DR. WINTHROP RECEIVES A DISPATCH.
The carriage had drawn up before an imposing house, and Salome observed
that other fine residences lined both sides of the spacious street.
Her husband assisted her to alight, led her up the steps to the
entrance, and rang the bell. The door was almost immediately opened by a
servant, who appeared greatly pleased at the return of the master of the
house.
Dr. Winthrop conducted Salome through the wide and lofty hall to the
elegant drawing-room on the right, where he seated her in a luxurious
chair and murmured in her ear.
“Welcome home, my Salome.”
“What an exquisite room!” she thought, as her eyes roved appreciatively
about the apartment, noting the soft-hued carpet and beautiful
draperies, the furniture of carved ebony, the rare pictures, choice
statuary, and bric-a-brac of every description.
Dr. Winthrop rang another bell and gave orders for dinner, telling the
maid, when she had notified the cook, to come upstairs to the south
suite to attend Mrs. Winthrop.
Then he gave his arm again to Salome, and led her up the grand stairway
to a suite of rooms directly over the drawing-room.
These were furnished in pale pink and white. The boudoir was fitted up
with every convenience and elegance. The furniture was most luxurious;
there were costly pictures upon the walls and beautiful vases and
ornaments in profusion upon the tables and mantel.
Opening from this charming room was the bed-room, where the low French
bedstead was richly draped with antique lace over pale pink silk and a
coverlet to match. Hangings of the same hue and material shaded the
windows, and every appointment of the chamber betrayed exquisite taste.
Beyond, there was a bath and dressing-room which contained every luxury
any one could desire, from the porcelain bath down to the simplest
toilet appendage.
“These rooms,” said Dr. Winthrop, as he led Salome through them, “are
for your own private use, dear, and while, as mistress here, you are of
course to have the freedom of the whole house, yet you can flee here and
shut yourself away whenever you are inclined, and no one shall intrude
upon you. Remember, Salome, we are going to make it our first and chief
business to get you well and strong, and until that end is attained you
are to be perfectly free from care of every kind. I have a competent
housekeeper,” he continued, “who will look after the household, subject,
of course, to your orders and wishes, without vexing you with any of the
details. Now, dear,” looking at his watch, “I want you to rest until
dinner time, which is seven o’clock; then if you feel able to come down
to dine with me it will give me pleasure; if you do not you must feel
free to stay quietly here; you have had a long journey, and must be very
weary,” he concluded, regarding her with some anxiety, as he stooped to
touch her forehead with his lips.
Tears sprang to the young wife’s eyes.
“How good you are to me! how thoughtful!” she said, reaching up her
white hand, and laying it against his cheek. “Oh, I hope I shall get
well and strong soon. I hope I can make you happy.”
“If you are happy, do not fear but I shall be also,” he responded
tenderly.
“How can I be otherwise in this lovely home?” Salome said, as she
glanced around the luxurious room, adding earnestly, “and with you.”
He thanked her for those last words with a look that brought a lovely
color to her cheeks. Then he said, as some one tapped upon the door:
“Here comes Nellie to attend you; let her undress you, so that you can
rest more comfortably, and try to sleep if you can.”
He left her then, and she heard him cross the hall and enter another
room.
She went obediently to bed, telling Nellie that she might come to her
again, and in a little while she had fallen into a restful slumber.
She felt greatly refreshed when she awoke, and, her trunk having
arrived, she allowed Nellie to help her dress in the pretty gray silk in
which she had been married, and then, with some delicate pink
roses—which Dr. Winthrop had sent up—fastened in her corsage, she went
down to her husband, looking brighter and lovelier than he had yet seen
her.
She found the dining-room in perfect keeping with the rest of the
house—finished in natural wood, the floor inlaid in an intricate and
lovely pattern—the furniture beautifully carved, and upholstered in
embossed leather.
In the centre of the room there stood a table covered with a heavy white
damask cloth and spread with a glittering array of cut-glass and silver,
while a butler stood waiting to serve them.
Dr. Winthrop led Salome to one end of the table and then took his own
place opposite.
More and more the young wife found herself wondering how a man of Dr.
Winthrop’s apparent wealth and position could have been drawn toward a
poor girl who had been a common nurse in a hospital, and have been
willing to make her his wife without inquiring more particularly
regarding her history.
But there was a curious little smile hovering about her lips, as she
took her seat at the table and for the first time assumed the duties of
her new position, and Dr. Winthrop soon found himself wondering at his
wife’s perfect self-possession in it—at the inimitable grace which
characterized every movement, as if all her life she had been accustomed
to the luxuries, the form and etiquette by which she was now environed.
When dinner was over he led her to another room, which was fitted up as
a library and music-room.
