CHAPTER VI.

SALOME GOES “HOME.”

Salome was surprised, when she awoke, to find that she had slept only half an hour, for she usually had a nap of two hours during the afternoon.

But she felt refreshed and very happy, and it was such a delightful sensation, after all the sorrow and loneliness of the past, to feel that she belonged to some one who was so tenderly thoughtful of her comfort and pleasure, and to know that she need have no care or anxiety for her future.

Her diamonds were still clasped in her hands, and her heart thrilled anew with deepest joy as she recalled her husband’s fond words upon presenting them to her; how he had sued for her first caress and the response to it.

“He loves me. I will believe that he loves me as fondly as I love him,” she murmured; “and yet I wish he were a little more free—a little less self-contained and dignified or reserved. Perhaps,” she added with a faint sigh, “it will wear away as we grow to know each other better.”

By and by the nurse came to her for directions for the packing of her trunk, and before this was completed she caught the sound of her husband’s step in the corridor, and the red blood mounted to her brow, her lips quivered in a happy smile, and her eyes grew luminous with joy.

“My husband!” she murmured, and turned her glad face toward him as he came into the room, while she noticed that he carried a large box in his hand.

“Have you rested well, my Peace?” he asked, in a low tone, as he reached her side.

Her heart leaped at his tone. Surely it was fonder than she had ever heard it before!

“Yes, thank you; but—why do you call me that?” she asked, wondering at the form of his address.

“Salome means peaceful, does it not?” he said, smiling, “and you always give me a feeling of peace when I come near you.”

She flushed again happily at his words, and put out her hand to him with a confiding movement.

He caught it and pressed it fondly.

“Are you ready to go with me?” he asked.

“Oh, yes; quite ready, if you wish me to go now.”

“I have arranged to go to an hotel for to-night near the station, where we shall take the train for New York to-morrow at nine o’clock, so you will not be fatigued with a long ride before starting. Now, nurse, please bring Mrs. Winthrop’s wraps, for our carriage is at the door.”

Salome was quickly clad in the long, dark ulster and the same simple brown felt hat and thick veil which she had worn when she first came to the hospital. She wondered with a quiet smile, as she put them on, if ever a bride was fitted out for her wedding journey with so little fuss before.

Dr. Winthrop watched every article as it was put on; but when she was ready he quietly remarked, as he cut the string to the box which he had brought with him:

“I do not dare to allow you to go out this first time since your illness, unless you are very warmly clad; so let me wrap this about you.”

He drew forth a beautiful fur-lined cloak as he spoke, and, throwing it around her, bent down to fasten the clasp at the neck with his own hands.

The nurse looked on with astonishment.

“He must be made of money,” she said to herself, as she slyly felt the heavy satin.

Salome’s lips quivered at this fresh evidence of his thoughtfulness.

“How good you are to me, Dr. Winthrop,” she murmured.

He drew back and looked down into her face, his hands still holding the clasp of the cloak.

“I am Dr. Winthrop to my patients, Salome,” he said gravely, but with a little twinkle in his eyes.

She understood him.

“What shall I call you?” she asked, flushing, her eyes drooping from embarrassment, though her face dimpled with suppressed amusement over the ridiculousness of the situation, for, strange to say, she did not know the Christian name of the man whom she had married!

Dr. Hunt had introduced him, and always spoken of him simply as Dr. Winthrop. The card accompanying his first floral gift had had “T. H. Winthrop, M.D.,” inscribed upon it; he had never told her what the initials stood for, and she had shrunk from asking.

He looked amazed at her question, and then he laughed outright.

“Is it possible, my Peace, that you do not know your husband’s name?” he exclaimed.

“It is not only possible, but a fact, sir,” Salome answered, meeting his glance, and a sparkle of mischief dancing in the dark eyes. “But our acquaintance has not been of very long standing, you must remember.”

“It has surely been long enough for that, but for my thoughtlessness,” he returned deprecatingly, and with some annoyance. “I imagined that you knew—that Dr. Hunt must have told you. My name is Truman, dear—do not call me Dr. Winthrop again, Salome, please.”

Truman! how rightly he had been named, she thought; she had imagined it might, perhaps, be Thomas or Theodore. He was true, noble, good—a true man in every sense of the word, and the name fitted him exactly, and—blessed fact! she was his wife!

“Are you ready now?” her husband continued, when she had drawn on her gloves and he had fastened them for her.

“Yes,” she answered, “when I have said good-by to nurse.”

“You have been very kind to me, and I thank you,” she said, with tears in her eyes, while the woman, too, seemed deeply moved, for she had grown to love her charge.

As Salome turned to leave the room, Dr. Winthrop slipped an envelope into the hand of the nurse, then, hastening to his wife’s side, supported her down the stairs and to the entrance of the hospital.

