CHAPTER XLI.

“MY WIFE, HAVE YOU CEASED TO LOVE ME?”

Dr. Winthrop’s lip curled as he listened to Dr. Arnot’s artful story, for he knew well enough that he had colored it to suit himself, and throw all the blame elsewhere.

“She was no more insane than you were,” he said sternly, “and you know it—you must have been conscious of the fact the moment you met her, or else you are a fraud, and have no business to pose as a specialist in diseases of the brain. ‘Violent,’ was she when she first came here? Of course, what person with a particle of spirit, would not have been violent upon discovering how she had been trapped into an institution of this kind? No doubt she was very indignant, and demanded to be immediately released, perhaps threatening you with the law, as she had a right to do. There has been some vile plot against her, and since Mrs. Rochester has been associated with it she shall be answerable to me for it; and you, Dr. Arnot, shall not escape an investigation for having lent yourself to it.”

“Assuredly, I regret,” the physician began with paling lips at this threat. “I trust monsieur will be merciful, and not injure an unsullied reputation by any insinuations of foul play——”

“I shall demand an investigation,” Dr. Winthrop relentlessly returned. “Such outrages must not be allowed to go unpunished. If Mrs. Rochester is alone to blame, then she alone will suffer—censure must fall where it is deserved.”

Dr. Arnot cringed and fawned and pleaded.

His establishment would suffer—his reputation would be ruined, himself and his family would be beggared, he whined.

“Your establishment ought to suffer; your reputation ought to be ruined if you lend yourself to such dastardly plots as the one I have discovered to-day,” Dr. Winthrop retorted with increasing displeasure, for he could not forgive the wickedness that had consigned his darling to a mad-house, even though he could not yet comprehend why it had been done.

Then Dr. Arnot began to bluster and to threaten. He was not at all sure, he affirmed, that mademoiselle was Dr. Winthrop’s wife—such a statement may have been a plot on his part to secure her freedom, and he would not allow her to leave the institution without the sanction of madam, her mother; he would call in the officers of the law to protect his interests and sustain his authority; monsieur should be arrested, and much more after the same style, and poured out only as a voluble Frenchman can pour out his wrath.

Dr. Winthrop listened calmly until he became exhausted—from want of breath rather than words—then he replied, with cool self-possession:

“It will be very easy for me to prove that your late patient, or rather prisoner, is my wife, as I happen to have in my possession an important document which cannot be contested. I refer to the certificate of our marriage which I slipped into a pocket of my note-book the day it was given to me, and there it has remained ever since.”

He drew forth his note-book as he spoke, found the certificate, and passed it to his companion, who saw at once that it was a legal and properly attested document. He read the name Salome Howland as being the lady who had been united to Dr. Winthrop, and he could not doubt because he had seen the same one written upon the letter of credit which Salome had shown to him, more than once, in her efforts to purchase her liberty.

It was hard to admit himself beaten, however, and he snarled out:

“But I am not sure that they are one and the same individual. I do not believe monsieur.”

“That I can easily prove also, for there are several people on this continent who know the lady well,” quietly returned her companion, “and it will be well for you if you will allow me to take her peaceably from this place. I assure you, sir, you will make serious trouble for yourself if you attempt to detain her. It will be wiser, Dr. Arnot,” he concluded meaningly, “for you to assist rather than oppose me in this. And as for Mrs. Winthrop being Mrs. Rochester’s daughter, there is no truth in the statement; that was simply told to trick you into the belief that the lady possessed lawful authority over her.”

Dr. Arnot could not fail to perceive that the young physician had the best of the argument, and he wisely resolved to make no further objection to the departure of his recent patient.

“What reason can you assign for madam’s plot against the lady?” he inquired, with some curiosity.

“The only reason that I can think of,” Dr. Winthrop thoughtfully returned, “is this—Mrs. Rochester has a daughter who is a little older than Mrs. Winthrop, and whom for several years both her family and my own have been desirous that I should marry. My wife was supposed to have met a tragic death nearly two years ago; but as we have just discovered, such was not the case. She came to us as Sister Angela, to nurse us through the cholera—as I have already told you. Mrs. Rochester must by some means——Ah! I see!” he said to himself with a start, as he suddenly remembered how she had fainted in the upper hall. “Mrs. Rochester must have discovered her identity, and so shut her up in this mad-house, to get rid of her, in order that my marriage with her daughter need not be interrupted—though how she could bear to contemplate such a double crime is more than I can understand.”

