CHAPTER XXXI.
SALOME WITNESSES A HEART-RENDING TABLEAU.
After Mrs. Rochester’s departure for Paris, which, however, was known only to her daughter, Salome, who had been sitting up for the second time, although she had not yet been dressed, thought she would try to put on her clothing, and thus get a little accustomed to exertion, preparatory to going away the next day.
She was still very weak, and the effort made her weary and almost faint, so that she was obliged to lie down again upon her bed, where she instantly dropped asleep.
She slept for more than an hour, and felt greatly refreshed when she awoke.
“I wonder if I could walk about a little,” she said to herself. “I must get accustomed to the use of my feet. I wish Harriet were here to lend me her strong arm; I wonder why she has not been out to inquire for me! I hope she has not been ill again.”
She reached out for a bowl of beef-tea which stood upon the table, and drank a generous portion of it to brace herself for the effort she was contemplating; then rising, she began to move about the room, and was surprised to find herself stronger than she had supposed.
The door was open between the room she occupied and the one beyond, so she prolonged her walk into this, going very slowly, and taking hold of various objects to steady her steps.
She traversed the whole length of both rooms thus; then her strength gave out, and she sank panting into a low rocker to rest.
The door leading into Mrs. Rochester’s parlor was directly behind her, and partly open.
Salome had believed it to be empty until she was seated, when, to her consternation, she heard a strangely familiar voice, intense with passion, exclaim:
“Sadie, you do not answer me; tell me that you do love me in spite of this unnatural contract, which would have consigned you to a man whether you could love him or not? why couldn’t they have left people free to choose for themselves? Tell me, Sadie, I must have the truth.”
“Yes, then, if you will have the confession. I have loved you from the first hour of our meeting,” was the reply which came to Salome’s ears in Miss Rochester’s tones, while she experienced a feeling as of suffocation, and seemed turning to stone.
Then, powerless to move or fly from the terrible ordeal, she heard that other voice cry out triumphantly:
“My darling! my heart’s idol! I knew it; you could not hide it from me, even though you have tried to be so proper and demure at times. My love, my love, we were made for each other, and I would not exchange the bliss of this moment for a hundred Rochester-Hamilton fortunes.”
“But——” began Miss Rochester.
“We will have no ‘buts,’ my heart’s queen,” interrupted her companion, “I will not permit a worldly word or thought to mar this hallowed hour; you are mine, heart and soul, as I am yours——”
Salome could endure no more. The sound of that voice, uttering such passionate declarations of love, smote her with agony that was worse than death, and, nerved by despair, she sprang softly to her feet, turned one wild, anguished look toward the room behind her, and saw a picture that nearly drove her mad.
Standing with their backs toward the door were two figures, one—as she supposed—the man whom she had once fondly believed to be her husband, the other the girl who, for years, had been her worst enemy, locked in a lovers’ embrace.
Covering her eyes as if the sight had suddenly smitten her blind, the suffering young wife noiselessly groped her way back to her own room, where she threw herself prone upon her face on her bed.
She had thought that the bitterness of death was passed when she believed herself thrust out of her husband’s home; when she believed he had become wearied of her—weaned from her by the sneers and jibes of his proud mother and sister; but that seemed as nothing now, compared to the scene she had just witnessed, and which seemed to have been branded upon her brain with a red-hot iron.
Of course we know, although she could not, that Miss Rochester’s companion was not Dr. Winthrop. We know it must have been none other than Norman Winthrop, who had thus passionately declared himself to the reckless coquette, who had won his heart and lost her own while indulging in her favorite pastime of flirting.
The young man had plainly shown his growing infatuation for her ever since his arrival in Paris, and had secretly avowed that he would win her, in spite of the Rochester-Hamilton contract and her evident determination to fulfil its conditions.
The day when matters were thus brought to a crisis was a very warm one in September, and Miss Rochester, her mother having gone to Paris, sat alone in their pretty parlor, reading a new novel.
