CHAPTER XXXV.
HARRIET’S SEARCH FOR SALOME.
Harriet went slowly down the avenue, after leaving the villa, looking the picture of dejection and misery.
On and on she plodded toward the village, taking no note of distance or her surroundings, until, all at once, a frisky dog, that she had kindly fed with dainty bits from the sick-rooms while she was nursing in the chateau, bounded out of a thicket and rushed forward, fawning upon her.
She was startled, for everything about her had been so silent, so apparently deserted, and, in trying to avoid the antics of the joyful creature, her foot caught in her skirts, she stumbled, and fell upon the ground.
She was not hurt, only frightened and trembling, and just then she heard a low exclamation of surprise, and the next moment a figure sprang toward her and helped her to her feet.
It was Dr. Winthrop, who had been concealed from her view in a rustic arbor beyond the thicket, where he had been reading.
“Madame Winter!” he cried astonished, as he saw who she was. “Are you hurt? I had no idea what Don was up to or I would not have allowed him to rush at you.”
“No, I’m only startled and a bit upset,” Harriet replied, as she tried to recover her equanimity. “But, oh, Dr. Winthrop, I’m in great trouble.”
“Trouble!” he repeated kindly. “Come, then, and sit down while you tell me about it,” and he led her to the arbor where he had been sitting.
“Now unburden yourself, my good woman,” he went on, with increasing sympathy, as he noted her quivering lips and tearful eyes, “and let me see if I cannot find some way to help you.”
“It is about Sister Angela, sir——” Harriet began.
“Sister Angela!” interrupted Dr. Winthrop, anxiety and interest depicted on his thin face. “What about her? I know that she was taken suddenly ill, and went away from here about a month ago. I trust she did not—die!”
“No one can tell—no one knows; no one has seen her since she left here,” Harriet cried.
“No one has seen her since she left here four weeks ago!” Dr. Winthrop exclaimed in great astonishment.
“No.”
“Have you been to the convent to inquire for her?”
“No; you see, sir, I can’t talk with the sisters. Sister Angela had to tell me in English what they said, and so since she’s been away I’ve stayed mostly by myself, but the mother, as they call her, sent me a letter from her about three weeks ago.”
“Three weeks ago! Where was it written from?” Dr. Winthrop asked eagerly. “I thought you said nothing was known of her movements since she left here!”
“So I did, sir. The letter did not tell me much, only that she hoped to come to Paris in about two weeks. It was written from here—at least it was mailed from the village.”
“That is very strange!—written three weeks ago, and mailed from the village, and she left the chateau four weeks ago,” mused Dr. Winthrop.
He seemed to be absorbed in thought for a few minutes; then he said gravely:
“It is very mysterious! You are sure the sisters at the convent know nothing about her?”
“No, sir; they would have told me if they had heard anything—there is another sister there who speaks a little English.”
“Then I fear that something serious has happened to her,” Dr. Winthrop continued. “I am afraid that she was attacked with cholera after she left here—that, in her thoughtful care for others, she did not wish to carry the disease back to the convent, and so resolved to keep it to herself and remain at the village. She could not have been very ill at first, and so, to quiet suspicion, wrote to you and the mother-superior in her usual cheerful strain. Then—I am afraid, Madame Winter, that—that she must have had a relapse, and——”
“Died!” cried Harriet with a shudder. “Oh! that was just the way Mrs. Rochester thought it out, and perhaps it’s true,” and bowing her head upon her hand the woman rocked her body to and fro in an agony of grief pitiful to behold.
“Do not despair,” Dr. Winthrop said, trying to comfort her a little; “we will not give up all hope while there is any doubt as to her fate. We must not spend our time in idle grief—we will bestir ourselves, and do all that we can to solve the mystery. If I were only stronger I would start out at once upon the search. But do you go, my good woman, to the village yonder, and ascertain if any one answering Sister Angela’s description has been ill there. If you can learn nothing there, return to the convent, tell them what you have been told here to-day, and ask the sisters’ help in looking up the case.
“It is now three o’clock,” he continued, glancing at his watch. “A train leaves here for Paris at six, and that will give you ample time to find out if Sister Angela has been ill at the village; then you can return to the city in season to interview the mother-superior and the sisters at the convent. Now hasten, and be sure to let me know by the morning post what success you have. I would go with you, but this exciting news has so unnerved me I have not the strength; but if I do not get a favorable report from you to-morrow, I will come at once to Paris, in spite of everything, and see what I can do.”
Harriet rose as he concluded, and bidding him a brief good-day hastened away, somewhat relieved and comforted, to have her burden so heartily shared by another.
Of course, she heard nothing at the village, although she was most persistent and diligent in her inquiries.
No one had seen a gray sister there, no one had been ill at the inn since the plague began to subside; surely no one had died there, or it would have been known throughout the place, and the curé notified.
So, with a little comfort instilled into her heart by these positive assurances, Harriet went back to Paris, and to the convent of the gray nuns, to consult with the mother-superior.
Her anxiety and perplexity were in no wise relieved upon reaching the convent, for neither the mother nor sisters could give her the slightest information, or suggest any solution to the mystery.
Poor Harriet passed a sad and harrowing night. She could not close her eyes, neither could she rest. She composed herself sufficiently, however, to write to Dr. Winthrop, and went out to post the letter as soon as the day dawned.
But the young physician had been scarcely less anxious than Salome’s faithful attendant. So all night long he, too, had been wakeful, restless, and anxious over Sister Angela’s strange disappearance.
When morning broke he had worked himself into such a state of excitement that he could endure it no longer, though he concealed it so well that no one suspected the trouble upon his mind.
