DR. WINTHROP RECEIVES AN IMPERATIVE SUMMONS ABROAD.
When Salome awoke the next morning, she was conscious of a feeling of
great nervousness and depression. Her head ached, her temples throbbed,
and she felt both languid and weak.
Under ordinary circumstances she would have remained quietly in bed,
sent word to her husband that she was ill, and asked him to excuse her
from breakfast.
But she knew how desirous he was that she should please his mother and
sister, and win their approval, and she resolved to conquer her
ill-feelings, and go down to greet them with all the cordiality and
hospitality that the most exacting could expect.
She dressed herself, with great care, in a beautiful morning robe of
pale pink cashmere, and looked every inch a lady as she went down, to
brave again the critical judgment of her proud mother-in-law and her
equally proud daughter.
Dr. Winthrop heard her light step upon the stairs, and came from the
library, where he had been waiting to meet her.
His eyes lighted with love and pride as he caught sight of her; she was
very lovely, and he wondered how any one could feel aught but pleasure
in her presence.
“How beautiful you are this morning, my Peace! Did you sleep well, and
are you feeling quite well?” he inquired, as he folded his arm about
her, and looked fondly into her eyes.
“Yes, I slept very soundly,” Salome answered—too soundly, she might have
told him, and that was, doubtless, one cause of her headache; for she
had been wearied out with the unusual exertion and excitement of the
previous evening.
But she tried to smile brightly, for she did not wish him to be troubled
upon her account, and then, hearing Madame Winthrop’s door open in the
hall above, he drew her quietly within the library, and nothing more was
said about her feelings for which she was thankful.
Madame made her appearance a moment later, with even more stateliness in
her manner than there had been the previous evening, her keen eyes
taking in with one sweeping glance the dainty loveliness of her son’s
wife, and noting that her beauty was no less striking by daylight than
it had been by gaslight.
Salome went forward and greeted her with a cordial “good-morning,”
inquiring if she had rested well, and found everything comfortable in
her room.
Madam responded courteously, as any well-bred lady would have done to a
stranger, in whose home she had been entertained, for surely she was not
going to be outdone in politeness by one whom she affected to despise on
account of inferior birth and breeding.
Evelyn soon followed her mother, and her envy was instantly aroused as
she realized how exceedingly beautiful Salome was.
She had always been accounted very handsome, but she saw that she was
far less attractive than her brother’s wife, and a feeling of bitterness
and ill-will sprang up in her heart on account of it.
She saluted Salome with decided coolness, and then, ignoring her
presence altogether, began talking with her brother about some of their
New York friends.
In spite of this undercurrent of dislike and disapprobation on the part
of their guests, breakfast passed off quite smoothly, for Salome was
determined that there should be no pains spared upon her part to keep
the peace and make everything as pleasant as possible. She was the
mistress of Dr. Winthrop’s home and she would try to do her duty
faithfully, even though she was well aware that her nerves could not
long endure such a strain.
The meal was finally ended, and they were all about to return to the
library, when a servant entered and handed Dr. Winthrop a telegram.
He read it, and a startled look instantly overspread his features.
Salome observed it, and her own face grew pale with an instinctive
feeling of impending evil.
“That is a cable message, is it not, Truman?” inquired his mother, who
had also been regarding him keenly. “Is there any ill news from your
father or brother?”
“Yes, father is very ill,” Dr. Winthrop replied, thinking it best to
conceal nothing. “The message is from Norman and reads thus: ‘Father
taken suddenly and violently ill. Peritonitis. Come if possible.’”
Salome’s heart sank like lead in her bosom as she listened to this
peremptory summons.
If he went would he take her with him, or would he think it best for her
to remain quietly at home? If so, would his mother and sister have to be
her guests during his absence? How could she bear the separation from
him—how could she live under such unnatural constraint with these two
women for long weeks, and perhaps even months?
Thoughts like these darted quickly through her brain during the minute
that elapsed before madam could gather her wits, after the shock of
hearing the message read.
She, too, had grown somewhat pale, but she did not lose one iota of her
self-possession over the serious news.
“How very unfortunate, and we have but just arrived!” she said at
length. “I can never endure another voyage so soon. Can you go to your
father, Truman?”
“I must, since I am sent for, although I doubt if I can reach London in
season to be of any service, for the crisis will have been reached and
passed before I could land. However, if he should weather it safely, I
may be able to prevent a relapse and add to his comfort during his
convalescence. Let me see when I can go,” he added, taking up the
morning paper and turning to the steamship advertisements. “Ah, this is
favorable; the _Scythia_ sails to-day at one o’clock; so I can go at
once—there will be no delay.”
But his eyes wandered wistfully to Salome’s pale face as he said this.
“You will take me, True?” she pleaded, in a low, eager tone, but
instinctively knowing that he would not, even as she spoke.
The intensely appealing look in her dark eyes smote him keenly, for he
dared not take her on such a journey at that time of the year; besides,
he hoped to be back in less than a month if all went well.
Evelyn hoped that he would take Salome out of their way, so that she and
her mother could have full command of his elegant home, and command of
his handsome equipages during his absence.
