DR. WINTHROP MAKES A STARTLING PROPOSAL.
Dr. Winthrop had not been looking at Salome when he made the
announcement of his contemplated departure. He was gazing out of the
window beside which he sat, at some of the patients who were strolling
in the park—for the day was very mild, almost spring-like, and those who
were well enough had been allowed to go out to take the air—and he had
not a suspicion of the effect which his words had produced.
After a moment or two, however, not receiving any reply, and the silence
becoming oppressive, he turned to glance at Salome, and was dismayed to
find her unconscious.
He sprang to her side, gathered her in his arms, and laid her upon the
bed, and fortunately at that moment Dr. Hunt entered the room.
“What is the matter here?” he sharply demanded, a look of concern on his
honest face.
Dr. Winthrop, all unconscious that the announcement of his approaching
departure had caused the swoon, explained that he had turned to the
window to watch the patients in the park, and when he looked back again
he found Miss Howland unconscious.
“I am afraid there is something very serious the trouble with Miss
Howland,” he added, with a very grave face. “I have been watching her
very closely of late, and I have begun to fear atrophy of the heart,
superinduced by the loss of blood.”
“You are right. I have feared the same myself, yet I was as sparing as I
dared to be and make sure of your life,” Dr. Hunt replied, with a
regretful look into Salome’s white face. “But,” he added, “unless this
trouble, that has recently shown itself is arrested at once, I can only
predict the worse.”
Dr. Winthrop looked deeply distressed.
“And I am accountable for it,” he said, in a pained tone.
“Tut—tut! You are no more accountable for it than I am—nor so much,
perhaps,” responded the physician somewhat sharply, for he keenly felt
the responsibility of having consented to accept Salome’s generous
sacrifice in that critical experiment.
“She would tell you,” he went on, “that no one but herself should be
blamed—we did what we thought was best, time was precious, and a longer
delay would have been fatal to you; but, Heaven willing, I hope she may
be saved even yet. I only wish she had a happy home in this city. She
needs constant watching and diversion without excitement, as well as the
kind and loving attention of friends.”
“She will have to give up her profession as a nurse—she will not be
strong enough for such a life,” Dr. Winthrop remarked thoughtfully.
“No, at least, not for some time to come; and a great pity it is, too,
for a more faithful, conscientious little nurse I never saw,” Dr. Hunt
responded, as he administered a second potion to revive the unconscious
girl and anxiously watched for its effect.
“Where are her friends?” Dr. Winthrop inquired.
“I don’t know—I doubt if she has any; but, hush! she is reviving,” was
the swift, subdued reply, as Salome slowly unclosed her eyes and heaved
a deep sigh.
Something of this, however, Salome had heard, indistinctly or as if she
had been in a dream; but the meaning of it came to her gradually
afterward, when she was able to think over what had occurred, and it
filled her with dismay.
Atrophy of the heart.
She was familiar enough with medical terms to understand what Dr.
Winthrop meant, and she knew, also, that there would be no more nursing
for her at present, if indeed ever, if their fears should be verified.
Must she surrender all her hopes—all her plans? Must she go away from
the seclusion of her present retreat—out again into the world from which
she had been hiding, away from that haven of safety where she had felt
so content, so sure that no one could find her, and where she had begun
to feel that she was doing so much good?
What could she do? Whither could she turn without a home, or friends to
give her the care which she needed?
“Oh! my future will be desolate indeed if I cannot work—if I cannot have
any object in life—more desolate than ever, now that my path has crossed
his. How can I bear it?” she moaned, when the next day after her attack,
she was trying to think of a way out of the slough in which she had
suddenly found herself sinking. Weakened by her illness, she had not the
self-control which she usually possessed, and sobs broke from her pale
lips—tears streamed over her wan cheeks.
In the midst of this emotion her nurse opened the door and announced:
“Dr. Winthrop, miss.”
Before she could wipe her tears or check her sobs, he had entered and
she could not conceal her grief.
He came toward her, deep concern written upon his face, while the nurse,
glad to be relieved, slipped away again.
“Miss Howland!” he exclaimed, “are you in trouble? Am I intruding? Shall
I go away?”
She looked up at him and tried to smile, as she hastily brushed the
bright drops from her cheeks.
“No, do not go,” she said; “perhaps I am nervous, and need cheerful
company to help me forget myself.”
He brought a chair and sat beside her, a sudden determination seizing
him to know the cause of her tears.
He laid his usual offering upon her lap as he seated himself—a dainty
bouquet of lilies of the valley.
“Oh, how lovely!” she cried, and her face brightened instantly; “they
are so sweet!”
“Yes, they signify ‘unconscious sweetness,’ and are like some people
whom I know,” said the young man significantly. “And now, Miss Howland,”
he continued in a tone of gentle authority, “tell me why I find you so
depressed—what is it that troubles you?”
