CHAPTER VIII.

DR. WINTHROP IS SUMMARILY ARRAIGNED.

That same evening, just as Dr. Winthrop and his wife were ready to sit down to their dinner, they were startled by a pealing, imperative ring of the hall bell.

A moment later the door was thrown open, there was the sound of a little commotion, and Dr. Winthrop knew—even before the servant appeared at the dining-room door, and announced “Madame Winthrop, Miss Winthrop”—that his mother and sister had arrived.

He immediately went out to greet them, followed by Salome, who longed to give them a cordial and loving welcome, although her heart had sunk heavily as they were announced, for she was in doubt as to how they would receive her.

“Why, mother!—Evelyn!” Dr. Winthrop exclaimed, as he affectionately saluted them; “this is a great surprise; we did not look for you until to-morrow.”

“No, Truman; eight days, I know, is the usual time allotted to the trip; but we had very favorable winds, and arrived several hours earlier than we expected,” Salome heard some one reply, in smooth, even, perfectly modulated tones, and then she caught sight of a stately, magnificently formed woman, having a proud, placid, high-bred face, crowned with a wealth of dark brown hair, in which she could not detect a trace of silver.

She calmly received her son’s embrace, and returned it without the slightest exhibition of glad emotion, though her keen eyes searched his face with a critical glance and lingered there somewhat fondly.

Behind her was a tall, beautiful girl, fair as a lily, with a delicate bloom on her cheeks, eyes of turquoise blue, and features that seemed chiselled from marble, they were so perfect. Her hair was of a beautiful red-gold tint, and was coiled in a graceful knot at the back of her fine head.

Salome thought her lovely, and her heart went out to her with affectionate longing, especially when she saw her throw her arms about her brother’s neck and kiss him heartily on the lips.

“How glad I am to see you, dear boy!” she cried. “It seems an age since we went away, doesn’t it? Are you well—and aren’t you delighted to see us home again?”

“One question at a time, Evelyn,” laughingly exclaimed Dr. Winthrop. “But of course I shall say yes to every one, while it behooves me to compliment you upon your blooming appearance.”

But he glanced behind him as he spoke, looking for Salome. They had avoided all mention of his wife—they appeared to ignore the fact that he was married, and he was secretly hurt and annoyed by the fact.

But he was too proud to betray it, while he proved himself entirely equal to the trying occasion.

“And now,” he continued, stepping back and reaching out his hand to Salome, “allow me to present you to my wife—to your daughter and sister. Mother, Evelyn, this is Salome.”

Instantly two pairs of keen, critical eyes were glancing over the young bride, taking in, in one comprehensive sweep, every detail of her appearance—her toilet and bearing.

She was very beautiful as she stood there beneath the brilliant light of the hall chandelier.

She had, in compliance with her husband’s request, put on one of her new costumes—a rich black lace made over crimson silk—and fastened a cluster of white roses in her corsage.

Her pure, cream-like complexion contrasted beautifully with the black and crimson; her hair was very tastefully arranged, while excitement had slightly flushed her cheeks and sent an unusual brilliancy into her dark eyes.

She came forward at her husband’s gesture, with a graceful step and bearing.

“You are very welcome,” she said sweetly, as she extended her hand, first to Madame Winthrop, then to her daughter. “I only regret that we did not know of your arrival, so that the doctor could go to meet you.”

She yearned to embrace them—to claim them then and there as “mother,” and “sister:” but, of course, she knew that such advances must come from them—that it would be out of place for her to take the initiative, and she was bitterly disappointed and hurt when they simply clasped her hand for an instant, in a dignified and formal, though perfectly courteous manner, and then dropped it.

Dr. Winthrop saw the light die out of her lovely eyes at this cool reception, and his right hand suddenly clenched with the feeling of hot displeasure and resentment that swept over him. But by no other sign did he betray that he understood their attitude toward his wife.

He saw, however, that they were impressed by Salome’s beauty—that they could find no fault with her manner and bearing; but, all the same, he knew that they did not intend to commit themselves to her in any way, until they should become acquainted with her whole history.

Their greeting had been perfectly courteous—there could be no fault found with it on the score of politeness. It was strictly in accordance with all accepted forms of etiquette and the dignity of a Winthrop; and if the girl should prove to be worthy, in point of birth and position, to be received as a daughter and sister of the house, it would be easy enough, later, to open their arms more cordially to her. But if, on the other hand, they found that she was not all that was desirable in a mate for the wealthy and aristocratic scion of the Winthrops, they could still keep her at a distance without compromising themselves in any way, or having anything to regret.

Salome also was quick to discern all this, but, though she was deeply hurt, she was Truman Winthrop’s wife and the mistress of his home, and it behooved her, for his sake, to receive his friends in a proper manner, without regard to her own feelings.

With inimitable tact and grace she ignored their formal greeting and, lifting a smiling face to them, said, with charming hospitality:

“Dear Madame and Miss Winthrop, you must be weary from your voyage—let me call my maid to assist in removing your wraps; then, as dinner is ready, will you not waive all ceremony and come at once to the table with us, and not wait to make your toilet?” and she touched an electric button near her, while she spoke, to summon Nellie.

