CHAPTER XXXIX.

SISTER ANGELA AGAIN.

During all this time Dr. Winthrop was very busy. He was making a special study of diseases of the eye, ear, and brain, besides attending to some regular duties in one of the hospitals.

He courted labor, study, excitement—anything, in fact that would help him to drown his own troubles, and keep him from thinking of the past.

Meantime, Salome was trying to bear with what patience and fortitude she could, her cruel incarceration and the sad sights which daily came under her observation, while she strove to do what she was able to mitigate the wretched condition of many of her companions.

One wet, dreary afternoon, when thick clouds obscured the sky and a cold rain beat sharply against the windows of the ward, which was unusually dark and gloomy, Salome gathered the restless inmates of the room beneath the rotunda, and tried to cheer and enliven them by relating an interesting story.

Her heart had been unusually heavy all day, she was very sad from hope long deferred, and she felt that she must do something to effectually distract her thoughts from herself and her hard lot.

It proved to be an effectual, though temporary remedy for she soon became so absorbed in her employment, and in watching its effect upon various members of her daft audience, that she did not hear the door as it opened near one end of the long ward to admit a couple of visitors.

Monsieur Arnot was with them, and they appeared to be distinguished people—people toward whom he exhibited considerable deference.

They came slowly down the room together, and all three were earnestly discussing some interesting questions.

Salome’s back was toward them, and she was not aware of their presence, and kept on with her story, although some of her listeners rose and moved down the room toward the strangers. This often happened, however, for she could not always hold the interest of every one, and so she paid no heed to them.

They gathered around the visitors, regarding them curiously, and Dr. Arnot called the attention of his guests to one or two peculiar cases, and then some slight movement—or was it a familiar tone that was wafted toward her?—made Salome turn and look behind her.

That one glance was like a galvanic battery to her.

She sprang from her chair, with a low cry of mingled joy and terror; then she suddenly buried her face in her hands, as if to hide it from observation; for, as we know, since she had been in the asylum, she had discarded all her head-gear, also her unsightly spectacles, which had so completely disguised her, believing that in that place she was in no danger of having her identity discovered.

For one moment she stood like a statue thus, then she turned her back again upon the strangers, and glided with drooping head and a hopeless air into the remotest corner of the vast room where she remained motionless, scarcely appearing to breathe, and, as if looking from the window.

The attendant, who was in the habit of watching Salome closely, had observed her strange deportment, so different from her usual nervous, eager interest when there were strangers present, and wondered at it. Hitherto, she had been one of the first to come forward and watch with a keen eye and intense interest every movement of visitors. Now, all at once, she appeared terrified and anxious to shun observation, while her colorless, averted face and despairing attitude, plainly indicated that something had occurred to alarm her, which might develop her peculiar phase of insanity.

He was standing near Dr. Arnot and his guests as he observed this.

“How very strange!” he remarked in an earnest tone.

One of the gentlemen turned to him as he said this; then his glance followed his and caught sight of that motionless figure by the window.

“To what do you refer?” he asked with some curiosity.

“To that girl yonder; it’s a peculiar case, very,” the attendant replied. “She belongs to a fine family, is lovely, cultivated, and remarkably amiable, but strangely enough, she imagines herself to be a nun—one of the gray nuns——”

“One of the gray nuns!” exclaimed his companion, his glance again seeking the slender, drooping figure—he had not noticed her dress when he looked before.

“Oui, monsieur. It is a great trial to her friends, for she insisted upon adopting their dress, and was continually doing the strangest things in that character; but she is perfectly harmless, very gentle, very lovable, and beautiful as an angel. Would monsieur like to come nearer to get a better view of her?”

The stranger nodded, and the two men moved down the room together, and ere long the sound of their footsteps fell distinctly upon Salome’s ear.

She began to tremble violently now. There was no way of escape for her. If she turned to flee, she must confront them; but what could she do? a few steps more and they would be beside her.

A shiver ran over her slight frame, then once more she dropped her face upon her hands, effectually concealing it from view, and stood thus, awaiting what would come next.

They saw how excited she had become and they stopped, feeling that it would be unwise to go nearer to increase her agitation.

But something about the drooping figure seemed suddenly to impress the stranger—some thought, some memory, made him turn eagerly to the attendant.

“What does she call herself—what name has she been known by in this character?” he questioned.

The quick, sharp, almost authoritative tone surprised the attendant, and caused him to observe his companion more closely.

He was very pale, there was a startled look in his eye, his lips were compressed, his manner excited.

“Sister Angela, monsieur——”

“Sister Angela!” repeated the man in an eager, joyous tone, and he took a quick step forward, as if he would have sprung to the girl’s side.

Then he evidently checked himself, as if it had occurred to him that he must do nothing to alarm or agitate the girl.