But madam evidently had other views upon the subject, and there was a
cold glitter in her hard gray eyes as she interposed:
“An invalid wife would be rather a hindrance upon such an errand, I
should imagine.”
Nellie entered the room at that moment to make some inquiry of her young
mistress, and Salome excused herself, ostensibly to give her personal
attention to the matter, but really to get out of sight and conceal the
terrible heart ache that almost unnerved her.
“Mother,” Dr. Winthrop said, as the door closed after her. “I cannot
take Salome with me; it would be risking too much to allow her to cross
the ocean during this cold weather; while, too, I do not know what
tidings and duties may await me upon the other side. I do not think it
best for either you or Evelyn to go—you could do no possible good even
if you found father living. Now I have a favor to ask of you—will you
remain here to keep Salome company during my absence, and will you treat
her like a daughter and sister? Of course, if you cannot take her into
your hearts, it will be best for me to provide you with rooms at either
the Windsor or the Hoffman House, until you can have the home on
Thirty-fourth Street put in order.”
“It will be better for us to remain where we are,” Madame Winthrop
returned, with a sudden accession of dignity, “and you may be assured
that I shall render all due respect to my son’s wife.”
This was a somewhat ambiguous assurance, but he had to content himself
with it, though a sigh of regret escaped him as he left the room to seek
his wife.
She was in neither her boudoir nor her chamber, and he passed on to his
room to pack his trunk for the journey thinking he would see her later.
Five minutes had not passed when there came a timid knock upon his door,
and the next moment Salome glided into the room, looking like some pale,
sorrowing spirit.
“True! True! you are going to take me. I can be ready in an hour; you
must not leave me—I cannot stay here without you!” she panted
tremulously, as she seized his arm with both hands, and looked
beseechingly into his face.
He saw that she was greatly excited.
He put down the articles of clothing he was folding, and drew her into
his arms.
“Salome, my dearest,” he said tenderly, “I wish from the bottom of my
heart that I could take you; but I cannot—hush! little woman! this will
never do,” as she burst into a passion of tears and hid her streaming
eyes upon his breast.
He held her there close, until her grief was somewhat spent; then he
gently seated her in a chair and knelt upon the floor beside her.
“It grieves me more than I can tell you, Salome, to have to leave you
here,” he resumed; “as much on your account as upon mine; but I know
that you could never endure the rough voyage and severe weather; and,
besides, I am afraid that my father will not live through this attack—he
has had one before—and I may have sad duties before me on the other
side. I shall go and return as soon as possible—I hope not to be absent
over a month, if as long. Cannot you be content to do without me for so
short a time? Do not grieve, dear, for that will make you ill, and I
shall be very anxious. Try to get strong and well while I am away; drive
somewhere every pleasant day, and breathe all the fresh air you can, so
that I may find roses on these cheeks when I come back.”
Salome had grown gradually more quiet and composed while he was talking,
and she began to realize that it would be better for her to stay where
she was; that she would only add to his care and anxieties if she went
with him. A month would soon pass, and she could best please him by
striving to be happy and well; so she resolved to put a brave front on
the parting, which somehow had almost the sadness of death in it.
She resolutely wiped away her tears and tried to smile as she lifted her
face to his.
“You must think me very childish,” she began—she could not suppress the
sob that broke in upon the sentence; “but—it is very hard to let you
go.”
“And it is very hard for me to go, dear,” he answered, with regretful
tenderness. “Nothing but such an imperative call would tempt me to leave
you. But you must not grieve—promise me that you will not grieve, or I
shall not know a moment of peace for fear of losing you.”
“I will try to bear it as well as I can,” she returned, little thinking
how difficult it would be to keep her promise; “but oh, how I shall wish
the month away! Now,” starting up, and determined to show him how
earnestly she wished to please him, “let me help you to get ready—you
have so little time, and I am quite an expert at packing.”
He kissed her more fondly than he had ever done before, and thanked her
with a smile; then, feeling that it might keep her mind employed, he
allowed her to assist him in his preparations.
While they were thus engaged he said:
“I have asked my mother and Evelyn to remain with you during my absence,
for I do not like to leave you alone in the house with the servants,
while their house is not in order for their reception. But, Salome, I
want you to understand that this is your home; you are mistress here,
and they are simply to be your guests; only in case you should be ill my
mother will see that you have proper care, or if you need advice in any
emergency she has good judgment and will give you the benefit of it.”
Salome would have been much happier to have been left alone with the
servants, for she knew that, with Madame Winthrop and Evelyn in the
house, she would be under continual restraint; but since it was her
husband’s wish that they should remain, she would not make any
objections to the plan.
“I will try to make everything comfortable and pleasant for them,” she
gravely replied.
“Thank you, dear, and you are to have everything that you need or wish
for, during my absence; make free with your cheque book—go out every day
with the ponies; they need exercise, and it will do you good; only be
careful not to take cold, and don’t worry about anything. Write to me by
every steamer, and you shall hear from me as often. There, little wife,
I believe I cannot think of any more orders to give you,” he concluded,
with a smile; “if I do later, I will write them.”