Dr. Hunt and the superintendent were waiting there to take leave of them.

“I do not know that I am quite reconciled to having New York doctors coming to Massachusetts and carrying off our nurses in this summary fashion,” Dr. Hunt playfully remarked, as he shook Salome warmly by the hand.

She smiled, but somewhat tremulously, for she had become strongly attached to the good man, and was sorry to say farewell to him.

“If you will come to New York a month hence I promise that you will hardly recognize your nurse,” the younger physician smilingly remarked, with a tender glance at the face beside him.

He would not allow her to linger over the farewells, but hurried her out to the carriage, and they were soon driving rapidly down-town.

Arriving at the hotel, Salome was shown to a handsome suite of rooms on the second floor, and, a little later, a tempting dinner was served them in their private parlor.

Afterward Dr. Winthrop kept his wife engaged in pleasant conversation for an hour, and then told her that she must go to her rest, so as to be fresh for her journey on the morrow.

“I am going to be very, very careful of you for a while, Salome,” he said, as he led her toward one of the rooms opening out of their parlor, “and a maid will come to you presently to wait on you, for I know that you are not yet able to wait on yourself; then you will try to go to sleep at once, will you not?”

“Yes.”

“My room is just opposite,” he continued. “I shall leave the door open, and if you should need or wish anything during the night will you speak to me?”

“I shall not need anything——” Salome began.

“Promise that you will speak if you do,” he persisted, with gentle authority; or, he added, with sudden thought, “you have had a nurse for so long, would you prefer to have the maid remain with you? I will have a cot arranged for her.”

“No, I shall do very well by myself, and I will speak if I need anything,” Salome promised, thinking how thoughtful he was for her every need.

“Thank you; and now good-night, dear,” he returned, as he kissed her.

“Good-night, Doctor True,” she responded, flushing slightly, as for the first time she addressed him thus.

“Thank you again, Salome, and by and by, perhaps, you will forget the prefix,” he said, smiling, and with the thrill in his tone that she was beginning to watch for.

A light tap came upon the door just then, and Dr. Winthrop retreated to the parlor.

A pretty maid assisted Salome to retire, and in less than half an hour she was sleeping as peacefully and restfully as a child.

She did not wake once during the night, but opened her eyes in the morning just as the clock on the mantel began to strike seven, when she suddenly became conscious that the apartment was filled with fragrance.

The next moment she saw, lying upon the pillow beside her, a great handful of roses.

“Oh, how perfectly lovely!” she cried in a voice of delight, a flush of pleasure mounting to her brow, and she knew that her husband must have stolen softly in with his morning offering before she was awake.

She sat up and gathered them into her hands, eagerly burying her face among the crimson beauties and inhaling their fragrance.

The next moment there came a tap upon the door leading into the parlor, and the girl who had attended her the evening before came in to help her dress.

It was half-past seven when she entered their parlor, where Dr. Winthrop sat reading the morning paper awaiting her appearance.

He sprang at once to meet her, his face lighting up.

He took both her hands, roses and all, and drew her to him.

“Surely you have slept well, dear,” he said, “for there is a little color in your cheeks this morning.”

The color deepened as she laughed lightly and laid her roses against his face.

“You must know that I did,” she replied, “even better than well, or I certainly should have awakened when these were laid upon my pillow.”

Dr. Winthrop smiled.

“I took a long horse-car ride this morning a little way out of town and walked back,” he said. “On my way I was overtaken by a man driving in with cut flowers, and that is how you happened to get your roses, Salome.”

“They are lovely—thank you, Dr. True.”

He smiled to see that she still clung to the medical prefix, but believed she would drop it when her shyness should wear off a little, and so said nothing about it.

“Our breakfast is waiting,” he said, “and we shall have just about time enough to get comfortably ready for our trip. Shall you be glad to get home, little wife?”

Tears rushed to Salome’s eyes at the question.

“I cannot tell you what a charm there is in that word for me,” she said tremulously.

“Nor I, dear, now that I am not obliged to go back to the place alone,” he returned, with a satisfied smile.

Then he helped her to the breast of a chicken and toasted her a slice of bread over a tiny brazier, for he would not allow her to have hot rolls just yet, while she poured out the coffee.

He kept her attention by pleasant and genial conversation throughout the meal, and she felt sorry when it was over, while she became aware that she had eaten her first really hearty breakfast since her illness.

Then they had to get ready for the train, where Salome found that they were to have the state-room of the parlor-car. Here she could lie down and rest if she became weary, and was free to do exactly as she chose.

She was touched as she noticed this and other kind provisions her thoughtful husband had made for her; for on a little stand there was a dainty basket of choice fruit, a bottle of wine, and several new books.

She never forgot that ride of six hours—it was a sacred memory to her during all her future life.

