CHAPTER XXXIV.
SALOME IS MISSED.
A few days passed. Salome was kindly treated in every respect save that of being kept a close prisoner.
She was served by a pretty and good-natured maid; she had every luxury of the season provided to tempt her appetite, and was provided with a variety of entertaining reading, also with materials for fancy work to occupy her time.
But she became terribly tired of her solitary confinement, and irritated at being so hedged about that she could find no way to send out her letter.
She had tried to sound the fidelity of the girl who waited upon her, but found that she was entirely devoted to the interests of her employer, and that it would be worse than useless to attempt to bribe her to assist to escape; so she wisely refrained from exciting suspicions that she was contemplating any such measure, and even feigned a content and cheerfulness in her presence which she was far from feeling.
Dr. Arnot paid her a visit every day, but she always received him with a cool dignity which rather awed and held him at arm’s length, in spite of his habitual composure and assurance.
One morning, however, she told him firmly that she could not remain shut up in that one room any longer—that she must have more liberty or her health would suffer.
“But I am afraid of you, mademoiselle,” he returned, while he regarded her searchingly and with a peculiar smile. “There is no reason why you should not have more freedom if you will only be reasonable and promise me that you will not make trouble for me by trying to escape.”
Salome smiled scornfully.
“Monsieur Arnot must have a strange distrust of his own power if he imagines that a weak girl can escape through solid brick walls, or between iron bars, or elude the vigilance of his many attendants,” she sarcastically returned. “I do not say,” she continued, “that I should not avail myself of the opportunity of walking out of this institution if the way were opened for me; but since your precautions are sufficient to restrain your hundreds of other patients, they surely ought to be sufficient for me also. I must at least have the liberty of the ward with your harmless patients, if nothing more.”
“Have you no fear of them, mademoiselle?” the physician asked with evident curiosity.
“No; why should I fear them more than they fear each other?”
“But they are mad, and do not know the difference.”
“And I am sane, consequently I do know the difference. Thank you, Dr. Arnot, for the admission, unintentional though it may have been,” said Salome dryly, while the man flushed, and thought her very quick-witted.
“Well,” he returned, after considering a moment, “you shall have the liberty of the ward, if you so desire,” and walking to the door, he opened it, and held it for her to pass out.
Salome was not slow to avail herself of this privilege, and walked immediately and fearlessly into the long and lofty room, or hall, into which twenty or more smaller rooms opened, and where there were assembled as many women of various ages and appearances.
The portières, which she had noticed on the night of her arrival, and which had been so cleverly arranged to cut off the end of the hall, had been swept aside, and she could now look down the whole length of the vast room.
It was lighted by immense grated windows at either end, and also by a rotunda in the centre, and was clean, airy, and cheerful.
Salome passed slowly down the ward, her keen glance taking in every detail of persons and things about her, while she was no less curiously scrutinized by the other occupants of the place, who were quick to recognize the fact that there was a stranger in their midst.
She spoke a kind word here and there, for her sympathies were readily enlisted, gave a smile to others, and it was evident, from the friendly glances which were bestowed upon her by all, that she would soon become a favorite with those harmless but pitiable creatures.
Dr. Arnot watched her, a troubled look on his face.
“I don’t like this business—I wish I hadn’t put my finger in it,” he muttered; “the girl is no more crazy than I am, and I was a fool to lend myself to madam’s scheme, though I did need the money sadly. I believe—as soon as I am sure that she has left the country—I’ll make terms with the girl on condition that she will promise not to denounce me.”
Alas! delays are dangerous, says the old proverb, and Dr. Arnot’s doom was sealed when he decided in favor of procrastination.
A fortnight slipped by, and Salome continued to mingle every day with the poor wrecks about her, and though her heart was often sad with hope deferred, she became deeply interested in her strange companions. For some of them she grew to feel a great tenderness, while to them she seemed like a beautiful saint.
If a patient were ill or fractious, the attendant had only to send for Salome, when a few quiet words, a clasp of the hand, a softly breathed hymn, would subdue the unruly spirit, restore harmony, or lull the restless sufferer to sleep.
But during all this time the anxious girl had found no opportunity to send her letter to Harriet. It still lay in the depths of the capacious pocket of her nun’s dress.
There was scarcely a day that there was not some visitor in the ward; sometimes there were two or three; but no one had yet appeared in whom she felt that she could have confidence. Besides, they were always accompanied by Dr. Arnot, one of the other physicians, or by some attendant, and Salome felt that she was always closely watched at such times, consequently she had not dared to address any one. There were times when she was sad and depressed because of hope deferred, but if anything could have consoled her it would have been the fact that she was doing good, while it was not entirely uninteresting to study the different phases of insanity around her.
* * * * *
Meantime Harriet Winter had become very anxious about her young mistress.
She had received a letter which Salome had inclosed to her in one which she had written to the mother-superior, and in which she had told her when she might look for her return to Paris. So she had given herself no uneasiness until the time had passed and she did not make her appearance or send her any word regarding plans for the future.
Then she began to be troubled, and one morning took a sudden resolve that she would go out to the chateau and ascertain the cause of Salome’s detention.
The Rochesters and Winthrops—the latter having returned a few days after Salome’s departure, in good health and spirits—were very busy preparing for their departure to Italy, and Harriet found considerable confusion prevailing at the villa.