Norman Winthrop, while passing through the hall, glanced in at the half-open door, saw the girl, and she looked so lovely and enticing in her dainty white costume, as she sat by a shaded window, that he stopped upon the threshold and begged permission to enter.
“Mamma is away,” Miss Rochester said demurely, but looking up with alluring roguishness from the book in her hands.
“It is not mamma whom I wish to see,” the young man answered, with an admiring look, as he boldly stepped within the room and approached her.
She did not chide him as he sat down beside her, for she was lonely, and felt glad of anything that would pass away a dull hour, and they sat there chatting in low tones upon various topics for half an hour or more.
Then, all at once, there fell over them a significant silence, which was finally abruptly interrupted by Mr. Winthrop, who recklessly broke down all barriers, and declared:
“Sadie, I love you; you know it—must long have known it. Now tell me that you return my affection, and I shall be the happiest man upon the continent.”
This outburst had occurred just before Salome reached the rocker in Mrs. Rochester’s chamber, and then she had caught his next words:
“Sadie, you do not answer me,” etc.
Salome believed that the man who was speaking was he whom she loved—whose wife she had once believed herself to be. The voice was the same, the form, face, and bearing were those of Dr. Winthrop, as she just caught a glimpse of him when she shot that one despairing look inside the room.
She had heard Dr. Winthrop speak of his brother, but she had never been told that he was a twin, nor that the resemblance between the two was so strong that their most intimate friends had difficulty in distinguishing between them. And, strange as it may seem, she had never encountered Norman Winthrop during all her nursing in the villa. The rooms occupied by the various invalids were in different portions of the extensive building, and the nurses in charge were confined exclusively to their separate patients.
During her previous sojourn there, after Mr. Winthrop’s death, Salome had devoted herself to Evelyn, who was the most dangerously ill of those who recovered. Norman Winthrop had nursed the butler, under his brother’s direction and with his help, while the other nurses had attended Madame Winthrop and the Rochesters.
Salome scarcely left Evelyn’s room until she was out of danger. Her meals were served in a small ante-chamber adjoining, and she also slept there during her hours for rest, Mrs. Rochester relieving her during such times.
Since Dr. Winthrop’s illness, his brother had not seemed quite himself, and the physician had forbidden him to go near the sick man, saying he was liable to contract the disease and must use every precaution against it; so Mr. Tillinghast had relieved Salome when she needed rest, and had been very helpful and considerate at other times. Thus she had never seen Norman Winthrop near enough to realize his wonderful resemblance to his brother, and it is not strange that she was deceived regarding the identity of Miss Rochester’s ardent lover.
It was a pity that she had not remained in Mrs. Rochester’s room a few moments longer and heard the conclusion of the interview; she would at least have suffered less by learning the truth.
“Hush!” Miss Rochester said, just after Salome had fled from the scene; “you must not talk to me like this—I must not listen, and you know why.”
Norman Winthrop’s arms dropped from the supple form, which he had clasped to him in a passionate embrace when the girl had owned her love for him.
“You do not mean that, Sadie, after what you have confessed to me,” he said sternly.
“But I do. I ought never to have betrayed myself, but you wrung it from me,” she returned, with flushed cheeks and downcast eyes.
“Am I to understand that you still consider yourself bound by that wretched contract—that you intend to marry my brother, when you have told me that you love me?”
“Yes, I must.”
“Why?”
“You know; I must forfeit Brookside and a hundred thousand dollars if I do not, and there will be nothing left for mamma and me but the income of that paltry fifty thousand dollars.”
Norman Winthrop groaned.
“What an unnatural thing for a father to do!” he cried angrily. “The man must have had a heart of stone. But what is money, Sadie, compared with the happiness of a life-time? I shall have something from my father’s estate, though of course it will be but a trifle compared with the united estates of Brookside and Englehurst. But I love you, Sadie; I will work for you; I will make a fortune for you, if you will give me the incentive. O my darling, do not let your ambition ruin both our lives!”