Her husband was all kindness and attention. He talked with her for a while, then read to her until she became weary, when he made her lie down and sat beside her, and, to pass away the time, related many interesting incidents connected with his profession.

The day was somewhat raw, and he would not allow her to pass from their car to the dining-car, but ordered their dinner brought to them, and they had a merry time over the meal by themselves.

The long ride seemed very short, and she could hardly believe Dr. Winthrop when he told her that in less than fifteen minutes they would be in New York City.

When they alighted from the car, a man in dark-green livery stepped up to the young physician, and saluted him respectfully, but glanced curiously at Salome as he did so.

“Ah, Dick, then you received my telegram, and are on hand, like the faithful fellow you always are,” said Dr. Winthrop pleasantly, as he returned the man’s greeting.

“Yes, sir, thank ye, sir; and the carriage be waiting for ye outside,” the man responded.

“All right, Dick; you can take our luggage,” Dr. Winthrop replied as he surrendered Salome’s travelling-bag and his own portmanteau to him; then with an amused smile, as he caught the man’s covert glances of curiosity he added, “Dick, this lady is Mrs. Winthrop.”

The man’s eyes grew large with astonishment, but he doffed his hat respectfully in return for Salome’s kind smile and bow, and set her down at once as “a leddy.”

He led the way to the carriage—a handsome one drawn by a pair of fine jet-black horses. Everything about the equipage indicated that the owner was a man of abundant means.

The footman opened the door and held it, while Dr. Winthrop assisted Salome to enter and carefully folded the soft robes about her to protect her from the air, for the mercury had dropped several degrees since morning.

“Are you comfortable, dear?” he asked in a somewhat anxious tone as they started, for he dreaded her taking cold.

“Very, thank you,” Salome answered, somewhat absently, for she was half-dazed by all these evidences of unlimited wealth into which she had so suddenly been transplanted.

“You are sure,” he persisted; “we have a long ride before us, and I would not have you take cold for anything. You have endured the journey much better than I dared to think you would. You are stronger, Salome—you feel really stronger, do you not?”

“Yes, I am sure I have made great progress during these last few days,” she replied smiling gratefully into his earnest face.

How could she help improving under the tender care which he so constantly threw around her?

“And you will be very happy in your new home, I hope, Salome.”

“I surely ought to be. I am very happy now,” she softly returned, with flushing cheeks and gleaming eyes, “but—but I did not think that you were—that I was to have all this,” and she glanced around the elegant carriage in which they were rolling so smoothly up-town.

Dr. Winthrop laughed softly, and there was a little touch of triumph in the sound.

“Then you did not imagine that you were marrying a rich man, when you gave your hand to me, Salome?”

“No.”

“What did you think, my Peace?—you have never told me; what kind of a position did you imagine you were to occupy as my wife?”

“I did not think of position at all,” Salome answered musingly. “I knew, of course, you were a physician, and I knew that, some time, you would win a high place in the world.”

“Why?” he interposed. “What made you think so?”

“Because,” she said, lifting her beautiful eyes to his face and letting them rest there proudly, “no one ever had so grand a head, so intelligent a face, without the ability to climb where he would.”

“Thank you, my wife,” the young man responded with lips that were slightly tremulous, for her estimate of him moved him deeply.

“But,” she went on, “I did not give much thought to your circumstances; I only know that my life could never be complete apart from you—my heart, my very being, had become bound up in you, yourself, to the exclusion of every other thought, or wish, or hope.”

The words were low, but so fraught with tenderness and feeling that they swayed, almost intoxicated, the strong man beside her like old wine.

Impulsively he gathered her to him, and held her close against his breast.

“My wife—my Peace—my love,” he whispered, “how glad I am, for your sake, that I am wealthy—that I can shower upon you every earthly blessing. Oh, I hope that you will be happy with me, Salome.”

She wondered, as she lay there against his heart, how she could have doubted his love. She believed that she never could doubt him again, for his clasp, his tone, his look seemed to tell her that she was the very mainspring of his life, and she could almost have wept from excess of happiness.

But she thought it would never do to christen her homecoming with tears; so, hiding her emotion beneath the semblance of gentle mirth, she said gayly:

“You must not spoil me to begin with, Dr. True—dear True,” with a sly glance and blush as she thus changed the prefix, “for you cannot tell what a tyrant I may become. And you must not forget, either, that it was only a poor nurse whom you have married. But when are you going to let me tell you just who and what I am?”

“I’ll risk your being spoiled or becoming a tyrant, sweetheart, and as to who you are, I know already,” he answered, his face fairly luminous over her low-toned “dear True.”

She looked up with a strangely startled expression, he thought, and all her color fled as she asked:

“Who?”

“Why, Mrs. Dr. Truman Winthrop, of No. — Madison Avenue, of course. And now,” as the carriage suddenly stopped, “here we are at home.”