As it happened, Mrs. Rochester was passing through the great hall just as the servant was admitting her, and instantly realized that she was on the brink of a danger which she had not foreseen.
It will be remembered that when Mrs. Rochester had questioned Salome regarding her relations with the woman, the young girl had evaded her, and she had no suspicions that they had any interests in common. She simply imagined that the woman was grateful for the care which had been bestowed upon her during her illness, and so when Salome had called upon her for help in her extremity, at the chateau, she had cheerfully responded, to prove her gratitude. She did not dream that they lived together, or that the woman felt any special responsibility regarding Salome’s safety or well-being, and, since she had not known of the letter received through the mother-superior, she did not suppose her to know anything of the movements or intentions of Salome; she was, therefore, considerably disturbed when she heard her inquiring in somewhat excited tones for Sister Angela.
She immediately went forward, sent the servant away, and quietly drew Harriet into a small reception-room and shut the door against intruders, while she congratulated herself that she had happened to appear upon the scene just at that opportune moment.
“My good woman, what do you wish?—what can I do for you?” she inquired, assuming a tone of kindly interest.
“I’ve come to see Miss Sa—Sister Angela,” Harriet returned, having almost betrayed her knowledge of Salome’s identity, in her excitement.
“Why,” exclaimed Mrs. Rochester, affecting great surprise, “did you expect to find Sister Angela here now?”
“Of course I did, marm! Where else should I look for her?” Harriet returned, growing more distressed at the confirmation of the statement made by a servant that the nun was not there. “She came here to nurse,” she went on, “but wrote me about three weeks ago that she should come home in about a fortnight. It’s three weeks now; so I came to see for myself what kept her. I keep house for her, marm, in a little house just under the convent walls,” she concluded, in explanation.
“But,” responded Mrs. Rochester, still with an appearance of surprise, “Sister Angela’s duties here ceased some four weeks ago. Did she not return to Paris at that time?”
“What!” cried Harriet in a frightened tone, and growing pale; “it’s true, then, what the servant told me—she isn’t here?”
“No; she left Dr. Winthrop some four weeks ago,” Mrs. Rochester answered. “She was taken ill here very suddenly one day—she fainted, and seemed quite worn out; but, as soon as she was able, she insisted upon returning to Paris.”
“Good gracious, marm! you can’t mean it!” exclaimed the woman wildly; “and she never came home at all!”
“Is it possible?” said Mrs. Rochester with sympathetic earnestness. “Perhaps, then, she went to the convent.”
“No, marm; she has her own house, and she would have come directly to me,” said Harriet.
“Then she isn’t a nun at all,” remarked her companion in a peculiar tone; “for nuns do not keep house by themselves.”
“Well, that doesn’t matter now,” Harriet returned evasively, but looking rather crest-fallen at having betrayed so much. “It does matter, though, where she is now. I must find her right away. When did she go away from here?” she demanded rising, for she was wild to begin her search for the missing girl.
“Let me see,” mused Mrs. Rochester; “I believe it was just four weeks ago yesterday, that——”
“Four weeks!” interrupted Harriet scornfully. “Why, I had a letter from her three weeks ago, and she said she’d be at home in about a fortnight, as I told you before.”
Mrs. Rochester remembered and had been somewhat upset by the intelligence; still she was bound to stick to her text if possible.
“Are you sure the letter was written only three weeks ago?” she inquired, simply to gain time.
“Sure, marm; I ain’t likely to make many mistakes about Miss—about Sister Angela,” Harriet replied.
“But it certainly was four weeks ago yesterday that she had the attack I spoke of; Dr. Winthrop would himself tell you so, and that she wished to return at once to Paris.”
“Well, I’m beat!” Harriet exclaimed in a tremulous voice; “for that letter was certainly written three weeks ago, and it was postmarked from this town.”
“Perhaps,” Mrs. Rochester suggested, a bright idea occurring to her, “she was taken worse after leaving here, and was obliged to stop over at the inn or somewhere in the village; then, when she was a little better, she may have written you, but, not wishing to alarm you, told you that she would be home in a couple of weeks; then she may have been taken worse again, and—and perhaps is ill somewhere now.”
“No—no, marm, that isn’t like her at all; if she had been sick, she’d have sent for me to come and take care of her,” Harriet returned, tears streaming over her cheeks. “I tell you, marm, it’ll be a sad day for me if anything has happened to her.”
Her heart was full of anxiety and fear, and she imagined a hundred ills that might have befallen her dear young lady; but she did not once suspect treachery on the part of any one at the chateau, for she could conceive of no motive that would prompt any one to injure her. Salome had never confided anything of her history, and she did not suppose she had ever met either the Rochesters or the Winthrops before she went to nurse them at the villa.
The wily Mrs. Rochester, after suggesting that perhaps Sister Angela had probably succumbed to a sudden and fatal attack of illness, was extremely anxious to get rid of her excitable visitor. She feared that Dr. Winthrop might learn that the devoted and self-sacrificing nun who had nursed him back to life was unaccountably missing. If so, he would certainly spare no efforts to get tidings of her, and, if possible, restore her to the lamenting Harriet.
When Harriet Winter left the chateau, it was with the determination to use every means in her power to find her beloved friend.