“I will try to do all that you wish,” she said, but her lip quivered
over the words.
“Now I think I have everything I shall need,” he remarked as he closed
his trunk, “and as I have a little business to do down-town before I
sail, I must hurry away. I am going to say my special good-by to you
here, while we are alone,” he added, as he took her again into his arms,
and laid her head upon his breast. “May Heaven bless and keep you, my
own wife, while we are parted, and grant that we may soon be reunited.”
Salome’s heart was almost breaking, and filled, too, with an indefinable
fear.
“True! True! how can I let you go?” she breathed, almost breaking down
again, and moved by the impulse of the moment, she twined her arms about
his neck, and clung to him with a strength that surprised him.
He kissed her again and again, and then put her gently from him.
“Do not come down, dear, if you would rather not,” he said, thinking she
might find it difficult to preserve her self-control.
“Oh, yes, I must,” she said, with a pathetic little smile, which told
him that she longed to be near him until the last moment.
They went downstairs together, and madam and Evelyn, hearing them, came
out into the hall to make their farewells.
He took an affectionate leave of them, remarking as he did so, and with
a purpose in it:
“I have told Salome that you are to be her guests while I am away, and
she has assured me that she will do everything in her power to make your
stay comfortable and pleasant. I have given her full authority, and you
must fill the time as enjoyably as possible. Of course you will be
anxious about father, but I am going to cable Norman before I start, to
send you a bulletin every day until my arrival, after which I will keep
you posted. Now I must go, Salome.”
She sprang toward him—he folded her in a passionate embrace, kissed her
on the forehead and lips, and then was gone.
Her face was wet with tears when she turned again to Madame Winthrop and
Evelyn; but she looked up with a brave little smile, and asked:
“Will you kindly excuse me for half an hour? I hope I shall be quite
myself again by that time.”
Madam bowed coldly, and Evelyn stared rudely at her, while Salome, with
an almost breaking heart, turned and fled up to her own room, to battle
alone with her heavy grief.
Madam and Miss Winthrop went slowly back to the library.
“Well, mamma, this is a queer state of affairs,” the young lady
remarked, as she carefully closed the door, so as to prevent any one
hearing their conversation.
“It is, truly,” said her mother thoughtfully.
“You understand, mamma, we are to be that girl’s guests, and she is to
have unlimited authority,” continued Miss Winthrop, with a sneer. “That
means, I suppose, that she is to manage everything her own way, and to
spend his money as lavishly as she chooses—and she will choose if one
can judge by the way she dresses. It means, too, that, if we wish to
entertain any of our friends we are to go to her for permission; if we
wish to drive, we will be expected to say, ‘By your leave,’ before we
can have the carriage.”
“Yes, Truman evidently wished us to understand that she was to be
mistress here,” madam thoughtfully returned, “but,” with a proud
uplifting of her head, and compressing her lips tightly, “a mother has
certain rights in the home of her son, and I intend to assert them.”
“I am just dying to know who she is, and all about her,” said Evelyn,
with a frown.
“And I mean to know, before Truman returns,” rejoined madam resolutely,
adding, “His enforced absence will give us a fine opportunity to make
all the inquiries that we desire.”
“Do you imagine that you will be any the wiser afterward?” inquired
Evelyn, with a malicious laugh. “If I am not mistaken, the little lady
has considerable spirit and dignity of her own, and she will not be
easily pumped regarding her family history.”
“We shall see,” quietly responded her mother, but with a look in her eye
that spoke volumes.
An hour later Salome reappeared, looking a little pale, but bright and
smiling, having resolutely conquered her grief, or rather controlled all
outward manifestations of it, and determined to show her guests all due
courtesy and attention.
She was hardly seated with some pretty fancy work in her hands, when
Nellie appeared, saying that the coachman wanted to know if she would
drive as usual.
“Are you two ladies too weary to drive to-day?” Salome asked, turning
graciously to her companions.
“Oh, no; we intended to go for a drive by and by,” madam composedly
responded.
“Have you any choice as to time?” inquired the young hostess.
“Yes; it would be well for us to go soon, while the sun is bright and
warm.”
“Then, Nellie, you may tell Dick to bring the close double carriage in
about half an hour——” Salome began, when she was interrupted by Madame
Winthrop, who said authoritatively:
“No, Nellie, tell him to bring around the barouche. I never ride in a
close carriage.”
A tinge of pink shot into Salome’s cheeks at this decided counter-order;
but she said pleasantly:
“Very well. Then, Nellie, you can say to Dick that he may put the
doctor’s horses into the barouche and send William to drive them, while
he may drive me in the coupé, as usual. True is unwilling that I should
ride in the open air while the weather is so cold,” she explained to her
companions, as the girl withdrew.
Neither lady made any reply; but madam’s lips were tightly compressed,
and a frown rested upon her brow; for Salome’s orders were the ones that
were to be obeyed rather than hers, after all, and they had been issued
with a dignity that nettled her exceedingly.
But madam was determined that she would yet assert herself, and the
opportunity for a second attempt came sooner than she expected.