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diff --git a/76066-0.txt b/76066-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b5ab34b --- /dev/null +++ b/76066-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,16858 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76066 *** + + + + + + 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_. + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76066 *** |