“YOUR MARRIAGE WAS ILLEGAL; YOU ARE NO WIFE!”
Salome had sat like a statue during this last tirade. Her heart was like
lead in her bosom; her feet and hands like ice, her face, after that
vivid flush of shame, pale as marble, and all the while those blighting
words, which Madame Winthrop had represented as her son’s, and which had
been confirmed by Evelyn, rang in her ears like a sentence of doom upon
her future happiness.
How could she believe them after those last fond expressions to which he
had given utterance before he had parted with her in his room? when he
had held her in his arms and pronounced that tender little benediction
over her, “May Heaven bless and keep you, my own wife, while we are
parted, and grant that we may be soon reunited.” When he had seemed so
anxious that she should take such good care of herself, and would “not
know a moment’s peace if he thought she was grieving.”
And his letters since his departure had breathed so much of anxiety and
affection for her; in them he had called her for the first time “his
darling,” “his precious wife,” and entreated her over and over again to
take care of herself for his sake.
Could she believe that all this was hypocrisy on his part—that he would
pretend to so much affection for her, and tell his mother and sister
something different?
No—she would never believe it of him. She would trust her husband—she
believed him to be honorable, noble, truthful, and she would allow
nothing to come between them or disturb her faith in him.
She resolved, too, that she would keep her own counsel during his
absence; but upon his return she would open her whole heart to him and
there should never be any more secrets between them. But she would not
be driven into any confessions to these two women, who, from the very
first moment of their meeting, had constituted themselves her enemies.
She did not, however, wish to come to any open rupture with them if she
could avoid it—they were her husband’s mother and sister, he had wished
them to remain in his house as her guests, and she felt it to be her
duty to show them all due respect and consideration; but they must be
made to realize that she also had certain rights—that she was not a weak
reed to be bent and swayed according to every freak or whim which seized
them.
All this she thought out during the brief interval of silence that
followed Madame Winthrop’s authoritative demand, and she suddenly found
herself growing calm and self-possessed again.
“Allow me to inquire, Mrs. Winthrop, what you have learned to-day that
has so embittered you against me?” she said, turning a mild glance upon
the stern woman and ignoring her question regarding the mystery of her
life.
“I have learned that you are not what you pretend to be—that you are an
impostor——”
“Not what I pretend to be—an impostor?” repeated Salome, with wide eyes.
“Yes; you married my son under an assumed name. Girl, what is your true
name? I demand an honest answer,” returned madam with overwhelming
authority.
“My name was just what I gave it—Salome Howland,” the young wife quietly
responded.
“I know better,” retorted the elder woman, flushing angrily at the
girl’s calm self-possession. “Your first name may be Salome, but Howland
was certainly not your true surname.”
Salome made no reply to this, and Evelyn and her mother exchanged
significant glances.
“Was it?—tell me!” commanded Madame Winthrop.
“I can tell you nothing—at present,” Salome answered.
“You shall tell me; I have borne this wretched suspense as long as I
can,” persisted her tormentor. “Do you dare deny that there is a mystery
connected with your life? Do you dare affirm that you gave your true
surname when you married my son?”
Salome thought a moment; then, lifting her small head proudly, she met
madam’s glance squarely and steadily.
“Mrs. Winthrop,” she began, but most courteously, even gently, “I do not
wish to offend you. I do not wish to say or do anything that would
appear disrespectful toward my husband’s mother; and I cannot tell you
what you wish to know just now, simply because I have not yet confided
my history to True, who has the first right to my confidences. As he
told you, he would not at first allow me to talk about it, although I
attempted to do so several times, because he feared it would excite and
make me ill again. When I can have an opportunity to confide in him, I
can then have no possible objection to your knowing all that he thinks
best to tell you. I beg that you will not press this subject any
further; pray let it rest. You are my guests, and I cannot bear that
there should be any unpleasantness while True is away——”
“Well, then,” sternly interrupted Madame Winthrop, “I am determined that
I will have the truth. There is something very mysterious about you, and
when you went into that hospital in Boston you went there to hide from
some person or persons, did you not?”
