CHAPTER IV.
DR. WINTHROP MAKES A STARTLING PROPOSAL.
Dr. Winthrop had not been looking at Salome when he made the announcement of his contemplated departure. He was gazing out of the window beside which he sat, at some of the patients who were strolling in the park—for the day was very mild, almost spring-like, and those who were well enough had been allowed to go out to take the air—and he had not a suspicion of the effect which his words had produced.
After a moment or two, however, not receiving any reply, and the silence becoming oppressive, he turned to glance at Salome, and was dismayed to find her unconscious.
He sprang to her side, gathered her in his arms, and laid her upon the bed, and fortunately at that moment Dr. Hunt entered the room.
“What is the matter here?” he sharply demanded, a look of concern on his honest face.
Dr. Winthrop, all unconscious that the announcement of his approaching departure had caused the swoon, explained that he had turned to the window to watch the patients in the park, and when he looked back again he found Miss Howland unconscious.
“I am afraid there is something very serious the trouble with Miss Howland,” he added, with a very grave face. “I have been watching her very closely of late, and I have begun to fear atrophy of the heart, superinduced by the loss of blood.”
“You are right. I have feared the same myself, yet I was as sparing as I dared to be and make sure of your life,” Dr. Hunt replied, with a regretful look into Salome’s white face. “But,” he added, “unless this trouble, that has recently shown itself is arrested at once, I can only predict the worse.”
Dr. Winthrop looked deeply distressed.
“And I am accountable for it,” he said, in a pained tone.
“Tut—tut! You are no more accountable for it than I am—nor so much, perhaps,” responded the physician somewhat sharply, for he keenly felt the responsibility of having consented to accept Salome’s generous sacrifice in that critical experiment.
“She would tell you,” he went on, “that no one but herself should be blamed—we did what we thought was best, time was precious, and a longer delay would have been fatal to you; but, Heaven willing, I hope she may be saved even yet. I only wish she had a happy home in this city. She needs constant watching and diversion without excitement, as well as the kind and loving attention of friends.”
“She will have to give up her profession as a nurse—she will not be strong enough for such a life,” Dr. Winthrop remarked thoughtfully.
“No, at least, not for some time to come; and a great pity it is, too, for a more faithful, conscientious little nurse I never saw,” Dr. Hunt responded, as he administered a second potion to revive the unconscious girl and anxiously watched for its effect.
“Where are her friends?” Dr. Winthrop inquired.
“I don’t know—I doubt if she has any; but, hush! she is reviving,” was the swift, subdued reply, as Salome slowly unclosed her eyes and heaved a deep sigh.
Something of this, however, Salome had heard, indistinctly or as if she had been in a dream; but the meaning of it came to her gradually afterward, when she was able to think over what had occurred, and it filled her with dismay.
Atrophy of the heart.
She was familiar enough with medical terms to understand what Dr. Winthrop meant, and she knew, also, that there would be no more nursing for her at present, if indeed ever, if their fears should be verified.
Must she surrender all her hopes—all her plans? Must she go away from the seclusion of her present retreat—out again into the world from which she had been hiding, away from that haven of safety where she had felt so content, so sure that no one could find her, and where she had begun to feel that she was doing so much good?
What could she do? Whither could she turn without a home, or friends to give her the care which she needed?
“Oh! my future will be desolate indeed if I cannot work—if I cannot have any object in life—more desolate than ever, now that my path has crossed his. How can I bear it?” she moaned, when the next day after her attack, she was trying to think of a way out of the slough in which she had suddenly found herself sinking. Weakened by her illness, she had not the self-control which she usually possessed, and sobs broke from her pale lips—tears streamed over her wan cheeks.
In the midst of this emotion her nurse opened the door and announced:
“Dr. Winthrop, miss.”
Before she could wipe her tears or check her sobs, he had entered and she could not conceal her grief.
He came toward her, deep concern written upon his face, while the nurse, glad to be relieved, slipped away again.
“Miss Howland!” he exclaimed, “are you in trouble? Am I intruding? Shall I go away?”
She looked up at him and tried to smile, as she hastily brushed the bright drops from her cheeks.
“No, do not go,” she said; “perhaps I am nervous, and need cheerful company to help me forget myself.”
He brought a chair and sat beside her, a sudden determination seizing him to know the cause of her tears.
He laid his usual offering upon her lap as he seated himself—a dainty bouquet of lilies of the valley.
“Oh, how lovely!” she cried, and her face brightened instantly; “they are so sweet!”
“Yes, they signify ‘unconscious sweetness,’ and are like some people whom I know,” said the young man significantly. “And now, Miss Howland,” he continued in a tone of gentle authority, “tell me why I find you so depressed—what is it that troubles you?”
