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.