Handsome book-cases filled with books lined the walls. A fine piano
stood in one corner, and the hangings and furniture were of olive and
old gold. There were rare pictures here also, while in every nook and
corner there was some object of beauty and luxury.
Dr. Winthrop exerted himself to entertain his bride, and neither had any
idea of the lapse of time until the clock struck ten, when the young
physician glanced at Salome in dismay half real, half assumed.
“A fine physician I am!” he exclaimed, “to keep an invalid up until this
hour. Dr. Hunt would surely read me a severe lecture if he knew it.”
“But I am not in the least tired. I had such a nice nap before dinner,”
Salome returned, with shining eyes and pink cheeks.
“Nevertheless I am going to send you directly to bed,” her husband said,
as he arose and led her to the door of her boudoir, where he folded her
close in his arms for a moment.
“I hope you will sleep well, dear,” he cried, “and that I shall find
these faint roses in your cheeks a little brighter in the morning.”
He opened the door for her to pass in, then shut it softly after her,
and went across the hall to his own apartment, a tender smile on his
lips.
Salome seemed better and stronger the next day, in spite of the fatigue
of her long journey, and every day after that for a week she continued
to improve, while life seemed to her like a beautiful poem set to
sweetest music. She took no medicine, her husband prescribing only
nourishing diet and mild stimulants for her, but happiness was the best
tonic she could have had, and its effect was almost magical.
Every fine day they went out driving together in their close carriage.
Dr. Winthrop would not consent to an open vehicle at present, although
Salome begged for it; he feared she would take cold, and he was very
watchful and careful, for he knew that even a little relapse would be a
very serious injury to her.
Their evenings were passed either in pleasant conversation, or he read
aloud to her from some entertaining book or periodical; but they
received no calls, and sometimes Salome wondered if Dr. Winthrop’s
friends even knew that he was married.
It was a fact that scarcely any one outside their own household did know
it, although the young man had cabled the news to his family in Europe
on the day of his marriage. Salome was so extremely delicate, that he
would not allow her to be subjected to the calls and curiosity of his
numerous acquaintances, until she should be entirely recovered.
One day, after dinner, Salome asked her husband if she might have the
piano opened.
“Why, yes, certainly. Do you play?” he asked, surprised. It had not
occurred to him that she could be musical.
“I used to,” she answered simply, “but it is a long time since I have
touched a piano,” and sitting down before the beautiful instrument, she
ran her supple fingers along the key-board. Her husband instantly
recognized a cultivated touch, and began to look about for some music.
“My sister is a fine musician,” he said, “and perhaps you can find
something among her collections which you can play.”
Salome smiled as she glanced over the pile that he brought her, for much
of it was familiar to her, and she played steadily to him for half an
hour or more.
Then all at once she broke forth into a little song which she sang from
memory.
The sound of her voice seemed to make her forget where she was, or that
she had a listener—everything but that she was happy, and free to let
her glad tones ring out as they would.
Dr. Winthrop was electrified, for her voice was exquisite—clear, strong,
and flexible.
“Why, Salome, you never told me that you were musical!” he exclaimed
half reproachfully, when the song was finished; “and you are really
quite an artist.”
“You never asked me,” she demurely answered, “and I’ve had very little
opportunity to tell you anything.”
“Perhaps you have other astonishing accomplishments. I shall begin to
think you have married me under false pretences,” he returned smilingly.
Salome started violently, and darted a half-frightened look at him; but
he did not see it, and went on playfully:
“Perhaps you are even a connoisseur in art.”
“No, indeed; I would not presume to say that; but I have had some
instruction in painting and drawing,” she modestly answered.
“Salome, you have been finely educated—your advantages, evidently, were
of the very best,” Dr. Winthrop remarked, regarding her admiringly, for
every day developed something new and interesting in her.
“Yes,” she admitted thoughtfully, “and, True, it is time I told you my
history—it is time you should know all about your wife’s antecedents. I
am strong enough now, surely, to speak of the past, even though there is
much that is painful connected with it, without becoming unduly excited,
and I want you to know all there is to tell—I want to have no secrets
from you.”
“Then there are secrets even in your life, Salome!” her husband
remarked, regarding her with a fond smile; but he did not imagine that
she could have anything very vital to conceal.
“Yes,” she said; “but I have no desire to keep them from you.”
“Very well, dear; you shall tell me everything, and I must confess that
you have at last effectually aroused my curiosity,” the young man said,
laughing; then he added: “Come and sit in the easy-chair, and then I
will give you my undivided attention.”
Salome rose and came forward, but at that moment the bell rang, and a
servant entered, saying there was an urgent call for Dr. Winthrop.
He had to go away immediately, so, of course, that put a stop to all
confidence for that evening.
The next morning, while they were at breakfast, he received a cable
message, notifying him that his mother and sister would sail that day
for America.