At the breakfast-table Dr. Winthrop announced his intention of taking a drive, as the day was fine, and he thought the air and exercise would do him good.
No one opposed him in this, and as soon as the meal was over he ordered his carriage, and, without inviting any one to accompany him, drove away.
He had determined to go to Paris, to try and ascertain for himself what had become of Sister Angela.
Harriet was greatly surprised when, in answer to a ring of the bell, she went to the door and found him standing there.
She knew that he could not have received her letter, and for a moment a thrill of joy shot through her heart. But his first words blasted the little hope she had felt.
“Did you find her?” he demanded almost curtly, and without waiting for any exchange of formalities.
“No,” replied the woman, with a sad shake of her head; “and I’m almost sure that something dreadful has happened to her.”
“Do not be discouraged,” he said more cheerfully than he felt; “we must find her, or at least gain some tidings of her, if we go systematically to work.”
And he did go systematically to work at once. He sent his carriage back to the chateau with a message to his mother, telling her that he should remain in Paris for the present, as important business there demanded his attention. Then he sought the prefect of police, and related Salome’s story to him, telling him to spare no expense in searching for her, and keep him notified of any information which might be gained from day to day.
More than this, he employed a couple of private detectives, hoping to gain some clew in this way.
Madame Winthrop was greatly astonished when her son’s carriage returned to the chateau, and his man brought her the message which he had sent.
“Why! we leave for Rome the day after to-morrow! What can he mean?” she exclaimed in dismay.
Norman knew nothing of his brother’s plans or the business which detained him in Paris, and, with her curiosity excited to the highest pitch, and piqued besides because it was evident that he had no intention of accompanying the party to Rome, she immediately followed him to Paris where she had a somewhat exciting interview.
“I cannot understand you, Truman,” she told him in her most dignified manner, “running away in this incomprehensible manner, just as we are leaving for Rome. What will Sadie think of you?”
“Really, mother,” Dr. Winthrop gravely replied, “I was not aware that I had been guilty of anything so very rude, and as for what Miss Rochester may think that cannot affect me in any way.”
“How can you say that, my son? You should have more regard for her feelings. Mrs. Rochester is very much hurt, for she thinks you are not using Sadie fairly at all.”
“Why so?” the young man demanded, surprised.
“She thinks, under the circumstances, that you are exceedingly indifferent to her.”
“Under what circumstances?”
“Why, when a man is pledged to marry a woman it is expected that he will show her some attention.”
“It cannot be possible that you or Mrs. Rochester believe I am pledged to Sadie Rochester!” said Dr. Winthrop, looking exceedingly annoyed.
“Any one would believe that we had a right to think so, after a certain interview which occurred here in Paris, and your subsequent attentions to the young lady. Really, Truman, you had no right to compromise Sadie if you had no intention of marrying her,” Madame Winthrop concluded.
“I have never had any intention of compromising Miss Rochester,” Dr. Winthrop thoughtfully responded; and yet, out of the loyalty and delicacy of his noble soul, he could not bring himself to explain even to his mother how the girl had forgotten and betrayed herself, thus compromising him, rather than he her.
“Truman, you ought to marry her. I have set my heart upon your marrying her. Will you?” and the woman turned a pleading face up to him.
“Mother!” he cried out sharply, “do not talk to me of marriage. I do not wish to marry any one. I have no heart to bestow upon any woman. It died—it was burned to ashes with my Salome,” and a shiver of agony ran over him, leaving him deathly white, as he thought of his beloved whom he believed had met a tragic fate in New York.
“But surely you will marry some time, Truman—you will not live single all your life—promise me that you will not. I could not bear the thought of you, with all your talents, isolating yourself, and leaving no one to perpetuate your name. Oh, why cannot you be sensible and marry Sadie?—you have led her to believe that you care for her.”
Madam was very much in earnest, and she plainly betrayed it.
Dr. Winthrop frowned and compressed his white lips to keep himself from giving expression to a bitter retort. He could not forget, if his mother did, that but for her he might even now have been happy in the love and possession of a beautiful wife.
“Why will you harp upon that subject?” he said in a low, restrained tone.
“Because I do not want you to waste your life; because I want you to have what rightly belongs to you—the Hamilton fortune,” she responded passionately; then she added vehemently: “Promise me one thing, before I go, and I will try to be satisfied—promise me, if you ever marry again, that Sadie Rochester shall be your wife.”
He smiled bitterly.
“Well, mother,” he said at last, to end the matter, “if it will ease your mind, I will promise you that much—if I ever do take to myself a wife, Sadie Rochester shall occupy that position—that is, if she should desire it. But I beg—nay, I insist, that you never broach the subject to me again. I prefer to act independently in all such matters.”
Madame Winthrop’s face lighted.
She felt that he had fairly committed himself at last, and she believed it would be comparatively easy for Sadie to win him now.
“You will come with us to Rome?” she said eagerly.
“No; I cannot. I have work to do here in Paris yet.”
“What work? Surely you do not intend to resume your work in the hospitals—there can be no need of that now,” madam remarked with a clouded brow.
“I am going to make a study of certain diseases, for a while, preparatory to my return to the United States.”
“And will you not come to Rome at all while we are there?”
“Perhaps, by and by; I cannot tell,” was the evasive reply.
Madam had to content herself with that, for she saw that it would not do to press the matter further, and she returned to the chateau, where she reported the concession which her son had made, to Mrs. Rochester.
“How long does his majesty expect I am going to wait for him to make up his royal mind whether he will condescend to take me or not?” Miss Rochester scornfully remarked with a toss of her handsome head, when this was repeated to her.