amazed at her question, and then he laughed outright.
“Is it possible, my Peace, that you do not know your husband’s name?” he
exclaimed.
“It is not only possible, but a fact, sir,” Salome answered, meeting his
glance, and a sparkle of mischief dancing in the dark eyes. “But our
acquaintance has not been of very long standing, you must remember.”
“It has surely been long enough for that, but for my thoughtlessness,”
he returned deprecatingly, and with some annoyance. “I imagined that you
knew—that Dr. Hunt must have told you. My name is Truman, dear—do not
call me Dr. Winthrop again, Salome, please.”
Truman! how rightly he had been named, she thought; she had imagined it
might, perhaps, be Thomas or Theodore. He was true, noble, good—a true
man in every sense of the word, and the name fitted him exactly,
and—blessed fact! she was his wife!
“Are you ready now?” her husband continued, when she had drawn on her
gloves and he had fastened them for her.
“Yes,” she answered, “when I have said good-by to nurse.”
“You have been very kind to me, and I thank you,” she said, with tears
in her eyes, while the woman, too, seemed deeply moved, for she had
grown to love her charge.
As Salome turned to leave the room, Dr. Winthrop slipped an envelope
into the hand of the nurse, then, hastening to his wife’s side,
supported her down the stairs and to the entrance of the hospital.
Dr. Hunt and the superintendent were waiting there to take leave of
them.
“I do not know that I am quite reconciled to having New York doctors
coming to Massachusetts and carrying off our nurses in this summary
fashion,” Dr. Hunt playfully remarked, as he shook Salome warmly by the
hand.
She smiled, but somewhat tremulously, for she had become strongly
attached to the good man, and was sorry to say farewell to him.
“If you will come to New York a month hence I promise that you will
hardly recognize your nurse,” the younger physician smilingly remarked,
with a tender glance at the face beside him.
He would not allow her to linger over the farewells, but hurried her out
to the carriage, and they were soon driving rapidly down-town.
Arriving at the hotel, Salome was shown to a handsome suite of rooms on
the second floor, and, a little later, a tempting dinner was served them
in their private parlor.
Afterward Dr. Winthrop kept his wife engaged in pleasant conversation
for an hour, and then told her that she must go to her rest, so as to be
fresh for her journey on the morrow.
“I am going to be very, very careful of you for a while, Salome,” he
said, as he led her toward one of the rooms opening out of their parlor,
“and a maid will come to you presently to wait on you, for I know that
you are not yet able to wait on yourself; then you will try to go to
sleep at once, will you not?”
“Yes.”
“My room is just opposite,” he continued. “I shall leave the door open,
and if you should need or wish anything during the night will you speak
to me?”
“I shall not need anything——” Salome began.
“Promise that you will speak if you do,” he persisted, with gentle
authority; or, he added, with sudden thought, “you have had a nurse for
so long, would you prefer to have the maid remain with you? I will have
a cot arranged for her.”
“No, I shall do very well by myself, and I will speak if I need
anything,” Salome promised, thinking how thoughtful he was for her every
need.
“Thank you; and now good-night, dear,” he returned, as he kissed her.
“Good-night, Doctor True,” she responded, flushing slightly, as for the
first time she addressed him thus.
“Thank you again, Salome, and by and by, perhaps, you will forget the
prefix,” he said, smiling, and with the thrill in his tone that she was
beginning to watch for.
A light tap came upon the door just then, and Dr. Winthrop retreated to
the parlor.
A pretty maid assisted Salome to retire, and in less than half an hour
she was sleeping as peacefully and restfully as a child.
She did not wake once during the night, but opened her eyes in the
morning just as the clock on the mantel began to strike seven, when she
suddenly became conscious that the apartment was filled with fragrance.
The next moment she saw, lying upon the pillow beside her, a great
handful of roses.
“Oh, how perfectly lovely!” she cried in a voice of delight, a flush of
pleasure mounting to her brow, and she knew that her husband must have
stolen softly in with his morning offering before she was awake.
She sat up and gathered them into her hands, eagerly burying her face
among the crimson beauties and inhaling their fragrance.
The next moment there came a tap upon the door leading into the parlor,
and the girl who had attended her the evening before came in to help her
dress.
It was half-past seven when she entered their parlor, where Dr. Winthrop
sat reading the morning paper awaiting her appearance.
He sprang at once to meet her, his face lighting up.
He took both her hands, roses and all, and drew her to him.
“Surely you have slept well, dear,” he said, “for there is a little
color in your cheeks this morning.”
The color deepened as she laughed lightly and laid her roses against his
face.
“You must know that I did,” she replied, “even better than well, or I
certainly should have awakened when these were laid upon my pillow.”
Dr. Winthrop smiled.
“I took a long horse-car ride this morning a little way out of town and
walked back,” he said. “On my way I was overtaken by a man driving in
with cut flowers, and that is how you happened to get your roses,
Salome.”
“They are lovely—thank you, Dr. True.”
He smiled to see that she still clung to the medical prefix, but
believed she would drop it when her shyness should wear off a little,
and so said nothing about it.
“Our breakfast is waiting,” he said, “and we shall have just about time
enough to get comfortably ready for our trip. Shall you be glad to get
home, little wife?”
Tears rushed to Salome’s eyes at the question.
“I cannot tell you what a charm there is in that word for me,” she said
tremulously.
“Nor I, dear, now that I am not obliged to go back to the place alone,”
he returned, with a satisfied smile.
Then he helped her to the breast of a chicken and toasted her a slice of
bread over a tiny brazier, for he would not allow her to have hot rolls
just yet, while she poured out the coffee.
He kept her attention by pleasant and genial conversation throughout the
meal, and she felt sorry when it was over, while she became aware that
she had eaten her first really hearty breakfast since her illness.
Then they had to get ready for the train, where Salome found that they
were to have the state-room of the parlor-car. Here she could lie down
and rest if she became weary, and was free to do exactly as she chose.
She was touched as she noticed this and other kind provisions her
thoughtful husband had made for her; for on a little stand there was a
dainty basket of choice fruit, a bottle of wine, and several new books.
She never forgot that ride of six hours—it was a sacred memory to her
during all her future life.
Her husband was all kindness and attention. He talked with her for a
while, then read to her until she became weary, when he made her lie
down and sat beside her, and, to pass away the time, related many
interesting incidents connected with his profession.
The day was somewhat raw, and he would not allow her to pass from their
car to the dining-car, but ordered their dinner brought to them, and
they had a merry time over the meal by themselves.
The long ride seemed very short, and she could hardly believe Dr.
Winthrop when he told her that in less than fifteen minutes they would
be in New York City.
When they alighted from the car, a man in dark-green livery stepped up
to the young physician, and saluted him respectfully, but glanced
curiously at Salome as he did so.
“Ah, Dick, then you received my telegram, and are on hand, like the
faithful fellow you always are,” said Dr. Winthrop pleasantly, as he
returned the man’s greeting.
“Yes, sir, thank ye, sir; and the carriage be waiting for ye outside,”
the man responded.
“All right, Dick; you can take our luggage,” Dr. Winthrop replied as he
surrendered Salome’s travelling-bag and his own portmanteau to him; then
with an amused smile, as he caught the man’s covert glances of curiosity
he added, “Dick, this lady is Mrs. Winthrop.”
The man’s eyes grew large with astonishment, but he doffed his hat
respectfully in return for Salome’s kind smile and bow, and set her down
at once as “a leddy.”
He led the way to the carriage—a handsome one drawn by a pair of fine
jet-black horses. Everything about the equipage indicated that the owner
was a man of abundant means.
The footman opened the door and held it, while Dr. Winthrop assisted
Salome to enter and carefully folded the soft robes about her to protect
her from the air, for the mercury had dropped several degrees since
morning.
“Are you comfortable, dear?” he asked in a somewhat anxious tone as they
started, for he dreaded her taking cold.
“Very, thank you,” Salome answered, somewhat absently, for she was
half-dazed by all these evidences of unlimited wealth into which she had
so suddenly been transplanted.
“You are sure,” he persisted; “we have a long ride before us, and I
would not have you take cold for anything. You have endured the journey
much better than I dared to think you would. You are stronger,
Salome—you feel really stronger, do you not?”
“Yes, I am sure I have made great progress during these last few days,”
she replied smiling gratefully into his earnest face.
How could she help improving under the tender care which he so
constantly threw around her?
“And you will be very happy in your new home, I hope, Salome.”
“I surely ought to be. I am very happy now,” she softly returned, with
flushing cheeks and gleaming eyes, “but—but I did not think that you
were—that I was to have all this,” and she glanced around the elegant
carriage in which they were rolling so smoothly up-town.
Dr. Winthrop laughed softly, and there was a little touch of triumph in
the sound.
“Then you did not imagine that you were marrying a rich man, when you
gave your hand to me, Salome?”
“No.”
“What did you think, my Peace?—you have never told me; what kind of a
position did you imagine you were to occupy as my wife?”
“I did not think of position at all,” Salome answered musingly. “I knew,
of course, you were a physician, and I knew that, some time, you would
win a high place in the world.”
“Why?” he interposed. “What made you think so?”
“Because,” she said, lifting her beautiful eyes to his face and letting
them rest there proudly, “no one ever had so grand a head, so
intelligent a face, without the ability to climb where he would.”
“Thank you, my wife,” the young man responded with lips that were
slightly tremulous, for her estimate of him moved him deeply.
“But,” she went on, “I did not give much thought to your circumstances;
I only know that my life could never be complete apart from you—my
heart, my very being, had become bound up in you, yourself, to the
exclusion of every other thought, or wish, or hope.”
The words were low, but so fraught with tenderness and feeling that they
swayed, almost intoxicated, the strong man beside her like old wine.
Impulsively he gathered her to him, and held her close against his
breast.
“My wife—my Peace—my love,” he whispered, “how glad I am, for your sake,
that I am wealthy—that I can shower upon you every earthly blessing. Oh,
I hope that you will be happy with me, Salome.”
She wondered, as she lay there against his heart, how she could have
doubted his love. She believed that she never could doubt him again, for
his clasp, his tone, his look seemed to tell her that she was the very
mainspring of his life, and she could almost have wept from excess of
happiness.
But she thought it would never do to christen her homecoming with tears;
so, hiding her emotion beneath the semblance of gentle mirth, she said
gayly:
“You must not spoil me to begin with, Dr. True—dear True,” with a sly
glance and blush as she thus changed the prefix, “for you cannot tell
what a tyrant I may become. And you must not forget, either, that it was
only a poor nurse whom you have married. But when are you going to let
me tell you just who and what I am?”
“I’ll risk your being spoiled or becoming a tyrant, sweetheart, and as
to who you are, I know already,” he answered, his face fairly luminous
over her low-toned “dear True.”
She looked up with a strangely startled expression, he thought, and all
her color fled as she asked:
“Who?”
“Why, Mrs. Dr. Truman Winthrop, of No. — Madison Avenue, of course. And
now,” as the carriage suddenly stopped, “here we are at home.”
CHAPTER VII.
DR. WINTHROP RECEIVES A DISPATCH.
The carriage had drawn up before an imposing house, and Salome observed
that other fine residences lined both sides of the spacious street.
Her husband assisted her to alight, led her up the steps to the
entrance, and rang the bell. The door was almost immediately opened by a
servant, who appeared greatly pleased at the return of the master of the
house.
Dr. Winthrop conducted Salome through the wide and lofty hall to the
elegant drawing-room on the right, where he seated her in a luxurious
chair and murmured in her ear.
“Welcome home, my Salome.”
“What an exquisite room!” she thought, as her eyes roved appreciatively
about the apartment, noting the soft-hued carpet and beautiful
draperies, the furniture of carved ebony, the rare pictures, choice
statuary, and bric-a-brac of every description.
Dr. Winthrop rang another bell and gave orders for dinner, telling the
maid, when she had notified the cook, to come upstairs to the south
suite to attend Mrs. Winthrop.
Then he gave his arm again to Salome, and led her up the grand stairway
to a suite of rooms directly over the drawing-room.
These were furnished in pale pink and white. The boudoir was fitted up
with every convenience and elegance. The furniture was most luxurious;
there were costly pictures upon the walls and beautiful vases and
ornaments in profusion upon the tables and mantel.
Opening from this charming room was the bed-room, where the low French
bedstead was richly draped with antique lace over pale pink silk and a
coverlet to match. Hangings of the same hue and material shaded the
windows, and every appointment of the chamber betrayed exquisite taste.
Beyond, there was a bath and dressing-room which contained every luxury
any one could desire, from the porcelain bath down to the simplest
toilet appendage.
“These rooms,” said Dr. Winthrop, as he led Salome through them, “are
for your own private use, dear, and while, as mistress here, you are of
course to have the freedom of the whole house, yet you can flee here and
shut yourself away whenever you are inclined, and no one shall intrude
upon you. Remember, Salome, we are going to make it our first and chief
business to get you well and strong, and until that end is attained you
are to be perfectly free from care of every kind. I have a competent
housekeeper,” he continued, “who will look after the household, subject,
of course, to your orders and wishes, without vexing you with any of the
details. Now, dear,” looking at his watch, “I want you to rest until
dinner time, which is seven o’clock; then if you feel able to come down
to dine with me it will give me pleasure; if you do not you must feel
free to stay quietly here; you have had a long journey, and must be very
weary,” he concluded, regarding her with some anxiety, as he stooped to
touch her forehead with his lips.
Tears sprang to the young wife’s eyes.
“How good you are to me! how thoughtful!” she said, reaching up her
white hand, and laying it against his cheek. “Oh, I hope I shall get
well and strong soon. I hope I can make you happy.”
“If you are happy, do not fear but I shall be also,” he responded
tenderly.
“How can I be otherwise in this lovely home?” Salome said, as she
glanced around the luxurious room, adding earnestly, “and with you.”
He thanked her for those last words with a look that brought a lovely
color to her cheeks. Then he said, as some one tapped upon the door:
“Here comes Nellie to attend you; let her undress you, so that you can
rest more comfortably, and try to sleep if you can.”
He left her then, and she heard him cross the hall and enter another
room.
She went obediently to bed, telling Nellie that she might come to her
again, and in a little while she had fallen into a restful slumber.
She felt greatly refreshed when she awoke, and, her trunk having
arrived, she allowed Nellie to help her dress in the pretty gray silk in
which she had been married, and then, with some delicate pink
roses—which Dr. Winthrop had sent up—fastened in her corsage, she went
down to her husband, looking brighter and lovelier than he had yet seen
her.
She found the dining-room in perfect keeping with the rest of the
house—finished in natural wood, the floor inlaid in an intricate and
lovely pattern—the furniture beautifully carved, and upholstered in
embossed leather.
In the centre of the room there stood a table covered with a heavy white
damask cloth and spread with a glittering array of cut-glass and silver,
while a butler stood waiting to serve them.
Dr. Winthrop led Salome to one end of the table and then took his own
place opposite.
More and more the young wife found herself wondering how a man of Dr.
Winthrop’s apparent wealth and position could have been drawn toward a
poor girl who had been a common nurse in a hospital, and have been
willing to make her his wife without inquiring more particularly
regarding her history.
But there was a curious little smile hovering about her lips, as she
took her seat at the table and for the first time assumed the duties of
her new position, and Dr. Winthrop soon found himself wondering at his
wife’s perfect self-possession in it—at the inimitable grace which
characterized every movement, as if all her life she had been accustomed
to the luxuries, the form and etiquette by which she was now environed.
When dinner was over he led her to another room, which was fitted up as
a library and music-room.
Handsome book-cases filled with books lined the walls. A fine piano
stood in one corner, and the hangings and furniture were of olive and
old gold. There were rare pictures here also, while in every nook and
corner there was some object of beauty and luxury.
Dr. Winthrop exerted himself to entertain his bride, and neither had any
idea of the lapse of time until the clock struck ten, when the young
physician glanced at Salome in dismay half real, half assumed.
“A fine physician I am!” he exclaimed, “to keep an invalid up until this
hour. Dr. Hunt would surely read me a severe lecture if he knew it.”
“But I am not in the least tired. I had such a nice nap before dinner,”
Salome returned, with shining eyes and pink cheeks.
“Nevertheless I am going to send you directly to bed,” her husband said,
as he arose and led her to the door of her boudoir, where he folded her
close in his arms for a moment.
“I hope you will sleep well, dear,” he cried, “and that I shall find
these faint roses in your cheeks a little brighter in the morning.”
He opened the door for her to pass in, then shut it softly after her,
and went across the hall to his own apartment, a tender smile on his
lips.
Salome seemed better and stronger the next day, in spite of the fatigue
of her long journey, and every day after that for a week she continued
to improve, while life seemed to her like a beautiful poem set to
sweetest music. She took no medicine, her husband prescribing only
nourishing diet and mild stimulants for her, but happiness was the best
tonic she could have had, and its effect was almost magical.
Every fine day they went out driving together in their close carriage.
Dr. Winthrop would not consent to an open vehicle at present, although
Salome begged for it; he feared she would take cold, and he was very
watchful and careful, for he knew that even a little relapse would be a
very serious injury to her.
Their evenings were passed either in pleasant conversation, or he read
aloud to her from some entertaining book or periodical; but they
received no calls, and sometimes Salome wondered if Dr. Winthrop’s
friends even knew that he was married.
It was a fact that scarcely any one outside their own household did know
it, although the young man had cabled the news to his family in Europe
on the day of his marriage. Salome was so extremely delicate, that he
would not allow her to be subjected to the calls and curiosity of his
numerous acquaintances, until she should be entirely recovered.
One day, after dinner, Salome asked her husband if she might have the
piano opened.
“Why, yes, certainly. Do you play?” he asked, surprised. It had not
occurred to him that she could be musical.
“I used to,” she answered simply, “but it is a long time since I have
touched a piano,” and sitting down before the beautiful instrument, she
ran her supple fingers along the key-board. Her husband instantly
recognized a cultivated touch, and began to look about for some music.
“My sister is a fine musician,” he said, “and perhaps you can find
something among her collections which you can play.”
Salome smiled as she glanced over the pile that he brought her, for much
of it was familiar to her, and she played steadily to him for half an
hour or more.
Then all at once she broke forth into a little song which she sang from
memory.
The sound of her voice seemed to make her forget where she was, or that
she had a listener—everything but that she was happy, and free to let
her glad tones ring out as they would.
Dr. Winthrop was electrified, for her voice was exquisite—clear, strong,
and flexible.
“Why, Salome, you never told me that you were musical!” he exclaimed
half reproachfully, when the song was finished; “and you are really
quite an artist.”
“You never asked me,” she demurely answered, “and I’ve had very little
opportunity to tell you anything.”
“Perhaps you have other astonishing accomplishments. I shall begin to
think you have married me under false pretences,” he returned smilingly.
Salome started violently, and darted a half-frightened look at him; but
he did not see it, and went on playfully:
“Perhaps you are even a connoisseur in art.”
“No, indeed; I would not presume to say that; but I have had some
instruction in painting and drawing,” she modestly answered.
“Salome, you have been finely educated—your advantages, evidently, were
of the very best,” Dr. Winthrop remarked, regarding her admiringly, for
every day developed something new and interesting in her.
“Yes,” she admitted thoughtfully, “and, True, it is time I told you my
history—it is time you should know all about your wife’s antecedents. I
am strong enough now, surely, to speak of the past, even though there is
much that is painful connected with it, without becoming unduly excited,
and I want you to know all there is to tell—I want to have no secrets
from you.”
“Then there are secrets even in your life, Salome!” her husband
remarked, regarding her with a fond smile; but he did not imagine that
she could have anything very vital to conceal.
“Yes,” she said; “but I have no desire to keep them from you.”
“Very well, dear; you shall tell me everything, and I must confess that
you have at last effectually aroused my curiosity,” the young man said,
laughing; then he added: “Come and sit in the easy-chair, and then I
will give you my undivided attention.”
Salome rose and came forward, but at that moment the bell rang, and a
servant entered, saying there was an urgent call for Dr. Winthrop.
He had to go away immediately, so, of course, that put a stop to all
confidence for that evening.
The next morning, while they were at breakfast, he received a cable
message, notifying him that his mother and sister would sail that day
for America.
Salome fancied that there was a cloud on her husband’s brow after
reading this dispatch, but he made no comment, and therefore she did not
feel like questioning him.
He was very busy after that for several days, calls coming in upon him
thick and fast, and Salome saw comparatively little of him, excepting in
the evenings, and then he seemed so weary and preoccupied that she did
not deem it best to broach the subject of their interrupted
conversation, but sought to entertain and amuse him by music and
reading.
“Tell me about your mother and sister,” she pleaded one evening, as the
time of their return drew near.
She had longed to know something definite about them, but as he seemed
somewhat reticent regarding them, she had not, until now, questioned
him.
A peculiar expression flashed over Dr. Winthrop’s face at his wife’s
request.
“My mother is a very handsome, dignified woman, a little over fifty
years of age, although no one would imagine her to be over forty. She
traces her lineage to one of the old Colonial families, and is happy in
being one of the leaders in that charmed circle known as ‘New York’s
Four Hundred.’ My sister is, if possible, more beautiful, more stately,
and more proud than my mother.”
Salome looked troubled at this brief but ominously suggestive
description, while she had never heard her husband assume such a cynical
tone before.
“Do they know——” she began timidly.
“That I am married? Yes; I cabled to them immediately after the
ceremony, and wrote them briefly later,” he replied.
“Have you heard from them since?” breathed Salome.
“Not in response to those communications.”
“Will they be pleased—will they—love me?” the young wife wistfully
asked, drawing a little nearer to him, as if seeking protection against
some approaching evil.
Dr. Winthrop’s brow clouded.
He had known from the first that his family would be anything but
pleased with his hasty and romantic marriage. Indeed the fact that they
had entirely ignored both his cable message and letter proved this. He
was confident that his mother and sister were now hastening home for no
other purpose than to denounce him for his rashness, if they should find
that he had chosen a wife outside the pale of their charmed circle, for
many years ago a far different choice had been made for him;—but of this
more later.
“True, tell me—will they be pleased to find that you have a wife?”
Salome said again, as he did not answer her at once.
“I hope so, my Peace,” he gently returned, but she was far from feeling
reassured.
Something seemed to warn her that the coming of these two women would
cast a shadow, if not a fatal blight, upon her happiness, and she
dreaded their arrival inexpressibly.
She said nothing, however—she would not let her husband see that she
feared to meet his friends; but her dread was not lessened when the next
morning he began to question her regarding the condition of her
wardrobe.
He smiled when she named over what she had.
“Little woman, this will never do at all,” he said; “we must go to-day
and select something more suitable for Mrs. Winthrop, of Madison
avenue.”
A morning’s vigorous shopping under the skilful eyes of Dr. Winthrop
wrought a wonderful addition to her wardrobe. Dainty costumes, laces,
gloves, and every luxury of the toilet were selected as well as several
pieces of rare jewelry.
“Is there anything else, dear, that you can think of?” Dr. Winthrop
questioned, as they were leaving Tiffany’s.
“Do not ask me, Dr. True,” Salome answered, flushing, “for I feel
oppressed now with what you have expended upon me.”
“Salome,” said her husband gravely, “please never speak to me of any
feeling of obligation—more than that, do not entertain any such feeling.
When I put that ring upon your finger did I not endow you with all that
I possess? What is mine is also thine, dear, and there is enough to
gratify every reasonable wish, and to spare. You will best please me,
Salome, by providing yourself with everything that a lady in your
position needs.”
When they reached home he drew her into the library, where he gave her a
cheque book.
“When you need money, Salome, you need not ask me for it—I think that
must be exceedingly galling to a woman; but just fill out one of these
cheques and get what you wish. I have signed a number of them, so all
you need to do will be to present them at the bank. But,” he added, “as
you cannot do that until you go out again, let me give you something to
begin upon; you must not be without money,” and as he spoke he slipped
into her hand a crisp bill of no mean denomination.
“What shall I say to you?” she gasped, her breath fairly taken away by
such munificence.
“Nothing, dear; but”—lifting her arm and drawing it about his neck—“if
you can think of anything that I would like you may give it to me,” and
he bent his lips to hers.
She kissed him twice—softly, lingeringly, gratefully.
“Do you love me, Salome?” he asked, just to hear what her answer would
be.
“You know that I do, with my whole soul, my husband,” she breathed. “Oh,
I am afraid that I am too happy.”
He laughed softly. Then he said:
“Now, I have something else to tell you. There is a pair of pretty bay
ponies and a coupé out in the stable, and they are for the use of Mrs.
Winthrop exclusively. You are to drive every fine day, Salome—you know I
cannot always go with you—and order them whenever you wish. There! I
shall have to go, for I hear that arbitrary bell again. Put on one of
your new gowns for dinner, dear; I want to see if I have shown good
taste in my selections,” and with a last fond embrace he left her.
CHAPTER VIII.
DR. WINTHROP IS SUMMARILY ARRAIGNED.
That same evening, just as Dr. Winthrop and his wife were ready to sit
down to their dinner, they were startled by a pealing, imperative ring
of the hall bell.
A moment later the door was thrown open, there was the sound of a little
commotion, and Dr. Winthrop knew—even before the servant appeared at the
dining-room door, and announced “Madame Winthrop, Miss Winthrop”—that
his mother and sister had arrived.
He immediately went out to greet them, followed by Salome, who longed to
give them a cordial and loving welcome, although her heart had sunk
heavily as they were announced, for she was in doubt as to how they
would receive her.
“Why, mother!—Evelyn!” Dr. Winthrop exclaimed, as he affectionately
saluted them; “this is a great surprise; we did not look for you until
to-morrow.”
“No, Truman; eight days, I know, is the usual time allotted to the trip;
but we had very favorable winds, and arrived several hours earlier than
we expected,” Salome heard some one reply, in smooth, even, perfectly
modulated tones, and then she caught sight of a stately, magnificently
formed woman, having a proud, placid, high-bred face, crowned with a
wealth of dark brown hair, in which she could not detect a trace of
silver.
She calmly received her son’s embrace, and returned it without the
slightest exhibition of glad emotion, though her keen eyes searched his
face with a critical glance and lingered there somewhat fondly.
Behind her was a tall, beautiful girl, fair as a lily, with a delicate
bloom on her cheeks, eyes of turquoise blue, and features that seemed
chiselled from marble, they were so perfect. Her hair was of a beautiful
red-gold tint, and was coiled in a graceful knot at the back of her fine
head.
Salome thought her lovely, and her heart went out to her with
affectionate longing, especially when she saw her throw her arms about
her brother’s neck and kiss him heartily on the lips.
“How glad I am to see you, dear boy!” she cried. “It seems an age since
we went away, doesn’t it? Are you well—and aren’t you delighted to see
us home again?”
“One question at a time, Evelyn,” laughingly exclaimed Dr. Winthrop.
“But of course I shall say yes to every one, while it behooves me to
compliment you upon your blooming appearance.”
But he glanced behind him as he spoke, looking for Salome. They had
avoided all mention of his wife—they appeared to ignore the fact that he
was married, and he was secretly hurt and annoyed by the fact.
But he was too proud to betray it, while he proved himself entirely
equal to the trying occasion.
“And now,” he continued, stepping back and reaching out his hand to
Salome, “allow me to present you to my wife—to your daughter and sister.
Mother, Evelyn, this is Salome.”
Instantly two pairs of keen, critical eyes were glancing over the young
bride, taking in, in one comprehensive sweep, every detail of her
appearance—her toilet and bearing.
She was very beautiful as she stood there beneath the brilliant light of
the hall chandelier.
She had, in compliance with her husband’s request, put on one of her new
costumes—a rich black lace made over crimson silk—and fastened a cluster
of white roses in her corsage.
Her pure, cream-like complexion contrasted beautifully with the black
and crimson; her hair was very tastefully arranged, while excitement had
slightly flushed her cheeks and sent an unusual brilliancy into her dark
eyes.
She came forward at her husband’s gesture, with a graceful step and
bearing.
“You are very welcome,” she said sweetly, as she extended her hand,
first to Madame Winthrop, then to her daughter. “I only regret that we
did not know of your arrival, so that the doctor could go to meet you.”
She yearned to embrace them—to claim them then and there as “mother,”
and “sister:” but, of course, she knew that such advances must come from
them—that it would be out of place for her to take the initiative, and
she was bitterly disappointed and hurt when they simply clasped her hand
for an instant, in a dignified and formal, though perfectly courteous
manner, and then dropped it.
Dr. Winthrop saw the light die out of her lovely eyes at this cool
reception, and his right hand suddenly clenched with the feeling of hot
displeasure and resentment that swept over him. But by no other sign did
he betray that he understood their attitude toward his wife.
He saw, however, that they were impressed by Salome’s beauty—that they
could find no fault with her manner and bearing; but, all the same, he
knew that they did not intend to commit themselves to her in any way,
until they should become acquainted with her whole history.
Their greeting had been perfectly courteous—there could be no fault
found with it on the score of politeness. It was strictly in accordance
with all accepted forms of etiquette and the dignity of a Winthrop; and
if the girl should prove to be worthy, in point of birth and position,
to be received as a daughter and sister of the house, it would be easy
enough, later, to open their arms more cordially to her. But if, on the
other hand, they found that she was not all that was desirable in a mate
for the wealthy and aristocratic scion of the Winthrops, they could
still keep her at a distance without compromising themselves in any way,
or having anything to regret.
Salome also was quick to discern all this, but, though she was deeply
hurt, she was Truman Winthrop’s wife and the mistress of his home, and
it behooved her, for his sake, to receive his friends in a proper
manner, without regard to her own feelings.
With inimitable tact and grace she ignored their formal greeting and,
lifting a smiling face to them, said, with charming hospitality:
“Dear Madame and Miss Winthrop, you must be weary from your voyage—let
me call my maid to assist in removing your wraps; then, as dinner is
ready, will you not waive all ceremony and come at once to the table
with us, and not wait to make your toilet?” and she touched an electric
button near her, while she spoke, to summon Nellie.
Dr. Winthrop shot a look of grateful pride and love at her, and she felt
more than repaid for the effort that she had made to overcome her
wounded feelings.
Madame Winthrop, however, never allowed herself to be outdone or taken
unaware; and, as Nellie appeared upon the scene, she calmly unfastened
her wrap, remarking with cool courtesy:
“Thank you, Mrs. Winthrop, but we knew my son’s dinner hour, and came
prepared to dine with him,” and as their wraps were given into the hands
of the maid, Salome saw that they were in full dinner dress.
But her blood tingled to her finger-tips at those last significant
words, “to dine with him.”
Her spirit rose, however, to meet even this unlooked-for rebuff to her
gracious hospitality, and with perfect self-possession she responded:
“Ah! then as dinner is served, perhaps you will come directly to the
table. Dr. Winthrop, will you take your mother in?”
She turned and led the way, motioning to the butler to place two more
chairs, then she deliberately took her own place at the head of the
table—although she did not doubt that Madame Winthrop had been
accustomed to sit there. But her husband had told her that she was
mistress of his home, and she did not intend to relinquish her position
to any one—she would at least show him that she was fitted to reign
there as such.
She knew that her guests were watching with critical eyes every
movement, and the fact only incited her to do her best.
Her manners were perfect, and her husband’s eye often met hers with a
gleam of pleasure and encouragement, while he was secretly exulting over
the beautiful picture which she made, sitting so calmly, like a little
queen upon her throne. She chatted easily and brightly, introducing
congenial and timely subjects if the conversation lagged in the least,
and bore herself throughout the meal with such charming dignity that the
two women began to believe that she must belong to some good family, and
to congratulate themselves that their idolized son and brother had
chosen wisely and creditably, in spite of their fears, even if he had
disappointed previous expectations.
Still they were far too wary to commit themselves—they continued to be
guardedly courteous, intrenching themselves behind a polite reserve that
might be safely dispensed with or augmented, as the case might require.
After dinner all repaired to the library, where the conversation was
chiefly monopolized by madam and her daughter, although Dr. Winthrop
endeavored several times to draw Salome into it.
She always pleasantly responded to his efforts—said all that politeness
required of her and then gave way to their guests again. Not once during
the evening, however, did either woman address her directly, and yet
they were so adroit in this avoidance that no disinterested observer
could have regarded it as an intentional slight.
But Dr. Winthrop and Salome both knew that it was intentional—both felt
that she would never be received upon an equal footing until they could
be satisfied as to her birth and position.
It aroused all the young wife’s spirit, and she told herself:
“I am glad now that True does not know—that something has happened every
time I have tried to tell him my history and”—with a sense of the
ludicrousness of the situation stealing over her—“there will be a scene,
by and by, when they take him to task and he is obliged to say he does
not know anything about me.”
“Salome,” said Dr. Winthrop, breaking in on these reflections, “do you
feel able to give us a little music?”
“Certainly, if you wish, and it will be agreeable to—our friends,” she
responded obligingly.
Both ladies bowed with polite toleration; and Salome, her eyes gleaming
very brightly, went to the piano and began to play.
They were evidently astonished at her proficiency, for, more than once,
Dr. Winthrop detected them in the interchange of significant glances.
Still they awarded her no thanks, spoke no word of commendation when she
ceased. Madame Winthrop made some general remark about the beauty of
Mendelssohn’s “Songs without Words”—a selection from which Salome had
rendered most exquisitely—and then changed the subject.
The young wife began to feel as if her strength would not hold out much
longer—as if the long evening would never end; but at ten o’clock madam
signified her desire to retire, and Salome rang for Nellie to attend
her—she had previously given orders that rooms should be prepared for
their guests.
Of course, in the presence of a servant there could only be a formal
exchange of “good-nights,” and these being soon over, Madame and Miss
Winthrop went upstairs together.
As the door closed after them Dr. Winthrop turned and drew his young
wife close to his heart.
“Salome, this has been a trying ordeal for you,” he said tenderly, “but
you have passed it nobly—I was very proud of my wife to-night.”
“I am glad if I have pleased you, True,” she murmured wearily, and she
was pale and drooping now, for all her false strength had deserted her;
“but oh! I did hope that they would love me, for your sake,” and she hid
her face upon his shoulder with a little sob of grief.
“Patience, dear, have patience and all will come right in the end,” he
returned soothingly, as he stroked her head with a tender hand. “You can
readily see,” he continued, “that my mother is a very proud woman, and
she is naturally somewhat piqued because her favorite son should have
presumed to take so important a step as to marry during her absence, and
without even consulting her upon the subject; so she cannot make up her
mind to forgive me all at once.”
How good he was to assume that his mother’s displeasure was directed
entirely against him; but it did not deceive Salome, and she knew that
she alone had come under the ban of her disapprobation.
She would not say anything to wound him, however, and she resolved to do
everything in her power to make friends with their guests, for his sake;
she would bear everything, brave everything, rather than that he should
suffer through her. But a sigh of deep regret escaped her, for she could
not quite conceal the pain in her heart.
“Poor little woman!” said her husband tenderly, “you are tired out, and
no wonder. So say good-night here, and go to bed at once, for I have a
letter to write before I sleep.”
He raised her face and kissed her fondly; then, opening the door for
her, watched her as she went slowly upstairs, a proud gleam in his eyes.
“My peerless little wife!” he murmured, as he went to his desk, “you
have conducted yourself like a veritable queen to-night. If they can
resist your sweetness and beauty, more shame to them. They shall receive
her as she deserves,” he sternly added, “or I will repudiate them; such
senseless pride of position is beneath all true men and women.”
He sat down to his desk to write his letter, and was just in the midst
of it when there came a rap on the door.
He opened it, and found his mother standing outside, with an expression
on her face which plainly indicated that she intended to sift matters
matrimonial to the bottom, before she slept that night.
“Ah, Truman,” she said, “I thought I should find you here. Can I have a
little conversation with you?”
“Certainly, mother. Come in, and sit down,” he said gravely, as he
rolled a chair forward for her, and then seated himself opposite and
waited for her to broach the dreadful subject.
“Of course you can surmise what I have come to talk about,” she
began—“your wife. Who is she? where did you find her, and what is the
meaning of this sudden marriage, concerning which you have not thought
it necessary to consult or inform any member of your family, except by a
brief cable message and a letter almost as brief?”
“Well, mother, you have arraigned me as if I were a culprit, and you my
judge,” he returned, with some displeasure in his tone. “But in reply to
your first question, ‘Who is my wife?’—the simple fact that she is my
wife and a lady should be sufficient cause for you to receive her with
becoming cordiality.”
“You well know that fact alone is not sufficient to satisfy any one in a
position like ours,” retorted Madame Winthrop, with considerable spirit.
“What was her name? Who are her family?”
“Her name was Salome Howland. Concerning her family, she has none—she is
an orphan,” replied Dr. Winthrop, with dignity. He blamed himself now
for not having allowed Salome to tell him her history when she was so
anxious to do so, for then, perhaps, he could have smoothed the way for
her reception by his family, while now the very fact that he would be
obliged to confess his ignorance of it would prejudice them against her
still more.
Madam closed her lips tightly, and there was an ominous glitter in her
eyes at his reply.
“Howland! Howland!” she repeated thoughtfully; “I wonder if she could
have belonged to the Howlands of Albany—they are all right. Who was her
family? Where did they reside?”
“I do not know,” Dr. Winthrop quietly answered.
“You do not know!” his mother exclaimed, aghast. “Where did you find
her?” she inquired, while she sat erect, her face pale with mingled
mortification and wrath.
“In the City Hospital in Boston.”
“What! a poor charity-patient from a city hospital your wife!” cried
madam, almost breathless from the shock of such an astonishing
revelation.
“Not at all, mother,” replied her son calmly. “She was, instead, one of
the most efficient nurses in the institution.”
“Worse and worse! Heavens! a nurse of the scum of a city! And you dared
to marry such a creature!” she gasped, fairly livid with rage now. “We
are disgraced forever!”
“Nonsense, mother,” Dr. Winthrop severely returned, his own face white
to the lips. Had she been any other than his mother he would not have
submitted to the insult. “Such pride of family and position is unworthy
of any one. You very well know that the Rev. Dr. Eckhart’s beautiful and
accomplished daughter went into one of our hospitals to study medicine
and to be trained as a nurse, that she might be more useful in the work
which she had chosen, and no one had anything to say of her but the
highest praise.”
“Yes; but she was going to India as the wife of a missionary; besides,
Miss Eckhart’s position was unassailable—she was a lady,” retorted
madam.
“And my wife is also a lady,” Dr. Winthrop said, deeply displeased.
“Have you not seen it? Did she not conduct herself as such this
evening?”
“She received us very courteously,” madam reluctantly conceded.
Her companion flushed hotly.
“Could you find any fault with either her appearance, her manner, or her
language? Did you discover a single point which you could criticise?” he
demanded, determined to make her acknowledge Salome’s virtues.
“No, perhaps not, but——”
“There can be no perhaps about the question,” he interposed. “She is
beautiful, cultivated, refined, a lady in every sense of the word, and
she has the deepest love and devotion of my heart—which you well know is
saying a great deal, as I have never been accounted a susceptible young
man where ladies were concerned. But listen, and you shall learn how I
came to love her so, and if even your proud heart is not softened and
drawn toward her, without regard to her previous history or position,
you are more callous than I shall like to believe.”
Before he could go on, the door behind him opened, and Evelyn Winthrop
entered the room.
“Forgive me for intruding, True,” she said, “but I heard voices, and I
knew you must be telling mamma the story of your romantic marriage. I am
dying to know all about it, too, so I stole down. I did not think you
would mind.”
“No,” Dr. Winthrop replied, his lip curling slightly, “it may as well be
told once for all, and the sooner it is over, and your attitude toward
my wife determined, the better it will suit me. But,” with a stern,
resolute look, “let me tell you this—whatever stand you take with
reference to her, you will include me in it; if you receive her
cordially as a daughter and sister, well and good; if you repudiate
her—I shall repudiate you!”
CHAPTER IX.
MADAME WINTHROP REFUSES TO RECEIVE SALOME AS A DAUGHTER.
“I am sure, Truman, you need not get so excited,” Madame Winthrop
remarked, in a more subdued tone than she had hitherto used, and
flushing vividly; “no one wishes to repudiate your wife, as you express
it, if she is all that she should be.”
“There is no if about it,” Dr. Winthrop interposed, in an ominously
quiet tone; “she is my wife, and that entitles her to proper courtesy
without regard to any conditions. But I was about to relate how I became
acquainted with Salome, and why I married her. As you know, I was
intending to join you abroad last fall, when we were all to go to Berlin
to make the acquaintance of the Rochesters. But owing to the epidemic
which broke out here, I was obliged to give up the trip for a time. Then
I received a letter from my classmate, Dr. Cutler, reminding me of my
promise to join him in Boston, to investigate the manner of conducting
the different hospitals, and the treatment of certain cases in which we
are specially interested. As he was at liberty then, and might not be
again for some time, I felt obliged to go and to postpone my trip abroad
until later, as I wrote to you.
“I arrived in Boston late one terribly stormy evening, but upon going to
a hotel found it full; there was only one room to be had—a small one
that had once been used as a storeroom, and which could only be heated
by a coal stove. It was too stormy for me to go out again, and so I
decided to put up with such accommodations as I could get. I ordered a
fire to be made in the room, so that it might be comfortably warm by the
time I had eaten my supper. Then, wearied out with my long, cold
journey, I determined to go at once to bed. I found my room small, but
comfortable, and having carefully arranged the damper in the pipe of the
stove so that the gas would escape up the chimney, and opened the door
so that I might have good ventilation, I retired. By some means,
however, the damper became closed during the night—you can easily
imagine with what result—the room gradually filled with carbonic acid
gas, and I became asphyxiated.”
“O True!” cried Evelyn Winthrop in a tone of horror, while his mother’s
face grew deadly white at this startling statement.
“I was found the next morning in an almost dying condition, and the
hotel being near the City Hospital I was, fortunately, taken thither for
treatment.
“There everything that could be thought of to resuscitate me was tried;
but I was too far gone for ordinary remedies to have any effect, and as
a last resort the head physician suggested the transfusion of blood. But
even this seemed likely to fail, as no one could be found who was
willing to have his veins opened to supply the necessary blood. Dr. Hunt
grew nearly frantic and also indignant. He said he would gladly have
supplied it from his own veins only there was no one else in the
hospital whom he could trust to perform the operation. But just as he
began to fear that he must give up the experiment and let me die, one of
the nurses from the women’s department made her appearance. He told her
his dilemma and she instantly said:
“‘I will serve you, Dr. Hunt; take as much blood from my veins as you
need.’ He hesitated at first, for she was not quite as robust as he
desired; but it was a question of life or death for me; and when she saw
me lying there breathing my life away, she begged that he would not
delay. He did not. All necessary arrangements were soon made, and that
noble girl lay calmly down upon the cot prepared for her; the surgeon
opened a vein in one of her arms, another in mine, and, with an
instrument made expressly for that purpose, transferred all that he
dared of her life-blood to my veins.
“I do not wonder that you grow pale, mother,” Dr. Winthrop interposed,
as Mrs. Winthrop gasped for breath and seemed greatly excited, “for I
was very near death’s door; but the experiment proved a success. That
brave girl’s blood was pure and strong, and it sustained and
strengthened the little life there was in me; consciousness returned,
and with it the ability to take nourishment and I was saved.”
“My son! my son! and I never knew it—you never let us know!” exclaimed
madam, with white lips, for, undemonstrative as she was, she idolized
this son, the firstborn of her twin boys.
“No,” he replied; “you were in Europe; it could have done no good to
tell you; and before you could possibly have reached me I was out of
danger. Of course, as soon as I was able to realize anything, my first
thought was one of gratitude and a desire to express it to that heroic
girl who had sacrificed so much for me. But she was very ill. She did
not rally, nor did her blood replenish as rapidly as Dr. Hunt had hoped
and expected. The fact was, he had robbed her of more of her
life-current than she could well spare. As soon as she was able to see
me, however, I went to her, and instead of finding some common,
middle-aged person, as I had expected, I found—Salome—that delicate,
refined, and beautiful girl, who was no more fitted than you or Evelyn
to be a nurse for the class of people who are carried to such a
hospital. But the force of adverse circumstances had driven her to the
necessity of doing something for her own support, and she had chosen
nursing.
“The moment I saw her I was unaccountably drawn to her, for I found her
as cultivated in mind as she was beautiful in person. The second time I
visited her I knew that I could never love any other woman; and so, when
I found that she was likely to be delicate for a long time on account of
the sacrifice she had made for me, I resolved to win her for my wife, if
I could.”
“How could you, Truman, when you were pledged to another?” his mother
reproachfully demanded.
Dr. Winthrop flushed hotly at this charge, and his brow clouded.
“I was not really pledged to Miss Rochester,” he began.
“You were!” excitedly interrupted the proud woman opposite him. “You
promised your Uncle Milton, when he was on his death-bed, that you would
marry the daughter of his friend; it was with that understanding that he
willed you his magnificent fortune; and now you will have to forfeit it
all. Oh, it breaks my heart to think of it!”
And truly madam did appear to be greatly distressed.
“You forget, mother, that my promise to Uncle Milton Hamilton was
conditional,” Dr. Winthrop answered. “I pledged myself to meet this
young lady, Miss Rochester, and if we proved to be congenial, if we
could love each other, then I would willingly marry her, and thus comply
with the terms of the ‘R—H.’ will.”
“Well, you have never met her; you do not know whether you are congenial
or not; and you have not only lost Milton Hamilton’s magnificent
fortune, but the one you would also have won with Sadie Rochester. More
than this, the union would have been unexceptional in every way. The
Rochesters belong to one of the oldest and finest families in the State;
and I have heard that Sadie Rochester is a very beautiful and
accomplished girl. I cannot be reconciled to it,” groaned Madame
Winthrop, in conclusion.
“Mother, be reasonable, and accept the inevitable. Fate, or Providence,
interfered with my proposed meeting with Miss Rochester—sent me to
Boston instead of to Europe, and decreed that I should meet and love
Salome instead.”
“But you need not have been so hasty about your marriage. Who knows but
you might have been better pleased with Sadie Rochester if you had only
waited,” Madame Winthrop irritably retorted.
Dr. Winthrop made an impatient movement.
“Mother,” he said, sternly, after a moment of thought, “after I had seen
Salome Howland three times I knew that neither Sadie Rochester nor any
other woman could ever be my wife. My whole heart and soul were filled
with profoundest love for this girl who had saved my life. If she had
refused to marry me I should never have married any one. You charge me
with having been hasty. Well, perhaps others would judge me so also; but
Salome was ill—Dr. Hunt feared that she would be for a long time—he was
afraid of atrophy of the heart. She had no friends, no home; he wanted
to get her away from that hospital, and she had nowhere to go and no one
to care for her. You know that I am not, have never been, an impulsive
man, therefore I was not guided simply by impulse in this very critical
decision of my life in determining to make this lovely girl my wife. I
loved her; I wanted her. I believed that with proper care she should get
well; but I knew that she must be relieved from all care, all anxiety
regarding herself—that she must be taken away from that place and from
all exciting scenes, where she would be happy and surrounded by
tenderness and love. Something—some look or gesture—which I remarked one
day when I was with her, made me believe that she might learn to love
me, if already she did not. I told her that I wished to make her my
wife, and asked her if she would marry me. She demurred at first, and I
thought she feared I was only asking her from a feeling of pity and of
gratitude for what she had done for me. But I knew that she loved me,
from the look of sudden joy that flashed over her pale face and into her
eyes, and I was determined that nothing should separate us after that.”
“You were very rash and inconsiderate to take such a step without
investigating her antecedents,” Madame Winthrop here interposed.
“She spoke of that very thing,” Dr. Winthrop replied. “She wanted to
tell me everything about herself, for she said she had nothing to
conceal from me, only she had had trouble that had obliged her to depend
upon her own resources. But she was so frail—it excited her so to talk
about it, that I would not allow her to speak of it; and mother, I know
that she is a lady—that there is nothing connected with her life that
can cast even a shadow upon either her future or mine,” the young
physician confidently concluded.
“But she is getting well and strong now—there certainly has been time
since your marriage for her to tell you all her previous history,” said
Miss Winthrop eagerly.
“Yes, and she has attempted to do so two or three times during the last
week; but our conversation has been interrupted each time. But,” lifting
his head proudly, a tender smile upon his lips, “even if she never tells
me anything I can trust her; she is one of the purest, truest little
women in the world. She has been well educated—well-bred; she is an
honor to me as a wife—to you as a daughter and sister.”
“I shall never be content until I know her history, and if you are so
foolish, so indifferent, as not to care anything about it, I shall take
the first opportunity to inquire into her genealogy,” Mrs. Winthrop
resolutely remarked.
“Pardon me, mother,” her son began as resolutely, “but I must insist
that you do nothing of the kind. Salome is sensitive—very delicately
made—and you would wound her exceedingly by seeking to pry into her
family affairs. When she has an opportunity to confide in me I will
acquaint you with all that is necessary for you to know. But I cannot
allow her to be questioned or excited in any way, for she is far from
strong even now, and I shall have to be very careful of her for a long
time to come. She has improved wonderfully, however, since I brought her
home, and if she has nothing to cause a relapse, I am sure that she will
soon be entirely out of danger. Mother, Evelyn”—turning an appealing
glance upon them—“why will you not receive my wife in a motherly and
sisterly way? Give her love and kindness, and I know that she will prove
all that you can desire in a daughter and sister.”
“How have your friends here in New York received the news of your
astonishing marriage?” questioned Madame Winthrop, without paying any
heed to his appeal.
“I doubt if half a dozen people in the city know that I am married,”
replied the young doctor. “I have been so busy since my return that I
have met scarcely any one whom we visit, and Salome has been so delicate
that I have not thought best to send any cards. But you have not yet
told me whether you intend to be upon friendly terms with my wife,” he
concluded, persistently.
“Truman, I cannot be reconciled to this marriage. Just think what she
has cost, what it involves, and all the peculiar circumstances attending
it?” Madame Winthrop sternly remarked.
“I suppose if I had married Miss Rochester, under exactly the same
circumstances, you could have been easily reconciled to the peculiarity
of the situation,” Dr. Winthrop observed, with quiet scorn.
“Of course; for you were pledged to her, and we know all about her
family; while—oh, True! it has been the dream of my life to see those
two estates—Brookside and Englehurst—united,” sighed Madame Winthrop
dolefully.
“There is something more to be desired in life than the union of two
estates, valuable as they may be,” returned the young man, gravely. “It
was an arbitrary and unnatural will that both Uncle Milton and Mr.
Rochester made; it is simply absurd for one generation to imagine that
it can control the affections of the one following, and settle its
domestic relations according to its own notions. I know that Milton
Hamilton was fond of me; no doubt he fondly imagined that I should fall
in love with Sadie Rochester, and everything would move smoothly along,
as he and her father had planned. But I believe if he could speak to-day
he would say that he would prefer me to have his fortune, even though I
have not married as he wished, than to have it go in another direction.
But that is all past; the die is cast; having once seen and loved
Salome, I could never love or marry any other woman, were forty fortunes
in the balance; so, if you please, we will not discuss that point any
further.”
“I cannot believe that you are so infatuated with the girl as you
pretend to be,” his mother exclaimed excitedly. “I believe that you were
actuated more by motives of pity and gratitude than love. Tell me—am I
not right? Can you honestly say that you were not governed by those
feelings?”
“No, I cannot say that,” he responded thoughtfully, “for gratitude did
actuate me in a measure—it was profound gratitude for the noble
sacrifice of her life-blood, that led me to seek her in the first place,
and I felt that I owed her a debt which I could only repay by devoting
my life to her; but love was the strongest motive of all; she had won my
whole heart before I offered her my hand.”
Madame Winthrop’s eyes snapped angrily at this assertion, but she did
not pursue that train any further.
“Well, what are you going to do about the fortune that you have
forfeited—have you given any consideration to that important subject?”
she sharply demanded.
“Yes, I believe I have fully considered the matter, and I am prepared to
fulfil the conditions of the will, to the letter,” Dr. Winthrop gravely
returned.
“What conditions?” demanded Evelyn. “I imagined that the fortune, all
except the estate at Englehurst, was given to you for your name.”
“The will, Evelyn, was made when I was a mere boy; if Uncle Milton had
lived longer, I do not believe he would have imposed any such conditions
upon me,” her brother returned. “These conditions were—if I obeyed his
wish, and married the daughter of his friend, I was to have the whole of
his fortune; if I refused to do this, and married any one else, I was to
surrender all right and title to Englehurst, together with a hundred
thousand dollars, to found an institution for the blind, in connection
with Brookside, and a like amount, according to the stipulations of Mr.
Rochester’s will. The only portion I was to receive unconditionally was
this house and its contents.”
“One could almost believe that the two men were a pair of lunatics,”
said Evelyn, somewhat impatiently, “and yet I imagine that, had I been
in your place, I should not have been long in deciding to take a couple
of splendid fortunes, and Sadie Rochester as a bride, in preference to a
common nurse, without a penny. Frankly, True, I think you were a fool.”
“Your frankness is, to say the least, rather lacking in courtesy,” her
brother replied, with a curling lip. “But I am prepared to surrender
Englehurst, and the money also, as soon as I can make arrangements to do
so. I do not begrudge it, for this home, together with the handsome
income which my practice will give me, will be ample for all my own and
my wife’s needs.”
“And have you no regret for what you thus compel Sadie Rochester to lose
also?” questioned his mother excitedly.
“I shall write to Mr. Rochester immediately—I ought to have done so
before this—telling him what I have done, and no doubt he will make a
new will, and provide handsomely for his daughter. By the way,” Dr.
Winthrop added, “I have had no reply to the letter I wrote to him early
last fall, telling him that I intended to go abroad, with the intention
of meeting Miss Rochester. Did you ever meet any of the family in your
travels?”
“No; we were waiting for you to join us before going to Berlin, and now
I feel as if I never wish to meet them,” returned madam, with more
passion in her tone than she had yet exhibited.
She arose as she spoke, and then added:
“It is late, and time that we were all in bed. Come, Evelyn.”
“Wait, mother, one moment,” said Dr. Winthrop, looking white and stern.
“Is it peace or war upon this question? If you cannot be at peace with
my wife, it will have to be war with me,” he concluded, in a tone which,
she had long ago learned, meant a great deal.
But she was too angry and upset to be very reasonable.
“Find out who your wife is, and then I will answer you,” and with that
curt reply she sailed majestically from the room, followed by her
daughter.
The young physician was in no enviable frame of mind, for he knew that,
with such an ungracious disposition, his mother and sister would have it
in their power to make it very uncomfortable for Salome.
He sat with a thoughtful look on his face for a few moments, then he
lifted his fine head with a haughty air.
“Let them do as they will,” he said sternly, “Salome is my wife; that is
a fact that cannot be contested, and she will be received, wherever I am
received, with becoming courtesy, or my friends will get the cut direct
from me. Dear child, how nobly she conducted herself to-night!”
CHAPTER X.
DR. WINTHROP RECEIVES AN IMPERATIVE SUMMONS ABROAD.
When Salome awoke the next morning, she was conscious of a feeling of
great nervousness and depression. Her head ached, her temples throbbed,
and she felt both languid and weak.
Under ordinary circumstances she would have remained quietly in bed,
sent word to her husband that she was ill, and asked him to excuse her
from breakfast.
But she knew how desirous he was that she should please his mother and
sister, and win their approval, and she resolved to conquer her
ill-feelings, and go down to greet them with all the cordiality and
hospitality that the most exacting could expect.
She dressed herself, with great care, in a beautiful morning robe of
pale pink cashmere, and looked every inch a lady as she went down, to
brave again the critical judgment of her proud mother-in-law and her
equally proud daughter.
Dr. Winthrop heard her light step upon the stairs, and came from the
library, where he had been waiting to meet her.
His eyes lighted with love and pride as he caught sight of her; she was
very lovely, and he wondered how any one could feel aught but pleasure
in her presence.
“How beautiful you are this morning, my Peace! Did you sleep well, and
are you feeling quite well?” he inquired, as he folded his arm about
her, and looked fondly into her eyes.
“Yes, I slept very soundly,” Salome answered—too soundly, she might have
told him, and that was, doubtless, one cause of her headache; for she
had been wearied out with the unusual exertion and excitement of the
previous evening.
But she tried to smile brightly, for she did not wish him to be troubled
upon her account, and then, hearing Madame Winthrop’s door open in the
hall above, he drew her quietly within the library, and nothing more was
said about her feelings for which she was thankful.
Madame made her appearance a moment later, with even more stateliness in
her manner than there had been the previous evening, her keen eyes
taking in with one sweeping glance the dainty loveliness of her son’s
wife, and noting that her beauty was no less striking by daylight than
it had been by gaslight.
Salome went forward and greeted her with a cordial “good-morning,”
inquiring if she had rested well, and found everything comfortable in
her room.
Madam responded courteously, as any well-bred lady would have done to a
stranger, in whose home she had been entertained, for surely she was not
going to be outdone in politeness by one whom she affected to despise on
account of inferior birth and breeding.
Evelyn soon followed her mother, and her envy was instantly aroused as
she realized how exceedingly beautiful Salome was.
She had always been accounted very handsome, but she saw that she was
far less attractive than her brother’s wife, and a feeling of bitterness
and ill-will sprang up in her heart on account of it.
She saluted Salome with decided coolness, and then, ignoring her
presence altogether, began talking with her brother about some of their
New York friends.
In spite of this undercurrent of dislike and disapprobation on the part
of their guests, breakfast passed off quite smoothly, for Salome was
determined that there should be no pains spared upon her part to keep
the peace and make everything as pleasant as possible. She was the
mistress of Dr. Winthrop’s home and she would try to do her duty
faithfully, even though she was well aware that her nerves could not
long endure such a strain.
The meal was finally ended, and they were all about to return to the
library, when a servant entered and handed Dr. Winthrop a telegram.
He read it, and a startled look instantly overspread his features.
Salome observed it, and her own face grew pale with an instinctive
feeling of impending evil.
“That is a cable message, is it not, Truman?” inquired his mother, who
had also been regarding him keenly. “Is there any ill news from your
father or brother?”
“Yes, father is very ill,” Dr. Winthrop replied, thinking it best to
conceal nothing. “The message is from Norman and reads thus: ‘Father
taken suddenly and violently ill. Peritonitis. Come if possible.’”
Salome’s heart sank like lead in her bosom as she listened to this
peremptory summons.
If he went would he take her with him, or would he think it best for her
to remain quietly at home? If so, would his mother and sister have to be
her guests during his absence? How could she bear the separation from
him—how could she live under such unnatural constraint with these two
women for long weeks, and perhaps even months?
Thoughts like these darted quickly through her brain during the minute
that elapsed before madam could gather her wits, after the shock of
hearing the message read.
She, too, had grown somewhat pale, but she did not lose one iota of her
self-possession over the serious news.
“How very unfortunate, and we have but just arrived!” she said at
length. “I can never endure another voyage so soon. Can you go to your
father, Truman?”
“I must, since I am sent for, although I doubt if I can reach London in
season to be of any service, for the crisis will have been reached and
passed before I could land. However, if he should weather it safely, I
may be able to prevent a relapse and add to his comfort during his
convalescence. Let me see when I can go,” he added, taking up the
morning paper and turning to the steamship advertisements. “Ah, this is
favorable; the _Scythia_ sails to-day at one o’clock; so I can go at
once—there will be no delay.”
But his eyes wandered wistfully to Salome’s pale face as he said this.
“You will take me, True?” she pleaded, in a low, eager tone, but
instinctively knowing that he would not, even as she spoke.
The intensely appealing look in her dark eyes smote him keenly, for he
dared not take her on such a journey at that time of the year; besides,
he hoped to be back in less than a month if all went well.
Evelyn hoped that he would take Salome out of their way, so that she and
her mother could have full command of his elegant home, and command of
his handsome equipages during his absence.
But madam evidently had other views upon the subject, and there was a
cold glitter in her hard gray eyes as she interposed:
“An invalid wife would be rather a hindrance upon such an errand, I
should imagine.”
Nellie entered the room at that moment to make some inquiry of her young
mistress, and Salome excused herself, ostensibly to give her personal
attention to the matter, but really to get out of sight and conceal the
terrible heart ache that almost unnerved her.
“Mother,” Dr. Winthrop said, as the door closed after her. “I cannot
take Salome with me; it would be risking too much to allow her to cross
the ocean during this cold weather; while, too, I do not know what
tidings and duties may await me upon the other side. I do not think it
best for either you or Evelyn to go—you could do no possible good even
if you found father living. Now I have a favor to ask of you—will you
remain here to keep Salome company during my absence, and will you treat
her like a daughter and sister? Of course, if you cannot take her into
your hearts, it will be best for me to provide you with rooms at either
the Windsor or the Hoffman House, until you can have the home on
Thirty-fourth Street put in order.”
“It will be better for us to remain where we are,” Madame Winthrop
returned, with a sudden accession of dignity, “and you may be assured
that I shall render all due respect to my son’s wife.”
This was a somewhat ambiguous assurance, but he had to content himself
with it, though a sigh of regret escaped him as he left the room to seek
his wife.
She was in neither her boudoir nor her chamber, and he passed on to his
room to pack his trunk for the journey thinking he would see her later.
Five minutes had not passed when there came a timid knock upon his door,
and the next moment Salome glided into the room, looking like some pale,
sorrowing spirit.
“True! True! you are going to take me. I can be ready in an hour; you
must not leave me—I cannot stay here without you!” she panted
tremulously, as she seized his arm with both hands, and looked
beseechingly into his face.
He saw that she was greatly excited.
He put down the articles of clothing he was folding, and drew her into
his arms.
“Salome, my dearest,” he said tenderly, “I wish from the bottom of my
heart that I could take you; but I cannot—hush! little woman! this will
never do,” as she burst into a passion of tears and hid her streaming
eyes upon his breast.
He held her there close, until her grief was somewhat spent; then he
gently seated her in a chair and knelt upon the floor beside her.
“It grieves me more than I can tell you, Salome, to have to leave you
here,” he resumed; “as much on your account as upon mine; but I know
that you could never endure the rough voyage and severe weather; and,
besides, I am afraid that my father will not live through this attack—he
has had one before—and I may have sad duties before me on the other
side. I shall go and return as soon as possible—I hope not to be absent
over a month, if as long. Cannot you be content to do without me for so
short a time? Do not grieve, dear, for that will make you ill, and I
shall be very anxious. Try to get strong and well while I am away; drive
somewhere every pleasant day, and breathe all the fresh air you can, so
that I may find roses on these cheeks when I come back.”
Salome had grown gradually more quiet and composed while he was talking,
and she began to realize that it would be better for her to stay where
she was; that she would only add to his care and anxieties if she went
with him. A month would soon pass, and she could best please him by
striving to be happy and well; so she resolved to put a brave front on
the parting, which somehow had almost the sadness of death in it.
She resolutely wiped away her tears and tried to smile as she lifted her
face to his.
“You must think me very childish,” she began—she could not suppress the
sob that broke in upon the sentence; “but—it is very hard to let you
go.”
“And it is very hard for me to go, dear,” he answered, with regretful
tenderness. “Nothing but such an imperative call would tempt me to leave
you. But you must not grieve—promise me that you will not grieve, or I
shall not know a moment of peace for fear of losing you.”
“I will try to bear it as well as I can,” she returned, little thinking
how difficult it would be to keep her promise; “but oh, how I shall wish
the month away! Now,” starting up, and determined to show him how
earnestly she wished to please him, “let me help you to get ready—you
have so little time, and I am quite an expert at packing.”
He kissed her more fondly than he had ever done before, and thanked her
with a smile; then, feeling that it might keep her mind employed, he
allowed her to assist him in his preparations.
While they were thus engaged he said:
“I have asked my mother and Evelyn to remain with you during my absence,
for I do not like to leave you alone in the house with the servants,
while their house is not in order for their reception. But, Salome, I
want you to understand that this is your home; you are mistress here,
and they are simply to be your guests; only in case you should be ill my
mother will see that you have proper care, or if you need advice in any
emergency she has good judgment and will give you the benefit of it.”
Salome would have been much happier to have been left alone with the
servants, for she knew that, with Madame Winthrop and Evelyn in the
house, she would be under continual restraint; but since it was her
husband’s wish that they should remain, she would not make any
objections to the plan.
“I will try to make everything comfortable and pleasant for them,” she
gravely replied.
“Thank you, dear, and you are to have everything that you need or wish
for, during my absence; make free with your cheque book—go out every day
with the ponies; they need exercise, and it will do you good; only be
careful not to take cold, and don’t worry about anything. Write to me by
every steamer, and you shall hear from me as often. There, little wife,
I believe I cannot think of any more orders to give you,” he concluded,
with a smile; “if I do later, I will write them.”
“I will try to do all that you wish,” she said, but her lip quivered
over the words.
“Now I think I have everything I shall need,” he remarked as he closed
his trunk, “and as I have a little business to do down-town before I
sail, I must hurry away. I am going to say my special good-by to you
here, while we are alone,” he added, as he took her again into his arms,
and laid her head upon his breast. “May Heaven bless and keep you, my
own wife, while we are parted, and grant that we may soon be reunited.”
Salome’s heart was almost breaking, and filled, too, with an indefinable
fear.
“True! True! how can I let you go?” she breathed, almost breaking down
again, and moved by the impulse of the moment, she twined her arms about
his neck, and clung to him with a strength that surprised him.
He kissed her again and again, and then put her gently from him.
“Do not come down, dear, if you would rather not,” he said, thinking she
might find it difficult to preserve her self-control.
“Oh, yes, I must,” she said, with a pathetic little smile, which told
him that she longed to be near him until the last moment.
They went downstairs together, and madam and Evelyn, hearing them, came
out into the hall to make their farewells.
He took an affectionate leave of them, remarking as he did so, and with
a purpose in it:
“I have told Salome that you are to be her guests while I am away, and
she has assured me that she will do everything in her power to make your
stay comfortable and pleasant. I have given her full authority, and you
must fill the time as enjoyably as possible. Of course you will be
anxious about father, but I am going to cable Norman before I start, to
send you a bulletin every day until my arrival, after which I will keep
you posted. Now I must go, Salome.”
She sprang toward him—he folded her in a passionate embrace, kissed her
on the forehead and lips, and then was gone.
Her face was wet with tears when she turned again to Madame Winthrop and
Evelyn; but she looked up with a brave little smile, and asked:
“Will you kindly excuse me for half an hour? I hope I shall be quite
myself again by that time.”
Madam bowed coldly, and Evelyn stared rudely at her, while Salome, with
an almost breaking heart, turned and fled up to her own room, to battle
alone with her heavy grief.
Madam and Miss Winthrop went slowly back to the library.
“Well, mamma, this is a queer state of affairs,” the young lady
remarked, as she carefully closed the door, so as to prevent any one
hearing their conversation.
“It is, truly,” said her mother thoughtfully.
“You understand, mamma, we are to be that girl’s guests, and she is to
have unlimited authority,” continued Miss Winthrop, with a sneer. “That
means, I suppose, that she is to manage everything her own way, and to
spend his money as lavishly as she chooses—and she will choose if one
can judge by the way she dresses. It means, too, that, if we wish to
entertain any of our friends we are to go to her for permission; if we
wish to drive, we will be expected to say, ‘By your leave,’ before we
can have the carriage.”
“Yes, Truman evidently wished us to understand that she was to be
mistress here,” madam thoughtfully returned, “but,” with a proud
uplifting of her head, and compressing her lips tightly, “a mother has
certain rights in the home of her son, and I intend to assert them.”
“I am just dying to know who she is, and all about her,” said Evelyn,
with a frown.
“And I mean to know, before Truman returns,” rejoined madam resolutely,
adding, “His enforced absence will give us a fine opportunity to make
all the inquiries that we desire.”
“Do you imagine that you will be any the wiser afterward?” inquired
Evelyn, with a malicious laugh. “If I am not mistaken, the little lady
has considerable spirit and dignity of her own, and she will not be
easily pumped regarding her family history.”
“We shall see,” quietly responded her mother, but with a look in her eye
that spoke volumes.
An hour later Salome reappeared, looking a little pale, but bright and
smiling, having resolutely conquered her grief, or rather controlled all
outward manifestations of it, and determined to show her guests all due
courtesy and attention.
She was hardly seated with some pretty fancy work in her hands, when
Nellie appeared, saying that the coachman wanted to know if she would
drive as usual.
“Are you two ladies too weary to drive to-day?” Salome asked, turning
graciously to her companions.
“Oh, no; we intended to go for a drive by and by,” madam composedly
responded.
“Have you any choice as to time?” inquired the young hostess.
“Yes; it would be well for us to go soon, while the sun is bright and
warm.”
“Then, Nellie, you may tell Dick to bring the close double carriage in
about half an hour——” Salome began, when she was interrupted by Madame
Winthrop, who said authoritatively:
“No, Nellie, tell him to bring around the barouche. I never ride in a
close carriage.”
A tinge of pink shot into Salome’s cheeks at this decided counter-order;
but she said pleasantly:
“Very well. Then, Nellie, you can say to Dick that he may put the
doctor’s horses into the barouche and send William to drive them, while
he may drive me in the coupé, as usual. True is unwilling that I should
ride in the open air while the weather is so cold,” she explained to her
companions, as the girl withdrew.
Neither lady made any reply; but madam’s lips were tightly compressed,
and a frown rested upon her brow; for Salome’s orders were the ones that
were to be obeyed rather than hers, after all, and they had been issued
with a dignity that nettled her exceedingly.
But madam was determined that she would yet assert herself, and the
opportunity for a second attempt came sooner than she expected.
CHAPTER XI.
A STARTLING ENCOUNTER.
Nellie had not been gone from the room with her message to the coachman
more than ten minutes when the cook presented herself to ask whether she
should serve French peas or artichokes with the lamb for dinner.
“Are you fond of artichokes?” Salome asked, turning to her husband’s
mother.
“Yes; but we will have peas to-day,” Madame Winthrop said, addressing
the girl rather than answering Salome’s question.
“And will they be served with cream, marm?” the cook asked of her young
mistress.
But before she could reply, the elder woman interposed:
“Of course; they are richer and nicer, and should never be served any
other way.”
Still the girl hesitated and glanced inquiringly at Salome.
Now, Salome could not eat cream that had been heated—although she could
take it cold—therefore she had never ordered any of her vegetables to be
prepared with it.
