CHAPTER IX.

MADAME WINTHROP REFUSES TO RECEIVE SALOME AS A DAUGHTER.

“I am sure, Truman, you need not get so excited,” Madame Winthrop remarked, in a more subdued tone than she had hitherto used, and flushing vividly; “no one wishes to repudiate your wife, as you express it, if she is all that she should be.”

“There is no if about it,” Dr. Winthrop interposed, in an ominously quiet tone; “she is my wife, and that entitles her to proper courtesy without regard to any conditions. But I was about to relate how I became acquainted with Salome, and why I married her. As you know, I was intending to join you abroad last fall, when we were all to go to Berlin to make the acquaintance of the Rochesters. But owing to the epidemic which broke out here, I was obliged to give up the trip for a time. Then I received a letter from my classmate, Dr. Cutler, reminding me of my promise to join him in Boston, to investigate the manner of conducting the different hospitals, and the treatment of certain cases in which we are specially interested. As he was at liberty then, and might not be again for some time, I felt obliged to go and to postpone my trip abroad until later, as I wrote to you.

“I arrived in Boston late one terribly stormy evening, but upon going to a hotel found it full; there was only one room to be had—a small one that had once been used as a storeroom, and which could only be heated by a coal stove. It was too stormy for me to go out again, and so I decided to put up with such accommodations as I could get. I ordered a fire to be made in the room, so that it might be comfortably warm by the time I had eaten my supper. Then, wearied out with my long, cold journey, I determined to go at once to bed. I found my room small, but comfortable, and having carefully arranged the damper in the pipe of the stove so that the gas would escape up the chimney, and opened the door so that I might have good ventilation, I retired. By some means, however, the damper became closed during the night—you can easily imagine with what result—the room gradually filled with carbonic acid gas, and I became asphyxiated.”

“O True!” cried Evelyn Winthrop in a tone of horror, while his mother’s face grew deadly white at this startling statement.

“I was found the next morning in an almost dying condition, and the hotel being near the City Hospital I was, fortunately, taken thither for treatment.

“There everything that could be thought of to resuscitate me was tried; but I was too far gone for ordinary remedies to have any effect, and as a last resort the head physician suggested the transfusion of blood. But even this seemed likely to fail, as no one could be found who was willing to have his veins opened to supply the necessary blood. Dr. Hunt grew nearly frantic and also indignant. He said he would gladly have supplied it from his own veins only there was no one else in the hospital whom he could trust to perform the operation. But just as he began to fear that he must give up the experiment and let me die, one of the nurses from the women’s department made her appearance. He told her his dilemma and she instantly said:

“‘I will serve you, Dr. Hunt; take as much blood from my veins as you need.’ He hesitated at first, for she was not quite as robust as he desired; but it was a question of life or death for me; and when she saw me lying there breathing my life away, she begged that he would not delay. He did not. All necessary arrangements were soon made, and that noble girl lay calmly down upon the cot prepared for her; the surgeon opened a vein in one of her arms, another in mine, and, with an instrument made expressly for that purpose, transferred all that he dared of her life-blood to my veins.

“I do not wonder that you grow pale, mother,” Dr. Winthrop interposed, as Mrs. Winthrop gasped for breath and seemed greatly excited, “for I was very near death’s door; but the experiment proved a success. That brave girl’s blood was pure and strong, and it sustained and strengthened the little life there was in me; consciousness returned, and with it the ability to take nourishment and I was saved.”

“My son! my son! and I never knew it—you never let us know!” exclaimed madam, with white lips, for, undemonstrative as she was, she idolized this son, the firstborn of her twin boys.

“No,” he replied; “you were in Europe; it could have done no good to tell you; and before you could possibly have reached me I was out of danger. Of course, as soon as I was able to realize anything, my first thought was one of gratitude and a desire to express it to that heroic girl who had sacrificed so much for me. But she was very ill. She did not rally, nor did her blood replenish as rapidly as Dr. Hunt had hoped and expected. The fact was, he had robbed her of more of her life-current than she could well spare. As soon as she was able to see me, however, I went to her, and instead of finding some common, middle-aged person, as I had expected, I found—Salome—that delicate, refined, and beautiful girl, who was no more fitted than you or Evelyn to be a nurse for the class of people who are carried to such a hospital. But the force of adverse circumstances had driven her to the necessity of doing something for her own support, and she had chosen nursing.

“The moment I saw her I was unaccountably drawn to her, for I found her as cultivated in mind as she was beautiful in person. The second time I visited her I knew that I could never love any other woman; and so, when I found that she was likely to be delicate for a long time on account of the sacrifice she had made for me, I resolved to win her for my wife, if I could.”

“How could you, Truman, when you were pledged to another?” his mother reproachfully demanded.

Dr. Winthrop flushed hotly at this charge, and his brow clouded.

“I was not really pledged to Miss Rochester,” he began.

“You were!” excitedly interrupted the proud woman opposite him. “You promised your Uncle Milton, when he was on his death-bed, that you would marry the daughter of his friend; it was with that understanding that he willed you his magnificent fortune; and now you will have to forfeit it all. Oh, it breaks my heart to think of it!”