Miss Rochester looked grave and thoughtful for a few moments after this earnest appeal. She was almost tempted to yield and become a good woman—a loved and loving wife, for she knew that she loved Norman Winthrop as she could never love another.
But pride, ambition, and fear of her mother conquered the promptings of her better nature.
“You must not tempt me,” she whispered hoarsely. “I shall hold by the contract—unless your brother refuses to abide by it.”
“Then I shall go to him and tell him how we stand,” cried her companion excitedly. “True would never hold a woman bound—not even for millions—who had given her heart to another.”
“You shall not—if you lisp a word of what has passed between us I shall hate you, for—I have sworn that I will be mistress of Brookside and Englehurst,” the girl passionately returned, though she was white to her lips.
“Sadie Rochester, you are a heartless flirt! You have won my heart and now you cast it from you as a worthless thing. I know I am not a paragon, like my brother—I have been the black sheep in the family ever since I was a boy; but you might have made a good man of me—you have made a devil instead.”
He turned abruptly from her and left the rooms, while the proud girl sank back in her chair and wept as she seldom wept.
Poor Salome, meanwhile, was no less wretched. Until that hour she believed she had schooled her heart to give up her idol—that she had relinquished all hope of ever being anything to him again.
But now she knew that she had not. She realized now that, during all her intercourse with him—while she was nursing his friend in the hospital; as she saw his devotion to others and learned to know more fully his goodness of heart, his nobility of soul; while he lay so sick himself—so helpless and dependent—she had been growing to love him more fondly, more idolatrously than before.
How she hung over him when he lay so deathly ill! How she had watched every symptom—every breath, even! How she had despaired when she had thought he must go down into the dark valley—how once, when she believed that another dawn would find him cold in death, she had almost been tempted to tear away those unsightly bandages from her face—cast aside those hideous glasses, reveal her identity, and beg for one last word of love from his lips!
Then how she had exulted when she saw the sluggish tide of life turn in his favor, and knew that he would live, if she did not relax her vigilance!
Oh, she had not spared herself, she had again won him back from the grave, and he seemed, more than ever, a part of her very self.
She lay there now upon her bed, more wretched than she had ever been, thinking of all this; remembering with a thrill, how, when he had slept, she had watched his dear face by the hour, stealthily kissing his hair, his hand, even the pillow on which he lay, but believing that, when he should get well, she could go away and leave him, never hoping, never expecting, any return.
But she knew that, through all, there had been a faint hope in her heart that something would occur to reunite them, and he would love her again as he had seemed to do during those few happy days in New York, just before his departure for Europe. Even after Madame Winthrop had told her that he was betrothed to Miss Rochester, she had half believed that he meant her when he called for his “darling.”
Now all these fond hopes were at an end, for she believed she had heard with her own ears his passionate declaration of love for another—had seen him clasp another to his heart, even as he had clasped her on that last morning in New York, and that other Sarah Rochester.
What irony of fate, indeed, as the girl herself had once mockingly remarked. How could she endure it?
For hours she lay there and fought with her rebellious heart, and against the doom which seemed to lie before him.
How could she bear to give him up to one whom she knew to be false to the very core of her being?
He was still noble and true, in spite of the fact that he had been influenced to do her a great wrong, and she knew that his whole future would be ruined if he should marry such a scheming, ambitious, unprincipled woman.
She could prevent it, she knew, by the utterance of a single sentence; for Truman Winthrop would never knowingly wed a woman so depraved as Sarah Rochester to gain a thousand fortunes.
Should she tell him? should she try to save him from such a fate, even though she might never hope to regain his love for herself? Should she take vengeance upon those two women for the injuries of the past by thus blasting all their hopes for the future?