Salome met his glance with grave, sad eyes, her brightness all
vanishing, and said frankly:
“I was not wholly unconscious yesterday, Dr. Winthrop. I heard what you
and Dr. Hunt said, regarding my condition, and I have studied _materia
medica_ enough to know what atrophy of the heart means.”
“Did you hear our conversation?” cried Dr. Winthrop regretfully. “And
yet,” he added, “I do not know but it is better, on the whole, that you
should be warned in season. Give up your work and return to your friends
to be cared for. Where is your home, Miss Howland?”
Salome’s white face flushed for an instant, and then grew paler than
before.
“I—have no home, Dr. Winthrop. I have no friends,” she replied, after a
moment of hesitation. “And,” she continued, her now pallid lips
quivering painfully, “if I have atrophy of the heart, and can never work
any more, I—am—ready—to die. I hope I may die soon.”
“Oh, no, you must not die—it is not so bad as that—you shall not die!”
the young physician cried, startled out of his usual self-possession by
her hopeless words, while a spasm of pain contracted his brow. “You are
too young for such a fate—you must live. Salome!” with a sudden thrill
in his tone, that was like the influence of old wine in her veins, “live
for me! be my wife, and let me cherish you and win you back to
health—let me throw around you the tenderness and care which you need at
this time. Ah!” as he marked the swift, rich color that suffused her
face, “do not let this excite you; I know it must seem sudden—forced,
perhaps; but the exigency of the case demands prompt action. Will you,
Salome? will you give yourself to me, who owe you so much? could you
learn to love me well enough to be my wife?”
He reached out, took both her hands in his, and looked beseechingly down
upon her face.
For a moment she was too surprised and agitated to speak or even to
fully comprehend all that this astounding proposal meant to her. It
seemed like a beautiful dream, an entrancing vision which must vanish if
she moved or answered him.
Then a quiver of deep, deep joy went thrilling along her nerves like an
electric current, the burning blush mounted to her forehead and was lost
in the waves of her hair, and her lips trembled with the excess of
unexpected happiness.
She lifted her eyes to his in one brief questioning glance as if to
assure herself that her ears had not deceived her. It was full of trust,
of love, of the deep joy that pervaded her whole being, and Truman
Winthrop read all that he wished to know—read that she loved him with
her whole soul. But he dared not betray the wild joy that went surging
through him at the knowledge, for fear of exciting her.
He simply raised those two white hands that lay so unresistingly in his
clasp, and pressed his lips first upon one and then the other.
“Salome, you love me—you will be my wife?” he breathed, and she longed
to throw herself upon his breast and surrender herself wholly to the
delight of loving and being loved.
Then sudden terror seized her.
If she was to be an invalid for long years, or if she was doomed, and
had not long to live, it would be wrong to clog his life, to burden him
at the very beginning of his career, with a sick and dying wife. Loving
him as she did, she could not bear the thought of bringing such trouble
and sorrow upon him. Better to live out her little life alone, even
though her heart yearned so strongly for his love and care, and might
break in the sacrifice for his sake.
He was watching her and waiting for her answer with what calmness he
could assume. He had tried to repress his feelings, and hold himself in
check as much as possible, in making this proposal to her, for his
knowledge of her condition warned him that any excessive excitement
might bring on another fainting turn and do her great injury, and so his
full heart was nearly bursting with the wealth of his repressed love;
for he had learned to love her during this short acquaintance, as he had
never believed it possible that he could love any woman.
“Salome!” he entreated, as she was still silent, struggling between love
and duty; “answer me, please.”
“How can I? I ought not to burden you, all broken in health as I am,”
she murmured tremulously.
“But you love me?” he questioned eagerly, and trying to look into her
downcast eyes.
“Yes—oh, yes! but I must not clog your life.”
His face became suddenly glorified—if she could have seen it, maybe she
would not have judged him as she did later—but ever thoughtful of her
good he held himself well in hand.
“Clog my life,” he repeated, in a low, intense, yet calm tone. “To whom
do I owe the life that I have to-day? To whom have you sacrificed the
strength that you lack to-day? Do not reason thus, Salome—you will be no
burden, no clog; you will get well with the right kind of care. I shall
take you away from here to a more genial atmosphere—wherever you wish to
go—wherever you can be happiest—until you are well and strong; then you
shall help me in my work, for a doctor often needs aid and counsel from
his wife.”
“Do you really believe that I shall ever be well and strong again?”
Salome asked doubtfully, lifting her grave eyes to his face, and
searching it earnestly.
“I certainly do, under the right conditions—if you can be happy,
care-free, and have proper treatment. Will you marry me, Salome? I dare
not excite you too much, but I am very anxious for my answer.”
And lifting a flushed and happy face to him, she whispered:
“Yes.”
He had put such a relentless curb upon himself for her sake, that this
sudden granting of his request was almost more than he could calmly
bear, and for a moment he grew ghastly pale from the very intensity of
his emotion—this, too, she remembered later, and judged him for it—then
he bent quietly forward and touched his lips to her forehead, thus
sealing their betrothal.