Dr. Winthrop shot a look of grateful pride and love at her, and she felt more than repaid for the effort that she had made to overcome her wounded feelings.

Madame Winthrop, however, never allowed herself to be outdone or taken unaware; and, as Nellie appeared upon the scene, she calmly unfastened her wrap, remarking with cool courtesy:

“Thank you, Mrs. Winthrop, but we knew my son’s dinner hour, and came prepared to dine with him,” and as their wraps were given into the hands of the maid, Salome saw that they were in full dinner dress.

But her blood tingled to her finger-tips at those last significant words, “to dine with him.”

Her spirit rose, however, to meet even this unlooked-for rebuff to her gracious hospitality, and with perfect self-possession she responded:

“Ah! then as dinner is served, perhaps you will come directly to the table. Dr. Winthrop, will you take your mother in?”

She turned and led the way, motioning to the butler to place two more chairs, then she deliberately took her own place at the head of the table—although she did not doubt that Madame Winthrop had been accustomed to sit there. But her husband had told her that she was mistress of his home, and she did not intend to relinquish her position to any one—she would at least show him that she was fitted to reign there as such.

She knew that her guests were watching with critical eyes every movement, and the fact only incited her to do her best.

Her manners were perfect, and her husband’s eye often met hers with a gleam of pleasure and encouragement, while he was secretly exulting over the beautiful picture which she made, sitting so calmly, like a little queen upon her throne. She chatted easily and brightly, introducing congenial and timely subjects if the conversation lagged in the least, and bore herself throughout the meal with such charming dignity that the two women began to believe that she must belong to some good family, and to congratulate themselves that their idolized son and brother had chosen wisely and creditably, in spite of their fears, even if he had disappointed previous expectations.

Still they were far too wary to commit themselves—they continued to be guardedly courteous, intrenching themselves behind a polite reserve that might be safely dispensed with or augmented, as the case might require.

After dinner all repaired to the library, where the conversation was chiefly monopolized by madam and her daughter, although Dr. Winthrop endeavored several times to draw Salome into it.

She always pleasantly responded to his efforts—said all that politeness required of her and then gave way to their guests again. Not once during the evening, however, did either woman address her directly, and yet they were so adroit in this avoidance that no disinterested observer could have regarded it as an intentional slight.

But Dr. Winthrop and Salome both knew that it was intentional—both felt that she would never be received upon an equal footing until they could be satisfied as to her birth and position.

It aroused all the young wife’s spirit, and she told herself:

“I am glad now that True does not know—that something has happened every time I have tried to tell him my history and”—with a sense of the ludicrousness of the situation stealing over her—“there will be a scene, by and by, when they take him to task and he is obliged to say he does not know anything about me.”

“Salome,” said Dr. Winthrop, breaking in on these reflections, “do you feel able to give us a little music?”

“Certainly, if you wish, and it will be agreeable to—our friends,” she responded obligingly.

Both ladies bowed with polite toleration; and Salome, her eyes gleaming very brightly, went to the piano and began to play.

They were evidently astonished at her proficiency, for, more than once, Dr. Winthrop detected them in the interchange of significant glances.

Still they awarded her no thanks, spoke no word of commendation when she ceased. Madame Winthrop made some general remark about the beauty of Mendelssohn’s “Songs without Words”—a selection from which Salome had rendered most exquisitely—and then changed the subject.

The young wife began to feel as if her strength would not hold out much longer—as if the long evening would never end; but at ten o’clock madam signified her desire to retire, and Salome rang for Nellie to attend her—she had previously given orders that rooms should be prepared for their guests.

Of course, in the presence of a servant there could only be a formal exchange of “good-nights,” and these being soon over, Madame and Miss Winthrop went upstairs together.

As the door closed after them Dr. Winthrop turned and drew his young wife close to his heart.

“Salome, this has been a trying ordeal for you,” he said tenderly, “but you have passed it nobly—I was very proud of my wife to-night.”

“I am glad if I have pleased you, True,” she murmured wearily, and she was pale and drooping now, for all her false strength had deserted her; “but oh! I did hope that they would love me, for your sake,” and she hid her face upon his shoulder with a little sob of grief.

“Patience, dear, have patience and all will come right in the end,” he returned soothingly, as he stroked her head with a tender hand. “You can readily see,” he continued, “that my mother is a very proud woman, and she is naturally somewhat piqued because her favorite son should have presumed to take so important a step as to marry during her absence, and without even consulting her upon the subject; so she cannot make up her mind to forgive me all at once.”

How good he was to assume that his mother’s displeasure was directed entirely against him; but it did not deceive Salome, and she knew that she alone had come under the ban of her disapprobation.

She would not say anything to wound him, however, and she resolved to do everything in her power to make friends with their guests, for his sake; she would bear everything, brave everything, rather than that he should suffer through her. But a sigh of deep regret escaped her, for she could not quite conceal the pain in her heart.