She thought at first that she would say nothing, but let the matter rest
and go without her peas for once, although she was exceedingly fond of
them. But the same thing was liable to occur again, and, after a
moment’s thought, she quietly said, but without the slightest appearance
of wishing to thwart her husband’s mother:
“You may serve them both ways, if you please, Bridget, for I cannot eat
them with cream; and be sure to have the crumbs nicely browned for the
soup.”
“Yes, marm,” said the woman respectfully, as she left the room.
But, once outside the door, she gave vent to a very suggestive chuckle
as she remarked in a low voice:
“The young one’ll be enough for her, never fear,” and then she went away
to the regions below, a broad grin on her Irish face.
This is but an example, however, of what Salome had to endure day after
day. Her orders were countermanded, her plans continually disarranged by
some whim or freak of Madame Winthrop’s or Evelyn’s, both becoming, as
time elapsed, more and more aggressive and disagreeable.
The young wife tried to meet these trials pleasantly and patiently, but
there were times when they seemed almost more than she could bear; for
when she tried to please them most, they seemed to be the least
satisfied.
One day they culminated in a radical assumption of authority on the part
of Evelyn.
She had been bitterly envious of Salome from the first, not only on
account of her exceeding beauty, but because of the lavish hand with
which her brother showered favors upon her. She especially envied her
the possession of her elegant coupé and handsome ponies, and upon this
particular morning she insisted that she was afraid to ride after her
brother’s more spirited and powerful horses, and so ordered the ponies
to be harnessed into the barouche for her use.
Salome’s face grew blank as she listened to this cool command, for she
well knew that such an arrangement would never do.
She was saved the disagreeable duty of objecting, however, by Dick, who
said:
“The ponies ben’t strong enough for the barouche, marm; they’d never
drag it a mile over the pavements without being winded.”
“You’ll do as I tell you,” the young lady retorted imperiously.
Dick looked confused but doggedly determined, scratched his head, and
glanced inquiringly at Salome.
She disliked to oppose Evelyn, and yet she knew that her beautiful
ponies would be ruined if they were made to draw that heavy vehicle, and
Miss Winthrop was not remarkably careful of horseflesh at any time.
“Right is right,” she said to herself, after thinking a moment, and she
made up her mind that the little bays should not be overtaxed.
“I think Dick is right, Evelyn,” she said gently. “I am afraid the
ponies will be injured. Suppose you take the coupé instead; you are
quite welcome to it, and, if you dislike riding in a close carriage, you
can lower the windows.”
“Nonsense! the ponies are strong enough—it’s only the man’s
stubbornness,” retorted the girl irritably, although she knew that she
was wrong. She had not thought of the barouche being too heavy for the
horses when she gave the order; her only aim had been to assert herself
and overreach Salome.
“Oh, no, you are mistaken; Dick is never stubborn—he is always very
willing to oblige,” Salome answered pleasantly, and bestowing a kind
glance upon the man. Then she added, with a decision that settled the
contested point at once, “Dick, if you please, you may put the ponies in
the coupé for Miss Winthrop.”
“Yes, marm,” and with a respectful nod the man disappeared to do her
bidding, but muttering, as he got out of hearing, something about the
“toppin ways of high-toned upstarts.”
But when the coupé came to the door, in obedience to Salome’s command,
Miss Winthrop haughtily informed her that she should not drive; so the
young wife, rather than have the man feel that he had had his trouble
for nothing, quietly donned her wraps and went herself, although she
felt far from equal to the effort after the contest with her
sister-in-law, and there was a look of care on her fair face that Dr.
Winthrop would not have liked to see.
But she felt better on her return, and her heart was lightened somewhat
by finding awaiting her a cable message, telling of her husband’s safe
arrival in Liverpool, and stating that a letter was on its way to her.
The daily bulletins from Norman Winthrop, previous to this, had not been
of an encouraging nature, for Mr. Winthrop was reported as being very
low.
Every steamer after that brought letters from her dear one, and Salome’s
spirits arose.
“I will not be disheartened,” she said, after reading one of those
precious missives; “I will do my very best, try to be patient, and these
trials will all be over in a little while.”
In spite of the care which had fallen so heavily upon her since Dr.
Winthrop’s departure, and the continual irritation and anxiety to which
she was subjected, she was growing stronger with every day and gaining
flesh, and even a little color, which, previous to her illness, had
never been natural to her.
But with all her sweetness and self-denial—with all her patience and
ceaseless efforts to please—she found it impossible to win the slightest
affection from either Madame Winthrop or her daughter.
Several times they had attempted to “pump her,” as Evelyn termed it,
regarding her family and her previous life; but Salome, feeling that her
first confidence should be given to her husband, adroitly evaded their
questions and they learned nothing.
This so angered them that they neglected no opportunity to make her feel
that they regarded her as an intruder in the family. They never
accompanied her anywhere in public—they never invited her to ride, or to
go anywhere with them. If they had callers, she was never asked to meet
them, nor did they introduce her to any one.
One day, not knowing that Evelyn had a friend calling upon her, Salome
chanced to go into the drawing-room to get a book which she had left
there; but on perceiving there was a stranger there, she stopped on the
threshold and excused herself.
Evelyn simply stared at her with a frown, and she retreated, feeling
like an intruder in her own home.
She heard the visitor exclaim, as she passed out of sight:
“Why, Evelyn, who was that beautiful girl?”
Miss Winthrop made some low-voiced reply, which Salome did not catch,
and the other voice responded, in a tone of surprise:
“What a pity! She is far too pretty to be a common seamstress!” and
Salome knew that her position was repudiated—that people who called upon
her husband’s mother and sister were not allowed to know that Dr.
Winthrop had a wife.
What their object could be in thus trying to conceal the fact, she could
not understand, but she felt bitterly hurt and humiliated, and her
spirit rose in rebellion against such treatment.
“It is outrageous!” she said, with blazing eyes and burning cheek, as
she sped up to her own room, “and I will not submit to being so ignored.
I will do my best to get so strong and well before True gets home, that
he will take me into society and introduce me to these very people from
whom they seem to be so anxious to keep the truth.”
But she was naturally so sweet-tempered, that these feelings were soon
resolutely conquered, and she continued to exert herself to be as kind
and agreeable as possible to her guests.
The next morning she was bitterly disappointed not to receive her usual
letter, by the steamer that had just arrived. She feared that Mr.
Winthrop must be worse, and her husband had not been able to find time
to write as usual.
“I shall surely get one by the next steamer,” she said, and then, to
divert her mind from her disappointment, she went for a drive and to do
a little shopping.
She made her purchases, and, after wandering about to look at the
attractive display in the store, was slowly making her way to the
entrance, where her carriage waited, when some one touched her on the
arm.
She turned to see who had accosted her thus, and instantly her face
blanched.
A tall, awkward, powerful-looking man was standing beside her and gazing
down upon her, a sinister smile of triumph lighting his coarse but not
altogether ill-favored face.
“Well, pretty one, you didn’t expect to met an old friend in the midst
of this busy city, did you?” he asked, in loud resonant tones, which, it
seemed to Salome’s terrified ears, everybody about her must hear.
She was so taken aback by this unexpected encounter that she could
neither speak nor move for a moment, and the man continued, as if he
enjoyed the situation:
“’Pears to me you’re a good way from home, Miss Salome, and you’ve been
gone quite a while too. You see I heard that you’d skipped, and I rather
imagined that you’d turn up some day in one of these big cities.”
Salome had begun to recover herself somewhat during this speech, and
answered, with cold dignity:
“I do not know that I am accountable to you for my movements. Allow me
to pass, if you please.”
He had placed himself directly in her path, and did not offer to move at
her request.
“Well, well,” he said, the sinister smile still upon his lips, “this is
rather curt treatment for such an old friend as I am; having known you
for so many years I naturally feel an interest in you, and you might be
a little more civil to me, my dear.”
Salome did not deign a reply, but, watching her opportunity, availed
herself of a fortunate opening in the crowd of comers and goers, glided
swiftly out of the store, and sped across the sidewalk to her carriage.
Dick, who was devoted to his fair young mistress, saw that something was
the matter with her, for her face was still pale, and had the door open
for her by the time she reached the coupé. She was securely shut within
it before the man who had accosted her could make his way out of the
store.
“Home! home! as quickly as you can!” panted Salome, as she sank back
among the cushions, but not before she had caught a glimpse of a leering
face and a pair of triumphant eyes that had been keen enough to spot her
before she could get out of sight.
Salome would have been even more disturbed if she had known that her
meeting with this strange man had been observed by Evelyn Winthrop.
But such was the case.
Her attention had first been attracted by the resonant tone in which he
had addressed Salome, and turning, she had been startled by the sight of
the girl’s pallid face. She drew a little back, so as not to be seen by
her, and watched and listened.
She understood at once that this man was acquainted with Salome’s past
life; that this unexpected encounter terrified her, for some reason; and
she determined to avail herself of this discovery, to learn, if
possible, the history of her brother’s wife.
There was evidently some secret connected with her past which she was
very anxious to preserve; her home, too, had been, she judged, in some
distant portion of the country, and the girl, for some reason, had fled
from it, and was terrified and dismayed to meet one whom she had
formerly known.
She followed the man as he followed Salome, and when he turned back
again, after having watched her carriage out of sight, she quietly
remarked:
“So you are acquainted with that person, sir. Will you be kind enough to
tell me her name?”
“Well, now,” he shrewdly returned, as he eyed his fair questioner from
head to foot, “perhaps she might have some objections to my giving you
the information you desire.”
“Why?” Evelyn demanded, with more eagerness than she was aware of.
“Hum! well, for one reason, as you heard me tell her, she’s a good ways
from home, and—for certain other reasons—perhaps she isn’t known down
here in New York by the same name she was in—well, when she was at home
with her folks.”
Evelyn flushed; she had not supposed that the man knew she had been
watching them, but it was evident he did.
“But I particularly wish to know who she is; perhaps I could make it an
object to you to tell me,” she returned, as she glanced down at the
costly and well-filled purse in her hand.
“Perhaps you could,” he answered placidly but indifferently, following
her glance, “maybe you could tell me where the lady lives, she appears
to be pretty well fixed, judging from the carriage that she popped into
so suddenly and the pretty ring she had on.”
“No. I cannot tell you that,” Miss Winthrop returned, without the
flutter of an eyelid over the untruth; for she had no idea of having
this country boor coming to her brother’s house to annoy her, “but—I
have met her a number of times, and there seems to be some mystery about
her that aroused my curiosity,” she continued, in a confidential tone.
“She calls herself Salome Howland; is that her real name?”
The man laughed a silent, amused, internal laugh that shook his broad
shoulders visibly. Whether he was amused over her curiosity, or over
something connected with Salome, she could not determine.
“I can answer for Salome, but Howland, I won’t be quite so sure about,”
he said, after a moment.
“Then Howland is an assumed name?” said Miss Winthrop eagerly.
“Assumed? Hum! Well, it may belong to her for aught I know; but——”
“It isn’t her real surname—that’s what you mean,” supplemented Evelyn as
he broke off tantalizingly.
“Well, now, I don’t think it would be just square to give an old friend
away, do you?” he questioned evasively. “If she calls herself Salome
Howland let her go so—it can’t harm anybody, I’m sure.”
Evelyn saw that it would be useless to press that matter any further, so
she turned her artillery in another direction.
“You said she was a good way from home; where did she live?” she
inquired.
“Well, it wasn’t Boston, and it wasn’t in San Francisco; maybe it was
somewhere between the two, and maybe it wasn’t,” was the provoking
reply.
“Stay!” commanded Miss Winthrop haughtily. “I do not wish to bandy words
with you; I simply want to know who the girl is—her true name and
history. If you can and will give me the information I desire, I will
pay you well for it—you may make your own terms. If you will not, upon
any terms, there is no more to be said about the matter.”
“Hum! make my own terms, may I? That’s pretty liberal, and you seem to
be quite anxious about the girl’s history, it seems to me,” her
companion returned, as he searched her face keenly. “Now, I’d give
considerable to know where I could find her; suppose you give me her
address. I’ll tell you her history and we’ll call it square.”
The proud Miss Winthrop shivered at the thought of having this coarse
creature demanding entrance to her brother’s residence, and compliance
with his condition was not to be thought of for a moment.
That he was in some way connected with Salome’s past, and most
unpleasantly so, she could not doubt, after observing her sudden pallor
and terror upon meeting him and her evident desire to escape from his
presence, and she was consumed with curiosity to learn the secret of it
all. She would cheerfully have paid a large sum to accomplish her
object; but to have her brother’s home invaded by such a person, while
she was an inmate there, was more than her proud spirit could brook.
“I told you that I could not give you her address,” she coldly replied,
“but,” a cunning thought coming to her, “if you will oblige me I might
try and ascertain it for you.”
“All right,” the man answered briskly, a shrewd twinkle in his small
eyes. “When you find out, just say on a postal where I can meet you—my
name is W. H. Brown, and I’m stopping at the Howard—and we’ll exchange
confidences.”
Miss Winthrop flushed to her brows at this cool proposition.
She, one of New York’s darling “four hundred,” asked to make an
engagement at the Howard with such a creature!
She could have smitten him in the face for daring to propose such a
thing, and if a look could have annihilated him, the angry glance which
she shot at him would have withered him at once.
His _sang froid_, his presumption, his insolence, astounded her.
Still she was very curious regarding the mystery which surrounded
Salome, so she put a curb upon her rage and said earnestly:
“Tell me one thing—there is some mystery—something connected with the
girl that is not quite open and above board, isn’t there?”
“Well, miss, how strange that you should have imagined that!” the man
began, a broad grin on his face, an irritating drawl in his tone.
“She, perhaps, ran away from her home for some reason, and has been
living under the assumed name of Howland since her flight,” Evelyn went
on, without appearing to heed him, and determined to have her say out.
He laughed mockingly.
“You’re pretty keen, miss, but guessing at a question isn’t the safest
way to settle it,” he retorted. “I always like to oblige a lady, and
particularly one so handsome and clever as you appear to be; but I guess
we’ll stick to the first proposition. When I get the girl’s address,
I’ll shell out about the mystery, as you put it. Remember, W. H. Brown,
Howard House. I’m going to be there for the next three weeks.”
He turned abruptly on his heel as he ceased speaking and walked away,
leaving Evelyn Winthrop crimson with mortification, anger, and baffled
curiosity.
“Does the vulgar creature imagine that I would stoop to make an
appointment with him?” she muttered wrathfully, but without remembering
that she had already tried to bribe him to give her the information she
desired. “However,” she added, with a malicious smile, “I have learned
enough to convince me that there is some disgraceful mystery connected
with Salome. I am going directly home to acquaint mamma with what I have
heard and seen, and she will decide what will be best to do about it. If
that girl is some low impostor, as I fear, we must manage some way to
get rid of her.”
CHAPTER XII.
AN EXPLANATION DEMANDED.
Miss Winthrop did not delay even long enough to make her purchases, but
turned about and went home to report her news to her mother.
She found madam in her own room, and learned that Salome had returned
about half an hour before, and gone directly to her own boudoir.
“Well, mamma, I have learned something this morning that will astonish
you,” Evelyn remarked, as she threw off her wraps and sank upon a chair,
quivering to her finger-tips with excitement over the precious morsel of
scandal she believed she had secured.
“Ah!” madam remarked placidly, but looking up interested, nevertheless.
“Is anybody married, or going to be?—or maybe it is a bit of scandal.”
“It may prove to be more than a bit, if we are not careful,” Evelyn
excitedly returned. “It’s about Salome.”
“Ha!” exclaimed her mother, now all on the alert, “what about her?”
“There is some deep mystery connected with the girl, just as we have
thought, and there is doubtless some good reason why she has been so
anxious to keep her history from us all,” said Evelyn impressively.
“What do you mean?” demanded madam eagerly.
“I have learned this morning, by a lucky circumstance, that she is a
runaway from her home and family, and has been sailing about under an
assumed name—perhaps she even married True under a false one.”
“What!” exclaimed Madame Winthrop sternly, and growing pale; “how do you
know? who has told you this?”
Evelyn then related her adventures of the morning, enlarging upon the
circumstances to suit herself, vividly portraying Salome’s agitated
demeanor and her sudden flight, and assuming as facts what she had
guessed at from her observation, and what she had inferred from the
strange man’s conversation.
Madame Winthrop listened to all this with a white, set face, her heart
growing harder than ever toward the girl whom her son had married.
When her daughter concluded she said, in a low, icy voice:
“Well, Evelyn, this is a matter that must be cleared up. I am going to
know whom my son has married and brought into a family upon whose name
there has never been even the shadow of a stain. I am going to make that
girl tell me her history this very hour.”
“She has a good deal of spirit, mamma, and perhaps she will refuse to
say anything about herself,” Evelyn suggested, but secretly delighted at
her mother’s determination.
“She shall tell me—she shall no longer insult us with her companionship
and by enshrouding herself in such mystery,” was the resolute retort.
“Well, but suppose she will not, what can you do? This is her home; she
is mistress here. True has made her such, and we cannot compel her to go
away. Likely as not, she will tell us, if we object to associating with
her, that we can take ourselves out of her way,” Miss Winthrop
suggested.
“She would not dare,” replied her mother sternly; “and if I find your
suspicions regarding her confirmed we must manage to get rid of her by
strategy if no other means will avail. My son’s brilliant career shall
not be ruined at the outset by a scheming adventuress. I never would
have believed,” she continued, with a groan, “that Truman would become
so infatuated as to marry any girl without investigating her family
history.”
“But, mamma, True would never forgive you if you should do anything to
compromise his wife,” said Evelyn.
“She isn’t his wife if she has married him under false pretences—under a
false name,” retorted madam, almost savagely. “I don’t believe such a
marriage would be legal,” she added with a fierce gleam in her eyes. “I
am determined to make her believe so, if I can; then, perhaps, she will
run away from him, as she did from her own home, and that will give him
a chance to get a divorce. The thought that he knows absolutely nothing
about her drives me nearly wild,” she despairingly concluded.
“Well, but you must remember they had only been married about a
fortnight when we returned, and her health was such he would not allow
her to get excited over anything; you know he said he would not have her
annoyed, and forbade us to question her,” remarked the younger lady.
“He had no right to compromise us in any such rash way, even if he had
no pride on his own account. I am only thankful that no one in our set
appears to know anything about the marriage as yet. Oh, if we could only
find some way to get rid of her!” and the dark look upon the woman’s
face augured ill for the fair young bride.
“You can take my word for it, mamma, Salome is not one to be easily
managed. Where she imagines herself to be in the right she will not be
turned from her point,” said Evelyn.
“How do you know? What makes you say that?”
“Why, by the way she has managed ever since we returned, for one thing.
She has ruled in everything where any serious question has arisen, only,
I admit, she has done it in a very quiet, adroit manner. True told her
she was to be mistress here, and she has made us recognize the fact from
the very first. She has very cleverly managed to ascertain our wishes
and preferences, and has tried to defer to them; she has often
supplemented her commands to please us, when we have objected to certain
things at times, but she never countermanded previous orders.”
“That is true,” madam assented with firmly compressed lips.
“And about those ponies the other day,” Miss Winthrop resumed; “I knew
that they had been purchased expressly for her, but I did not mean that
she should think I did, and I had been aching to use them, only I
wouldn’t drive with her—you remember how obstinate she was, mamma!”
“But you made a mistake, Evelyn,” her mother answered. “They would have
been ruined if they had dragged that heavy barouche around, and Truman
would have been very angry with you. You should have ordered them put
into his buggy if you were bound to use them and would not go in the
coupé.”
“I did not think of that; but the affair proves that she will not give
up her point—the tone she used to the coachman settled the matter at
once,” said Miss Winthrop, flushing at the remembrance of her defeat.
“Well, I will find a way to manage her,” retorted her mother sharply.
Meanwhile Salome in her own room was trying to compose her quivering
nerves and recover from the terrible shock she had received.
She had been very much unstrung, and when she at last reached the
seclusion of her own room and knew that she had escaped all immediate
danger, she was still pallid and panting from nervous excitement.
“My poor heart is not right even yet,” she murmured, as she pressed her
hand upon her throbbing side and realized how it was fluttering, “and I
must not allow myself to become so excited. Oh! what an unfortunate
meeting! I never imagined that I could meet him, of all persons, here in
New York. I shall hardly dare go out again while True is away, for fear
of meeting him again, and yet I promised that I would ride every day. I
wish I had insisted upon telling True everything before he went away,
but there was no time, he had to go in such a hurry. Oh! if he were only
back and we could be alone together again!”
She fell to sobbing nervously in her exceeding loneliness.
It was so hard to have to live as she was living—to receive no sympathy
nor love from her husband’s mother and sister, and to have to pull all
the time against an opposing current.
“Still,” she went on, after a moment, while she resolutely wiped her
tears, “I have nothing to really fear—that wretch can only annoy me—even
if he should discover where I live. I need only keep out of his sight
until my dear one comes back, when I shall tell him everything, and he
will manage all that is disagreeable for me. I will not grieve. I will
not get ill. I will just throw off this load that oppresses me
and—trust.”
She turned to her table, and taking up some work tried to interest
herself in it, and to forget the occurrences of the morning.
She had been engaged thus only a few moments when there came a knock
upon her door.
Thinking it must be Nellie, for no one else came to her rooms, she said
“Come in,” when Evelyn put her head inside the door.
Salome regarded her with some surprise, though a bright smile instantly
chased the sadness from her face.
“Oh, have you come to make me a visit?” she cried, greatly pleased by
what she considered a wonderful concession on the part of her proud
sister-in-law. “Come in, do, and have this cozy chair; it will be very
pleasant, and I was feeling a little lonely.”
She looked so pretty and appealing, her sweetness was so charming, that
for an instant the haughty girl’s heart was touched, and she half
regretted the errand that had brought her there. But the next moment her
proud spirit rebelled against accepting the slightest hospitality, and
she coldly responded:
“No, I am not coming in; I merely came to tell you that mamma would like
to see you. She wished me to ask you to step into her room for a few
moments.”
Salome’s face expressed surprise at such an unusual request; but she
obligingly laid down her work and rose to follow. Evelyn was already
half way down the hall, but she waited at the door of her mother’s room
until Salome entered, when she closed it and locked it. She had no
intention of having this interview interrupted until the battle should
be fought out to the end.
Salome wondered at such a strange proceeding, and her heart failed her
somewhat as she caught the cold, relentless look upon Madame Winthrop’s
face.
Then a sudden fear almost paralyzed her.
Had they received bad news from abroad?
Mr. Winthrop was improving when last they had heard of him, though she
had had no letter by the last two steamers. Could any ill have befallen
her husband? Oh, if anything should happen to him, there could be
nothing left for her to live for!
“Sit down, Salome,” said Madame Winthrop, in her iciest tones; “I have
something that I wish to say to you.”
Salome obeyed and mechanically seated herself in the chair that Evelyn
pushed toward her, but with a strange feeling of numbness creeping over
her.
“Oh!” she gasped, “has anything happened? is there anything the matter
with—True?”
Madam’s lips curled scornfully over the girl’s excitability. She was
never thrown out of her equilibrium by any tidings, good or ill.
“No, there is nothing the matter with Dr. Winthrop that I am aware of,”
she said coldly; then added, with a furtive glance at her victim; “you
had the last letter from him, and you surely ought to be better posted
than I.”
“Oh, but I have not heard from him by either of the last two steamers,
and you looked so grave, so strange, I feared——” faltered Salome.
“Well, I feel that I have reason to look grave; I have felt so ever
since my return,” said madam, with a severely injured air; “and I have
finally come to the conclusion that I can no longer endure the suspense
that I have suffered. I have determined to have my doubts and fears
either confirmed or removed, and so have sent for you to tell me what I
wish to know.”
“I do not understand you,” Salome replied, beginning to regain her
composure, now that her fears regarding her husband were allayed, and
regarding the woman wonderingly.
“I suppose you are aware of the cause of my sudden return from abroad?”
observed madam.
“No, I am not,” said the young wife.
“What! did not your hus—did not my son inform you why we came home in
such hot haste?”
“No; how could he when he was summoned away so suddenly himself?”
“Well, then, it was because of the unexpected news of his marriage; it
came in the form of a cable message to us, and like a thunderbolt out of
a clear sky, for we had not the remotest suspicion that he intended to
be married so soon.”
“So soon!” These two words somehow struck a sudden chill to the young
wife’s heart. They seemed to imply that he entertained thoughts of
marriage before meeting her. But she put the thought away from her, and
replied, deprecatingly:
“It was very sudden to—to us, as well as to you, and there was no time
to send word to any one until it was over.”
“Doesn’t it strike you that it was a very strange marriage?” demanded
Madame Winthrop.
“Yes, the circumstances attending it were very peculiar, and I was very
much surprised when True asked me to be his wife,” Salome answered,
flushing.
“It seems that it was not so much a surprise as to prevent your ready
acceptance of his quixotic proposal,” sneered Evelyn vindictively.
Salome flushed crimson again at this thrust, then she grew white to her
lips over the cowardly attack.
All at once she seemed to become strangely calm and self-possessed,
although she did not regain her color.
“Allow me to ask,” she said, addressing Madame Winthrop, and not
deigning to notice Evelyn’s insulting remark, “if Dr. Winthrop made you
acquainted with all the circumstances leading up to our union?”
“Yes, he did,” curtly responded the woman, a frown upon her brow.
Salome’s face had cleared somewhat. If her husband had told his mother
and sister of the romantic story of his wooing, they knew that he alone
was responsible for their marriage, and they had no right to thus call
her to account for having become his wife.
“Then,” she said quietly, “since you know all that occurred in the City
Hospital of Boston, you know just why he asked me to become his wife,
and why I consented to do so, notwithstanding I had known him so short a
time, and I cannot feel that you have any right to arraign me in such a
manner during his absence for having married him.”
Madam and Evelyn both opened their eyes in astonishment at this
dignified, yet spirited response to their attack. It told them that they
had a stronger and wiser spirit to cope with than they had anticipated.
There was a moment of silence, then madam broke forth with more heat
than she had yet manifested:
“I should have supposed that any girl possessing proper self-respect
would have hesitated to accept a proposal that must have been prompted
by a feeling of gratitude. You saved my son’s life—there can be no doubt
about that—he was grateful; you were ill, you had no home, no friends;
your physician said you must not remain under the depressing influences
of a public hospital, and so a sense of honor and of the great debt he
owed you prompted Dr. Winthrop to ask you to be his wife, that he might
try to save your life in return for the one you had given back to him.”
Salome’s heart leaped with sudden pain at this cruel speech.
As we know, she had been exceedingly sensitive upon this very point, and
she had only just begun to have these fears allayed by his increasing
tenderness, when these two women came so rudely in upon them and he was
called away to his father.
What wonder that all her former doubts began to be aroused by his
mother’s cruel and unprincipled assertion?
“Did Dr. Winthrop tell you that he was actuated by gratitude when he
asked me to marry him?” she gravely inquired.
“He did,” briefly responded Madame Winthrop, and Salome felt herself
growing dizzy, and there was a ringing sound in her ears; but
controlling herself by a mighty effort, she demanded:
“Did he tell you that he was prompted solely by gratitude?”
“Let me tell you what he did say,” said madam, evading a direct reply to
this searching question. “I charged him with having simply a feeling of
pity for your forlorn condition and of gratitude for what you had done;
I asked him just what you have asked me. ‘Can you honestly say,’ I
asked, ‘that gratitude did not prompt you to make her your wife?’”
“And his answer?” breathed Salome, with a wild look in her eyes, a spot
of fire on each cheek.
“‘No, I cannot,’ he replied, ‘for it was a feeling of profound gratitude
for the girl’s noble sacrifice of her life-blood to save me’—those were
his very words, were they not, Evelyn?” madam interposed, pausing to
look at her daughter.
“Yes, mamma, you have repeated them exactly as I remember them,” was the
unfeeling reply.
Salome felt as if the blood was turning to ice in her veins at this
blighting statement.
She had begun to be so happy, so secure in her husband’s love, before
these people came into her home with their cold looks and unfeeling
hearts, and even since his departure she had trusted him fully; but
these terrible words burned themselves into her brain and stabbed her to
the heart like a poisoned dagger.
“He also said,” Madame Winthrop went on ruthlessly, “that the head
physician told him he believed that you were not going to get well—that
you ought to be removed to some pleasant home where you would be
tenderly cared for, where you would feel no anxiety about yourself. My
son believed that you had conceived a sudden passion for him—he said
some word, look, or gesture that escaped you one day led him to believe
that you loved him; and so—can’t you see?—everything goes to prove that
he married you from pity and gratitude.”
Salome’s head had gradually drooped during these garbled and shameless
statements, and now she covered her burning face with her trembling
hands to conceal the shame and agony that were crushing her at this last
terrible charge.
Oh, it was dreadful! Could it be possible that she had betrayed all her
wild love for Dr. Winthrop before he asked her to be his wife? Had she,
in her weakness, been so lost to all maidenly delicacy and modesty? She
tried to think—to remember when and how; but the bitter humiliation of
the moment confused her utterly, and she could recall nothing.
It did not seem possible that Dr. Winthrop could be so devoid of respect
and consideration as to speak of these things to another, and yet, how
otherwise would his mother have known of them?
“You can imagine something of our trouble and consternation when we
learned all this,” madam relentlessly resumed, “when, too, we learned
that he had married a woman concerning whose history and family he knew
absolutely nothing, and about whom there seemed to be some strange
mystery. When I demanded why he had not insisted upon having everything
explained, his answer was that you were easily excited, and he feared
the effect upon your health. But he promised that he would inform me
regarding your history as soon as he learned it himself. He was,
however, called so unexpectedly abroad that the matter was not cleared
up. I had intended to be patient until his return—to trust that all
would come out right in the end, and leave the matter with him to
settle. But to-day I learned something which made me resolve to sift the
subject to the bottom, and to demand an open confession from you. And
now I ask you, Salome, who you are, what your real name is—for I have
reason to doubt that Howland is such—why you have so persistently kept
your husband in the dark regarding your past, and what the mystery is
that surrounds you.”
CHAPTER XIII.
“YOUR MARRIAGE WAS ILLEGAL; YOU ARE NO WIFE!”
Salome had sat like a statue during this last tirade. Her heart was like
lead in her bosom; her feet and hands like ice, her face, after that
vivid flush of shame, pale as marble, and all the while those blighting
words, which Madame Winthrop had represented as her son’s, and which had
been confirmed by Evelyn, rang in her ears like a sentence of doom upon
her future happiness.
How could she believe them after those last fond expressions to which he
had given utterance before he had parted with her in his room? when he
had held her in his arms and pronounced that tender little benediction
over her, “May Heaven bless and keep you, my own wife, while we are
parted, and grant that we may be soon reunited.” When he had seemed so
anxious that she should take such good care of herself, and would “not
know a moment’s peace if he thought she was grieving.”
And his letters since his departure had breathed so much of anxiety and
affection for her; in them he had called her for the first time “his
darling,” “his precious wife,” and entreated her over and over again to
take care of herself for his sake.
Could she believe that all this was hypocrisy on his part—that he would
pretend to so much affection for her, and tell his mother and sister
something different?
No—she would never believe it of him. She would trust her husband—she
believed him to be honorable, noble, truthful, and she would allow
nothing to come between them or disturb her faith in him.
She resolved, too, that she would keep her own counsel during his
absence; but upon his return she would open her whole heart to him and
there should never be any more secrets between them. But she would not
be driven into any confessions to these two women, who, from the very
first moment of their meeting, had constituted themselves her enemies.
She did not, however, wish to come to any open rupture with them if she
could avoid it—they were her husband’s mother and sister, he had wished
them to remain in his house as her guests, and she felt it to be her
duty to show them all due respect and consideration; but they must be
made to realize that she also had certain rights—that she was not a weak
reed to be bent and swayed according to every freak or whim which seized
them.
All this she thought out during the brief interval of silence that
followed Madame Winthrop’s authoritative demand, and she suddenly found
herself growing calm and self-possessed again.
“Allow me to inquire, Mrs. Winthrop, what you have learned to-day that
has so embittered you against me?” she said, turning a mild glance upon
the stern woman and ignoring her question regarding the mystery of her
life.
“I have learned that you are not what you pretend to be—that you are an
impostor——”
“Not what I pretend to be—an impostor?” repeated Salome, with wide eyes.
“Yes; you married my son under an assumed name. Girl, what is your true
name? I demand an honest answer,” returned madam with overwhelming
authority.
“My name was just what I gave it—Salome Howland,” the young wife quietly
responded.
“I know better,” retorted the elder woman, flushing angrily at the
girl’s calm self-possession. “Your first name may be Salome, but Howland
was certainly not your true surname.”
Salome made no reply to this, and Evelyn and her mother exchanged
significant glances.
“Was it?—tell me!” commanded Madame Winthrop.
“I can tell you nothing—at present,” Salome answered.
“You shall tell me; I have borne this wretched suspense as long as I
can,” persisted her tormentor. “Do you dare deny that there is a mystery
connected with your life? Do you dare affirm that you gave your true
surname when you married my son?”
Salome thought a moment; then, lifting her small head proudly, she met
madam’s glance squarely and steadily.
“Mrs. Winthrop,” she began, but most courteously, even gently, “I do not
wish to offend you. I do not wish to say or do anything that would
appear disrespectful toward my husband’s mother; and I cannot tell you
what you wish to know just now, simply because I have not yet confided
my history to True, who has the first right to my confidences. As he
told you, he would not at first allow me to talk about it, although I
attempted to do so several times, because he feared it would excite and
make me ill again. When I can have an opportunity to confide in him, I
can then have no possible objection to your knowing all that he thinks
best to tell you. I beg that you will not press this subject any
further; pray let it rest. You are my guests, and I cannot bear that
there should be any unpleasantness while True is away——”
“Well, then,” sternly interrupted Madame Winthrop, “I am determined that
I will have the truth. There is something very mysterious about you, and
when you went into that hospital in Boston you went there to hide from
some person or persons, did you not?”
Salome flushed a vivid scarlet at this unexpected charge, and then she
as quickly lost all her color again.
“When True comes I will tell him all,” she said with visible agitation.
A look of triumph leaped into madam’s eyes, for she was quick to notice
both flush and emotion, and regarded them as signs of guilt.
“More than this,” she went on, emboldened by her apparent success in
worming this evidence of a secret from her victim, “for some reason,
best known to yourself, you ran away from your home, and you are a long
distance from your friends.”
Wholly unprepared for such an accusation, Salome threw out one hand with
a startled gesture and shrank back in her chair, as if from a blow,
while her beautiful face was almost convulsed with pain.
“You perceive,” the woman went on, “that I know what I am talking about,
and it is useless for you to attempt to deceive me; and since you will
not confess it I will tell you that I also know that Howland was not
your real surname. You have compromised us all by meeting a low man—a
former lover, I suppose—a circumstance of which I shall write to my son
immediately. You have married my son—a Winthrop—under false pretences;
you have brought irreparable disgrace in more ways than one upon one of
the first families of New York.”
“Madam,” interposed Salome, rising and standing before the irate woman,
with a proud dignity that impressed her in spite of the fury to which
she had wrought herself up, “you wrong me; I have brought no disgrace
upon you or the name of Winthrop; I have done nothing which can reflect
upon your son or your family in any way.”
“You have! for—do you understand?—under the circumstances your marriage
is illegal—you are no wife!”
Madame Winthrop did not know anything about the law in this case; but
she was so angry—she had worked herself into such a rage over the
obstinacy of the girl—that she made this statement at random,
determined, if possible, to frighten Salome into confessing her whole
story to her.
A look of horror suddenly shot into the young wife’s eyes and over her
sensitive face, which blanched to the hue of marble. She seemed almost
to freeze where she stood and to shrink before those two heartless
women, a terrible fear written on every quivering feature.
“No! do not tell me that!” she whispered hoarsely.
“The law decrees that no contract is binding that is obtained by fraud
on the part of either party; it becomes illegal, and thus, do you not
see, by being married under a name that was not your true one your
marriage was invalid?” said madam impressively.
“Oh, but True believes it to have been legal; he intended that it should
be. He would never have wronged me so, and I am sure he will make it all
right when he comes home,” Salome cried, appalled at the situation as
represented to her.
“That remains to be seen,” returned the elder woman severely. “My son is
a man who abhors deception of any kind; he would never overlook being
drawn into such a false position by fraud. More than this, he was
pledged to another when, from a feeling of pity and gratitude, he asked
you to be his wife.”
Madame Winthrop reached the end of her rope at this point, for with one
agonized gasp Salome fainted dead away. The knowledge that her husband
had broken his pledge to another, perhaps thus ruining his own and the
life of some lovely girl, was too much for her already overburdened
heart, and a merciful unconsciousness locked her senses in temporary
oblivion.
Madame Winthrop and Evelyn were both somewhat frightened by this result
of their inhuman arraignment of the young wife, and so they resolved to
keep all knowledge of it from the servants, if possible.
They laid her upon the lounge, loosened her clothing, and applied
restoratives.
“I’m afraid we are getting ourselves into trouble, mamma,” Evelyn
remarked as she regarded Salome’s death-like face with great anxiety.
“True would never forgive us if anything should happen to her through
us.”
“She’s an obstinate little piece,” replied madam, with a frown. “I
didn’t think she’d hold out like this, nor go off in any such way. But,”
she continued relentlessly, “I’m determined to discover the secret of
her life before Truman comes home. I’m almost sure there is some
disgraceful story connected with her past, and, if there is, I shall
wish that something might happen to her.”
Evelyn regarded her mother with some surprise as she said this. She had
always known that she was an intensely proud, somewhat cold-hearted
woman, but she was shocked by such utter heartlessness as this.
Salome at length revived, and they helped her to her own room and called
Nellie to attend her.
It can easily be imagined that she was in a wretched state mentally,
while the terrible excitement to which she had been subjected made her
really ill for the time.
She saw nothing more of her husband’s mother and sister that day, for
she shut herself in her chamber and charged Nellie not to admit any one.
She tried to calm herself sufficiently to think over what she had heard
and to reason out her position. She wondered how madam could have
learned all that she appeared to know about her. Could it be possible
that that man had followed her home and revealed to her what he knew of
her history? The thought for a moment appalled her, then she discarded
it, for if such had been the case they must have learned her name and
some other things which madam had seemed so anxious to extort from her.
Then her thoughts reverted to what had been told her about her marriage.
Could it be possible that there had really been any flaw in it? that the
simple fact of her withholding her surname would invalidate it?
It did not seem at all reasonable; but she knew that the law was very
often peculiar and arbitrary, and it might be as Mrs. Winthrop had said.
If she was no wife—horrible thought—then she had no right to be in the
home of Dr. Winthrop, acting as mistress at his table, driving his
horses, spending his money.
“Oh, it cannot—it cannot be true!” she moaned, as she hid her burning
face in her hands. “What shall I do? what is right—what is my duty?
True, True, have you ruined your life—have you ruined three lives from a
mistaken sense of obligation—of gratitude to me? I would rather have
died than that it should be so.”
She was very wretched, both mentally and physically, and Nellie grew
alarmed at her condition and begged her to send for some physician.
But she refused to see any one—she knew that no advice, no medicine,
would do any good until she could fight out her battle and determine
upon some course to pursue.
All night long she lay awake, trying to decide the important question;
and at last in the small hours of the morning she resolved that she
would write everything to her husband, for such he still seemed to her,
in spite of the doubt that had been cast upon their relations. She would
begin at the very beginning, and tell him all the sad story of her life
up to her meeting with him. She would also tell him of her encounter
with that bad man yesterday, of her subsequent interview with his mother
and sister, and their judgment of her. She would tell him that if she
was no wife—if he had been pledged to some one else whom he loved and
wished to marry, before meeting her, and feeling that he owed her such a
return for the service which she had rendered him—if he wished to be
free and to take advantage of the flaw in their marriage, she would
willingly submit—she would go away and never see or trouble him again.
It was a heroic resolve—a resolve worthy a martyr; but having determined
upon it, she arose and proceeded to put it into execution.
She wrote for more than an hour steadily, never faltering over a single
point—she laid her whole heart and life bare before him.
“Dear, dear True,” she wrote in conclusion, “it makes me utterly
wretched to think that I may have ruined your life—though
unintentionally—I would rather that you had left me in that cheerless
hospital—left me there to die; for I should have died, I know—I could
not have lived and suffered on alone after having poured my whole soul
through my blood into your veins. But even such a result would have been
far better than that I should have brought life-long sorrow and regret
to you and yours. Oh! answer me at once, that I may not be in suspense.
If you pronounce sentence upon me, I will not murmur; I will go quietly
away, and you shall never know anything more of me—you shall be free.
But if—can such joy be in store for me?—if you love me as I have hoped,
if you wish me to remain as your wife, I shall be happy, content, and
will cheerfully and joyfully await your return, trusting you fully, and
pay no attention to what others may say. Pray—pray send me but one word,
‘stay,’ by cable, to relieve the torturing suspense of your
“SALOME.”
When this lengthy epistle was finished, she sent it down by Nellie to
the mail-box, so that the postman might take it on his first round, and
then, with her mind greatly relieved, she threw herself again upon her
bed, and was soon sleeping the sleep of exhaustion.
But Evelyn Winthrop heard Nellie as she went down with Salome’s letter,
and at once suspected that she had made a clean breast of everything to
her husband, and appealed to him to protect her from their further
persecution.
“She will make a pretty mess for us if she has told him all that has
happened since he went away, and he will never forgive us,” she
muttered, with a frown.
She arose, early as it was, and hastily throwing on her wrapper and
thrusting her feet into a pair of felt slippers, stole softly down to
the vestibule to inspect the letter-box.
Yes, there was a bulky epistle addressed to her brother, as she had
expected, while at that instant she heard the postman’s whistle, just
across the street. Evelyn was intensely curious to know what was inside
that letter; if she could but master its contents and send it on by the
next mail—provided there was nothing objectionable in it—no one would be
any the wiser and no harm would be done.
She hastily slipped the missive from the box, thrust it into her bosom,
and sped noiselessly back to her chamber, a few moments before the
postman called to deliver the double mail, and, as was his custom, take
what letters were ready for the post-office.
Evelyn reached her room without encountering any one, although she was
mortally afraid of meeting Nellie, and after locking her door sat down
before her glowing grate, where with a sharp penknife she carefully
unsealed the envelope inclosing Salome’s letter and drew forth its
closely written contents.
The morning was very dark, for a severe storm was raging, and she found
that she must have more light before she could read it.
She arose, and carelessly laid the open letter on the mantel, and then
went to draw back the heavy curtains from her windows.
The several sheets of paper, which had not been thoroughly creased in
the haste in which Salome had folded them, began to creep apart, and
having been carelessly laid too near the edge of the mantel slipped
off—would probably only have fallen to the floor had not a gust of wind
at that moment increased the draft to the chimney, when the ill-fated
missive was sucked directly in upon the bed of red-hot coals in the
grate.
Instantly it was in flames, and when Evelyn turned to see what had
caused the sudden ruddy glow in the room, it was past all hope of
recovery and the blackened flakes of the consuming paper were being
rapidly drawn up the chimney.
A look of consternation swept over her face as she contemplated the
ruins before her, and then gave place to one of excessive anger at being
foiled in her design to penetrate the mystery which seemed to surround
her brother’s wife.
“What an idiot I was not to be more careful,” she muttered passionately
as she watched, with covetous eye, the last of the fragments disappear
up the black-throated chimney. “What shall I do?”
She could of course do nothing but endure her wrath and disappointment
and make the best of a bad matter. She would never humble herself enough
to confess to Salome or any one else what she had done, and so her only
alternative was to make sure of not being detected by burning the
envelope also, and then let matters adjust themselves as they would.
She was long in recovering from her wrath, and she found it no easy
matter to dissemble and go down to breakfast with a serene brow and
composed manner when the bell rang for that meal.
CHAPTER XIV.
SALOME RECEIVES HER SENTENCE.
Madame Winthrop herself did not appear to be in a very amiable frame of
mind that morning, and it was evident to Evelyn that her failure to
bring Salome into subjection to her demands the previous day still
irritated her excessively.
“Where is your mistress?” she curtly demanded of Nellie as she entered
the dining-room upon some errand.
“She is ill; she is not able to come down this morning,” the girl
replied.
“What is the matter?”
“I don’t know, marm; but she did not sleep well last night.”
So madam and her daughter breakfasted by themselves, and then withdrew
to madam’s room, when she revealed a plot which she had spent most of
the night in concocting.
Evelyn listened aghast.
She knew that her mother was very resolute, but had never imagined that
she would resort to such extremes in order to accomplish an object.
“Do you suppose you can make it work?” she asked somewhat doubtfully.
“I do not know; but of one thing I am sure—I shall never recognize that
impostor as my son’s wife,” said madam firmly. “Scarcely any one save
the servants know that Truman has brought a wife home; if we can only
manage to get rid of her before he returns, I believe we could manage
him about a divorce.”
“What need of a divorce if the marriage was illegal?” queried Evelyn.
“I do not suppose it was really illegal, but I was so enraged with her
that I did not care much what I told her. If it would only rouse her
pride, so that she would take herself away where he could never find
her, I should be happy.”
“But True has taken no pains to conceal his marriage. You know he drove
about a great deal with her, and it is a wonder that people have not
found it out. Besides, he has given her a check-book, and if she likes
she can draw any amount of his money,” said Evelyn.
“How do you know?” asked her mother, looking startled.
“I saw it one day when she was out driving and I was looking about her
rooms. True has signed a number of blank checks, and all she need do is
to fill them out with whatever amount she wishes to draw.”
“We must have that book, Evelyn. It will never do to let her go to the
bank and make free in any such way,” madam resolutely responded.
That afternoon she sought the young wife in her own room.
She found her pale and hollow-eyed, but felt no regret for having caused
her suffering.
Salome received her courteously, trying to remember only that she was
her husband’s mother.
“I have been thinking,” the scheming woman began, as she seated herself
where she could catch every varying expression of the girl’s face, “that
since matters seem to be in such a complicated and uncertain state, it
might be as well for you to go away from here for a while—at least until
Dr. Winthrop returns.”
“Go away from here!” repeated Salome, astonished.
“Yes: if people and the servants should discover the situation there
might ensue a very disagreeable scandal.”
“I do not think I quite understand you,” Salome said slowly, but her
lips were livid.
“Why, if it should become known that your marriage was not legal, people
would say very uncomfortable things about you, as well as about my son.
We are a very proud family,” madam continued pompously, “and it would be
a great trial, as well as a great injury to Dr. Winthrop, to have any
scandal connected with his name. Now, Evelyn and I have talked the
matter over, and we have concluded that it will be best to take you with
us to our own house—shut up this house—and then you can remain somewhat
secluded until my son returns, when, if he sees fit, he can have his
marriage ratified, or—make any other arrangement which may seem best for
him and you.”
Salome felt as if she must shriek as she listened to this inhuman,
insulting speech.
It was horrible to be made to feel that she was occupying such a
questionable position in the home of Dr. Winthrop; while the proposition
to leave it and accompany Madame Winthrop to her home, there to hide
herself—thus virtually acknowledging that she believed herself to be no
wife—was not to be thought of for a single instant.
She bent her head in thought for several moments, trying to decide what
she should do; then she turned with an air of resolution to her
companion.
“Mrs. Winthrop,” she said gravely, “Dr. Winthrop brought me here as his
wife—he installed me here as the mistress of his home and treated me in
every respect as one upon whom he had bestowed such an honor. As his
wife and the mistress of his home, I shall remain here until his return;
unless I receive a message directly from him telling me to change my
residence. I feel compelled to say,” Salome went on, with increasing
firmness, “that I consider that you have acted unkindly and officiously,
both toward me and—my husband, in the course you have pursued since Dr.
Winthrop went abroad, and although he wished you to remain here as my
guests until his return, yet, if we cannot live more harmoniously than
we have hitherto lived, I think it would be for our mutual comfort if
you and Evelyn would return to your own home.”
Madame Winthrop arose in high dudgeon at this plain speaking, her face
almost purple from wrath.
“Am I to understand that you turn me, Dr. Winthrop’s own mother, out of
my son’s house?” she demanded, in tones that shook with passion.
“No, madam,” Salome quietly and politely responded, “I have no desire to
do anything so rude as that; but I cannot continue to live as we have
been living—my strength will not admit of it. If I have to endure
excitement like that of the past twenty-four hours, I know it will not
be long before I shall be in as critical a state as when I left Boston.
I shall be only too happy to have you and your daughter remain where you
are if you will desist from this persecution; otherwise, as I have no
other home, I shall be forced to ask you to return to Thirty-fourth
Street.”
Madam stood in speechless astonishment for a moment, for she had never
dreamed of any such termination to an interview which she had intended
to make so humiliating. Then, it not being exactly clear to her how to
meet this very resolute spirit exhibited by her son’s wife, she stalked
silently and majestically from the room, and Salome, left to herself,
burst into a passion of bitter tears.
She was very unhappy, for that day had brought no letter as she had
expected, although Evelyn received one from her brother Norman. He
stated that his father still remained in a very critical condition, and
Dr. Winthrop would probably be detained longer than he had at first
expected.
This was sad news to Salome, and she tried to think that her husband’s
time was so fully occupied with his father that he had not been able to
write; but she hoped the next steamer would bring her a letter, and she
resolved to be patient and try not to grieve.
Two or three days went by, and matters seemed to have settled themselves
a little more pleasantly. Madam did not once refer to disagreeable
subjects, was even distantly gracious, and Salome fondly hoped that all
hostilities were at an end.
But she did not know the determined woman. She had laid her plot to rid
her son of the wife whom she suspected and disliked, and she was not one
to swerve from her purpose.
She had already begun her work by suppressing every letter that came for
or went from Salome. She had also written a very crafty letter to Dr.
Winthrop, in which she mentioned that she had suddenly fainted one day
when making her a little visit in her room; that she still seemed more
delicate than usual, and she was quite anxious about her. She had
informed him, also, of the suspicious meeting between his wife and the
strange man.
“We feared at first,” she wrote regarding her ill health, “that it might
be caused by the old heart trouble, although her symptoms did not
indicate it; but since then Evelyn and I have not felt quite well, and
this fact, together with a certain odor that seems to pervade the house,
has led me to fear there is a flaw in the plumbing, which allows the
escape of sewer-gas; you know we had an experience of this kind in the
old home some years ago. I had a talk with Salome, and tried to persuade
her to go home with us, but she seems determined to remain here until
your return. She did not appear to receive my proposition in a very
friendly spirit, and very resolutely said that nothing but an express
message from you to that effect would induce her to leave the house.
Pray do not think that I wish to interfere in your domestic
arrangements, my son, but really I feel that it would be safest for the
comfort and welfare of all parties if we could leave the house at once,
and close it until you can return and attend personally to whatever may
be wrong.”
It of course took eight or nine days for this missive to reach Dr.
Winthrop, and during this time Salome heard nothing from him, except
indirectly through letters which madam or Evelyn received from Norman,
his brother.
Madam did not mean that she should have one word from him until she
received her notice to leave his house, which, she felt sure, would come
in the form of a brief cable message, since he surely would not risk her
health long enough to wait for a letter to reach her. This she believed
would so wound her proud, sensitive nature, and work in with her own
crafty innuendoes regarding the illegality of her marriage, that she
would do something desperate.
Dr. Winthrop, almost a prisoner by the bedside of his sick father,
wondered why he did not hear from his wife, until he received his
mother’s alarming epistle, and then he believed that she must have been
too ill to write to him.
“Sewer-gas in the house! and they have been living there eight days
longer!” he exclaimed, looking very anxious as he finished reading the
startling communication. “They must leave the place immediately.”
But he realized that Salome was not quite happy, aside from the state of
her health. There was something in the tone of madam’s letter, in spite
of all her care to disguise her enmity toward his wife, that betrayed
this. What she had said about Salome not receiving her advice in a very
friendly spirit and refusing to act upon it, indicated it, and he
resolved that he would not insist upon her going with them to their
home; but out of that poisoned atmosphere, in which he believed she was
living, go she must without an hour’s unnecessary delay.
And so, on the spur of the moment, he cabled the following message to
her:
“Close house immediately; go to the —— Hotel; remain there until my
return.”
The hotel he named was a quiet but well-conducted house, and he had
chosen to have her go there because it would be more home-like than a
larger and more pretentious place; indeed, it was a kind of family
hotel, and its very exclusiveness and remoteness from busy haunts would
seem more like the home in Madison Avenue.
Having dispatched the message and relieved his mind somewhat, he went
back to his apartments and wrote his reasons for it and his wishes more
at length, charging her to be very careful of her health and prescribing
certain remedies for her to take to counteract the effects of sewer-gas.
The letter was full of tenderness and of regret for her illness; it
spoke of his anxiety and disappointment on account of not hearing from
her, and begged her, if she were not able to write herself, to have
Nellie do so; she was to have Nellie go with her to the hotel, though in
his haste he had forgotten to mention it in his cable message. If Salome
had ever received this precious letter she would have known that all was
well—that she was still the dearest object which earth held for her
husband. But it was destined to go the way of several others and never
into the hands of the young wife, to comfort her almost breaking heart.
She was feeling better the morning that the cable message arrived, and,
as a steamer was expected that day, she looked forward to a letter with
almost feverish eagerness.
When the postman came on his afternoon round she hastened out to the
door to get the mail. But, as had been usual of late, Evelyn was there
before her.
“No letter per steamer to-day,” she said, affecting to be greatly
disappointed, as she slipped the letters through her hands. “One for
mamma, two for me, and—two for True; bills, I suppose.”
These last she passed to Salome, and then hastily ran upstairs.
“What can it mean?” murmured the young wife, as, bitterly disappointed,
she turned slowly back toward the library.
Just then the hall bell rang, and almost mechanically she went to open
the door herself, although she was never in the habit of doing so.
A messenger-boy stood there and handed her a telegram. She signed for
it, and then with trembling fingers tore it open.
The words which met her startled gaze were fraught with terrible
significance to her:
“Close house immediately. Go to the —— Hotel. Remain there until my
return.
“TRUMAN H. WINTHROP.”
This, then, was the answer to her letter of confession, the first and
only words she had received from him since she wrote it.
He had received it, and perhaps one from his mother also, with her
version of all that had passed. He recognized the delicate,
precarious—possibly he felt disgraceful position in which they were all
placed, and he had concluded that it would not do for her to remain in
his house, nominally his wife, when she had no legal right there.
In her sensitive and overwrought state of mind it seemed equivalent to
an acknowledgment that their marriage had only been a farce, and
therefore his standing, as well as her own, would be compromised if she
remained there.
She knew where the —— Hotel was; she knew that it was quiet and
unpretentious, a place where she would not be likely to be known or
recognized by any of Dr. Winthrop’s acquaintances.
And now the very consideration which he had shown for her feelings and
comfort in this respect she turned in judgment against him, strange as
it may seem, and it goes to show how easily people mistake the motives
of others. He had not asked her to go with his mother and sister, who of
course would return to their own home if his house was to be closed; but
she was to hide herself in this quiet hotel, and there await his return
to have her fate decided.
The more she thought about it, the more morbid she became, the more she
distorted and misinterpreted the meaning of the message, and her proud
spirit rose in rebellion at being so summarily and unjustly dealt with.
With a heavy and aching heart she dragged herself upstairs, shut herself
in her chamber, and did not go down again that day.
The next morning she made her appearance as usual at the
breakfast-table, but, to the surprise of madam and Evelyn, she was clad
in a travelling-costume. She was very pale and wan; there were dark
circles under her eyes, but a very resolute expression about her sweet
mouth which betrayed that she had arrived at some very grave decision.
“I received a cable message from Dr. Winthrop yesterday,” she quietly
remarked as she passed it to madam, “and he requests me to close the
house and go to the —— Hotel to await his return. I have made all my
arrangements, and if it will not seriously inconvenience you, I would
like to dismiss the servants to-day and send the keys to Dr. Winthrop’s
lawyer before I go.”
A flash of triumph shot into Madame Winthrop’s eyes as she read that
brief message, for her plot had worked exactly as she had hoped and
wished.
She saw that Salome believed she had received her sentence in that
message; that she was crushed and humiliated, although she marvelled at
her quiet dignity and her wonderful self-control.
“Oh, yes, we can easily manage to get away by noon, as we have only our
trunks to pack,” she responded, giving Evelyn a significant look. “And I
think,” she added, “that Truman is very wise to propose this measure.
You can come with us, Salome, if you would prefer to do so instead of
going to a hotel,” she concluded, with an appearance of hospitality,
although she knew well enough that her offer would be refused.
“Thank you; but my plans are all settled, and I shall leave as soon as I
can see that everything is in order,” Salome answered, with dignified
courtesy.
Madam understood that she intended to see that her husband’s commands
and interests were faithfully attended to—that the house would have to
be closed under her own supervision, and that they would be expected to
take their departure before she went; in fact, that she would be
mistress there until she surrendered the keys.
It did not take them long to do their packing, and their trunks were
sent directly to their own house in Thirty-fourth Street. They, however,
engaged Dr. Winthrop’s servants to come to them, as they had none of
their own. All were glad to secure places so readily, and eagerly
accepted the proposition—all save Nellie, who begged Salome to allow her
to go with her.
“I shall not need you, Nellie,” Salome answered, with quivering lips,
for the girl had been very kind to her, and she had become deeply
attached to her.
“But you will take me back when you go to housekeeping again?” the girl
pleaded. “I will stay with my sister, and you can send for me when Dr.
Winthrop comes back. I wouldn’t live with those—cats”—and she nodded
significantly toward madam’s room—“for double wages.”
“I should be very glad to have you with me again, Nellie,” Salome
answered evasively; “and—if you are at liberty when—when I need you
again, I will send for you.”
The girl thanked her and burst into tears as she took her wages, and
then went away to pack her trunk.
Madam and Evelyn hastened operations and left the house about eleven
o’clock, without even saying a word of farewell to Salome. She was
engaged in overseeing the packing of the silver, and, oppressed by a
sense of guilt, they were glad to get away from her accusing presence.
Salome neglected nothing; everything was put in perfect order under her
supervision. All the silver and everything that would be likely to tempt
rogues were sent to a safety vault; the water and gas were turned off,
and nothing was allowed to be left in a way to come to any harm.
The servants were all paid and a generous gift added to their wages, and
then Salome was ready to leave her beautiful home.
Dick was still to have charge of the horses and exercise them every day,
and he was both touched and pleased with this mark of her confidence.
He asked if he should bring the ponies around to take Salome where she
wanted to go, but she told him no, she had ordered a carriage, though
her pale face flushed a bright scarlet as she rejected his offer and
thought that she should never ride after the pretty creatures again.
Then with her own hands she locked the door, through which she passed
feeling that she was a discarded wife, giving the key to Dick, to be
delivered to Dr. Winthrop’s lawyer, and stepped into the carriage, while
the driver placed her trunk, the one she had brought with her from
Boston, on the rack behind.
The next moment she was driven away, while Dick, who stood on the steps
looking after her, shook his head in perplexity as he brushed a tear
from his cheek with his sleeve and muttered:
“Something’s wrong; that heart-broken look on her white face ain’t fer
nothing. I dunno what’s up, but things have been getting mixed and
muddled ever since they came home. I only wish the doctor’d put in an
appearance this very minute.”
CHAPTER XV.
AN APPALLING TRAGEDY.
Late that same evening a stately woman walked into the office of the ——
Hotel.
She was enveloped in a long cloak and was closely veiled.
She inquired if Mrs. Truman Winthrop had taken rooms there that day.
“No,” the clerk answered, “there is no one by that name in the house.”
The woman started slightly and glanced keenly at him.
“Are you quite sure?” she asked.
“Yes, madam; here is the hotel register; madam can examine for herself,”
and the young man placed the book before her.
She ran her eye quickly up and down the lines of the open book.
The name of Winthrop was not there, neither could she find that of
Salome Howland, for which she also looked.
She stood silent and perplexed for a moment; then she asked:
“Has there no young woman of perhaps twenty-one or twenty-two years of
age, of medium height, dark but rather pale complexion, with black hair
and eyes, come here unattended to-day to engage rooms?”
“No, madam; no such person as you have described has been here to-day,”
was the positive rejoinder.
Madame Winthrop—for the veiled woman was she—thought for a moment; then
she said:
“I expected to find such a lady here. She may, however, have changed her
plans. If she does not arrive by to-morrow, and any letters come
addressed to Mrs. Truman Winthrop, or Mrs. Salome Winthrop, will you
kindly have them remailed to the care of Mrs. Alexander Winthrop, No. —
Thirty-fourth Street?”
The polite clerk readily promised to do as she requested, and madam,
after courteously thanking him, took her leave.
There was a strange glitter of triumph in her eyes as she swept out of
the office and entered her carriage.
“It is as I hoped,” she muttered. “Everything works well, and I think we
may congratulate ourselves that we have seen the last of her.”
Alas! she little thought how soon her triumph was to be turned into
remorse.
She waited, with some anxiety and impatience, until the arrival of the
next steamer, and when, a day or two after, she received two European
letters addressed to Salome, which had been remailed from the —— Hotel,
she knew that her plot had been successful.
Salome had, without doubt, done just as she desired: she had, stung to
desperation by Dr. Winthrop’s supposed unjust judgment and sentence,
fled from her home and husband.
Such a step, she knew, would be the one of all others most likely to
anger and embitter her son, and she hoped, by exerting the proper
influence, to induce him to repudiate the wife she so despised, and
obtain a divorce from her upon the ground of desertion. Then, she
believed, he would eventually turn to Sadie Rochester, and thus secure
the whole of the fortune which his uncle had willed him upon certain
conditions, and the Rochester wealth as well.
She would spare no pains to bring this about, and if she succeeded, she
would feel well repaid for all her sinful scheming against the innocent
young wife.
She felt no compunctions about opening the letters she had received, and
read, without a quiver of remorse, all the outpouring of her son’s fond
affection for his wife. He expressed great anxiety because he had not
heard from her during the last two weeks, and begged her to send him
word by cable if she were ill, and he would leave his father in the care
of another physician and hasten back to her.
“My first duty is, of course, to my wife,” he wrote, “and nothing shall
keep me here if you need me. Why, why have you not written? Why, if you
are ill, has not my mother or Evelyn written about you?”
Madam also received a letter begging her to write just how Salome was.
She felt that the proper moment had now come to acquaint Dr. Winthrop
with the fact of his wife’s sudden disappearance; and she at once wrote
a garbled account of what had occurred.
She began by giving him another exaggerated description of Salome’s
meeting with the strange man, which, she stated, Evelyn had witnessed by
the merest chance, and added that she had afterward interviewed him and
tried to ascertain the secret of his familiarity with Salome. The man
was insolent and evasive—tried to make conditions upon the compliance
with which he would make some mysterious revelations about the girl.
Of course such terms were indignantly resented, and then they tried to
talk the matter over with Salome and induce her to explain it. She
utterly refused and seemed greatly annoyed, even angry, to learn that
her interview with the stranger was known to them. After that she had
seemed sullen and unhappy, and was apparently only too glad to avail
herself of the opportunity to leave the house on Madison Avenue when his
message had come telling her to go to the —— Hotel. Even then they had
invited and urged her to come to the Thirty-fourth Street residence with
them, but she had curtly refused and parted with them in the coldest
manner imaginable. Madam concluded her fallacious account by saying that
she had since been to the —— Hotel to call upon Salome and see if she
was comfortably situated, when to her astonishment she learned that she
had not been there at all.
“It’s the greatest mystery in the world,” she wrote, “what can have
become of the poor girl! She was far from being well, although not
really ill, having been confined to her bed only one day since your
departure, but, of course, we are very much exercised as to what has
become of her. Do you suppose—can it be possible that she has gone
with—that strange man whom she met—can he have had anything to do with
her mysterious disappearance?”
This letter dispatched, madam felt that she had driven an effectual
wedge toward the separation of her son and his despised wife, and she
tried to school herself to patience while waiting for the result.
A week passed, and one morning upon opening the paper madam’s eyes fell
upon the black head-lines announcing a new and heart-sickening horror.
A disastrous fire had occurred the previous night in a certain part of
the city, and a great lodging-house for working girls had been burned to
the ground.
A dozen lives had been lost, the names of those whose bodies had been
found being given, while several were missing.
Madam ran her eye down the list, and she suddenly grew pale with horror
as she read, midway of the column, the name “Miss S. Howland, age about
twenty-one.”
“Can it be Salome!” she breathed with livid lips. She sat staring
blankly at the name for several minutes, cold chills creeping over her
and tingling to her finger-tips and almost paralyzing her from head to
foot. A feeling of guilt and remorse blanched her face and sent a look
of terror into her eyes, for—if Salome had perished in that dreadful way
she knew that she was, in a measure, responsible for her fate.
As soon as she could collect her thoughts and recover from the numbness
that seemed to stiffen every joint and muscle of her body, she ordered
her carriage and drove at once to the place where the fire had occurred.
She could not get very near, for a score or more of men were still at
work among the ruins and the police would not allow the curious
spectators to approach.
But madam, by persistent questioning, discovered who had been the
keepers of the lodging-house and where they could be found.
Being energetic people, who depended entirely upon the letting of rooms
for their living, they were already engaged in fitting up another
establishment for their homeless lodgers, not far from the one that had
been destroyed, and thither madam proceeded at once.
The man and his wife were not averse to talking over the exciting event,
and readily gave all the information she desired.
Yes, they knew the girl whom Madame Winthrop described. She had come to
them about a week before and seemed worn out and almost ill. She had
insisted upon having a room by herself, and as they had but one empty—a
small room at the end of a hall up three flights—she had paid a month’s
rent in advance and at once taken possession of it. The fire had broken
out in the second story and midway of the hall; the building, being old,
had burned very rapidly, and only the girls who lodged in the upper
story and at the end of the house where Miss Howland had a room had
failed to escape. The flames had enveloped the stairway, filled the
place with smoke, and they must have been suffocated before the fire
reached them. Yes, they were sure that at least a dozen girls had
perished—four bodies had already been recovered, although but two could
be recognized. A crushed and mangled body had been found lying by the
remnants of Miss Howland’s trunk, and so they were quite certain that
one of the victims was the girl whom madam was seeking.
Madame Winthrop shivered with horror as she listened to this dreadful
recital, and then asked if the book in which the names of the lodgers
had been registered had been saved.
Yes, everything had been saved from the lower story and much of value
from the second. Could she see the book? Certainly; they were only too
willing to oblige her.
It was brought, and the woman, with a face in which there was not an
atom of color and a heart quaking with fear and dread, read the name of
S. Howland, and at once recognized Salome’s handwriting.
She questioned the people very closely, made them describe Salome over
and over again and the articles of clothing she had worn, and she was
convinced that there could be no mistake. She had not a doubt that
Salome had perished most miserably. Instead of going to the hotel to
which her husband had directed her, she had, in the bitterness caused by
her supposed repudiation, sought to hide herself in this obscure
lodging-house, and under the name by which she had been known previous
to her marriage.
What her ultimate purpose had been, how she had expected to live and
where, after she had gained a little rest and strength, no one could
tell, for the inmates of the house had seen very little of her, as she
had kept very closely in her own room; but one thing was sure, if her
object had been to effectually cut herself off from her husband and his
family, she had succeeded but too well in doing so.
Madam felt faint and sick when she had learned all that the
lodging-house keepers could tell her, and she lay back weak and
trembling in her carriage all the way home. Yet, in spite of her guilt
and remorse over her sin, there was in the depths of her worldly heart a
sense of relief, a feeling of triumph over the fact that her son was
free.
The mortifying _mésalliance_ had been severed; there would no longer be
any fears of meeting the sneers or smiles of ridicule of their
aristocratic acquaintances on account of it. Dr. Winthrop’s brilliant
career would no longer be clogged by a wife whose history was enveloped
in a mystery; he could now seek the coveted hand and fortune of Miss
Sadie Rochester if he chose, and madam secretly vowed that it should be
no fault of hers if he did not in the near future so choose.
* * * * *
Ill-tidings fly fast, and Dr. Winthrop was not long in learning by cable
of the terrible calamity that had overtaken his beautiful young wife.
Shocked, amazed, perplexed by the dreadful message which Madame Winthrop
felt compelled to wire him, heart-broken and utterly unnerved by his
loss, he left his father, who had slowly begun to improve, with his
brother and a skilful physician and took the first steamer home.
Who can portray the agony of suspense which he endured during those
eight days of enforced idleness upon the ocean?
They seemed an interminable age to him, and he was fearfully worn out
and haggard with grief and anxiety when he finally presented himself
before his mother and sister in their home in Thirty-fourth Street.
Madame Winthrop hardly knew him, he was so changed, and her heart quaked
with guilt and fear when he came into her presence.
She saw at once that he had some suspicion of the truth, for he
questioned both her and Evelyn with a sternness and relentlessness that
actually frightened them into admitting much that they would have been
glad to conceal.
“I believe that I have you two women to thank for the life-long
wretchedness that is to be my portion,” he said with exceeding
bitterness when he had learned all that he could force from them. “Why
could you not let my wife alone? I believe you persecuted her until you
drove her to desperation.”
“My son, you use hard words; but I felt justified in questioning Salome
when I learned how she had compromised herself by meeting that man,”
Madame Winthrop returned, striving to recover her accustomed dignity,
but looking both pale and miserable. “You do not suppose that I was
going to allow her to disgrace her husband or his relatives by making
such appointments if I could help it?”
“Salome would never have done anything to compromise herself, to say
nothing about any one else,” Dr. Winthrop sternly returned. “She was a
true lady in every sense of the word and I had the utmost faith and
confidence in her. My darling! my darling! oh! to think that I have lost
you!” he burst forth in a voice of agony, as he wiped the great drops of
perspiration from his brow and paced the floor like one wild.
Madam and Evelyn felt appalled before such grief as this. In their
determination to crush the gentle young wife they had not counted the
full cost to their son and brother. So cold and hard of heart
themselves, they could not realize the strength and depth of affection
which he had for the girl whom he had married under such peculiar
circumstances.
“Who was this man? What do you know about him?” he demanded, when he
could regain his self-control.
