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.”