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.