Salome met his glance with grave, sad eyes, her brightness all vanishing, and said frankly:
“I was not wholly unconscious yesterday, Dr. Winthrop. I heard what you and Dr. Hunt said, regarding my condition, and I have studied _materia medica_ enough to know what atrophy of the heart means.”
“Did you hear our conversation?” cried Dr. Winthrop regretfully. “And yet,” he added, “I do not know but it is better, on the whole, that you should be warned in season. Give up your work and return to your friends to be cared for. Where is your home, Miss Howland?”
Salome’s white face flushed for an instant, and then grew paler than before.
“I—have no home, Dr. Winthrop. I have no friends,” she replied, after a moment of hesitation. “And,” she continued, her now pallid lips quivering painfully, “if I have atrophy of the heart, and can never work any more, I—am—ready—to die. I hope I may die soon.”
“Oh, no, you must not die—it is not so bad as that—you shall not die!” the young physician cried, startled out of his usual self-possession by her hopeless words, while a spasm of pain contracted his brow. “You are too young for such a fate—you must live. Salome!” with a sudden thrill in his tone, that was like the influence of old wine in her veins, “live for me! be my wife, and let me cherish you and win you back to health—let me throw around you the tenderness and care which you need at this time. Ah!” as he marked the swift, rich color that suffused her face, “do not let this excite you; I know it must seem sudden—forced, perhaps; but the exigency of the case demands prompt action. Will you, Salome? will you give yourself to me, who owe you so much? could you learn to love me well enough to be my wife?”
He reached out, took both her hands in his, and looked beseechingly down upon her face.
For a moment she was too surprised and agitated to speak or even to fully comprehend all that this astounding proposal meant to her. It seemed like a beautiful dream, an entrancing vision which must vanish if she moved or answered him.
Then a quiver of deep, deep joy went thrilling along her nerves like an electric current, the burning blush mounted to her forehead and was lost in the waves of her hair, and her lips trembled with the excess of unexpected happiness.
She lifted her eyes to his in one brief questioning glance as if to assure herself that her ears had not deceived her. It was full of trust, of love, of the deep joy that pervaded her whole being, and Truman Winthrop read all that he wished to know—read that she loved him with her whole soul. But he dared not betray the wild joy that went surging through him at the knowledge, for fear of exciting her.
He simply raised those two white hands that lay so unresistingly in his clasp, and pressed his lips first upon one and then the other.
“Salome, you love me—you will be my wife?” he breathed, and she longed to throw herself upon his breast and surrender herself wholly to the delight of loving and being loved.
Then sudden terror seized her.
If she was to be an invalid for long years, or if she was doomed, and had not long to live, it would be wrong to clog his life, to burden him at the very beginning of his career, with a sick and dying wife. Loving him as she did, she could not bear the thought of bringing such trouble and sorrow upon him. Better to live out her little life alone, even though her heart yearned so strongly for his love and care, and might break in the sacrifice for his sake.
He was watching her and waiting for her answer with what calmness he could assume. He had tried to repress his feelings, and hold himself in check as much as possible, in making this proposal to her, for his knowledge of her condition warned him that any excessive excitement might bring on another fainting turn and do her great injury, and so his full heart was nearly bursting with the wealth of his repressed love; for he had learned to love her during this short acquaintance, as he had never believed it possible that he could love any woman.
“Salome!” he entreated, as she was still silent, struggling between love and duty; “answer me, please.”
“How can I? I ought not to burden you, all broken in health as I am,” she murmured tremulously.
“But you love me?” he questioned eagerly, and trying to look into her downcast eyes.
“Yes—oh, yes! but I must not clog your life.”
His face became suddenly glorified—if she could have seen it, maybe she would not have judged him as she did later—but ever thoughtful of her good he held himself well in hand.
“Clog my life,” he repeated, in a low, intense, yet calm tone. “To whom do I owe the life that I have to-day? To whom have you sacrificed the strength that you lack to-day? Do not reason thus, Salome—you will be no burden, no clog; you will get well with the right kind of care. I shall take you away from here to a more genial atmosphere—wherever you wish to go—wherever you can be happiest—until you are well and strong; then you shall help me in my work, for a doctor often needs aid and counsel from his wife.”
“Do you really believe that I shall ever be well and strong again?” Salome asked doubtfully, lifting her grave eyes to his face, and searching it earnestly.
“I certainly do, under the right conditions—if you can be happy, care-free, and have proper treatment. Will you marry me, Salome? I dare not excite you too much, but I am very anxious for my answer.”
And lifting a flushed and happy face to him, she whispered:
“Yes.”
He had put such a relentless curb upon himself for her sake, that this sudden granting of his request was almost more than he could calmly bear, and for a moment he grew ghastly pale from the very intensity of his emotion—this, too, she remembered later, and judged him for it—then he bent quietly forward and touched his lips to her forehead, thus sealing their betrothal.