“Poor little woman!” said her husband tenderly, “you are tired out, and no wonder. So say good-night here, and go to bed at once, for I have a letter to write before I sleep.”

He raised her face and kissed her fondly; then, opening the door for her, watched her as she went slowly upstairs, a proud gleam in his eyes.

“My peerless little wife!” he murmured, as he went to his desk, “you have conducted yourself like a veritable queen to-night. If they can resist your sweetness and beauty, more shame to them. They shall receive her as she deserves,” he sternly added, “or I will repudiate them; such senseless pride of position is beneath all true men and women.”

He sat down to his desk to write his letter, and was just in the midst of it when there came a rap on the door.

He opened it, and found his mother standing outside, with an expression on her face which plainly indicated that she intended to sift matters matrimonial to the bottom, before she slept that night.

“Ah, Truman,” she said, “I thought I should find you here. Can I have a little conversation with you?”

“Certainly, mother. Come in, and sit down,” he said gravely, as he rolled a chair forward for her, and then seated himself opposite and waited for her to broach the dreadful subject.

“Of course you can surmise what I have come to talk about,” she began—“your wife. Who is she? where did you find her, and what is the meaning of this sudden marriage, concerning which you have not thought it necessary to consult or inform any member of your family, except by a brief cable message and a letter almost as brief?”

“Well, mother, you have arraigned me as if I were a culprit, and you my judge,” he returned, with some displeasure in his tone. “But in reply to your first question, ‘Who is my wife?’—the simple fact that she is my wife and a lady should be sufficient cause for you to receive her with becoming cordiality.”

“You well know that fact alone is not sufficient to satisfy any one in a position like ours,” retorted Madame Winthrop, with considerable spirit. “What was her name? Who are her family?”

“Her name was Salome Howland. Concerning her family, she has none—she is an orphan,” replied Dr. Winthrop, with dignity. He blamed himself now for not having allowed Salome to tell him her history when she was so anxious to do so, for then, perhaps, he could have smoothed the way for her reception by his family, while now the very fact that he would be obliged to confess his ignorance of it would prejudice them against her still more.

Madam closed her lips tightly, and there was an ominous glitter in her eyes at his reply.

“Howland! Howland!” she repeated thoughtfully; “I wonder if she could have belonged to the Howlands of Albany—they are all right. Who was her family? Where did they reside?”

“I do not know,” Dr. Winthrop quietly answered.

“You do not know!” his mother exclaimed, aghast. “Where did you find her?” she inquired, while she sat erect, her face pale with mingled mortification and wrath.

“In the City Hospital in Boston.”

“What! a poor charity-patient from a city hospital your wife!” cried madam, almost breathless from the shock of such an astonishing revelation.

“Not at all, mother,” replied her son calmly. “She was, instead, one of the most efficient nurses in the institution.”

“Worse and worse! Heavens! a nurse of the scum of a city! And you dared to marry such a creature!” she gasped, fairly livid with rage now. “We are disgraced forever!”

“Nonsense, mother,” Dr. Winthrop severely returned, his own face white to the lips. Had she been any other than his mother he would not have submitted to the insult. “Such pride of family and position is unworthy of any one. You very well know that the Rev. Dr. Eckhart’s beautiful and accomplished daughter went into one of our hospitals to study medicine and to be trained as a nurse, that she might be more useful in the work which she had chosen, and no one had anything to say of her but the highest praise.”

“Yes; but she was going to India as the wife of a missionary; besides, Miss Eckhart’s position was unassailable—she was a lady,” retorted madam.

“And my wife is also a lady,” Dr. Winthrop said, deeply displeased. “Have you not seen it? Did she not conduct herself as such this evening?”

“She received us very courteously,” madam reluctantly conceded.

Her companion flushed hotly.

“Could you find any fault with either her appearance, her manner, or her language? Did you discover a single point which you could criticise?” he demanded, determined to make her acknowledge Salome’s virtues.

“No, perhaps not, but——”

“There can be no perhaps about the question,” he interposed. “She is beautiful, cultivated, refined, a lady in every sense of the word, and she has the deepest love and devotion of my heart—which you well know is saying a great deal, as I have never been accounted a susceptible young man where ladies were concerned. But listen, and you shall learn how I came to love her so, and if even your proud heart is not softened and drawn toward her, without regard to her previous history or position, you are more callous than I shall like to believe.”

Before he could go on, the door behind him opened, and Evelyn Winthrop entered the room.

“Forgive me for intruding, True,” she said, “but I heard voices, and I knew you must be telling mamma the story of your romantic marriage. I am dying to know all about it, too, so I stole down. I did not think you would mind.”

“No,” Dr. Winthrop replied, his lip curling slightly, “it may as well be told once for all, and the sooner it is over, and your attitude toward my wife determined, the better it will suit me. But,” with a stern, resolute look, “let me tell you this—whatever stand you take with reference to her, you will include me in it; if you receive her cordially as a daughter and sister, well and good; if you repudiate her—I shall repudiate you!”