At that moment the footsteps of the returning nurse sounded in the
corridor, and quickly releasing the hands of his betrothed, Dr. Winthrop
arose and going to a table, poured out a few quieting drops from a vial,
and gave them to Salome. He saw that, in spite of her great new
happiness, the interview had been a severe tax upon her small amount of
strength, for she was trembling visibly.
A few moments later he took his leave, but promised that he would look
in upon her again before evening.
For more than an hour after his departure, Salome lay back in her chair,
weak and weary from her recent emotion and excitement, but happier than
she had ever expected to be in this world.
She was very pale, but a smile of peace was on her lips, and the light
of a new joy shone in her eyes.
“Who would have thought that such a blessed lot was in store for me when
I came to this place of suffering, to toil for others, on that dreary
day when I was so lonely, so friendless, and thought only of hiding
myself from every one who had ever known me?” she mused, as she went
over and over again in her mind every incident connected with that
recent interview.
She could hardly realize, even now, that she was to be the wife of that
grand man; for grand she was sure he was in every sense of the word,
although she knew comparatively nothing of him—nothing of his family nor
what her life was to be in connection with them.
She only knew that she loved him and trusted him implicitly; that life
without him would not be worth an effort to prolong; but with him she
felt that she could battle for it with all the power of her strong will.
Already it almost seemed as if new vigor had been infused in her veins,
and when the nurse brought up her dinner she felt really and thoroughly
hungry for the first time during her illness, and she ate heartily,
greatly to the delight of her attendant, who had taken especial pains to
prepare something tempting and appetizing.
About the middle of the afternoon Dr. Hunt made his appearance, and
looked the astonishment he experienced upon seeing her toying with some
pretty fancy work.
“Well, well, well!” he exclaimed, and a gleam of amusement began to
twinkle in his kind eyes.
After counting her pulse, he playfully pulled one of her ears and
inquired, with a roguish smile:
“What is this you have been doing, my young lady?” and he assumed a tone
of mock displeasure. “Allowing a strange doctor to come here and steal
away one of my best nurses! Give an account of yourself, Miss Howland.”
Salome blushed delightfully, and the sweetest little laugh in the world
rippled over her lips and was real music in the doctor’s ears.
“I don’t believe there will be any further shrinking of that heart,” he
continued with a chuckle. “I no longer fear atrophy; on the contrary, I
predict a fatal enlargement of that organ.”
“Fatal?” repeated Salome, still blushing, but not quite comprehending
his meaning.
“Yes, fatal,” he answered, without changing a muscle of his countenance,
“for Miss Howland will soon be no more.”
“Oh,” breathed Salome, with renewed confusion, and darting an appealing
glance at him as she made a gesture toward the nurse.
“Oh, it is an open secret,” retorted the doctor, enjoying her
embarrassment, while the attendant smiled wisely. “Your New York
physician evidently intends to carry matters with a high hand and not
waste any precious time, for he formally announced his engagement this
morning; so of course the news has spread like wildfire.”
Doubtless he thought that he had jested enough upon the subject, for he
changed the topic.
After a few questions he sent the attendant from the room upon some
errand; then he said abruptly and earnestly to Salome:
“My dear,” with a tender inflection, for he had become very fond of the
girl, “I just want to assure myself that everything is all right, for
somehow I have grown to feel a deep interest in you, and I should be
very sorry to have any sorrow come to you in the future, because of a
too hasty decision upon so important a matter. You are sure, my child,
that you will be happy in the life opening before you? Tell me, Salome,
frankly, as you would tell your own father.”
“Dr. Hunt, you have been very kind to me ever since I came here, and I
will confide in you freely,” Salome answered, with heightened color.
“From the moment that you began to infuse the life-current from my veins
into Dr. Winthrop’s I have felt as if I belonged to him and he to me—as
if our very souls had been united with the union of our blood. Doubtless
some people would affirm that this was only a sentimental idea. It may
be so; if it is I cannot help it. To me it is a veritable fact, and I
believe if we had been separated—if Dr. Winthrop had gone away and I had
never seen him again—he would have carried away so much of my life with
him that I should never have rallied; I should have died in spite of all
your kind care.”
Dr. Hunt believed it too, even while he marvelled at the curious result
which his experiment had produced; a result of which he had not had the
remotest presentiment.
“You love him, Salome?” he said, regarding her with increasing
tenderness.
“With all my heart,” she murmured tremulously.
“Then Heaven bless you! I believe you will be a very happy woman in the
future,” the good physician said heartily, adding: “Dr. Winthrop is an
unusually talented man and a skilled physician. I believe he is a noble
man, too—upright and conscientious, and I value his friendship highly.
He belongs to a fine family, as perhaps you already know—a very wealthy
family, too, and considering all things, I am only too glad to surrender
my favorite nurse to him, since I cannot keep her here. And I also
believe, Salome, that you will get well and strong under the influence
of this new happiness.”
“I know I shall,” she responded confidently, for, with the deep joy in
her heart, the conviction had been growing upon her all day.