And truly madam did appear to be greatly distressed.

“You forget, mother, that my promise to Uncle Milton Hamilton was conditional,” Dr. Winthrop answered. “I pledged myself to meet this young lady, Miss Rochester, and if we proved to be congenial, if we could love each other, then I would willingly marry her, and thus comply with the terms of the ‘R—H.’ will.”

“Well, you have never met her; you do not know whether you are congenial or not; and you have not only lost Milton Hamilton’s magnificent fortune, but the one you would also have won with Sadie Rochester. More than this, the union would have been unexceptional in every way. The Rochesters belong to one of the oldest and finest families in the State; and I have heard that Sadie Rochester is a very beautiful and accomplished girl. I cannot be reconciled to it,” groaned Madame Winthrop, in conclusion.

“Mother, be reasonable, and accept the inevitable. Fate, or Providence, interfered with my proposed meeting with Miss Rochester—sent me to Boston instead of to Europe, and decreed that I should meet and love Salome instead.”

“But you need not have been so hasty about your marriage. Who knows but you might have been better pleased with Sadie Rochester if you had only waited,” Madame Winthrop irritably retorted.

Dr. Winthrop made an impatient movement.

“Mother,” he said, sternly, after a moment of thought, “after I had seen Salome Howland three times I knew that neither Sadie Rochester nor any other woman could ever be my wife. My whole heart and soul were filled with profoundest love for this girl who had saved my life. If she had refused to marry me I should never have married any one. You charge me with having been hasty. Well, perhaps others would judge me so also; but Salome was ill—Dr. Hunt feared that she would be for a long time—he was afraid of atrophy of the heart. She had no friends, no home; he wanted to get her away from that hospital, and she had nowhere to go and no one to care for her. You know that I am not, have never been, an impulsive man, therefore I was not guided simply by impulse in this very critical decision of my life in determining to make this lovely girl my wife. I loved her; I wanted her. I believed that with proper care she should get well; but I knew that she must be relieved from all care, all anxiety regarding herself—that she must be taken away from that place and from all exciting scenes, where she would be happy and surrounded by tenderness and love. Something—some look or gesture—which I remarked one day when I was with her, made me believe that she might learn to love me, if already she did not. I told her that I wished to make her my wife, and asked her if she would marry me. She demurred at first, and I thought she feared I was only asking her from a feeling of pity and of gratitude for what she had done for me. But I knew that she loved me, from the look of sudden joy that flashed over her pale face and into her eyes, and I was determined that nothing should separate us after that.”

“You were very rash and inconsiderate to take such a step without investigating her antecedents,” Madame Winthrop here interposed.

“She spoke of that very thing,” Dr. Winthrop replied. “She wanted to tell me everything about herself, for she said she had nothing to conceal from me, only she had had trouble that had obliged her to depend upon her own resources. But she was so frail—it excited her so to talk about it, that I would not allow her to speak of it; and mother, I know that she is a lady—that there is nothing connected with her life that can cast even a shadow upon either her future or mine,” the young physician confidently concluded.

“But she is getting well and strong now—there certainly has been time since your marriage for her to tell you all her previous history,” said Miss Winthrop eagerly.

“Yes, and she has attempted to do so two or three times during the last week; but our conversation has been interrupted each time. But,” lifting his head proudly, a tender smile upon his lips, “even if she never tells me anything I can trust her; she is one of the purest, truest little women in the world. She has been well educated—well-bred; she is an honor to me as a wife—to you as a daughter and sister.”

“I shall never be content until I know her history, and if you are so foolish, so indifferent, as not to care anything about it, I shall take the first opportunity to inquire into her genealogy,” Mrs. Winthrop resolutely remarked.

“Pardon me, mother,” her son began as resolutely, “but I must insist that you do nothing of the kind. Salome is sensitive—very delicately made—and you would wound her exceedingly by seeking to pry into her family affairs. When she has an opportunity to confide in me I will acquaint you with all that is necessary for you to know. But I cannot allow her to be questioned or excited in any way, for she is far from strong even now, and I shall have to be very careful of her for a long time to come. She has improved wonderfully, however, since I brought her home, and if she has nothing to cause a relapse, I am sure that she will soon be entirely out of danger. Mother, Evelyn”—turning an appealing glance upon them—“why will you not receive my wife in a motherly and sisterly way? Give her love and kindness, and I know that she will prove all that you can desire in a daughter and sister.”

“How have your friends here in New York received the news of your astonishing marriage?” questioned Madame Winthrop, without paying any heed to his appeal.

“I doubt if half a dozen people in the city know that I am married,” replied the young doctor. “I have been so busy since my return that I have met scarcely any one whom we visit, and Salome has been so delicate that I have not thought best to send any cards. But you have not yet told me whether you intend to be upon friendly terms with my wife,” he concluded, persistently.

“Truman, I cannot be reconciled to this marriage. Just think what she has cost, what it involves, and all the peculiar circumstances attending it?” Madame Winthrop sternly remarked.

