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.