“Stay!” he said. “I must speak with Dr. Arnot at once,” and turning, he retraced his steps, with a swift resolute tread, to the superintendent’s side.

Salome, almost overcome with many conflicting emotions, had heard his question, also the attendant’s reply, and then Dr. Winthrop’s eager, joyous repetition of her name; for the stranger was he.

It told her that he knew of her mysterious disappearance, that he had been anxious about her, and was now delighted to have found her.

His glad tones made her heart beat tumultuously, and so increased her trembling that it seemed as if she must sink to the floor.

Should she turn and claim her freedom?

It seemed her only chance, and yet she hesitated.

Ah! if she had but had her usual head-gear, her friendly cap, with its broad black frill, to conceal her face; if she had even had her colored spectacles to hide her eyes, she would not have lost a moment. As Sister Angela she would have thrown herself upon his protection, told how she had been entrapped, and beg him to save her.

But as Salome Howland, she could not turn and face the man from whom she had fled, believing him disloyal to her, and that he had thrust her from his home—the man whom she believed she had so recently seen clasping her bitterest enemy to his heart, and in whose ear she had heard him murmuring words of fondest love.

Ah! she could not regain her liberty, even though this might be her only opportunity to escape from that horrible place, at the cost of having her identity discovered. She could not bear to see the look of astonishment, of horror, and blighted hope, which she thought must sweep over his face, when he should learn that she was alive, and that, if his marriage with her had been legal, Sarah Rochester could never be his wife, at least, until the former tie was annulled.

These thoughts flashed through her brain in that one brief moment, succeeding the announcement of her supposed name, and the agony that she suffered may be imagined.

She did not hear him say that he must speak with Dr. Arnot, for he had turned as he spoke, and she only became conscious that he had gone and left her to her fate, as she heard his retreating footsteps, and her heart seemed suddenly rent in twain.

He had been told that she was Sister Angela; he knew that she was the nurse to whom he owed so much, and even though he believed her to be insane, he might, at least, have come to her side, taken her hand, and spoken a word of kindness and friendly sympathy; common gratitude and humanity should have prompted as much as that after all that she had done and risked for him and his.

She half turned and darted a furtive glance behind her.

Dr. Winthrop was talking rapidly and earnestly with Monsieur Arnot—appeared to be asking some favor of him.

Then he paused, and Salome saw Dr. Arnot shake his head decidedly as he replied, while with a nervousness that was wholly foreign to him, he seemed all at once to be anxious to hurry his visitors from the ward.

“Oh, it is my only chance—my only hope!” Salome said to herself, as she saw them all turn and move toward the door; “but I cannot—I cannot meet him; it would kill me to have him recognize me and then turn coldly from me—hating me because I still live to mar his hopes for the future.”

Ah, the agony of that moment! Her brain seemed on fire; her heart beat so heavily in her bosom that a sense of suffocation made her gasp and pant for breath; all the strength seemed to forsake her limbs, and a cold perspiration gathered on her brow.

Now the visitors have reached the door. Dr. Arnot opens it and stands back to allow them to pass through, his face pale and anxious. One has crossed the threshold—the other is on the point of doing so; another moment, and he will be gone, and Salome believes that then she shall really go mad—that reason will surely forsake its throne.

With a low cry of despair she falls upon her knees and stretches out her hands toward the man whom she loves with a deathless love, the agony of a breaking heart stamped on her colorless face, and gleaming from her wild eyes.

At that instant, the figure in the doorway—which she sees but dimly now, for the blur that has come over her sight—turns for one last look down the long ward, a gleam of tenderest pity in his eyes for the gentle sister toward whom his heart goes out in profoundest gratitude, but who, he has been assured, is now hopelessly insane, and too easily excited to be allowed to hold any communication with any one whom she has previously known.

That look seems to paralyze him. He catches sight of that kneeling form, with its despairing face, its outstretched hands, that seem imploring him not to go, but to save her from a fate worse than death; and for one brief moment he is spell-bound—rooted to the spot.

The next, a hoarse, wild cry echoes through that great room, startling all its inmates, sending a thrill of wonder through the watchful attendant’s heart—a shock of fear and dismay through Dr. Arnot’s; then there is a quick, agile bound back into the room—a rush of swift footsteps, and like the sound of distant heavenly music, mingling with the roar of a cataract, Salome catches the startled words:

“Great Heaven! Salome! my wife!”

Then she is faintly conscious of being lifted and laid upon the broad breast of the man she so fondly loves; of being convulsively clasped to a wildly beating heart; of seeing a face full of love and tenderness bending over her, while agonized tones beseech her to look at him—to speak to him; then the vision goes suddenly out in a deadly calm and great darkness.