“W. H. Brown, he calls himself. He seemed to know all about Salome’s
past and was very anxious to learn where she lived.”
“Does not that very anxiety prove to you that she was innocent of any
wrong?” Dr. Winthrop cried—“that she refused to give him her address
because she wanted to have nothing to do with him?”
“No, it proves nothing to me but that she feared to have the man seen by
us and her relations with him known to us,” madam responded coldly; “and
when she found that we had learned of it, she flatly refused to answer
any of our questions.”
“Of course, mother; and you had no business to arraign her,” Dr.
Winthrop indignantly rejoined. “I was the proper person for her to make
such confessions to, and I have not a doubt that she would have confided
the whole story to me upon my return.”
Evelyn flushed guiltily at this, remembering the intercepted letter
which she believed had contained an explanation of all that her brother
could wish to learn.
“I cannot understand why she should go to that wretched lodging-house
instead of to the —— Hotel,” Dr. Winthrop said, in deep perplexity. “Did
she know that you wrote to me accusing her of these improprieties?”
“It would be natural that she should suppose I would,” said madam
evasively.
“Then I wonder she did not herself write and explain everything.”
“Guilt never is desirous of explaining itself,” but his mother changed
color slightly over the memory of letters which she herself had
intercepted.
“There is no question of guilt in the matter,” hotly returned her son;
“if there is it rests with you two. I will believe no wrong of my
darling. Ha!” with sudden thought; “did she know that you wrote to me
about the escape of sewer-gas?”
“Sewer-gas!” exclaimed Evelyn, surprised, for madam had not confided to
her fully just how she meant to get rid of her brother’s wife; the
sewer-gas had been a cunning after-thought with her and she had
neglected to mention it to Evelyn.
Madame Winthrop shot a lightning glance of warning at her; but it was
too late, for Dr. Winthrop was quick to comprehend that some plot had
been sprung upon his unsuspecting wife.
“Did she even know there was sewer-gas in the house?” he thundered with
white lips—“have you dared to lie to me about this matter?”
“Truman!” his mother tried to say, with all her accustomed stateliness;
but her voice faltered, her eyes drooped, and a guilty flush arose to
her brow, beneath the compelling power of his searching glance, and his
suspicions were verified.
He arose and stood before her white to his lips.
“I can understand now why she would not go to the hotel,” he said, in a
voice that made both of his listeners shiver; “the whole thing has been
a plot to crush an innocent girl and drive her from the protection of
her husband; though what possible good you expected to reap from its
success I cannot comprehend. I see it all—she knew that you had written
to me condemning her, and she may have been too proud to attempt to
vindicate herself of the accusations of her husband’s mother;
or—heavens! can I believe you guilty of such wickedness?—perhaps she did
so, and you intercepted her letters; she did not know you had written to
me that her health was suffering from the defective plumbing in the
house, and when she received my cable dispatch telling her to leave it
at once she must have thought that I believed the very worst—that I
condemned her and wished to have her no longer in my home. How she must
have suffered! my poor, proud, sensitive darling! for she had pride as
quick and strong as even that of a Winthrop, and if she believed I
thought her no longer worthy to share my home, she doubtless resolved
that she would rid me and my persecuting family of herself entirely. And
now she is dead—my beautiful, pure-hearted, much-wronged wife, and I can
never right the terrible wrong. Great Heaven! I cannot—I will not bear
it! I wonder that I do not curse you both and tell you that I will never
look upon your faces again; I—surely will never forgive either of
you—you have murdered my wife!”
He turned abruptly from them as he ceased speaking, and left the room,
while the two cowering, frightened women could only sit and look into
each other’s faces in speechless amazement and agony.
CHAPTER XVI.
DR. WINTHROP’S BATTLE WITH HIS GRIEF.
Evelyn was the first to recover herself. “I never dreamed that True had
such a temper,” she remarked, in a tone of awe, but uttering a sigh of
relief that the trying interview was over.
“He is a Winthrop, and as a race they have been noted for their strong
characters; though I must say I have always been proud of the way that
Truman has controlled himself. I never knew him to give way like this
before,” said madam, as she wiped the perspiration from her forehead.
During all her life she never remembered having been so completely cowed
by any human being.
Yet she did not feel the least regret for what she had done—she was only
annoyed and angered because she had been found out.
Dr. Winthrop, after leaving his mother and sister, went to his own house
on Madison Avenue.
He found the ever-faithful Dick in the stable, and at once dispatched
him for the key. Upon his return, before going into the house, he
questioned the man regarding his wife’s appearance and state of health
before she went away.
“She wur the swatest little woman, sir, that ever breathed,” Dick
replied, with a glowing face; “she always had a kind word for everybody,
and, sir, she were all right for a week or so after yer honor went away,
then she began to droop like.”
“But was she really ill, Dick?”
“Begorra, sir, ye have me there! I bethink she wouldn’t have been so
down at the mouth if ye had been here. I belave, upon me word, that it
wasn’t her body that was ailin’ at all—but sure, she wasn’t happy, like
she was before, sir, and it’s yerself that needn’t be told that the mind
has a great influence over the body.”
The man was very cautious in what he said; he did not wish to throw
suspicion upon his master’s mother or sister, although he, as well as
most of the servants, knew that they had made life wretched for her.
Dr. Winthrop understood it also; what Dick had told him was sufficient
to confirm his suspicions; they had crushed her with their coldness and
arrogance, and they had plotted to drive her from her home and husband.
He was filled with remorse for having allowed them to remain in his
house to torment her with their overbearing insolence; but he had hoped
that her sweetness and beauty would win their hearts.
With his own heart nearly bursting he went into the house, and his first
act was to make a thorough examination of the plumbing.
It was in perfect condition—there was no sewer-gas, no disagreeable odor
in the house.
Then with reverent steps he went up to her rooms.
A groan of anguish burst from him as he opened the door of her pretty
boudoir.
Everything was in the nicest order, but the silence and beauty that had
reigned there seemed to mock his grief.
How exquisitely beautiful everything was! But the charm and spirit of
the place had vanished.
He went into her chamber, but only to have his sense of desolation
intensified. All the dainty toilet articles, which he had taken such
pleasure in selecting for her, lay in their places upon her
dressing-case; she had not taken a single thing with her.
He opened her closet in a mechanical way, and started back as if some
one had struck him when he saw all the beautiful dresses which he had
taken so much pride in purchasing hanging before him and nicely
protected from dust by a sheet which had been fastened over them. Did
she imagine he would ever allow any one else to wear them?
He went to her bureau and opened the drawers one by one, and he could
readily see that whatever had been purchased with his money had been
left behind.
“Oh!” he groaned, “how they must have wounded and humiliated her to have
made her discard everything that I had given her!”
He lifted the lid of a jewel casket, which he had also purchased for
her, expecting to find there the jewels which he had so liked to see her
wear.
But the velvet cushion was bare and his heart gave a great bound. She
had not, then, utterly repudiated everything, and this thought comforted
him a little.
Then a great trembling seized him as he caught sight of a letter pinned
to the satin-lined cover of the box.
It was addressed to him, and with quivering fingers he detached it and
tore the contents from the envelope.
“MY DEAR HUSBAND,” it began, but tears sprang to his eyes, and so
blurred was his sight that for a few moments he could not go on with his
reading. “Let me call you so for this last time,” he read when he could
see again; “yes, for the last time, for I am going away from you
forever. I can see now that it was a great mistake, your marrying me. I
was afraid at the time that you were influenced merely by gratitude. I
am so sorry now that I had not strength to say no when you urged me to
be your wife. If you had but told me truly that it was not love, but
pity for my desolate condition and a desire to care for me when I was
unable to take care of myself, it would have been so much easier and
better every way. Then, too, you were pledged to another, and that made
a triple wrong. It breaks my heart to think of it and that some other
poor girl, who loved you as blindly, perhaps, as I have done, has been
grieving over your broken troth. And now you have banished me from your
home, as if you believed me unworthy to remain there. What is my
offence, True? Did I not make my explanations clear enough in the letter
I wrote you a little more than a week ago? Is it true that because I
withheld my true surname—and, True, I had almost forgotten I had any
other save that of Howland—is it true, as your mother says, that our
marriage was illegal—that I am no wife? Is that why you have sent me
away? If you had only written to me and explained, instead of sending me
that dreadful cable message. Instead of the word I begged for—stay—you
have told me to go. Perhaps you will write now, but since you were in
such a hurry to have me go; since you appear to fear a scandal, and I
know that you did not love me—though you seemed to—I shall not wait for
any cold, cruel letter confirming my fate, but take myself utterly away
from you at once. I wrote you all the truth and only truth, True. Did
what I told you seem too dreadful, too humiliating, to be overlooked and
forgiven? Then I could not help the meeting with that miserable man,
whom I detested and feared—indeed, I could not, although your mother
insists I have compromised you all by the encounter. It was just as I
told you in my letter, and you must know that I could never associate
with such a man. I am sorry—so sorry to have brought discord into your
family; my own are all dead—father, mother, and sister—and I should have
been so glad if I could have stood in the light of a daughter and sister
to your friends. But I have written all this before—how useless to
repeat it! I merely meant to tell you that I cannot go to that hotel and
register myself as your wife, when they tell me that I am not, and when
I am in doubt as to what my future is to be—no, not doubt, for they say
you will never forgive the deception that made our marriage illegal. If
you are not really already free, the law will free you from a runaway
wife.” And here a little of her pride and spirit blazed forth. “I should
not come back here if you did find me; I cannot forgive you that, while
you were pledged to another, you pretended to love me, and married me to
repay an imaginary debt. But—I love you—I love you, and I would have
been true and faithful to you all my life. Forgive me for breaking down
thus, but my poor aching heart would make its last lament. How I shall
live without you I cannot tell; perhaps I shall not live long; I think I
shall be glad if I do not, and then you will be free indeed. Try to
think as kindly of me as you can. I have not willingly deceived you; you
know I wanted to tell you everything in the first place, but you would
not let me. You were very kind to me the little time we spent together,
and when I began to believe that you were growing to love me, as I love
you, I was happier than I can express. I shall leave everything, save
what I have brought with me. The diamonds and other jewelry I have
arranged to send to the safe deposit vault, with the silver; also the
check-book you gave me, and which I have not made use of at all. The
money that you gave me at the same time—or what there is left after
paying the servants—I will keep, for I may not be able to go to work
just yet to earn for myself. I have tried to arrange everything as I
thought you would like; I hope you will find all in good order when you
return. Good-by, True—O True!”
The letter was not signed, and those last words were hardly legible, as
if her fingers had almost refused to trace them.
Dr. Winthrop had groaned aloud again and again during the perusal of
this hopeless, pathetic epistle, and when he came to the end—to that
passionate outburst, “O True!”—he bowed his face upon his hands and
sobbed aloud.
“Oh, why did I leave her here?” he sobbed. “I ought to have known how it
would be. They persecuted and crushed her with their suspicions and
accusations and family pride! My poor, lost darling! it was too, too
cruel!”
It was dark before he could regain anything approaching composure, and
then he went to seek the people who had kept the ill-fated lodging-house
where Salome had gone to hide. He wished to make inquiries regarding the
terrible tragedy that had robbed him of his wife.
But he gained no new points.
Miss Howland had come there in a hack, they told him. They did not know
where she came from, nor how long she intended to remain there. She was
not well—not able to work, and kept secluded in her own room, but as she
paid her rent in advance they did not concern themselves about that.
Dr. Winthrop made them describe her minutely and questioned them very
closely, and he was convinced there was no mistake—it was Salome of whom
they were talking beyond the shadow of a doubt.
“Are you sure that she did not escape—that she was—was——”
He could not complete the sentence except by a shiver of horror.
“Burned?” supplemented the less sensitive landlord. “Yes, sir, it was
simply impossible for her to escape—in fact, all the girls who were on
that side of the stairway were doomed. But I don’t think they suffered
so very much, sir,” he added, as he saw how white the young doctor’s
lips were. “They must have been suffocated before the worst came.”
“And—and their—bodies?”
No one would have recognized Dr. Winthrop’s voice as he made this
inquiry.
“Well, sir, you see they weren’t all recovered—it was a terrible fire,
and when the walls fell in they must have been crushed and slowly
consumed among the red-hot ruins. Only five or six were found, and those
were buried in Greenwood by subscriptions raised by some kind ladies.”
Dr. Winthrop would hear no more—he staggered to his feet and groped his
way like a blind man into the street, wondering if he should go
mad—wondering if he should ever again be able to sleep, with the memory
of that horror haunting him.
He returned to his house, but not to rest. He paced from room to room of
his lonely dwelling all night long and fought his grief as only such
strong, deep natures can fight, and when morning broke it was hard to
recognize in that bowed form, that haggard and furrowed face, the
handsome, stately, and energetic Dr. Truman Winthrop.
He sent Dick out to procure food which he forced himself to eat, simply
because he knew that he must have nourishment, and then, still unnerved
and broken, shuddering with horror and quivering with grief, he again
wandered all day about the desolate and cheerless abode.
When night came he was utterly exhausted, and throwing himself all
dressed upon his bed, he slept simply because he was worn out, and tired
nature must have rest.
The next day was Saturday, and at an early hour of the morning he again
presented himself before his mother and sister.
His face was cold and stern, and he met their anxious, inquiring looks
with hard, almost a vacant stare.
“I have come to tell you that I sail again for Europe this noon,” he
said in a hollow voice. “I simply notify you of my plans that you need
not suffer useless anxiety or make needless inquiries.”
“Truman——” began his mother, in an humble, tremulous tone, for mental
suffering had told somewhat upon her during the last few days.
“Please spare me any objections or comments,” he interrupted in a voice
that had not a particle of feeling in it. “I shall remain in London with
my father until he is able to come home; then I shall send him with
Norman. When I shall return I do not know.”
“But your house—your horses and carriages,” said Evelyn.
“My lawyer will attend to everything,” was the brief reply.
“Oh, my son, do not go from us in such a mood as this,” pleaded his
mother.
He turned upon her with a fierceness that she had never seen in him
before.
“You have broken my heart and you call it a mood,” he said hoarsely.
“But for you two my wife would have been living and happy to-day, and I
should not have to go desolate to my grave. I will never forgive
you—never!”
He turned quickly, as if the sight of them was unendurable, and without
another word or even a backward look walked from the room.
A moment later they heard the outer door close after him, and knew not
whether they would ever see him again.
Madame Winthrop buried her face in her handkerchief, a groan of misery
bursting from her.
Truman—her firstborn—had been her idol all his life, and such a
separation as this was a terrible blow to her.
Too late she realized that she had plotted and sinned for naught; too
late she saw that her ambition and pride had wrought the ruin of several
lives.
Evelyn burst into a passion of tears and berated her brother as “a
hard-hearted brute.”
They were very lonely and miserable for a time after that, but callers
soon began to crowd in upon them, invitations to dine and to various
places of amusement followed, and Evelyn, to drown the voice of
conscience, plunged at once into all the gayeties of the season.
Madam of course had to accompany her as chaperon, though at first she
did so with fear and trembling, for she was in constant dread of meeting
inquiries regarding her son’s romantic marriage.
But, strangely enough, no one appeared to know anything about it, and
the only questions she had to answer were those relating to her
husband’s recent illness and expected return.
She breathed easier when she found that Salome’s existence seemed a
secret, and even, as time went on, began to congratulate herself that
things were as they were—“Truman would soon get over his grief, and
then—Sadie Rochester again.”
The winter passed; spring came; but May began to send forth her buds and
blossoms before Mr. Winthrop was thought well enough to endure the
voyage.
Norman Winthrop returned with his father, but could give no definite
information as to his brother’s plans. He was going to travel, he told
them, but where he did not know, and he had sent no message to either
his mother or his sister; neither had he written them one word since his
abrupt departure.
The Winthrops all went to Cape May for the summer, where Evelyn and her
mother tried to stifle conscience by going into society as much as
possible and by entertaining when the health of Mr. Winthrop would
permit.
He was still very delicate, and spent much of his time, attended by a
servant, upon the beach, or with his books upon the broad veranda of
their cottage.
No word came across the ocean to them from the wanderer, and only once
during these long months did they hear, even indirectly, from him.
Then they learned that a friend of one of their new acquaintances had
met him at Interlaken, where they planned to make the ascent of the
Jungfrau together, after which they were going to Germany in company.
It was meagre news, but they were glad to get even this crumb to feed
their hungry hearts.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE ROCHESTERS ARE INTRODUCED.
It was a fine day in October.
In a beautiful room in one of the apartment-houses in the Rue de Rivoli,
in Paris, a handsome woman might have been seen sitting before a
cheerful fire in the polished grate; for although the sun was shining
brightly outside and the day was perfect, the air within the rooms, shut
in, as they were, behind solid walls, was keen and chill.
The occupant of this room was, perhaps, forty-five years of age, though
she looked younger. She had a small, finely shaped head, large, liquid
brown eyes, and chestnut hair, in which it would have taken a keen eye
to discover a thread of silver, rather delicately moulded features, and
a clear, softly tinted complexion. She was tall and rather slight,
although not angularly so, and there were in every movement an energy
and an animation which, in a woman of her age, were extremely
fascinating.
She was simply, though elegantly, clad in a heavy, lustreless black
silk, that fitted her fine figure like a glove, while the soft white
crape ruchings at her throat and wrist betrayed that she was in
mourning.
Low slippers incased the well-shaped feet that rested upon a hassock. In
her white hands, upon one of which there gleamed a massive wedding-ring
and a costly diamond, she held some bright-colored fancy work, and, in
the light of the glowing fire, surrounded by the rich hangings and
elaborate furnishings of the room, she made a very attractive picture.
Presently the door behind her opened, and a girl of about twenty-two or
twenty-three years swept into the apartment in a bright, breezy way that
was like the rustling of the gayly tinted autumn leaves upon the trees
outside.
“Mamma, such news as I have to tell you—you cannot guess, I am sure!”
she cried as she threw herself into a low rocker opposite the elder
woman and began to remove her beautifully fitting gloves.
She, too, was tall and slight, elegant in figure, perfect in her
bearing; but, unlike her companion, she was very fair, with light hair,
deep blue eyes, and a faultless complexion; and though her features were
cast in a less delicate mould than her mother’s, she was an exquisitely
beautiful girl.
She, too, was clad in black, but it was very becoming to her perfect
complexion.
“News, Sadie?” returned the elder lady as her eyes rested with a look of
pride and pleasure on the graceful figure opposite her. “I hope it is
home news, then, for I am really hungry for something American.”
“It is decidedly American,” cried the young lady, with a clear, exultant
laugh, “for I have met a gentleman from New York this morning.”
“Who?” demanded her mother eagerly.
“Guess.”
“I never could; don’t torture me with suspense, Sadie.”
“Well, then, a no less important personage than Dr. Truman Winthrop, the
man whom Milton Hamilton decreed should be the husband of Albert
Rochester’s daughter,” the girl answered, her blue eyes gleaming with a
light that made them seem almost black, a peculiar smile wreathing her
red lips.
“Sadie, you do not mean it!” exclaimed Mrs. Rochester, for the woman was
no other than the widow of the late Albert Rochester, who had covenanted
with his friend, Milton Hamilton, to unite, by the marriage of his only
daughter with the namesake and heir of the latter, the magnificent
estates of Brookside and Englehurst into one inheritance.
“Yes, I do,” responded the girl, with increasing animation. “I was in
the Luxembourg with Mrs. Savage and Nell, when who should come along but
Nell’s particular friend, Mr. Tillinghast—you have heard her speak of
him—and with him another man, whom he introduced as Dr. Winthrop. You
should have seen his start and look of surprise when he was presented to
me,” and the young lady completed her sentence with an amused ripple of
laughter.
“It is a little strange that we should always have thought of him by the
name of Hamilton until last autumn, when he wrote to your father that he
was coming abroad to meet us, and signed himself Truman Winthrop,” said
Mrs. Rochester musingly.
“Well, I do not know, mamma; we have not known much about the Winthrops.
Papa never met them. The most we have known was that one of the sons had
been named for Mr. Hamilton, who had adopted and made him his heir; so
it was natural, I suppose, that we should think of him as a Hamilton. It
is possible that he resumed his family name again after his uncle’s
death,” Miss Rochester argued thoughtfully.
“Well, I consider it a piece of unexampled good luck, your meeting him
to-day,” the elder lady remarked, with animation. “I did not dream that
he was on this side of the Atlantic and we should have been on our way
to New York a week later. Do you suppose he has written to us again at
Berlin that he was coming abroad, and, failing to get a reply, has been
wandering about in search of us?”
“I am sure I have no idea,” mused the young lady. “I have always thought
it very strange that we never heard anything after receiving that letter
of appointment last year. It has struck me that he was very shy of
us—that he dreaded to meet a woman whom some one else had picked out for
him; and no one could blame him if he did. Still, he might at least have
explained his delay in coming abroad.”
“Describe him to me, Sadie. Is he nice-looking?” asked Mrs. Rochester
with eager interest.
“Mamma, he is grand—a perfect king in appearance! I believe he is the
handsomest man I have ever seen,” the young lady returned with a glowing
face. “Only,” she added, “he seemed strangely sad, as if he had recently
met with some great trouble, and there was a wide band upon his hat.
There must have been some recent death in his family.”
“Perhaps that is the secret of his long delay in coming abroad,” said
Mrs. Rochester. “However,” she added, a peculiar gleam in her dark eyes
as they met her daughter’s, “it is rather fortunate for us, for we can
manage things our own way now. You think you will like him?”
“‘Like?’ It is a strange word to use in connection with him,” said Miss
Rochester, with a flush.
“Then there will be nothing disagreeable to you in fulfilling the
conditions of the will, provided the gentleman is also agreeable?”
questioned Mrs. Rochester, bestowing a searching glance upon her
companion.
“No, indeed!” she answered decidedly. “If I am any judge, Dr. Winthrop
is a man who would not meet his equal among a thousand. Any woman might
feel proud to win him for her husband, even without the very tempting
plum that his uncle has left him.”
“Well, well! I should say this was a case of love at first sight,” said
Mrs. Rochester, laughing; “and it is evident that you will do your
utmost to make yourself agreeable.”
“Yes, if he gives me the opportunity; but I am not going to throw myself
at him, much as I desire to become mistress of that double fortune,”
responded the girl haughtily, but with an anxious frown upon her brow.
“Well, he might go the world over and never find as handsome a wife as
you would make him, Sadie,” returned her mother, bestowing a proud
glance upon her daughter. “For my sake, as well as your own, you must
try to win him, for you know the will says that I can have full control
of the income of fifty thousand only upon the consummation of the
marriage. What an abominable will it is!” she added indignantly; “and
what a couple of fools those two men were! Do you believe Dr. Winthrop
will call upon us?”
“I cannot tell,” responded Miss Rochester thoughtfully; “he looked too
sad to-day to care to make new acquaintances. I should really like to
know what his trouble is. He did not seem disposed to talk with any of
us; but after the introductions were over he passed on and appeared to
be absorbed in the pictures, although once or twice, as I was talking
with Mr. Tillinghast, I caught him regarding me with a curious glance.”
“He was probably taking the measure of the wife whom his uncle had
selected for him,” Mrs. Rochester observed; adding, “I wonder if he
knows that Mr. Rochester is dead?”
“I don’t know; but he was evidently surprised to learn that we were in
Paris.”
“Yes, we were in Berlin when he wrote that he would join us, and
doubtless he imagined that we were still there. I should suppose he
would call; I do not see how he can do otherwise—it would really seem
rude in him to avoid us, even though he should not wish to fulfil the
conditions of the will,” Mrs. Rochester gravely observed.
Yes, Dr. Winthrop was in Paris.
He had met a friend at Interlaken, and together they had made a tour of
the Alps and of Germany, and now were intending to spend a little time
in Paris, after which they were to go on to Italy.
He had been greatly astonished when he was so unexpectedly introduced to
Miss Sadie Rochester in the Luxembourg.
The meeting had also been a great shock to him, for it brought vividly
to his memory all the past and opened afresh the wounds caused by his
recent loss.
He had not given any special thought to the Rochesters since his
marriage. He had expected, as we already know, to go abroad to meet them
the previous fall, but his duties in New York had prevented. Then as
soon as the epidemic in that city had subsided, he had gone to keep a
long-deferred appointment with his friend Dr. Cutler, of Boston, after
which he intended to join his family abroad and meet the lady whom his
uncle and his mother were so anxious he should marry.
Meantime Mr. Rochester, who had long been in poor health, had died
suddenly, and Mrs. Rochester—who, by the way, was a second wife—never
having liked Berlin, but having always been eager for the gayeties of
the French capital, made arrangements as soon as possible to come to
Paris, where she and her daughter had remained ever since.
Being in mourning, they could not go into society very much, but they
managed to have a pleasant time visiting various points of interest and
mingling in a quiet way with a few Americans whom they found in Paris.
Dr. Winthrop, after having sent his father home with his brother, had
begun a sort of aimless wandering, and had been so absorbed in his grief
that he had not given a thought to the Rochesters.
He knew that he had broken the conditions of his uncle’s will by
marrying Salome; and even had he realized that he could still marry Miss
Rochester, or given it any thought whatever, he probably would have
imagined that she would not now entertain any desire for the union,
knowing that he had already chosen some one in preference to her and
given the affection of his heart to another.
He had been struck with Miss Rochester’s exceeding beauty that morning
when he was introduced to her, while the quick flush which had mantled
her cheek on being presented to him told him that she at once associated
him with the strange contract which Mr. Rochester and his uncle had made
in connection with them.
He had been a little surprised, too, by her graciousness of manner, by
the smile of pleasure and glance of admiration with which she had
greeted him.
He had always pictured her as meeting him with coldness, if not with
hauteur. Almost any refined and sensitive woman, he thought, would
resent being so summarily disposed of to a man whom she had never seen,
and of whose character she was in total ignorance.
She certainly would be indignant, he told himself, when, after failing
to keep his appointment a year ago, or to notify either herself or her
father that he had violated the conditions of his uncle’s will, she
should learn of his marriage.
“I ought to have written to Mr. Rochester and explained the affair to
him,” he mused, after returning to his hotel that day; “but so many
things crowded themselves upon me that I did not think anything about
the matter. I must acquaint him now, and formally renounce all claim to
Miss Rochester’s hand, so that he can change the provisions of his will
in her favor if he wishes; for of course, with my crushed heart and
broken life, I cannot marry any woman. What an unpleasant position for
her! for her flush to-day told me that she imagined my errand abroad was
to seek her. She is truly a beautiful girl. I wonder who she is in
mourning for?—her mother, perhaps. I will write at once, state plainly
just how I am situated, and then take myself away from Paris with all
possible dispatch.”
He put his resolution into effect at once. He wrote a full account of
the past year; told what had prevented his keeping his appointment for
the previous year, of his visit to Boston, and the events which led to
his marriage, and the sad incidents that had since so embittered his
life. He stated that he had fully intended to meet Miss Rochester, and,
if they had been mutually pleased with each other, comply with his
uncle’s wishes by asking her to be his wife; but now, under the
circumstances, he felt obliged to waive all claims to her hand, since it
would be but a mockery and an insult to any woman to offer her his hand
when his heart was so filled with the image of another, his life and his
hopes so blighted by the loss of his wife, even if he himself did not
recoil from such a union.
It was a frank and manly letter, written with all the delicacy and
feeling that would naturally be expected from one so innately true and
noble, and having sealed and addressed it, he dispatched it by a special
messenger to the hotel where he had overheard Miss Rochester say she was
stopping.
He had arranged with his friend, Mr. Tillinghast, for a drive in the
suburbs the next day, and as he did not like to disappoint him, he
decided to keep this engagement and leave the following morning for
Italy.
He was still very sad; life seemed to have no special attraction for
him—he had no ambition but to kill time and keep himself from thinking
of the past.
He had lost his interest in his profession, and cared nothing for the
hospitals, as one would naturally expect. He rather shunned them, for
even the sight of one brought back to his mind so much that was
associated with Salome that he could not bear to enter.
The next morning, between eight and nine o’clock, a letter addressed to
“Albert Rochester, Esq.,” was handed to Mrs. Rochester—it had arrived
too late the evening before to be given to her, and she seldom arose
before eight.
“What can be the meaning of this?” she exclaimed, as she read the
superscription, and grew slightly pale at the now unaccustomed sight of
her husband’s name upon a letter.
“What is the matter?” inquired Miss Rochester, looking up from the
morning paper.
“A letter addressed to your father.”
“Open it and read it—then you will know the meaning of it,” was the
practical suggestion of the younger lady.
“There is no postmark upon it, either,” continued Mrs. Rochester, as she
broke the seal. “Why, how strange! it is from some one who does not know
that Mr. Rochester is not living,” she added, with a puzzled air, as she
began to read, and then she turned at once to the signature to ascertain
who had written the letter.
“Sadie, it is from Dr. Winthrop!” she exclaimed, a moment later.
“Why, mamma!” and the girl flushed a vivid scarlet, for something seemed
to tell her at once that the contents of the epistle related in some way
to herself.
“Read it aloud—of course it must be something about that contract,” she
murmured, beginning to tremble with excitement.
Mrs. Rochester obeyed, and both women immediately became absorbed in the
romantic story which the young physician had written, to account for his
long silence and his apparent neglect of them, together with the
explanation of his sudden departure from Paris.
“What a wonderful—almost improbable story!” Mrs. Rochester cried, when
she had finished reading the letter; “and,” she added, with white lips
and a frowning brow, “I suppose this settles your fate as well as mine
regarding that fifty thousand.”
“Yes—oh, mamma!” and Sadie Rochester suddenly slipped from her chair and
lay white and senseless upon the floor at her mother’s feet.
CHAPTER XVIII.
ACCIDENT DISARRANGES DR. WINTHROP’S PLANS.
While Mrs. Rochester and her daughter were absorbed in the contents of
Dr. Winthrop’s letter, the young physician and his friend, Mr.
Tillinghast, were rolling rapidly through the streets of Paris,
intending to have a long day in the suburbs.
It was a fine, bracing day near the last of October; the country was in
its glory, the roads as smooth as a floor, and Dr. Winthrop, feeling
finally released from the Rochester-Hamilton contract and
proportionately relieved, seemed more like himself than he had since his
great trouble.
The two gentlemen enjoyed their excursion exceedingly; they visited
several points of interest, drove over many miles of beautiful country,
and finally returned to the city just as the sun was setting.
As they were passing through one of the crowded thoroughfares to their
hotel, they came upon a carriage that had just been overturned.
A number of people were gathered about it, and they could see some one
assisting a woman from the _débris_.
Mr. Tillinghast put his head out of the window and told the driver to
ascertain what the trouble was.
The coachman made the inquiry and replied that two American ladies had
been driving; their carriage had been struck by a heavy team and been
overturned. One lady had been injured and was now lying unconscious, and
the other one was badly frightened.
The sympathies of both men were at once enlisted. They sprang to the
ground and made their way through the crowd to see if they could be of
any assistance to their unfortunate countrywomen, and the next moment
Dr. Winthrop found himself face to face with Miss Rochester.
For an instant a feeling of annoyance and dismay came over him; then his
native chivalry, as well as his professional instinct, was aroused, the
more so as he caught sight of a middle-aged woman of fine appearance
lying unconscious upon some cushions, the sleeve and front of her dress
saturated with blood.
“Miss Rochester! can I be of any assistance?” he inquired, in a grave,
courteous tone, for he would not force his services upon her even in an
emergency like this.
The girl shot a quick, startled look at him, for she had not seen him
until he spoke her name; then a faint smile broke over her pale face,
and she cried eagerly:
“O Dr. Winthrop! if you will be so kind as to see how seriously mamma is
injured I shall be very grateful.”
He was on his knees before the unconscious woman, making an examination
before she had ceased speaking. He found that Mrs. Rochester’s left arm
had been broken, and was also badly cut by the glass from a shattered
window, while he feared there might be some internal injury, the nature
of which he could not determine without a more thorough examination.
“Tillinghast,” he said to his friend, “lend a hand here; we will put her
in our carriage—that is, if Miss Rochester approves,” he added, glancing
at the anxious girl.
“Certainly. Please do just what you think is best, and believe me I am
very thankful to have you come so opportunely to our aid,” she returned
earnestly.
Dr. Winthrop tied a ligature about the bleeding arm, and then Mrs.
Rochester was borne to the carriage, the daughter following, while,
having given the driver the street and number, the young physician
sprang upon the box beside him, telling him to drive with all possible
speed to their destination.
They had not far to go, and fifteen minutes later the injured woman was
lying upon her own bed, and Dr. Winthrop was making a careful
examination of the case.
He found nothing more serious than the broken bone and the cut, which
was an ugly one, although there was also quite a severe bruise upon her
shoulder.
The broken bone was soon skilfully set, a few stitches taken in the
gaping wound, and then the woman was restored to consciousness and made
as comfortable as circumstances would permit, after which Dr. Winthrop
turned to Miss Rochester and gave certain directions about the treatment
to be pursued during the night.
These matters settled, he quietly inquired:
“Do you know of any skilful surgeon whom you would like to have for Mrs.
Rochester?”
Miss Rochester looked up at him surprised.
“I am sure no one could do better than you. Why should I not leave her
in your care?”
“Thank you for the confidence you manifest,” he replied, “but I leave
Paris to-morrow morning, and would like to place Mrs. Rochester in good
hands before I go.”
She understood; she knew that he was hurrying away from Paris because he
felt that it would be awkward to meet her, and she flushed at the
thought.
But beautiful Sadie Rochester was an accomplished woman of the world,
young as she was. It was her delight to conquer the hearts of men—the
more difficult the conquest the greater her pleasure in the victory—and
now she felt an uncontrollable desire to bring this man also to her
feet.
She had been very much prepossessed with Dr. Winthrop when she was first
presented to him by her friend; she had rarely met any one who made so
strong an impression upon her, and as she had stood before him looking
into his fathomless eyes and reading his grand face, she had
congratulated herself that he, with his great fortune, was the man who
was destined to be her husband.
She had therefore been terribly disappointed when, that very morning,
she had learned the story of his marriage, of his disinclination to
fulfil the conditions of his uncle’s will, and of his intention of
leaving Paris without even the courtesy of paying her a call.
Now accident had thrown him again in her way. Men did not grieve always
over the loss of their wives; they were often consoled by taking
another; and why should she not set her wits at work to win him from his
sorrow, and thus secure for herself the position and fortune she so much
coveted?
Such thoughts as these had been busy in her brain ever since he had come
so opportunely to her aid, and now she suddenly resolved to make the
most of her opportunity.
“O Dr. Winthrop, must you go to-morrow? Is it absolutely necessary?” she
cried appealingly, while she glanced anxiously toward the room where her
mother lay.
It was not absolutely necessary; his time was his own, and he had
intended to stay longer in Paris before his meeting with her.
He flushed slightly with the consciousness of this, and evaded a direct
reply.
“I had arranged to leave for Italy in the morning,” he said.
“I am very sorry,” Miss Rochester returned, with a slight tremor in her
voice; “because, although you are a stranger to us, the fact that you
are one of our countrymen makes me have more confidence in you than I
could have in a native surgeon, however skilful he might be.”
She was very beautiful. She had exchanged her street dress, which had
been torn and soiled in the overturning of the carriage, for a white
cashmere tea-gown, that was simply trimmed with black watered ribbons,
and was very becoming to her, while the appealing expression in her
glance and that pathetic little quiver in her tone touched the young
physician to the heart.
“It is not as if we had papa to depend upon now,” she added, with a
sigh, and then suddenly stopped.
Dr. Winthrop started, and glanced sharply over her black and white
dress, a sudden light breaking upon him.
“Do you mean——” he began, interpreting her emotions rightly.
“Yes, that papa died in Berlin last fall; of course you did not hear of
it,” she said, remembering the letter received that morning.
“No,” and instantly his mind also reverted to the epistle that he had
written to Mr. Rochester. “I am surprised; I had heard nothing of it. It
was very sudden, was it not?”
“Yes, and it left mamma and me quite dependent upon ourselves. So it
seemed almost like a special providence to me when you appeared this
evening to help us in our trouble. Perhaps, however,” she added, with
another sigh, as if she was trying to be resigned to what she could not
help, “you may know of some surgeon whom you could recommend to us—some
one whom you know to be reliable. Mamma is quite delicate, and I should
not like to trust her with one who was not both skilful and
conscientious.”
How tenderly she spoke of Mrs. Rochester, and Dr. Winthrop, knowing that
the lady was Mr. Rochester’s second wife, and consequently Sadie’s
step-mother, was impressed by this apparent goodness of heart.
Why should he not remain and do what he could for these two lonely
women? He might at least postpone his departure for a few days, or until
he could be sure that Mrs. Rochester had suffered no internal injury;
then after her arm began to knit she would not need very close
attention, and he could be spared.
“I will stay,” he said gently, “at least until Mrs. Rochester recovers
somewhat from the shock of her accident.”
Miss Rochester lifted her expressive eyes with a thrilling, grateful
glance.
“You are very good,” she responded simply. Then after a moment, as if
she had suddenly resolved upon the performance of some difficult duty,
she continued, speaking rapidly, though she flushed a vivid crimson.
“And, Dr. Winthrop, if you will forgive me for speaking very freely,
though I know it will set us both more at ease, I would like to tell you
that mamma read the letter you sent to papa this morning, and, as we
have no secrets from each other, I also know its contents. Nay, I beg
you will not allow the fact to make you uncomfortable,” she interposed,
as he flushed and winced, “it is far better that we should clearly
understand each other. It was a foolish and arbitrary thing for two men
to make such a contract as papa and your uncle made years ago; as if a
couple of young people who had never seen each other could assume such
sacred relations to gratify a mere whim. Let me thank you for being so
frank in your letter, and—and may I not number you among my friends?
unless,” she concluded, with a silvery little laugh, that rang like
music through the room, “you regard me as an object to be dreaded and
shunned.”
Dr. Winthrop saw that she understood why he had planned to leave Paris
so suddenly, and he thought her charming in her frankness and in so
courageously attacking the subject of the contract. Probably she had
dreaded the union as much as he, and had gladly welcomed the release
which he had been so tardy in tendering her; perhaps she even loved some
one else, and would now be free to follow the inclination of her heart.
This view of the matter hurt and irritated him a little, and yet he
admired her for being so outspoken, and for trying to put him at his
ease, when she could not fail to understand the embarrassment of his
position.
“You are very good, Miss Rochester, to meet me so openly upon this
subject, and you do me honor in requesting my friendship, which I assure
you is most heartily accorded. I am free to confess that when I met you
yesterday, I almost felt myself a cumberer of the ground, as if I was a
blot upon the otherwise fair sky of your life,” the young physician
concluded, with a deprecatory smile.
Again his companion laughed sweetly.
“There was no need of such self-condemnation as that, I assure you,” she
said, “for you were not to blame—neither of us is to blame because our
natures recoil from obedience to the arbitrary wishes of our friends.
But,” with a roguish glance, “if you feel uncomfortable about remaining
to treat mamma, on my account, I promise you you shall not once set eyes
upon me—you shall not have cause to know that I am in Paris.”
He knew that she did not mean it, yet it told him how cleverly she had
read his feelings.
“Pray, Miss Rochester, do not imagine that I am so unreasonable as that.
I will gladly remain to look after Mrs. Rochester, but you must not
allow my presence to banish you from attendance upon her for a single
moment. You have treated me with too much candor to-day for me to
entertain any other than the most friendly sentiments,” Dr. Winthrop
earnestly replied.
“Thank you for the assurance,” Miss Rochester answered, with a charming
smile. Then she added gently, and with visible feeling: “Mamma and I
were both deeply touched by the sad story in your letter, and I want to
tell you how sorry I am for your great bereavement; you perceive I am
assuming the prerogative of a friend in expressing my sympathy.”
Her voice faltered, and there were tears in her eyes as she held out her
hand to him.
He clasped it, and seemed greatly affected by the feeling which she
manifested.
He could not speak, but he looked the appreciation of her sympathy which
he could not express.
With great tact she changed the subject, and kept him talking for some
time upon topics of mutual interest, and when he finally took his
departure he found, to his surprise, that he had spent more than half an
hour in her society, and enjoyed every moment.
The next morning he felt a strange impatience to learn how his patient
passed the night, and wondered if his former interest in his profession
was not returning to him.
He found Mrs. Rochester much more comfortable than he expected. She was
bright and smiling, and he saw at once that she was a woman possessing
more than ordinary character, with great energy and natural ability.
She greeted him with charming cordiality and thanked him heartily for
having promised to remain in Paris on her account for a few days longer.
“Though,” she remarked, with a resolute nod of her head, “I am not going
to be ill; I believe I should have got up this morning, before this,
only I feared a reprimand from you.”
It would be better, he told her, to lie quietly in bed, for two or three
days at least, until she should fully recover from the nervous shock to
her system.
“But I am in no pain. I am only a trifle weak and a little lame in this
shoulder from the hard knocks I received, and I warn you, Dr. Winthrop,
that I cannot consent to lie inactive here for any length of time. Poor
Sadie is worse off, I believe, than I am this morning,” she concluded,
with a sigh.
“Is Miss Rochester ill?” Dr. Winthrop questioned, with a look of
concern.
He had missed her when he first entered, but kept hoping that she would
make her appearance before he left.
“I cannot say that she is really ill; but she, too, is quite lame from a
wrench which she received in yesterday’s accident,” Mrs. Rochester
replied.
“I am sorry; can I do anything for her?” Dr. Winthrop eagerly asked.
“Thank you, I do not imagine that she needs any special treatment. She
thought that complete rest would do as much for her as anything,” the
invalid returned, a little gleam of amusement in her dark eyes, as she
observed the grave interest that the young physician manifested in her
daughter.
He had confidently expected to meet Miss Rochester, and had looked
forward to the frank, pleasant greeting which he felt sure he should
receive from her.
But Mrs. Rochester had no intention of allowing him to go away moping,
and adroitly started a conversation that kept him chatting for some time
by her bedside. She was a fluent and intelligent talker and a woman who
always made the most of her opportunities, especially when she had any
particular object in view.
She referred, in a casual and delicate way, to what she termed the
foolish whim of his uncle and her husband; seemed to assume that it was
perfectly natural that two young people should revolt against any such
unnatural arrangement, and did not once hint at any personal regret for
the pecuniary loss which the non-conformance to the contract would
entail upon herself or her daughter. She touched upon his peculiar
sorrow in a feeling way, mentioned some of the particulars regarding her
husband’s death, and then passed, easily and gracefully, to more
cheerful topics. She was altogether so genial and entertaining that she
seemed less a stranger than an old friend when the young doctor finally
rose to go.
Mrs. Rochester laughingly remarked, as he shook hands with her, that if
he did not think she needed professional attendance every day he must
intersperse such visits with social calls, for she found it very
refreshing to meet one so recently from America, notwithstanding they
were comparative strangers.
He did not see Miss Rochester the next time he came, nor even the next,
and he grew quite impatient and half-suspicious of the “wrench” which
confined her to her own room.
But when he made his fourth visit he found her sitting in their pretty
parlor, and Mrs. Rochester with her.
Both ladies looked a trifle pale, but exceedingly interesting in their
simple but elegant morning robes.
Both greeted him cordially, and after he had given his attention for a
few moments to his patient he made some inquiry of the younger lady
regarding her own mishap.
“It was not much,” she carelessly replied, a slight tinge of color
suffusing her face; “just a little strain, perhaps, caused by the
overturning of the carriage.”
Then she began to talk of something else, and an hour passed in
delightful conversation, before Dr. Winthrop realized that he was making
an exceedingly unprofessional call.
The few days during which Dr. Winthrop had consented to remain in Paris
lengthened into a fortnight before it occurred to him that he was no
longer really needed by his patient—that any one else, with even
ordinary skill, could now attend to the injured arm as well as he.
Then he excused his disinclination to leave by telling himself that
perhaps it would be as well for him to remain until it was time to
remove the splints and bandages, and besides, he really did not like to
go on without Tillinghast, who was such a pleasant travelling companion,
but who seemed to be especially devoted to Miss Savage and strangely
indifferent to the attractions of Italy.
CHAPTER XIX.
MRS. AND MISS ROCHESTER RECEIVE STARTLING NEWS.
Mrs. Rochester continued to improve daily. She had been in perfect
health at the time of her accident, and so suffered no inconvenience
from it other than that caused by the temporary uselessness of her arm.
But this she could very cheerfully submit to, since she believed it was
serving to lure the handsome and wealthy Dr. Winthrop into the
matrimonial net from which he had so nearly escaped.
He came every day to visit her, whether her wound needed dressing or
not, and always remained for a social chat afterward.
Sometimes Miss Rochester was present, but often she was absent, or she
would occasionally come in before he left for a few moments. She always
greeted him with perfect frankness and without the slightest
embarrassment or self-consciousness. It almost seemed as if she had
forgotten that marriage between them had ever been thought of, and only
remembered that he was her friend.
All this was very pleasant to the unsuspecting physician, who did not
dream that it tended toward a dangerous pitfall laid for his unwary
feet; that Mrs. Rochester was only adroitly alluring him with her
charming conversation and manifestations of friendliness; that her
daughter was simply piquing his interest by purposely absenting herself
from his presence, and only occasionally permitting him to bask in the
sunlight of her smiles and fascinating society.
It is not strange that Dr. Winthrop eagerly availed himself of anything
that would serve to distract his mind from his own mental suffering, and
really it would have been hard to find two women more calculated to make
a man forget his trouble, for their tact and resources were boundless.
Upon two or three occasions he had invited Miss Rochester to join him
with his friend and Miss Savage on excursions to different points of
interest, but she invariably declined with thanks, telling him with her
sweetest smile that she could not feel comfortable to leave mamma;
perhaps when she was better and able to go out again she would be glad
to avail herself of his kind offer to act as their escort, if—he was
still in Paris.
He thought it was very lovely in her to be so devoted to her mother—a
step-mother at that—and did not once suspect that she was only cunningly
angling for the fish which she was determined to land, if possible, high
and dry upon the shores of matrimony.
Meantime Madame Winthrop and Evelyn—the latter being intimate with Miss
Nellie Savage and in regular correspondence with her—had learned that
Dr. Winthrop had met the Rochesters in Paris, and how the meeting had
been brought about.
“Everything is coming out all right, mamma,” Evelyn had triumphantly
remarked, after imparting the information to her mother. “Miss Savage
writes that Sadie Rochester is a very fascinating girl, as well as a
thorough society woman, and that True is a constant visitor at their
hotel.”
“That is the best news that I have heard for months,” madam responded,
her face lighting with pleasure; “and now, Evelyn, I think the wisest
thing we can do will be to go directly to Paris, make the acquaintance
of the Rochesters, and do all that we can to bring about that marriage.”
“I believe that would be a good move, mamma; but would papa consent to
the plan?” Miss Winthrop inquired, in some doubt.
“Yes; he said only yesterday that he wished he were back again on the
other side of the Atlantic. I imagine, as his health is not fully
restored, that he does not feel quite safe to be so far away from
Truman, in whose medical skill he has absolute faith.”
“Then let us go at once, by all means. I have been dying to get away
from New York ever since that dreadful fire; the place seems haunted to
me.”
The plan met the ready approval of both Mr. Winthrop and his son Norman;
it was, therefore, immediately acted upon, and a few weeks later the
whole family were pleasantly settled in spacious apartments overlooking
the Place de la Concorde.
Dr. Winthrop was greatly surprised and not very well pleased by their
sudden and unlooked-for appearance; but, at his father’s earnest
request, he consented to give up his lodgings and come to them, so that
he might be at hand if any one were taken ill. Mr. Winthrop had been
very nervous about himself ever since his last attack.
Mrs. Rochester and Madame Winthrop at once became very friendly, and
freely opened their hearts to each other; they agreed that a union
between the Hamilton heir and Rochester heiress was the one thing, of
all others, to be most desired, and pledged themselves to spare no pains
to bring about the desired alliance.
“Who was this girl whom your son married under such romantic
circumstances, and who died such a dreadful death?” Mrs. Rochester
inquired one day during a long and confidential conversation with her
new friend.
“She was a Miss Howland.”
“Howland! Howland!” repeated Mrs. Rochester meditatively, as if the name
had a familiar sound, and yet she could not quite identify it.
“Yes—Salome Howland,” said Madame Winthrop.
Mrs. Rochester was sitting by a window, and happened to be looking down
upon the street at that moment, so that her companion could not see the
deadly pallor that suddenly settled over her face, nor the look of
horror that leaped into her eyes at the sound of that name.
“Salome Howland!” she managed to articulate, after a moment, during
which she had fought against a deadly faintness that threatened to
overcome her; “Salome! that is not a common name. What kind of a person
was she? I have a—a great desire to know what she was like.”
“Well, I am bound to confess that she was a very attractive-looking
girl—very. She had very dark hair and eyes, a peculiarly fair,
cream-like skin, delicate, beautiful features, and a very graceful form.
She was, perhaps, five feet and a half in height, and in her manner and
bearing she was peculiarly self-possessed and pleasing. She had
beautiful teeth and small, shapely hands and feet, was well educated,
and even accomplished, especially in music.”
“Heavens!” murmured Mrs. Rochester, under her breath, and a shiver, as
if from a sudden chill, ran over her.
She rose from her chair and straightened herself, as if to throw off a
certain numbness that seemed creeping over her, and moved toward the
fire.
“It is cold to-day,” she remarked, as she bent over the glowing coals,
hoping that the ruddy flame within the grate would impart a tinge of
color to her face and warm her chilled blood.
“Yes, we are having an unusually severe winter for Paris,” Madame
Winthrop responded, but without appearing to notice that there was
anything peculiar in either the manner or appearance of her guest.
“And your son, Dr. Winthrop, really loved this girl, you think?” Mrs.
Rochester resumed, as she sank into a low rocker by the grate.
“Yes,” replied her companion, with a frown, “it was a clear case of
infatuation, though it mortifies me to confess it in connection with my
son. I would not have believed that Truman could have so lost his head
over any woman, much less over one surrounding whom there was so much
mystery. And he does not seem to get over it, either. It is true that
when he is in company he throws off his gloom for a time, but here at
home he is sad and depressed—entirely unlike himself,” and she sighed
heavily as she concluded.
She realized that she was paying dearly for her treatment of her son’s
wife and for her sinful scheming, for it was only too evident that Dr.
Winthrop could not forget it; he had said he would never forgive her,
and it was doubtful if he ever did.
“But she is dead—you are sure she is dead?” eagerly inquired Mrs.
Rochester, with a peculiar gleam in her eyes.
“Oh, yes; there cannot be the slightest doubt upon that point, for we
made the most searching and careful inquiries.”
Mrs. Rochester soon after took her leave, but as she went out to her
carriage she walked as one in a dream, and her coachman was obliged to
ask her twice where she wanted to go before she heard him.
“Home,” she briefly said, and all the way she sat rigid as a statue,
seeing nothing, hearing nothing of what was going on about her.
She found Sadie in the drawing-room arranging a profusion of flowers in
some vases.
“Aren’t they lovely, mamma?” she cried with unusual animation as the
door opened and her mother entered.
“Yes; where did you get them?” she asked, but in an indifferent tone.
“Mr. Winthrop sent them.”
“Mr. Winthrop?” Mrs. Rochester repeated sharply, bestowing a searching
glance upon the young lady.
“Yes—Mr. Norman Winthrop,” and a swift wave of color flitted across the
girl’s fair face; for since the arrival of the Winthrop family in Paris,
Dr. Winthrop’s twin brother had paid very marked attention to Sadie
Rochester.
“S—adie!” said her mother in a tone of grave reproof as she noticed the
flush. “I hope there will be no nonsense in that direction.”
The young girl laughed lightly but with averted face.
“You intend to marry Dr. Winthrop, don’t you?” pursued the elder woman,
looking anxious.
“Yes, if I can only induce him to ask me,” Miss Rochester answered
coldly, but looking a trifle pale.
“Then let his brother alone,” said her mother sternly—“you have no
business to coquet with him; you’ve broken hearts enough without making
mischief in that family.”
“Pshaw, mamma!” retorted the young lady impatiently, but her under lip
trembled slightly as she spoke. “Norman Winthorp is capable of taking
care of his own heart.”
“Capable or otherwise, you had better take my advice and let him alone,”
was the quick retort. “Why can’t you behave yourself, if you have made
up your mind to marry his brother? Dr. Winthrop is a man who will never
be trifled with, if, indeed, he can be won at all. And, S—adie——”
“Why do you keep halting and stumbling over my name in that fashion,
mamma?” Miss Rochester demanded, with an irritable tap of her pretty
foot—“it is, to say the least, very—unpleasant.”
“Yes, I know, but somehow, I am so upset, I couldn’t help it. You will
not wonder that I halt and stumble, when I tell you—oh! whom do you
suppose Dr. Winthrop’s wife was?”
“What a question! How could I possibly know?” returned Miss Rochester,
with an indifferent shrug of her shapely shoulders, as she stood back a
step or two to admire the arrangement of her flowers.
“Salome Howland!”
“What!” screamed the astonished young woman, as she turned and faced her
mother, doubt and terror depicted upon her face, which was now as white
as the dainty cashmere robe in which she was clad.
“It is true,” said her mother.
“Good gracious, mamma! it can’t be possible! I cannot believe it!
And—and you know we thought she was dead long ago.”
Miss Rochester had now forgotten both her flowers and their
giver—everything but the amazing news which her mother had brought her,
and, sinking weakly upon a chair, she continued to stare blankly at her.
“So she is—now,” Mrs. Rochester returned, with a satisfied inflection
upon the adverb. “I do not wonder that you are astonished,” she resumed.
“I thought I should lose my senses when Madame Winthrop told me of it.
That girl who died in London must have been some one else of the same
name.”
“Oh, I hope there is no mistake this time,” whispered Miss Rochester
hoarsely, “for she was the only one who knew, and if she should turn up
now it would be dreadful.”
“I do not think there can be any mistake,” returned her mother, and then
she proceeded to relate all that Madame Winthrop had told her, and
concluded by remarking, “I never had such a shock as when I realized
that Dr. Winthrop had married your cousin; it seemed simply impossible,
and yet when she described her, I knew it must be true. She must have
gone directly to America after disappearing so strangely. And then to
think of her going into a hospital as a common nurse! Still she was
always very skilful in your father’s sick-room. I hope the Winthrops
will never learn the truth—it would ruin all your hopes of ever winning
the doctor, if he should ever suspect.”
“Nonsense, mamma!” returned Miss Rochester, who was beginning to recover
her self-possession and her spirits; “how could they ever suspect the
truth, when there is no one now to hint at it? Everything is coming out
beautifully, at least I have strong hopes of it. At any rate you and I
have had a grand good time this last year by ourselves. Salome was
always such a bore and a marplot, in spite of her generosity. However,
we shall have it all our own way now, and if I can only manage to win
Truman Winthrop I shall have reached the summit of my ambition.”
“What an avaricious creature you are, Sadie! But I am afraid Dr.
Winthrop will never love you as well as he loved her. Madam says he
idolized her,” said Mrs. Rochester regretfully.
“I do not expect that he will; I do not want him to. I imagine it would
be rather tiresome to be so idolized,” the young lady coldly returned;
and yet, as she went back to her flowers, her eyes softened and a
delicate flush rose to her cheek.
A knock upon the door presently sounded, and a servant announced Mr.
Norman Winthrop.
The two women rose to welcome him, one with a smile and blush of
pleasure, the other with a sigh and with a look of anxiety upon her pale
face.
CHAPTER XX.
A FLIGHT FROM WAR AND PESTILENCE.
Mr. Norman Winthrop was so like his brother, the physician, that, to a
casual observer, he would have appeared to be the same man.
He had the same symmetrical, stalwart form and noble carriage; the same
fine, clear-cut intelligent face, and smile, and hair and eyes. But he
lacked something that Dr. Winthrop possessed. Perhaps it was the grave,
yet gentle dignity which always characterized the latter; or it may have
been the frank, honest, straightforward look with which he met the
glance of every one, which Norman had never possessed.
They frequently had occasion to laugh over the fact of their striking
resemblance and the ludicrous mistakes which sometimes occurred. For
instance, Dr. Winthrop and his brother were once invited to a reception
which the young physician was unable to attend. When Mr. Norman Winthrop
presented himself before his hostess, she inquired for his brother and
he explained that an important engagement had detained him. But chancing
just then to glance toward the other end of the room, he exclaimed:
“Why, no! there he is now!”
And excusing himself to the lady, he went to meet his brother and walked
straight up to a full-length mirror that had been let into one side of
the room, to find that he had mistaken his own reflection for the young
doctor.
But Miss Sadie Rochester had never yet been guilty of mistaking one for
the other, let her meet them where she would.
She had thought, the first time she saw Dr. Winthrop, that she had met
her fate, for she had been attracted toward him as no other man had ever
attracted her. She recognized in him a nature more lofty, a character
more true than other men of her acquaintance possessed, and she believed
that if she could win him for her husband and thus secure also the two
great fortunes, she would have nothing left to wish for.
But when Norman Winthrop suddenly made his appearance upon the scene she
realized at once her mistake.
The moment he greeted her—the moment his hand clasped hers and his eyes
looked into hers she recognized a magnetic influence which his brother
lacked, and from that hour he began to weave a strange spell about her.
She could not say that she liked Dr. Winthrop less, and had she never
seen his twin she would have believed that she loved him; but there was
a subtle power in every look, tone, and movement of Norman, which set
all her pulses thrilling, as if they had been wrought upon by some weird
and fascinating music.
Was it the element of wickedness inherent in both their natures which
recognized in each other a kindred spirit?
The young man, on his part, seemed fascinated from the hour of their
introduction, and, despite the fact that he knew Miss Rochester had for
years been the destined bride of his brother, he devoted himself to her,
attending her upon every possible occasion, calling upon her frequently,
and constantly sending her fruit, flowers, or some other reminder of
himself.
Mrs. Rochester saw danger ahead from all this attention, and the evident
pleasure with which Sadie received it. She was very much troubled,
heartily wishing that Norman Winthrop had never made his appearance in
Paris; but she seemed powerless to change anything, or to prevent the
development of the acquaintance, and was therefore obliged to let
matters take their own course.
It was a very gay winter, in spite of the fact that death had so
recently visited both families.
Miss Rochester wilfully insisted that there was no sense in shutting
one’s self away from all life and enjoyment, simply because they
happened to be in mourning, while Madame Winthrop and Evelyn declared
that Dr. Winthrop owed it to them to act as their escort, since Mr.
Winthrop was unable to endure excitement of any kind and they always
managed—when Norman did not interfere—so that he and Miss Rochester
would be thrown together.
Thus the season passed, and both Evelyn and Miss Rochester became so
absorbed in their pleasure-seeking that they utterly refused to heed the
warning of their friends to leave Paris, for the signs of the times
betokened serious political complications.
They laughed to scorn the idea that Americans could be in any danger,
and kept putting off their departure until it was too late, and the
insurrection of that ever-memorable year burst upon them, with all its
horrors. Every avenue of escape from the city was suddenly cut off, and
there appeared no possibility of their being able to leave for a place
of safety. Those were experiences which tried the souls of both men and
women, and it is doubtful if the Winthrop or Rochester ladies were ever
so subdued as when they discovered that they were shut into that
turbulent city with unknown dangers on every hand.
One morning Dr. Winthrop called at Mrs. Rochester’s rooms, and his pale
face and hurried manner, plainly betrayed that he was laboring under
great anxiety.
Miss Rochester was alone in the drawing-room when he entered, for her
mother, not feeling well that morning, had not yet made her appearance.
“What is the matter?” Miss Rochester questioned, as she gave her hand to
the young physician; then, with a sudden sense of impending evil as she
searched his troubled face, she laid her other hand upon his arm.
“I have come to see if you and Mrs. Rochester can be ready to leave
Paris at a moment’s notice,” he replied.
“Why; are we in any danger?” she cried in alarm.
“Every one in the city is in danger,” he answered. “There is no knowing
what may happen during the next twenty-four hours. I am going to try to
arrange for a place of safety for you, with my mother and sister, if you
will be guided by me and consent to go with them.”
“Of course I will be guided by you. How good you are to think of us!”
Miss Rochester returned, clinging to him and looking up into his face
with an air of trust, which she meant should tell him a great deal.
In spite of the strange power which his brother had acquired over her,
she was determined to marry Dr. Winthrop if she could win him; the great
possessions which the union would secure to her were of more consequence
than all the sentiment in the world.
“Of course I should think of you, when you and Mrs. Rochester, have no
protector,” the young man replied. “I am only sorry now that I did not
insist upon your all leaving Paris when I first proposed it.”
“Where can we go?” she asked.
“I do not know yet,” he said thoughtfully; “I am on my way now to see
what arrangements I can make with the American Consul for your safety.”
“For our safety!” she repeated. “Surely you are coming with us,” and
Miss Rochester’s white fingers closed almost convulsively over his arm,
while her anxious eyes searched his face.
“Yes, I shall not leave you until you are all comfortable somewhere,
but——”
“You will not then return?” she cried in a startled tone.
“Yes,” he reluctantly admitted, “I did not mean to tell any one of my
intention, but since you have suspected it, I may as well own that I am
coming back to offer my services as surgeon and physician in the
hospitals.”
“Oh, pray do not! think of the danger!” Miss Rochester pleaded in tones
of distress.
“I have no fear,” he said gravely, while he added to himself that it
could not matter much to him what danger or fate awaited him, for life
had few charms for him without Salome to share it.
“No, perhaps not for yourself,” his companion returned, in tremulous
tones, “but for the sake of others you should guard your life. If—if
anything should happen to you! Oh, Dr. Winthrop, I could not bear it.”
She had spoken very rapidly, and almost passionately—apparently driven
on by feelings which she could not control, while the look in her eyes
revealed to him just what she had long been trying to make him
understand, that he had become all in all to her.
Then all at once, she appeared to become conscious of how much she was
betraying. A look of consternation and dismay swept over her face—the
rich blood rushed in a crimson tide over cheek, neck, and brow, and the
next moment, as if overcome with shame for such an unguarded confession,
she dropped her head in graceful humility upon the hand which still
clasped his arm, and murmured brokenly.
“Forgive me—forgive me!—I forgot—I did not mean——”
At that instant a door, close by which the young couple were standing in
such a suggestive attitude, opened, and Mrs. Rochester appeared upon the
scene.
Her face lighted with glad surprise, as, at a glance, she seemed to take
in the situation.
It was too late to beat a retreat, for Dr. Winthrop had already seen
her, so she thought she might as well take time by the forelock and give
the young man to understand that she believed him a happy accepted
lover.
“I hope you will pardon me,” she said, with a frank, delighted smile, “I
would not have intruded had I suspected the nature of this interview;
but you will at least allow me to express my pleasure, and offer
congratulations.”
“Oh, mamma!” burst from Miss Rochester, and then, as if overcome with
confusion, she darted through the open door, telling herself with a
feeling of triumph, that Dr. Winthrop, having been caught in such a
compromising position, could not do otherwise than yield gracefully to
his fate and ratify the engagement which both families so much desired.
Dr. Winthrop, whose mind was intent only upon getting safely out of
Paris, did not realize that then was the proper time to disclaim the
honor which was being thrust upon him. He pitied the fair girl, who had
so thoughtlessly betrayed her love for him, and felt that it would
perhaps be best to leave her to make her own explanations to her mother.
So he only bowed gravely in reply to Mrs. Rochester’s greeting, though a
deep flush swept across his brow; then, ignoring her remark entirely, he
said.
“I came this morning to ask Miss Rochester if you and she could be ready
to leave Paris at short notice. The city is in such a turbulent state
that we all feel it would be best to get away as soon as possible.”
“Is it so bad as that?—are we in danger personally?” she asked, growing
pale with anxiety.
“I will not deceive you—yes. The people are so excited and unreasonable
that there is no knowing what they may do.”
“Then let us go at once—I can be ready in less than an hour,” said Mrs.
Rochester, all her native energy and courage rising to meet this
emergency.
“We will if we can—if every avenue is not closed against us,” he
replied. “Get your trunks packed and be ready when I come, or send for
you.”
“We will,” was the decided answer, “and,” with a significant smile,
“Sadie is, of course, perfectly willing to be guided by you, now.”
He made no reply to this, but took his leave at once, although not in a
very comfortable frame of mind, for it was very evident that Mrs.
Rochester regarded him as a prospective son-in-law and was very much
delighted in the belief.
“Surely Miss Rochester will not allow her mother to imagine that I have
made her an offer of marriage; she will of course explain our
unfortunate position,” he mused, as he went out. “It was very
disagreeable, and I am surprised at her for losing her self-possession
so completely. I did not imagine that the girl really cared for me in
any such way, she has always been so frank and friendly. I did not dream
that she would fall in love with me; I half suspected that she was
getting fond of Norman.”
“Well, since she has fallen in love with you, why shouldn’t you marry
her? You are free, and you are not likely to meet another woman so
loving and accomplished as Sadie Rochester; and then you could settle at
once and forever the vexing question of the Hamilton-Rochester
contract,” was the question which arose in his mind in answer to his
previous musings. He thoroughly believed in Sadie Rochester, never once
suspecting that she had been playing a part during all these months.
Though he recognized her beauty and many accomplishments, and knew that
she would shine in any position, he had an instinctive shrinking from an
alliance with her.
But these thoughts could not long remain uppermost in his mind. His
chief anxiety now was to get his family to a place of safety, and in
this undertaking he was peculiarly fortunate.
Mr. Tillinghast met him soon after he left Mrs. Rochester, and told him
that he knew of a couple of families who were going outside the city
limits that very evening. They had secured passes through some one in
high authority, and were to occupy a portion of a large villa that was
almost a palace, on the banks of the Seine, about ten miles out. He
believed that Dr. Winthrop might succeed in getting his family and the
Rochesters passed out with them.
It was an opportunity to be instantly seized upon. He sought the parties
at once. They were very kind and sympathetic, and consented to take the
frightened Americans in charge. Everything was arranged with comparative
ease, and the next day they were all safely housed in the spacious
villa, and delighted to be out of danger.
When Dr. Winthrop had seen them comfortably settled, he informed his
mother that he was going to return to Paris to resume his practice in
the hospital or wherever he should be most needed.
Madam rebelled violently against this plan.
“You have no right to do it—no right to thus rashly risk your life,
especially now,” she vehemently asserted with significant emphasis on
the last word.
“What is my life?” he demanded bitterly, with a slight quiver of his
lips; “and what especial value can it have at this time?”
“Can you ask,” his mother inquired, astonished, “when at last you have
come to your senses?”
“What do you mean?” he questioned, astonished, in his turn.
“Why, that you are finally going to do the proper thing, and marry Sadie
Rochester.”
“Who said I was going to marry Miss Rochester? Did she tell you so?” Dr.
Winthrop gravely inquired.
“No; of course not. Such an announcement should come from you. But Mrs.
Rochester has told me what happened in her drawing-room the other
morning. She said that you might not be quite ready to formally announce
it, for she could get nothing definite from Sadie; but she was confident
that you were engaged.”
“Mrs. Rochester is surely very good to arrange everything so comfortably
for me,” Dr. Winthrop replied with a curling lip, while in his heart
there arose a feeling of contempt for Miss Rochester, because she had
neglected to set matters straight.
No matter what her own feelings might be, she at least should have
exonerated him from the suspicion of having proposed to her and been
accepted.
He turned abruptly and left his mother, without attempting to explain
further, and returned directly to Paris. Certainly no one could have
thought him very lover-like to depart without taking leave of his
supposed _fiancée_.
Madam spent the remainder of the day in tears; for the estrangement of
her son was a great trial to her, since it proved that he had not
forgiven her for the part she had taken against Salome.
Several days passed, and then the terrible crisis came—a crisis the
memory of which makes many a Frenchman shudder to-day—and then, before
the horrors of the insurrection had fairly begun to subside, there went
abroad the paralyzing rumor that cholera had broken out in the doomed
city.
Who shall describe the weeks that followed? The terrors of riot and of
war were as nothing compared with the onward march of that silent and
stealthy foe, that mowed down thousands with its invisible but deadly
weapons.
Dr. Winthrop was in Paris through it all, and had thrown himself heart
and soul into caring for the perishing ones around him.
He had advised his father and brother to take the family and go to
England or Scotland, or to some other healthful resort, where there
would be little or no danger of the dread disease.
But his mother obstinately refused to go, while he remained, and of
course the other members of the family would not leave her.
Every one else had fled from the villa upon the first rumor of cholera,
and Mrs. Rochester would have been glad to follow, but her daughter was
as obstinate as Madame Winthrop herself. She had so set her heart upon
winning Truman Winthrop, so determined to secure the prize for which she
had schemed and humiliated herself, that she resolved to boldly face
death rather than run the risk of losing him. Besides, Norman Winthrop
was obliged to remain.
So the Winthrops and the Rochesters had the magnificent villa to
themselves, and a charming place it was.
It was finely and healthfully situated, and Dr. Winthrop said that if
they were bound to remain in France they could not be in a better place.
Still he would have much preferred that they should go to Scotland, and
it was a continual cause for anxiety to know that they were in danger
from the pestilence.
Mr. Tillinghast, too, had refused to leave his friend, but he was also
one of those heroes who never think of self, and he had insisted upon
going into the hospital to act under the direction of Dr. Winthrop.
But in his enthusiasm he overtaxed himself, and one day he was stricken
with the dread disease.
Dr. Winthrop felt as if the “tug of war” had set in, in good earnest. He
could not devote himself exclusively to his friend, for the entire care
of some of the wards of the hospital devolved upon him during certain
hours of each day, while nurses were very scarce, and he found it
impossible to secure the constant services of any one in the private
room which he had, by paying an exorbitant price, managed to secure for
Tillinghast.
“I must have a nurse and a competent one,” he exclaimed, almost in
despair, after searching for more than an hour one day, and an hour in
the race with death was very precious.
He had just come into one of the wards where he belonged, and was about
to begin his rounds, when his eye fell upon a couple of nuns, who were
in the habit of coming every day to assist and relieve some of the
nurses. They belonged to the order of Gray Nuns, and were clad in the
loose and homely garb worn by that sisterhood. But little could be seen
of their faces, for they wore the close, gray bonnet, with a wide frill
of black tissue plaited about the edge of a little black silk cap worn
underneath, and white bandages about their foreheads and chins. The only
way that they could be distinguished from each other—for they were of
the same height—was by a pair of double blue glasses which one of them
wore.
