CHAPTER V.

A ROMANTIC WEDDING.

Salome grew very thoughtful after Dr. Hunt left her.

She had not given a thought to Truman Winthrop’s position in life nor to the possibility of his having a family who might not approve of his choice of a wife, and she became quite troubled in spirit.

His family was a very wealthy one—Dr. Hunt had said—consequently they were liable to be a very proud family. Would they be willing to receive a poor young nurse as the bride of the aristocratic and brilliant physician?

She had nothing to give him in return for the wealth and position he would bestow on her, but her true love and a very weak and insufficient hand; while he, situated as he was, might have won almost any one, from the higher walks of life, to be his wife.

More than this, there were certain circumstances connected with her own life which she had forgotten to tell him, during the excitement of his proposal—indeed, he had given her no opportunity to do so, in his eagerness to gain her consent—but which might make him hesitate to marry her.

“I must tell him,” she murmured with a troubled brow. “I ought to have told him before he bound himself to me. I must not allow him to sacrifice himself nor his future interests. I must not run the risk of alienating him from his family; I love him far too well to wish to mar his life in any way.”

But these thoughts and resolutions made her very nervous and anxious, and when Dr. Winthrop came again late in the afternoon, as he had promised, he found her excited and feverish.

“What is it—what troubles you, Salome?” he inquired as he took her hot, dry hand and was startled by the almost spasmodic twitching of her small fingers.

“I have been thinking—I have something to tell you—I ought to have told you before, all about myself and my family——” she began tremulously.

“Hush!” he commanded, with gentle authority, “you shall tell me nothing while you are in this state; you are not even to think of anything that annoys you——”

“But——”

“I care nothing about your genealogy or previous history just now,” he said, stopping her short; then added, “I am sure there can be nothing connected with either for which you have cause to blush.”

“No, indeed!” interposed Salome, with a proud uplifting of her small head, a smile of conscious rectitude curling her lips. “As a child I was very tenderly reared; I had every advantage, I was happy, beloved, and while my mother lived there was not a more harmonious family in the world; but—later——” a shiver ran over her as certain painful memories suddenly arose.

“Hush!” said Dr. Winthrop again, for she had begun to tremble violently, and grow red and white by turns, “this excites you, and you shall not talk any more about it. I am satisfied with you as you are, Salome; you have told me that you are alone in the world, and so your antecedents cannot affect me in any way since you have assured me that no taint rests upon them. Just see how unnerved you are becoming, my child,” as in her weak state her teeth actually began to chatter. “You are not to talk any more on this subject now; some other time when you are strong and well you shall tell me all the trials and troubles of your past, which you think I ought to know. I am sure, however, that there will be nothing that I could condemn; the only thing I could not forgive would be a wilful deception on your part regarding your affection for me—you are sure that you love me, Salome?”

His tone was grave and earnest, and he regarded her searchingly as he asked the question.

She lifted her beautiful eyes to his, and he read in them only truth and constancy, even before she answered:

“Oh, with my whole soul!” and her fingers closed almost convulsively over the hand that was holding hers.

“And you have never loved any one before?”

“No—no; never,” she said, with strange vehemence, while another shiver, like a sudden chill, ran over her frame.

“That is all I want to know of your past at present,” he said. “And now, when will you be my wife, Salome? You are ill, and though you might perhaps have the best of care here, I do not feel that I can leave my betrothed in a city hospital, when it is in my power to provide her with every comfort. I must leave for New York by the last of this week, and I want to take you with me; so there will have to be a little knot tied right away.”

“So soon,” murmured Salome, but with a thrill of joy over the knowledge that he was unwilling to be separated from her.

“Yes—so soon,” he repeated, smiling, “as soon as to-morrow, or the next day at the farthest.”

“But your family—they do not know—what will they think? How will they receive me?” she stammered, her face crimson, her heart fluttering.

“My family can have comparatively little to do with this most vital question of my life,” Dr. Winthrop gravely replied. “They are all in Europe at present—my father and mother, my brother and sister; but when they return, they will assuredly accord my wife a proper reception.”

His tone was not reassuring; somehow it seemed to confirm her fears that they were proud, haughty, and exclusive.

She looked up into his face, a troubled expression upon hers.

“What is it?” he asked kindly.

“Dr. Hunt tells me that they are wealthy, aristocratic; I am only a poor nurse—are you sure you will never regret? are you sure——”

“I shall never regret choosing you for my wife, Salome,” he answered quietly. “Of what else do you wish me to be sure?”

“That—that you—love me!” she whispered, trembling.

Oh, how he longed to catch her to his heart, smother her with kisses, and caresses, and pour out all the passionate love that was surging so fiercely within him; but he dared not. Already she was laboring under far more excitement than was good for her, and he was afraid to augment it.