There were some other things which he could not understand—such as how Mrs. Rochester had been able to identify Salome as his wife, and how she had been able to keep all her nefarious doings from other people; but these mysteries he hoped would be explained later.

“_Mon Dieu!_ but women are wicked creatures!” hypocritically exclaimed the distinguished brain doctor.

A sarcastic smile curled Dr. Winthrop’s lips at the observation, but he made no reply.

He requested Dr. Arnot to send a messenger for a carriage, and then went back to his wife.

But he found Salome strangely silent and shy. She had not slept at all, for the moment Dr. Winthrop left her, a hundred conflicting memories began to torture her.

First, she remembered Madame Winthrop’s statement that she was no legal wife. Then it occurred to her that even if she had been at that time, she might be so no longer for had she not signed with her own hands the letter which would empower the lawyer to procure her divorce from Truman Winthrop? Perhaps the necessary papers had already been sent to Miss Rochester, and she had thus, by her own voluntary act, made herself no wife. Then had she not seen and heard enough with her own eyes and ears, to ruin her happiness forever? How could she believe that Truman Winthrop still loved her, was still loyal to her, when he had so earnestly avowed that he loved another woman, and asked her to marry him?

Such thoughts as these nearly drove her wild, and banished sleep from her eyes.

At first when she awoke to consciousness, and saw that loved face bending so fondly over her, it had seemed as if all her troubles were over. Dr. Winthrop had appeared so overjoyed to find her—had spoken such tender words of love, that for the time she had forgotten all else and believed that his heart was all her own once more.

But now—oh! what did it mean? It was all a dreadful puzzle, and all her peace, and trust, and happiness slipped out of her grasp again.

“Did you get any rest, my darling?” Dr. Winthrop inquired, as he approached the bed and found her awake. “Why, Salome! I do not believe you have slept at all,” he exclaimed, as he noticed her glittering, restless eyes, her crimson cheeks, and the tense look of pain about her mouth. “What makes you so nervous, dear? I told you I would not leave your door, and I did not. You have a high fever, too, and your pulse is bounding like a racehorse.”

She sat up in bed as he took her hand in his, and when he would have clasped her again in his arms, she avoided him by a dexterous movement, and slipped into a chair.

He looked wounded, but he would not be repulsed.

“My darling!” he cried, as he bent down and folded her to him; “how can I ever express my gratitude for this great boon? How can I ever thank the good God for giving you back to me? Are you not glad, Salome, and did you know, that all this time, I have believed you dead?”

She knew it but too well, and she shivered over the bitter memories which these questions revived, while she gently put his arms away from her, thinking that perhaps she was no wife—she had no right to these fond embraces.

“What is it, my Peace?” he questioned anxiously. “Am I too demonstrative in my excessive gladness? Are you still weak from your recent illness, and does it oppress you? You are very thin, love.”

And he lifted one of her burning hands to his lips, glancing at it sadly, as he did so.

“Can we not go away from here?” she pleaded tremulously. “Oh, I want to get away from this horrible place.”

He saw that she was quivering in every nerve, and he began to realize that it was his first duty to get her away from all depressing influences and unpleasant associations; so curbing his longing to hear some word of love from her lips, he gently replied:

“Certainly, dear; I do not wonder at your eagerness to leave this vile place. We will go at once. I have already sent for a carriage. Are your wraps here in this room? Ah!”—as she went to the closet and brought forth her ugly nun’s bonnet and cloak—“we must get a more becoming garb than this for you. I cannot have my wife going about as a gray nun.”

Again she shivered as he pronounced the word wife, and her hands trembled so that she could scarcely tie her bonnet-strings.

“Nay, my darling, I shall positively forbid that,” Dr. Winthrop playfully continued, as she was about to resume the double spectacles which she had worn so long. “I can never have those dear eyes hidden from me again. Ah, to think I never knew you, when for weeks you were so near me! Oh, my love, how much I owe you. A second time you saved my life. Yet why the need of such a disguise? Why have you hidden from me so persistently when I have longed for you with such bitter longing? Why——But I must wait; there are many things that need to be explained, and we have no time now.”

He was deeply hurt that she made no attempt to answer even one of his questions—that she had not once met his glance, but kept her face averted, and even avoided his touch when he would have assisted her in her preparations to go.

Still he attributed it to her weakness, her nervousness, her anxiety to get out of the place where she must have suffered so much; and when she had fastened her gloves he drew her hand within his arm and led her from the room, thinking that when she was rested and refreshed she would be his own Salome once more.