But they were very helpful, very sweet and gentle in their ways,
particularly the sister in blue glasses, who was known as Sister Angela,
or “The Angel in Gray,” as the poor soldiers and patients soon learned
to call her.
CHAPTER XXI.
DR. WINTHROP PASSES THROUGH DEEP WATERS.
“Perhaps they will know of some one whom I can get to nurse
Tillinghast,” Dr. Winthrop muttered, as he watched these two Sisters of
Mercy flitting from couch to couch, intent only upon relieving the
suffering around them.
He had never yet spoken with them, for on his approach they would always
modestly withdraw, and stand with bowed heads and crossed hands until he
had made his explanation, given his orders to the head nurse, and passed
on.
Now, however, he walked directly toward one of them, who was bathing the
hot face and hands of a poor fellow who had lost a leg during the
insurrection.
Her back was toward him and he did not know which one she was until he
stepped beside her and she turned her face to him; then he caught sight
of the blue glasses and he saw it was Sister Angela.
“Can I speak with you a moment, Sister?” he inquired in a low tone.
She stepped back, crossed her hands upon her bosom, bowed her head and
waited to hear what he had to say.
“My friend has been suddenly stricken down,” he began, “I must have a
competent nurse at once, or he will die. Do you know of such a one?”
“No, monsieur,” she replied, “every nurse in Paris is engaged—see!”—with
a sweeping gesture of the hand, though she did not raise her head or her
glance—“you have not sufficient help even here, and hundreds are dying
outside for the want of proper care.”
“Then, what shall I do?” cried Dr. Winthrop, and there was a note of
agony in his tone. His friend had not spared himself for others, and he
could not bear that he should die from lack of care.
“Has monsieur no friends who could come to him?” inquired the nun.
“No; none who would be of any service at such a time,” and he shivered
as he thought of bringing any member of his family into that pest-house.
Norman was the only one who occurred to him, and he was needed too much
elsewhere to be thought of for a moment.
“Monsieur is very ill?” said the nun inquiringly.
“Very; I fear the worst,” he replied, with a heavy sigh.
Sister Angela seemed to be thinking deeply for a moment; then telling
him briefly to wait, she went down the ward and talked earnestly with
the other nun for a few minutes.
Presently she returned and said:
“I know something of sickness and if _monsieur le docteur_ will trust
me, I will do the best I can.”
“Will you? Can you leave your other duties?” he eagerly cried.
“My duties are those that lie nearest at hand and are the most urgent,”
she quietly answered, but the low, sweet tones were like music to him,
for there was hope in them.
“Thank you,” the physician gratefully returned, “you have taken a great
load from my heart. When can you come?”
“_Monsieur le docteur_ may take me to his friend at once—the need is
great; I delay not for anything.”
“You are very good,” her companion returned in a tone that trembled, for
he was deeply moved. Then turning abruptly, he simply bade her “Come.”
She followed him to a room at the further end of the ward, where he
opened a door and then stood aside to allow her to pass in.
The apartment was very comfortable, cool, and well ventilated, and the
windows had been darkened, for the glare of the sun was hot and painful.
Sister Angela passed noiselessly in, glancing toward the patient as she
did so. She quietly removed her close gray bonnet, but Dr. Winthrop,
though he tried to do so, could not get even a glimpse of her face, for
the plaiting of black silk tissue which was fastened to her cap, still
fell close about it.
She went directly to the bedside and looked more closely at the patient.
“He is very low, monsieur,” she said to Dr. Winthrop, who was gazing
sadly at his friend, while he felt his pulse.
“He is, indeed,” he whispered with emotion.
“Has he hot water at his feet and warm flannel about his body?” was the
next query. “Ah!” without waiting for a reply, and deftly slipping her
hand under the bedclothes to the patient’s feet, “the bottle is cold, it
must be renewed.”
She drew it forth, glided swiftly yet noiselessly from the room, but was
back again before he could have thought it possible, and replaced the
replenished bottle at the sick man’s feet.
She then heated a blanket, which she spread over his body and limbs,
after which she turned her attention to his nourishment.
“Ah, this is very badly made,” she murmured, as she stirred the
arrow-root gruel that stood cold upon the table, and found it full of
lumps.
She set about preparing some fresh, and not long after was deftly
feeding the almost dying man with a smooth, well-cooked porridge, to
which she had added a little brandy.
Dr. Winthrop was greatly relieved as he noticed how efficient she was,
and though he did not have much hope that his friend would live, he felt
that at least he would henceforth have everything needful done for him.
All day long he was in and out of the room to watch his condition, and
give him what personal attention he could. The nurse, though she seldom
spoke or even looked at him, obeyed every direction implicitly and
intelligently, and toward evening he could detect a slight—a very slight
improvement in Tillinghast’s condition.
Sister Angela did not spare herself; she renewed the hot bottles at his
feet the moment they began to cool; she kept the heated blanket
constantly about his body and administered either nourishment or
stimulants every few minutes.
During the night she was just as faithful; not once did she close her
eyes to sleep or relax her vigilant care of her charge, and by morning
he was more comfortable, if not actually better. But he was so weak, his
pulse was so feeble, that Dr. Winthrop did not dare to hope much from
the trifling improvement in his condition.
Mr. Tillinghast, however, appeared to have a little more consciousness
of the efforts to save him, and eagerly swallowed his nourishment and
stimulants, instead of lying, as hitherto, almost indifferent.
“You will be worn out—you must have rest,” Dr. Winthrop said to Sister
Angela, as the second day of her attendance drew near its close and she
was still as unremitting in her attentions as ever.
“Nay; I shall not leave _monsieur le docteur’s_ friend until he is out
of danger, or past all help,” she returned quietly but resolutely, and
no amount of persuasion could change her decision.
The young man did get better, he continued to rally slowly but steadily,
and in a few days Dr. Winthrop was confident that if nothing new
developed he would soon recover.
As soon as Sister Angela was assured of this she consented to take her
needed rest, and left him at regular intervals for this purpose; but she
always returned promptly to her post afterward, and was still the same
watchful, careful nurse.
One morning, while she was giving her patient his first really solid
breakfast, as he called it, Dr. Winthrop hastily entered the room, his
face pale and stern, his brow wrinkled with care and an open note in his
hand.
“Sister Angela,” he said turning appealingly to her, “would you be
willing to go out of the city to care for the sick? I am in a sad
strait.”
“What is it, dear old fellow?” Tillinghast asked sympathetically, and
regarding his friend anxiously.
“My father and Evelyn are both down with the cholera; my mother fears
she soon may be, as she is far from well,” was the disheartening answer.
“You will go, Sister Angela?” her patient said, turning eagerly to her.
“I shall do well enough now with what attention I can get from other
nurses; I will be very careful—nothing shall tempt me to be imprudent or
impatient. Ah, you must go, for poor Winthrop is hard pressed.”
“Of course I do not expect that you will go alone,” Dr. Winthrop
continued; “I will find other nurses to help you if they can be had, if
you will but superintend the care of my friends. I can trust you fully
and shall feel that nothing will be neglected under your supervision.”
The gentle nun did not reply immediately. She seemed to be gravely
considering the matter; but Mr. Tillinghast, who alone could see
anything of her face, was sure that he saw a vivid crimson shoot up and
lose itself under her ugly bandages as if the proposition was a very
distasteful one to her.
“Yes, monsieur, I will go,” she at last replied in her usual quiet
tones; then she turned back to the bedside and went on feeding her
charge though he thought her hand trembled slightly on its way from the
plate to the mouth.
“I believe I should have died but for you, Sister Angela,” the young man
said, when he had finished his breakfast. “I am very grateful. I shall
bless you always. Is there not something I can do for you to prove it?”
“Nothing, monsieur; my wants are very few and I need no proof,” she
answered, but her voice was not quite steady he thought.
“I am sorry,” he said gratefully, “for I should be glad to make some
thankoffering. My friend tells me that you are called the ‘Angel in
Gray,’ here in the hospital; you have surely proved yourself such to me;
may you live long to bless others with your gentle ministrations.”
Again a flush swept over what was visible of her face, and her lips
parted with a sigh that was something like a sob.
“The poor creature has known some heavy sorrow,” the young man thought;
“perhaps that was what drove her to be a nun. I wonder how old she is;
nobody can tell with all that cotton-cloth wound about her head and
face. She may be forty for all I can tell, but she seems a refined lady.
Her voice is sweet and low and cultured; her movements are graceful yet
dignified, and her hands are small and beautifully formed.”
He continued to watch her curiously while she busied herself about some
last cares for his comfort, and then she came to take leave of him, as
Dr. Winthrop was anxious to start at once for the villa.
“Good-by,” the invalid said, with emotion; “I hope I shall see you some
time again, Sister Angela, but if I do not I shall always hold you in
grateful remembrance.”
She bowed her head in acknowledgment of his gratitude, murmured a
benediction over him, and then passed quietly out of the room with Dr.
Winthrop.
The young physician felt greatly relieved because she had acceded to his
request and tried to express his thanks, but she cut him short in the
midst of them.
“Thanks are unnecessary, monsieur; it is my work, my duty,” she said. “I
go to one, then to another, wherever I am most needed.”
“But I think you are hardly strong enough for such work; it is too hard,
too wearing for your slight frame.”
“But I am well. I shall work while heaven gives me strength, then—God’s
will be done,” was the low-voiced, tremulous reply, and its pathos sent
a quick stab of pain through the young physician’s heart. There was a
certain hopelessness in it that moved him deeply.
He found another woman to go out to the villa with them, he feared she
would be hardly suited to the sick-room; still it was the best he could
do; and he had to be content.
He tried to engage Sister Angela in conversation on their way thither,
but she would not talk. She listened to whatever he had to say with
bowed head and clasped hands, and when actually obliged to answer him,
she did so in the briefest manner.
Arriving at the villa, Dr. Winthrop found his father alarmingly ill.
Evelyn was considerably frightened, but in no immediate danger. Madame
Winthrop was far from well, but did not as yet show any symptoms of the
terrible scourge.
Norman Winthrop was doing the best that he could for them all, with the
assistance of the servants; but he was greatly relieved by the
appearance of his brother and his assistants.
Mrs. Rochester and her daughter had shut themselves in their own rooms
as soon as Mr. Winthrop was attacked, and kept aloof as much as possible
from every one. They would have been glad now to flee from France at
once, if they had not feared they would be overtaken by the plague
before they could reach a place of safety.
Sister Angela at once took up her position at the bedside of Mr.
Winthrop; but, though she was faithful in the minutest particular and
Dr. Winthrop spared no effort to save his father, he died on the next
morning after their arrival, and in accordance with the prevailing law,
was immediately buried.
This affliction of course made Evelyn worse. Madame Winthrop was at once
prostrated, while, before the day was over, Dr. Winthrop was summoned to
attend Miss Rochester, who was violently attacked with cramps.
“We must have more help,” he said, with pale lips, a little later to
Sister Angela. “Where shall I turn for another nurse?”
The faithful nun, after thinking a moment, drew forth a note-book, wrote
a few lines, then, tearing a couple of leaves from it, was about to pass
them to the physician, when she suddenly seemed to change her mind and,
crumpling them in her hand, hastily thrust them into her capacious
pocket.
“Could you find No. 15 Rue de ——?” she asked, mentioning a street in an
humble quarter of Paris.
“Yes, I can find any place if there is hope of getting a nurse in this
terrible emergency,” he desperately returned.
“Then go—inquire for Harriet Winter; tell her Sister Angela has need of
her and she will come. Hasten, monsieur, for time is precious.”
Dr. Winthrop needed no second bidding; he did not even pause to wonder
that the French nun had sent him for a woman with a very American name.
With despair at his heart he flew back to Paris, sparing neither himself
nor his horses. He found the street and the woman, Harriet Winter, a
black-eyed red-cheeked, pleasant-mannered person, who did not hesitate
to obey his summons; and before night she was installed in Miss
Rochester’s room, and Dr. Winthrop felt that he was fortunate indeed in
having secured another nurse second only to Sister Angela herself.
Harriet Winter not only proved very efficient in the sick-room but
seemed to fit in everywhere. She assumed the management of the entire
household, and the family began to experience a sense of home-like
comfort such as they had not known during their residence abroad.
During the two weeks that followed, there were anxious days and nights.
Madame Winthrop went very low into the “valley of the shadow of death,”
while Evelyn slowly rallied. Then when her mother began to recover, she
had a relapse, and at one time her brother thought she was gone beyond
recall.
But the faithful nurse would not give her up; she stood over her, even
after Dr. Winthrop had said there was no pulse and that all further
effort would not avail, and persisted in dropping nourishment mixed with
stimulants between her pallid lips.
“It can do no harm, monsieur,” she murmured, when he had begged her to
desist.
“No, nor any good,” he responded moodily; but his voice broke as it
suddenly occurred to him that his sister must die without a knowledge of
his forgiveness for the great wrong she had done him, and, staggering
weakly to a chair, he sank into it, with a groan bowing his face upon
his hands.
The overworked man was worn out mentally as well as physically.
A deep quivering sigh broke from the lips of Sister Angela, but aside
from a yearning, wistful glance, she paid no heed to him, but continued
her ministrations.
One—two hours passed, and still the weary man sat there half asleep,
wholly exhausted, while drop by drop the patient nun pressed the
stimulating gruel between the girl’s hueless lips.
At length she thought that her breathing, which had hardly been
perceptible for a long time, had become a trifle stronger. All at once
the invalid appeared to swallow naturally. A faint sigh broke upon
Sister Angela’s ears, the girl moved her head slightly on her pillow,
and then sunk into a natural slumber.
A wan little smile flitted over the nurse’s lips, as she noiselessly
placed her cup and spoon on the table beside her and glanced at that
other sleeping figure across the room.
She would not arouse him from the blessed rest, for she knew her good
news could wait; but when at last she saw he was awake she glided softly
to his side, and said in a scarcely audible tone.
“Monsieur, take courage, I think your sister will live.”
Dr. Winthrop started to his feet, a dazed look on his worn face; then he
moved quickly to Evelyn’s side, and at the first glance his practiced
eye told him that there had been a decided change for the better.
From that time until morning dawned, he never left her side, and when
the sun arose, he felt almost as if his sister had been given back to
him from the dead.
But their trials were by no means over, for during that day one of the
servants died, and Miss Rochester appeared to be sinking. But what need
to dwell upon those wretched experiences? upon the almost superhuman
effort of Dr. Winthrop to save the precious lives in his charge; of the
faithfulness of those tireless nurses, who neglected nothing, and yet
exercised the utmost care over their own health for the sake of their
patients.
Those were experiences that could never be forgotten, but they could not
endure forever, and when those who had been so near the borders of the
other world began to recover, and Dr. Winthrop pronounced them out of
danger, Sister Angela and Harriet Winter were relieved by two other
women, and sent away for needful rest.
CHAPTER XXII.
AN APPALLING DISCOVERY.
Meantime, Mr. Tillinghast had been steadily gaining, and when all fear
of any further danger from the scourge was past, Dr. Winthrop arranged
that he should come out to the villa to spend a week or two, to gain a
little more strength, after which he contemplated sending him to some
healthful resort with the other invalids who were now rapidly
convalescing.
They were all sitting together one evening, talking of the terrible
epidemic, whose force was gradually becoming exhausted, and of the
wonderful escape which they, as a family, had had, when Madame Winthrop
feelingly remarked:
“I suppose very few have had the care which we have received; that old
maid, Harriet, was a treasure of a nurse while Sister Angela was a
perfect wonder. She seemed to know by instinct just the right thing to
do. I do not believe she made a single mistake while she was here.”
“The ‘Angel in Gray,’” murmured Mr. Tillinghast, a look of reverence
sweeping over his still thin face, and then he told them how she had
been beloved in the hospital, and why she had been called so.
They were all enthusiastic in their praises—all save Dr. Winthrop, who
had been lying wearily back in his chair, evidently too inert and
indifferent to join in any conversation.
He could not seem to recover his normal strength and vigor, after the
strain of those terrible weeks, and his friends were very anxious about
him; yet not more so than usual upon this particular evening, and no one
thought it strange when, after a while, he arose and quietly passed out
of the room.
His friend, Tillinghast, however, thinking he might have gone out for a
smoke, followed him after a few moments, and found him in the
dining-room mixing something in a tumbler.
“Thirsty, True?” he began, then suddenly catching sight of his ghastly
face, he exclaimed, “Good heavens, Winthrop! what ails you?”
“I am afraid my turn has come at last,” Dr. Winthrop replied, as he
swallowed the potion of brandy at one gulp. “I have felt some pain all
the afternoon and have been treating myself; but, in spite of all, I
believe the disease has a grip on me.”
“Cholera?” gasped his friend, a look of terror on his face.
“Yes, and no light attack, either.”
A spasm of agony convulsed his features as he spoke, and he sank weakly
upon the nearest chair.
“What shall I do for you, True?” his companion asked. “We must not
delay—man! man! tell me—what shall I do?”
This last appeal was made in great alarm, as Dr. Winthrop seemed on the
verge of losing consciousness.
“Send some one for Sister Angela at once, then get me to bed as soon as
possible, with hot bottles and blankets,” the young physician feebly
directed.
The whole household was aroused immediately, and everybody was greatly
frightened, for Dr. Winthrop seemed to be their mainstay and bulwark of
defense.
But he continued to grow rapidly and alarmingly worse, and by the time
Sister Angela arrived with a skilful physician, whom she had called upon
her own responsibility, he was almost in a state of insensibility.
It was fortunate for the gentle nun that she had had ample time to rest
and recruit her strength before having to meet this fresh ordeal, for
Dr. Winthrop was a very sick man, and Mr. Tillinghast regretted that he
had not tried to secure the services of a strong man as nurse, instead
of this apparently frail woman.
He proposed, the morning after her arrival, going for one.
“No,” she returned, with quiet resolution: “I can do better for him than
any man, if you will help me when he needs to be moved or lifted.”
The poor man now had to reap the results of the terrible strain through
which he had so recently passed, for he went alarmingly near the borders
of the other world. He was delirious most of the time, and talked almost
incessantly of Sister Angela and some one else, whom he called his
“darling;” though his mutterings were so indistinct and incoherent that
they could not make much sense of what he said.
“To whom does he refer?” Sister Angela asked of his mother one day, when
he called more than usual for his “darling.”
Madame Winthrop flushed at the question, for she well knew to whom he
referred, and her conscience had been busy with its upbraidings as she
listened to her son’s ravings.
But of course she was not going to tell family secrets to a stranger,
and so evaded a direct reply.
“He is betrothed to Miss Rochester,” she said, briefly.
The cup from which Sister Angela had been feeding her patient slipped
from her fingers just then, but fortunately it dropped upon a hassock
and made no noise.
“Miss Sadie Rochester, the young lady whom the other nurse took care of
when you were here before,” she explained.
“Miss Sadie Rochester!” repeated the nun.
“Yes; did not the nurse tell you her name?” asked madam.
“No; I have scarcely seen her since; she was called away elsewhere,”
murmured Sister Angela.
“Are you ill, sister?” madam inquired a moment later, as she noticed
that she pressed her hand to her side as if in sudden pain.
“No; it was only a sudden pain; it will soon pass,” she explained.
“You must be careful; you must not neglect yourself,” returned madam,
kindly; “for I do not know what we should do without you. Oh, save my
son! he is my idol! It would kill me to lose him. Save him, and I shall
bless you all the days of my life!” and the woman, still somewhat weak
from her own recent illness, wept and broke down utterly as she looked
upon the unconscious sufferer.
The nun did not reply for a moment, then lifting her clasped hands,
which were locked in a viselike grip, to her bosom, she said, brokenly:
“God rules! I know not if he can live; but, if human care can avail,
he—shall not die!”
Madam thought her very sympathetic, and then after asking if she needed
anything for her comfort, went away to her own room for the night.
The door had scarcely closed behind her when Sister Angela sank upon her
knees beside the bed and buried her face in her hands, while convulsive,
yet low sobs shook her slight form from head to foot.
She was so absorbed in the emotion that had overcome her that she was
oblivious of all else, until, all at once, she felt a touch upon her
head, and a feeble voice murmured: “My darling! my darling!”
A quiver ran over her frame; she lifted her face and gazed upon her
patient.
But he did not appear to be conscious of her presence; his eyes were
partially unclosed and he seemed to be looking off into vacancy, as if
he saw some one beyond her.
His hand had slipped from her head, as she raised it, and now lay upon
the bed before her. As if seized with some sudden impulse, which she
could not control, she leaned forward and pressed her lips passionately
upon it, a pitiful sob bursting from them as she did so.
It was a strange—a very strange thing for a Sister of Mercy to do; but
there was no eye to see the act, and even her charge himself did not
notice it.
She soon recovered herself, however, and arose from her kneeling
position, murmuring:
“God is merciful, He will not let him die.”
A little later, while she was feeding him, she heard the door behind her
softly open again, and turning she saw a white robed figure standing in
the aperture.
She stood as if paralyzed a moment; then a low, startled exclamation
broke from her.
“Hush!” said the intruder, holding up a warning hand. “I do not wonder
you are startled, for I suppose I look like a ghost, but I could not
sleep without knowing just how he is to-night.”
The nurse turned back to the bedside, as Miss Rochester advanced into
the room, noiselessly closing the door after her, and then came and
stood beside the man, whose wife she coveted to be, but who lay very
near death at that moment.
“What do you think of him?” she asked, trying in vain to get a view of
the nun’s averted face.
“No better—no worse,” she briefly replied, in a muffled tone.
“Thank Heaven he is no worse!” the girl said, with a sigh. “Do you think
he can possibly rally?”
“I—hope so; he has a strong constitution.”
“You will do your best, I know,” Miss Rochester said, earnestly; “you
have done your best through all our trouble here. I have heard of your
wonderful faithfulness and powers of endurance, and I have longed to see
you. I suppose it is not just proper for me to come here to-night—mamma
would scold if she knew it; but I had to come to see for myself just how
he is. How dreadful he looks!—how pinched and ghastly his face!—how thin
and white his hands! I—I suppose you know that I—expect to be
his—wife—if he lives,” she concluded, with a conscious glance toward the
nun, as if she thought this apology for her presence was necessary.
Sister Angela made no reply; but Miss Rochester thought she saw her
shiver, and a flush dyed her cheek.
“I suppose it sounds strangely to you to hear me speak of marriage with
one who seems so near death,” she said; “but I thought you ought to know
why I came, and it is natural that I should be anxious.”
Then regarding her companion more closely, she asked, curiously:
“What is the matter with your eyes, sister? Why do you wear those queer
double spectacles?”
“Hush! Mademoiselle must not remain longer—it will disturb monsieur, if
we talk,” the nurse returned, without looking at her, and ignoring her
question; “besides, mademoiselle will take cold, and be in danger of
another attack herself.”
And walking quietly to the door, she opened it, and waited for the girl
to pass out.
Miss Rochester dared not disobey this unmistakable dismissal, and after
bestowing one more look upon the unconscious sufferer, she went softly
out, whispering, with an appealing glance:
“Save him, I beseech you, Sister, and I shall be eternally grateful; you
little know how much depends upon his life.”
“My darling—my darling,” murmured the invalid, stirring uneasily upon
his pillow.
Hastily closing the door upon the unceremonious intruder, Sister Angela
flew back to her post by the bed, but with face and lips white as the
spotless bandage about her brow, and shivering as with the ague.
The next day there was a slight improvement in Dr. Winthrop’s condition,
then the symptoms were discouraging; after that the crisis came, was
passed, and then there was a perceptible gain.
A week later he was improving rapidly—another passed and he was able to
sit up; then seeing how worn and thin his mother and Evelyn were again
looking, from the anxiety which they had suffered upon his account, he
insisted that they should go to some watering-place to recuperate for a
few weeks.
Mrs. Rochester, who alone, with the exception of Norman Winthrop, had
escaped the terrible scourge, said she would remain and direct the
household until they were able to return.
She tried to persuade her daughter to accompany them, but Miss
Rochester, feeling that the period of convalescence might prove to be an
impressionable one with Dr. Winthrop, refused to go, and fondly hoped
that the next two or three weeks would decide her destiny beyond all
question.
Dr. Winthrop still retained Sister Angela, although she had several
times spoken of returning to Paris, since he had become so much better.
He was opposed to her leaving him, however—he had pleaded for “just a
week longer,” saying that she was so helpful, her presence so
soothing—not to mention the preparation of certain dainties with which
she was continually tempting his appetite—that he could not give her up
just yet; and so she remained.
The week soon slipped by, the last day came, and Sister Angela seemed
strangely agitated and depressed. Dr. Winthrop thought he had never seen
her so nervous or so absent-minded, and blamed himself for requiring the
service of this extra week, when she was so nearly worn out from
constant attendance.
She went down as usual to prepare something especially nice for his
dinner—the last meal she would take up to him—and, having finished her
work and arranged everything temptingly upon a tray, she slowly mounted
the stairs on her way to his room with it in her hands.
She had reached the top stair when a sudden dizziness seized her, an icy
chill ran over her frame, and she had barely time to set her tray upon
the floor when she fell prone beside it in a dead faint.
The sound of her fall drew Mrs. Rochester and her daughter from their
room—for she had fallen just opposite their door—to see what had
happened.
Dr. Winthrop’s room was some distance from the spot, and part way down
another passage, so that the confusion attending Sister Angela’s
mishap—fortunately or unfortunately—did not reach his ears and he knew
nothing of it until afterward.
“Mercy! it is that nun!” exclaimed Miss Rochester, who was first to
reach the unconscious girl, while she gazed with startled and curious
eyes upon her prostrate form.
“She is worn out,” said Mrs. Rochester, as she dropped upon her knees
and began to loosen the bandages about Sister Angela’s face, and tore
her close black cap from her head, thus revealing a wealth of beautiful
black hair.
“Why, she looks like——” she began, then suddenly checking herself, she
quickly removed the double blue glasses which had always so effectually
concealed her eyes.
A cry of astonishment and dismay burst from her lips, which had lost
every atom of color.
“S—adie!” she gasped, lifting a pair of wild eyes to her daughter’s
face.
“For goodness’ sake, mamma, what is the matter?” inquired the girl, who
had not yet had a full view of the features thus exposed to view.
“Look!” whispered the mother, hoarsely.
She bent down to look into that still, white face; then she lifted her
glance, and those two women gazed into each other’s eyes with speechless
amazement and unmistakable terror.
“Mamma! it is—it is——” began Miss Rochester, looking as if she herself
was on the verge of fainting.
“SALOME!” whispered the elder woman, with a gasp of terror.
CHAPTER XXIII.
SALOME LEARNS A STARTLING FACT.
Yes, lying there upon the floor, all unconscious of her condition or
surroundings, or of the fact that her identity was discovered, lay the
wife of Truman Winthrop.
It was indeed Salome, fair and beautiful as when Dr. Winthrop had held
her in his arms on the morning of his sudden departure for Europe,
though she was somewhat worn and thin from long watching and anxiety;
for these last few weeks, during which the man whom she so fondly loved
had lain so low, had been a severe strain upon both heart and strength.
Mrs. Rochester and her daughter hung trembling over her, astonishment,
consternation, and even terror depicted upon their blanched faces, and
both seemingly too unnerved by their appalling discovery to know what to
do in such an emergency.
“She was not burned to death after all,” Miss Rochester at length
whispered, tremulously, as she bent closer for a better view of the
girl; “and how on earth did she happen to be in Paris at this time, or
to get into this family?”
“That is easily enough explained,” returned Mrs. Rochester, beginning to
recover herself, while her face grew hard and stern. “She must have
escaped from that building without being seen, and has probably been
hiding ever since for some reason—perhaps because she was piqued and
believed that her marriage was illegal, as they told her. But she has
doubtless kept herself posted regarding the movements of the Winthrops,
and so followed them here, to be near him. Then, of course, since she is
such a natural-born nurse, it was easy enough for her to get into almost
any hospital, where, disguised in this outlandish manner, her own mother
would never have recognized her; and, having nursed Tillinghast through
his illness with such success, it is not at all wonderful that Dr.
Winthrop should have wanted her to come here. But”—with a sudden
compression of her lips—“what are we going to do about the matter, now
that we have made the discovery?”
“Well, to begin with, let us get her out of this hall—take her at once
to my room,” said Miss Rochester, a cruel light leaping into her
beautiful eyes; “and you understand, mamma,” she added, “we must keep
her out of sight—no one must see her or know what we know, and just as
soon as possible she must be got out of the house. What do you suppose
is to become of us—of my future interests—if Truman Winthrop discovers
that his wife is living?”
“What is to become of your future interests whether he learns it or not,
since the fact remains that she does live?” bitterly demanded her
mother.
“Oh, I don’t know; I must have time to think. Mamma, she must not be
allowed to spoil everything now. But come—help me, and, let us get her
out of sight at once.”
She seized Salome by the shoulders, and Mrs. Rochester lifting her by
the feet, they bore her into their private parlor and laid her upon the
lounge.
Then Mrs. Rochester said that Dr. Winthrop must have his dinner or he
would suspect that something was wrong. So she took the daintily
arranged tray, which fortunately had not been disturbed, and carried it
herself to his room, remarking that as Sister Angela appeared not very
well, she had prevailed upon her to lie down, and allow her to take her
place, and serve his dinner.
Dr. Winthrop did not manifest any suspicion that all was not as
represented, and thought it very kind of Mrs. Rochester to be so
considerate of the nurse.
Then she made her escape back to her own rooms as soon as possible, but
found that Salome had not yet revived. Miss Rochester had made no effort
to restore her.
“Your future interests,” she resumed, as if that thought had been in her
mind ever since her daughter suggested it. “Surely you do not expect to
marry Dr. Winthrop after making this discovery.”
“Why not?”
Mrs. Rochester shrugged her shoulders, and made a significant grimace.
“Bigamy,” was all the reply that she vouchsafed.
Miss Rochester frowned at the disagreeable word.
“It is probable that no one, save you and me, know of her existence, or
rather her identity,” she remarked, after a thoughtful pause.
“Well, what of that?” demanded her companion; “she can reveal herself
whenever she chooses.”
“That is the very thing I am afraid of; but there are places where
people can have no communication with the outside world, and Paris is
very prolific in such institutions,” said Miss Rochester, in a tone to
make one’s flesh creep.
“Sadie! you wouldn’t dare,” whispered her mother.
“I would dare anything rather than lose all at this late day,” was the
passionate retort.
“But you couldn’t marry him even then—you know that would be absolutely
impossible, even though she could be so securely shut away that she
could never make her existence known,” returned Mrs. Rochester,
decidedly.
“Listen, mamma,” said the girl, imperiously, “I have set my heart on
this marriage and the union of these two fortunes, and you know when I
really make up my mind to anything I usually carry my point. Do you
think that, after enjoying all the luxuries which this money buys for
us, I am weakly going to surrender them? Can you live without your
silks, satins, laces, jewels, horses, carriages; your servants, and the
hundred other things you enjoy so much, and go back to the poverty you
struggled with before you married a rich man? No, you cannot,” she went
on, as her companion shivered over the picture, “but you know that we
are to have only the interest of that paltry fifty thousand to use
jointly if that contract is not fulfilled.”
“But—but—think of Dr. Winthrop becoming a bigamist!”
“I do not intend that Dr. Winthrop shall become a bigamist,” calmly
responded the young lady.
“How can you prevent it if you persist in going through the form of
marriage—provided, of course, you can win him—since Salome is already
his wife; unless—” and the woman’s face grew deadly pale; “you are
meditating a worse crime——”
“Hush!” and Miss Rochester’s eyes blazed dangerously, “what could have
put such a horrible idea into your mind? But what I mean to do is this:
I mean to put her,” with a glance at the still form, “where she can do
no harm by tattling, at least for the present. Then I shall write to a
New York lawyer that I am engaged to Dr. Winthrop; but since his first
wife’s body was never recovered from the ruins of that building, I am in
constant fear lest she should be living, and sometimes appear to cause
me trouble. Of course, I shall represent to him that I realize it is
only a morbidly nervous fear, still, to satisfy me, I want him to
procure regular divorce papers, as if she were living and had simply
disappeared—all to be done without publicity of course, as lawyers
nowadays know how to do such things. This will, no doubt, cost a great
deal of money and require some ingenuity to manage, but they understand
how to meet such difficulties, and we need not mind a few thousands if
we can but secure the bulk of those fortunes.”
“Well, I must admit, Sadie, you would do credit to the arch-plotter
himself!” her mother exclaimed; “as inventive as I am, I should never
have thought of such a device; but”—meditatively—“I believe it can be
done. Still there will be great risks to be run, even if you succeed in
securing the doctor, while, if he should ever mistrust anything
afterward, I should not envy you your future happiness. Suppose he
should some time learn that you had applied for this divorce?”
“Well, then I could admit to him, as to the lawyer, that I simply did it
to satisfy my own conscience, and to prevent any possibility of
illegality in our marriage.”
“Then, too,” persisted Mrs. Rochester, still doubtful of the feasibility
of the plot, “suppose Salome should manage to escape some time; she
might—she would be very likely to make trouble for you.”
“Let her! once I am Mrs. Truman Winthrop, I will snap my fingers at
whatever trouble she might try to make. I shall be so secure in my
position that I shall not fear her at all,” returned Miss Rochester,
confidently.
“Really, Sadie, you have greatly relieved my mind upon one point,” her
mother thoughtfully observed. “I have been very much afraid all along
that you were going to throw Dr. Winthrop over entirely, out of
admiration, if not of some stronger sentiment, for his brother.”
Miss Rochester flushed a vivid scarlet at this unexpected turn to the
conversation.
“Well,” she frankly admitted, after a moment of silence, “I must admit
that I wish Norman Winthrop had been Milton Hamilton’s favorite nephew
and heir; he is far more congenial in some respects than his very
dignified and extremely conscientious brother; but since he hasn’t a
sufficient fortune to tempt me, and I am bound to have money, I must put
up with the other——”
“Hush!” her mother interrupted at this point; “she is coming to
herself,” and she pointed to the figure upon the lounge, which just then
began to stir feebly.
Suspended animation was gradually reasserting itself in Salome; a
long-drawn sigh heaved her breast, and then she slowly opened her eyes
and looked around her.
Mrs. Rochester and her daughter were seated together, not far from the
head of the lounge, and thus the reviving girl could not see them as she
began to come to herself.
They made no sound nor movement, but sat watching to see what she would
do or say when she should entirely recover consciousness.
“Where am I? what has happened?” Salome murmured, as her wandering eyes
rested upon objects which she had never seen before.
She had never been in those rooms, and had only now and then met their
occupants as she passed to and fro through the halls on her duties, or
when they came for a moment to Dr. Winthrop’s door to inquire how he
was. She had never exchanged a word with either of them, except on that
night when Miss Rochester had stolen in upon her when her patient was so
ill.
An expression of surprise stole into her eyes, and she put her hand in a
confused way to her head, when she was startled to find that her cap and
bandages had all been removed; her glasses, too, were gone. A feeling of
fear and dismay seized her.
“Why, why!” she cried, in a tone of distress; then she struggled to a
sitting posture, and looked about her with a frightened stare.
Instantly she encountered the sullen glances of the two women who were
watching her.
“Ah!—Mrs. Rochester!” she gasped.
“Yes, that is my name, Miss Howland—or perhaps you would prefer to be
addressed by your latest alias, ‘Sister Angela,’” that lady
sarcastically remarked.
“Really, Salome, you have not shown your usual good taste by
masquerading in that ugly gray costume,” said Miss Rochester, with a
sneer. “I confess,” she added, “it has been an excellent disguise, since
neither mamma nor I have been able to penetrate it, until you were so
unfortunate as to faint just outside our door a few minutes ago.”
“Oh, you will not betray me——” Salome began, appealingly.
“Betray you!—to whom?” sternly demanded Mrs. Rochester.
“To my—to Dr. Winthrop,” murmured the distressed girl, as she tried to
replace her disguise with her trembling hands, and looked around for her
glasses.
“To your husband—I suppose you were about to remark,” cried Miss
Rochester, with a sneering laugh. “In my presence I hope you will not
thus speak of the man to whom I am betrothed. Your husband! Pshaw! Have
you not been told that your marriage with him was but a farce?”
Salome shivered. Every word that the cruel girl had uttered had pierced
her sensitive heart like a dagger.
“Don’t—don’t!” she breathed, and her teeth began to chatter with the
nervous chill that was creeping over her.
Ever since Madame Winthrop had told her that she was no wife she had
been crushed and humiliated by the thought that she had been living in a
false position. She could have borne it quietly and patiently if Dr.
Winthrop had shown a desire to shield her; if he had but written to her
that, to all intents and purposes, she was his wife—that he felt morally
bound to her, even though there might have been some technical flaw in
their union; if he had but told her to remain where she was and he would
make everything right when he returned. But instead of doing
this—instead of proving the true, noble man she had believed him, he had
shown himself to be weak; he had allowed himself to be influenced by his
proud mother’s view of the situation, and had sent her out of his home,
as if she had been some shameful character, whose presence there would
bring opprobrium upon him, and this had crushed her.
Time had only served to increase her suffering and sensitiveness upon
this point, and she had tried—when the opportunity offered—to drop
quietly out of the world.
She was too innocent and unsuspecting—too ignorant of all legal
questions to imagine for a moment that she had been deceived—to reason
that the simple fact of Dr. Winthrop having taken vows in the presence
of witnesses, or having installed her in his home as his wife in the
presence of his servants, would establish her position according to the
laws of New York, even though there might have been some informality
about their union which might have seriously affected it in other
States. Neither had it occurred to her to take advice upon the subject
and try to obtain redress. She had simply believed what she had been
told, and then, imagining that her husband was ashamed and regretted the
alliance, she had resolved to take herself forever out of his way.
“I do not wonder you are ashamed,” continued Miss Rochester, as she
remarked Salome’s emotion; “and yet, in spite of all, you have come here
and forced yourself upon him.”
“I did not—oh, I did not!” Salome murmured, a burning blush suffusing
her face; “but he was in such trouble, I could not resist the desire to
come. His friend was dying, and he could get no one to nurse him. I knew
I could give him good care, even if I could not save him, and so, when
he appealed to me, I yielded. Then he asked me to come here. Oh, it was
hard—no one will ever know how hard—but he needed me, and I would have
given my life for him——”
“Very likely,” interrupted Miss Rochester, with a sarcastic sneer; “but
that costly sacrifice has not been required of you. And now, since your
identity has been revealed, it is but natural that I should object to
your remaining longer in the capacity of nurse to the man whom I expect
to marry.”
Salome’s face grew deadly white again at this poisoned shaft; but she
drew herself up with dignity.
“Your objection would have no weight with me. I should remain if I
considered it my duty to do so,” she said coldly.
“Perhaps it has been your intention to reveal yourself to Doctor
Winthrop and try to ingratiate yourself with him again,” was the rude
retort.
“No, no!” Salome cried, trembling with fear at the thought, and trying
to adjust her disguise more securely, while she searched again for her
glasses. “He must never know that I have been here!”
“Ah, then you have some sense of shame! I am glad to know that you do
not wish to thrust yourself upon him again, after having once been
discarded from his home——”
“Stop! oh, stop!” Salome interrupted, as she tottered to her feet in her
agony, putting out her hand appealingly at this taunt. “I have never
wanted to thrust myself upon him; but I was wild when they came and told
me that he had at last fallen a prey to the disease from which he had
saved so many; he himself sent for me, and I had to come. I have saved
him—a second time I have saved his life—my work is done, and I will go.
I had told him I was going to-day,” she concluded; but her lips were
livid with agony at the thought of again leaving the man whom she still
loved with all the strength of her soul.
“Where will you go?” demanded Mrs. Rochester.
“Back to my work in the hospitals and among the poor, when I am a little
rested,” the wretched girl replied, but with such a sense of utter
desolation as she had never before experienced.
“Are you really a nun? Have you taken convent vows upon you?” suddenly
inquired Miss Rochester, as it occurred to her that if she had regularly
devoted herself to the life, that fact might of itself make her marriage
with Dr. Winthrop null and void.
But she was destined to be disappointed, for Salome briefly answered:
“No.”
“Then why have you assumed their dress—why do you masquerade in their
robes?”
“To protect myself—it gives me security and liberty in going about my
work, for no one dares molest or ill-treat a nun.”
“How do you happen to be in Paris at this time?” Miss Rochester
demanded, regarding her with suspicion.
“Excuse me; but I am not accountable to you for my movements,” Salome
responded coldly.
Miss Rochester gave a mocking laugh.
“It is very easy to interpret them, nevertheless,” she sneered. “A
certain physician was known to be in Paris, and you could not keep away
from him. Yours is an exceedingly romantic story, Salome—even you do not
dream how romantic. I am willing to wager a handsome sum against those
ugly glasses of yours, that you don’t know just who Dr. Winthrop is
after all,” and she regarded the girl with a malicious look.
“What do you mean?” Salome asked, with undisguised astonishment.
“You have never had a suspicion, I suppose,” her tormentor went on,
“that the handsome doctor may have had as romantic a history as your
own? Did no one ever tell you that he was betrothed to another at the
time you lured him into that hasty and unfortunate marriage in Boston?”
Salome’s white lips quivered painfully!—how cruel they were to taunt her
thus with all her misery.
“Yes—madam told me,” she faltered.
“Did she tell you to whom he was betrothed! No, of course she did not,
or you would not look so innocent and curious,” Miss Rochester went on
relentlessly. “It is the strangest story in the world—the most wonderful
complication I ever heard of—and you were always a marplot Salome——”
“Tell me—tell me,” interposed Salome, with quivering eagerness, “and do
not keep me in this torturing suspense. What do you mean? what is there
strange or mysterious about him?—to whom was he betrothed?”
“To my husband’s daughter—to Sadie Rochester,” cried Mrs. Rochester,
turning a vindictive look upon the unhappy and trembling girl, “and the
man whom you have fondly supposed to be your husband and lost, is no
other than Truman Hamilton, the adopted son and heir of Milton Hamilton,
who decreed that he should marry the daughter of his friend or—forfeit
his inheritance!”
Salome had risen to her feet as if electrified at the woman’s first
words, and she had seemed to freeze where she stood, as she went on—a
look first of incredulity, then horror, then despair overspreading her
colorless face.
Then, as the full force of all that she had learned burst upon her, a
low cry of anguish broke from her, she swayed dizzily for a moment where
she stood, and then sank back upon the couch, from which she had just
risen, and fainted away again.
CHAPTER XXIV.
A BACKWARD GLANCE.
It will be necessary now to go back a little, in order to learn how
Salome happened to be in Paris during the raging of the plague, which
slew its hundreds and thousands, and yet so mercifully passed her by. We
saw her last just driving away in a carriage from the home from which
she believed herself to have been driven by the man she loved. She took
nothing with her save the one trunk containing the simple wardrobe which
she had brought from Boston, and she ordered the driver to take her
directly to the Grand Central Depot.
This, however, was only done to conceal her movements, for she had no
intention of leaving New York.
After paying and dismissing her carriage, she purchased a newspaper at a
stand; then, going into the ladies’ room she sat down and began to
peruse the various columns of advertisements. She soon found what she
wanted—an advertisement of a respectable lodging-house for working
girls. She had resolved to hide herself in the city for a while, until
she could rest and recruit a little from the weakness which her recent
unhappiness and excitement had occasioned her.
She engaged a second carriage, had her trunk transferred from the
baggage-room, and was then driven to the street and number where the
lodging-house was.
Here she registered her name as S. Howland, engaged the only single room
to be had, and paid a full month’s rent in advance.
It was at one end of a long hall, small, but clean and comfortably
furnished. There was only one window in it, and this overlooked a narrow
passage between the lodging-house and another empty building, which
seemed so near that she believed she could reach out and touch it if she
tried.
She did not mind its location, or that it was a gloomy and unpleasant
place in which to live; she scarcely gave a thought to her surroundings,
so sore was her heart, so weary her body and mind. All that she cared
for was to be by herself, to rest until she could gain strength to look
her fate calmly in the face and plan what to do.
She went directly to bed, and, utterly exhausted with grief and
weariness, fell at once into a profound slumber.
For several days she could do little but sleep and rest, for tired
nature would assert its claims, and the sense of security which she
experienced in her little room was conducive to this.
She paid one of the chambermaids to bring her, from a neighboring
restaurant, such simple food as she knew she required and must eat, and
did not go out at all herself, nor interest herself in her neighbors or
anything going on about her.
She was broken-hearted. She could not be reconciled to the terrible
blight that had fallen upon her life—she could not be reconciled to the
fact that her husband had refused to accept her explanations, in the
letter of confession which she had written him, and should have so
curtly commanded her to leave his home.
Had she not been so crushed and confused by Madame Winthrop’s and
Evelyn’s accusations and arguments—had she not been so morbidly
sensitive, she would have reasoned better; she would have known that a
man of Dr. Winthrop’s stamp would have explained himself more fully in a
letter.
She had, indeed, at first, thought she would wait for one, then she told
herself that she never could bear to read it when it came; for she
believed he would never have told her to go away from the beautiful home
to which he had brought her if he meant to ratify the union between
them. She felt that it would dethrone her reason to be told that, since
there was no legal bond, he thought it best for them to part, and then
perhaps offer to settle a sum of money upon her to atone for the
disappointment and wrong. She had read of such a case only a little
while before, and, in her excited state, imagined that her fate would be
but a repetition of that sad story. And so she had told herself that she
could not stay to be so humiliated—she would not remain in a family
where she was not wanted—it would be better to sever all ties, and go at
once.
“I will stay here and rest until I get stronger, and then I will go back
to my former work, as nurse in one of the hospitals,” she mused while
thinking over her future. “If I cannot be happy myself—and everything
seems opposed to it, I can at least try to do some good in the world by
ministering to others. It seems as if fate has ordained that I shall be
a nurse in spite of everything.”
She thought, at first, of returning to Boston, and of applying again at
the hospital there. But she shrank from having the superintendent, good
Dr. Hunt, and the nurses with whom she had been associated, know of her
blighted hopes.
She had money, for she had spent little of the sum which Dr. Winthrop
had given her, and so she told herself that she might rest as long as
she wished, before taking up her work again—might take plenty of time to
school herself to meet and bear the struggle before her.
Then came that terrible experience by fire—an ordeal which she would
never forget.
She had retired very early that night, for she had been suffering all
day from a nervous headache; but she did not go to sleep readily—indeed,
she seemed to grow more nervous and strangely restless, after
extinguishing her light.
She bore it as long as she could, then arose and took an anodyne.
Fifteen minutes later, she was sleeping soundly—far too soundly for her
own good, for she heard nothing of what was going on around her, when
the alarm of fire was given.
She had a strange dream, however. She thought that she was back again in
her beautiful home; that she was sleeping in her own pretty curtained
bed, when she was suddenly awakened and found Madame Winthrop and Evelyn
standing over her, the latter holding her hands, while the former bound
and gagged her. She struggled and fought against them, but all to no
purpose, for they were much stronger than she, and then all at once a
sense of suffocation came over her, and she really awoke, to find her
room full of smoke and herself gasping for breath.
She sprang out of bed and deluged her face with water. This revived her,
and seizing her blanket-wrapper from the chair where she had thrown it
on retiring, she slipped it on, thrust her feet into a pair of felt
slippers, and flew to open her door, only to be met and forced back by a
torrent of smoke that was red with flame. To her horror, she saw that
the greater portion of the floor between her room and the stairway had
been burned away, and the fire was leaping fiercely toward her.
She wondered if everybody else had escaped, and blamed herself for
having taken so heavy a sleeping potion. She listened, and thought she
could catch the sound of low moans and cries above the crackling of the
flames; but she could not tell which room they came from, and she knew
that she could do nothing to help any one else, even if she could save
herself.
Back she went into her room, shutting out the hot flame and smoke, and
sped to the window, hoping to find aid there. She could hear cries and
shouts around the other side of the building, but there was no one in
the narrow passage beneath her.
She screamed for help; but the wall of brick before her only gave back
mocking echoes in reply, and just then an intense heat about her feet
made her look back into the room, and she saw that little puffs of smoke
were beginning to curl up from the carpet.
“Must I perish here alone? Must I die such a horrible death?” she cried,
with a sinking heart, as she turned again to the window, gasping for
breath.
Just then a window in the opposite wall caught her eye, and she saw it
was almost on a level with her own, although diagonally across.
“If there was anything with which I could make a bridge, I could escape
even now by that window,” she thought.
Oh, joy! She suddenly remembered that a man had been papering the hall
only the day before, but had not been able to finish it, and so had left
his cutting-board leaning against the wall. If it were not already in
flames she might make use of that, for surely it would be ample in
length.
She folded a wet towel about her mouth and nose, and sprang forth into
the hall, to see if the board was still there.
Yes; she could distinguish one end of it, and it had not yet taken fire,
for it lay close against the wall.
She groped her way to it, seized it, and, though it was hot and burned
her fingers, dragged it through her room to the open window. Then using
all her strength she shoved it out toward that other window.
Would it reach across?
The distance seemed greater than she at first thought.
Yes, it would span the space, but the other window was closed!
Oh, how hot and stifling her room was getting! she was panting, and a
feeling of faintness began to come over her.
She drew back the board a little, then, with an energy born of despair,
she sent the end of it crashing through the glass, which, fortunately,
was a broad pane, and then—she had her bridge!
Would she dare traverse it, walking in mid-air at such a fearful height?
Her brain grew dizzy with the thought.
But there was no time for delay, or a weak yielding to fear, for to
remain many minutes longer where she was would be certain death. It
would be hazardous to try to cross, for a single misstep would send her
to no less certain destruction; but there was no alternative.
“Oh, I wish I could know if there is any one else in such a strait!” she
cried, as she thought she could still detect muffled moans; but she knew
it would be worse than useless for her to gain an entrance into any
other of the rooms, through those waves of rolling fire in the hall, and
so she tried to quell the sickening horror that was creeping over her,
and give her mind entirely to her own condition.
She darted to the bed and snatched her purse from beneath her pillow;
then back again to the window, where she leaped upon a chair, and then
stepped upon the board.
Once, twice, thrice, she made an effort to move on, but terror held her
paralyzed. She could not move her feet, each seemed to weigh a ton, and
she could not lift them.
She grew dizzy, faint, sick, at the thought of crossing even that little
space at such a fearful height.
But sure death was behind her, for, as she looked back into her room,
she could see flames instead of smoke leaping up through the floor.
“I must! I must!” she moaned; then, with one look above, and one cry for
help, she took a step forward, another and yet another, when, as she
found that she must let go her hold upon her window, she threw her other
hand wildly toward the one opposite, and—kind Heaven! what a thrill of
joy ran through her, arousing all her courage, energy, and hope!—her
fingers suddenly came in contact with a wire!
It was the lower wire of a line of telegraph that ran directly through
the passage.
She had noticed it often, but had not thought of it until that moment as
a means of help to her.
She clutched it eagerly, and steadying herself by it went on, gaining
courage with every step, for the wire was not very taut and yielded to
support her on her way.
Half a dozen steps brought her close to the other building, and then the
question arose—how was she to enter it?
She had succeeded in breaking the window sufficiently to insert her
board, but the aperture was far too small for her body to pass through,
even if there had been no danger from the broken glass.
For a moment despair again seized her; then, still retaining her hold
upon the wire, she threw out one foot with all the force she dared to
use in her precarious position, and detached as much of the glass as
possible.
This done, she reached out her left hand and firmly grasped the sash, at
the same time releasing her hold upon the wire, which sprang away from
her like a thing of life.
Trembling in every limb, now that she was so nearly out of danger, she
cautiously crept inside the window and let herself down.
It was very dark and she could see nothing, but her foot touched the
floor, and she knew that she was saved!
Overcome with weakness, now that all danger was passed, she sank upon
the floor, where she lay helpless and motionless for several minutes.
But all at once a bright light flashed over her.
She started up and looked out across the narrow space which she had so
recently traversed, and saw fierce flames leaping all about the room she
had just left and out through the window, as if in a frenzy over her
escape; and, with a thrill of horror, she realized that the floor had
fallen in!
“This building will soon be in flames,” she thought; and, staggering to
her feet, she resolved to make her way as quickly as possible to a place
of safety.
The light from the other house shone all about her and she found that
she was in a large empty room.
Making her way to the door she opened it and found herself in a narrow
hall, and could faintly distinguish a stairway at its farther end.
Groping her way to this, she descended the stairs to another hall, and
following this she went down a second flight and realized that she was
on the street floor.
She found the door leading out, but it was of course locked and no key
by which she could unfasten it.
“I must go down to the basement and get out through one of the windows,”
she said; and turning back, she felt her way to the stairs and so down
into the regions below.
Just as she reached the lower landing a terrible crash, mingled with
startling shouts and cries, fell upon her ears, and for a moment her
heart almost ceased its beating.
“The walls of the house have fallen!” Salome murmured, wringing her
hands and wondering if any one had perished in the terrible flames which
she had so narrowly escaped.
The stream of sparks and fire which arose high in the air, as the walls
fell in, enabled her to see that she was in quite a good-sized kitchen.
She sprang to one of the windows, unfastened it, and crept out, to find
herself in the back yard, with sparks and cinders falling all about her,
and with a great empty space on the right of her where her recent home
had been.
She sped across the yard, out through an open gate in a narrow court,
and thence to a street running parallel with the one where the
lodging-houses had been.
It was very cold, a fine sleet was falling, and the street was wet and
muddy.
Salome, as we know, was but lightly clothed for such weather, and she
soon began to suffer from the storm and a keen wind that was blowing,
and wondered what she should do for shelter and a bed in which to spend
the remainder of the night.
The street seemed entirely deserted, and she was forlorn and sick at
heart. It had occurred to her that perhaps it would have been better if
she had perished in the fire; for it would have ended her sorrows.
Chancing to glance up at the house she was passing, she saw a woman
standing in the doorway, looking anxiously out toward the direction of
the fire.
“What is the matter?” she asked, as she caught sight of the girl’s pale
face; “there is a large fire somewhere near, isn’t there?”
“Yes; and I have just escaped from the burning building. Oh! madam, will
you let me in to get warm?” pleaded Salome, with chattering teeth and
shaking voice.
Could Truman Winthrop have had even a dream of what his delicate wife
was suffering that night, he would scarcely have slept as well as he
did.
The expression of anxiety on the woman’s face was instantly superseded
by one of heartfelt pity and sympathy.
“Poor child! poor child! you don’t say so!” she cried. “Of course you
may come in and welcome. I have hot water, too, and you shall have
something warm to drink, to keep you from taking cold. Come.”
She reached out to grasp Salome’s hand, as she staggered up the steps,
and kindly supported her inside her hospitable doors.
“Thank you; how good—you are,” murmured the overtaxed girl; then the
reaction came, and she sank helpless and unconscious in the woman’s
arms.
CHAPTER XXV.
SALOME APPLIES FOR A SITUATION.
When Salome awoke to consciousness, she found herself lying upon a clean
bed in a small, neatly furnished room, while a cheerful fire burned in
an open, portable grate, and gave an air of home-like comfort to the
apartment.
She had on a plain, but spotlessly white night-robe; the sheets and
pillow cases upon the bed were like snow, and, though she was conscious
of feeling weak, and everything about her was strange, yet she
experienced a sense of content and restfulness such as she had not known
since she had parted from her husband so many weeks ago.
It was several moments before she could collect her thoughts
sufficiently to realize what had happened or how she came to be there;
but as she turned upon her pillow to look about her she saw the kind
face of the woman who had opened the door to her so hospitably, and
remembered all.
“What is it, miss?” she asked, coming to her side, “do you want
anything?—do you feel better? You have had such a long sleep; it seemed
as if you never would wake up; you must have been thoroughly worn out.”
“I am sure I was; but I feel very much rested. How long have I slept?”
Salome asked.
“Hours and hours, miss. It was about two o’clock in the morning when I
brought you in, and now it is eight o’clock in the evening,” was the
smiling reply.
“I suppose the fire is out,” she said, while a shiver ran over her as
she remembered her narrow escape.
“Yes, miss, long ago; but it has been a costly fire, for there were
several lives lost. I’ve been reading about it in the evening paper, and
it has made my heart ache,” returned the woman sadly.
“Will you read the account to me?” Salome asked, with a quivering lip.
“Yes, miss, willingly, after you’ve had something to eat; you must be
nearly famished by this time. I’ll just bring you a nice bit of toast
and a cup of tea; then while you are eating I will read to you.”
“Thank you,” Salome responded, and tears sprang to her eyes.
It was so pleasant to have some one really interested in her once more,
and to feel such kindly care thrown about her.
The woman went quietly out of the room, but returned in about twenty
minutes, bringing not only some delicious cream toast and a cup of
steaming tea, but a delicately poached egg and some daintily chipped
beef.
“How good you are to me!” Salome said gratefully, as she sat up in bed
and began to eat hungrily of the tempting meal.
“And why shouldn’t I be good to you?” returned her companion, with a
pleasant smile. “I couldn’t see any young girl in trouble and not try to
help her. I’ve got two little girls myself—bless their dear hearts—and
maybe, if they ever lose their mother, they’ll need a helping hand
sometime. Besides”—and a tender glow passed over the homely honest
face—“I belong to the dear Lord who said, inasmuch as we give a cup of
cold water to one of His children we are serving Him.”
Salome lifted her dewy eyes to her companion.
“You have given me far more than the cup of cold water,” she said, with
emotion; “you have taken the stranger in, have clothed and fed and
ministered unto me; you have been the good Samaritan in every sense of
the word; I never realized before just how much that Bible story means,”
and two glittering drops rolled over her cheeks.
“Dear heart, you make too much out of a little,” replied her companion
kindly. “There, eat your supper or it will become cold, and I’ll read
about the fire to you.”
It was not a long account, and she had finished it before Salome was
half through eating.
Then she read the names of those who had perished, and the young girl’s
hand was suddenly arrested in the act of raising her cup to her lips, as
she heard her own spoken.
“Oh!” she cried out, setting her cup down, and feeling faint and dizzy.
How wonderful had been her escape, of which, as yet, no one knew!
It seemed as if nothing short of a miracle had enabled her to save
herself. Had it not been for the board which the paper-hanger had left
in the hall, and the strength and courage which had been given her to
make use of it, she would now be lying beneath those fallen walls, a
heap of charred bones.
How had she ever dared to cross that narrow bridge to that other house?
Oh! that dizzy height! Should she ever forget the terrible sensations
she experienced as she stood there, in mid-air, between that brittle
board and frail wire?
“I don’t wonder it unnerves you, miss, to hear about it,” the woman
said, as she laid down the paper. “I suppose you knew those poor girls
well.”
“N-o—only one of them,” Salome answered faintly, “I had not been a
lodger in the house long.”
“Perhaps they will think you are dead, too, if you don’t put in an
appearance pretty soon,” said her companion, without a suspicion that
she had already read her name among the list of the supposed dead. “What
is your name?—if I may ask?”
Salome had been thinking rapidly during the last few minutes. If she was
believed to have perished, why not let it go so?
Doubtless Madame Winthrop and Evelyn had already seen this account, and
knew that she had been an inmate of that ill-fated house. They would, in
all probability, go to inquire regarding the truth of the matter, and
would recognize the description that would be given of her. She wished
to cut herself off from the family entirely—she never could resume her
relations with them; and what better opportunity could she have than
this?
But what name should she henceforth assume?
Not that of Howland—not the one she had previously discarded, for she
was more anxious than ever to guard her identity, and yet she could not
bear to take one that did not belong to her, for Salome was very
conscientious and would not allow herself to speak falsely.
It would not matter much what this woman knew her by—why should she not
use the one that Dr. Winthrop had bestowed upon her for a little
while?—and before she could give the matter a second thought the name
had escaped her lips:
“Winthrop.”
“That’s a good name, miss; I used to know several Winthrops; but that
was long ago, when I lived in Boston,” said her companion. “I believe
there are some swell people here in New York by that name, too; but I
suppose you’re no relation to them, or you wouldn’t have been staying in
that lodging-house.”
“I am an orphan,” Salome replied sadly, but wondering what the woman
would say if she knew the truth about the relationship between those
“swell people” and herself.
“Poor child!” was the sympathetic response. “Then you have to look out
for yourself. What do you do for a living?”
“I am a nurse,” the young girl said.
“A nurse!” exclaimed the other, astonished. “You look more fit to be a
patient than a nurse.”
“I have not been very well, and I have been resting for a while; but I
must try and find some employment,” Salome answered. Then, to change the
subject, she asked, “And now, won’t you please tell me what I may call
you?”
“My name’s Wood.”
“Well, then, Mrs. Wood, please tell me if I am not crowding you by being
here? Do you not need this room for your own use?”
“No, indeed, Miss Winthrop. Don’t you trouble yourself about that.
You’re most welcome to it as long as you need it. John and I have the
one next to it, and the children sleep in the trundle-bed; and I guess I
could afford to crowd a little, even if I had to, rather than let a poor
homeless girl go into the streets,” and Mrs. Wood regarded the occupant
of the bed with a very tender glance.
“Thank you,” said Salome. “Then I will trespass upon your kindness for a
day or two longer, and if you will help me to-morrow about getting
something to wear, I shall be very grateful. Of course everything I had
was burned.”
“I’m sure I’ll do the best I can for you,” Mrs. Wood responded; then
added, “Now, if you feel able to sit up in this big chair for a little
while, I’ll shake up your bed and make it fresh. It will do you good,
and you will be more likely to sleep to-night.”
Salome followed her suggestion, and sat chatting for an hour or more
with her kind-hearted hostess. She felt greatly refreshed by her long
sleep and the appetizing meal of which she had just partaken, and was
surprised to find herself so well, and that she had taken no cold from
her exposure on the previous night.
She retired again about ten, and slept soundly until morning, when Mrs.
Wood served her a nicely broiled steak, hot biscuits, and coffee.
Then the woman told her that if she would look after her children she
would go out to do whatever shopping she required.
Salome made out a list of what she needed, and gave her the necessary
money; then she set herself to amuse the two little girls until her
return.
That afternoon she dressed herself in her modest suit of gray trimmed
with black, which Mrs. Wood had purchased for her, and, simple as it
was, she looked the lady which she always appeared, but “precious little
like a common nurse,” as her hostess remarked.
While looking over the evening paper, she came upon the following
advertisement:
WANTED—A PERSON TO ACT AS COMPANION and Nurse to a maiden lady who is
something of an invalid. One who can read and speak French as well as
English, preferred. Apply between the hours of ten and one, at No.—West
Thirty-ninth Street.
“I wonder if I could not fill that position,” Salome said to herself. “I
believe I will apply for it—it could not be as hard as nursing in a
hospital, and I am afraid I am not yet quite strong enough for that; I
certainly should not be as conspicuous in a private family.”
The next morning she told Mrs. Wood what she had decided upon, and then
offered to remunerate her for the two days and nights she had been with
her. But the generous-hearted woman would not take her money, telling
her she was more than welcome to the little that she had done for her.
“You have shown me great kindness, and I can never repay you for that,
so you ought to let me give you something for my board and lodging,”
Salome returned, with starting tears.
“No, no, dear child, I couldn’t take your money, but if you feel that
I’ve done you a good turn just pass it along when you have a chance, and
that will make it all right,” was the reply of this simple-hearted
Samaritan.
Salome was not quite satisfied, however, to let the matter rest thus,
and before she left she inclosed a generous amount in an envelope, wrote
upon it, “For Elsie and Jennie,” and fastened it to the pincushion in
the room she had occupied.
Then bidding her new friends an affectionate good-by she went away,
although Mrs. Wood charged her to come back again if she did not get the
place she desired.
Salome went directly to the address given in the advertisement; but as
she reached the elegant residence and mounted the massive granite steps,
she met several other persons coming out. Instinctively she knew that
they had come upon the same errand that had brought her there, while she
felt assured that they had not been successful, for they all passed out
with downcast faces and averted eyes.
She was half tempted to turn back. But she never liked to give up
anything that she had once undertaken, and resolved that she would go in
and apply for the situation, whether she accepted it or not.
She rang the bell, and the door was opened by a pleasant-looking woman
of perhaps thirty years, who smilingly returned Salome’s polite
good-morning.
“I have called to make some inquiries regarding this advertisement,”
Salome courteously remarked, as she presented the slip which she had cut
from the paper.
The girl glanced half-pityingly into the fair applicant’s face, then
said:
“Come in then, miss, and wait in the hall while I go to see if Miss
Leonard will receive you. There has been a constant stream of people
here all the morning, but no one has suited, and the mistress is nervous
and worried.”
Salome smiled assent, but she had very little hope that she would be
successful as she went in and sat down in one of the great chairs of the
hall, while the girl went upstairs to her mistress.
She soon returned, and said:
“You can go up, miss, but you won’t find my lady very gracious. Never
you mind, though,” she added in a lower tone, and with a friendly
glance; “you just hold your own, and she’ll like you all the better for
it.”
Salome was somewhat surprised by this advice, but she made no reply as
she followed the servant up the lofty flight of stairs, and paused at
the door of a large front room.
Salome entered, and found herself in the presence of a woman of about
fifty years—a woman having sharp features, and sharper eyes which seemed
to look her through and take her measure in an instant. Her face was
sallow and wrinkled, and somewhat sullen in expression; her hair was a
mixture of gray and black, and her eyes were intensely dark and sharp.
“And still they come!” she snapped, as Salome went forward and saluted
her respectfully. “I suppose you expect to jump right into the
situation, don’t you?”
“I cannot say that I came with that expectation, madam,” Salome answered
pleasantly, and meeting her keen glance with one of charming frankness;
“but I did come with the hope that we should be pleased with each
other.”
“‘Pleased with each other!’ Well, now, that sounds finely, doesn’t it?”
retorted her companion, with a short laugh that was followed by a
peculiar chuckle. “So if I do not suit you, you did not intend to honor
me with your service, eh?”
“Well,” Salome calmly replied, and not in the least disconcerted by this
way of stating the matter, although she was secretly amused, “if you
should judge that I would not be congenial to you, and I should feel
that I could not be happy in serving you, it would, of course, be best
for us not to enter into any agreement; do you not think so?”
“Hum—what’s your name?”
“Salome Howland.”
She had decided that it would be best to go back to the old name, after
all, for if she was to remain in New York she feared the name of
Winthrop would attract attention and inquiry.
“Howland—Howland! Where have I heard that name before?” mused Miss
Leonard, bending a searching look upon her. Then as Salome made no
reply, she added curtly, “You don’t look strong enough to be a nurse.”
“I know that I am rather slightly built,” Salome answered, thinking it
best not to say anything about her recent illness, “but I have been
trained as a nurse, and I believe I shall be able to render any service
you may require, since you do not appear to be very ill.”
“Oh, you’re a trained nurse, then; where were you trained?”
“In the City Hospital of Boston.”
“Have you recommendations?”
“No, madam, but I can easily obtain them if you desire; or you can do so
if you think best, by writing to Dr. Hunt, who is the head physician in
the institution.”
“Well, I’m not ill very often, at the same time I want my companion to
be able to take care of me if I should happen to be. When did you leave
Boston?”
“Less than three months ago,” Salome answered, with lips that were not
quite steady, as she remembered all that occurred within that time.
“Have you been in New York all that time?”
“Yes, madam.”
“What have you been doing?”
“Nothing but—trying to rest and recruit. I had overtaxed myself a little
in Boston.”
Oh, how Salome wished she would stop questioning her about the past!
“Have you relatives in this city?”
“No, madam; neither a home nor relatives.”
The shrewd eyes watching her noticed the pathetic little quiver about
the sweet lips, and softened a trifle.
“Now about your education,” Miss Leonard continued, abruptly changing
the subject. “Can you read well?”
“Of that you can judge for yourself, if you will allow me to read you
something,” Salome smilingly returned.
“Well, here is an article on electro-plating; let me see what you can
make of it,” and the woman pushed a magazine across the table toward her
companion.
Salome seated herself opposite her critic, and began to read in clear,
sweet tones, articulating distinctly, and rendering the article, which
would have interested no one but an electrician, with perfect
intelligence.
“That will do,” said Miss Leonard, interrupting her. “Now here is a
Paris paper—give me some French news; that is, if you know the
language.”
“I can read French,” Salome said quietly, as she took the paper; and
instantly she fell to reading like a veritable Frenchwoman.
“Seems to me it was rather a mistake to conceal such talent in a common
hospital,” laconically observed Miss Leonard. “Can you write a good
hand? Here, take this pen and copy the address of this letter.”
Salome did as she was bidden, and the woman appeared to be satisfied
with the plain and beautiful chirography which she handed back to her.
“Can you sew?” she now asked.
“Will sewing be one of the requirements of the position?” Salome
inquired, beginning to feel as if the situation might be more onerous
than would be desirable.
“That doesn’t matter—I simply asked if you could sew,” was the curt
rejoinder.
“Yes, madam, I can.”
“Then, Miss Howland—do—do you think I would suit you?” the dame
questioned sarcastically, but with a comical assumption of meekness, and
a humorous twinkle in her shrewd eyes.
The question was so ludicrous, and the woman’s look and manner so
mirth-provoking, that Salome’s face dimpled all over with merry smiles.
She saw that she did not want a servant to wait upon her so much as a
companion to amuse her and make the time pass agreeably, and she fancied
that the excessive brusqueness of manner had been partially assumed to
test her; so she acted accordingly.
“Suppose I give you a trial and see?” she retorted, with a roguish gleam
in her eyes, a little amused ripple of laughter, that was irresistible,
bursting from her lips.
CHAPTER XXVI.
SALOME LEARNS A BIT OF MISS LEONARD’S HISTORY.
“And what are the wages to be, if you please, marm?” Miss Leonard
continued in the same strain, but with a chuckle of appreciation that
was not lost upon Salome.
Salome colored slightly, then with grave courtesy she said:
“Really, madam, I had not thought much about the question of
remuneration. Let me tell you frankly that I am alone in the world, and
I care more for the protection of a home and something to occupy my time
and thoughts than for money. I shall be satisfied, I hope, with whatever
you may honestly consider my services worth after you have given me a
trial.”