Salome fancied that there was a cloud on her husband’s brow after
reading this dispatch, but he made no comment, and therefore she did not
feel like questioning him.
He was very busy after that for several days, calls coming in upon him
thick and fast, and Salome saw comparatively little of him, excepting in
the evenings, and then he seemed so weary and preoccupied that she did
not deem it best to broach the subject of their interrupted
conversation, but sought to entertain and amuse him by music and
reading.
“Tell me about your mother and sister,” she pleaded one evening, as the
time of their return drew near.
She had longed to know something definite about them, but as he seemed
somewhat reticent regarding them, she had not, until now, questioned
him.
A peculiar expression flashed over Dr. Winthrop’s face at his wife’s
request.
“My mother is a very handsome, dignified woman, a little over fifty
years of age, although no one would imagine her to be over forty. She
traces her lineage to one of the old Colonial families, and is happy in
being one of the leaders in that charmed circle known as ‘New York’s
Four Hundred.’ My sister is, if possible, more beautiful, more stately,
and more proud than my mother.”
Salome looked troubled at this brief but ominously suggestive
description, while she had never heard her husband assume such a cynical
tone before.
“Do they know——” she began timidly.
“That I am married? Yes; I cabled to them immediately after the
ceremony, and wrote them briefly later,” he replied.
“Have you heard from them since?” breathed Salome.
“Not in response to those communications.”
“Will they be pleased—will they—love me?” the young wife wistfully
asked, drawing a little nearer to him, as if seeking protection against
some approaching evil.
Dr. Winthrop’s brow clouded.
He had known from the first that his family would be anything but
pleased with his hasty and romantic marriage. Indeed the fact that they
had entirely ignored both his cable message and letter proved this. He
was confident that his mother and sister were now hastening home for no
other purpose than to denounce him for his rashness, if they should find
that he had chosen a wife outside the pale of their charmed circle, for
many years ago a far different choice had been made for him;—but of this
more later.
“True, tell me—will they be pleased to find that you have a wife?”
Salome said again, as he did not answer her at once.
“I hope so, my Peace,” he gently returned, but she was far from feeling
reassured.
Something seemed to warn her that the coming of these two women would
cast a shadow, if not a fatal blight, upon her happiness, and she
dreaded their arrival inexpressibly.
She said nothing, however—she would not let her husband see that she
feared to meet his friends; but her dread was not lessened when the next
morning he began to question her regarding the condition of her
wardrobe.
He smiled when she named over what she had.
“Little woman, this will never do at all,” he said; “we must go to-day
and select something more suitable for Mrs. Winthrop, of Madison
avenue.”
A morning’s vigorous shopping under the skilful eyes of Dr. Winthrop
wrought a wonderful addition to her wardrobe. Dainty costumes, laces,
gloves, and every luxury of the toilet were selected as well as several
pieces of rare jewelry.
“Is there anything else, dear, that you can think of?” Dr. Winthrop
questioned, as they were leaving Tiffany’s.
“Do not ask me, Dr. True,” Salome answered, flushing, “for I feel
oppressed now with what you have expended upon me.”
“Salome,” said her husband gravely, “please never speak to me of any
feeling of obligation—more than that, do not entertain any such feeling.
When I put that ring upon your finger did I not endow you with all that
I possess? What is mine is also thine, dear, and there is enough to
gratify every reasonable wish, and to spare. You will best please me,
Salome, by providing yourself with everything that a lady in your
position needs.”
When they reached home he drew her into the library, where he gave her a
cheque book.
“When you need money, Salome, you need not ask me for it—I think that
must be exceedingly galling to a woman; but just fill out one of these
cheques and get what you wish. I have signed a number of them, so all
you need to do will be to present them at the bank. But,” he added, “as
you cannot do that until you go out again, let me give you something to
begin upon; you must not be without money,” and as he spoke he slipped
into her hand a crisp bill of no mean denomination.
“What shall I say to you?” she gasped, her breath fairly taken away by
such munificence.
“Nothing, dear; but”—lifting her arm and drawing it about his neck—“if
you can think of anything that I would like you may give it to me,” and
he bent his lips to hers.
She kissed him twice—softly, lingeringly, gratefully.
“Do you love me, Salome?” he asked, just to hear what her answer would
be.
“You know that I do, with my whole soul, my husband,” she breathed. “Oh,
I am afraid that I am too happy.”
He laughed softly. Then he said:
“Now, I have something else to tell you. There is a pair of pretty bay
ponies and a coupé out in the stable, and they are for the use of Mrs.
Winthrop exclusively. You are to drive every fine day, Salome—you know I
cannot always go with you—and order them whenever you wish. There! I
shall have to go, for I hear that arbitrary bell again. Put on one of
your new gowns for dinner, dear; I want to see if I have shown good
taste in my selections,” and with a last fond embrace he left her.