“I suppose if I had married Miss Rochester, under exactly the same circumstances, you could have been easily reconciled to the peculiarity of the situation,” Dr. Winthrop observed, with quiet scorn.

“Of course; for you were pledged to her, and we know all about her family; while—oh, True! it has been the dream of my life to see those two estates—Brookside and Englehurst—united,” sighed Madame Winthrop dolefully.

“There is something more to be desired in life than the union of two estates, valuable as they may be,” returned the young man, gravely. “It was an arbitrary and unnatural will that both Uncle Milton and Mr. Rochester made; it is simply absurd for one generation to imagine that it can control the affections of the one following, and settle its domestic relations according to its own notions. I know that Milton Hamilton was fond of me; no doubt he fondly imagined that I should fall in love with Sadie Rochester, and everything would move smoothly along, as he and her father had planned. But I believe if he could speak to-day he would say that he would prefer me to have his fortune, even though I have not married as he wished, than to have it go in another direction. But that is all past; the die is cast; having once seen and loved Salome, I could never love or marry any other woman, were forty fortunes in the balance; so, if you please, we will not discuss that point any further.”

“I cannot believe that you are so infatuated with the girl as you pretend to be,” his mother exclaimed excitedly. “I believe that you were actuated more by motives of pity and gratitude than love. Tell me—am I not right? Can you honestly say that you were not governed by those feelings?”

“No, I cannot say that,” he responded thoughtfully, “for gratitude did actuate me in a measure—it was profound gratitude for the noble sacrifice of her life-blood, that led me to seek her in the first place, and I felt that I owed her a debt which I could only repay by devoting my life to her; but love was the strongest motive of all; she had won my whole heart before I offered her my hand.”

Madame Winthrop’s eyes snapped angrily at this assertion, but she did not pursue that train any further.

“Well, what are you going to do about the fortune that you have forfeited—have you given any consideration to that important subject?” she sharply demanded.

“Yes, I believe I have fully considered the matter, and I am prepared to fulfil the conditions of the will, to the letter,” Dr. Winthrop gravely returned.

“What conditions?” demanded Evelyn. “I imagined that the fortune, all except the estate at Englehurst, was given to you for your name.”

“The will, Evelyn, was made when I was a mere boy; if Uncle Milton had lived longer, I do not believe he would have imposed any such conditions upon me,” her brother returned. “These conditions were—if I obeyed his wish, and married the daughter of his friend, I was to have the whole of his fortune; if I refused to do this, and married any one else, I was to surrender all right and title to Englehurst, together with a hundred thousand dollars, to found an institution for the blind, in connection with Brookside, and a like amount, according to the stipulations of Mr. Rochester’s will. The only portion I was to receive unconditionally was this house and its contents.”

“One could almost believe that the two men were a pair of lunatics,” said Evelyn, somewhat impatiently, “and yet I imagine that, had I been in your place, I should not have been long in deciding to take a couple of splendid fortunes, and Sadie Rochester as a bride, in preference to a common nurse, without a penny. Frankly, True, I think you were a fool.”

“Your frankness is, to say the least, rather lacking in courtesy,” her brother replied, with a curling lip. “But I am prepared to surrender Englehurst, and the money also, as soon as I can make arrangements to do so. I do not begrudge it, for this home, together with the handsome income which my practice will give me, will be ample for all my own and my wife’s needs.”

“And have you no regret for what you thus compel Sadie Rochester to lose also?” questioned his mother excitedly.

“I shall write to Mr. Rochester immediately—I ought to have done so before this—telling him what I have done, and no doubt he will make a new will, and provide handsomely for his daughter. By the way,” Dr. Winthrop added, “I have had no reply to the letter I wrote to him early last fall, telling him that I intended to go abroad, with the intention of meeting Miss Rochester. Did you ever meet any of the family in your travels?”

“No; we were waiting for you to join us before going to Berlin, and now I feel as if I never wish to meet them,” returned madam, with more passion in her tone than she had yet exhibited.

She arose as she spoke, and then added:

“It is late, and time that we were all in bed. Come, Evelyn.”

“Wait, mother, one moment,” said Dr. Winthrop, looking white and stern. “Is it peace or war upon this question? If you cannot be at peace with my wife, it will have to be war with me,” he concluded, in a tone which, she had long ago learned, meant a great deal.

But she was too angry and upset to be very reasonable.

“Find out who your wife is, and then I will answer you,” and with that curt reply she sailed majestically from the room, followed by her daughter.

The young physician was in no enviable frame of mind, for he knew that, with such an ungracious disposition, his mother and sister would have it in their power to make it very uncomfortable for Salome.

He sat with a thoughtful look on his face for a few moments, then he lifted his fine head with a haughty air.

“Let them do as they will,” he said sternly, “Salome is my wife; that is a fact that cannot be contested, and she will be received, wherever I am received, with becoming courtesy, or my friends will get the cut direct from me. Dear child, how nobly she conducted herself to-night!”