“Really! Are you some princess in disguise that you are so indifferent?”
sneered her companion, while she eyed her sharply, as if she distrusted
her motives in making this unusual reply; for heretofore she had found
applicants greedy enough in the matter of wages.
“No, madam,” Salome quietly responded, though her eyes blazed a trifle
at the rudeness of the question. “I am only a poor girl without home or
friends.”
“Humph! It seems to me it’s a queer arrangement,” was the short retort;
then, after a moment’s thought, she added: “But I’m going to take you at
your word. You shall come to me, and we’ll say nothing about pay until
you’ve been here a month.”
“Very well; I accept that proposition,” said Salome pleasantly, and with
no anxiety about what she should receive, for she still had money in her
purse—more than enough for a month’s needs.
She felt attracted toward this woman, in spite of her eccentricities,
and she believed that, with the exercise of a little tact, she would
have no difficulty in living amicably with her, and might, perhaps, even
help to smooth off some of her rough corners.
“All right; but I shall want you immediately,” said Miss Leonard
imperiously.
“I am at liberty, and can come to you whenever you wish,” Salome
answered.
“This afternoon, then, at four o’clock,” was the brief command of her
new employer.
She rang a bell as she spoke, and the servant who had ushered Salome in
immediately made her appearance.
“Harriet, show Miss Howland out; then come back and get my writing-desk
for me,” said her mistress.
She waved her hand authoritatively, and Salome felt herself dismissed
without further ceremony.
She bowed politely, as she turned to leave the room, but though her
salute was not returned, she caught sight of the quizzical smile that
wreathed the strange woman’s lips as she went out.
“Well, did you suit her?” asked the girl, as they were on their way
downstairs.
Salome laughed out softly.
“I am afraid that would be a hard question to answer,” she said.
“However, I am coming to stay with her on trial for a month.”
“If she keeps you, and you can stand it, for a month, you’ll stay
longer,” returned Harriet. Then she added kindly: “Let me give you a bit
of advice, young woman. You see, I like your looks, and I think it might
be pleasant to have you in the house. Just make up your mind that Miss
Leonard is the crankiest old woman you ever saw, and lay in an abundant
stock of patience for your month of trial—and it will be trial, you may
depend. If you can endure her whims for that length of time, she’ll
gradually come around all right, you’ll learn how to manage her, and
you’ll have no great trouble afterward.”
“Thank you; I will remember what you tell me,” Salome said gratefully.
“Now, please, tell me what I shall call you?”
“Harriet’s my name—Harriet Winter.”
“And mine is Salome Howland. I hope we shall be good friends, Harriet,”
the young girl said, smiling, and holding out her hand to her
fellow-servant, and from that moment Miss Leonard’s maid was her sworn
ally.
Salome had her dinner, after which she made some needful purchases,
which she put into a small trunk, and ordered the whole sent by express
to Miss Leonard’s residence.
Then, having a couple of hours at her disposal, she slipped into a
gallery to look at some new pictures which had been advertised as on
exhibition.
They were in an upper room; finding a comfortable seat, she sat down to
examine them at her leisure.
She had been there alone for, perhaps, half an hour, when two ladies
entered and sat down behind her.
They conversed for a few moments; then one of them suddenly exclaimed:
“Mrs. Rogers, do look at that portrait in the corner—whom does it
resemble? Do you see a likeness to any one whom you know?”
“Well, I should say it looks as much like Miss Polly Leonard as any
one,” was the reply.
“Exactly. There is the same parchment-colored face; the same shrewd,
malicious eyes and grim mouth; while the prim, starched figure is almost
identical. By the way, isn’t she the queerest specimen of humanity that
you have ever met?”
“She is peculiar, Mrs. Allison; but, poor woman! I can hardly wonder at
it, for she has had trouble enough during her life to make her so,” was
the pitiful reply of Mrs. Rogers.
It was very strange, Salome thought, that the very woman with whom she
was going to live should be thus discussed in her presence.
At first she thought she would go away, for she was sensitive about
listening to a conversation like this.
Then she reasoned that the ladies must have seen her, and must know that
she could hear all that was said, and if they did not think it worth
their while to be cautious in their remarks it was no affair of hers,
while she might possibly learn something about her patron that would aid
in her future service, if she remained; so she sat still and waited with
increasing interest for further developments.
“I suppose she has,” the lady who had been called Mrs. Allison replied;
“at least, I have heard that she was disappointed in love when she was
young, and it completely changed her disposition. Do you know her
history?”
“Yes, and a very sad one it is, too,” Mrs. Rogers returned. “She was
engaged to a fine young fellow and they were about to be married. She
was living in Washington at that time; the day was set for the wedding,
and she had everything ready, even to her veil and gloves. Her lover was
an Eastern man—a native of Massachusetts—but he was in Washington for
several weeks preceding the date set for their marriage. They had a
bitter quarrel over something one evening at some private theatricals,
and the match was broken off. Of course it broke the girl’s heart, and
it came out later that some people, who had a petty spite against her,
for some unknown reason, had influenced her betrothed against her,
misrepresenting her character and disposition with the sole purpose of
breaking off the marriage. It changed Miss Leonard from a bright,
lovely, and fascinating girl into a wretched, revengeful woman—a
despiser of all men—a hater of her own sex. Soon after she lost her
father and mother, then a little later her only sister, and that left
her without a relative in the world, though with a large fortune at her
disposal, and she might have made a brilliant marriage. But her
troubles, instead of chastening her, only served to increase the
bitterness; she seemed to imagine every one her enemy, and so made
herself everybody’s enemy. She left Washington soon after the death of
her sister, and came to New York, where she secluded herself from all
society. She bought and furnished that beautiful house on Thirty-ninth
Street, where she has lived alone with her servants ever since. I have
heard that she leads them a terrible life, and can keep no one with her
very long, but her maid, Harriet, who seems to know just how to manage
her, and has been with her for ten years. She is so exceedingly
antagonistic she has very few friends, and yet I have heard that there
is kindness in her heart, if any one can but once get down to it. I have
heard that she is very generous, and has secretly done a great deal of
good among the poor.”
“How much do you imagine she is worth?” Mrs. Allison inquired.
“I have no idea—a great deal, I have been told; while, living as she
does, she cannot of course spend her income, so it must be
accumulating.”
“What will become of it when she gets through with it?”
“That is another subject which excites considerable comment,” replied
Mrs. Rogers. “She is so peculiar, she will probably make some
exceedingly eccentric disposal of it; perhaps she will found an
institution for the advancement of some strange whim.”
“Well, she is truly a pitiable object, for of course, with her
peculiarities, there are not many, if any, who love her, and life,
without love, is not worth living,” sighed Mrs. Allison. Then she added,
“You called her Miss Polly Leonard, is that really her name?”
“No; she is Miss Pauline Leonard, but I suspect that she has been so
queer that the Pauline has degenerated into Polly through the spite of
her enemies. But,” looking at her watch, “I have an appointment with my
dressmaker, and I must go at once.”
The two ladies rose and passed out, but Salome still sat there and wiped
away the tears which had been quietly flowing down her cheeks during the
above recital. Her heart was full of sympathy and tenderness for the
poor woman whose life had been warped and blighted by the spite of
evil-disposed persons.
“I am glad that I have heard her history,” she murmured, “for I know it
will help me to have patience with her, and pity for her moods. I am
going to try to make her life a little brighter, poor, poor woman! Who
can tell what possibilities were destroyed when those revengeful people
sought to ruin her happiness—she might have been a loving wife, a noble
mother, and the world a great deal better for her influence. Those women
will have a great deal to answer for by and by; but I believe my coming
here this afternoon was providential.”
Precisely at four o’clock, Salome rang the bell at the door of her new
home, and was soon admitted by the good-natured Harriet.
“You’re on time, Miss Howland, and that will please Miss Leonard—though
you’ll never know it from her,” she remarked. “I am to show you to your
room—your trunk is already there—and then you’re to have dinner with the
mistress.”
Salome followed Harriet up two flights of stairs to a pleasant room
directly over the one where she had met Miss Leonard in the morning. It
was comfortably furnished, and had a home-like air that was very restful
and satisfying to her.
She removed her wraps, rearranged her hair, then tied a pretty white
apron about her waist, and was ready to go down to the second story,
where she found Harriet just going to her mistress, and at a signal from
her followed her into the room.
Miss Leonard did not pay the slightest heed to her, until she had given
her orders to Harriet, and dismissed her; then, in an extremely
matter-of-fact manner, as if the girl had already been there a month,
she remarked:
“The leaves of this new magazine are waiting to be cut, Miss Howland,
and by the time you have finished, dinner will be served. Afterward I
shall want you to make out a list for some shopping that must be done
to-morrow.”
Salome sat down in a low rocker near Miss Leonard, and began to cut the
leaves of the book with an exquisite paper-cutter of solid silver, and
thus entered upon her duties as companion to the most peculiar character
she had ever met.
When dinner was announced, she followed to the dining-room, and took the
seat opposite her. Harriet was present to wait. Everything about the
table was rich and elegant, and arranged in the most perfect manner,
while the numerous courses plainly indicated that Miss Leonard was not
indifferent to luxuries, even if she did live the life of a recluse.
The meal was somewhat tedious, for Miss Leonard did not seem inclined to
be social, and Salome did not feel at liberty to introduce any topic for
conversation; but it was over at last, and they went to the library,
where Salome was required to make out the list for shopping.
Then she was sent for the magazine, which she had made ready before
dinner, and for nearly two hours she read aloud, beginning with the
first article, and reading everything in course. Evidently Miss Leonard
intended to get her money’s worth out of her periodicals, for she would
allow nothing to be skipped, and she was a tireless listener, taking in
everything, as the quick glancing of her intelligent eyes and the
varying expression of her face plainly betrayed.
“Do you play backgammon?” she abruptly asked, as Salome finished a long
article on ancient architecture.
“Yes,” she answered, she knew both the Russian and the common games.
“Then wheel that little table over here, and we’ll play for a while
before we go to bed,” Miss Leonard commanded, and for another hour not
much was heard but the rattle of dice and the moving of men.
At half-past nine, Miss Leonard pushed back her chair and asked Salome
to ring the bell for Harriet.
“Now you can go to bed if you want to,” she said, “but we have breakfast
promptly at eight o’clock.”
Salome experienced a feeling of relief, on learning that her duties
would not begin until that time, and told herself that, by rising early,
she would have at least two hours for work or study, as she chose.
She bade Miss Leonard a pleasant good-night, remarking that she hoped
she would rest well.
“Humph! what is it to you whether I rest well or not?” bluntly demanded
her patron, while she searched her face with her keen black eyes.
Salome looked up surprised.
“Why,” she answered sweetly, “in my own home I was taught to take leave
of my parents when I retired, and to say something pleasant and
courteous before leaving them; and truly, Miss Leonard, I do hope that
you may have a comfortable night. Is there anything that I can do for
you before I go?”
“No, child, no. Good-night,” Miss Leonard returned, in a mollified tone,
while a slight flush for a moment intensified the sallowness of her
face; then, as Harriet came, Salome went away to her own room.
“What do you think of her, Harriet?” Miss Leonard demanded of her maid,
when, a few moments later, she was herself preparing to retire.
“She seems like a nice kind of person, pleasant-spoken and
good-natured,” the girl responded.
“Humph! she isn’t what she seems, by a good deal,” curtly observed her
mistress.
“Marm?” and Harriet looked surprised.
“She never was brought up to work for her living; she was reared a
lady,” explained Miss Leonard.
“So I thought, marm,” quietly observed the maid, but with an enlightened
smile.
“Oh, you did, did you? Pray what caused you to arrive at such an astute
conclusion?” sarcastically demanded her mistress.
“Well, marm, as you know, I’ve served gentlefolks ever since I was a
girl, and I can tell a lady after I’ve seen her eat one meal, let alone
her other manners.”
“Really!”
“Yes’m,” asserted Harriet, in nowise daunted by her mistress’ mocking
tone; “they’ll always show at table whether they’ve been served and
taught genteel manners, and Miss Howland never once made a mistake at
dinner.”
“Don’t you suppose I know it as well as you?” snapped the elder woman.
“There, turn out the gas and then go; but you may tell cook to make
coffee in the morning—it isn’t likely the girl is fond of that weak
cocoa that I have to drink.”
Harriet quietly obeyed her orders, and then softly withdrew from the
room, smiling wisely to herself at this evidence of Miss Leonard’s
appreciation of her new companion, for never before had she been known
to give an order independent of her own interests.
CHAPTER XXVII.
SALOME HAS A STARTLING EXPERIENCE.
Salome was not destined to have an easy time in her new position.
If Miss Leonard recognized the fact that she had been reared a lady, she
did not betray it in her treatment of her, and before the first week of
her month had expired, the tired girl began to wonder if she could have
patience to pursue the same routine, always under the same disagreeable
circumstances.
She felt that she never could have submitted to the whims and caprices,
to the despotism and variable disposition of this strange woman, if she
had not overheard that conversation between Mrs. Rogers and Mrs. Allison
in the art-room.
That had begotten a tender pity and sympathy in her own sore and
sorrowful heart for the lonely and unloved creature, and she longed to
do her good, to be of some comfort to her. Only Miss Leonard intrenched
herself behind such an antagonistic and forbidding manner, that it did
not seem possible to reach her better nature, if indeed she had any.
“Oh, if I could only win her confidence—win her to have a little more
faith in humanity generally—to realize that life is not simply a
battle-ground, where every man’s hand is against her, I should be well
repaid for almost any effort or amount of endurance,” she sighed one
evening, after an unusually hard and trying day.
But it was apparently such a hopeless task—Miss Leonard was so
antagonistic, so arbitrary and inconsiderate, she was afraid that she
could not stay with her.
But something occurred which made a radical change in the relations of
this human porcupine and her gentle companion.
One morning Miss Leonard sent Salome down to the drawing-room to get a
book of engravings that was kept there. Salome had never been in the
room before, and her eyes gleamed with delight as they fell upon a fine
piano, which stood in one corner, while her fingers tingled to test its
tones.
She found the book she had been sent for, and returned to Miss Leonard’s
boudoir, feeling that she could not be utterly wretched even in such an
uncongenial atmosphere, if she could but obtain permission to make use
of the instrument below.
“What’s the matter?” Miss Leonard demanded, regarding her suspiciously,
as she caught sight of her bright face.
“Matter?” Salome questioned, not realizing that she had betrayed emotion
of any kind.
“Yes, you look wonderfully elated over something. What happened while
you were downstairs?”
“Nothing,” Salome answered; “only I was pleased to find that you have a
fine piano in the house.”
“Humph! Can you play the piano?”
“Yes; I am really fond of music.”
“Really! You’re quite a talented young woman—for a nurse,” was the
mocking retort.
Nothing more was said upon the subject at that time, but, after dinner,
Miss Leonard told Harriet to light the chandelier in the drawing-room
and open the piano; then rising from the table she led the way thither.
“There,” she remarked to her companion, as she pointed toward the
“concert grand;” “now we’ll see what you can do.”
Salome colored at her tone, yet she was amused, for it was evident that
Miss Leonard did not expect great things of her.
“I have no music with me, but perhaps I can remember a few simple
pieces,” she remarked, as she seated herself upon the stool and struck a
few chords.
Then she suddenly forgot all about herself and her surroundings. Her
memory served her well; music came to her as she played, and she
literally lost herself in the exquisite melodies which she awoke in that
room of gloomy magnificence.
At length, however, it occurred to her that her selections might not be
pleasing to her listener, and turning about, her hands dropped from the
key-board, as she asked:
“Are you getting tired of it, Miss Leonard?”
A long-drawn sigh fell upon her ear, and she saw that she looked pale
and very sad.
“No—no; but can you not sing something?” she asked, in a more kindly
tone than Salome had ever heard her use.
“Oh, yes, if you prefer vocal music,” she answered obligingly.
She sang a couple of simple ballads, and then, all at once, broke forth
into that air from the opera of “The Bohemian Girl:”
“When other lips and other hearts
Their tale of love shall tell,
In language whose excess imparts
The power they feel so well,
There may, perhaps, in such a scene
Some recollection be
Of days that have as happy been,
And you’ll remember me.
“When coldness or deceit shall slight
The beauty now they prize,
And deem it but a faded light
That beams within your eyes;
When hollow hearts shall wear a mask
’Twill break your own to see,
In such a moment I but ask
That you’ll remember me.”
Salome had reached this last line, when a hollow groan burst upon her
ear, and a shaking voice, shrill with agony, cried out:
“Stop! stop! for mercy’s sake, stop!”
Salome sprang from the stool, and turned affrighted toward her
companion, to find her sitting with her face buried in her hands and her
form shaking with a nervous tremor.
“O Miss Leonard! what have I done?” she cried. “Have I wounded you by
singing a song that has aroused painful memories? Forgive me—pray
forgive me! I would not have done it for the world, if I had known.”
She comprehended the situation at once.
She knew that that song must be linked in some way with the great sorrow
that had fallen upon her in her early life; that it had recalled and
aroused all her agony over those blighted hopes, of which she had heard.
“Children like you do not know what trouble is,” Miss Leonard said
sharply, for she was suffering keenly, and she forgot how young she had
been when her great sorrow had fallen upon her. “Ah,” she went on
bitterly, “when you have made an idol of some one and found that idol
worthless clay; when you have built the hopes of a life-time upon the
truth and constancy of one human being, and had them ruthlessly betrayed
and blighted at the very moment they were upon the point of being
realized; when death has left you friendless; when spite and malice have
turned your nature to gall—then you may talk of being unhappy.”
“I have—O Miss Leonard, I have known something of such bitter
experiences, and if my sorrow is so much fresher and more recent than
yours do you not think I feel it as keenly?” sobbed Salome.
“No; for mine has been eating and corroding my heart for more than
thirty years, until it has consumed all the kindness and love in my
nature, and made me the virago that I am. There! you can imagine that it
has cost me something to own that to you; for I am a proud woman, and I
never talk of my troubles, much less of my sins. Of course you couldn’t
know what that song meant to me. Ah!” with a bitter groan—“shall I ever
forget the last time I heard it sung? But,” rising and trying to steady
her shaking tones, “we will not talk any more about it.”
Then, as if moved by some uncontrollable impulse, she bent forward and
kissed Salome upon the cheek.
“There, child,” she said, flushing; “I’m making a perfect fool of
myself, I suppose, and I’ve never kissed anybody since my sister died.
But”—drawing herself up and speaking with something of her usual
arbitrariness “we will never speak of this again. Good-night, child.”
She turned abruptly and left the room, but Salome could see that she was
terribly shaken, for she could not walk steadily.
She soon followed her and stole softly up to her room, where she retired
to rest, though she brooded long over the unhappiness of the woman whose
trouble had been so much like her own.
“Why is life so sad?” she asked herself. “Why are so many lives blighted
and ruined? Why, if humanity was born to develop into a pure and sinless
spirit, are there so many baneful influences to warp the soul and
destroy all the sweetness and nobility of the nature?”
But these were mysteries which could only be solved in the light of the
future, when all secrets should be revealed; and Salome, who was
learning to carry all her troubles to the good Father, sent up a little
prayer for faith, and strength, and courage, and then fell into a
profound and dreamless sleep.
She was awakened very early in the morning, long before daylight, by a
hand upon her shoulder, and found Harriet standing by her bedside, with
a lighted candle, her face pale and anxious.
“Miss Howland, will you get up, please?” she said. “Miss Leonard has
been taken very ill; she says you have been trained as a nurse, and
perhaps you will know what to do for her.”
“Yes, indeed, Harriet. Go directly back to her, and I will come as soon
as I can dress,” Salome answered, as she sprang out of bed and began to
put on her clothes.
Two minutes later she was in Miss Leonard’s room, and found her in a
very nervous state, tossing to and fro, complaining of a dreadful pain
in her head, while her face was strangely flushed, and the veins about
her temples and neck were much swollen.
Salome saw at once that the woman had not slept at all, that she had
doubtless suffered, and was still suffering from the excitement of the
previous evening, and she feared apoplexy, unless she could be
immediately relieved.
“Harriet, you must get a hot foot-bath ready directly,” she said, as she
raised Miss Leonard to a half-recumbent position, and placed three or
four pillows beneath her head and shoulders. She loosened her night-robe
at the neck, and applied cloths dipped in cold water to her head.
Harriet was soon ready with the foot-bath, and it was not long before
the two women began to perceive a change for the better in their
patient.
Her eyes began to grow more natural in expression, the crimson flush
gradually faded from her face, her nervousness abated, and her pulse
became more regular.
When day dawned, Salome knew that all immediate danger was past, but
there were other symptoms which she considered critical, and she told
Harriet that she thought her physician ought to be summoned.
“No, don’t you dare send for a doctor. I won’t have any men about me,”
snapped Miss Leonard, who had overheard the conference.
“But, Miss Leonard,” Salome said, going to her bedside, and speaking
persuasively, “I know that you need advice—you need instant and radical
treatment.”
“I can’t help it—I won’t have any doctor about my premises,” she
stubbornly reiterated.
“Well, if you object to the sex, there are women who are regular
physicians; let me send for one of them,” Salome urged.
“I won’t,” was the resolute answer. “I’m not going to be experimented
on. I don’t believe in doctors any way, and the less of their stuff one
takes the better. You claim that you are a trained nurse—you must know
something about sickness; treat me yourself.”
CHAPTER XXVIII.
MISS LEONARD’S ILLNESS.
Salome saw that she was becoming greatly excited, and concluded not to
argue the point any further just then.
“I am sure,” she said, after thinking a moment, “I will do the best I
can for you, Miss Leonard; but you surely need medicine.”
“Well, perhaps I do, and I’ll take anything you think I ought to have;
but I won’t have a doctor—so that is settled.”
Salome was deeply troubled. She did not dare to assume the
responsibility of administering remedies without the advice of an
intelligent physician, and yet it would not do to persist in calling
one, for the woman would certainly work herself into a dangerous state
if antagonized.
She went into Miss Leonard’s dressing-room and beckoned Harriet to come
to her.
The girl followed, after a few moments, under pretence of renewing the
wet cloth upon her mistress’s head.
“What shall we do, Harriet?” Salome questioned anxiously. “Miss Leonard
is certainly very ill, and she must have medical attendance.”
“Well, I don’t know, miss; she’s had her say, and an eight-ox team
wouldn’t move her now,” said the maid, in a positive tone.
“How would it do, I wonder, if I should go to some skilful physician,
tell him exactly how the matter stands, and describe her symptoms. I
could do that every day, and twice a day, if necessary, and perhaps he
could then treat her through me,” Salome said musingly.
“Don’t you think you could do as well by yourself?” inquired the girl.
“She’d be hopping mad if she should ever find it out.”
“I do not dare to trust my own judgment, unaided; and, Harriet, I am
afraid she is going to be very ill.”
“Oh, dear, I hope not!” sighed Harriet. “Perhaps she will be better if
we wait a day or two.”
“I do not dare to wait, Harriet; I am very much troubled by her
symptoms,” Salome returned gravely.
“Then I guess you’d better work your plan—though how the bill will be
paid is more than I can tell. No doctor would ever see the color of her
money, if we should go contrary to her will,” said the maid gloomily.
“Well, I would rather work until I could earn the money myself than run
any risk or assume the responsibility,” Salome returned with decision.
“Do you know of a skilful doctor who lives near here?”
“Yes, there are the Doctors Minot—the old and the young man—just around
the corner; they’re accounted first-class, but they charge awful!”
“I cannot help that. I shall put the case in their hands, tell them just
how we are situated, and trust the result with Providence,” and Salome’s
brow cleared somewhat as she arrived at the conclusion.
“Good luck go with you, Miss Howland; I’m sure you have a kind heart to
be so interested for such a cross old woman.”
Harriet would have resented it if any one else had called her mistress
that; but just now she was very much troubled by her perverseness in
refusing to see a doctor.
“Don’t speak so, Harriet,” returned her companion gently. “She is one of
the good Father’s children, the same as you or I, and perhaps she would
have been very different if she had had a happier life. Now,” she added,
“I am going to get my breakfast, after that to Dr. Minot’s. If Miss
Leonard asks for me, tell her I have gone to the drug store for
remedies—for I shall go there before I return.”
She ran up to her room and prepared for the street, then went to break
her fast—for she was faint and hungry, from her three hours of labor and
anxiety in the sick-room—and after she had eaten went directly out.
She found the physician’s office readily enough, and was kindly received
by young Dr. Minot, who, by the way, was not so very young, being upward
of forty, but was so styled because his father was still practising.
Salome stated her case plainly, and the physician seemed to appreciate
the situation. He knew something of Miss Leonard, he said, and was not
at all surprised at her refusal to see a doctor. He saw at once that
Salome was intelligent, and had made the most of her training in the
hospital, and he thought there would be no difficulty in treating the
case through her if she reported regularly and faithfully.
He said, frankly, that he regarded Miss Leonard’s symptoms alarming, and
thought that it would be best for her to report twice a day for the
present; then he prescribed certain remedies, to be given during the
next twelve hours, after which he politely accompanied her to the door,
and bade her a courteous good-morning.
She procured what she needed from the nearest pharmacy, and then
hastened home, greatly relieved to have her burden shared by a skilful
physician. But although she eagerly availed herself of his advice, and
faithfully followed it, there were weary days and weeks before her, for
Miss Leonard had a long and tedious illness.
At first she seemed to be doing better than had been anticipated, and
both doctor and nurse were congratulating themselves that she would soon
be out of danger, when, one morning, the wilful woman insisted upon
getting up, took cold, and then for three weeks lay very near death’s
door, and unconscious most of the time of all that was going on around
her.
Then, upon her own responsibility, Salome admitted Dr. Minot to his
patient, and he came twice every day, until she began to come to
herself, when he treated her through Salome, as before.
Then there were four weeks more of slow and tedious convalescence,
during which the invalid tried the souls of her attendants to their
utmost endurance.
Salome, however, was very pitiful and tender, for during her delirium
she had betrayed much which she had never meant any human being to know,
and the girl had shed many tears over the sorrows and trials that had
made her the crabbed and peculiar creature that she was. She resolved
that nothing should make her get out of patience with her—that she would
bear with her weakness and her crochets, and she even really began to
feel an affection, such as a mother often experiences toward a feeble
and fractious child.
She never allowed her to see a cloud upon her brow; she always greeted
her with a smile, responded to her complaints with cheerful, hopeful
words, and was ever gentle and considerate, even when she was almost
worn out with her ceaseless watching and anxiety.
She often wondered that her own strength did not give out; but she was
perfectly well, although very weary, and was conscious that she was
steadily outgrowing the troubles that had threatened her before leaving
Boston. She knew that the tide of health had turned strongly in her
favor during those few weeks when she had been so happy in her husband’s
home and love, and the good work was still going on.
One morning Miss Leonard seemed to be more than usually unmanageable,
and was so rude and cross with Salome that she was obliged to make some
excuse to leave the room, in order to conceal the tears she could no
longer restrain.
Then Harriet, who had grown to love her very dearly during these weeks
of mutual watching and anxiety, turned upon her mistress and gave vent
to her indignation.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re thinking of, marm, to treat that
angel so,” she cried hotly.
“Angel?” sneered the angry woman; “there are no angels in the world.
I’ve lived in it for more than fifty years, and I never met one yet.”
“Well, you’ve got one in this very house,” retorted Harriet: “though I
suppose you wouldn’t acknowledge it if the Virgin Mary herself should
come down to serve you. But I’ll tell you one thing, if I lose my place
for it, you’d have been under the sod long before this, if it hadn’t
been for Miss Howland.”
“Pooh! Mind your own business, Harriet; I haven’t been as sick as all
that,” scornfully returned Miss Leonard, who had never realized her
danger.
“But you have, marm,” solemnly replied the girl; “seven days and seven
nights we hung over you, and thought every one would be your last. The
doctor said you couldn’t li——”
“Doctor?” screamed Miss Leonard wrathfully. “What doctor?”
Poor Harriet looked crest-fallen enough at this unlucky slip of the
tongue; but the secret was out now, and she thought she might as well
make a clean breast of everything, so she confessed the whole story to
her mistress.
Miss Leonard’s brow was black with anger as she listened; she had been
hoodwinked and outwitted.
While she had been lying unconscious and helpless in their care these
two women had admitted, in direct opposition to her commands, a despised
physician, and given her into his care to be experimented upon. True,
the experiment had proved successful, but that she did not take into
consideration at that moment.
“You shall pay for this, Harriet, when I get able to give you your just
deserts,” she said fiercely, when the story was told.
“I can’t help it, marm,” the woman returned, with an independent toss of
her head, and feeling relieved now that the secret was out; “your life
was worth too much to be sacrificed to a mere whim. Perhaps you would
rather we had let you die; come, now—would you?”
“But you disobeyed my strict orders,” began her mistress evasively.
“Yes, marm, and it was lucky for you we did,” Harriet said, gaining
confidence in her defence; “but leaving yourself out of the question,
can’t you have a little feeling for that poor young thing? What if she
had taken the responsibility of treating you, as you ordered her, and
you had died? ’Twouldn’t be very comfortable for her to think of all her
life.”
“Humph! Who’s to pay the bills, I’d like to know,” snapped Miss Leonard,
steering clear of all answers, as before.
“Miss Howland spoke of that, and said she would work to pay them
herself, rather than run the risk of letting you die. I tell you, marm,
there ain’t many people like her in the world. Can’t you see for
yourself, how much flesh that patient girl has worn off for you? Look at
her hollow cheeks, her sunken eyes, and thin hands; she hadn’t much to
lose when she came here, goodness knows, but she has less now, and I
don’t know as she had any special reason to work herself to death for
you, either.”
Miss Leonard shot a startled look at her maid at this. She had been so
full of her own aches and pains, that she had given no thought to anyone
else; but now it occurred to her that Salome did look sadly worn—her
face was hollow and thin.
A shiver of self-repulsion ran over her, and a flush, hot and burning,
mounted to her brow. She knew there had been many days that had been an
utter blank to her—when, probably, she had been near death, as Harriet
had said. What if she had died!
These thoughts led to others, and much of her past life flitted before
her, quickening her conscience and arousing remorse, and in her weakened
state she fell to weeping nervously. Salome returned at this point and
found her in an almost hysterical condition.
This of course would not do, and without even inquiring the cause of her
tears, she set about diverting her mind into a more pleasant channel.
But from that day both Salome and Harriet began to observe a change in
her.
It was very slight at first and marked only by little things—the sudden
breaking off in the middle of a harsh sentence, supplementing her orders
now and then with the courteous words “if you please,” insisting that
both the nurse and maid should alternate in having a little rest every
afternoon, instead of demanding increasing attendance all day long.
Toward the latter, too, she was less crabbed and arbitrary, and the
woman began to notice and comment upon it to Salome.
“I hope she won’t get too good,” she dryly remarked one day, when her
mistress had been more kind than usual. “I ain’t used to it, you know; I
rather think, on the whole, it gives a spice to life, and keeps my
spirits up, to have a little tiff with her now and then.”
Salome had a hearty laugh over this characteristic remark, but thought
she enjoyed Miss Leonard far more without the “tiffs.”
She surprised them both one day by sending a message to Dr. Minot,
requesting him to call.
She had never exchanged a word with Salome regarding his attendance upon
her, although the young nurse had expected, after Harriet’s revelation,
to be called to account for it; but she felt she had done right, and so
had no anxiety over the matter.
Dr. Minot came, as desired, and Miss Leonard received him graciously,
which, considering her hatred of the sex, greatly surprised her
attendants.
She had a long conference with him, during which the physician expressed
his unbounded admiration for the manner in which Salome had attended her
during her protracted illness. He told her frankly that she must have
died, but for the excellent nursing she had received, although he did
not undervalue his own services.
Miss Leonard did not express herself regarding Salome’s merits, but she
curtly informed her visitor that she “never had any faith in doctors,
though she supposed there were times when they were useful,” and
concluded by asking the amount of his bill.
Dr. Minot, with a shrewd twinkle in his eyes, named a very moderate sum.
Miss Leonard, without relaxing a muscle of her grim face, immediately
filled out a check for double the amount and passed it to him.
Dr. Minot looked at it and knit his brows. He had expected that she
would object to even the small sum he had named.
“I think you have made a mistake, madam,” he remarked; “the amount I
stated was exactly half of what you have written here.”
“Excuse me, sir, if I have burdened you,” the woman replied, with
exaggerated politeness, “but charity should be extended to those who
need it. If I have overpaid you, pray use the surplus for such objects.”
Dr. Minot pocketed the check without further comment, but he shook hands
cordially with his patient as he took his leave, and went out with a
peculiar smile on his honest face.
“She’s like a chestnut in some respects, I imagine,” he muttered;
“you’ll generally find a good kernel if you can get inside the burr, but
it takes either frost or hard knocks to accomplish that.”
The following morning Miss Leonard asked Salome if she would be willing
to accompany her upon an extended trip.
Salome expressed a cheerful willingness to do so. Indeed she had begun
to fear that she had made a mistake in remaining in New York, for she
was liable to meet Dr. Winthrop when he should return, and she felt that
she should never have strength for such an encounter.
“Where do you propose to go?” she asked of Miss Leonard.
“Well, that doctor of yours”—this with a little significant
emphasis—“thought I’d better try a sea-voyage if I had the courage for
it, and I’ve about made up my mind that I will take a run over to
England and France if you and Harriet will go with me. It’s many years
since I visited Europe.”
Harriet, who was really attached to her mistress, in spite of her
peculiarities, was ready to go anywhere she desired, and the date of
their departure was fixed for the first of June.
During the few weeks previous to their start Miss Leonard continued to
improve physically and spiritually. It really seemed as if her illness
had changed her nature, for she was kinder and more considerate toward
every one, while she exhibited a constantly increasing fondness for
Salome.
They rode together every morning when the weather was fine; during the
evening they entertained themselves with reading, music, and backgammon,
and every day grew more fond of each other.
One night, after they had spent an unusually pleasant evening, Salome
approached Miss Leonard as she was about to retire, and said, while a
soft flush arose to her cheeks.
“Dear Miss Leonard, while you were ill I never went away to rest without
kissing you good-night, for some times I was afraid I should not find
you when I came back. May I keep up the custom now that you are well?”
She held up her lips as she ceased speaking, and they were so
tremulously sweet and tempting that the woman involuntarily stooped and
gave her the caress she craved.
“Heaven bless you, child!” she said heartily. “I begin to believe there
is a soft spot in my heart after all, and you have been the first one to
find it.”
And Salome was sure there was a suspicious moisture in her eyes as she
turned away from her.
She never left her after that without bidding her the same affectionate
good-night. The lonely girl craved love; it was natural to her to give
expression to the tenderness of her own heart; and so, little by little,
she twined herself about the affections of this strange woman.
Two days before Miss Leonard was to sail she sent for her lawyer, and
was closeted with him during the whole forenoon; and when Harriet was
summoned after his departure, she found her mistress pale and grave, but
with a softer light in her keen eyes than she had ever seen in them
before.
“Harriet,” she said abruptly, “I’ve made my will to-day, and, if
anything happens to me while we are away, the document will be found in
the hands of Mr. Travis. If you live longer than I do, you’ll find, my
good girl, that I haven’t forgotten you.”
“Thank you, marm,” was all that the astonished Harriet could say. She
had never dreamed of such a thing as being remembered in her mistress’s
will, or that she would ever show any especial appreciation of her
services. She gave her fair wages, and they were always promptly
paid—more than this she had never expected.
CHAPTER XXIX.
SALOME LOSES HER VALUED FRIEND.
June first found Miss Leonard with her companion and maid upon the briny
deep, looking forward with evident pleasure to an extended trip abroad.
Fortunately not one of the trio was ill, and the voyage was one of
unalloyed enjoyment, for they all loved the sea.
To Salome’s great delight Miss Leonard did not make any of her
idiosyncrasies disagreeably prominent during the voyage; indeed, she
appeared to try to subdue her natural antagonism, and to adapt herself
to others, so that she was regarded by the passengers only as a somewhat
quaint and original person, whom they rather enjoyed.
Salome was of course a general favorite; so gentle and loving a
disposition could not fail to win all hearts, while she was kind and
helpful, wherever she could be so, to those who suffered from
sea-sickness.
They landed at Liverpool and proceeded directly to London, where they
remained for a couple of weeks, after which they went to Scotland, to a
quiet, home-like hotel near Lake Katrine, where they spent two
delightful months enjoying the beauties surrounding them, and making
many excursions to points of interest.
Miss Leonard was a good traveller; she was well read in history, and
desirous of visiting every place of note, while she had a faculty of
fixing dates and places in her mind that was truly surprising as well as
convenient. Salome was very hopeful, too, for she had secured much
reading matter relating to the routes they travelled, and entertained
her companions, during their evenings, by reading up in advance, and
thus they were always well posted regarding the history of the different
places they visited.
In September they went to Germany, following the Rhine slowly down to
Lake Constance, where they spent the last week in October; thence
through the Austrian Tyrol, and on to Italy, arriving in Rome about the
first of January.
Everything went well with them—there had been nothing of any moment to
mar their pleasure, and Miss Leonard complimented Salome very highly for
the tact which she exercised in travelling.
“I should imagine that you had been used to it all your life,” she
remarked one day, when Salome had smoothed over some difficulty
regarding their baggage, which they encountered in crossing the Austrian
frontier. “You are a very comfortable traveller, and I should surely
think you had been abroad before, Salome;” she had taken to calling her
by her Christian name of late.
Salome smiled at the compliment, but made no reply to the supposition
that she had previously been in Europe, though she flushed slightly, and
Miss Leonard’s suspicions were strengthened.
Then she could speak French and German with much fluency, and seemed to
know all about the different kinds of money they were obliged to handle.
But it was not until they reached Rome that Miss Leonard’s suspicions
were confirmed. Here Salome’s enthusiasm overflowed, and she discoursed
about the Forum, the Coliseum, the Palace of the Cæsars and the
Catacombs in a way which plainly betrayed that she had visited them
before.
“When were you in Rome before, Salome?” Miss Leonard dryly asked one
evening, breaking in upon an eloquent description of certain points in
St. Peter’s and the Vatican.
“I did not say that I had ever been here before,” Salome stammered,
flushing hotly.
“True, but you talk like an old sight-seer.”
“You forget that we read a great deal about these places last evening,”
the young girl answered.
“No, I do not; but if my memory serves me right, there was nothing in
these books about the comparative merits of the Pompeian baths and those
of Caracalla, and you have given me several points upon the subject.
Salome, you have been abroad before?”
“Yes,” the young girl confessed, tears starting to her eyes over
memories thus aroused.
“When?”
“Not so very long ago—less than two years.”
“You must have been tenderly reared—your parents must have been
wealthy?”
“Yes.”
“And you have lost all your friends—all your money?”
“All—everything!” she returned sadly, but just how much those two words
comprehended, she alone knew.
“And a lover too, if I am not mistaken,” Miss Leonard mused, her glance
resting tenderly upon the pained, downcast face of her gentle companion.
“Poor child! and yet trouble has not hardened or embittered her as it
did me. Well, the Bible says ‘a little child shall lead them,’ and I
believe she is leading me into a state I never should have reached if
some pitiful fate had not sent her to me.”
She asked no more questions to pain her, however, but from that day
there was an added gentleness in her manner toward her companion.
So while Dr. Winthrop and his family, with the Rochesters, were
wintering in Paris, Salome was spending a very pleasant season in Rome
with Miss Leonard.
Late in the spring, however, they again turned their faces northward,
reaching Paris about the middle of May, and all of our _dramatis
personæ_ were together within the walls of that doomed city.
Miss Leonard and her party were within a stone’s throw of the Place de
la Concorde, and did not once dream of the terrible experiences through
which they were soon to pass.
Being by themselves, and absorbed in their sightseeing, they did not
realize, neither did they have any one to warn them of the danger they
were in. They knew that the city was in a state of unusual excitement,
but did not suppose they could suffer from it, and the insurrection
burst like a thunderbolt upon them. Every avenue of escape was closed,
and they were prisoners in the turbulent place before they were aware of
the fact.
They were filled with anxiety and dismay upon discovering their
situation; but Miss Leonard, who had been brought up a Catholic, was
suddenly inspired with a bright and sagacious plan. She visited one of
the convents of the city, explained to the mother-superior her
unprotected condition, and begged to be admitted, with her maid and
companion, as boarders within its protecting walls.
Her request was readily granted, and the timid trio immediately became
inmates of the gray nunnery.
They were there when the cholera broke out, and Miss Leonard was the
very first one in the building to fall a victim to the dreaded disease.
She insisted from the first that she could not get well, although she
was not violently attacked, and her attendants did not consider her
dangerously ill.
During her illness she related her whole history to Salome. We cannot
rehearse it here, as it has no direct bearing upon our story, but the
young girl did not wonder, as she listened, that the woman’s nature had
become embittered and warped by her troubles.
“That night, child, when you sang that air from the opera of the
‘Bohemian Girl,’ I thought I should go insane with the memories it
aroused,” she explained among other things. “The last time I had heard
it my betrothed had sung it to me under peculiarly trying circumstances.
A party of young people in Washington had prepared that opera to be
rendered at a private musicale. I had the part of Arline, and my
betrothed, who was a fine singer and who had come on to Washington for
our marriage, which was to occur a week later, had the part of Rupert.
The night arrived; the opera was in progress, when, while we two were
waiting our turn to go on the stage, we had a bitter quarrel. No matter
what it was about; it had been all planned and instigated by others,
with the express purpose of breaking off our marriage, although I did
not know this until afterward. A little forbearance, a word or two of
explanation on my part would have set everything right; but I was too
proud to make it, and the last time I ever spoke to my lover was just as
we went on the stage, when he was to sing the song you sang to me. ‘I
will never forgive you—never!’ I cried, as the call was given; and then
I sprang toward the wing where I was to enter. When he came on he was
pale but calm, and he sang to me as I had never heard him sing before.
The pathos and entreaty which he threw into those thrilling words I have
never forgotten; they have haunted me through all these long years:
“‘When hollow hearts shall wear a mask
’Twill break your own to see.
In such a moment I but ask
That you’ll remember me.’”
“O Horace! I have remembered,” the woman sobbed, breaking down utterly
for a moment. “I believe I should have yielded and set everything right
when he finished,” she resumed, “if I had not chanced to see our enemies
exchanging significant sneers as they, too, realized how he had thrown
his whole soul into his song. That hardened me again; I turned my back
coldly on him the moment the opera was over, and went home alone in my
carriage, and thus my life was ruined. My lover left the city the next
day, after having sent me a letter breaking our engagement, saying that
under the circumstances it would be but mockery to fulfil our vows, and
I never saw him again. He died six months later, and then I learned of
the wicked plot that had been contrived to separate us. It changed me
from a loving, trusting girl into a proud and bitter woman. I hated
everybody, and those most who seemed happiest. This mood grew upon me as
I grew older, until I believed that nothing could ever soften or change
my nature. But, Salome, I am sure the good God sent you to me upon an
errand of redeeming love, for you have influenced me as no one ever
influenced me before. I tried to resist even you; I said I would hate
you as I had hated all others, although you moved me strangely the
moment you came into my presence on that day when you applied for the
situation of companion. Then your sweetness and gentleness, your
sympathy for me—your faithfulness, when I lay so long ill, finally
aroused what little affection there remained in me, and I grew to love
you as if you had been my own daughter. I, with my indomitable pride and
wilfulness, have been my own worst enemy, Salome; but of late I have
really tried to be a better woman—have tried to believe, with you, that
there is a kind Father above who does not willingly afflict his
children. I have even begun to hope that there may have been a germ of
good left in my nature, which you have quickened, and to trust that it
will be allowed to develop more fully in the future life. I see all too
late, and regret my wasted opportunities here in this world. I have not
quite missed all sweetness, for I have at least learned to love you,
Salome, and I have enjoyed these months of travel with you more than I
can express.”
She paused a moment, then went on:
“Before we left home, my child, I made my will, and excepting a few
legacies to my servants, some of whom have stood by me in spite of my
crabbed ways, and a gift to the blind asylum of New York, I have made
you my sole heir——”
“But, dear Miss Leonard——” Salome began, aghast, astonished beyond
measure by this unexpected intelligence.
“Do not pain me, Salome by refusing to accept my bequest,” interposed
the dying woman appealingly, “for it is too late to make any change,
even if I knew of any one else to whom to leave my money. The will is in
the hands of Mr. Travis, of New York, who has long conducted my business
affairs. I have no relatives—there is no one in all the world whom I
love save you, and I want you to have whatever I leave. And, Salome, I
hope you will remember me kindly—forget, if you can, my disagreeable
traits, and if you have found anything pleasant about me, treasure it.”
“Indeed I have, dear friend, found much that has been pleasant in our
relations,” the young girl returned with streaming eyes. “I began to
love you that night when I so wounded you with my song, for I knew how
sad your life had been, and my heart went out in sympathy toward you.
Then, we always learn to love those for whom we care, you know; while
you were ill the bond was strengthened, and now, since we have travelled
together, and found that we had so many tastes that were alike, so many
sympathies in common, I feel as if I almost belong to you.”
Miss Leonard’s face lighted with pleasure, and drawing the fair girl
down to her, she kissed her fondly.
“Then of course all that I have should be yours,” she said. “At all
events I have so decreed—I so wish. You have done me good—I die a better
woman for your influence. Kiss me again, Salome, and tell me once more
that you love me a little.”
“Not a little,” Salome sobbed, laying her cheek to the wan one on the
pillow, “but a great deal. Oh, I wish that you could have been spared to
me longer, for I am so alone in the world.”
“Bless you, dear child! but you know that I am dying now, though you
would not believe it at first—another sunrise will find me beyond that
line of mystery which we call death; but I am not afraid—you have taught
me to hope for a better life hereafter. Now repeat that psalm you love
so well, then I will go to sleep.”
She did go quietly to sleep, but it was a slumber from which she never
awoke, and in less than six hours she had passed the “line of mystery.”
It was a sad bereavement to Salome; but she had no time in which to
indulge her grief. She had to attend to all the details pertaining to
the burial of her friend, and the simple funeral rites were scarcely
over when Harriet was attacked with the plague, and she was obliged to
devote all her energies to her.
The woman was very sick, but she had a strong constitution, and, with
the good care she received, she was soon on the road toward recovery,
while from that time she was ready to lay down her life for the
beautiful girl to whom she owed so much.
As soon as she was able to leave her room, she begged Salome to go home
to New York; but it was not possible for them to leave the country until
the scourge had spent itself, for fear they might carry contagion with
them.
“More than this, Harriet,” she continued, a holy purpose shining in her
lovely eyes, “I do not want to go at present—I want to stay and help to
take care of those who suffer——”
“And sacrifice your own precious life,” interposed the woman, with an
anxious look. “No—no, Miss Salome, don’t do that—don’t do it; it would
break my heart if you should die too, and that’s why I’m so anxious to
get away.”
“I do not believe I shall have the cholera, Harriet,” Salome returned
with grave assurance, “somehow I feel that I shall not, and I shall
certainly use every precaution against it. But the people here are wild
with fear, and nurses are very scarce. I know that I am a good nurse, it
comes naturally to me to care for the sick, and I know that it is my
duty to throw myself into this work; some feeling over which I have no
control impels me to do so. If you want to go home, I will ask the
sisters to use their influence to get you passed through the lines, and
you shall go the first opportunity that offers.”
“And leave you here?” cried the woman, aghast. “No—no indeed, Miss
Salome! I shall never leave you; it was more on your account that I
wanted to go. I’ve had the plague, so I’m not afraid of that, now, and
maybe I can lend a hand myself in the care of others. At all events, if
you stay, I shall stay to look after you.”
Later, Salome went to the lady-superior, and informed her that she had
resolved to go into one of the hospitals as a nurse.
“I am alone, save for the companionship of Harriet, and unprotected in a
strange city,” she told her, “and, if I may be allowed to do so, I
should like to adopt the dress of your sisterhood and go out under the
auspices of your convent. This would shield me from all insult and
danger, while if I should be attacked by illness I should feel that I
had a place of refuge to fly to.”
The mother-superior not only gave her consent to her appeal, but her
benediction and blessing upon her holy purpose, and told her that she
should go out under the name of “Sister Angela.”
But Harriet objected to being left alone in the convent.
“The mother is kind and the sisters are good,” she said, “but I shall
die if I have to be shut up behind these gloomy walls; besides, Miss
Salome, they don’t live as you ought to live. I wish we could have three
or four rooms somewhere that I could make comfortable for you; then when
you get tired out with your work you could come home to me and I could
look after you.”
Salome thought favorably of this and hired a tiny house just under the
shadow of the convent, which made a cozy home for Harriet and herself.
Every day, after her duties were over, she would go there to rest and to
be refreshed and cared for by the faithful woman, whose chief aim in
life now seemed to be to devote herself to her, although she told her
that she “never could believe she was Miss Salome until she took off
those ugly bandages and sombre dress and put on her pretty white
wrapper.”
Salome had now ample means at her command, for Miss Leonard had taken a
generous letter of credit when she went abroad, and before her death she
had made this over to her companion. More than that, she had written to
her lawyer that she had not long to live and directed him to honor any
call which Salome might make upon him for needful funds.
It would be impossible to estimate the amount of good which she
accomplished in that plague-smitten city. She was in perfect health; her
voyage and subsequent travel, with its pleasant, varying scenes, its
comfort and freedom from anxiety, had been of great benefit to her, and
she had grown strong and active, and was thus well fortified for the
work into which she threw herself.
Every day she went to some hospital and devoted many hours to the care
of the sick and the relief of the overworked nurses. She visited many
homes, where disease was cutting down the brightest and best, while she
never refused to relieve poverty and suffering wherever she found them.
And so Dr. Winthrop, while he was also devoting himself to similar work,
was brought in contact with her in one of the hospitals where he was
stationed. He did not recognize her—no one would have, meeting her by
chance and disguised as she was—but the first time she saw him in the
ward where she happened to be serving, she was so overcome by the shock
of the meeting that she nearly fainted, for until that moment she had
not a suspicion that he was in Paris.
The next day she appeared in the same ward again, but more completely
disguised by a pair of double blue spectacles, which so thoroughly
concealed her eyes and changed her appearance that those who knew her
hardly recognized her.
And here she came constantly after that.
In spite of the great wrong which she believed she had suffered through
Dr. Winthrop, there was yet a strange fascination in being near him. She
loved him still, and after learning that he was practising in that
hospital she gave up her work in other places, and attached herself
permanently to that institution.
The observing physician had often noticed and admired the manner in
which the gentle nun had ministered to the suffering patients in his
ward, and so when his friend, Tillinghast, had been stricken down, he
had appealed to her for help in the sore emergency. Later, when his own
family fell victims to the dread foe, his confidence in her skill and
judgment was so strong he had begged her, as we know, to go to them.
Even though he did not dream who she was, though she rarely spoke to
him, he felt strangely drawn toward her, as did others also; there was
something peculiarly soothing in her quiet presence, and he often found
himself watching the motions of her beautiful hands as they so deftly
ministered to the comfort of his patients—“blessed hands,” he called
them, and truly they were blessed.
Often, after he began to recover from his own illness, he had been
seized with a longing to clasp them, and press his grateful lips to
them—to tell her that they had saved his life, which, though not
especially precious to himself personally, was valuable to others; but
her supposed station, her sacred garb, restrained him—she was holy in
his eyes, and no act or impulse of his should profane her calling.
CHAPTER XXX
SALOME BECOMES THE VICTIM OF A VILE SCHEME.
We have now filled the gap between the time of Salome’s disappearance
from her husband’s home, and the day when Mrs. Rochester and her
daughter discovered her identity, upon removing her disguise when she
fainted in the hall outside their door.
After her second swoon in their room, she revived only to be seized with
a fierce fever, and it became evident that she must now pay the penalty
of her recent overwork—that weary nature demanded rest and would have
it.
Mrs. and Miss Rochester were dismayed when they found that the girl was
going to be sick on their hands.
“What shall we do with her?” the latter asked of her mother, when they
found that she was too ill to be moved, and had become so delirious that
it would be impossible to conceal her identity if any one were admitted
to their rooms.
“There is only one thing that can be done at present,” Mrs. Rochester
remarked, after a few moments of thought: “you must take her place, and
wait upon Dr. Winthrop, while I look after her.”
“Can’t we send her to some hospital?” questioned Miss Rochester, with a
frown.
“I shouldn’t dare to have her moved while she is so ill, she might
die——”
“If she would be so accommodating it would smooth things wonderfully for
us,” interposed the younger woman heartlessly.
Mrs. Rochester flushed. Some such thought had been in her own mind, but
she had shrunk from giving expression to it.
“She may die with the best of care,” she said, “but I’m not quite
callous enough, yet, to wish to hasten such a result, and so we shall
have to manage as best we can until she is able to be moved.”
“I am willing enough to take her place in attending Dr. Winthrop,”
returned Miss Rochester, “but I am afraid that he will insist upon
prescribing for her if he learns that she is ill.”
“We must not let him know that she is in the house,” her mother
returned; “we will tell him that she was taken suddenly ill, and had to
be removed to the convent to be cared for.”
“But can we keep her presence here a secret?”
“Yes, easily enough, if we are cautious. Your chamber, fortunately,
leads from mine, and there is no other way of reaching it, except by
passing through these two rooms. We can keep her there, you can sleep
with me, and no one will be the wiser for her presence. I only hope she
will not be ill long, and just as soon as she is able to be moved, we
will post her off to some place where she will give us no further
trouble. I think it is fortunate that she has fallen into our hands in
this way,” she added thoughtfully; “she might have had this attack in
the doctor’s rooms, and thus betrayed herself to him—you know what the
result would have been in that case. I am thankful, too, that madam and
Evelyn are away, and know nothing of the affair.”
So Salome was put to bed in Miss Rochester’s room, which was the end one
of a suite of three, and remote from the living rooms of the villa, and
also from the young physician’s apartments, and Mrs. Rochester devoted
herself to the care of her.
Miss Rochester reported to Dr. Winthrop that Sister Angela, fearing she
was going to be seriously ill, had insisted upon returning at once to
the convent, where she would have every needful care and attention.
The young man was very much disturbed.
“She has worn herself out taking care of me. I should have let her go
last week when she suggested it,” he said regretfully. Then he added
reproachfully, “Why did you not call me when she fainted?—I might have
given her something to help her immediately.”
“Oh, mamma would not listen to such a proposition—she said you were not
strong enough yet to be troubled; besides, she thought she could do
everything that was necessary,” answered this glib romancer without the
slightest change of color.
“Poor Sister Angela!” sighed Dr. Winthrop. “There was something very
sweet about her, in spite of her ugly dress. I never saw a gentler or
more efficient nurse—we all owe her more than we can ever repay, I shall
miss her sadly.”
“I hope you will allow me to take her place as far as I can,” Miss
Rochester sweetly remarked, and bestowing an appealing glance upon the
interesting invalid.
“Thank you,” the young man replied. “I suppose I am really able to be
without a nurse, although I am not very strong yet, and Norman will be
back as soon as he has seen my mother and Evelyn comfortably settled—he
ought to be here, I think, by this time to-morrow.”
He seemed very anxious, and questioned the girl closely regarding Sister
Angela’s attack. But though she made as light of it as possible, and
exerted herself to amuse and interest him, he was grave and depressed
during the remainder of the day.
He did not feel comfortable, either, to have Miss Rochester wait upon
him—it seemed too much like assuming that she had a special interest and
right in him, and he could not help recalling that unlucky episode in
Paris, which had been witnessed by Mrs. Rochester, and so misconstrued.
He felt that she had placed and was continuing to place him by these
attentions, in a false position.
He was therefore thankful enough when his brother made his appearance
the next day and relieved her of her self-imposed task.
Miss Rochester herself appeared to be in better spirits after Norman’s
return, for in spite of the fact that she was fully determined to marry
his brother, she was secretly very deeply in love with him, and knew
that his affection for her was even stronger.
With Mrs. Rochester confined to the sick-room of Salome, and Dr.
Winthrop not yet able to be about the house, there was ample opportunity
for these two to indulge their preference for the society of each other.
Norman Winthrop really and truly loved the girl, and had determined to
win her in spite of the contract that was so much talked about; but
while Miss Rochester was steadfastly set upon securing the
Rochester-Hamilton fortunes, she nevertheless craved excitement and
amusement, and enjoyed coquetting with one who paid her such delightful
compliments and who appeared so genuinely devoted to her.
Much of her time, after his return, was spent in roaming about the
grounds of the chateau with him, greatly to her mother’s annoyance, but
much to Dr. Winthrop’s relief and comfort, although he did not know how
she was employing her time.
Salome was very ill for a week, but not delirious after the first day or
two. She refused to have a physician, telling Mrs. Rochester that, if
she would follow her directions, she could treat her well enough without
one, since she had no local disease, and nature only required rest and
some simple remedies to restore her to her normal condition.
Mrs. Rochester was only too glad to dispense with a doctor, for she knew
that his regular visits would excite comment among the servants, since
Dr. Winthrop did not now need assistance, and she was determined to keep
the girl’s presence in the house a secret if she could possibly do so.
After the first week her fever subsided and she began to mend, and by
the end of three weeks she said that she thought she was able to return
to Paris.
“What are you going to do when you get well?” Mrs. Rochester asked,
while they were talking the matter over.
“I intend to go back to my work in the hospitals, for the present,”
Salome answered.
Mrs. Rochester did not like the idea of this, for if Dr. Winthrop should
also resume his practice there was great danger that the two might be
reunited, in spite of the fact that Salome did not seem to wish her
identity discovered. If she could only get her to leave the country
there would be no need of trying to carry out her dangerous scheme of
shutting her up in some institution.
“You are not strong enough for nursing, Salome. Why don’t you go home to
America?” she asked.
“Do you ask me that? Where should I find a home in America?” inquired
Salome bitterly.
“You can go back to the old place and remain there, if you wish, until
we return.”
“I do not wish to go back to the old place,” said Salome coldly.
“But it is not proper for you to remain in Paris alone; you are liable
to get into trouble, going about by yourself,” returned Mrs. Rochester,
somewhat impatiently at being thus opposed.
“I am not alone—I am at present under the protection of the gray
sisters.”
“Do you intend to ally yourself with them permanently?”
“No; only as long as I can be especially useful in this emergency.”
“Perhaps you are seeking for a reconciliation with Dr. Winthrop—possibly
you think you may yet win him to acknowledge you as his wife, or rather
lure him to ratify that ceremony which occurred in Boston. Is that what
you are here for?” demanded Mrs. Rochester, searching the young face
opposite her with an eagle glance.
Salome flushed a vivid scarlet, and a look of anguish almost convulsed
her features for a moment.
Then she said proudly:
“No, I could never wish any man to acknowledge me as his wife, who had
once thrust me from his home—I did not even know that Dr. Winthrop was
in Paris until I met him in the hospital.”
Mrs. Rochester’s face lighted.
“I am glad to know you are so sensible,” she said. “Of course, you could
not expect him to acknowledge you after he had committed himself to
another. Who is the Harriet Winter who came here to nurse us through
your recommendation?” she continued, with some curiosity, for she had
recognized the woman as an American, and wondered how she happened to be
associated with Salome.
“She is a woman who came to Europe on the same steamer with me,” the
young girl evasively answered.
“How is it you happen to be so friendly?—she seems a very common sort of
person.”
“She is at least a true-hearted person,” Salome returned, with some
warmth. “She was maid to a lady who recently died of cholera, and whom I
nursed. She also was very ill, and I took care of her.”
Salome did not consider it needful to give further particulars regarding
her relations with Miss Leonard or Harriet.
“Do you get paid for your services in the hospital?” queried Mrs.
Rochester, wondering how she lived if she did not.
“No.”
“Then what supports you—how can you live?”
“I have sufficient for my needs,” Salome quietly responded.
“You are fortunate, truly,” sneered her companion, “though to be sure
you must have been well paid for your services for this family, and—I
will add something to that when you go away.”
“You offer to give money to me!” Salome cried, with blazing eyes.
The woman colored vividly, while her glance wavered before the almost
fierce indignation of her companion, and Salome went on vehemently.
“I beg you will not add insult to injury. You have wronged me enough
already; and now if you will provide me with a carriage I will leave for
Paris immediately. I do not wish to remain here another hour.”
“Very well, you shall return to Paris, but not to-day; you shall go
to-morrow. But you need not be so resentful, Salome; it is your own
fault that you and I are not better friends. If you had only done as I
wished——”
Salome lifted her hand with an imperative gesture, but her face was very
pale.
“Never refer to that subject again,” she said; “the past is past, and it
is useless to talk about it; and as for the lack of friendship between
you and me, Heaven and your own conscience know whether it is your fault
or mine. There are some other things, too, for which you may be called
to account by and by.”
“What do you mean? You are not going to——” began Mrs. Rochester, in
undisguised alarm.
“I do not know what I may be tempted to do if you goad me much further,”
the almost desperate girl returned bitterly; “therefore I wish to get
away from you as soon as possible.”
“Very well, you shall go to-morrow; I promise you that you shall go
to-morrow,” Mrs. Rochester replied, but with a peculiar smile.
She left the room almost immediately, sought an interview with her
daughter, whom she informed with much excitement of the conversation
just narrated, after which she herself hastened with all possible
dispatch to Paris.
Two hours later she might have been seen sitting in the gloomy
reception-room of a celebrated “nervine” establishment of that city,
engaged in confidential conversation with a middle-aged, rather
prepossessing, but very stern and resolute-looking man.
“You say that the young lady, your daughter, is about twenty-three years
of age?” he inquired, making a note upon some tablets which he held in
his hand. “And her name is——”
“Salome.”
“Ah! Salome Rochester, like your own, madam?”
“Yes,” but madam flushed vividly as she thus replied.
“She has been ill, you say,” the gentleman continued, “her nerves are in
a peculiar state—in fact, her mind is affected with strange ideas, which
make it unsafe for her to be left to herself, and you desire to leave
her in my care until you return from your travels, or—she is better?”
“Yes. The girl is possessed with the idea that she must go into the
hospitals of the city as a nurse; she has assumed the dress of a gray
nun, and declares this work is her mission—a most absurd fancy, I am
sure you will agree when you see her in her present weakened state,”
Mrs. Rochester volubly explained. “I am travelling with friends; we go
to Rome very soon for the winter, and my plan is to leave her with you
until—we return. I wish her to have the best of care, and all the
privileges that are possible without infringing upon the rules of your
establishment; but you are on no account to allow her to go away from
here. I shall hold you responsible for her safety until I come to claim
her.”
“We are willing to be so held, madam, for—the usual considerations,” the
man returned, with the politest of bows; “that is a part of our
business. When will madam bring the young lady?”
“To-morrow, but I do not know just how to arrange for her coming,” Mrs.
Rochester said with a slight show of nervousness. “I certainly cannot
accompany her, as she imagines that I have become her enemy,” and the
lady wiped away an imaginary tear.
“Ah, it often occurs that people in her unfortunate condition, acquire
sudden aversion to their best friends,” the learned doctor
sympathetically remarked.
“And—and you may even find some difficulty about persuading her to enter
this institution; she is very wilful at times, and cunning as well,”
said his companion.
“I understand, madam, she is unconscious of her malady, and does not
like to be governed; we will arrange everything to your satisfaction. We
will send our own carriage for mademoiselle; there is an entrance to the
institution that is like a private house; the driver will be ordered to
stop just opposite and discover that a portion of the harness has
suddenly given out, and must be repaired before the young lady can go
on; she will be cordially invited to step inside during the delay,
and—all the rest will be easily arranged. Does the little stratagem
please madam?”
“Perfectly,” responded Mrs. Rochester, with a sigh of relief, as she
arose to leave. “At what hour shall I expect the carriage?”
“Not until the cool of the evening. It is not well for an invalid to
travel during the heat of the day, and it will be better that it should
be dusk when mademoiselle arrives, lest her suspicions be aroused and we
have trouble.”
“Very well; I leave it all with you,” Mrs. Rochester said, as she poured
a handful of glittering gold coins into the doctor’s soft palm. Then she
went away, well pleased with the success of her errand and
congratulating herself that Salome was well disposed of, at least for
the present; what future disposition should be made of her, she would
have to decide later.
CHAPTER XXXI.
SALOME WITNESSES A HEART-RENDING TABLEAU.
After Mrs. Rochester’s departure for Paris, which, however, was known
only to her daughter, Salome, who had been sitting up for the second
time, although she had not yet been dressed, thought she would try to
put on her clothing, and thus get a little accustomed to exertion,
preparatory to going away the next day.
She was still very weak, and the effort made her weary and almost faint,
so that she was obliged to lie down again upon her bed, where she
instantly dropped asleep.
She slept for more than an hour, and felt greatly refreshed when she
awoke.
“I wonder if I could walk about a little,” she said to herself. “I must
get accustomed to the use of my feet. I wish Harriet were here to lend
me her strong arm; I wonder why she has not been out to inquire for me!
I hope she has not been ill again.”
She reached out for a bowl of beef-tea which stood upon the table, and
drank a generous portion of it to brace herself for the effort she was
contemplating; then rising, she began to move about the room, and was
surprised to find herself stronger than she had supposed.
The door was open between the room she occupied and the one beyond, so
she prolonged her walk into this, going very slowly, and taking hold of
various objects to steady her steps.
She traversed the whole length of both rooms thus; then her strength
gave out, and she sank panting into a low rocker to rest.
The door leading into Mrs. Rochester’s parlor was directly behind her,
and partly open.
Salome had believed it to be empty until she was seated, when, to her
consternation, she heard a strangely familiar voice, intense with
passion, exclaim:
“Sadie, you do not answer me; tell me that you do love me in spite of
this unnatural contract, which would have consigned you to a man whether
you could love him or not? why couldn’t they have left people free to
choose for themselves? Tell me, Sadie, I must have the truth.”
“Yes, then, if you will have the confession. I have loved you from the
first hour of our meeting,” was the reply which came to Salome’s ears in
Miss Rochester’s tones, while she experienced a feeling as of
suffocation, and seemed turning to stone.
Then, powerless to move or fly from the terrible ordeal, she heard that
other voice cry out triumphantly:
“My darling! my heart’s idol! I knew it; you could not hide it from me,
even though you have tried to be so proper and demure at times. My love,
my love, we were made for each other, and I would not exchange the bliss
of this moment for a hundred Rochester-Hamilton fortunes.”
“But——” began Miss Rochester.
“We will have no ‘buts,’ my heart’s queen,” interrupted her companion,
“I will not permit a worldly word or thought to mar this hallowed hour;
you are mine, heart and soul, as I am yours——”
Salome could endure no more. The sound of that voice, uttering such
passionate declarations of love, smote her with agony that was worse
than death, and, nerved by despair, she sprang softly to her feet,
turned one wild, anguished look toward the room behind her, and saw a
picture that nearly drove her mad.
Standing with their backs toward the door were two figures, one—as she
supposed—the man whom she had once fondly believed to be her husband,
the other the girl who, for years, had been her worst enemy, locked in a
lovers’ embrace.
Covering her eyes as if the sight had suddenly smitten her blind, the
suffering young wife noiselessly groped her way back to her own room,
where she threw herself prone upon her face on her bed.
She had thought that the bitterness of death was passed when she
believed herself thrust out of her husband’s home; when she believed he
had become wearied of her—weaned from her by the sneers and jibes of his
proud mother and sister; but that seemed as nothing now, compared to the
scene she had just witnessed, and which seemed to have been branded upon
her brain with a red-hot iron.
Of course we know, although she could not, that Miss Rochester’s
companion was not Dr. Winthrop. We know it must have been none other
than Norman Winthrop, who had thus passionately declared himself to the
reckless coquette, who had won his heart and lost her own while
indulging in her favorite pastime of flirting.
The young man had plainly shown his growing infatuation for her ever
since his arrival in Paris, and had secretly avowed that he would win
her, in spite of the Rochester-Hamilton contract and her evident
determination to fulfil its conditions.
The day when matters were thus brought to a crisis was a very warm one
in September, and Miss Rochester, her mother having gone to Paris, sat
alone in their pretty parlor, reading a new novel.
Norman Winthrop, while passing through the hall, glanced in at the
half-open door, saw the girl, and she looked so lovely and enticing in
her dainty white costume, as she sat by a shaded window, that he stopped
upon the threshold and begged permission to enter.
“Mamma is away,” Miss Rochester said demurely, but looking up with
alluring roguishness from the book in her hands.
“It is not mamma whom I wish to see,” the young man answered, with an
admiring look, as he boldly stepped within the room and approached her.
She did not chide him as he sat down beside her, for she was lonely, and
felt glad of anything that would pass away a dull hour, and they sat
there chatting in low tones upon various topics for half an hour or
more.
Then, all at once, there fell over them a significant silence, which was
finally abruptly interrupted by Mr. Winthrop, who recklessly broke down
all barriers, and declared:
“Sadie, I love you; you know it—must long have known it. Now tell me
that you return my affection, and I shall be the happiest man upon the
continent.”
This outburst had occurred just before Salome reached the rocker in Mrs.
Rochester’s chamber, and then she had caught his next words:
“Sadie, you do not answer me,” etc.
Salome believed that the man who was speaking was he whom she
loved—whose wife she had once believed herself to be. The voice was the
same, the form, face, and bearing were those of Dr. Winthrop, as she
just caught a glimpse of him when she shot that one despairing look
inside the room.
She had heard Dr. Winthrop speak of his brother, but she had never been
told that he was a twin, nor that the resemblance between the two was so
strong that their most intimate friends had difficulty in distinguishing
between them. And, strange as it may seem, she had never encountered
Norman Winthrop during all her nursing in the villa. The rooms occupied
by the various invalids were in different portions of the extensive
building, and the nurses in charge were confined exclusively to their
separate patients.
During her previous sojourn there, after Mr. Winthrop’s death, Salome
had devoted herself to Evelyn, who was the most dangerously ill of those
who recovered. Norman Winthrop had nursed the butler, under his
brother’s direction and with his help, while the other nurses had
attended Madame Winthrop and the Rochesters.