But again he made a mistake, for the surest way to have soothed and quieted her would have been to assure her of his deep and absorbing affection. He did not realize, in his anxiety to care for her health, that he was withholding just the food which her hungry heart craved and needed most. She longed for the spontaneous overflow of a love akin to her own, and could not be quite satisfied with the quiet, self-contained manner in which he had wooed her.

He passed his arm about her slight form and asked, with something of reproach in the forced calmness of his tone:

“Can you doubt it, Salome, when I asked you to assume the most sacred relations to me? Can you not trust me?”

“Yes,” she answered, regarding him wistfully, and beginning to feel very weary—too weary to longer argue the point; but still not quite satisfied.

It had occurred to her that perhaps gratitude for what she had done for him, and pity for her in her illness, her homeless and friendless condition, might perhaps have influenced him somewhat in asking her to marry him; that, perchance, he felt he owed it to her to take care of her and try to restore her to health, in return for her sacrifice in saving his life.

But such an interpretation of his motives was like a dagger in her heart, and she put it quickly away, telling herself that he could not be so untrue to himself and her; that his calm, quiet, dignified manner was natural to him, and like deep waters whose powerful undercurrent could not be detected upon the surface.

“Thank you,” he said, a tender smile illuminating his face, which she did not see unfortunately, as her wistful glance had drooped an instant before. “And may I tell Dr. Hunt and the superintendent that you will become my wife to-morrow?”

“Yes.”

As well, perhaps better, to-morrow than later, she thought in her weakness, only too glad to leave the decision and all arrangements to him.

* * * * *

The next afternoon there was a quiet wedding in the reception-room belonging to the matron of the hospital. It was witnessed only by the nurse who had attended Salome, the matron, the superintendent, and good Dr. Hunt, who asked the privilege of giving the bride away.

It was a strange wedding, but an impressive one, for there were certain elements of romance and mystery connected with it which could not fail to make themselves felt. The critical condition and delicacy of the bride, together with her apparent friendlessness, made the occasion extremely pathetic to all save Salome herself, who was surprisingly calm. There was a light upon her face and in her eyes which plainly revealed her great love for the man to whose care and keeping she had so freely given herself, and for whom she had yielded her precious life-blood.

She looked very lovely in her pretty dress of gray silk—another treasure which had been stored away in her trunk, and which had caused the nurse, who acted as maid, to open her eyes in surprise as she remarked its richness of texture and trimming.

“One would never believe you to be a poor nurse with such lovely clothes as you have, Miss Howland,” she had remarked as her glance lingered upon other dainty articles in the well-filled trunk from which it had been exhumed.

Salome made no reply, but a curious little smile in which there was a tinge of bitterness curved her beautiful lips as she shook out the folds of her lustrous silk and then gave it to her to be made ready for her bridal.

Her only ornament when she was dressed was an exquisite bouquet of long-stemmed white roses tied with a heavy white ribbon, which the thoughtful groom had provided for her.

When the clergyman called for the seal to their vows, Dr. Winthrop produced a heavy band of gold and slipped it upon Salome’s finger, solemnly repeating the words, “With this ring I thee wed and with all my worldly goods I thee endow.” But the shining circlet proved to be far too large, and came near falling off again, a circumstance which made the bride turn pale and shiver slightly, as some imp of misery suddenly suggested it was perhaps ominous, and that this great new happiness might even now slip from her grasp as the ring seemed ready to slip from her finger.

She was obliged to close her hand in order to hold it in its place, and the constant care of it distracted her and made her nervous.

The ceremony was followed by brief congratulations from those present, after which they were served with cake and wine, Dr. Hunt’s kind provision for the occasion.

“I shall forbid the cake, Mrs. Winthrop,” the good man smilingly said, as he approached Salome with a little salver on which, for form’s sake, he had placed a plate containing a liberal supply of the forbidden luxury and a glass of wine, “but the wine I prescribe for you; and now,” lifting his own glass, “permit me to drink to your health and future happiness, my dear madam.”

Salome blushed at her new name, smiled brightly, and then with exquisite grace touched the brim of her glass to his and drank with him.

Her manner was perfect, and Dr. Winthrop, watching her with a proud light in his eyes, marvelled at it.

“One would think she had been reared amid all the formal observances of etiquette,” he said to himself, and experienced no little satisfaction over the fact.

But he was careful not to allow her to become wearied, and soon took her back to her room.

He led her to her easy-chair and gently seated her; then before he released her hand—her left hand—he glanced at the ring which he had so recently placed there.

