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.