Salome scarcely left Evelyn’s room until she was out of danger. Her
meals were served in a small ante-chamber adjoining, and she also slept
there during her hours for rest, Mrs. Rochester relieving her during
such times.
Since Dr. Winthrop’s illness, his brother had not seemed quite himself,
and the physician had forbidden him to go near the sick man, saying he
was liable to contract the disease and must use every precaution against
it; so Mr. Tillinghast had relieved Salome when she needed rest, and had
been very helpful and considerate at other times. Thus she had never
seen Norman Winthrop near enough to realize his wonderful resemblance to
his brother, and it is not strange that she was deceived regarding the
identity of Miss Rochester’s ardent lover.
It was a pity that she had not remained in Mrs. Rochester’s room a few
moments longer and heard the conclusion of the interview; she would at
least have suffered less by learning the truth.
“Hush!” Miss Rochester said, just after Salome had fled from the scene;
“you must not talk to me like this—I must not listen, and you know why.”
Norman Winthrop’s arms dropped from the supple form, which he had
clasped to him in a passionate embrace when the girl had owned her love
for him.
“You do not mean that, Sadie, after what you have confessed to me,” he
said sternly.
“But I do. I ought never to have betrayed myself, but you wrung it from
me,” she returned, with flushed cheeks and downcast eyes.
“Am I to understand that you still consider yourself bound by that
wretched contract—that you intend to marry my brother, when you have
told me that you love me?”
“Yes, I must.”
“Why?”
“You know; I must forfeit Brookside and a hundred thousand dollars if I
do not, and there will be nothing left for mamma and me but the income
of that paltry fifty thousand dollars.”
Norman Winthrop groaned.
“What an unnatural thing for a father to do!” he cried angrily. “The man
must have had a heart of stone. But what is money, Sadie, compared with
the happiness of a life-time? I shall have something from my father’s
estate, though of course it will be but a trifle compared with the
united estates of Brookside and Englehurst. But I love you, Sadie; I
will work for you; I will make a fortune for you, if you will give me
the incentive. O my darling, do not let your ambition ruin both our
lives!”
Miss Rochester looked grave and thoughtful for a few moments after this
earnest appeal. She was almost tempted to yield and become a good
woman—a loved and loving wife, for she knew that she loved Norman
Winthrop as she could never love another.
But pride, ambition, and fear of her mother conquered the promptings of
her better nature.
“You must not tempt me,” she whispered hoarsely. “I shall hold by the
contract—unless your brother refuses to abide by it.”
“Then I shall go to him and tell him how we stand,” cried her companion
excitedly. “True would never hold a woman bound—not even for
millions—who had given her heart to another.”
“You shall not—if you lisp a word of what has passed between us I shall
hate you, for—I have sworn that I will be mistress of Brookside and
Englehurst,” the girl passionately returned, though she was white to her
lips.
“Sadie Rochester, you are a heartless flirt! You have won my heart and
now you cast it from you as a worthless thing. I know I am not a
paragon, like my brother—I have been the black sheep in the family ever
since I was a boy; but you might have made a good man of me—you have
made a devil instead.”
He turned abruptly from her and left the rooms, while the proud girl
sank back in her chair and wept as she seldom wept.
Poor Salome, meanwhile, was no less wretched. Until that hour she
believed she had schooled her heart to give up her idol—that she had
relinquished all hope of ever being anything to him again.
But now she knew that she had not. She realized now that, during all her
intercourse with him—while she was nursing his friend in the hospital;
as she saw his devotion to others and learned to know more fully his
goodness of heart, his nobility of soul; while he lay so sick himself—so
helpless and dependent—she had been growing to love him more fondly,
more idolatrously than before.
How she hung over him when he lay so deathly ill! How she had watched
every symptom—every breath, even! How she had despaired when she had
thought he must go down into the dark valley—how once, when she believed
that another dawn would find him cold in death, she had almost been
tempted to tear away those unsightly bandages from her face—cast aside
those hideous glasses, reveal her identity, and beg for one last word of
love from his lips!
Then how she had exulted when she saw the sluggish tide of life turn in
his favor, and knew that he would live, if she did not relax her
vigilance!
Oh, she had not spared herself, she had again won him back from the
grave, and he seemed, more than ever, a part of her very self.
She lay there now upon her bed, more wretched than she had ever been,
thinking of all this; remembering with a thrill, how, when he had slept,
she had watched his dear face by the hour, stealthily kissing his hair,
his hand, even the pillow on which he lay, but believing that, when he
should get well, she could go away and leave him, never hoping, never
expecting, any return.
But she knew that, through all, there had been a faint hope in her heart
that something would occur to reunite them, and he would love her again
as he had seemed to do during those few happy days in New York, just
before his departure for Europe. Even after Madame Winthrop had told her
that he was betrothed to Miss Rochester, she had half believed that he
meant her when he called for his “darling.”
Now all these fond hopes were at an end, for she believed she had heard
with her own ears his passionate declaration of love for another—had
seen him clasp another to his heart, even as he had clasped her on that
last morning in New York, and that other Sarah Rochester.
What irony of fate, indeed, as the girl herself had once mockingly
remarked. How could she endure it?
For hours she lay there and fought with her rebellious heart, and
against the doom which seemed to lie before him.
How could she bear to give him up to one whom she knew to be false to
the very core of her being?
He was still noble and true, in spite of the fact that he had been
influenced to do her a great wrong, and she knew that his whole future
would be ruined if he should marry such a scheming, ambitious,
unprincipled woman.
She could prevent it, she knew, by the utterance of a single sentence;
for Truman Winthrop would never knowingly wed a woman so depraved as
Sarah Rochester to gain a thousand fortunes.
Should she tell him? should she try to save him from such a fate, even
though she might never hope to regain his love for herself? Should she
take vengeance upon those two women for the injuries of the past by thus
blasting all their hopes for the future?
Ah, no; desperate as she was, heart-broken, weary of life, she would
never be actuated by a feeling of revenge; she would prefer to suffer on
in silence, as she had suffered for so long, rather than lower herself
in her own esteem, or violate her conscience and the commands of the
Master, whom she tried to serve, by thus claiming “an eye for an eye, or
a tooth for a tooth.” Besides, if Truman Winthrop loved the girl as
madly as he appeared to love her, why should she undeceive him as to her
character? He would perhaps hate her for it, and she would gain nothing
by it.
When the sun had set and the day was drawing to a close, her battle was
fought, her victory won, and she lay quiet and peaceful, but weak and so
weary from the strife that she would gladly have laid down the burden of
life then and there.
But even this mood, this desire to be at rest, passed after a time.
“I have one true and honest friend,” she thought. “Harriet, at least, is
faithful to me; I will go back to her, and when I get strong again, we
will take up our work together once more. I can at least do some good
with this money that Miss Leonard has given me, if I cannot be happy.”
She fell asleep soon after, and did not awake until some one touched her
upon the shoulder.
Her eyes flashed open with a startled look, and she found Miss Rochester
standing over her, a cruel smile wreathing her lips, and she sat up
shivering as she recalled where she had last seen her.
“Well, Miss Howland, alias Sister Angela, alias—well, no matter who
else—were you edified by the tableau that you witnessed a while ago from
the other room?”
The girl had caught sight of Salome as she was fleeing from the scene,
and her quick mind had grasped the situation at once, and she had
resolved to use the circumstance to further her own schemes.
Salome flushed hotly.
“I did not know there was any one in the room,” she faltered.
“Well, after what you have seen, you surely can have no desire to claim
Dr. Winthrop as your husband—even if he were willing to——”
“No—no!” interposed Salome, a note of agony in her tones; “if the
marriage was illegal, as you have all told me, I have now no wish to
have it ratified; even if it had been legal I should wish to have it
annulled—I would wish to hold no man bound who was ashamed to own me as
his wife—who loved and desired to marry another.”
“Do you really mean that, Salome?” Miss Rochester demanded, in a tone of
repressed eagerness. “If so, you can prove it.”
“Yes, I mean it. How can I prove it more fully?” she asked, with white
lips.
“By writing a letter that I will dictate. Will you?”
“To—to him?” the young wife stammered, a terrible sinking at her heart.
“Not for the world? Are you a fool?” cried her companion, with a start
and frown. Then she continued, “you know that I am going to marry him——”
“And commit a fearful wrong,” interposed Salome sternly.
“What is that to you, since you do not want him yourself? I shall have
to answer for my own sins,” was the rude retort.
“But I could prevent it. Oh, perhaps it is my duty to prevent it,” cried
Salome, in distress.
“You will not dare!” cried Miss Rochester fiercely.
“I should dare, if I believed it right,” Salome said firmly, “but under
the circumstances I cannot—matters must adjust themselves as they will.”
“And you will write the letter I desire?” she eagerly questioned.
“I must know just what you want before I promise.”
“Well, since I am to marry Dr. Winthrop,” Miss Rochester began, “I
cannot help feeling a little squeamish about the ceremony which you two
went through. Of course Dr. Winthrop believes that he is doubly free,
for he thinks you are dead, and you do not wish to undeceive him?”
“No,” but the white lips quivered painfully.
“Then if he should marry me, and by any possibility it should be
discovered, by and by, that the ceremony between you would hold, don’t
you see what an unpleasant predicament he would be in—what scandal and
trouble would ensue if your existence should be discovered?”
“Oh, why will you torture me thus?” moaned Salome.
“Dr. Winthrop could be arrested for bigamy,” her tormentor went on
relentlessly. “I don’t say would be, mind you—I am only suggesting a
possibility, which for my own peace of mind I want to guard against.
Since you do not wish him to know that you are alive, or assert any
claim upon him, you might at least be willing to signify as much.”
“How can I—what good would it do?” Salome asked, not clearly
comprehending the plot.
“Wait; I will dash off the letter as I want it,” said her companion.
CHAPTER XXXII.
SALOME IS LURED INTO A TRAP.
Miss Rochester seated herself at a table, and drawing forth writing
materials, wrote rapidly for a few moments. Then she handed the
communication to Salome to read. It ran thus:
“_To Conrad Converse, Esq._
“DEAR SIR:—I went through the marriage ceremony in Boston, Mass., with a
man known as Truman Winthrop, M.D., of New York city. My name was given
as Salome Howland, although the latter is not my true surname. I have
been told that the marriage was illegal on that account; I was
repudiated and deserted because of it. Later, I was reported dead, and
Dr. Winthrop, who still believes that I am not living, is about to marry
again. I do not wish him to be undeceived, and I appeal to you to
procure—if his marriage with me were legal—a decree of divorce, without
any publicity whatever. Spare no expense, and let it be done at once.”
“You are to sign that, and then I will attend to all the rest,” Miss
Rochester remarked, when she saw that Salome had finished reading the
missive.
Salome did not make any reply, but sat with pale face and bowed head,
trying to think what she would do.
“If his marriage with me were legal!”
Those words kept running through her mind, and she wondered now that she
had never thought of going to some lawyer to ascertain the truth. There
surely must be some doubt in Miss Rochester’s mind about it not being
so, or she would not be so eager to secure her sanction to a divorce.
She shivered over the word. No divorce would ever make her free; she had
bound herself, heart and soul, to this man, and she should feel herself
morally bound to him as long as she lived, even if she were not
according to the strict letter of the law.
But, she reasoned, he no longer loved her; he had thrust her out of his
home, and now, believing that she was dead, he wanted to marry another.
Ought she to stand in his way?
“How would he feel if he knew that I am not dead?” she asked herself;
and then grew faint and sick as the thought came to her that he would
doubtless wish her so if he should learn the truth—that he would feel
that she was the destroyer of his peace and happiness, if she should
appear before him. How could she think otherwise when she had heard such
passionate words of love from his lips, and seen him holding her enemy
clasped so fondly to his heart?
No, she had no wish to undeceive him, she would never interfere with his
happiness, and he should be free, if any act of hers could make him so.
Her life was ruined, why should she hesitate about giving him the right
to do as he wished? She would sign the letter, and thus end forever all
doubt, all trouble.
She put out her hand for the pen.
The girl, watching her so intently, dipped it freshly in the ink, and
laid it between her fingers.
She wrote her name in a bold, clear hand, at the end of the letter, then
passed it to Miss Rochester without a word.
She seized it, a gleam of triumph flashing from her eyes.
“There, Salome, for once you have done a sensible thing,” she said, and
she folded the paper, and thrust it into her bosom. “It has really made
me quite uneasy to think of marrying Dr. Winthrop, since I discovered
that you were not dead; but this will make everything all right. Mr.
Converse is a very expert lawyer, who makes a specialty of obtaining
divorces without publicity, and there will be no fear that this will not
be granted, provided he gets enough for his services, and since I have
already written to him something regarding the matter he will doubtless
expedite the matter. Ah, here comes mamma.”
The girl arose as she caught the sound of her mother’s footsteps in the
adjoining room, and went to meet her with an exultant look on her face,
and wholly unconscious that Salome, tried beyond endurance, had fainted,
and lay like one dead upon the bed.
The next morning, Mrs. Rochester saw that Salome was served a tempting
and nourishing breakfast, for she was determined that she should have
all the strength necessary to enable her to leave the villa that day.
Her dinner, also, was carefully prepared and appetizing, and after she
had partaken of it she made her lie down to rest, and charged her to
sleep if she could.
“You must be as fresh as possible, for it is quite a drive into Paris,”
she observed. “The carriage will come for you late this afternoon—I
ordered one from the city, as I thought it would attract less notice
than to take Dr. Winthrop’s from the stable.”
Salome submitted to whatever arrangements she chose to make without a
word of objection; all she cared for was to get away, and go back to the
true-hearted honest Harriet, who, she knew, would care for her most
tenderly.
Mrs. Rochester managed everything very adroitly. She had authorized her
daughter to be on the lookout for the carriage far down the avenue, and
order it to be driven to a rarely used side-entrance of the chateau.
Then she conducted Salome to it by a private staircase, and she was off
without any one, save those two women, knowing that a carriage had come
and gone.
The poor heart-broken girl heaved a sigh of relief when the vehicle
passed out of the villa grounds upon the highway, and, throwing herself
back among the cushions, she gave way to a passionate burst of weeping.
Salome was so exhausted by her weeping and the excitement of leaving the
villa, that she soon dropped into a doze, and did not awake until the
carriage stopped so suddenly as to almost throw her off her seat.
It was quite dark and she could only distinguish objects indistinctly,
but she saw that she was in a broad, quiet street, where there seemed to
be fine residences within inclosures that were ornamented with trees and
shrubs.
The driver just then made his appearance at the window, a look of
well-assumed distress on his face.
“Pardon, mademoiselle,” he said, “but one of the traces has parted—it
will detain us a little.”
“Ah, can it be mended easily?” Salome questioned nervously, for it was
so dark that she was very anxious to reach home and Harriet.
“Perhaps—we will see,” and the man disappeared.
Presently she heard him muttering angrily to himself, as if he had
discovered more mischief than he had at first seen, and then a gentleman
came slowly out from the inclosure near by, and made some inquiries in a
kindly tone, though Salome could not catch his words.
The driver explained his trouble with much volubility and irritation,
and with many profuse regrets on account of the “annoyance to
mademoiselle, the sister.”
Presently the gentleman made his appearance at the carriage window, and
lifting his hat, respectfully addressed her.
“Pardon, sister,” he began; “the coachman says he must take one of the
horses and go on to his stable to get a new trace; it seems not the
right thing for a lady to sit alone in the street at this hour of the
evening. My residence is just here, and at your service; my wife will be
charmed to entertain you while you wait. Will the sister do me the favor
to accept my hospitality, while the driver attends to the broken
harness?”
“Thanks, monsieur,” returned Salome thoughtfully. Then she asked, “is it
far to the Rue de——?”
“Mon Dieu!” responded the gentleman, in a tone of surprise, “the sister
will have to ride more than a mile yet.”
Salome sighed regretfully. She knew that her strength would not allow
her to walk such a distance, and she must, perforce, wait until the
return of the man.
She did not like the idea of sitting there alone in the street; neither
did she like to trust herself with an entire stranger, even though she
believed that her nun’s costume would protect her against wrong or
insult.
Yet the invitation was tempting; the stranger had spoken of his wife—he
seemed a gentleman, and had addressed her most courteously, while she
judged from his tone and appearance that he must be a middle-aged man.
She glanced toward the house he had indicated. The lights were
glimmering cheerfully through the trees, and she could plainly discern
the figure of a woman sitting upon the broad porch. It was warm and
close and lonely in the carriage, and it looked very inviting within the
inclosure.
“Has the sister travelled far?” inquired the gentleman, who was becoming
a trifle impatient over her evident hesitation and reluctance to accept
his offer.
“Six or seven miles,” Salome replied.
“Ah! doubtless upon some errand of mercy, and surely you must be weary.
Pray, good sister, come in and be refreshed.”
The invitation was heartily, yet courteously, given, while he at the
same time turned the handle and opened the door for her to alight.
Salome’s scruples were overcome, and she acceded to his request.
He helped her to the ground, and then she followed him inside the
adjacent grounds, without a suspicion of the trap into which she had so
readily fallen.
Reaching the house, the gentleman explained briefly the accident to the
lady sitting upon the porch whom he introduced as his wife—Madame Arnot.
Madam greeted the sister with charming frankness and cordiality,
regretted the accident which had caused such delay and annoyance, and,
bringing forward a comfortable chair, invited her to be seated.
She then began chatting in an easy manner, while now and then monsieur
would join in the conversation.
Thus an hour passed, and Salome began to grow anxious and impatient to
resume her journey.
At last she suggested that it was getting late, whereupon monsieur
sprang to his feet, remarking he would go to the gate and ascertain if
her coachman had returned.
He soon came back, saying the carriage was still there, but there were
no signs of the driver.
Salome looked troubled, but madam said never mind, all would soon be
well; then she laughingly quoted the proverb, “Be careful to entertain
strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares,” at the
same time ringing a little silver bell.
A servant appeared almost immediately, bearing a tray upon which there
was arranged a dainty meal. She deposited it upon the table, which she
wheeled forward into the centre of the porch, and set chairs for three
around it.
Madam then rose and politely invited Salome to join herself and her
husband, and at once began to serve them in an easy and graceful manner.
The young girl was hungry, and really enjoyed the delicious meal,
although she was conscious of a feeling of uneasiness and anxiety to get
away to her own quiet little home and Harriet.
Another hour passed thus, for monsieur and madam were both good eaters
as well as good talkers, and they had not finished their meal when there
came a loud ring at the gate.
Monsieur went to answer it and soon returned saying the coachman had
come back, but without having succeeded in getting his harness mended;
neither had he been able to replace the broken trace with a whole one,
for there was a grand wedding, and every horse, carriage, and harness
belonging to his employer was in use. Mademoiselle would have to wait
where she was until morning, and then he would come for her.
Salome started to her feet in dismay at this intelligence.
“Oh, no, I cannot!” she cried; “I must get home. Why did he not go
elsewhere and send me another carriage?”
“Surely he might have done so,” monsieur returned; “but the stupid
fellow evidently did not think of such a thing, and at once rode away
after explaining the situation.”
“What shall I do?” Salome exclaimed, in a troubled tone.
“Pray—pray do not be so disturbed; Sister Angela is most welcome to a
lodging here, if she will so honor us,” said madam cordially.
“And it is late,” interposed monsieur, glancing at his watch—“after ten.
I beg the sister will make herself at home, and accept our hospitality
as freely as it is offered.”
Salome looked from one to the other. Both faces were frank and smiling,
and yet, in spite of their apparent kindness, she shrank with a feeling
of distrust from remaining with them over night. But what could she do?
She was helpless. Her coachman had gone, and she could not go out by
herself at that hour of the evening to seek another carriage. If
monsieur had but offered to send for one, or to have her taken home in
his own; but he did not, and she was too timid to ask the favor of him.
So, after considering their proposition for a moment, she thanked them
for their hospitality, said she would remain, and requested that she
might be allowed to retire immediately.
Madam arose with alacrity, and said that she would herself attend her to
her chamber.
She led her within the house, and up a long stairway to the second
story, where the corridor seemed to be cut off from some other portion
of the house by portières.
Here she opened a door and ushered her into a small room that was simply
but very neatly furnished.
She provided Salome with a night-dress, remarking that she would find
towels and toilet articles in a drawer of the dressing-case; then,
bidding her a kind and cheerful good-night, she left the room, quietly
closing the door after her and noiselessly turning the well-oiled lock
until the bolt shot into its socket.
Salome was very weary as well as homesick, and, quickly undressing,
crept into bed and was soon sleeping soundly.
When she awoke in the morning, the sun was shining brightly into her
room, and she felt her spirits rise under the influence of its genial
rays. In a little while she would be safe with Harriet, and then her
troubles would be over.
She arose and dressed, realizing that she was much stronger—that her
long, restful sleep had greatly refreshed her. Then she went to her
window and pulled aside the pretty draperies which hung over it, when to
her astonishment she found herself before an iron-grated casement.
“Why, how strange!” she exclaimed, and looking out she saw that the
building she was in inclosed three sides of a square, which was
beautifully laid out with beds of flowers and variegated foliage. A
fountain was in the centre, while numerous rustic seats were scattered
about the grass-plots and finely gravelled walks.
But as her eye traversed the circuit of the spacious building, she
noticed that almost every window was grated like her own.
What could it mean? Surely it was not a prison that she was in! and yet
it had the appearance of one.
She was startled and depressed by the discovery; still she told herself
that whatever the nature of the place might be, it could not affect her,
since she was simply the guest of Monsieur and Madame Arnot for the
night.
She resolved, however, that she would leave at as early an hour as
possible, she would not wait for her coachman but order another
carriage; and with this in view, she put on her bonnet and wrap and made
herself ready for her departure.
But to her consternation, when she attempted to open her door she found
that it was locked on the outside, and her heart sank within her.
She dropped, pale and trembling, into a chair, a vague suspicion of the
truth beginning to dawn upon her.
Presently she heard steps outside her door, the key was softly turned,
and the next moment a maid entered, bearing a tray upon which was a nice
breakfast.
She put it upon the table, and then rolled it toward Salome, who thought
the girl regarded her curiously, although she greeted her with a
pleasant “good-morning.”
“I do not care for any breakfast,” Salome remarked. “I will go down and
consult with Monsieur Arnot about sending for a carriage immediately.”
“Mademoiselle will surely eat something first,” the girl said in a
coaxing tone, such as she might have used towards fractious child.
“No, thank you; I will go directly to Monsieur Arnot,” and Salome arose,
as she spoke, to leave the room.
But her attendant dexterously slipped before her and turned the key in
the lock.
“Mademoiselle cannot go down just now,” she said firmly.
“Why not?” Salome demanded with kindling eyes, and resenting the
restraint thus imposed upon her.
“Because she is the patient of Dr. Arnot, and he will himself visit
mademoiselle when he makes his usual round of the wards. Come, now, here
is a nice bit of broiled steak, some fine hot rolls, delicious coffee,
and luscious berries with cream,” the girl concluded soothingly, while
she arranged the viands temptingly before her charge.
But Salome again sank weakly upon her chair.
Those words, “the patient of Dr. Arnot—he will visit mademoiselle when
he makes his usual round of the wards,” had opened her eyes to the
terrible truth.
She knew now where she was, understood the meaning of those grated
windows and her locked door.
She was an inmate of a private insane asylum, and like a flash it had
come to her that she had been cunningly decoyed into the abominable
place.
She remembered now the peculiar look that had swept over Mrs.
Rochester’s face when she had insisted upon returning to Paris, and the
equally peculiar inflection of her tones when she had replied, “You
shall go to-morrow—I promise you, you shall go to-morrow.”
Then she recalled the fact that she had suddenly disappeared and been
absent all the afternoon, and she knew that she must have come to Paris
and arranged this plot to shut her up, where she would have no power to
interfere with any of her plans or to reveal to any one, if she was so
disposed, what she knew regarding her past life.
She saw that Mrs. Rochester feared that she would reveal her identity to
Dr. Winthrop, and thus frustrate all her designs and her daughter’s
prospects.
“Oh,” she murmured, with a thrill of horror, as she dropped her face
upon her hands, “have I not already suffered enough at their hands
without being buried alive like this?”
The girl who had brought in her breakfast took advantage of this moment
of weakness and stole softly from the room again, locking the door after
her.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
SALOME MAKES ATTEMPTS TO SECURE HER LIBERTY.
It seemed to Salome as she sat there alone in her room, after her
attendant had left her, as if this fresh trouble was more than she could
bear.
She was a prisoner in a great insane asylum in the heart of Paris, and
no one in all the world, save Mrs. Rochester, knew where she was. She
was lost! She might almost as well have been dead and buried.
She blamed herself now for having consented to enter the house at
Monsieur Arnot’s invitation. It would have been far better to have sat
in the street all night than to have walked into such a trap.
But of course it had all been planned. The driver, doubtless, was in the
employ of Arnot, and the broken trace had been only a ruse. She grew
very much excited as she thought this all out, and a feeling of bitter
anger and resentment took possession of her usually gentle heart.
She arose and paced her room back and forth, while she planned what she
would do to make Mrs. Rochester and her unprincipled daughter feel the
weight of her righteous indignation, if she could but get out of that
horrible place.
“I will not bear it,” she cried, “they shall be made to suffer for such
wickedness. I will go to True and tell him everything, even at the risk
of being spurned by him. Their treachery shall all be revealed, and then
if he persists in marrying her he will do it with his eyes open. Oh, if
I could but get word to Harriet, to let her know where I am, she would
get me out, or she could tell the mother at the convent, and she would
have me released.”
She grew calmer after a while, for she was hopeful, and believed that
she would find some means of communication with Harriet, and, feeling
really hungry, she finally sat down and ate heartily of the breakfast
that had been brought to her.
She had scarcely finished when the sound of the key turning in the lock
warned her that she was about to have another visitor.
She sincerely hoped that it would prove to be Monsieur Arnot, and she
was not disappointed, for as the door swung back she saw his genial and
benignant face beaming upon her.
“Ah, Sister Angela, good-morning. How do you find yourself after your
long drive last evening? Pretty comfortable, I hope, although I was
afraid you were hardly strong enough for such a ride,” he glibly
remarked.
“I am well, thank you, monsieur,” Salome answered with grave dignity;
“but I wish to know why I am detained here against my will?”
“Ah, Sister Angela, do not ask me disagreeable questions,” the man
pleasantly responded; “but pray accept circumstances as you find them,
and make yourself as comfortable as possible.”
“But I shall question you,” Salome resolutely returned. “I wish you to
explain why I am made a prisoner here, and by whose authority.”
“Well, then, you are a patient in this institution, because you are
somewhat out of health and need judicious treatment, and by the
authority of madam, your mother,” Dr. Arnot replied, seeing that he
might as well explain the situation first as last.
“What is my malady supposed to be?” Salome demanded.
She was greeted by the national shrug and a significant lifting of the
eyebrows.
“Mademoiselle has recently been ill,” he asserted inquiringly.
“Yes; but I am well now, only I am not quite strong.”
“Ah! exactly; and madam, your mother, has the desire that you shall gain
your strength.”
“By madam I suppose you refer to Mrs. Rochester, the woman who came here
yesterday to consult with you about me?”
“_Oui_, mademoiselle.”
Salome smiled. She had at least confirmed her suspicions regarding Mrs.
Rochester’s visit to Paris.
“Well, then, the woman is not my mother—I have none; both my parents are
dead; she is not even a relative—my mother was a cousin of her husband,”
Salome stated with a directness that carried conviction with it.
Again that characteristic shrug. It made but very little difference to
Dr. Arnot whether Mrs. Rochester was the girl’s mother or not, provided
she promptly paid him the large amounts agreed upon.
“How long am I to be kept a prisoner here?” Salome next inquired.
“‘A prisoner!’ Mademoiselle makes use of hard words,” the man returned
with a dissenting gesture. “She is simply my patient—my guest, to be
kindly and faithfully cared for until madam returns from the South.”
“By the South you doubtless mean Italy?”
“_Oui_, mademoiselle.”
Salome was in despair, for she knew that the Rochesters and Winthrops
were going to Rome for the winter as soon as madam and Evelyn should
return from the baths where they had gone to recuperate, before her
illness, and thus she would be obliged to remain for months an inmate of
a mad-house.
What would Harriet think had become of her? She would be nearly crazy
over her unaccountable disappearance. What would the mother and sisters
at the convent think?
Perhaps—and she was appalled by the thought—Mrs. Rochester intended to
keep her there indefinitely—forever! She had reason enough to be afraid
of her, and so had perhaps taken this way of ridding herself permanently
of so dangerous a foe.
The thought made her desperate, and she arose and resolutely confronted
her companion.
“Monsieur Arnot,” she said with stern dignity, “I assure you, that woman
is not my mother—she is no kin to me; she is only my bitter enemy, while
she has wronged me as few women would dare to wrong another. She fears
me, for I hold a secret regarding her, that if exposed, would be her
ruin, and so she has plotted this additional wrong against me, to secure
herself. I know, and you know, that I have no disease, either of the
body or brain; I am as sane as you are, and you are committing a
heartless crime by detaining me here. I command you to set me at
liberty.”
The man regarded her with something of wonder as she ceased speaking.
Her tone and manner convinced him that she was speaking the truth, and
he was, for the moment, uneasy lest he should get himself into trouble
by lending himself to the plot of a scheming woman.
He knew that the penalty was very severe for such an offence; but Dr.
Arnot was exceedingly avaricious. Madame Rochester had already paid him
a handsome sum in advance—besides, he already anticipated the monthly
payments which she had promised to send him regularly, and he had not
the strength to resist this important addition to his income.
So he only smiled soothingly upon poor Salome and her authoritative
demand to be released, and, adopting a conciliatory tone, remarked:
“Ah, poor child! poor child! pray do not get excited—all will be well by
and by. Do not wrong madam, who will doubtless come herself to release
mademoiselle upon her return.”
“She will not,” Salome retorted in deep distress, the conviction growing
stronger upon her. “I tell you she fears me, and I believe she intends
to keep me here indefinitely.”
She made a grave mistake, however, in asserting this, for Dr. Arnot’s
eyes began to gleam greedily; if she was to be a permanent patient, so
much the better for his pockets.
“I am my own mistress,” Salome continued. “I am twenty-three years of
age, and no one has any right to exercise control over me or deprive me
of my liberty. Will you let me go, Dr. Arnot?”
“No, mademoiselle—I have given my word to madam—I must keep it. You may
claim that you are of age, which doubtless is true, but—people who
are—ah!—invalids are not always competent to care for themselves,” he
pointedly concluded.
“Monsieur Arnot,” Salome broke forth, a sudden thought striking her, “I
am rich—I have a large fortune at my command. Do you know that if I
should manage, by any stratagem, to escape from your insane asylum—that
I could prosecute you—that you would have to suffer to the extent of the
law for detaining me here? And I would do it—I would not spare you, I
assure you. There are plenty of people in Paris who could prove that I
am perfectly sane—there are even persons here who knew me before I came
abroad from America, and I would spend thousands of francs to bring you
to justice.”
The doctor looked somewhat disturbed for a moment after this spirited
threat, but his brow soon cleared, and he smiled placidly.
“Madam alone is responsible,” he said. “I have her signature to the
certificate resigning mademoiselle to my charge, and she would have to
prosecute her own mother.”
“Must I tell you again that she is not my mother?” cried Salome,
flushing hotly. Then she added more calmly:
“You say you have Mrs. Rochester’s signature to the certificate
consigning me here, but has the document also the signature of some
responsible physician, testifying to my insanity?”
Dr. Arnot moved restlessly in his chair at this pertinent question;
evidently it was not an agreeable one.
“Mademoiselle is very curious,” he evasively remarked with a frown.
Salome began to realize that no entreaty or threat would avail, and then
it occurred to her that possibly bribery might succeed where all other
arguments would fail.
“Mrs. Rochester has agreed to pay you well, I presume, for detaining me
here?” she remarked.
“Patients are not usually treated free of charge in a retreat like
this,” he returned.
“Would you mind telling me the amount you are to receive?” Salome asked.
Dr. Arnot sneered audibly at this question.
“So that mademoiselle may have another point against me in law?” he
retorted with a sarcastic laugh.
“No, monsieur, I was not thinking of that,” she quietly replied; “but I
imagined that I might perhaps outbid my enemy. I have told you that I am
rich. See here! I have a letter of credit for five thousand
dollars—twenty-five thousand francs of your money,” and she drew forth
the envelope containing it. “I will give you four thousand of it, or
twenty thousand francs, if you will unbar your doors and let me go free
this hour.”
Dr. Arnot glanced hungrily at the envelope, while he appeared surprised
at her statement; for, in spite of her previous assertion that she was
rich, he had not believed that she could personally control any amount
worth mentioning. He was strongly tempted, however, by the sum which she
now offered him.
But there were a good many things to be thought of in connection with
it.
Madame Rochester might pay him a visit before leaving for Italy, and
demand to see his patient. If he could not produce her, she could easily
make trouble for him; she would demand the money she had already paid
him; she might complain of him to the authorities, and thus cause an
investigation of the way he conducted his institution, which would ruin
his reputation, and even so large a sum as twenty thousand francs would
not compensate him for that.
Still, if he could have accepted Salome’s offer without any danger to
himself, it is safe to say that he would have done so on the spot.
He was thoughtful for several moments afterward, while she watched him
with breathless eagerness.
“Twenty thousand francs is a large sum, mademoiselle,” he at length
remarked, a greedy light in his eyes; “but even if I should accept your
offer, how can I be assured that it really belongs to you?”
Salome’s lips curled scornfully; she saw that the man was such a knave
himself he had no faith in any one else.
“You shall yourself accompany me to the bank while I draw the money, and
where I have already been several times to provide myself with funds.
The cashier and clerks there know me and will identify me.”
This sounded reasonable, and the man was half tempted again to yield,
for he wanted the money badly.
Perhaps after Madame Rochester had left Paris he might venture to accept
her offer; but at present it would not do to run the risk of discovery.
“I am bound to madam,” he finally said in a musing tone. “I am afraid—at
least I must have time to think; I will consider the matter, and let
mademoiselle know my decision later.”
With that he bowed politely to her and walked out of the room.
She was greatly disappointed and distressed, and, being still weak and
easily unnerved, she burst into bitter weeping.
She knew of course that inquiry would soon be made for her, and she
wondered what kind of a story Mrs. Rochester would make up to account
for her disappearance from the chateau.
Oh, if she could only get word to some one outside!
But Salome was not of a despondent temperament naturally, and after the
first paroxysm of despair had passed she began to consider her situation
more calmly and hopefully, and tried to devise some plan by which to
outwit her captors.
Her first resolve was to disarm Dr. Arnot, if possible, of any suspicion
of her intention—make him think that she had concluded to submit to a
fate she could not change, and thus secure more freedom in the hospital.
She knew there were wards in every such institution, where the harmless
patients were allowed to mingle with each other, and she meant to obtain
permission to go among them. She also knew that visitors were frequently
admitted to these wards, and she hoped she would either find some one
among them who would befriend her, or who would at least secretly take a
letter to post outside for her.
Having decided upon this course, she immediately wrote a note, telling
Harriet something of what had occurred during the last three weeks; that
she had been entrapped and was now confined in an insane asylum, of
which a physician, calling himself Dr. Arnot, had charge.
She charged her to take instant measures for her release—to go to the
mother-superior of the convent, tell her the circumstance, when she felt
sure she would manage some way to have her set at liberty.
She always carried postage stamps about with her, so she could easily
prepare this epistle for the mail.
She had written on some leaves which she had torn from a note-book, but
she had no envelopes. She managed to fashion something that answered
from more leaves of her book, then addressed the missive, and concealed
it about her person, so as to have it in readiness in case she should
find any one willing to take it out for her.
Feeling that there was now no longer any necessity for her to go about
disguised, she threw aside her awkward bandages, cap, and glasses, and
was once more her natural self, save for the loose and unbecoming nun’s
dress, which of course she was still obliged to wear, as she had no
other.
CHAPTER XXXIV.
SALOME IS MISSED.
A few days passed. Salome was kindly treated in every respect save that
of being kept a close prisoner.
She was served by a pretty and good-natured maid; she had every luxury
of the season provided to tempt her appetite, and was provided with a
variety of entertaining reading, also with materials for fancy work to
occupy her time.
But she became terribly tired of her solitary confinement, and irritated
at being so hedged about that she could find no way to send out her
letter.
She had tried to sound the fidelity of the girl who waited upon her, but
found that she was entirely devoted to the interests of her employer,
and that it would be worse than useless to attempt to bribe her to
assist to escape; so she wisely refrained from exciting suspicions that
she was contemplating any such measure, and even feigned a content and
cheerfulness in her presence which she was far from feeling.
Dr. Arnot paid her a visit every day, but she always received him with a
cool dignity which rather awed and held him at arm’s length, in spite of
his habitual composure and assurance.
One morning, however, she told him firmly that she could not remain shut
up in that one room any longer—that she must have more liberty or her
health would suffer.
“But I am afraid of you, mademoiselle,” he returned, while he regarded
her searchingly and with a peculiar smile. “There is no reason why you
should not have more freedom if you will only be reasonable and promise
me that you will not make trouble for me by trying to escape.”
Salome smiled scornfully.
“Monsieur Arnot must have a strange distrust of his own power if he
imagines that a weak girl can escape through solid brick walls, or
between iron bars, or elude the vigilance of his many attendants,” she
sarcastically returned. “I do not say,” she continued, “that I should
not avail myself of the opportunity of walking out of this institution
if the way were opened for me; but since your precautions are sufficient
to restrain your hundreds of other patients, they surely ought to be
sufficient for me also. I must at least have the liberty of the ward
with your harmless patients, if nothing more.”
“Have you no fear of them, mademoiselle?” the physician asked with
evident curiosity.
“No; why should I fear them more than they fear each other?”
“But they are mad, and do not know the difference.”
“And I am sane, consequently I do know the difference. Thank you, Dr.
Arnot, for the admission, unintentional though it may have been,” said
Salome dryly, while the man flushed, and thought her very quick-witted.
“Well,” he returned, after considering a moment, “you shall have the
liberty of the ward, if you so desire,” and walking to the door, he
opened it, and held it for her to pass out.
Salome was not slow to avail herself of this privilege, and walked
immediately and fearlessly into the long and lofty room, or hall, into
which twenty or more smaller rooms opened, and where there were
assembled as many women of various ages and appearances.
The portières, which she had noticed on the night of her arrival, and
which had been so cleverly arranged to cut off the end of the hall, had
been swept aside, and she could now look down the whole length of the
vast room.
It was lighted by immense grated windows at either end, and also by a
rotunda in the centre, and was clean, airy, and cheerful.
Salome passed slowly down the ward, her keen glance taking in every
detail of persons and things about her, while she was no less curiously
scrutinized by the other occupants of the place, who were quick to
recognize the fact that there was a stranger in their midst.
She spoke a kind word here and there, for her sympathies were readily
enlisted, gave a smile to others, and it was evident, from the friendly
glances which were bestowed upon her by all, that she would soon become
a favorite with those harmless but pitiable creatures.
Dr. Arnot watched her, a troubled look on his face.
“I don’t like this business—I wish I hadn’t put my finger in it,” he
muttered; “the girl is no more crazy than I am, and I was a fool to lend
myself to madam’s scheme, though I did need the money sadly. I
believe—as soon as I am sure that she has left the country—I’ll make
terms with the girl on condition that she will promise not to denounce
me.”
Alas! delays are dangerous, says the old proverb, and Dr. Arnot’s doom
was sealed when he decided in favor of procrastination.
A fortnight slipped by, and Salome continued to mingle every day with
the poor wrecks about her, and though her heart was often sad with hope
deferred, she became deeply interested in her strange companions. For
some of them she grew to feel a great tenderness, while to them she
seemed like a beautiful saint.
If a patient were ill or fractious, the attendant had only to send for
Salome, when a few quiet words, a clasp of the hand, a softly breathed
hymn, would subdue the unruly spirit, restore harmony, or lull the
restless sufferer to sleep.
But during all this time the anxious girl had found no opportunity to
send her letter to Harriet. It still lay in the depths of the capacious
pocket of her nun’s dress.
There was scarcely a day that there was not some visitor in the ward;
sometimes there were two or three; but no one had yet appeared in whom
she felt that she could have confidence. Besides, they were always
accompanied by Dr. Arnot, one of the other physicians, or by some
attendant, and Salome felt that she was always closely watched at such
times, consequently she had not dared to address any one. There were
times when she was sad and depressed because of hope deferred, but if
anything could have consoled her it would have been the fact that she
was doing good, while it was not entirely uninteresting to study the
different phases of insanity around her.
* * * * *
Meantime Harriet Winter had become very anxious about her young
mistress.
She had received a letter which Salome had inclosed to her in one which
she had written to the mother-superior, and in which she had told her
when she might look for her return to Paris. So she had given herself no
uneasiness until the time had passed and she did not make her appearance
or send her any word regarding plans for the future.
Then she began to be troubled, and one morning took a sudden resolve
that she would go out to the chateau and ascertain the cause of Salome’s
detention.
The Rochesters and Winthrops—the latter having returned a few days after
Salome’s departure, in good health and spirits—were very busy preparing
for their departure to Italy, and Harriet found considerable confusion
prevailing at the villa.
As it happened, Mrs. Rochester was passing through the great hall just
as the servant was admitting her, and instantly realized that she was on
the brink of a danger which she had not foreseen.
It will be remembered that when Mrs. Rochester had questioned Salome
regarding her relations with the woman, the young girl had evaded her,
and she had no suspicions that they had any interests in common. She
simply imagined that the woman was grateful for the care which had been
bestowed upon her during her illness, and so when Salome had called upon
her for help in her extremity, at the chateau, she had cheerfully
responded, to prove her gratitude. She did not dream that they lived
together, or that the woman felt any special responsibility regarding
Salome’s safety or well-being, and, since she had not known of the
letter received through the mother-superior, she did not suppose her to
know anything of the movements or intentions of Salome; she was,
therefore, considerably disturbed when she heard her inquiring in
somewhat excited tones for Sister Angela.
She immediately went forward, sent the servant away, and quietly drew
Harriet into a small reception-room and shut the door against intruders,
while she congratulated herself that she had happened to appear upon the
scene just at that opportune moment.
“My good woman, what do you wish?—what can I do for you?” she inquired,
assuming a tone of kindly interest.
“I’ve come to see Miss Sa—Sister Angela,” Harriet returned, having
almost betrayed her knowledge of Salome’s identity, in her excitement.
“Why,” exclaimed Mrs. Rochester, affecting great surprise, “did you
expect to find Sister Angela here now?”
“Of course I did, marm! Where else should I look for her?” Harriet
returned, growing more distressed at the confirmation of the statement
made by a servant that the nun was not there. “She came here to nurse,”
she went on, “but wrote me about three weeks ago that she should come
home in about a fortnight. It’s three weeks now; so I came to see for
myself what kept her. I keep house for her, marm, in a little house just
under the convent walls,” she concluded, in explanation.
“But,” responded Mrs. Rochester, still with an appearance of surprise,
“Sister Angela’s duties here ceased some four weeks ago. Did she not
return to Paris at that time?”
“What!” cried Harriet in a frightened tone, and growing pale; “it’s
true, then, what the servant told me—she isn’t here?”
“No; she left Dr. Winthrop some four weeks ago,” Mrs. Rochester
answered. “She was taken ill here very suddenly one day—she fainted, and
seemed quite worn out; but, as soon as she was able, she insisted upon
returning to Paris.”
“Good gracious, marm! you can’t mean it!” exclaimed the woman wildly;
“and she never came home at all!”
“Is it possible?” said Mrs. Rochester with sympathetic earnestness.
“Perhaps, then, she went to the convent.”
“No, marm; she has her own house, and she would have come directly to
me,” said Harriet.
“Then she isn’t a nun at all,” remarked her companion in a peculiar
tone; “for nuns do not keep house by themselves.”
“Well, that doesn’t matter now,” Harriet returned evasively, but looking
rather crest-fallen at having betrayed so much. “It does matter, though,
where she is now. I must find her right away. When did she go away from
here?” she demanded rising, for she was wild to begin her search for the
missing girl.
“Let me see,” mused Mrs. Rochester; “I believe it was just four weeks
ago yesterday, that——”
“Four weeks!” interrupted Harriet scornfully. “Why, I had a letter from
her three weeks ago, and she said she’d be at home in about a fortnight,
as I told you before.”
Mrs. Rochester remembered and had been somewhat upset by the
intelligence; still she was bound to stick to her text if possible.
“Are you sure the letter was written only three weeks ago?” she
inquired, simply to gain time.
“Sure, marm; I ain’t likely to make many mistakes about Miss—about
Sister Angela,” Harriet replied.
“But it certainly was four weeks ago yesterday that she had the attack I
spoke of; Dr. Winthrop would himself tell you so, and that she wished to
return at once to Paris.”
“Well, I’m beat!” Harriet exclaimed in a tremulous voice; “for that
letter was certainly written three weeks ago, and it was postmarked from
this town.”
“Perhaps,” Mrs. Rochester suggested, a bright idea occurring to her,
“she was taken worse after leaving here, and was obliged to stop over at
the inn or somewhere in the village; then, when she was a little better,
she may have written you, but, not wishing to alarm you, told you that
she would be home in a couple of weeks; then she may have been taken
worse again, and—and perhaps is ill somewhere now.”
“No—no, marm, that isn’t like her at all; if she had been sick, she’d
have sent for me to come and take care of her,” Harriet returned, tears
streaming over her cheeks. “I tell you, marm, it’ll be a sad day for me
if anything has happened to her.”
Her heart was full of anxiety and fear, and she imagined a hundred ills
that might have befallen her dear young lady; but she did not once
suspect treachery on the part of any one at the chateau, for she could
conceive of no motive that would prompt any one to injure her. Salome
had never confided anything of her history, and she did not suppose she
had ever met either the Rochesters or the Winthrops before she went to
nurse them at the villa.
The wily Mrs. Rochester, after suggesting that perhaps Sister Angela had
probably succumbed to a sudden and fatal attack of illness, was
extremely anxious to get rid of her excitable visitor. She feared that
Dr. Winthrop might learn that the devoted and self-sacrificing nun who
had nursed him back to life was unaccountably missing. If so, he would
certainly spare no efforts to get tidings of her, and, if possible,
restore her to the lamenting Harriet.
When Harriet Winter left the chateau, it was with the determination to
use every means in her power to find her beloved friend.
CHAPTER XXXV.
HARRIET’S SEARCH FOR SALOME.
Harriet went slowly down the avenue, after leaving the villa, looking
the picture of dejection and misery.
On and on she plodded toward the village, taking no note of distance or
her surroundings, until, all at once, a frisky dog, that she had kindly
fed with dainty bits from the sick-rooms while she was nursing in the
chateau, bounded out of a thicket and rushed forward, fawning upon her.
She was startled, for everything about her had been so silent, so
apparently deserted, and, in trying to avoid the antics of the joyful
creature, her foot caught in her skirts, she stumbled, and fell upon the
ground.
She was not hurt, only frightened and trembling, and just then she heard
a low exclamation of surprise, and the next moment a figure sprang
toward her and helped her to her feet.
It was Dr. Winthrop, who had been concealed from her view in a rustic
arbor beyond the thicket, where he had been reading.
“Madame Winter!” he cried astonished, as he saw who she was. “Are you
hurt? I had no idea what Don was up to or I would not have allowed him
to rush at you.”
“No, I’m only startled and a bit upset,” Harriet replied, as she tried
to recover her equanimity. “But, oh, Dr. Winthrop, I’m in great
trouble.”
“Trouble!” he repeated kindly. “Come, then, and sit down while you tell
me about it,” and he led her to the arbor where he had been sitting.
“Now unburden yourself, my good woman,” he went on, with increasing
sympathy, as he noted her quivering lips and tearful eyes, “and let me
see if I cannot find some way to help you.”
“It is about Sister Angela, sir——” Harriet began.
“Sister Angela!” interrupted Dr. Winthrop, anxiety and interest depicted
on his thin face. “What about her? I know that she was taken suddenly
ill, and went away from here about a month ago. I trust she did
not—die!”
“No one can tell—no one knows; no one has seen her since she left here,”
Harriet cried.
“No one has seen her since she left here four weeks ago!” Dr. Winthrop
exclaimed in great astonishment.
“No.”
“Have you been to the convent to inquire for her?”
“No; you see, sir, I can’t talk with the sisters. Sister Angela had to
tell me in English what they said, and so since she’s been away I’ve
stayed mostly by myself, but the mother, as they call her, sent me a
letter from her about three weeks ago.”
“Three weeks ago! Where was it written from?” Dr. Winthrop asked
eagerly. “I thought you said nothing was known of her movements since
she left here!”
“So I did, sir. The letter did not tell me much, only that she hoped to
come to Paris in about two weeks. It was written from here—at least it
was mailed from the village.”
“That is very strange!—written three weeks ago, and mailed from the
village, and she left the chateau four weeks ago,” mused Dr. Winthrop.
He seemed to be absorbed in thought for a few minutes; then he said
gravely:
“It is very mysterious! You are sure the sisters at the convent know
nothing about her?”
“No, sir; they would have told me if they had heard anything—there is
another sister there who speaks a little English.”
“Then I fear that something serious has happened to her,” Dr. Winthrop
continued. “I am afraid that she was attacked with cholera after she
left here—that, in her thoughtful care for others, she did not wish to
carry the disease back to the convent, and so resolved to keep it to
herself and remain at the village. She could not have been very ill at
first, and so, to quiet suspicion, wrote to you and the mother-superior
in her usual cheerful strain. Then—I am afraid, Madame Winter, that—that
she must have had a relapse, and——”
“Died!” cried Harriet with a shudder. “Oh! that was just the way Mrs.
Rochester thought it out, and perhaps it’s true,” and bowing her head
upon her hand the woman rocked her body to and fro in an agony of grief
pitiful to behold.
“Do not despair,” Dr. Winthrop said, trying to comfort her a little; “we
will not give up all hope while there is any doubt as to her fate. We
must not spend our time in idle grief—we will bestir ourselves, and do
all that we can to solve the mystery. If I were only stronger I would
start out at once upon the search. But do you go, my good woman, to the
village yonder, and ascertain if any one answering Sister Angela’s
description has been ill there. If you can learn nothing there, return
to the convent, tell them what you have been told here to-day, and ask
the sisters’ help in looking up the case.
“It is now three o’clock,” he continued, glancing at his watch. “A train
leaves here for Paris at six, and that will give you ample time to find
out if Sister Angela has been ill at the village; then you can return to
the city in season to interview the mother-superior and the sisters at
the convent. Now hasten, and be sure to let me know by the morning post
what success you have. I would go with you, but this exciting news has
so unnerved me I have not the strength; but if I do not get a favorable
report from you to-morrow, I will come at once to Paris, in spite of
everything, and see what I can do.”
Harriet rose as he concluded, and bidding him a brief good-day hastened
away, somewhat relieved and comforted, to have her burden so heartily
shared by another.
Of course, she heard nothing at the village, although she was most
persistent and diligent in her inquiries.
No one had seen a gray sister there, no one had been ill at the inn
since the plague began to subside; surely no one had died there, or it
would have been known throughout the place, and the curé notified.
So, with a little comfort instilled into her heart by these positive
assurances, Harriet went back to Paris, and to the convent of the gray
nuns, to consult with the mother-superior.
Her anxiety and perplexity were in no wise relieved upon reaching the
convent, for neither the mother nor sisters could give her the slightest
information, or suggest any solution to the mystery.
Poor Harriet passed a sad and harrowing night. She could not close her
eyes, neither could she rest. She composed herself sufficiently,
however, to write to Dr. Winthrop, and went out to post the letter as
soon as the day dawned.
But the young physician had been scarcely less anxious than Salome’s
faithful attendant. So all night long he, too, had been wakeful,
restless, and anxious over Sister Angela’s strange disappearance.
When morning broke he had worked himself into such a state of excitement
that he could endure it no longer, though he concealed it so well that
no one suspected the trouble upon his mind.
At the breakfast-table Dr. Winthrop announced his intention of taking a
drive, as the day was fine, and he thought the air and exercise would do
him good.
No one opposed him in this, and as soon as the meal was over he ordered
his carriage, and, without inviting any one to accompany him, drove
away.
He had determined to go to Paris, to try and ascertain for himself what
had become of Sister Angela.
Harriet was greatly surprised when, in answer to a ring of the bell, she
went to the door and found him standing there.
She knew that he could not have received her letter, and for a moment a
thrill of joy shot through her heart. But his first words blasted the
little hope she had felt.
“Did you find her?” he demanded almost curtly, and without waiting for
any exchange of formalities.
“No,” replied the woman, with a sad shake of her head; “and I’m almost
sure that something dreadful has happened to her.”
“Do not be discouraged,” he said more cheerfully than he felt; “we must
find her, or at least gain some tidings of her, if we go systematically
to work.”
And he did go systematically to work at once. He sent his carriage back
to the chateau with a message to his mother, telling her that he should
remain in Paris for the present, as important business there demanded
his attention. Then he sought the prefect of police, and related
Salome’s story to him, telling him to spare no expense in searching for
her, and keep him notified of any information which might be gained from
day to day.
More than this, he employed a couple of private detectives, hoping to
gain some clew in this way.
Madame Winthrop was greatly astonished when her son’s carriage returned
to the chateau, and his man brought her the message which he had sent.
“Why! we leave for Rome the day after to-morrow! What can he mean?” she
exclaimed in dismay.
Norman knew nothing of his brother’s plans or the business which
detained him in Paris, and, with her curiosity excited to the highest
pitch, and piqued besides because it was evident that he had no
intention of accompanying the party to Rome, she immediately followed
him to Paris where she had a somewhat exciting interview.
“I cannot understand you, Truman,” she told him in her most dignified
manner, “running away in this incomprehensible manner, just as we are
leaving for Rome. What will Sadie think of you?”
“Really, mother,” Dr. Winthrop gravely replied, “I was not aware that I
had been guilty of anything so very rude, and as for what Miss Rochester
may think that cannot affect me in any way.”
“How can you say that, my son? You should have more regard for her
feelings. Mrs. Rochester is very much hurt, for she thinks you are not
using Sadie fairly at all.”
“Why so?” the young man demanded, surprised.
“She thinks, under the circumstances, that you are exceedingly
indifferent to her.”
“Under what circumstances?”
“Why, when a man is pledged to marry a woman it is expected that he will
show her some attention.”
“It cannot be possible that you or Mrs. Rochester believe I am pledged
to Sadie Rochester!” said Dr. Winthrop, looking exceedingly annoyed.
“Any one would believe that we had a right to think so, after a certain
interview which occurred here in Paris, and your subsequent attentions
to the young lady. Really, Truman, you had no right to compromise Sadie
if you had no intention of marrying her,” Madame Winthrop concluded.
“I have never had any intention of compromising Miss Rochester,” Dr.
Winthrop thoughtfully responded; and yet, out of the loyalty and
delicacy of his noble soul, he could not bring himself to explain even
to his mother how the girl had forgotten and betrayed herself, thus
compromising him, rather than he her.
“Truman, you ought to marry her. I have set my heart upon your marrying
her. Will you?” and the woman turned a pleading face up to him.
“Mother!” he cried out sharply, “do not talk to me of marriage. I do not
wish to marry any one. I have no heart to bestow upon any woman. It
died—it was burned to ashes with my Salome,” and a shiver of agony ran
over him, leaving him deathly white, as he thought of his beloved whom
he believed had met a tragic fate in New York.
“But surely you will marry some time, Truman—you will not live single
all your life—promise me that you will not. I could not bear the thought
of you, with all your talents, isolating yourself, and leaving no one to
perpetuate your name. Oh, why cannot you be sensible and marry
Sadie?—you have led her to believe that you care for her.”
Madam was very much in earnest, and she plainly betrayed it.
Dr. Winthrop frowned and compressed his white lips to keep himself from
giving expression to a bitter retort. He could not forget, if his mother
did, that but for her he might even now have been happy in the love and
possession of a beautiful wife.
“Why will you harp upon that subject?” he said in a low, restrained
tone.
“Because I do not want you to waste your life; because I want you to
have what rightly belongs to you—the Hamilton fortune,” she responded
passionately; then she added vehemently: “Promise me one thing, before I
go, and I will try to be satisfied—promise me, if you ever marry again,
that Sadie Rochester shall be your wife.”
He smiled bitterly.
“Well, mother,” he said at last, to end the matter, “if it will ease
your mind, I will promise you that much—if I ever do take to myself a
wife, Sadie Rochester shall occupy that position—that is, if she should
desire it. But I beg—nay, I insist, that you never broach the subject to
me again. I prefer to act independently in all such matters.”
Madame Winthrop’s face lighted.
She felt that he had fairly committed himself at last, and she believed
it would be comparatively easy for Sadie to win him now.
“You will come with us to Rome?” she said eagerly.
“No; I cannot. I have work to do here in Paris yet.”
“What work? Surely you do not intend to resume your work in the
hospitals—there can be no need of that now,” madam remarked with a
clouded brow.
“I am going to make a study of certain diseases, for a while,
preparatory to my return to the United States.”
“And will you not come to Rome at all while we are there?”
“Perhaps, by and by; I cannot tell,” was the evasive reply.
Madam had to content herself with that, for she saw that it would not do
to press the matter further, and she returned to the chateau, where she
reported the concession which her son had made, to Mrs. Rochester.
“How long does his majesty expect I am going to wait for him to make up
his royal mind whether he will condescend to take me or not?” Miss
Rochester scornfully remarked with a toss of her handsome head, when
this was repeated to her.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
MISS ROCHESTER A VICTOR.
Dr. Winthrop was greatly disturbed by his mother’s visit and the charge
which she had brought against him in connection with Sadie Rochester.
“The girl must know that she alone was to blame for the unlucky
_contrétemps_ which occurred that morning,” he said impatiently, as he
paced his room back and forth. “Why couldn’t she have explained the
matter to her mother, and thus exonerated me from all blame? Perhaps she
is ashamed to confess that she so betrayed herself. Such a confession, I
admit, would be awkward for her; yet, in justice to me, she should have
made it.”
At last he sat down before his writing-desk, muttering resolutely:
“I will at least give her the privilege of rejecting me, and that will
settle the matter for all time. I am bored to death with this continual
harping upon the subject of my marriage with the girl.”
He wrote rapidly for a few moments, after which he signed his name with
a reckless dash, and then proceeded to read over what he had written.
The letter ran thus:
“MISS ROCHESTER:—I am considerably troubled over an interview that I
have just had with my mother, and during which she stated that you feel
yourself somewhat compromised by what occurred between us on the day of
your leaving Paris. I sincerely regret if anything which I may have said
or done should have surprised you into the betrayal of feelings which
you would have preferred to conceal. I imagined that it would be a very
easy matter for you to explain the situation to Mrs. Rochester; but if,
under the circumstances, you feel delicate about so doing, and she is
still laboring under a misapprehension of the real nature of the
interview, I will make you the only reparation in my power by the offer
of my hand. I will tell you frankly that I have no heart to give any
woman—that the image of my dead wife still fills it to the exclusion of
all other affection, and I feel that it is but a mockery to ask any one
to marry me. Still if, by so doing, I can set you right in the eyes of
others, I am at your service; the proposal will at least give you the
opportunity of rejecting one who has, perhaps, placed you in a false
position, although unintentionally.
“Very truly yours,
“TRUMAN H. WINTHROP.”
“There! I believe this will end that matter for all time,” the young man
said as he slipped the missive into its envelope and addressed it. “She
can tell them all that I have proposed to her and she has rejected me,
then they will surely let us both alone about this hateful marriage.”
He never once imagined that the girl was as eager for it as her mother
and Madame Winthrop—that she was only waiting for the slightest
concession on his part to trap him into an engagement, and thus secure
the prize for which she had so long angled.
Therefore it was with no little amazement and consternation that he
received, late the next afternoon, the following reply to his proposal:
“DEAR DR. WINTHROP:—You can perhaps imagine what the feelings of a
sensitive woman may have been upon receiving such a note as you wrote to
me yesterday. It was not a pleasant thing to learn that your mother had
told you that I felt compromised by the event which occurred, whatever
my feelings may have been. But since she has told you and since you have
dealt so candidly with me, I will be no less frank with you.
“That I did betray feelings which almost any woman would have regretted
revealing I cannot deny, and, strange though it may seem to you, my
mother is the last person in the world who would regard such a betrayal
with any leniency. Hence my hesitation to explain matters to her. Having
once procrastinated, I have not since had the courage to broach the
subject, so she has naturally inferred what Madame Winthrop intimated to
you.
“You are very good to wish to set me right, though you say that you have
no heart to give me—that you feel it is but mockery for you to make me
the proposal you have. I do not so regard it, and I deeply sympathize
with you in your great loss—in your blighted hopes, and honor you for
your faithfulness to one who was so dear. But, Dr. Winthrop, a man in
your position needs a pleasant home and a devoted wife, and I believe
both those results would be obtained if I should accept your proposal;
and more than that, a wrong would be righted—the Rochester-Hamilton
fortunes, which should never have been willed otherwise upon such
arbitrary conditions, would be secured to the proper heirs. Do not deem
me unmaidenly, I pray, if I confess that my feelings toward you are of
such a nature that I am not only willing, but glad, to devote my life to
you—that I am even sanguine enough to hope that I shall yet make the
future hold something of content, if not of positive happiness for you.
Believing this, and knowing also that my own hopes have no higher aim
than to make myself useful in contributing to your future comfort and
interest, even though I may never win your love, I gratefully accept the
offer of your hand, and pledge myself to be a faithful and helpful wife
to you.
“Yours now and ever,
“SARAH ROCHESTER.”
A groan of misery burst from Dr. Winthrop’s white lips as he finished
reading this cunningly constructed epistle.
“Has the girl no sense of shame—no discernment?” he cried fiercely.
“Could she not understand that my letter was but a mere form—a simple
pretext to give her a chance to set herself right with my mother and her
own? Could she not see that I shrank from all thought of marriage, with
any woman, with a feeling of absolute loathing? Great Heaven! She has
pledged herself to me—she has made the affair a formal engagement, and I
am bound to her in spite of myself!”
Oh, if he could have foreseen what the result of his letter would have
been, his hand would have withered before writing it!
Still he believed that she really loved him; she had betrayed it
involuntarily—as he imagined—that morning when he had gone to tell her
of the danger of remaining in Paris; she had confessed it again in her
letter to-day. Her life, then, would be ruined if she did not marry him.
She would lose her fortune through no fault of her own, and her mother
would also forfeit the independent control of the income of fifty
thousand dollars.
He realized that Miss Rochester was beautiful; that she would shine in
society, and be an ornament in any man’s home, and having been allowed
to see only the best side of her nature, he did not once imagine her to
be the hypocrite that she was.
Why, then, since his own life was so hopelessly ruined, should he not
gracefully submit to the inevitable, and sacrifice himself to the wishes
and good of others?
He had hardly arrived at this almost despairing conclusion, after
several hours of rebellion against his doom, when his brother suddenly
dashed into his presence, without even the formality of knocking for
admittance, his brow gloomy, his face white from passion and pain.
Dr. Winthrop regarded him with surprise and anxiety.
“What is it, Norman?” he inquired. “Is there anything the matter at the
chateau?”
“No, everybody is well, if that is what you mean,” was the curt reply,
as the young man recklessly threw himself into a chair.
“But, Norman, it does not seem to be well with you—what has occurred to
disturb you thus?”
“I have simply come to have an understanding with you before we leave
for Italy.”
“An understanding?” repeated Dr. Winthrop. “Pray what is there that
needs explanation between you and me?”
“This—is it true that you are going to marry Sadie Rochester?” demanded
Norman Winthrop, starting to his feet and facing his brother, while a
dull red wave of passion flushed his brow. “Is it true that you are
formally betrothed to her? My mother has told me so, and I have also
heard it from another source.”
Dr. Winthrop searched his brother’s face; he noticed his sullen,
desperate air; the reckless tone in his voice, the look of pain on his
face, which was now pale even to ghastliness, and he instantly surmised
the meaning of it.
His brother loved the girl who had but just pledged herself to marry
him.
“You have heard it from another source—from whom?” he inquired.
“From that heartless flirt herself—Sadie Rochester,” was the fierce
reply.
“Has Miss Rochester told you that she is betrothed to me?” Dr. Winthrop
gravely asked, thinking that the girl had been in rather unseemly haste
to announce the engagement, since he had but just learned her decision
himself.
“Yes, she says she is pledged to marry you.”
“Pledged to marry me! Does she appear at all averse to the bond?”
“No—no!” responded Norman passionately; “and that is what cuts me so,
for you are so indifferent; you do not act at all like a man who has
been so fortunate as to win a beautiful woman like Sadie Rochester, and
I want to know whether you are voluntarily betrothed to her, or whether
you simply feel bound to comply with the conditions of that contract.”
The young physician was deeply distressed by this new development, for
he saw that his brother was desperately in love, and it seemed hard
indeed if another life must be ruined by his own enforced engagement.
“I am sorry, Norman, that this matter is a source of unhappiness to
you,” he said earnestly, “but I suppose it is settled that I am to marry
Miss Rochester.”
Norman Winthrop began excitedly pacing the floor.
“Heavens! you drive me mad!” he cried passionately. “You suppose it is
settled that you are to marry her! Do you love the girl?”
And he stopped short in his walk, and glared fiercely at his companion
with flaming eyes.
“Pray do not get so excited, Norman,” Dr. Winthrop wearily returned.
“Sit down and let us talk this matter over calmly. You ask me if I love
Sadie Rochester. You must know that after the experiences which I have
been through during the last two years, it would not be easy for me to
love any woman with the absorbing passion of a first attachment. I have
not even pretended to any such affection; but Miss Rochester is not
disagreeable to me; she evidently desires the union, while you well know
that my mother’s heart is set upon it. Therefore, since much depends
upon the fulfilment of this contract, I feel that it is perhaps my duty
to yield to the wishes of others, and—well,” with a long-drawn sigh, as
if further explanation would not better matters, “that is about all
there is concerning it.”
“And, I suppose you were going to remark, since your life has been
ruined by the loss of the woman you loved, it cannot matter much if you
sacrifice yourself to gain these fortunes, without regard to the
feelings of any one else,” sneered Norman Winthrop, with exceeding
bitterness. “Yes,” he went on, with increasing excitement, “you have
read me aright; this matter is a source of unhappiness—of despair to me.
I love Sadie Rochester as you never thought of loving any one; she has
become the one woman in the world to me, and if I must lose her I do not
care how quickly I go to the devil. Be quiet!” he continued savagely, as
Dr. Winthrop attempted to speak; “I must let it all out—I’ll not give up
all my hopes without a struggle. I know that I have always been the
black sheep of the family, that I’ve been wild and fast, and have cared
but little for anything save my own pleasure; but I love this girl so
well that she could do anything she chose with me; she could mould me to
her will like a lump of wax—I would be a man for her sake, working hard
for fortune, honor, and a name, if I could but win her for my wife; but
without her I am lost, and the hardest of all is that I believe I could
win her if it were not for this cursed money.”
Dr. Winthrop flushed.
It was not pleasant to be told that a woman was going to marry him
simply for the fortune she would thus secure, even if he did not love
her as well as he should. Still he believed that his brother was blinded
by his own feelings. He was quite sure that Miss Rochester loved him—for
she had told him so—had she not tried to impress the fact upon him in
many ways?—and he honestly believed that he should wreck her happiness
if he did not make her his wife. At all events, he had offered himself
to her, and been accepted, and there was no honorable way of retreating
from the position.
“Well, Norman,” he said sadly, for he was grieved to see how reckless
his brother had become under the influence of this passion, “I cannot
tell you how shocked I am by what you have told me regarding your
feelings toward Miss Rochester. If I thought that she loved you in
return, and would be happier as your wife, I would willingly release her
from her pledge to me; for, believe me, the money is, comparatively, of
little consequence to me. Indeed I would most cheerfully transfer my
right to it to you, if that would answer the same purpose, and the
requirements of the will, and make you both happy.”
“Would you?” eagerly demanded the young man, brightening visibly. “Then
prove it—renounce it and Sadie at the same time, and I swear that I will
leave all my past life behind me and become a good man. I am simply
desperate, True—I am pleading for life, home, happiness; you have no
idea how much is involved, for I idolize this girl; she will either be
my salvation or prove my ruin. True, will you give me my bride and save
my soul?”
Dr. Winthrop arose and grasped his brother’s hand. He was deeply moved
by this appeal, and for a moment he could not speak, while a thrill of
joy agitated every fibre of his being at the prospect of his own escape
from this hated marriage.
“Yes,” he said at length, “at least I will give you a chance, if you
think there is one for you. Miss Rochester knows that I do not love her
as a man ought to love his wife; and I am willing to tell her that I
would prefer to forfeit the fortune rather than marry her if she
entertains anything of affection for you. I will submit the matter for
her decision, but you must make up your mind to abide by it, for I
cannot honorably retreat from the engagement if she sees fit to hold me
to it. Believe me, Norman, I would gladly give you both fortune and
bride if I could, but since I cannot, your fate must hinge upon Miss
Rochester’s fiat.”
“Then I am lost,” cried Norman Winthrop, reeling where he stood, “for if
you submit the question to her, she will choose to be your wife and not
mine. Break the engagement yourself, and, with no hope before her of
winning these fortunes, she will be driven to me.”
“I cannot do that, Norman. I see no honorable way in which I can
withdraw from my engagement to her, and I am surprised at you. I cannot
understand how you would be willing to marry a woman who was driven to
you, as you express it, by being thrust from another,” Dr. Winthrop
concluded with some scorn, even though he deeply sympathized with his
brother.
“You do not know what it is to love as I love,” he cried hoarsely—“and
you will not break with her?”
“I must not.”
“Then it doesn’t matter how quick I go to——”
The last word was almost inarticulate, as he turned and rushed from the
room, slamming the door violently behind him.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
DR. WINTHROP HAS AN INTERVIEW WITH MISS ROCHESTER.
The next morning Dr. Winthrop was an early visitor at the chateau. He
was resolved to put his own and his brother’s fate to the test. Upon
reaching the villa, he sent a servant directly to Miss Rochester, asking
if she would oblige him with a private interview.
