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.