“It is too large, dear,” he said with a smile. “I knew it would be, and chose it so purposely, for I expect that these frail fingers will soon fill out again. In that case, if the ring had fitted now, it would have had to be removed to be enlarged, and that I could not think of allowing, so I have a guard to keep it where it belongs.”

As he spoke he quietly slipped another ring upon her finger, and, glancing down, Salome was astonished to behold a magnificent solitaire—a diamond of the purest water, heavily and substantially set.

“Oh!” she cried, flushing, “a simple band would have done just as well—this is very costly.”

Dr. Winthrop’s eyes twinkled with amusement.

“Well, what of that? you had no betrothal ring; you can regard this as such if you like,” he said.

“But—something not so expensive would have answered just as well,” she replied.

“No, dear, it would not—allow me to be the judge,” he quietly returned. “I consider diamonds none too good for my wife, as I will prove still further to you.” And he drew from his pocket a black morocco case, and opening it he laid it on her lap, adding, “Mrs. Winthrop, accept your husband’s wedding-gift.”

Salome was almost dazzled by the gleam of light that shot up into her eyes, for before her there lay, upon a crimson satin cushion, a beautiful pair of diamond earrings and a lace pin in which there were five exquisite stones to match the others.

“Why! why!” she cried, astonished, almost dismayed by such lavishness.

“Well, do they not please you?” he questioned, secretly amused by her perplexed expression.

“They are beautiful, and you are very kind,” she said; “but——”

“You are afraid that I am extravagant—that I cannot afford such expenditure—is that it?” he asked.

She nodded, smiling a little that he should have read her thoughts so readily.

“Do not trouble your pretty head about anything so intensely practical on your wedding-day, Mrs. Winthrop,” he laughingly returned. “The stones are very fine ones, I am willing to admit, but none too fine for you; besides, I feel very rich just now.”

“Rich?” she repeated, not quite comprehending the look that he bent upon her.

“Yes, I regard myself as the richest man in the United States at this moment, in the possession of the dearest wife that man ever won. Salome, you have not yet greeted your husband,” and he knelt beside her, looking wistfully into her eyes.

Oh, how foolish now seemed her ominous fears of the insecurity of her wedding-ring and her future happiness! And she was conscience-smitten for having entertained them for a moment.

She flushed a quick scarlet at his words, and impulsively laid her white hands upon his shoulders, lifted her fair face to his, and kissed him softly on the lips.

“You do love me,” she murmured.

He started slightly and searched her eyes.

“Have you doubted it?” he questioned, a shadow of pain crossing his brow.

“I—I hoped you did not merely pity me because I was ill and alone in the world,” she faltered. “I could not have borne that out of simple gratitude you should have wished to give me your protection.”

“Child! child! did you fear that?” he asked reproachfully. “What can I say to relieve such doubts? You must trust me more fully than that, Salome, or I fear you will not be very happy.”

He spoke gently, fondly, but even then he did not pour out his great love into her yearning ears. It had become so natural to him to be cautious and to repress all outward demonstrations that he did not realize how much he was depriving her of.

Still he had revealed so much more than he had hitherto, that she was very happy, and she was sorry that she had betrayed her foolish fears.

“Forgive me,” she said, with starting tears.

He lifted her downcast face and returned the caress she had just given him.

“It is easy to pardon you,” he said, smiling—then added: “Now, little woman, you must rest for an hour or two, then I am going to take you away from here to some more fitting place, and to-morrow we will go home.”

Home! How her heart thrilled at the word, and beneath his caress.

Home! She had not realized until that moment how much of happiness was already hers, in possessing such a husband and the right to share his home; and she pictured in her own mind how delightful she would make it for him, if she could but recover her strength; how she would try, with all her will, to get strong, so that she could minister to his comfort, and make herself all that he could desire in a wife.

“Would you prefer to go home by boat or rail?” he asked, breaking in upon these thoughts.

“Oh, by rail, if it will be just as agreeable to you,” she answered eagerly.

“But are you strong enough to endure so long a ride? You could sleep, you know, on board a steamer,” he returned.

“Yes, I am strong enough, and do not wish to sleep the journey away. I love to travel, and even though it is winter, and the scenery will be gray and sombre, I am sure it will be very enjoyable—with _you_,” she said shyly.

His face lighted; it thrilled him to see how she loved to be in his presence.

“Then it shall be as you wish,” he said, something of his gladness vibrating in his tones. “Now, dear, let me see you comfortably resting, and then I must go to make arrangements for our departure.”

He gathered her slight form in his strong arms, before she was aware of his intention, and, bearing her across the room, laid her gently upon her bed; then once more touching her forehead with his lips, he went away, and ten minutes later Salome was quietly sleeping, but with a smile of perfect content lighting her pale face.