She soon came, looking more beautiful than he had ever seen her, in a
spotless dress of exquisitely embroidered white lawn, with a few
brilliant autumn leaves fastened to her corsage, while her cheeks glowed
with repressed excitement, and her eyes shone like stars.
“I was almost afraid we should not see you again,” she remarked, as she
came forward and greeted him cordially, “for your mother said you had
important business which would detain you in Paris.”
“I did not intend to return when I went away,” he replied, and she could
see that he spoke with an effort, “but after what occurred yesterday, I
felt that I owed it to you to come.”
“I am very glad,” she returned, blushing delightedly and bestowing a shy
glance upon him.
“I felt that I owed it to you to explain even more fully than I have
already done, by letter, the state of my feelings regarding the past,
and the prospects of the future,” he resumed gravely, while his
companion paled somewhat, and wondered if he was going to “back out”
after all.
“You know the story of my marriage,” he continued; “but I fear that you
do not count the cost of linking your bright young life to one who has
only a dead heart to offer you. You have done me the honor to tell me
that you will be my wife, in spite of all this; but I have thought it
best to talk with you face to face, that you may be sure you are making
no mistake. My brother came to me last evening in a perfect frenzy of
despair over the knowledge of your acceptance of my proposal. He loves
you with the one passion of his life; he came to me pleading that I
would release you from your pledge to me; he said he was pleading for
life, home, happiness, that his love would either be his salvation or
his ruin, and I believed him—it would have been impossible not to
believe him. I told him, Miss Rochester, that I would submit the matter
to you—that I would tell you that the Rochester-Hamilton fortune was
nothing to me compared with his happiness and yours; that I would far
rather forfeit my share of it than marry you if you loved him and would
give him your hand. It seems to me as if we are all involved in the most
unfortunate complication of circumstances which only perfect frankness
and truthfulness can set right. I pray that you will be true to the
dictates of your own heart. If you have any affection for my brother—and
I gleaned from what he told me that he believes you have—if you could be
happy with him, I assure you that I will do all in my power to make your
future as bright as possible, as far as worldly prospects are concerned,
and though we may lose the fortunes that were so strangely bequeathed,
we shall at least have been true to ourselves, and you will win the best
and brightest crown of a woman’s life—the love of a devoted husband. I
have spoken at length, and very plainly, and now I await your verdict.
What will you say to me?” he questioned, as he turned his earnest face,
his eager eyes upon her.
She sat perfectly motionless for a few moments after he concluded, but
he could see that her face, though averted, was crimson, while she
trembled visibly.
Then all at once she lifted her face haughtily and met his glance with a
defiant look.
“Yes, what shall I say to you?” she cried, in quivering tones. “I wonder
that I do not tell you to go and never let me look at your face again;
that I do not tell you that I care nothing for that wretched
contract—that I hate it, scorn it and you; that I would almost rather
die than marry a man who can so coldly tell me that his heart is dead
and he has no love to bestow upon me with his hand—who, more than that,
can plead so eloquently the cause of another and deprecate his own
success. But, oh, Truman Winthrop, I will not—I will not! I shall be
your wife in spite of it all! You do not know what I sacrifice in
telling you this,” she went on vehemently, and throwing out her hand
toward him with a passionate gesture; “how my pride suffers, how my love
suffers, how I am violating all the strongest feelings of my nature; but
I cannot help it. I have given myself to you and I will not retract;
but—I will make you love me yet—you shall yet own to me that your heart
is not dead, and that Sadie Rochester is the one love of your life.”
She burst into a passion of tears at this point, and, as if able to bear
no more, abruptly arose and fled from the room, leaving Dr. Winthrop in
no enviable frame of mind.
Her passionate denunciation had made him feel as if he had done her a
double wrong in stating his own feelings so plainly and in pleading his
brother’s cause. But he could not have done otherwise under the
circumstances. Truman Winthrop was true to his heart’s core, and he
could not allow her to marry him without trying to make her realize the
risk she ran of ruining her own life by so doing.
Still he felt uncomfortable over having wounded her so deeply; her
words, “you do not know what my pride suffers—you do not know what my
love suffers,” smote him keenly, and he firmly believed that she could
have no affection whatever for his brother.
How could he know that what she sacrificed in keeping her pledge to him
was the one love of her life—Norman Winthrop? How could he know that her
pride suffered in that, having vowed to be his wife, she could not
repudiate him and tell him that she scorned and despised him—that she
would never marry him but for the wealth and position which she would
win as his wife?
She had wrought herself into a veritable tempest of passion, and her
last threat that she would win his love had been an idle one; for she
cared little for his affection, in comparison with the fortunes for
which she was scheming.
But the die was cast—he had gained nothing by his visit or by pleading
for Norman.
He was very sad, for he felt that he was standing in the way of his
brother’s interest and happiness and even his moral welfare.
On the other hand, if Sadie Rochester loved him, as he was now firmly
convinced, it was hard for her to know that her affection could never be
returned; but he felt that he could do nothing more; he could only leave
it to a higher power to work out and regulate.
Since Dr. Winthrop could at present do nothing more than he had already
done to discover Sister Angela, and as his friends were to leave for
Italy in a few days, he thought it best to remain at the chateau and
assist them in their arrangements for their departure. So, a little
while after Miss Rochester’s flight from his presence, he sought his
mother.
She greeted him with undisguised delight.
“At last, my dear boy,” she exclaimed as she kissed him—“at last I have
gained the one wish of my heart! And now I believe that your future will
be all that I could desire.”
Dr. Winthrop’s lips curled in a bitter smile.
If his future, with his sad and blighted heart and broken hopes, was all
that she could desire for him, how shallow was her nature—how little of
real mother love she must have for him!
* * * * *
When Miss Rochester fled in such a passion from Dr. Winthrop’s presence,
she did not slacken her pace until she reached her mother’s parlor,
where she sank upon a chair, and gave way to a paroxysm of mingled
grief, anger, and mortification, which, however, was not unmixed with
something of almost hysterical exultation.
“What is the matter with you?” her mother demanded, as she regarded her,
in bewildered surprise, for it was a rare occurrence for her
proud-spirited, self-reliant daughter to break down like this.
The only reply to this question was a burst of nervous and immoderate
laughter, and this sudden change from tears to mirth really alarmed Mrs.
Rochester.
“Gracious, Sadie! I honestly believe you have hysterics. I never saw you
in such a state before. Here, take my vinaigrette, and try to calm
yourself.”
Miss Rochester obediently inhaled several breaths of the aromatic
preparation her mother extended to her, and gradually regained
composure.
“Well, mamma,” she at length remarked, “I’ve just had a hand-to-hand
battle with my future husband.”
“Sarah!” exclaimed the elder woman, aghast.
“Oh, but I have come off victor in the encounter,” said Miss Rochester,
with a smile of triumph. “I’ve simply given him a taste of my claws, and
I do not imagine he will care to have the experience repeated very
often. Do not fear, mamma,” she continued, as she saw the look of
anxiety on her mother’s brow; “it is a settled thing that I am to be
Mrs. Truman Winthrop. I knew that I should win.”
“Do not be too sure; for you would never dare to take any decided step
until you receive those papers from New York,” was the troubled reply.
Miss Rochester laughed out mockingly.
“Dr. True does not appear to be in any great hurry to have his chains
irrevocably riveted,” she said with some bitterness, “but as far as that
divorce is considered there will be no trouble about that, for you know
the letter I received from Converse the day before yesterday, spoke very
encouragingly—he the same as promised that I should have the papers
within three months; that letter which I made Salome sign did the
business. How provoking it was that she turned up as she did, to make
all this trouble,” she concluded with a frown.
“Well, but tell me about your interview with Dr. Winthrop,” said Mrs.
Rochester curiously.
The young lady complied, and gave her a faithful account of all that had
passed between herself and her reluctant suitor.
“Flattering, wasn’t it?” she said sarcastically, in conclusion, “to be
told that my promised husband loved another woman to distraction, while
he tried to beg off by pleading the cause of somebody else. If I had not
vowed that I would be mistress of Brookside and Englehurst at any cost,
I believe I would have given him a curt dismissal.”
“Don’t do anything rash,” pleaded Mrs. Rochester earnestly, “you will be
lucky to get him under any circumstances, if you can be sure of the
divorce; it would be dreadful to run any risk of—bigamy.”
“Nonsense, mamma. Converse knows what he is about. I have given him a
true statement of affairs, and as he assures me that it will be all
right, it surely will be. And, mamma, we must never let Salome out of
that place, for if she and Dr. Winthrop should ever meet, even after I
have bagged my game, she could make no end of trouble for me.”
“I intend that she shall never do any harm,” Mrs. Rochester
significantly returned. Then she asked, “Will Dr. Winthrop go with us to
Italy?”
“No—I hope not,” the girl retorted, a flush suddenly suffusing her face;
for although she meant to marry him in spite of everything, she hoped to
be able to still carry on a secret flirtation with his brother—her
stolen love-dream was too sweet to be relinquished just yet.
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE WINTHROPS AND ROCHESTERS LEAVE FOR ROME.
Late that evening Miss Rochester was passing through a dimly lighted
corridor, when she was suddenly confronted by a tall figure, who seized
her hand in a viselike grip.
It was Norman Winthrop, and his face was so distorted with pain and
passion that the girl started back affrighted.
“Norman!” she gasped, and struggled to release her hand.
He gave vent to a bitter laugh.
“Don’t be afraid—I shall not harm you, though if I look as I feel I must
appear devilish,” he said. “It is a hard word, Sadie,” he added, as she
winced, “but no other will express the state of mind I am in at present.
So it is settled beyond recall that you are to marry my brother?” he
concluded inquiringly, while he searched her face despairingly.
“Yes,” she briefly answered, trying to speak coldly, even haughtily.
“And you are totally indifferent to the wreck that you have made of me!”
the young man vehemently cried, “for I tell you, Sadie Rochester, if I
lose you, I am a wreck—a ruined man.”
Her lip quivered, in spite of the effort which she made to retain her
self-possession; but she replied in the same tone as before:
“I do not consider that I am responsible——”
“You are responsible,” he retorted hotly, “for you have made me love
you; you have led me on, little by little, until my very life and sanity
depend upon your smiles and your love. You have even confessed that you
love me, and by that very confession you belong to me, rather than to my
brother. You shall not marry him,” he concluded fiercely. “I swear,
Sadie, that you shall never be his wife.”
“Really, Mr. Winthrop, are you not arrogating to yourself an authority
which you have no right to exercise?” the girl sarcastically demanded.
“I believe that a woman of my age has the right to choose for herself in
a matter of this kind.”
“You have no right to choose Truman Winthrop for your husband when your
heart belongs to me,” he returned through his tightly locked teeth.
She knew herself that she had not—that she had no right to become
another man’s wife, loving him with all the passion of her nature as she
did. She grew very pale as she thought of the long, unloved future
before her, and for a moment she could not answer him.
But the die was cast; her ambition was stronger than her love. She
longed for wealth and position, and she could not turn her back upon the
brilliant prospects before her and marry simply for sentiment. Norman
Winthrop was comparatively a poor man, and all her life poverty had been
the one thing that she dreaded most, and so, right or wrong, she was
determined to marry Truman Winthrop.
“Do you forget how much depends upon this marriage?” she asked in a low
tone; “do you forget that I not only deprive myself of great wealth, but
your brother also of his rightful inheritance? Besides, I have pledged
myself.”
“How very considerate!” sneered the wretched man. “Do you imagine that
True is so anxious to possess this fortune that he would insist upon
marrying a loveless bride, especially when the ruin of his only brother
hangs in the balance? O Sadie,” he went on, changing his tone to one of
tender pleading, “for mercy’s sake—for love’s sake, do not violate your
own conscience and every principle of right. Break this unnatural
engagement and give yourself to me. I will work for you; if money and
position are what you want, you shall have them. I will win them for
you; my whole life shall be devoted to your happiness. Oh, my love—my
love, I cannot give you up! Do not persist in ruining both your life and
mine!”
The girl felt that she could not bear much more; her lover’s suffering
and despair unnerved her, and she was trembling so that she could
scarcely stand.
But she could not relinquish the hopes and aspirations of long years,
especially after all the desperate measures which she had adopted to
attain them, not even for the love which she craved with all the
strength of her nature; not even to save this man, who was the dearest
object which the world held for her.
“It cannot be; it is useless to discuss the matter further,” she
responded, and turned abruptly away to leave him.
But he seized her hand again and threw himself before her.
“You are utterly without heart or feeling, but you shall never be my
brother’s wife!” he cried in a tone that smote her with a sudden fear.
Then he flung her hand violently from him, and turning, rushed quickly
from her sight.
Two days later the Winthrops and Rochesters started for Italy.
Dr. Winthrop continued to resist his mother’s pleadings that he would
accompany them. She had fondly hoped that since he had yielded his will
and agreed to marry Sadie, he might consent to act as their escort in
company with his brother.
She and Mrs. Rochester had had visions of a brilliant wedding in Rome,
where they were to spend the winter together with many other Americans
whom they knew, for they imagined that it would give considerable
_éclat_ to the event if they could have the union solemnized there; more
than that, they were anxious to have the marriage consummated as soon as
possible lest something should occur to prevent it altogether.
“I do not believe in long engagements, Truman,” madam said to him on the
morning of their departure; “promise me that you will not delay your
marriage, that you will take your wife home with you when you return to
America.”
Dr. Winthrop’s face grew stern. It annoyed him exceedingly to have the
subject continually harped upon, and yet he well knew they would never
let him alone until he yielded to their importunities.
Well, if he must marry Sadie Rochester, it did not much matter when, he
told himself, and so, with a feeling of desperation at his heart, and to
quiet madam, he said:
“Well, mother, I will think of it.”
Madam’s face grew radiant.
“Now you are sensible,” she said; “when will you join us?”
“I cannot tell yet—you will be travelling for a month yet, and I shall
not be able to leave Paris at present, perhaps not under a couple of
months,” he returned, putting off the evil day as long as possible.
“Well, then I shall look for you in Rome two months from now, shall I?”
she asked, determined to make him commit himself to something.
“Ye-s—perhaps. I will, however, write you before that, of my plans.”
“And, Truman, why won’t you be married in Rome? it would be such a
fitting place.”
“Mother,” he interrupted, with more impatience than she had known him to
betray for years, “why will you not leave me alone? you drive me
desperate. Oh, do what you please—settle everything as you choose, only
don’t keep constantly harping upon the subject,” and with this he
abruptly left her presence, but his white pained face haunted her long
afterward.
He accompanied the party to Paris, where he made every provision for
their comfort on their journey, and then bade them farewell; but there
was not one whit more of warmth in his adieus to his _fiancée_ than to
any other member of the party; indeed, there was far more of love and
sympathy in the silent handclasp which he gave his brother.
He was greatly relieved when they were gone and he was free to go back
to his study and his practice, into which he threw himself with all the
earnestness he could arouse, to drown his misery and keep him from
thinking of the dreaded fate awaiting him.
Madame Winthrop and Mrs. Rochester, on the other hand, were highly
elated as they went southward.
Madam had communicated the good news of her son’s concession to her
friend and they proceeded to hold him to his promise by at once laying
their plans for a brilliant wedding in Rome.
Mrs. Rochester was troubled at times with fears that the divorce papers
might not arrive in season; but as the weeks passed and they did
not—though the lawyer wrote that he should soon have them—she tried to
comfort herself by reasoning that it would not matter much if they did
not, since no one could ever suspect that Salome was living, while she
was so securely shut away in that mad-house in Paris.
Before she had married Mr. Rochester she had been a poor woman toiling
for her daily bread as a clerk in the post-office department in
Washington. She was handsome, and attractive and Mr. Rochester had
fallen in love with her, asked her to become his wife, and promised to
settle fifty thousand dollars upon her. He did not do this, however, but
kept putting it off, on one pretext or another, until his death, when,
to her excessive rage, she found that he had only added a codicil to his
will, leaving the money to her conditionally.
She had been the mistress of Mr. Rochester’s elegant home, and had
command of a liberal income for more than ten years, and the thought
that she might some day be deprived of the luxuries which she had so
long enjoyed, filled her with consternation. Not being over-scrupulous
as to ways and means, she determined to stop at nothing to carry out the
conditions of the will, and secure to herself an independent fortune.
Now, everything seemed to indicate that all her hopes would be realized,
and she lent herself to all Madame Winthrop’s plans with the greatest
heartiness.
They agreed that nothing should be said about the engagement in Rome,
until Dr. Winthrop should arrive, and then they would hasten the wedding
with all possible dispatch.
Meantime, Miss Rochester’s trousseau should be ordered from Worth’s, and
everything arranged to make the affair as brilliant as the wealth and
position of the parties seemed to demand.
Strange to relate, however, now that the matter was settled, Miss
Rochester herself suddenly became very averse to any reference to it.
She grew moody and depressed, was exceedingly impatient and irritable,
and often, Mrs. Rochester, coming upon her unawares, would find her in
tears for which she would give no explanation.
Norman Winthrop was also very unlike himself. Heretofore, he had always
been a delightful escort in travelling, always attending faithfully to
the comfort of his party, and keeping them happy and jolly with his
never-failing spirits. But now he was a mere automaton, without one
particle of that cheerfulness and good-fellowship which had hitherto
characterized him. He rarely spoke unless he was addressed, except to
attend to necessary business, and although his mother tried her best to
ascertain the cause of this change in him, he baffled all her efforts,
and kept his own secret.
When in the presence of others he was always courteous to Miss
Rochester, and showed her all the attention that etiquette demanded, but
if by any chance they were left alone, he never addressed her, nor took
the slightest notice of her.
They journeyed very leisurely, taking in all points of interest along
their route, and finally reaching Rome, about the middle of November,
took a suite of apartments in the Via Nazionale, where they settled
themselves comfortably, and even luxuriously, for the winter.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
SISTER ANGELA AGAIN.
During all this time Dr. Winthrop was very busy. He was making a special
study of diseases of the eye, ear, and brain, besides attending to some
regular duties in one of the hospitals.
He courted labor, study, excitement—anything, in fact that would help
him to drown his own troubles, and keep him from thinking of the past.
Meantime, Salome was trying to bear with what patience and fortitude she
could, her cruel incarceration and the sad sights which daily came under
her observation, while she strove to do what she was able to mitigate
the wretched condition of many of her companions.
One wet, dreary afternoon, when thick clouds obscured the sky and a cold
rain beat sharply against the windows of the ward, which was unusually
dark and gloomy, Salome gathered the restless inmates of the room
beneath the rotunda, and tried to cheer and enliven them by relating an
interesting story.
Her heart had been unusually heavy all day, she was very sad from hope
long deferred, and she felt that she must do something to effectually
distract her thoughts from herself and her hard lot.
It proved to be an effectual, though temporary remedy for she soon
became so absorbed in her employment, and in watching its effect upon
various members of her daft audience, that she did not hear the door as
it opened near one end of the long ward to admit a couple of visitors.
Monsieur Arnot was with them, and they appeared to be distinguished
people—people toward whom he exhibited considerable deference.
They came slowly down the room together, and all three were earnestly
discussing some interesting questions.
Salome’s back was toward them, and she was not aware of their presence,
and kept on with her story, although some of her listeners rose and
moved down the room toward the strangers. This often happened, however,
for she could not always hold the interest of every one, and so she paid
no heed to them.
They gathered around the visitors, regarding them curiously, and Dr.
Arnot called the attention of his guests to one or two peculiar cases,
and then some slight movement—or was it a familiar tone that was wafted
toward her?—made Salome turn and look behind her.
That one glance was like a galvanic battery to her.
She sprang from her chair, with a low cry of mingled joy and terror;
then she suddenly buried her face in her hands, as if to hide it from
observation; for, as we know, since she had been in the asylum, she had
discarded all her head-gear, also her unsightly spectacles, which had so
completely disguised her, believing that in that place she was in no
danger of having her identity discovered.
For one moment she stood like a statue thus, then she turned her back
again upon the strangers, and glided with drooping head and a hopeless
air into the remotest corner of the vast room where she remained
motionless, scarcely appearing to breathe, and, as if looking from the
window.
The attendant, who was in the habit of watching Salome closely, had
observed her strange deportment, so different from her usual nervous,
eager interest when there were strangers present, and wondered at it.
Hitherto, she had been one of the first to come forward and watch with a
keen eye and intense interest every movement of visitors. Now, all at
once, she appeared terrified and anxious to shun observation, while her
colorless, averted face and despairing attitude, plainly indicated that
something had occurred to alarm her, which might develop her peculiar
phase of insanity.
He was standing near Dr. Arnot and his guests as he observed this.
“How very strange!” he remarked in an earnest tone.
One of the gentlemen turned to him as he said this; then his glance
followed his and caught sight of that motionless figure by the window.
“To what do you refer?” he asked with some curiosity.
“To that girl yonder; it’s a peculiar case, very,” the attendant
replied. “She belongs to a fine family, is lovely, cultivated, and
remarkably amiable, but strangely enough, she imagines herself to be a
nun—one of the gray nuns——”
“One of the gray nuns!” exclaimed his companion, his glance again
seeking the slender, drooping figure—he had not noticed her dress when
he looked before.
“Oui, monsieur. It is a great trial to her friends, for she insisted
upon adopting their dress, and was continually doing the strangest
things in that character; but she is perfectly harmless, very gentle,
very lovable, and beautiful as an angel. Would monsieur like to come
nearer to get a better view of her?”
The stranger nodded, and the two men moved down the room together, and
ere long the sound of their footsteps fell distinctly upon Salome’s ear.
She began to tremble violently now. There was no way of escape for her.
If she turned to flee, she must confront them; but what could she do? a
few steps more and they would be beside her.
A shiver ran over her slight frame, then once more she dropped her face
upon her hands, effectually concealing it from view, and stood thus,
awaiting what would come next.
They saw how excited she had become and they stopped, feeling that it
would be unwise to go nearer to increase her agitation.
But something about the drooping figure seemed suddenly to impress the
stranger—some thought, some memory, made him turn eagerly to the
attendant.
“What does she call herself—what name has she been known by in this
character?” he questioned.
The quick, sharp, almost authoritative tone surprised the attendant, and
caused him to observe his companion more closely.
He was very pale, there was a startled look in his eye, his lips were
compressed, his manner excited.
“Sister Angela, monsieur——”
“Sister Angela!” repeated the man in an eager, joyous tone, and he took
a quick step forward, as if he would have sprung to the girl’s side.
Then he evidently checked himself, as if it had occurred to him that he
must do nothing to alarm or agitate the girl.
“Stay!” he said. “I must speak with Dr. Arnot at once,” and turning, he
retraced his steps, with a swift resolute tread, to the superintendent’s
side.
Salome, almost overcome with many conflicting emotions, had heard his
question, also the attendant’s reply, and then Dr. Winthrop’s eager,
joyous repetition of her name; for the stranger was he.
It told her that he knew of her mysterious disappearance, that he had
been anxious about her, and was now delighted to have found her.
His glad tones made her heart beat tumultuously, and so increased her
trembling that it seemed as if she must sink to the floor.
Should she turn and claim her freedom?
It seemed her only chance, and yet she hesitated.
Ah! if she had but had her usual head-gear, her friendly cap, with its
broad black frill, to conceal her face; if she had even had her colored
spectacles to hide her eyes, she would not have lost a moment. As Sister
Angela she would have thrown herself upon his protection, told how she
had been entrapped, and beg him to save her.
But as Salome Howland, she could not turn and face the man from whom she
had fled, believing him disloyal to her, and that he had thrust her from
his home—the man whom she believed she had so recently seen clasping her
bitterest enemy to his heart, and in whose ear she had heard him
murmuring words of fondest love.
Ah! she could not regain her liberty, even though this might be her only
opportunity to escape from that horrible place, at the cost of having
her identity discovered. She could not bear to see the look of
astonishment, of horror, and blighted hope, which she thought must sweep
over his face, when he should learn that she was alive, and that, if his
marriage with her had been legal, Sarah Rochester could never be his
wife, at least, until the former tie was annulled.
These thoughts flashed through her brain in that one brief moment,
succeeding the announcement of her supposed name, and the agony that she
suffered may be imagined.
She did not hear him say that he must speak with Dr. Arnot, for he had
turned as he spoke, and she only became conscious that he had gone and
left her to her fate, as she heard his retreating footsteps, and her
heart seemed suddenly rent in twain.
He had been told that she was Sister Angela; he knew that she was the
nurse to whom he owed so much, and even though he believed her to be
insane, he might, at least, have come to her side, taken her hand, and
spoken a word of kindness and friendly sympathy; common gratitude and
humanity should have prompted as much as that after all that she had
done and risked for him and his.
She half turned and darted a furtive glance behind her.
Dr. Winthrop was talking rapidly and earnestly with Monsieur
Arnot—appeared to be asking some favor of him.
Then he paused, and Salome saw Dr. Arnot shake his head decidedly as he
replied, while with a nervousness that was wholly foreign to him, he
seemed all at once to be anxious to hurry his visitors from the ward.
“Oh, it is my only chance—my only hope!” Salome said to herself, as she
saw them all turn and move toward the door; “but I cannot—I cannot meet
him; it would kill me to have him recognize me and then turn coldly from
me—hating me because I still live to mar his hopes for the future.”
Ah, the agony of that moment! Her brain seemed on fire; her heart beat
so heavily in her bosom that a sense of suffocation made her gasp and
pant for breath; all the strength seemed to forsake her limbs, and a
cold perspiration gathered on her brow.
Now the visitors have reached the door. Dr. Arnot opens it and stands
back to allow them to pass through, his face pale and anxious. One has
crossed the threshold—the other is on the point of doing so; another
moment, and he will be gone, and Salome believes that then she shall
really go mad—that reason will surely forsake its throne.
With a low cry of despair she falls upon her knees and stretches out her
hands toward the man whom she loves with a deathless love, the agony of
a breaking heart stamped on her colorless face, and gleaming from her
wild eyes.
At that instant, the figure in the doorway—which she sees but dimly now,
for the blur that has come over her sight—turns for one last look down
the long ward, a gleam of tenderest pity in his eyes for the gentle
sister toward whom his heart goes out in profoundest gratitude, but who,
he has been assured, is now hopelessly insane, and too easily excited to
be allowed to hold any communication with any one whom she has
previously known.
That look seems to paralyze him. He catches sight of that kneeling form,
with its despairing face, its outstretched hands, that seem imploring
him not to go, but to save her from a fate worse than death; and for one
brief moment he is spell-bound—rooted to the spot.
The next, a hoarse, wild cry echoes through that great room, startling
all its inmates, sending a thrill of wonder through the watchful
attendant’s heart—a shock of fear and dismay through Dr. Arnot’s; then
there is a quick, agile bound back into the room—a rush of swift
footsteps, and like the sound of distant heavenly music, mingling with
the roar of a cataract, Salome catches the startled words:
“Great Heaven! Salome! my wife!”
Then she is faintly conscious of being lifted and laid upon the broad
breast of the man she so fondly loves; of being convulsively clasped to
a wildly beating heart; of seeing a face full of love and tenderness
bending over her, while agonized tones beseech her to look at him—to
speak to him; then the vision goes suddenly out in a deadly calm and
great darkness.
CHAPTER XL.
TELLS HOW DR. WINTHROP FOUND HIS WIFE.
Yes, Truman Winthrop had found his wife at last! But the discovery came
to him with such a shock that it nearly unhinged his own reason for the
moment, and it almost seemed to him as if the whole world had suddenly
gone mad.
But how did it happen that he came a visitor to Dr. Arnot’s
establishment?
It has been stated that he was making a special study of diseases of the
eye, ear, and brain, and in pursuit of points relating to the latter
subject, he had arranged with a friend and fellow-student to visit
several retreats for the insane in Paris, for the purpose of observing
the different methods of treatment.
They had already been over three other institutions in the city, and Dr.
Arnot’s establishment was to be the last.
That gentleman had received them most graciously. It caused him no
little pride that learned men came to him and his asylum for information
regarding the treatment of diseases of the brain, and he always made
them very welcome.
“They did him great honor,” he would affirm, with many bows and smiles,
but with an inward feeling that it was quite the reverse.
Upon this occasion, he remarked that he would show them about in person;
but he little imagined what the hour would reveal.
Neither had Dr. Winthrop the slightest suspicion that there was any one
in the institution that he had ever seen before. He was intent only upon
learning something new—upon studying different phases of insanity and
their treatment.
He had therefore been greatly shocked when his attention was attracted
to that figure in the nun’s dress, and the attendant had told him that
Sister Angela had become an inmate of that great tomb for the dead in
life; to learn that the faithful nurse to whom he owed so much, had lost
her mind, with no hope of its ever being restored.
He could not understand it either, since the mother-superior and the
sisters at the convent appeared to be ignorant of her condition or
whereabouts. Still, it was possible, he thought, that they did know, but
were unwilling to have her condition known; it might even be that they
had sent her there to be secretly cared for.
His first impulse, as we know, had been to rush to her side—to greet her
kindly, and say something pleasant to her.
Then it suddenly occurred to him how unwise such a proceeding would be
and though it required great effort to control his feelings, he turned
back to seek Dr. Arnot’s advice and counsel, telling him that he knew
the girl, and asking his permission to speak with her.
But the physician, who was greatly startled by the information,
decidedly refused to allow him to hold any conversation with her.
He volubly expressed both surprise and sympathy, upon being told how
faithfully and bravely she had worked during the prevalence of the
plague which had lately passed over Paris—how she had even saved Dr.
Winthrop’s own life; still he insisted that it would be very unwise to
arouse memories of the past, and finally said that he could not permit
him to address her.
“Mademoiselle was exceedingly violent when she was brought here,
monsieur,” he remarked with deep anxiety, lest something should occur to
deprive him of his profitable patient. “The sight of a familiar face
might cause all her former madness to return. She is quiet and docile
just now, and much as I may desire to oblige monsieur, my judgment warns
me to refuse his request. Messieurs,” with a polite bow, which included
both gentlemen, “shall we now pass on to another ward?”
Dr. Winthrop, though saddened and disappointed by this adverse decision,
could only acquiesce in its apparent wisdom, and so turned to follow his
friend from the room.
But as he was about to cross the threshold, he could not refrain from
bestowing one regretful backward glance upon the unfortunate who had
spent so much of her time and strength for the good of others.
He turned just in the doorway, and then a great shock, which seemed
almost like a convulsion, passed over him as he caught sight of that
kneeling figure, as he saw and recognized the beautiful, despairing face
that was turned toward him, and beheld those hands outstretched so
appealingly.
Was he dreaming? was he the victim of some wonderful optical illusion?
or had that violent shock been the rending of his soul from his body,
sending him in an instant into the eternal world to be met thus by this
vision of his lost wife?
No, no! it was no dream, no illusion! It was the real face of his
idolized wife—the one face in all the world that he had ever loved with
all the passion of his nature, and, though he could not understand
it—though it seemed absurdly impossible, he yet instinctively knew that
those delicate features, those wondrous eyes, those sweet, quivering
lips, and that wealth of beautiful hair belonged to Salome alone.
With a mighty effort he broke the spell that held him paralyzed, and
unheeding Dr. Arnot’s polite, though somewhat impatient, efforts to
hurry him away, he leaped suddenly back into the room, and in an instant
that loved form lay upon his breast, and he knew, beyond a doubt, that
his wife was not dead, but living, and all his own once more.
A bitter curse burst from Dr. Arnot’s lips as he witnessed this
astonishing scene, and realized that a formidable investigation was a
probable result.
With a brow as black as night he hastened down the ward after his flying
visitor, and overtook him just as she lost consciousness in his arms.
“Monsieur,” he tried to say calmly, “the girl has only fainted, and,
although your sympathy and agility have saved her fall and does you
great credit, she will be better left with the attendant. Pray lay her
upon the couch yonder, where she will receive every necessary
attention.”
He had not heard the young physician’s passionate exclamation as he
caught his wife in his arms, and was therefore still ignorant of the
true meaning of the scene.
“Lay her upon a couch in this room and leave her with an attendant!” Dr.
Winthrop cried, as he turned almost fiercely upon Dr. Arnot. “Never,
sir! for she is my wife! My God! that I should find her here!”
“Your wife, monsieur!” and the man recoiled as if he had been struck a
blow. “Mon Dieu, monsieur must have been stricken with insanity
himself!” and he anxiously searched the young husband’s face.
He was as pale as Salome herself—his lips twitched from intense emotion,
and the veins stood out like whipcords upon his forehead, while he
hugged that unconscious form to his heart like some miser who had
suddenly recovered his long-lost treasure.
“Yes, my wife!” he replied. “Oh, my love! my love! what brought you into
this den?” Then he added sternly, as he turned to Monsieur Arnot.
“She is no more insane than you are; show me at once to some private
room where I can give her the care she needs.”
Dr. Arnot stood regarding him suspiciously and trying to decide what
course to pursue in this unexpected emergency.
Dr. Winthrop saw that he doubted him.
“I swear that this woman is my wife,” he said, “and if you do not wish
to bring serious trouble upon yourself, you will do as I request,
instantly.”
His fellow-student now came to his side and laid his hand upon his
shoulder.
“What is the meaning of this, Winthrop?” he gravely inquired.
“Just what I have said. I have found my wife, whom for almost two years,
I have believed to be dead. How she ever happened to be in Paris, and in
this place is more than I can understand. There is some terrible mystery
about it; but if you doubt my word, look here!”
He supported Salome with one arm while he thrust his other hand within
his bosom and drew forth a small case which he passed to his friend.
“Look at the face painted there, then at the one upon my breast, and
doubt my word if you can,” he said, with quivering lips.
The man opened the case and at once recognized Salome’s lovely face,
which Dr. Winthrop had had copied upon ivory from a photograph after he
had believed her to be dead, and had carried about with him ever since.
It had needed but a glance at the still, white features resting upon Dr.
Winthrop’s bosom to assure him that he spoke the truth, and then he
quietly passed the picture to Dr. Arnot.
Dr. Arnot grew very pale as he, too, saw the perfect likeness to his
patient; then he turned and without a word led the way to the room which
Salome had occupied ever since she had been an inmate of the
institution.
Dr. Winthrop laid his precious burden upon the bed, and began at once to
restore her to consciousness.
The fainting turn proved an obstinate one, but it finally yielded to his
judicious treatment. Salome began to show signs of returning life, and
then the young husband banished every one from the room, feeling that he
could bear no eye to witness their reunion when she could fully come to
herself.
Never was music sweeter to mortal ears than when she heaved a long sigh,
that was yet more of a sob than a sigh, and in a voice full of agony,
cried out:
“True, True! oh, my husband, save me!”
That had been the prayer of her heart when she saw him leaving the ward
and believed that she was looking her last upon him forever, and dooming
herself to perpetual imprisonment in that horrible place; now she
involuntarily gave utterance to it.
Dr. Winthrop gathered her two cold white hands in his and hugged them to
his breast, as he bent fondly over her.
“My love, you are safe for all time—nothing shall ever separate
us—nothing shall ever harm you again while I live.”
Salome lifted her eyes wonderingly to his face.
Instinctively she trusted him, and yet she could not understand it—the
situation, his fond looks, and loving words.
She believed that the last time she had seen him, he was holding Sarah
Rochester in his arms, and pouring words of passionate love into her
ears. She believed that he was betrothed to her—that he hoped and
expected to marry her.
But surely unmistakable love for her now beamed in his eyes; his voice
was full of tremulous tenderness, and her confidence in him was for the
moment restored.
A faint smile broke over her face, two crystal drops gathered in her
eyes and rolled slowly over her cheeks.
Her husband wiped them away with his own handkerchief, and stooping,
kissed her softly on the lips.
Then he lifted her head upon his arm with all the gentleness of a woman,
and made her drink from a glass something he had prepared for her.
“I am so tired,” she said, nestling more closely to his breast, like a
weary child that has at last found a place of refuge and safety.
The act almost unmanned him, for it told him how thoroughly she had
become exhausted by the mental strain of the last few weeks; how all the
burden of care and anxiety had suddenly dropped from her, now that she
found herself safe with him, and she simply wanted to rest in his
protection.
“I know it, my darling,” he murmured fondly, “I know that you must be
worn out with sorrow and fear; but it is all over now. Will you try to
sleep a little while I go to make arrangements with Dr. Arnot for your
removal?” and he laid her gently back upon the bed.
She caught his hand, a look of fear leaping to her eyes.
“Do not leave me,” she whispered nervously.
“No, I will not, if you object,” he returned reassuringly, “but, dear, I
want to take you away from this place immediately and I thought that if
I could arrange for it while you had a little nap, it would facilitate
matters. I will not go away from your door—I will step outside and send
an attendant to ask Dr. Arnot to come to me. Are you willing—will you
trust me and try to sleep?”
“Yes,” she said, instantly releasing his hand while she turned her head
upon her pillow and closed her eyes.
Dr. Winthrop went softly out of the room, but did not move from the
door.
He beckoned to an attendant, and sent him with a message to Dr. Arnot
requesting his presence.
That gentleman did not keep him waiting long, but he looked pale and
anxious, and remarked as he approached the young physician, that his
friend was waiting below for him.
“I cannot go yet,” Dr. Winthrop replied, and taking a card from his
case, he wrote a few lines upon it, and then asked that it be sent down
to the gentleman.
Dr. Arnot complied with his request, after which Dr. Winthrop drew him
to a seat just outside Salome’s door, and requested him to explain how
his wife had come to be an inmate of his establishment.
The wily physician’s brain had been busy ever since the discovery of
Salome, and he had a cunningly constructed tale all ready for the young
man’s ear.
He represented that a lady, calling herself Madame Rochester, had come
to him a few weeks before in great distress because one of her daughters
had exhibited marked symptoms of insanity. She was on the eve of
departing for Rome, where she was to spend the winter—she could not take
a crazy girl with her, and she wished to leave her in his care until her
return.
Her story was so straight and credible—it was so evident from her
description of the girl’s condition that she could not be in her right
mind, that he had not a suspicion but that everything was as she
represented, and so he had consented to receive mademoiselle into his
institution, and do what he could for her recovery, during the absence
of her friends. She had already improved greatly, he remarked, in
conclusion, for when she was brought there, she had been very violent,
while of late she had seemed quite docile and more rational, and he had
great hopes of her entire recovery.
CHAPTER XLI.
“MY WIFE, HAVE YOU CEASED TO LOVE ME?”
Dr. Winthrop’s lip curled as he listened to Dr. Arnot’s artful story,
for he knew well enough that he had colored it to suit himself, and
throw all the blame elsewhere.
“She was no more insane than you were,” he said sternly, “and you know
it—you must have been conscious of the fact the moment you met her, or
else you are a fraud, and have no business to pose as a specialist in
diseases of the brain. ‘Violent,’ was she when she first came here? Of
course, what person with a particle of spirit, would not have been
violent upon discovering how she had been trapped into an institution of
this kind? No doubt she was very indignant, and demanded to be
immediately released, perhaps threatening you with the law, as she had a
right to do. There has been some vile plot against her, and since Mrs.
Rochester has been associated with it she shall be answerable to me for
it; and you, Dr. Arnot, shall not escape an investigation for having
lent yourself to it.”
“Assuredly, I regret,” the physician began with paling lips at this
threat. “I trust monsieur will be merciful, and not injure an unsullied
reputation by any insinuations of foul play——”
“I shall demand an investigation,” Dr. Winthrop relentlessly returned.
“Such outrages must not be allowed to go unpunished. If Mrs. Rochester
is alone to blame, then she alone will suffer—censure must fall where it
is deserved.”
Dr. Arnot cringed and fawned and pleaded.
His establishment would suffer—his reputation would be ruined, himself
and his family would be beggared, he whined.
“Your establishment ought to suffer; your reputation ought to be ruined
if you lend yourself to such dastardly plots as the one I have
discovered to-day,” Dr. Winthrop retorted with increasing displeasure,
for he could not forgive the wickedness that had consigned his darling
to a mad-house, even though he could not yet comprehend why it had been
done.
Then Dr. Arnot began to bluster and to threaten. He was not at all sure,
he affirmed, that mademoiselle was Dr. Winthrop’s wife—such a statement
may have been a plot on his part to secure her freedom, and he would not
allow her to leave the institution without the sanction of madam, her
mother; he would call in the officers of the law to protect his
interests and sustain his authority; monsieur should be arrested, and
much more after the same style, and poured out only as a voluble
Frenchman can pour out his wrath.
Dr. Winthrop listened calmly until he became exhausted—from want of
breath rather than words—then he replied, with cool self-possession:
“It will be very easy for me to prove that your late patient, or rather
prisoner, is my wife, as I happen to have in my possession an important
document which cannot be contested. I refer to the certificate of our
marriage which I slipped into a pocket of my note-book the day it was
given to me, and there it has remained ever since.”
He drew forth his note-book as he spoke, found the certificate, and
passed it to his companion, who saw at once that it was a legal and
properly attested document. He read the name Salome Howland as being the
lady who had been united to Dr. Winthrop, and he could not doubt because
he had seen the same one written upon the letter of credit which Salome
had shown to him, more than once, in her efforts to purchase her
liberty.
It was hard to admit himself beaten, however, and he snarled out:
“But I am not sure that they are one and the same individual. I do not
believe monsieur.”
“That I can easily prove also, for there are several people on this
continent who know the lady well,” quietly returned her companion, “and
it will be well for you if you will allow me to take her peaceably from
this place. I assure you, sir, you will make serious trouble for
yourself if you attempt to detain her. It will be wiser, Dr. Arnot,” he
concluded meaningly, “for you to assist rather than oppose me in this.
And as for Mrs. Winthrop being Mrs. Rochester’s daughter, there is no
truth in the statement; that was simply told to trick you into the
belief that the lady possessed lawful authority over her.”
Dr. Arnot could not fail to perceive that the young physician had the
best of the argument, and he wisely resolved to make no further
objection to the departure of his recent patient.
“What reason can you assign for madam’s plot against the lady?” he
inquired, with some curiosity.
“The only reason that I can think of,” Dr. Winthrop thoughtfully
returned, “is this—Mrs. Rochester has a daughter who is a little older
than Mrs. Winthrop, and whom for several years both her family and my
own have been desirous that I should marry. My wife was supposed to have
met a tragic death nearly two years ago; but as we have just discovered,
such was not the case. She came to us as Sister Angela, to nurse us
through the cholera—as I have already told you. Mrs. Rochester must by
some means——Ah! I see!” he said to himself with a start, as he suddenly
remembered how she had fainted in the upper hall. “Mrs. Rochester must
have discovered her identity, and so shut her up in this mad-house, to
get rid of her, in order that my marriage with her daughter need not be
interrupted—though how she could bear to contemplate such a double crime
is more than I can understand.”
There were some other things which he could not understand—such as how
Mrs. Rochester had been able to identify Salome as his wife, and how she
had been able to keep all her nefarious doings from other people; but
these mysteries he hoped would be explained later.
“_Mon Dieu!_ but women are wicked creatures!” hypocritically exclaimed
the distinguished brain doctor.
A sarcastic smile curled Dr. Winthrop’s lips at the observation, but he
made no reply.
He requested Dr. Arnot to send a messenger for a carriage, and then went
back to his wife.
But he found Salome strangely silent and shy. She had not slept at all,
for the moment Dr. Winthrop left her, a hundred conflicting memories
began to torture her.
First, she remembered Madame Winthrop’s statement that she was no legal
wife. Then it occurred to her that even if she had been at that time,
she might be so no longer for had she not signed with her own hands the
letter which would empower the lawyer to procure her divorce from Truman
Winthrop? Perhaps the necessary papers had already been sent to Miss
Rochester, and she had thus, by her own voluntary act, made herself no
wife. Then had she not seen and heard enough with her own eyes and ears,
to ruin her happiness forever? How could she believe that Truman
Winthrop still loved her, was still loyal to her, when he had so
earnestly avowed that he loved another woman, and asked her to marry
him?
Such thoughts as these nearly drove her wild, and banished sleep from
her eyes.
At first when she awoke to consciousness, and saw that loved face
bending so fondly over her, it had seemed as if all her troubles were
over. Dr. Winthrop had appeared so overjoyed to find her—had spoken such
tender words of love, that for the time she had forgotten all else and
believed that his heart was all her own once more.
But now—oh! what did it mean? It was all a dreadful puzzle, and all her
peace, and trust, and happiness slipped out of her grasp again.
“Did you get any rest, my darling?” Dr. Winthrop inquired, as he
approached the bed and found her awake. “Why, Salome! I do not believe
you have slept at all,” he exclaimed, as he noticed her glittering,
restless eyes, her crimson cheeks, and the tense look of pain about her
mouth. “What makes you so nervous, dear? I told you I would not leave
your door, and I did not. You have a high fever, too, and your pulse is
bounding like a racehorse.”
She sat up in bed as he took her hand in his, and when he would have
clasped her again in his arms, she avoided him by a dexterous movement,
and slipped into a chair.
He looked wounded, but he would not be repulsed.
“My darling!” he cried, as he bent down and folded her to him; “how can
I ever express my gratitude for this great boon? How can I ever thank
the good God for giving you back to me? Are you not glad, Salome, and
did you know, that all this time, I have believed you dead?”
She knew it but too well, and she shivered over the bitter memories
which these questions revived, while she gently put his arms away from
her, thinking that perhaps she was no wife—she had no right to these
fond embraces.
“What is it, my Peace?” he questioned anxiously. “Am I too demonstrative
in my excessive gladness? Are you still weak from your recent illness,
and does it oppress you? You are very thin, love.”
And he lifted one of her burning hands to his lips, glancing at it
sadly, as he did so.
“Can we not go away from here?” she pleaded tremulously. “Oh, I want to
get away from this horrible place.”
He saw that she was quivering in every nerve, and he began to realize
that it was his first duty to get her away from all depressing
influences and unpleasant associations; so curbing his longing to hear
some word of love from her lips, he gently replied:
“Certainly, dear; I do not wonder at your eagerness to leave this vile
place. We will go at once. I have already sent for a carriage. Are your
wraps here in this room? Ah!”—as she went to the closet and brought
forth her ugly nun’s bonnet and cloak—“we must get a more becoming garb
than this for you. I cannot have my wife going about as a gray nun.”
Again she shivered as he pronounced the word wife, and her hands
trembled so that she could scarcely tie her bonnet-strings.
“Nay, my darling, I shall positively forbid that,” Dr. Winthrop
playfully continued, as she was about to resume the double spectacles
which she had worn so long. “I can never have those dear eyes hidden
from me again. Ah, to think I never knew you, when for weeks you were so
near me! Oh, my love, how much I owe you. A second time you saved my
life. Yet why the need of such a disguise? Why have you hidden from me
so persistently when I have longed for you with such bitter longing?
Why——But I must wait; there are many things that need to be explained,
and we have no time now.”
He was deeply hurt that she made no attempt to answer even one of his
questions—that she had not once met his glance, but kept her face
averted, and even avoided his touch when he would have assisted her in
her preparations to go.
Still he attributed it to her weakness, her nervousness, her anxiety to
get out of the place where she must have suffered so much; and when she
had fastened her gloves he drew her hand within his arm and led her from
the room, thinking that when she was rested and refreshed she would be
his own Salome once more.
CHAPTER XLII.
EXPLANATIONS.
Dr. Winthrop and Salome found their carriage waiting at the main
entrance, but Dr. Arnot was not visible; he had not the courage to take
leave of her, whom he had so wronged, and she was glad that she was not
compelled to bid him farewell. There was a feeling of infinite relief
and thankfulness in the heart of both husband and wife, when they turned
a corner and the asylum was hidden from their sight.
“Where do you want to go, Salome; where shall I take you?” Dr. Winthrop
asked after a few moments, not knowing just what was best to do.
“Home—to Harriet,” she answered.
He was disappointed and wounded, for while he could understand that she
would be anxious to relieve Harriet’s anxiety upon her account, and he
even wished to do so himself, there was something in the way she uttered
the woman’s name that told him she expected to find comfort and support
in her presence—a sense of rest and security which she could not realize
in his.
She was leaning back in the carriage with closed eyes and an
unmistakable look of pain on her face—she seemed little like a happy
woman who had been almost miraculously restored to a fond husband, after
nearly two years of separation, he thought, with some bitterness.
The drive was not a long one, and they soon stopped before the modest
little house where Salome had made her home since the death of Miss
Leonard.
Harriet happened to be sitting by a window when they drove up; it needed
but a single glance to tell her who was with Dr. Winthrop, and she
sprang to the door to meet them, before the young physician could lift
his precious charge from the carriage, and the next moment the two women
were sobbing in each other’s arms.
Dr. Winthrop paid and dismissed his cabman, after which he followed his
wife into the house, but it was some time before he could reason either
of his companions into anything like composure.
Harriet was the first to recover herself, for Salome seemed utterly
unnerved. Then she noticed immediately how wretched her young mistress
appeared. She had been quick to observe and understand, too, that the
relations between the young people were of a far tenderer nature than
would naturally be expected to exist between a physician and a nun, no
matter how much gratitude the former might imagine he owed for faithful
nursing.
She began to realize at once that she was _de trop_, and remarking that
it was dinner time, and they must both be hungry, she slipped from the
room and Dr. Winthrop was left alone again with his wife.
He was not sorry. He saw that something was very wrong with Salome—there
were many things to be explained and talked over, and he was determined
that every barrier should at once be broken down, and perfect confidence
in each other restored.
He loved her with his whole soul, and he believed that she had once
loved him as well; but he knew that she had been deeply wounded and
injured, while his mother and sister had been her guests in New York,
and that they were, to some extent, responsible for the misunderstanding
that had driven her from his home. Just the truth of it he had never
been able to learn; but now he meant to have the whole story—to go to
the bottom of all secrets, even at the sacrifice of a little strength on
her part, if need be, for he believed she would be the better for it in
the end.
A strange silence and constraint seemed to fall over Salome after
Harriet left the room. She shrank into a corner of the sofa, without
removing any of her things, and sat there with clasped hands and averted
face before her husband.
“Salome, dear, are you not going to remove your bonnet and wrap?” Dr.
Winthrop asked, in a kindly tone.
She started violently, and nervously tried to untie the strings of her
bonnet; but she only pulled them into a harder knot, which she found it
impossible to loosen.
Her husband went to her side and gently disentangled them for her,
removing the ugly head covering and casting it upon the floor. Then he
unfastened her wrap, and threw it behind her.
Still she had not once lifted her eyes to his face; she was trembling
nervously too, and her cheeks were crimson, her bosom heaving with
suppressed emotion.
“Salome!”
The darkly fringed lids quivered over the beautiful eyes, but she did
not look up or reply.
“Salome!” her husband repeated more tenderly, more gravely too, than
before.
There was something in his tone half authoritative, half appealing,
which she could not resist, and she lifted her glance to his.
“My wife, have you ceased to love me?”
There was a moment of silence after Dr. Winthrop put that grave earnest
question to his wife.
Then all Salome’s forced composure forsook her, and throwing out her
hands in a wild passionate gesture, she cried:
“No—no—no!” and burst into a perfect tempest of tears.
Had she ceased to love him?
How could he have such a thought when she had braved and sacrificed so
much for his sake?
Dr. Winthrop gathered those trembling hands tenderly into his, his face
lighting with joy, and then he drew her close to his breast once more.
But he said nothing more just then—he thought it better to allow her to
weep all she would and relieve her overburdened heart before questioning
her any further.
All the pent-up grief of the past seemed bound to expend itself, and
unmindful of everything, she wept and sobbed until the fountain of her
tears was dry and she lay exhausted in her husband’s arms, with deep,
quivering sighs breaking at intervals from her lips.
Nearly half an hour elapsed, and no word had been spoken; the tender,
noble-hearted man was content to sit there, holding the beloved form in
his embrace, and patiently bide his time.
At last, however, he thought to renew the subject so near his heart.
“Now, Salome, my wife,” he began in a quiet, kindly tone, “begin at the
beginning, and tell me all about yourself; the sooner you and I get out
of this unnatural state of constraint, and understand each other, the
better it will be for us both.”
Those two words, “my wife,” suddenly brought her to herself, renewing
all her doubts and fears, and she shrank away from him again with a
gesture of despair.
“Oh!—I am not your wife,” she moaned, covering her burning face with her
hands.
Ah! that began to throw a little light upon her strange behavior, and
Dr. Winthrop’s mind reverted to what his mother had said about the
illegality of their marriage, because Salome’s true surname had been
withheld, and was not written upon their certificate. He had wrung
enough from madam and Evelyn, on his return to New York, after Salome’s
supposed death, to make him suspect something of the cruel things they
had said to her.
He did not attempt to take her in his arms again, for her gestures had
told him that she felt she had no right to his embraces.
“Why do you say that, Salome?” he gravely questioned, “what makes you
think you are not my wife?”
“They told me so,” she answered wildly. “They said our marriage was
illegal.”
“My mother and sister, I suppose you mean,” he quietly returned. “I know
that they argued something of the kind—perhaps they even really believed
it; but you should never have trusted to a simple assertion like that.
You should have written to ask me the truth; or if you could not trust
me, you should have gone to some trustworthy lawyer in New York and
obtained a decision.”
“I did not think of that,” she murmured.
A look of keen pain swept over Dr. Winthrop’s face.
“O Salome! how could you believe that I would be guilty of doing you
such wrong as to disown you, even though there had been a flaw in our
marriage?” he cried sharply.
She lifted her eyes and searched his face wonderingly.
“I never should have believed it, if—if you had not sent me away from
your home,” she said, with quivering lips.
“I sent you away from my home—your home!” he repeated in astonishment.
“Yes; you sent me that cruel dispatch, telling me to shut up the house
on Madison Avenue, and go to the —— Hotel, and remain there until your
return.”
“‘Cruel dispatch!’ Why, my darling, I was wild lest you should be
poisoned by sewer-gas, and I simply sent you the message to save time. I
wrote explaining all by the next steamer.”
“Sewer-gas!” Salome repeated, astonished now in turn.
“Yes, my mother wrote to me saying that your health was failing—that
sewer-gas had been discovered in the house—that she had begged you to go
home with them, and you refused; she said that nothing but a command
from me would make you go away. So immediately on receiving this letter,
I cabled you to go to the —— Hotel. I mentioned that house, because,
knowing you were not strong, I thought you would be more at home than in
a large hotel, while I also felt that it might be more agreeable than
for you to go to Thirty-fourth Street with my mother and sister. I
realized that they were not quite congenial,” Dr. Winthrop explained.
“There was no sewer-gas in the house on Madison Avenue,” said Salome,
looking blank.
“I know it. I examined it thoroughly upon my return,” he briefly
replied.
“And,” she went on, “I thought the cable message was sent in reply to my
letter of confession. Madam, your mother, had accused me of many things;
she insisted that I should tell her my whole history; I could not do
that, for I had not confided it to you and I felt that you had the first
right to my confidence. She told me that my marriage was illegal,
because I had withheld my true surname, that I had compromised you and
the family, so I resolved to tell you everything, and wrote to you my
whole history, begging you to send me but one word, ‘stay’ by cable, to
relieve my suspense as to how you would receive my confession. But your
message told me to go, and believing that you were ashamed of one who
was a fugitive from home and friends—that you had simply married me from
a feeling of gratitude, duty, and pity, and now regretted the union, as
they said, I resolved that I would not burden you longer. I——”
“Salome, you break my heart!” Dr. Winthrop interposed, his pale lips
quivering in spite of his manhood. “How could you imagine for one moment
that, having deliberately won you to be my wife, I would ever send you
away from me or take advantage of a legal flaw? If there had been any
such thing in connection with our marriage, it would have been my first
care to have righted the wrong or mistake. Even if I had married you
from a sense of duty, gratitude or pity—which is absolutely false—I hope
there is honor enough in me to have enabled me to stand faithfully by
the contract and not take such cowardly advantage of a friendless
woman.”
“Oh!” gasped unhappy Salome, who began to realize how rashly and
foolishly she had acted—how, perhaps, after all, she had been her own
worst enemy, “I ought to have thought of that; but I did not, there were
so many things which seemed to confirm what they told me.”
“You spoke of a letter of confession,” her husband resumed. “I never
received such a letter; it must have miscarried, or else——”
He broke off hastily, but the suspicion which flashed into his mind was
very near the truth.
Salome lifted a surprised look to his face.
“You never received it?” she cried; “and you do not know the truth about
me even now?”
“No; I know no more to-day, than I did the morning I bade you farewell
in New York, nearly two years ago,” he answered. “I have blamed myself
many times,” he went on regretfully, “because I did not allow you to
tell me your history, as you attempted on several occasions; but really,
I did not imagine there was anything very important to be told.”
“And you have never learned—you have never been told my true name?” she
gasped.
“No; I only know you as Salome Howland Winthrop, and still my beloved
wife,” Dr. Winthrop returned with a fond little smile, which however had
much of sadness in it. “You are my wife, dear,” he added, as he saw the
hot flush that mounted to her brow; “it makes no difference that you did
not give your true surname. I married you in good faith and before
witnesses; I took you to my home and made you mistress there—that of
itself would give you a legal claim upon me, and nothing could break the
contract but a divorce obtained upon the ground of unfaithfulness, upon
my part or yours.”
At the word divorce Salome threw out her hands with a low cry of horror
and pain.
Oh! she surely deserved the very worst that she could suffer as a
punishment for her lack of faith in this noble man, whom she loved with
her whole soul. What would he think of her when he learned what she had
done—when she should tell him that she had applied for a legal
separation from him? No doubt he would be so wounded and offended that
he would repudiate her and tell her that he would abide by the decision
of the court.
“Does the thought of a divorce so pain you?” he said tenderly. “It is an
ugly thought, an ugly word, but it never need trouble us; for, love, our
hearts are too firmly knit together to ever desire a separation, are
they not?”
“Oh, how shall I tell you?—how shall I tell you?” she wailed, breaking
down utterly again, and wringing her hands in anguish.
“How shall you tell me what?” he questioned wonderingly.
With a great effort she calmed herself, for she knew that she must tell
him the truth.
“What will you think of me when I tell you that I have petitioned for a
divorce?” she moaned with lips that were absolutely colorless.
“Salome!” and he recoiled from her in sudden horror, shocked and wounded
to his very heart’s core. “How could you? On what grounds?” he sternly
demanded after struggling a moment for speech.
She shivered as with an ague chill at his tone, and bowed her head
humbly before him.
“On the plea of desertion and repudiation,” she said. “I—I believed all
that they told me—that you did not love me—that you would be glad to be
free. It is only lately that I did it, and for myself I would not have
wished it; but they told me that you were to marry Sarah Rochester;
they—she and her mother—discovered my identity, and, though they also
asserted that our marriage was illegal, they said there might be a
possibility that I would have some claim upon you, and they wanted me—or
Sarah did—to make assurance doubly sure by applying for a separation—it
could be secretly done, and no one save the lawyer and ourselves need
ever know anything about it, while, since she was going to marry you, it
would be a great burden off her mind. I was dead to you; there was no
hope that I could ever be anything to you again, and so—O True, I was
desperate, I believed you loved her, I wanted you to be happy, even if I
was not, and I did not wish to stand in the way of your interests or
desires—so, I signed the letter she wrote——”
“The letter that she, Miss Rochester, wrote?” he demanded in a terrible
voice, and beginning to realize all the treachery and wickedness that
had been employed to separate them, without regard to his feelings or
the ruin of his wife’s life and happiness.
“Oh, do not make me tell any more!” Salome cried, as she suddenly
recalled that scene in Mrs. Rochester’s parlor. “It is better, perhaps,
that you should not know——”
“But I shall make you tell more—all—everything. I will know!” he said in
a determined tone. “Was it Miss Rochester who made you sign that
letter?”
She bowed a mute assent.
“Did—did my mother have anything to do with the matter?”
“No—oh, no.”
“Thank Heaven! I should have been humiliated indeed to know that she
could have been guilty of such a crime,” the young physician ejaculated,
as he wiped the perspiration from a face, white to the lips.
She thought he was suffering on account of Miss Rochester’s treachery.
“Oh, forgive me—forgive me and do not question me any more,” she
pleaded. “I have done this thing, and I must bear your scorn and anger
as best I can. I have loved you through all—too well, perhaps—I shall
love you till I die. I have been rash, foolish; I have allowed my pride,
my desperation, to drive me to extremes, when I should have trusted and
consulted you. I have found it out, all too late. It is my punishment,
and I have no one but myself to blame.”
“Hush, Salome,” her husband said gently, almost unnerved himself at the
sight of her wretchedness and hopelessness, “since you love me, as you
say you do, it is all I ask; the past shall go for nothing. I can even
overlook the application for a divorce, since I know it was forced from
you—that you were tricked into it. You live—you were not a victim of
that fearful fire—I have found you, and nothing shall ever separate us
again.”
“Oh! but if the divorce has been granted—if she should already have
received the decree!” Salome cried breathlessly, but looking up with a
gleam of hope on her white face.
“Even then it would be a very easy matter for me to make you my wife
again. My darling, tell me, if news should come to-day that the
separation had been granted, do you still love me well enough to give
yourself to me a second time?”
Could she believe her ears? Could he even wish such a thing after all
her distrust?
The face bending so eagerly toward her was full of love and tenderness
and earnest appeal, she could no longer doubt him.
She threw herself upon his breast, tears raining from her eyes.
“O True, it is not a question of my love for you,” she breathed.
“Then of whose, dear? Certainly not of mine,” he responded as he
tenderly smoothed the dishevelled tresses, “for the world has been a
wretched blank to me without you, during these last two years—while
knowing that you live, the future would be no less miserable, if I had
to spend it apart from you. I shall never give you up, Salome. Tell me
that you believe me—that there is no longer any question in your heart
of my love for you.”
She could not fail to see that he spoke only truth, and yet how could
she reconcile that scene in Mrs. Rochester’s parlor at the chateau, with
his present protestations?
She lifted her eyes and searched his face.
“There is some doubt yet, love. Tell me what it is. There must be
perfect confidence between us. Let us effectually demolish every barrier
once for all,” he said with deep tenderness.
“Then you do not love——” she began, then stopped, for it seemed so
disloyal to doubt him.
“Whom?” he questioned gravely.
“Sarah Rochester.”
“Assuredly not.”
“But—but——”
“Tell me all, Salome,” he commanded, seeing there was something still
troubling her.
“But I heard you tell her so over and over again. I saw her clasped in
your arms—lying upon your breast, your lips raining kisses upon hers;
and O True! True! that was what broke my heart! I could never have
signed that letter but for that,” Salome panted, and her tale was all
told at last.
But Dr. Winthrop regarded her in bewildered astonishment, and was almost
tempted to believe that a form of madness had seized her, for her words
were utterly incomprehensible, and yet her earnestness convinced him
that she believed what she had stated.
“What can you mean? When did you imagine that you saw and heard all
this?” he inquired.
“When I was ill at the chateau.”
“When you were ill at the chateau! I do not understand you,” he said
more deeply puzzled, for everything seemed to be growing more
complicated, though a sudden shock went through him as she spoke of
having been ill at the villa.
“Yes—or I had been ill and was getting better and had told Mrs.
Rochester one day that I must return to Paris. She replied that she
would arrange for me to go the next day. I had only sat up once or
twice, but I told myself that if I intended to go away the next day I
must begin to exercise and gain a little more strength. I was in Sarah’s
room, and when I thought no one was about I got up and tried to walk. I
steadied myself by the furniture and went into Mrs. Rochester’s room—you
know how they were situated—when my strength gave out and I had to sit
down. Presently I heard voices in the parlor—your voice and hers; you
were telling her of your love; you had never addressed me with a tithe
of the passion and earnestness that you used with her. You told her that
you had loved her from the moment of your first meeting, and you begged
her to assure you of her love for you, in spite of that unnatural
contract which would have consigned her to a man whether she could love
him or not——”
“You need not tell me any more, Salome,” Dr. Winthrop interposed, laying
his fingers softly upon her quivering lips to stop the miserable
recital. “I understand it all now. But would it be too much to ask you
to believe—could you credit me if I should tell you that I never uttered
the words that you have repeated—that I never held Miss Rochester in my
arms or touched her lips with mine?”
Salome drew in a deep breath of astonishment, and lifted a wondering
glance to his face.
Nothing but grave and earnest truth was written there, and she began to
question within herself whether that scene, which had been so indelibly
stamped upon her heart, could have been a vision—a mere chimera of the
brain.
“Oh, if I had not seen you!” she cried, a puzzled look in her eyes, an
eager longing in her tones.
CHAPTER XLIII.
SALOME RELATES SOMETHING OF HER PREVIOUS HISTORY.
Dr. Winthrop was not hurt by his wife’s apparent doubt. He simply folded
her closer in his arms and smiled fondly down upon her.
“Can it be possible that, during all the time you were at the chateau,
you never saw my brother?” he remarked after a moment.
“No; I never saw him except once or twice in the distance, and then I
had but a glimpse, and at dusk, when I was taking the air for a few
moments. I supposed it was your brother, for he was with Madame Winthrop
and your sister,” Salome replied.
“I remember now that he did not come often to my rooms during my
illness,” said Dr. Winthrop reflectively.
“Doubtless,” he thought to himself, “he was improving the time to make
love to Miss Rochester.”
“You recollect that Mr. Tillinghast would not leave you when you were
extremely ill except for needed rest, and we did not think it best to
have too many around you; and then, when you began to improve, you are
aware that your brother went away with your mother and sister,” Salome
responded, but not comprehending just why Dr. Winthrop had spoken of
this.
He looked into her eyes and smiled.
“It was but natural that you should have been deceived. You think you
saw me in Miss Rochester’s parlor that day, but you did not; for, during
all the time that we were at the chateau, I never once entered those
rooms except to prescribe for Miss Rochester when she was ill. The man
you saw with her must have been my brother, Norman—my twin brother—who
resembles me, whose voice and face and figure are so like mine that our
most intimate friends can scarcely tell us apart.”
“Oh, if I had but known!” exclaimed Salome with a look of astonishment,
but with a sigh of infinite relief, while her white fingers closed over
her husband’s hand in a clinging grasp.
“But, my darling, it seems strange that you should have forgotten how
ill I had been—that it would have been impossible for me to have held
Miss Rochester in my arms, or to have supported her upon my breast at
that time!” said Dr. Winthrop smiling again.
“I never thought of that,” Salome answered, wondering how she could have
been so thoughtless and stupid. “If it had been you, you would have
looked thin and white; but I was so wild with grief that it did not once
occur to me to question your identity,” and the sweet face looking up
into his began to clear, while she rested more contentedly in his
embrace.
She was beginning to realize that no rival could ever usurp her place in
her husband’s heart—that his love for her was as strong and deathless as
hers for him.
“More than that, love,” he said. “Norman came to me only a short time
ago, and confessed his love for Miss Rochester. I will tell you frankly
that I expected to be obliged to marry her, although it almost seemed to
me that it would be a crime to do so, when my heart was so filled with
your image.”
And then he explained to Salome how he had been drawn into making a
proposal to the scheming girl and been accepted, and she listened with a
strange look on her face, although she made no comment on the tale.
“But you have spoken of your illness at the chateau—how long were you
ill there?” Dr. Winthrop inquired, when his story was told.
“Three weeks.”
“It does not seem possible!” he cried astonished. “How could they manage
to keep your presence in the house concealed so long? They told me that
you had a fainting turn, and, fearing you were going to be ill, you had
insisted upon going back to Paris. I supposed you were with the sisters
and being most tenderly cared for, never suspecting the contrary until
Harriet came to the chateau to inquire for you, and told me that no one
knew anything about you; but—tell me just how it all happened, and how
you were lured into that wretched place where I found you to-day.”
Salome began with the day when she fainted in the hall before Mrs.
Rochester’s door, and told him everything that had occurred up to the
time when she had discovered his presence in the ward, where she was a
prisoner in Dr. Arnot’s asylum for lunatics.
Dr. Winthrop listened with a stern, white face, as all the treachery of
those two women was revealed to him, and realized how they had plotted
not only to ruin her life, but to make a dupe of him also.
“About this petition for a divorce—when was it sent, Salome?” he gravely
asked, when she had concluded this portion of her story.
She gave him the exact date.
“And to whom?—what was the lawyer’s name?”
She told him.
“Ah! he was abroad last year—I know him. Miss Rochester must have met
him then. Why, Salome, he is one of the most unprincipled scamps in his
profession!—he will do anything for money, and is most successful in
this particular branch of his business. He makes a specialty of
procuring divorces secretly, and is very cunning in bringing about just
what his clients desire. But,” he added, “we will see if we cannot put a
stop to these proceedings at once.”
“Oh, can you—can you?” Salome eagerly cried.
“I am going to try,” he answered gravely. “I shall send a cable message
commanding—if the decree has not already been granted—that all further
attempts to obtain a separation be dropped—that such is the wish of both
you and myself.”
“Oh, do, do! I wish, oh, I wish you would go this moment to send it,”
Salome cried, clinging to him nervously, and raising an appealing look
to him.
“It will do just as well an hour hence, love,” he returned soothingly,
“and there is much about you that I still wish to learn. How did it
happen that I found you in the hospital in this disguise? how did you
happen to be in Paris at all? how did you escape from that terrible
fire? Oh, my darling, go back to the hour of our separation and tell me
everything—spare no one, for I must know the whole truth, no matter whom
it involves.”
Salome leaned back in his arms, and, laying her head upon his shoulder,
where she could look up and watch every varying expression of his dear
face, began her story, and told him, as he requested, all that had
occurred since their parting in New York. She tried to be as lenient as
possible in speaking of his mother and sister, but she was truthful, and
he could not fail to understand how much they had been to blame for the
suffering which they had both been called upon to endure.
“What a tale!” he exclaimed, when she concluded; “it is full of
romance—full of suffering, too. What danger, love, you have been in;
what a narrow escape you had from that burning building. But nothing
shall ever separate us again—not a thousand treacherous women; not a
hundred marriage contracts made by arbitrary match-makers.”
Salome’s lovely face brightened at his words like a flower after a
refreshing shower.
“Then you do not regret the fortune which your uncle left you upon such
strange conditions?” she said inquiringly.
“Regret it, love! A world in the balance with you would be as nothing,”
he cried, and caught her to him with a passion, which told her how
heartfelt were his words.