At that moment the footsteps of the returning nurse sounded in the corridor, and quickly releasing the hands of his betrothed, Dr. Winthrop arose and going to a table, poured out a few quieting drops from a vial, and gave them to Salome. He saw that, in spite of her great new happiness, the interview had been a severe tax upon her small amount of strength, for she was trembling visibly.
A few moments later he took his leave, but promised that he would look in upon her again before evening.
For more than an hour after his departure, Salome lay back in her chair, weak and weary from her recent emotion and excitement, but happier than she had ever expected to be in this world.
She was very pale, but a smile of peace was on her lips, and the light of a new joy shone in her eyes.
“Who would have thought that such a blessed lot was in store for me when I came to this place of suffering, to toil for others, on that dreary day when I was so lonely, so friendless, and thought only of hiding myself from every one who had ever known me?” she mused, as she went over and over again in her mind every incident connected with that recent interview.
She could hardly realize, even now, that she was to be the wife of that grand man; for grand she was sure he was in every sense of the word, although she knew comparatively nothing of him—nothing of his family nor what her life was to be in connection with them.
She only knew that she loved him and trusted him implicitly; that life without him would not be worth an effort to prolong; but with him she felt that she could battle for it with all the power of her strong will. Already it almost seemed as if new vigor had been infused in her veins, and when the nurse brought up her dinner she felt really and thoroughly hungry for the first time during her illness, and she ate heartily, greatly to the delight of her attendant, who had taken especial pains to prepare something tempting and appetizing.
About the middle of the afternoon Dr. Hunt made his appearance, and looked the astonishment he experienced upon seeing her toying with some pretty fancy work.
“Well, well, well!” he exclaimed, and a gleam of amusement began to twinkle in his kind eyes.
After counting her pulse, he playfully pulled one of her ears and inquired, with a roguish smile:
“What is this you have been doing, my young lady?” and he assumed a tone of mock displeasure. “Allowing a strange doctor to come here and steal away one of my best nurses! Give an account of yourself, Miss Howland.”
Salome blushed delightfully, and the sweetest little laugh in the world rippled over her lips and was real music in the doctor’s ears.
“I don’t believe there will be any further shrinking of that heart,” he continued with a chuckle. “I no longer fear atrophy; on the contrary, I predict a fatal enlargement of that organ.”
“Fatal?” repeated Salome, still blushing, but not quite comprehending his meaning.
“Yes, fatal,” he answered, without changing a muscle of his countenance, “for Miss Howland will soon be no more.”
“Oh,” breathed Salome, with renewed confusion, and darting an appealing glance at him as she made a gesture toward the nurse.
“Oh, it is an open secret,” retorted the doctor, enjoying her embarrassment, while the attendant smiled wisely. “Your New York physician evidently intends to carry matters with a high hand and not waste any precious time, for he formally announced his engagement this morning; so of course the news has spread like wildfire.”
Doubtless he thought that he had jested enough upon the subject, for he changed the topic.
After a few questions he sent the attendant from the room upon some errand; then he said abruptly and earnestly to Salome:
“My dear,” with a tender inflection, for he had become very fond of the girl, “I just want to assure myself that everything is all right, for somehow I have grown to feel a deep interest in you, and I should be very sorry to have any sorrow come to you in the future, because of a too hasty decision upon so important a matter. You are sure, my child, that you will be happy in the life opening before you? Tell me, Salome, frankly, as you would tell your own father.”
“Dr. Hunt, you have been very kind to me ever since I came here, and I will confide in you freely,” Salome answered, with heightened color. “From the moment that you began to infuse the life-current from my veins into Dr. Winthrop’s I have felt as if I belonged to him and he to me—as if our very souls had been united with the union of our blood. Doubtless some people would affirm that this was only a sentimental idea. It may be so; if it is I cannot help it. To me it is a veritable fact, and I believe if we had been separated—if Dr. Winthrop had gone away and I had never seen him again—he would have carried away so much of my life with him that I should never have rallied; I should have died in spite of all your kind care.”
Dr. Hunt believed it too, even while he marvelled at the curious result which his experiment had produced; a result of which he had not had the remotest presentiment.
“You love him, Salome?” he said, regarding her with increasing tenderness.
“With all my heart,” she murmured tremulously.
“Then Heaven bless you! I believe you will be a very happy woman in the future,” the good physician said heartily, adding: “Dr. Winthrop is an unusually talented man and a skilled physician. I believe he is a noble man, too—upright and conscientious, and I value his friendship highly. He belongs to a fine family, as perhaps you already know—a very wealthy family, too, and considering all things, I am only too glad to surrender my favorite nurse to him, since I cannot keep her here. And I also believe, Salome, that you will get well and strong under the influence of this new happiness.”
“I know I shall,” she responded confidently, for, with the deep joy in her heart, the conviction had been growing upon her all day.