Ah, no; desperate as she was, heart-broken, weary of life, she would never be actuated by a feeling of revenge; she would prefer to suffer on in silence, as she had suffered for so long, rather than lower herself in her own esteem, or violate her conscience and the commands of the Master, whom she tried to serve, by thus claiming “an eye for an eye, or a tooth for a tooth.” Besides, if Truman Winthrop loved the girl as madly as he appeared to love her, why should she undeceive him as to her character? He would perhaps hate her for it, and she would gain nothing by it.
When the sun had set and the day was drawing to a close, her battle was fought, her victory won, and she lay quiet and peaceful, but weak and so weary from the strife that she would gladly have laid down the burden of life then and there.
But even this mood, this desire to be at rest, passed after a time.
“I have one true and honest friend,” she thought. “Harriet, at least, is faithful to me; I will go back to her, and when I get strong again, we will take up our work together once more. I can at least do some good with this money that Miss Leonard has given me, if I cannot be happy.”
She fell asleep soon after, and did not awake until some one touched her upon the shoulder.
Her eyes flashed open with a startled look, and she found Miss Rochester standing over her, a cruel smile wreathing her lips, and she sat up shivering as she recalled where she had last seen her.
“Well, Miss Howland, alias Sister Angela, alias—well, no matter who else—were you edified by the tableau that you witnessed a while ago from the other room?”
The girl had caught sight of Salome as she was fleeing from the scene, and her quick mind had grasped the situation at once, and she had resolved to use the circumstance to further her own schemes.
Salome flushed hotly.
“I did not know there was any one in the room,” she faltered.
“Well, after what you have seen, you surely can have no desire to claim Dr. Winthrop as your husband—even if he were willing to——”
“No—no!” interposed Salome, a note of agony in her tones; “if the marriage was illegal, as you have all told me, I have now no wish to have it ratified; even if it had been legal I should wish to have it annulled—I would wish to hold no man bound who was ashamed to own me as his wife—who loved and desired to marry another.”
“Do you really mean that, Salome?” Miss Rochester demanded, in a tone of repressed eagerness. “If so, you can prove it.”
“Yes, I mean it. How can I prove it more fully?” she asked, with white lips.
“By writing a letter that I will dictate. Will you?”
“To—to him?” the young wife stammered, a terrible sinking at her heart.
“Not for the world? Are you a fool?” cried her companion, with a start and frown. Then she continued, “you know that I am going to marry him——”
“And commit a fearful wrong,” interposed Salome sternly.
“What is that to you, since you do not want him yourself? I shall have to answer for my own sins,” was the rude retort.
“But I could prevent it. Oh, perhaps it is my duty to prevent it,” cried Salome, in distress.
“You will not dare!” cried Miss Rochester fiercely.
“I should dare, if I believed it right,” Salome said firmly, “but under the circumstances I cannot—matters must adjust themselves as they will.”
“And you will write the letter I desire?” she eagerly questioned.
“I must know just what you want before I promise.”
“Well, since I am to marry Dr. Winthrop,” Miss Rochester began, “I cannot help feeling a little squeamish about the ceremony which you two went through. Of course Dr. Winthrop believes that he is doubly free, for he thinks you are dead, and you do not wish to undeceive him?”
“No,” but the white lips quivered painfully.
“Then if he should marry me, and by any possibility it should be discovered, by and by, that the ceremony between you would hold, don’t you see what an unpleasant predicament he would be in—what scandal and trouble would ensue if your existence should be discovered?”
“Oh, why will you torture me thus?” moaned Salome.
“Dr. Winthrop could be arrested for bigamy,” her tormentor went on relentlessly. “I don’t say would be, mind you—I am only suggesting a possibility, which for my own peace of mind I want to guard against. Since you do not wish him to know that you are alive, or assert any claim upon him, you might at least be willing to signify as much.”
“How can I—what good would it do?” Salome asked, not clearly comprehending the plot.
“Wait; I will dash off the letter as I want it,” said her companion.