It was very sweet, very comforting to her to be so loved after all the
loneliness and barrenness of her life, during the long months of their
separation.
But presently she raised her head and searched his face earnestly.
“What is it, dear? why are you so grave, as if you were regretting the
fortune that I have lost?” he asked smilingly.
“I was wondering how I could best tell you something else,” she
remarked, with something of hesitation in her manner.
“What do you mean? is it that old secret of the past?” he asked, growing
grave, “the history of your life which has been the cause of so much
suspicion, persecution, and wrong? Of course I shall be glad to have you
give me your confidence, dear; but whatever you may have to tell me can
never make the slightest difference in my love for you.”
She smiled.
“I know it,” she said, “and had I only known a little more of your own
history, all this trouble and sorrow need never have come upon us. A
word would have set everything right.”
“If you had known a little more of my history? I do not understand you,
Salome,” Dr. Winthrop remarked, looking perplexed.
“Why did you not tell me about this Rochester-Hamilton contract?”
“Because I hated the very thought of it; and after I had broken the
conditions, and forfeited my fortune by marrying the woman I loved,
there was nothing to be said. Besides, what possible difference could it
have made in our relations?”
“It would have made this difference, True,” Salome said, as she regarded
him with tender earnestness, “that we should have escaped all that has
made us so wretched, for I—your wife—am the Sadie Rochester whom you
were destined by that arbitrary will to marry; you have already
fulfilled the contract, which you so hated to contemplate, and the
united estates of Brookside and Englehurst might have been our home long
ago, if you had but confided to me the fact that you were Milton
Hamilton’s heir and namesake.”
Dr. Winthrop sat regarding his wife in speechless astonishment during
this explanation.
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed, as she concluded, “I am half tempted to
believe that your brain has been turned after all. You surely cannot
know what you are saying!”
“Oh, yes, I do. What I have told you is a fact,” she quietly returned.
“My true name—the poor name that has occasioned so much suspicion and
trouble—is Salome Howland Rochester.”
“And you are the Miss Rochester—the daughter of my uncle’s friend—whom
these two wills destined me to marry?” the young physician cried, his
face still blank with amazement and incredulity.
“Yes.”
“Then who is this other girl who has been masquerading under your name,
and trying to trick me into a marriage with her?” he demanded in
perplexity.
“Her real name is Sarah Rockwell. My father married Mrs. Rockwell, who
was the widow of a cousin of my mother, when her daughter was a girl of
twelve, and I was ten years of age. That would make her a distant
cousin, in fact we called ourselves cousins, until she came to live in
the same house with me.
“Her mother stipulated, when she became my father’s wife, that her
daughter should be regularly adopted so that she could bear the same
name, and thus she became Sarah Rochester. How she came to be called
Sadie you will understand as I go on. When I was a little child I had a
nurse who was very fond of me and she would not call me Salome. She said
the name was too old-fashioned—too old-maidish. She tried to nickname me
by calling me ‘Lomie;’ but this my mother objected to, and the nurse
laughingly said there was nothing else but Sally. ‘Yes, we can call her
Sadie,’ said my mother, and Sadie I was from that time on. After my
father’s second marriage it was a little troublesome to have two
children in the family with names so nearly alike, and my step-mother
wanted to use my whole name, Salome; but my father had become accustomed
to the other, and would not countenance the change. As I said before,
she was twelve and I ten when she came to live with us, and she shared
equally with me in every advantage, for Mrs. Rochester was particular to
demand as much for her child, in every respect, as my father gave to
his. But from the very first she was strangely jealous of me, and though
she dared not be otherwise than civil to me in my father’s presence, it
was soon patent to me that she was secretly my bitter enemy. My father
was an invalid for many years, but though he was often irritable and had
many whims and fancies, as invalids often have—even though he was
strangely cold and indifferent to me—I loved him very dearly, and was
never so happy as when I was in his room waiting upon him and
ministering to his many wants. He had his own private attendant, but he
often used to tell me that I was the better nurse of the two, and I know
that I did become quite proficient in the care of him. We came abroad
shortly after his marriage with Mrs. Rockwell, and travelled about from
place to place, according to his pleasure or fancy; but nothing was ever
said to me about his plans for my future, until a few months before he
died. Then one day he told me that he had pledged me to the son and heir
of his dearest friend and college chum, Milton Hamilton; who, although
he resided in New York most of the time, owned the estate adjoining
Brookside—a fine place belonging to my father, but which he had left
after my mother’s death and had only visited at intervals since. I
supposed from what my father told me, that the name of the man whom he
wanted me to marry was also Hamilton; he did not tell me that he was
simply the adopted son of his friend. He said that he was expecting him
to join us abroad that fall, and he wished me to be prepared to give him
a gracious reception. Of course I secretly rebelled at this arbitrary
disposition of my hand; but at the time he told me about it, he was not
as well as usual, and I said nothing in reply, fearing to excite him if
I opposed the arrangement in any way. It came out afterward that he had
told his wife more than he told me regarding these plans, but even she
was appalled upon learning the truth regarding the disposal of his
property. My father died very suddenly one day, while we were all out
shopping, and we came home to find the servants wild with excitement,
and the house in the greatest confusion. Mrs. Rochester is, however, a
woman of rare executive ability, as you have doubtless learned, and she
managed everything during this unlooked-for emergency very wisely, and
with the utmost propriety.
“Every mark of respect was paid to the dead, and even the most critical
could have found no fault with her deportment and arrangements at this
time. But when the will was produced and read she was simply furious. It
was then, too, that I learned the whole truth regarding his plans for my
future. The will stated that I was to marry Mr. Hamilton’s heir, or
forfeit the Rochester homestead and a hundred thousand dollars besides;
fifty thousand dollars alone being held in reserve for me in case I
refused to comply with my father’s wishes. A will to the same tenor and
effect was made after his marriage with Mrs. Rockwell, which stated that
the income of the previously mentioned fifty thousand dollars should go
to her if I married Mr. Hamilton’s heir; if I did not, she was simply to
share a certain amount of the income until I married to please myself,
when she would receive ten thousand outright. The income of the fifty
thousand dollars was to revert to me at her death. I will not attempt to
describe her anger over this state of affairs. She claimed that my
father had promised her fifty thousand dollars, and that he had
shamefully wronged her by making such a will. She appeared to imagine
that I was responsible for it, and she treated me accordingly. Of course
she immediately became very anxious that I should fulfil the
Rochester-Hamilton contract; you were expected to arrive at any time,
and she insisted that the marriage must be solemnized immediately upon
your arrival, or as soon after as it could be arranged.
“I was shocked at what seemed to me such indecent haste, especially when
there had been a death so recently in the family, and I rebelled;
besides, the idea of promising to marry a man whom I had never seen, and
who, for aught I knew, might not be attracted to me, was horrible. She
demanded a promise of obedience; I was high-spirited and refused to give
it, and even threatened to leave her and return to America to escape
you. Thereupon she locked me in my room, telling me that I should remain
there a prisoner until I relented and came to her terms. This only made
matters worse, arousing a feeling of antagonism and obstinacy within me;
and one day, when Mrs. Rochester and Sarah were out driving, I bribed
the maid, who was left to guard me, to let me run away. She sympathized
with me, and agreed to the proposal. She even packed my trunk, and had
it secretly taken out to a carriage which she ordered. I went directly
to Calais, then to Dover, and from there to London. I remained there for
a few weeks, trying to find some congenial employment, when, one day, I
met a man who had once been a servant in our family.
“This meeting frightened me so I went to Liverpool, boarded a steamer,
and sailed directly to Boston, where I arrived one dreary day in
November. I had very little money left when I reached that city and felt
like a stranger in a strange land, although America was my native
country. I had never had to depend upon myself for a livelihood, but I
knew that I must now do something. A happy inspiration led me to the
City Hospital, for I believed that my experience in the sick-room of my
father had fitted me for a nurse. The superintendent appeared to be
pleased with me, even agreeing to give me a trial without the required
recommendations and—the rest you know already, True.”
“My darling, what a sad experience you have had!” said Dr. Winthrop
sadly. “It is no wonder that you rebelled against that wretched
contract; but you need not have feared me. I was no less averse to it,
for I felt that two men had no right to thus control the destinies of
others. Still I had promised that I would meet you, and only the
breaking out of an epidemic in New York prevented my arriving in Berlin
before your father’s death. I wrote, explaining the delay, but it seems
that my letter was never received. I intended, if we were pleased with
each other, to ask you to be my wife, but I should never have urged the
union—I could never have made any woman my wife against her will, even
though a dozen fortunes were to be won by such a measure.”
“And I imagined that you were eager for the marriage,” replied Salome.
“I thought you were coming to us to make it merely a matter of business,
and I should be sacrificed at any cost. If I could have but known how
well I should love you, how happy we might have been!” she concluded
with a sigh.
“Ah, if I had but listened to you when you first wished to tell me your
story, my darling, it would have saved us much of the sorrow that we
have since known,” her husband remarked regretfully.
“Perhaps and yet——” Salome began thoughtfully.
“Yet what, my Peace?”
“I believe we should not have been so content in each other’s love; we
might have had a feeling—a suspicion that each was thinking more of the
union of the fortunes than the union of hearts, if we had met as was
planned in the first place. I believe that I love you better for all the
trial and sorrow.”
CHAPTER XLIV.
SALOME CONTINUES HER STORY.
“All this has been a test, at any rate,” Salome continued, after a few
moments of thoughtful silence. “We are both sure that no unworthy motive
has influenced us. We know that we preferred each other to wealth. I
fled from my home rather than be driven into a marriage with one whom I
was not sure I could love, while you insisted upon marrying me without
regard to the fortune which you believed you were forfeiting.”
“Yes, it has been a test, as you say. Still I cannot be reconciled to
our long separation. Oh, my darling, I have been very desolate without
you! Just think of all the precious time that we have lost!” Dr.
Winthrop said, with a quiver of pain in his tones.
“It has not been wholly lost, dear,” Salome returned, lifting her tender
face upon which there glowed a holy light, “for I believe we have both
tried to do some good in the world; out of our own sorrow, we have tried
to be helpful to others. True we have suffered,” and she shivered
slightly; “but I am sure we shall both appreciate the joy of the future
far more on account of it. I know,” and her voice grew gravely sweet,
“that I have helped to smooth and cheer the last of life for one, who,
for many years, had led a very bitter and sorrowful existence; besides,
I trust that I have won no mean victory over my own heart during my
experiences here in Paris.”
Dr. Winthrop bent and touched her brow almost reverently with his lips.
“Dear heart, I understand you,” he said with emotion. “You have rewarded
evil with good by saving the lives of those who have injured you; you
have been an angel, my Salome!”
“No, True, I did not mean that,” she replied, smiling faintly and
flushing. “I am far from being angelic, I assure you. But I confess
there was much of bitterness in my heart; I am afraid that I was almost
revengeful. Even when you asked me to go to the chateau, I had quite a
struggle with myself before I could conquer; but now while I feel that I
may have been instrumental in doing some good, I know that I have reaped
a hundredfold in the conquest over self.”
Dr. Winthrop could not speak for a few moments. He folded her in a close
embrace, and marvelled at the beautiful spirit that could be so gentle
and forgiving toward those whose only object had been to crush her. For
himself, he felt that he never could forgive his mother and sister for
their treacherous scheming, their heartlessness and ill-will. He could
see that they had been determined to separate them from the first, and
he wondered how they would feel when they should learn the truth.
“Did madam—your mother write you about my meeting a strange man one
day?” Salome questioned, breaking in upon these reflections.
Madam’s threat had suddenly recurred to her, and she wished to learn
just how much her husband had been told.
“Yes, dear, but I wrote her in reply that I trusted my wife implicitly.
Evelyn, she said, had been an eye-witness of the meeting, and they were
both evidently very curious. But I felt sure that there had been nothing
wrong in it—that if anything had occurred which I ought to know, you
would yourself explain it to me upon my return,” Dr. Winthrop replied.
“Thank you, dear True, for your confidence in me,” Salome said, as she
lifted her lips and touched his in a grateful caress—one which her
husband doubly appreciated, since it was the first one she had
voluntarily given him. “There was nothing suspicious or wrong in the
meeting, on my part, although it may have seemed so to her,” she
continued. “The man was the same one whom I met in London; as I told
you, he had been a servant in our family—he went abroad with us to wait
upon my father, attend to our baggage, and make himself generally
useful. He had always pretended to be very fond of me, and though this
may have been all very well when I was a child, it became very annoying
as I grew older. When I was about nineteen, he one day boldly made love
to me. I went to my father and told him at once of the insult, and he
discharged the man on the spot. He was very angry, and vowed that he
would be avenged upon us. He did not leave the country, but continued to
follow us about from place to place. Although this was not pleasant, we
did not fear him, or imagine that he would dare do us any injury. He
must have known about my father’s death, and of my subsequent flight—he
even traced me to London, though what possible good he could have
expected to gain by so doing I cannot understand. I do not think he
could have known of my sailing for America, for I never saw him again
until we met in New York that day. I was greatly annoyed and frightened,
for it seemed to me then that he was bent upon doing me some injury, and
I cannot tell you how I longed for you, True, to protect me from him and
his further insults. His name was William Brown, and he was a very
smart, capable man in certain ways, but I sincerely hope I shall never
see him again.”
Dr. Winthrop’s lip curled with scorn as he thought how his sister had
played the spy upon his pure-minded, innocent wife. How utterly
contemptible it seemed to him, and how simple the circumstances of the
meeting, although, as his mother had represented it, there had seemed to
be something perplexing and suspicious connected with it.
“I blame myself very much, Salome, for leaving you behind when I was
called abroad to my father,” he said regretfully. “If I had only
listened to your pleadings and taken you with me, I could have saved you
all these wretched experiences. But I feared the voyage for you in the
dead of winter, for you were far from strong. I knew if you took cold
and were ill again it would go hard with you; so, though it nearly
unmanned me to refuse you and leave you, I believed it was the only
right thing for me to do.”
“I know you acted as you thought best, True, and I never thought of
blaming you,” Salome answered. “The only thing that I rebelled against
and questioned, was your apparently harsh judgment of me in sending me
from your home, as if you regretted having ever brought me there; but
now, knowing that you never received my letter, and understanding why
you sent me away, I can see that I misjudged you.”
“It is not strange at all,” Dr. Winthrop said, feeling that she had been
very lenient in her estimate of his apparent injustice. Then he added,
with some curiosity:
“How do you account, Salome, for the fact that Miss Rochester has been
masquerading under your name and position.”
“That is very easily explained,” the young wife answered. “They were
excessively alarmed after I ran away from them, for of course they
realized that upon me depended the hope of their ultimately coming into
the possession of the income of the fifty thousand dollars mentioned in
my father’s will. All this, you understand, I learned from them during
my illness at the chateau. They believed me to be dead—they had seen a
notice in a London paper, shortly after my disappearance, of the death
of a girl bearing my name and answering to my description, a friendless
girl, who had met with an accident, and been carried to the Home for the
Friendless—and Mrs. Rochester conceived the plan of representing Sarah
as the Rochester heiress, marrying her to the Hamilton heir, and thus
securing, a fine position and great wealth for her daughter, besides the
handsome income referred to in my father’s will for herself. Sarah was
very readily changed to Sadie, and to inquisitive people, who had known
that there were two Miss Rochesters, it was easy to say that she had
lost her own daughter, and her only companion was now her husband’s
child. We had been abroad for years, consequently had grown out of the
remembrance of our old acquaintances, and no one would be the wiser for
the deception. It was a very cunning plot and very cleverly developed,
as you know, while if they had failed in making you their victim, they
would still have had the fifty thousand dollars, provided I never made
my appearance to claim it. The first intimation they had that I was not
the girl who had died in London, was upon being told whom you had
married by Madame Winthrop, but they thought they were safe again upon
hearing that I had lost my life in that fire, and they believed that if
they could secure you they would never have anything to fear hereafter.
You can perhaps imagine their astonishment and dismay when, upon
removing my cap and spectacles, after I had fainted before their door,
in the chateau, they discovered who I was. Of course they recognized me
instantly, and when they found I was too ill to be removed, they planned
to conceal me in Sarah’s room until I should be well enough to be
secretly sent away. Even then, I did not know that you were the heir of
my father’s friend. Your mother and sister had represented to me that
you had been pledged to some one else at the time of our marriage, but
they did not tell me to whom, and I had no idea that you were in any way
concerned until Sarah Rochester herself told me, on the day that she
discovered my identity. It seemed as if the knowledge must kill me—as if
everything in my life had gone at cross purposes. I was already the wife
of the man whom my father had willed I should marry—the man whom I had
fled from because I feared he would be odious to me, but whom fate had
decreed that I should love with my whole soul. It seemed to me then as
if I had recklessly thrown my life and my happiness away, for if I had
remained quietly with Mrs. Rochester, you would ultimately have come to
us, we should have been mutually attracted, and there would have been
nothing to interfere with our future happiness. Of course, when they
told me this, I understood all their plot at once. I knew why Sarah’s
name had been changed to Sadie—why they were travelling with you, and
the end they hoped to attain. I could understand, too, what a marplot
they must regard me—that they must fear that I would betray their secret
and spoil all their plans. It would be a terrible thing for Mrs.
Rochester, after having carried her deception so far to be obliged to
confess that she had been palming off her own daughter as the child of
her husband, just to get his money and secure her a brilliant position
in life. When they discovered, however, that I had no intention of
revealing my identity to you, they recovered themselves somewhat, but I
did not dream that they were plotting to shut me up in that dreadful
place.”
“They are a couple of hardened criminals, and they shall be made to
suffer for their wrong-doing; I will not spare them,” Dr. Winthrop said
sternly.
“Ah! but they have been foiled in it—that will be a terrible punishment
to them; and—and we are happy, True; I cannot wish anybody any ill,”
Salome responded, as she laid her soft cheek against her husband’s with
a trustful, contented air, that touched him deeply.
“That is true; but such people deserve to be dealt with to the extent of
the law. When I think how they have tried to divorce us, and almost
tricked me into this hated marriage, I feel as if nothing could be too
bad for them,” he replied with a frown.
“I do not mind anything now, that I know you love me,” Salome said, with
gleaming eyes. “The cruellest pang I suffered was when I believed you
loved her—Sarah. O True, I was desperate enough then to do anything; you
must know I was, or I never could have signed that letter to the New
York lawyer.”
“The more I think of it, the more amazed I grow at the daring of those
scheming women. I am almost tempted to believe that Sarah Rochester
would have married me, even if she had failed to secure the decree, to
gain her point,” Dr. Winthrop said, with a shrug of repulsion. “I begin
to believe that people will do anything to attain wealth; truly, ‘the
love of money is the root of all evil.’ But their consigning you to Dr.
Arnot’s mad-house was the worst of all, and I swear that Mrs. Rochester
shall be made to answer for that horrible crime. Oh, my darling, what if
I had never gone there!”
Salome shuddered and clung to him. She could hardly persuade herself,
even now, that the blessed present was not, after all, a mere dream or
vision, and that she should not awake by and by, to find herself back in
that wretched place, and surrounded by the hapless beings who had been
her companions for so long.
“Do not let us talk of it any more, True; I do not want to think of
anything now, but that I am safe, and belong wholly to you once more,”
she sighed, a thrill of deep joy running through all her tones.
Dr. Winthrop’s heart bounded within him at her words, for they had told
him how entirely she belonged to him.
“My wife! my wife!” he murmured fondly.
Salome lifted her arms, and twined them about his neck, drawing his face
down to hers until their lips met.
It was the first time she had ever given such free expression to her
affection for him, and it told him that her last doubt of his love—her
last fear that he had married her from a sense of gratitude or duty had
vanished forever, and that henceforth only the most perfect trust would
exist between them.
Just at that moment there came a tap upon the door.
Harriet was very discreet, and had taken this way to warn the supposed
lovers of her approach.
Salome released herself from her husband’s embrace and bade her come in;
but the lovely flush upon her cheeks, the light of the perfect happiness
that beamed from her eyes told their own story even before she said:
“Harriet, my good friend, it is but right that I should confide in you
now. Dr. Winthrop is my husband. We were married nearly two years ago.”
The woman looked amazed for a moment, then recovering herself,
responded, with a wise smile:
“I knew he was something to you, Miss Salome, the moment I saw you
together; but I’m bound to confess I’d no idea that you got along quite
so far. I’m sure I wish you both a great deal of joy. But—dinner’s
ready,” she concluded practically, “and you’d both better come and have
something to eat.”
Dr. Winthrop laughed heartily at this sudden descent from sentiment to
the realities of life; but drawing Salome’s arm through his, they
followed the woman to another room, where they found a tempting repast
awaiting them.
Harriet refused to join them at the table, resolutely insisting that she
should feel more at home if she served them.
After the meal was over Dr. Winthrop led Salome again into the cozy
parlor, and then said:
“Now, love, I am going at once to send my cable message, and I shall not
return again until I receive a reply. It may take a good many hours, but
I shall make as quick and as thorough a business as possible of it, you
may be very sure. But meantime,” he added, looking a trifle envious,
“shall you feel quite safe to be left here over night?—shall you not
feel lonely?”
“Oh, no; Harriet and I have been here many a night by ourselves, and
besides there is a passage by which we can gain an entrance to the
convent—we have only to pull a bell, and some one will come to us at
once,” Salome replied confidently.
“Then I shall feel easy about you,” her husband said, his face clearing.
“But,” he added with a smile, as he touched her coarse, gray serge
dress, “when I come back to join you to-morrow I shall want to find my
wife in some more fitting garb than this.”
“I have no longer any need of a disguise, and I shall be very glad to
don some more becoming apparel,” Salome said, smiling, as she lifted her
lips for his parting caress.
Even then she let him go with reluctance. She followed him to the door,
and let him out with her own hands, while she told him with a shy smile
and blush, that the time would seem long until he returned.
Then she went back to Harriet, who could no longer restrain the delight
which the beautiful, happy face afforded her, and who caught her in her
strong arms and gave her a vigorous hug.
“Bless your dear heart, Miss Salome!” she cried; “it does my old soul
good to see that light on your face, and to know that you are happier
than any queen on her throne. Now I am just dying to know the whole
story. Sit down, and tell me all about it, while I eat my dinner.”
Salome obeyed, and sitting opposite the faithful creature, gave her a
brief history of all that we already know.
“I knew those women were a couple of dev—fallen angels,” Harriet dryly
remarked, when Salome told her how Mrs. Rochester had plotted to get her
into the asylum. “It didn’t take me long to find that out when I went to
nurse them through the cholera, for all they were so sweet when Dr.
Winthrop was around. And to think that you were his wife and he never
suspected it all the time you were taking care of him! No wonder you
grew white and thin, with all the care, and with all you’ve suffered
since. Bless my heart! but I don’t envy his mother and sister when they
find out who was so good to them, when they were near dying with the
plague. I hope they’ll never get over the shame of it—never!”
“And I hope, Harriet, that it will prove to be the one thing that will
break down their pride and make them love me,” Salome responded, with
grave sweetness.
CHAPTER XLV.
“IT IS ALL RIGHT, MY DARLING!”
After leaving Salome, Dr. Winthrop hastened at once to a telegraph
office, where he wrote the following cable message:
“TO CONRAD CONVERSE,
“Chambers Street, New York:
“You are hereby notified to quash at once all proceedings for divorce of
Truman H. Winthrop and Salome Winthrop. Answer immediately, stating
exactly how matters stand.
“TRUMAN H. WINTHROP,
“SALOME H. WINTHROP.”
Having dispatched this, the young physician went at once to his hotel,
where, after writing some letters, he retired, to try to shorten by
sleep the long hours which must intervene before he could go again to
Salome.
To say that he was anxious regarding the answer he would receive to his
message, but faintly expresses the torturing suspense which he
experienced.
It was impossible for him to sleep. He tossed on his bed for hours, then
arose and resolutely applied himself to hard study until the day dawned.
Then he refreshed himself with a cold bath, after which he took a long
walk. Upon his return he dallied as long as possible with his breakfast,
read his newspaper, smoked a cigar, while it seemed as if the time had
never passed so slowly.
He wished now that he had not told Salome he would not go to her until
he heard from the lawyer, for he might at least have spent a few hours
of the morning with her. He was half tempted to go, as it was, but the
message might come while he was away, and he was becoming almost
feverishly impatient to receive it.
It is useless to attempt to describe that long, long day. Truman
Winthrop’s powers of endurance were tested to their utmost, for no word
came to him until six o’clock that evening. He signed for the dispatch
with a hand that trembled so that no one would ever have recognized his
signature.
With a face as white as his handkerchief and a heavily beating heart he
tore open the message and read these words:
“No decree granted; unforeseen delay caused by endless red tape. All
proceedings stopped as commanded. Utmost secrecy has been observed.
“CONRAD CONVERSE.”
A long, long sigh of relief burst from the young man, after reading this
and for a few moments he was almost unmanned.
“She is still mine, thank God!” he murmured, after perusing the message
a second time; “I could hardly have borne to have learned that the tie
had been annulled, even though she would have given herself unreservedly
to me again. Now all will be well—oh, my love, I believe there is a
blessed future in store for us.”
He put the precious message carefully away to show Salome, then,
hastening from the house, he called the first cab he saw and was driven
directly to No. 15 Rue de ——.
It was after seven when he arrived at Salome’s door and almost dark, but
a light was burning in the little parlor, and he knew that someone
within was anxiously awaiting his coming.
With a full heart and bounding pulses, he sprang from the carriage and
ran lightly up the steps, to find the door almost instantly opened. A
white robed figure sprang into his arms and was clasped to his breast.
“Tell me, True—tell me!” Salome breathed as she twined her arms about
his neck and laid her cheek to his.
Her own anxiety, and the suspense she had endured had been no less
intense than his.
“It is all right, darling,” he tenderly replied, “the man has
accomplished nothing—we are still one, and nothing can come between us
now. Come and let me show you the answer to my message.”
He led her into the parlor, where he put the precious message into her
trembling hands.
She was quivering in every nerve, but she read the blessed assurance
that she was still Truman Winthrop’s wife—that the sacred bond which had
united them had not been annulled and a great joy and unutterable
thankfulness flooded her heart.
She raised her illumined face to her husband, and he opened his arms to
her.
Again she sprang into them, a sob of thankfulness bursting from her.
“All mine! all mine!” he murmured fondly.
“I am so glad, so happy!” she whispered, with her tremulous lips laid
against his cheek.
* * * * *
Three weeks later, in an elegant apartment of one of the finest hotels
of Paris, a gentleman and lady might have been seen sitting opposite
each other at a daintily spread breakfast-table. On the hotel register
in the office below, any one might have read the entry: “Truman H.
Winthrop, M. D., New York City, U. S. A.; Mrs. Truman H. Winthrop and
maid.”
After their reunion, Dr. Winthrop would not allow Salome to remain
longer in the little house under the shadow of the convent walls, so it
was given up, and taking Harriet with them, as Salome’s maid, they went
for a time to one of the hotels of the city.
“Well, my Peace, we have been here three weeks, and very happy weeks
they have been, too; but is it not about time that we began to plan a
little for the future?” Dr. Winthrop remarked, as he pushed his chair
back from the table, while his eyes rested with a look of fond
admiration upon the lovely figure opposite him.
Salome was exquisitely attired in the palest of pale pink morning robes,
richly trimmed with white lace, and the dress was extremely becoming to
her clear, cream-like complexion, dark hair and eyes.
She had changed much during these three weeks. Her face was radiant with
happiness, her eyes bright with hope, her manner animated, and even gay.
She was wholly unlike the grave, demure little body, who had been known
as Sister Angela, and no one would have dreamed that she could have been
the same person.
The young wife flushed under her husband’s glance. She knew that she was
beautiful, and she had begun to take pleasure in the fact, because of
his evident delight in it.
“I do not want to plan for anything,” she smilingly returned. “I am too
happy in just being with you, to take much thought for the future.”
“It is very pleasant to hear you say that, my darling,” Dr. Winthrop
replied, as he came behind her and laid his hand fondly upon her glossy
head, “nevertheless, there are some matters which must be attended to
without delay. My mother and sister must be notified of what has
occurred; Miss Rochester must learn that her schemes have failed, and
then we must go home to attend to securing what rightly belongs to us;
that unprincipled girl shall no longer masquerade in the character and
under the name that rightly belongs to you.”
“But it seems dreadful to have such disagreeable matters to attend to
when we are so happy, does it not?” Salome said with a sigh, as she put
up one white hand to draw his face down upon a level with hers where she
could look into his eyes.
“I believe, Salome, you are ready to forgive everybody the wrong they
have done you,” Dr. Winthrop returned, as he searched her thoughtful
face. “But I am afraid I am not quite as merciful as you are. I am free
to confess to a certain amount of satisfaction—of exultation, even, over
the downfall of the plots that have been laid against us; while too, I
am strangely curious to see how those wicked people, who have done so
much to make us both miserable, will bear their punishment.”
“Punishment!” repeated Salome, looking slightly troubled.
“Yes, dear; they all deserve a severe lesson, and I mean they shall have
it,” the young man replied, with some sternness. “Do not look so
disturbed, love,” he added as he saw the cloud upon her brow. “I am not
a vindictive or hard-hearted man, but I am determined that justice shall
be done. I think you may safely trust me to manage it in a proper
manner.”
“I will leave it all with you,” Salome said confidingly, and feeling
very sure that he would do nothing wrong, although she shrank with keen
sensitiveness, from anything which would seem like revenge for her
wrongs.
“Then what do you say to a trip to Rome next week?” her husband asked.
“Must I meet them?” she cried, shrinking closer to him.
“Not if you recoil from it,” he responded, “but I promised my mother
that I would join her at the end of two months. Six weeks have already
passed, and I think it will be wise not to keep her longer in ignorance
of what has occurred. I could go alone, only I cannot make up my mind to
be separated from you——”
“No—no, True, where you go, I must go,” Salome cried, clinging to him.
“I thought that would be your decision, dear. You shall not meet any of
them if you so desire it; still you can easily understand that all these
recent developments must be explained, and business matters settled
sooner or later. When I have anything disagreeable to do, I like to
attack it boldly and get it off my mind,” Dr. Winthrop concluded,
smiling.
“That is the better way, of course,” Salome gravely answered. “I suppose
I must meet them all again, some time and I may as well school myself to
the ordeal first as last. As for Mrs. Rochester and her daughter, I
believe I should be glad never to see them again, although I wish them
no ill; but, True, for your sake, I would like to win the hearts of your
mother and sister.”
“Can you forgive them for all they made you suffer in New York, Salome?”
her husband wonderingly asked as he searched her earnest face.
The young wife flushed. It was not an easy matter to crush all sense of
injury out of her heart, but strengthened by the great love which she
bore her husband, she believed she could in time do even this.
“Yes, for your sake, True,” she said softly.
He touched her forehead reverently.
“You are more noble than I, dear, for I cannot say as much as that,” he
gravely returned.
There were a few more days of perfect peace and content in Paris, and
then Dr. Winthrop and his wife set out for Rome.
They did not linger on their way, but arrived in Rome near the close of
a pleasant afternoon during the latter part of December.
They drove directly to the Hotel Quirinal in the Via Nazionale, where
they found pleasant rooms and excellent service.
After they had had their dinner, Dr. Winthrop repaired to the
smoking-room to enjoy his cigar, hoping that he might find some one whom
he knew.
He had not been seated ten minutes when he was slapped upon the
shoulder, and looking up, he saw his friend Tillinghast beside him.
It was a joyful meeting.
“I never dreamed of seeing you here to-night, old fellow!” the young man
exclaimed. “When did you arrive?”
“Not quite two hours ago,” Dr. Winthrop replied.
“Then you have not seen your family. I called there a few nights ago and
found them all well excepting your brother; he looks like a ghost,
though he says he is all right,” Mr. Tillinghast remarked, wondering why
his friend was stopping at a hotel instead of going to his family. “I
suppose you will be going around there soon,” he said, in conclusion.
“No, not to-night,” briefly returned the young physician.
“Oh! then you intend to remain here over night?”
“Yes, and possibly for some time.”
“I tell you what, Winthrop,” his friend cried, all aglow with
hospitality, and seeing that there was some mysterious reason why he did
not join his family. “We—my father and the rest of us—have taken a villa
not far from here—there are acres of room in it, and you must come home
with me; my people are just dying to show you how grateful they are for
saving me from that terrible plague. I will not take no for an
answer—you shall not stop a single night in a beastly hotel,” he
continued resolutely.
“Beastly,” repeated Dr. Winthrop, smiling at his friend’s extravagant
expression. “We have secured good rooms, the service is above that of
the average foreign hotel, and we are very comfortable.”
“Well, but all hotels are beastly compared with a well-ordered American
home. But,” regarding his companion searchingly, “you used the plural;
who are we?”
“My wife and I.”
“Your wife! Good gracious, man! it is an open secret among the American
population here that you are going to marry Miss Rochester, and that the
wedding is set for no distant date,” exclaimed Tillinghast, in
undisguised astonishment.
“That is a mistake,” Dr. Winthrop calmly replied, as he coolly dislodged
the ashes from his cigar. “I am not going to marry Miss
Rochester—possibly my brother may be the happy bridegroom if everything
goes well. As for myself, I am already married, as I told you, and my
wife is with me.”
“I cannot comprehend you, Winthrop,” his companion returned, and looking
perplexed. “When were you married?”
“A little less than two years ago.”
“But I thought you lost your wife—that she perished in some fire.”
“So I believed until recently; but she was saved and I came upon her in
an almost miraculous way in Paris, less than two months since. Sister
Angela, to whom you and I both owe so much, was my wife!”
“Winthrop! you take away my breath. I cannot believe it!”
“It is a long story, but if you can spare me a few minutes I will give
you a brief outline of it,” Dr. Winthrop responded, and then proceeded
to tell how he had found Salome and something of her previous history.
After all was told he insisted that his friend should go up to their
parlor and be introduced, and the young man could scarcely credit his
senses when he was ushered into the presence of the beautiful woman and
Dr. Winthrop smilingly remarked:
“Tillinghast, allow me to present you to my wife; but I hardly think you
will need any introduction.”
Salome greeted him with charming cordiality, and laughingly exclaimed:
“You hardly recognize Sister Angela, do you, Mr. Tillinghast?”
“It does not seem possible that you can be one and the same,” he
replied, as he bowed low over her hand; “but, Mrs. Winthrop, if it is
true—and I cannot doubt it—I owe you a great deal.”
“You surely do, Fred; you and many others would have died but for the
faithful nursing which you had,” said Dr. Winthrop gravely.
“Pray do not give me more credit than I deserve, True,” his wife
interposed, flushing slightly, “for I am sure that the treatment which
his conscientious and intelligent physician bestowed upon him was no
less efficacious. But,” she added, to change the subject, as she turned
again to her guest, “I think Dr. Winthrop is very fortunate in finding
you here. I, too, am very happy to meet you again.”
Could it be possible that this lovely girl, with her perfect composure,
her high-bred manner, her graceful figure, and beautiful face, was the
quiet, demure, and self-contained nun who, in her unbecoming dress, had
done so much for him in Paris? It was hard for him to believe it.
“Thank you,” he replied; “but I assure you, I regard myself as the
favored one, and I have been trying to persuade the doctor to come home
with me. Won’t you second me, Mrs. Winthrop, please? It will give us all
great pleasure to entertain you.”
“You are very good, Fred, and we appreciate your hospitality,” Dr.
Winthrop interposed; “but I think we will remain where we are for the
present.”
“Then you will at least honor my mother’s reception to-night,” the young
man eagerly urged. “She is to entertain the American Consul, and all
America will be there—at least all that is resident in Rome at
present—and I am sure she would be greatly disappointed—knowing you were
here—if you were not present.”
Dr. Winthrop turned to Salome.
“Are you too weary from your journey to go, dear?” he asked.
“I am not weary at all; we have come so short a distance to-day,” she
answered. “But——” and she glanced inquiringly at him.
He knew of what she was thinking—that she would probably meet his
mother, sister, and the Rochesters at this reception—and he smiled
reassuringly; then turned again to his friend, remarking:
“Thank you, Fred; we shall be happy to accept your invitation. At what
hour does Mrs. Tillinghast receive?”
“At nine, and later. I am delighted, old fellow. And now I will go to
take the good news to my mother,” the young man said, rising to leave.
“True,” said Salome, as soon as the door closed after him, “I am afraid
they will be terribly surprised—it will be a great shock to them.”
“I want them to be taken by surprise,” he replied sternly; “that is to
be a part of their punishment. Do you not think that I was surprised,
shocked, when I looked back down that ward and saw my wife upon her
knees appealing to me? And, Salome,” he continued more quietly, “I want
you to look your best to-night—wear that exquisite costume of white
lace, which we selected at Worth’s, and I wish you had your diamonds
here! Oh, my love, how very proud you were to leave all my gifts
behind!” he concluded reproachfully.
“True, my husband, believing as I did, I could not take anything that
your money had purchased for me—every gift, every obligation was a
burden on my heart. Besides,” she added smiling, “everything would have
been burned. It is fortunate I did leave your gifts behind, for now I
can have them again.”
“Ah, I did not think of that,” he said thoughtfully. “Still I wish you
had the diamonds.”
“I have diamonds,” Salome quietly returned; “some very fine ones, too;
they are a part of the legacy left me by Miss Leonard, and,” with a
roguish little twinkle gleaming from her eyes, “I think I shall be able
to make myself quite presentable for Mrs. Tillinghast’s reception.”
CHAPTER XLVI.
“SADIE ROCHESTER IS ALREADY MY WIFE!”
Two hours later Salome emerged from her chamber and the careful hands of
her maid, and presented herself before her husband.
“Will I do, True?” she quietly inquired, but with a conscious smile
wreathing her red lips. It was not one of vanity, either, but of pure
pleasure in her beauty for her husband’s sake.
Dr. Winthrop threw down the paper he had been reading and turned eagerly
at the sound of her voice.
A low exclamation of delight escaped him.
“Will you do?” he repeated. “Why, Salome, you are absolutely perfect,
from the crown of your dainty head to the sole of that tiny
pearl-embroidered slipper!”
And truly she was.
Over a rich, lustrous white satin skirt there had been artistically
draped an overdress of lace of an exquisite pattern, its folds being
caught in various places by masses of gleaming satin ribbons and
delicate sprays of frosted silver, representing bleached ferns. The
foundation of the corsage was low, but the filmy lace came up high in
the neck, except where it sloped away at the front in a V revealing her
beautiful neck, which was like ivory.
There were no sleeves, save a fall of lace about a finger in width over
the round shoulders, while her long gloves came a little above her
elbows, revealing a portion of her perfect arm, around which just below
the fall of lace, there was clasped a circlet of frosted gold set with
diamonds.
Her hair was arranged as she was in the habit of wearing it, but with
great care, and fastened here and there with small crescents of
diamonds. Around her neck there was a chain of curiously wrought gold,
and suspended from this was a Greek cross set with diamonds as large as
peas, while in each ear there gleamed a superb solitaire.
Her eyes were brilliant, her cheeks delicately tinted, her scarlet lips
just parted in a smile of anticipation, and she was a creature to make
any man’s heart throb with delight, as she stood beneath the brilliantly
lighted chandelier waiting to receive her husband’s verdict.
“I never dreamed how beautiful you were, Salome, until this moment,” he
breathed, as he bent forward and softly kissed her forehead.
She threw her arms about his neck and laid her head upon his breast. His
words of praise were very sweet to her.
“My darling, you will crush your dress,” Dr. Winthrop exclaimed, in fond
protest.
“I do not care, now that you have seen me. I would not have had a fold
disarranged before,” she said in reply.
She had dressed more for him than for the crowd of brilliant people who
were to throng Mrs. Tillinghast’s parlors, and he smiled as he realized
how indifferent she was to all other praise. It was evidently her belief
that
“She’s adorned
Amply that in her husband’s eye looks lovely—
The truest mirror that an honest wife
Can see her beauty in.”
They were a little late, and the villa was thronged with guests when
they arrived.
Salome could not help feeling a pleasurable excitement in anticipation
of mingling once more in society; still she dreaded the meeting with the
Winthrops and Rochesters.
After she had removed her wrap she stepped across the hall to a small
reception-room, and sat down to wait until her husband should come to
take her below. But Mr. Tillinghast had met his friend and found so much
to say, that the minutes flew by unheeded, and though Salome did not
mind the waiting, she wondered what could keep him.
Suddenly she caught the sound of footsteps, and the rush of silken
garments. The next instant a cry of dismay rang through the room, and,
turning with a start, Salome saw Sarah Rochester standing before her,
blank astonishment and terror written on her face, while her mother
stood in the doorway just behind her, looking over her shoulder, and as
pale as the white cashmere wrap that enveloped her form.
They had just arrived, and had mistaken the direction of the usher at
the foot of the stairs, turning to the left instead of the right in
their search for the dressing-rooms.
“Salome!” burst from the conscience-smitten girl, in a hoarse, unnatural
tone, while Mrs. Rochester staggered inside the room and hastily closed
the door, her bump of cautiousness asserting itself even in this
emergency.
Salome wondered to find herself perfectly calm and self-possessed.
“Yes,” she said quietly, rising and confronting them, thus fully
revealing the elegance and beauty of her costume; “you did not expect to
meet me here this evening.”
“Heavens, mamma, it is Salome!” cried Miss Rochester, who had not really
known whether it was her hated rival or some one who resembled her in a
startling degree.
“Where did you come from?” gasped Mrs. Rochester, and unable to stand
longer upon her trembling feet, she sank into the nearest chair.
“From the Hotel Quirinal, a few blocks above here,” Salome calmly
responded.
Mrs. Rochester made an impatient gesture.
“But how—how——” she began with terrified impatience.
“How did I manage to escape from Dr. Arnot’s mad-house?—is that what you
want to know, Mrs. Rochester?” Salome demanded, meeting the woman’s
glance with a stern, direct look. “I can only answer that a merciful
Providence delivered me from the horrible fate to which you had doomed
me.”
“I had doomed you!” repeated Mrs. Rochester, in a shaking voice, great
fear contending for the mastery within her.
“Yes, madam; it is useless for you to pretend ignorance, or to deny your
agency in the matter, for Dr. Arnot confessed it,” Salome asserted.
“Dr. Arnot confessed it,” the frightened woman whispered with pale lips.
“Mamma, how could it have happened?” Sarah Rochester wildly exclaimed.
“How could she have escaped? Who has helped her? And see her! She is
dressed like an empress, or rather, like the bride of a prince! That
dress is fit for a duchess; those diamonds are almost priceless! What
does it mean? Where did you get them?” and she turned savagely upon
Salome as she put this last question.
“The diamonds were the gift of a friend, who is dead; the dress was
purchased at Worth’s in Paris,” the young wife placidly returned.
“That is very definite,” sneered Miss Rochester, who was beginning to
recover herself somewhat. “You are evidently in a mysterious mood
to-night. But I would like a straightforward answer to one question: Who
brought you here to Rome?—for surely you did not follow us hither
alone.”
Salome began to feel a trifle uncomfortable; for she knew that it would
be a terrible shock to them when they should learn that Dr. Winthrop had
rescued her from the prison to which they had doomed her, and brought
her to Rome. Badly as they had treated her, wicked and hardened as they
were, she could not help pitying them for the despair which she knew
must overwhelm them when they should learn the truth.
“Girl, why don’t you answer?” angrily demanded Mrs. Rochester, as she
hesitated to reply; “who brought you to Rome?”
“Her husband, madam,” said a stern, yet familiar voice behind them, and
both women, turning at the sound, saw Dr. Winthrop just entering the
room.
They could not have been whiter or more motionless if they had been
statues hewn from marble, as they for a moment gazed with horror upon
him, and realized at last the blasting truth.
Dr. Winthrop went forward to his wife’s side and drew her hand within
his arm, with an air which betrayed how fondly devoted he was to her.
“I need not tell you,” he continued in the same tone, “that everything
has been discovered—all your treachery—all your plotting and crime. I
found my wife while visiting Dr. Arnot’s lunatic asylum in the pursuit
of information regarding diseases of the brain. Madam, do you know the
penalty for such a crime as yours?” the young physician demanded, in a
voice which seemed to freeze the blood in her veins.
Oh, why had she never thought of such a contingency as this? She might
have known that Dr. Winthrop would be going about to visit the various
hospitals—why had she not authorized Dr. Arnot to keep Salome confined
in a room by herself, and allow no one to see her?
Such thoughts flitted through her brain and drove her nearly to despair;
but she was not one to be easily cowed, and she soon rallied her
scattered wits, and resolved to put a bold front on the matter.
“But Salome is my daughter. I have committed no crime. As her guardian,
I had a perfect right to put her where I chose,” she spiritedly
retorted.
“Do you imagine that such an argument would be entertained for one
moment by a jury, madam? You know very well that it would not, if I
proclaimed Salome as my wife, and revealed why you had been guilty of
such a crime.”
Mrs. Rochester sank back again, appalled by the mention of a jury, but
his words had angered her daughter beyond endurance.
She realized that she had lost everything in the game that she had been
playing, while Salome had won. The knowledge of her rival’s triumph and
of her own defeat made her both desperate and reckless.
“Your wife!” she sneered. “Perhaps you may yet find yourself mistaken in
that assertion; you may yet regret that you ever brought the girl here
to-night to introduce her as Mrs. Winthrop when Rome shall ring with a
bit of scandal which shall make your ears tingle.”
“I understand you, Miss Rochester,” Dr. Winthrop quietly returned; “but
your contemptible spite will never be gratified to that extent; you will
never receive the decree of divorce which you attempted to secure, for
all proceedings were stopped before any harm was done. A few words of
explanation in a cable message were sufficient to achieve that.”
The girl turned with a gesture of despair to her mother.
“We are beaten, mamma—miserably beaten!” she cried with white lips, and
sinking into a chair she buried her face in her hands.
Dr. Winthrop led his wife quietly from the room, and closed the door
upon the two wretched women.
“I am sorry for them,” Salome said, with a sigh as they went slowly
downstairs.
“They do not deserve a particle of your sympathy,” her husband said,
with rigidly compressed lips.
He had been obliged to put a severe curb upon himself during the recent
interview, lest in his hot indignation he should forget that he was
dealing with women.
“But wrong-doing brings far more misery than wrong-bearing,” the gentle
girl returned.
“And why should it not, dear?” Dr. Winthrop asked. “It is a double sin,
for it wrongs one’s self and others also. Now, my darling, let me see no
clouds on your face to-night, for I want my friends to believe that my
wife is happy.”
“I am, True; only——”
“Only you have such a tender heart, you wish to bear the burdens of
others as well as your own,” he interposed, smiling. “Now, dear,” he
added, “I do not mean to be too hard upon those two sinful women, but
surely they do need to be brought to a sense of their guilt. When they
manifest a proper spirit, then we will do as One of old taught us—tell
them to ‘go and sin no more.’”
“O True! will you?” Salome said eagerly. “Then you do not mean to bring
them before a jury—you will not pursue them—you will not openly disgrace
them?”
“No, love, if they show themselves disposed to do what is right.”
Salome’s brow cleared at this assurance, and she exerted herself to
appear her brightest for her husband’s sake.
He led her directly to their hostess, and after introducing her to the
members of the family, he left her with Mr. Tillinghast, while he went
to seek his mother.
He did not care to have her shocked in the presence of witnesses, but he
wanted her to learn that night that he had found his wife; he wanted her
to realize also, how she had been plotting against the very woman whom
she had been so anxious he should marry.
He knew that she was there, for Mr. Tillinghast had told him that she
was among the first to arrive, and he found her at last, conversing with
a distinguished-looking elderly gentleman.
Madame Winthrop started, and her face lighted with sudden joy as she
caught sight of him—her favorite son.
“My dear boy!” she exclaimed, as she clasped his hand; “when did you
arrive?”
“This afternoon, and Tillinghast claimed me at once, telling me that I
should meet you here,” Dr. Winthrop explained for the benefit of her
companion, who, he thought, might wonder why he had not sought his
mother first.
She introduced him then to the gentleman, who was a well-known and
successful artist, and who, after conversing for a few moments, politely
excused himself, and left the mother and son together.
Madam noticed at once that there was a great change in him—his manner
was more animated, his face brighter and happier; there was in his tones
a glad ring which she had not heard for years, while instead of those
sternly compressed lines about his mouth, which had troubled her so
long, his lips were constantly wreathed with genial smiles.
“Why have you come upon us so suddenly, True?—why did you not write and
let us know when to expect you?” she asked, after the artist had left
them.
“I have been very much engaged,” he replied evasively, but with a glow
upon his face that made her marvel.
“Now that you are here, you will remain through the winter with us, will
you not?” she asked wistfully.
“Perhaps—that will depend upon circumstances, however,” he answered.
“What circumstances?” she queried archly. “Does that mean if your wife
is willing to remain in Rome?”
“Yes,” he gravely returned, but knowing well enough that she would
interpret his reply far differently from what he meant. Then he added:
“Take my arm, mother, and let us get out of the crowd. I want to talk
with you alone.”
She obeyed him, flushing with triumph as they passed from the room.
At last her fondest hopes were to be realized—at last the
Rochester-Hamilton fortunes would be united, and life henceforth would
be _couleur de rose_ for her.
Alas! she had no idea of the humiliation which the consummation of these
anticipations would bring upon her.
“Do you really mean it, True?” she asked, in a glad low tone, as they
reached the conservatory leading from the rear of the grand hall, “that
you are ready to marry Sadie Rochester at last?”
“When I leave Rome my wife will accompany me,” he remarked, while he
tried to think of the best way to break the truth to her.
“That will be delightful! Does Sadie know—is it all settled between
you?” and the woman’s joyous face was a study.
“Yes, Sadie Rochester is already my wife,” he announced with startling
abruptness.
“Truman! What—what can you mean?” madam exclaimed, amazed, as she
anxiously searched his face.
“Just what I have said, mother.”
“You must be crazy then, True, unless you have been married since eight
o’clock, for I left Sadie dressing for this reception when I came from
home, and apparently the thought of your presence in the city had not
entered her mind. I wish you would not joke upon the subject,” madam
concluded, in a displeased tone.
“I am not joking; I have simply made a truthful statement that Miss
Rochester is already my wife. She is here in this house; I have but just
introduced her to Mrs. Tillinghast,” Dr. Winthrop affirmed, with a
positiveness which alarmed his mother.
“My son, there is some mystery about this, and I beg that you will
explain yourself. When were you married?”
“Two years ago next month.”
“What do you mean?” cried madam, in despair, and beginning to fear that
the hard study of the last two months had turned his brain.
“Mother, listen!” the young man commanded. “Sadie Rochester and Sarah
Rochester are two different persons. Sadie Rochester ran away from her
step-mother because she ill-treated her. She fled to Boston, where she
applied for a situation as nurse in the City Hospital. Then a little
later she gave up some—too much—of her life-blood to save the life of
your son, who afterward fell in love with her and married her. Mother,
Salome Howland Rochester was the true Sadie Rochester, and the girl who
has tried to palm herself off upon me as such is a contemptible
impostor.”
Madame Winthrop had begun to comprehend the truth soon after her son had
commenced to explain, and her face grew deathly white, her eyes almost
wild with fear and mortification, as he proceeded to announce his
startling facts.
“I—I cannot believe it,” she gasped, when he paused as above; “and
besides—Salome is dead.”
“Salome is not dead; she saved herself from that fire,” Dr. Winthrop
replied. “But learning afterward, that she was supposed to have been one
of the victims, she let it be so understood, since she wished to be dead
to her enemies and the husband, who, she had been led to believe, had
disowned her.”
Madam’s proud head began to droop here, but her son went on:
“She became companion to a lady named Leonard; she won her heart by her
goodness and loveliness. They came abroad after a time, were in Paris at
the time the cholera broke out; Miss Leonard was attacked with it and
died in the convent of the gray nuns, after having bequeathed her
handsome fortune to Salome. My darling then adopted the dress of the
gray nuns and resumed her old vocation of nursing. She was the means of
doing an inestimable amount of good; she saved many lives. Mother, she
was known as Sister Angela!”
“True! O True!” and the tone was full of agony and humiliation. “It
cannot—cannot be!”
“It is every word true,” Dr. Winthrop went on relentlessly. “Salome, my
wife, is one of the loveliest women on earth, and you and Evelyn have
much to answer for, for your treatment of her. It is no fault of yours
that she was not driven to her death—that both our lives were not
irretrievably ruined. What if you had succeeded in making me marry that
woman’s daughter—that impostor! Think of the disgrace, the misery which
must have ensued! I should have lost, not only those fortunes, which you
have been so determined to win at all costs, but my wife, my
self-respect, and everything worth living for; you would have made a
bigamist of me, and burdened me with a woman who is utterly without
feeling or principle—who is false to the very core of her nature. Oh, my
mother, why could you not have conquered your unworthy pride and
ambition, and allowed the sweetness and nobility of that lovely girl to
win you? All the wretchedness of these two long years need never have
come to us. Think how beautifully Salome received and entertained you
when you returned so suddenly from abroad; her conduct was simply
perfect, both as a hostess and as a daughter, and she would have loved
you tenderly if you had but opened your heart to her. Instead, you
offered her scorn and slights. She bore all with the utmost sweetness,
never showing the slightest retaliation, but denied herself in every
possible way to conciliate you and Evelyn. What a contrast to these two
women, to whom you have cringed and fawned, hoping to gratify your
insatiable ambition. Think of what they are guilty! They have discovered
Sister Angela’s identity.”
“What!” exclaimed Madame Winthrop, startled for the moment out of her
shame and humiliation, “do they know?”
“Yes, they found her out while you and Evelyn were away from the
chateau. She was suddenly taken ill, and in trying to restore her they
learned her secret. They hid her in their own rooms, waiting upon her
themselves until she was able to be moved, and then, with the cunning of
devils, trapped her into a mad-house in Paris, where they hoped to bury
her alive, and thus enable them to carry out their purpose of marrying
Mrs. Rochester’s daughter to me. Do you realize what the success of such
a plot would have involved? Do you realize the crimes that you have been
aiding and abetting?—theft upon a wholesale scale, abduction and
bigamy?”
Madame Winthrop threw out her hand with a gesture of horror at these
ugly names.
“This is plain language, I know, mother,” Dr. Winthrop went on, “but you
deserve to have the unvarnished truth set before you, and I want you to
understand that if you had succeeded in accomplishing your purpose, the
very end for which you have schemed would have been frustrated; the
truth must surely have been revealed eventually, and then, ah! the shame
and misery of it all!”
CHAPTER XLVII.
“SALOME, YOU HAVE CONQUERED ME!”
Madame Winthrop shuddered as she turned her pale, drawn face upon her
son.
“Truman, it seems as if I could bear no more; but I suppose you will
complete my wretchedness by utterly repudiating me—you will never
forgive me?” she said, in a despairing tone.
“It is not my forgiveness alone that you should seek. If my wife can
forgive you, it would hardly become your son to withhold his pardon from
his mother,” he gravely returned, a tender light breaking over his face
as he thought of the gentle spirit which Salome exhibited under her
bitter persecutions.
The woman flushed hotly at his words.
Could she, with her indomitable pride, her haughty spirit, ever sue to
that girl for pardon?
It seemed a humiliation to which she could never subject herself.
But she could not be the mother of such a son as Truman Winthrop without
possessing some of the elements of nobility with which he had been
endowed, although her nature had become warped and perverted by
long-continued prosperity, selfishness, and the adulation of the world.
She had been shocked and horrified by the revelations of her son, which
showed her how nearly she had come to wrecking all their lives, their
fortunes, and good name. It had aroused her conscience, too, and, though
she shrank with the greatest repugnance from obeying its dictates, she
realized that she could never regain her self-respect, nor the affection
of her boy, until she made proper acknowledgment, and what restitution
she could, for the wrong of which she had been guilty.
“What can we do?” she faltered, trying to stifle for the moment the
voice within her. “Everybody believes that you are soon to marry Miss
Rochester.”
Dr. Winthrop’s lips curled; for it seemed to him as if her first and
only thought was for appearance.
“That is a matter which I believe can be easily arranged,” he replied,
with some coldness. “Norman and Sarah Rochester love each other. If they
will agree, let their engagement be formally announced; let them even be
immediately married, if he can be content to make a woman like her his
wife, and the other belief will pass for a mistake, a society blunder. I
do not wish to sacrifice my brother, however, to escape any scandal
myself,” he added, flushing. “I can bear to have the truth known rather
than that his life should be ruined by an unhappy marriage. Still, if
the girl really loves him, such an arrangement may result in making a
better woman of her.”
Madame Winthrop’s heart sank. She could never bear to have the truth
retailed from one end of Rome to the other.
“I must go home,” she cried, rising. “I cannot remain here. Will you see
Mrs. Tillinghast and make my excuses? Tell her that I have become
suddenly indisposed, which is true enough, for no mortal can know the
bewildered state of mind I am in.”
“Yes, mother, I will make your adieus. But—is there no other message
that you would like me to deliver?” Dr. Winthrop inquired, searching her
face wistfully.
She understood him; he wanted to take an olive-branch of peace from her
to his wife. But her proud heart could not yield in a moment.
“No—not to-night—I cannot think; I am bewildered—dazed—I must go home.
When shall I see you again?” she continued, with nervous incoherence.
“We are at the Quirinal,” the young physician answered coldly. “Any
message for us can be left there at the office, or we can be found there
during the next few weeks.”
Madam almost groaned aloud at this significant response. She saw that
he—her favorite son—would never be at peace with her until she was
willing to be reconciled to his wife; that henceforth they would be as
strangers unless she humbled herself to the girl whom she had so deeply
injured.
Could she yield?
Just at that moment the sound of voices reached them, and glancing up,
they saw Fred Tillinghast, with Salome upon his arm, entering the
conservatory.
The light from the chandelier fell strongly upon the fair wife as she
crossed the threshold, and truly she was a vision of loveliness to
attract the coldest, the most obdurate heart.
She looked brighter and happier than madam had ever seen her, and far
more beautiful. Her form had developed more perfectly, her cheeks had
filled out round and full, her eyes flashed with the fire of health, her
every look and gesture betrayed the hope and happiness that filled her
heart, while her elegant costume served to enhance her beauty, and was
suggestive of the exquisite taste of its wearer.
Dr. Winthrop’s face was a study as he caught sight of her, and it told
his mother that all his pride, his hopes, his happiness, were centred in
her.
“My wife—my darling! Is she not lovely?” he breathed. “Surely, mother,
you cannot steel your heart against her! Let me take you to her.”
“No—no; not now—I must go home—I want to get away by myself,” she
faltered, and turning quickly, she walked tremblingly toward the
opposite entrance to the conservatory, while Dr. Winthrop, with a sigh
of regret over her obstinate pride, made his way to Salome’s side.
Just as Madame Winthrop reached the door she encountered Evelyn who had
been searching for her.
She was very pale and excessively agitated.
“Mamma!” she cried breathlessly; “the strangest thing in the world has
happened! Salome is here in this house! I have seen her—she is with Fred
Tillinghast. She was not killed in that fire after all, and she is the
loveliest woman here, not to mention that she has on her person a
fortune in diamonds and rich lace.”
“Hush, Evelyn, and come with me,” Madame Winthrop said, in a hollow
tone, as she took her arm and leaned heavily on it, and the girl knew at
once that something dreadful had happened.
They left the house at once, and returned directly to their own
apartments, whither they found that the Rochesters had already preceded
them.
Then there ensued a scene between those four women which beggars
description. Scorn, contempt and condemnation on the part of Madame
Winthrop; anger, defiance, and the bitterness of defeat, on the part of
Mrs. Rochester.
Sarah Rochester was the most crushed and humiliated of them all, and her
shame and despair were like the mighty rush of pent-up waters that had
burst all barriers and swept everything before them.
She denounced them all, herself no less than the others, but she
fiercely accused her mother of having ruined her life, her character,
her soul, by the false and heartless way in which she had reared and
educated her; by making wealth and selfish pleasure the main object of
existence, and hesitating at no means, right or wrong, to attain her
ends. For a time she was like one bereft of reason, and poured forth a
torrent of fiery, passionate words that made her listeners shiver and
cower before her. Then, exhausted with her passion, she sank in a heap
upon the floor, weeping and sobbing in the utter abandonment of grief
and shame.
Into the midst of this scene Norman Winthrop suddenly came, pale and
stern, but with a resolute purpose written upon his face.
He went directly to the side of the conscience-smitten girl and lifted
her up.
“I have heard all,” he said, with white lips. “I know the whole shameful
story—all the wrong, all the sin and wretched scheming, and the scandal
which must follow its revelation. You are all a set of proud, ambitious,
and false-hearted women; you two,” turning fiercely upon Madame Winthrop
and Mrs. Rochester, “are a fine pair of mothers! It is no wonder that
you make heartless coquettes of your daughters, and ruin the lives of
your sons. You have overreached yourselves, however, at last, and must
reap the reward of your devilish schemes, unless——Sarah, there is no
other way out of it; you know that I love you; will you marry me?”
The sound of her real name from his lips somewhat calmed the
passion-wrought girl, and she lifted her white, despairing face to his,
with a look of incredulous astonishment.
“Oh, I am not fit to be the wife of any man,” she said, with a bitter
sob, yet her fingers closed almost convulsively over his sustaining
hand, and the act sent a throb of joy to the heart of the young man, for
it assured him that she really loved him in spite of all.
“We will not inquire too closely into the fitness of character upon
either side,” he returned, with some bitterness. “I only ask—will you
give yourself to me—will you be my wife?”
And with a burst of genuine sorrow, and a dawning repentance, the girl
dropped her head upon his breast, murmuring:
“Oh, forgive me, forgive me, and I will try to be a better woman.”
“We will both try for better things,” he returned; then he added, with a
sigh of relief, “and our first duty will be to save my brother the shame
and annoyance of a wretched scandal; we owe him that much at least.”
The others stole away and left them alone, Madame Winthrop reflecting
with some comfort, in spite of her own smarting conscience, that matters
would now be comfortably adjusted, and they would all escape being made
disagreeably conspicuous in society.
Evelyn’s haughty spirit had never received so severe a shock before, but
she was still the same selfish girl, and she wondered with some
trepidation if True would deprive her of the handsome sum with which he
had hitherto supplemented her regular income.
“They are all a set of sickly, sentimental fools!” was Mrs. Rochester’s
angry verdict as she shut herself into her own room, no less wretched,
but more defiant than the others. “I always hated that girl, and now I
hate her a hundredfold. I never dreamed that she could triumph over me
thus—I thought she was so safely caged in that mad-house—that
treacherous doctor and I will have a serious reckoning yet—I wonder how
she got out? She has outwitted me, but I shall at least have the income
of the fifty thousand, and I can manage to make myself comfortable on
that.”
But alas! she reasoned foolishly, like the rich man in the parable, and
morning found her a helpless paralytic! The shock and excitement of her
defeat had been too much for her system, and her days were numbered.
She lived a week, but could neither speak nor move during that time, and
it was agony to those who watched beside her, to see her follow them
with remorseful appealing eyes, which betrayed something of the mental
suffering she experienced. Madame Winthrop believed that the look would
follow her to her grave.
It was a relief to them all when at last she ceased to breathe, and the
white lids drooped and shut out forever that expression of remorse and
despair.
Throughout this time of trial and sorrow, Salome had proved herself to
be truly a friend in need. She put aside her personal feeling, took her
place at the bedside of the sufferer, and assumed the burden of care
which no one else seemed equal to, and was as tender and thoughtful for
her comfort as the fondest daughter could have been.
She planned everything when the end came, saw that all due respect was
paid to her father’s widow, and, after she had been laid away in a quiet
spot outside the city, kindly asked Sarah if she could be of any
assistance to her in her arrangements for the future.
The girl’s proud spirit seemed to be utterly subdued by her recent
trials, while the new resolves and hopes which had begun to take root in
her heart were already showing signs of bearing good fruit in the
future.
She broke down entirely at Salome’s considerate offer.
“I deserve nothing from you, Sadie,” she sobbed; “nothing but your
hatred and contempt, for I have never been anything but your enemy. I
only wonder how you could be so kind to mamma and so helpful to me at
this dreadful time. You know, I suppose,” she went on, flushing, “that I
am going to marry Norman Winthrop; I love him and—he loves me, even
though he knows all. But I will never annoy you with my presence; we
will go to live in some place where you and I need never meet. I am
sorry and ashamed for—everything. I know that expresses very little,
but, truly, to me it means a great deal.”
This confession occurred just after their return from the burial of Mrs.
Rochester, and Salome was too weary and exhausted to say much to the
remorseful girl; besides, it had come upon her so unexpectedly that she
scarcely knew how to answer her.
“Let us not talk any more of this now,” she said, “for you are worn out
with grief and watching; but, Sarah, you know that I am not vindictive.
Now, let me help you to bed, and when you are rested, I will come to see
you again.”
Sarah Rochester knew that she was forgiven for all the wrong of the past
by those few kind words, and for the first time in her life she wondered
how she could have cherished a feeling of enmity toward one who was so
thoroughly good and noble.
During this season of trouble, Salome had, of course, been obliged to
come in contact with Madame Winthrop and Evelyn, but she met them with
quiet courtesy, and during all their intercourse, was as respectful as
if she had entertained only the highest esteem for them. They were her
husband’s mother and sister, and for his sake she was careful to show
them all due regard.
They were astonished at her. They knew, of course, that as Sister Angela
she had accomplished almost miracles for them when she was at the
chateau; but it had not seemed so wonderful then. They had looked up to
her, relied upon her, and trusted in her, for such results had seemed
only in accordance with her character as a nurse and sister of mercy.
But now, as she moved so gently and deftly about the sick-room in all
her delicate beauty, doing just the right thing at the right moment, and
never sparing herself for one who had wronged and ill-used her for long
years, they marvelled not only at her efficiency but at her loveliness
of character and at her dignity of bearing under such trying
circumstances.
“I have lived in the world for fifty-five years,” Madame Winthrop said
to herself one day, as she watched Salome, while, with exceeding
gentleness, she bathed the hot face and hands of the sufferer and tried
in other ways to make her more comfortable, “and I have never been the
womanly woman that she is to-day in her youth.”
It was not a pleasant reflection, but it helped on the good work—the
better impulses and purposes that were beginning to take root in her
heart.
A week after Mrs. Rochester’s burial, Norman Winthrop sought Sarah and
begged for an immediate marriage.
“It is the only thing for us to do,” he urged. “You are alone in the
world, and need me to take care of you, while I need you to give me an
object in life; come, Sarah, let us begin together a new life, and see
if we two cannot manage to shed some lustre upon the name of Winthrop
before we die.”
She yielded to his pleadings, and a few days later there was a quiet
wedding in their pretty drawing-room, where, in the presence of only the
family and the Tillinghasts, they plighted their vows with more of
conscious responsibility and solemnity than either had ever experienced
before.
When the Americans then in Rome read the announcement of the marriage in
the next morning’s papers, it was very generally remarked that “it was
strange everybody had made such a mistake as to suppose that Dr.
Winthrop was to marry Miss Rochester,” and nothing more was said about
the matter.
The young couple had planned to leave immediately for New York, where
Norman intended to begin the practice of law, and just before their
departure Salome drew the bride quietly one side, as if for the purpose
of a private leave-taking.
The new Mrs. Winthrop was visibly agitated, and looking wistfully in her
companion’s face, said:
“Salome, you have been very good to me, and, believe me, it is hard for
me to say good-by. Once more let me tell you that I am sorry——”
“Hush; this is your wedding-day,” Salome said, smiling, and interrupting
her speech. “I believe you are going to be very happy in your new life—I
hope so, at any rate, and let this be the seal of my pardon.”
She slipped a small package into her hands as she spoke, adding,
hurriedly, as she turned away:
“Do not open it until you get home.”
Three weeks later, Sarah Winthrop broke the seal of that package, as she
sat with her husband in their room in the Hoffman House, New York, and
found within it a deed of gift to herself of fifty thousand dollars—the
interest only of which was to have fallen to her mother upon the
consummation of the Rochester-Hamilton marriage.
She threw herself into her husband’s arms weeping passionately.
“Norman! Norman!” she cried, “that girl is an angel, and my whole life
shall be spent in trying to be like her.”
Three months passed, and then Dr. Winthrop and his party arrived in New
York.
Madame Winthrop had not been well, and they had been obliged to delay
their return on her account, while her son was not a little anxious
regarding the state she was in.
There had been a terrible struggle going on in the proud woman’s heart
ever since the evening of Mrs. Tillinghast’s reception in Rome, and it
was slowly but surely undermining her health.
She was continually conscious of the great wrong that she had done her
son’s wife; she knew that she ought to acknowledge it, and yet her
almost indomitable will would not yield to what her conscience told her
was a solemn duty.
Salome knew how she was suffering, both mentally and physically, and she
sincerely pitied her, and longed to be at peace with her; yet she did
not really know how to help her, or how she would receive any attempt at
a reconciliation on her part.
The vessel on which they returned steamed into the harbor of New York
just as the sun was setting, one lovely afternoon. Madame was reclining
in her steamer-chair, where she had sat most of the day, somewhat remote
from every one else, as she supposed, for of late she had seemed to shun
all society, and they had humored her whim.
But she had not heard or noticed the slight, graceful figure that had
stolen upon her and now stood just behind her chair, regarding her with
an expression of sorrowful yearning.
The unhappy woman uttered a deep sigh as her heavy eyes swept the
gorgeous sky and then rested upon the spires and chimneys of the great
city which they were approaching.
“Home—home at last! I wonder if I shall ever be happy again?” she
muttered gloomily.
“It will be pleasant to be at home again, will it not?” said a low,
musical voice in her ear. “And—mother—will you not let me, from this
time forth, be a daughter to you in every sense of the word?”
Madame Winthrop started, and looked up into the tender, beautiful face
bending over her, an expression of wonder in her eyes, which gradually
filled with tears.
“Salome!” she said tremulously; “surely you were rightly named, for your
nature is—peace! The Word of God is true; it says, ‘a little child shall
lead them.’ You have led me where I would not voluntarily go, but I
believe, I hope, the way will end in ‘green pastures, and beside still
waters.’ My daughter, you have conquered me.”
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
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