Salome flushed a vivid scarlet at this unexpected charge, and then she
as quickly lost all her color again.
“When True comes I will tell him all,” she said with visible agitation.
A look of triumph leaped into madam’s eyes, for she was quick to notice
both flush and emotion, and regarded them as signs of guilt.
“More than this,” she went on, emboldened by her apparent success in
worming this evidence of a secret from her victim, “for some reason,
best known to yourself, you ran away from your home, and you are a long
distance from your friends.”
Wholly unprepared for such an accusation, Salome threw out one hand with
a startled gesture and shrank back in her chair, as if from a blow,
while her beautiful face was almost convulsed with pain.
“You perceive,” the woman went on, “that I know what I am talking about,
and it is useless for you to attempt to deceive me; and since you will
not confess it I will tell you that I also know that Howland was not
your real surname. You have compromised us all by meeting a low man—a
former lover, I suppose—a circumstance of which I shall write to my son
immediately. You have married my son—a Winthrop—under false pretences;
you have brought irreparable disgrace in more ways than one upon one of
the first families of New York.”
“Madam,” interposed Salome, rising and standing before the irate woman,
with a proud dignity that impressed her in spite of the fury to which
she had wrought herself up, “you wrong me; I have brought no disgrace
upon you or the name of Winthrop; I have done nothing which can reflect
upon your son or your family in any way.”
“You have! for—do you understand?—under the circumstances your marriage
is illegal—you are no wife!”
Madame Winthrop did not know anything about the law in this case; but
she was so angry—she had worked herself into such a rage over the
obstinacy of the girl—that she made this statement at random,
determined, if possible, to frighten Salome into confessing her whole
story to her.
A look of horror suddenly shot into the young wife’s eyes and over her
sensitive face, which blanched to the hue of marble. She seemed almost
to freeze where she stood and to shrink before those two heartless
women, a terrible fear written on every quivering feature.
“No! do not tell me that!” she whispered hoarsely.
“The law decrees that no contract is binding that is obtained by fraud
on the part of either party; it becomes illegal, and thus, do you not
see, by being married under a name that was not your true one your
marriage was invalid?” said madam impressively.
“Oh, but True believes it to have been legal; he intended that it should
be. He would never have wronged me so, and I am sure he will make it all
right when he comes home,” Salome cried, appalled at the situation as
represented to her.
“That remains to be seen,” returned the elder woman severely. “My son is
a man who abhors deception of any kind; he would never overlook being
drawn into such a false position by fraud. More than this, he was
pledged to another when, from a feeling of pity and gratitude, he asked
you to be his wife.”
Madame Winthrop reached the end of her rope at this point, for with one
agonized gasp Salome fainted dead away. The knowledge that her husband
had broken his pledge to another, perhaps thus ruining his own and the
life of some lovely girl, was too much for her already overburdened
heart, and a merciful unconsciousness locked her senses in temporary
oblivion.
Madame Winthrop and Evelyn were both somewhat frightened by this result
of their inhuman arraignment of the young wife, and so they resolved to
keep all knowledge of it from the servants, if possible.
They laid her upon the lounge, loosened her clothing, and applied
restoratives.
“I’m afraid we are getting ourselves into trouble, mamma,” Evelyn
remarked as she regarded Salome’s death-like face with great anxiety.
“True would never forgive us if anything should happen to her through
us.”
“She’s an obstinate little piece,” replied madam, with a frown. “I
didn’t think she’d hold out like this, nor go off in any such way. But,”
she continued relentlessly, “I’m determined to discover the secret of
her life before Truman comes home. I’m almost sure there is some
disgraceful story connected with her past, and, if there is, I shall
wish that something might happen to her.”
Evelyn regarded her mother with some surprise as she said this. She had
always known that she was an intensely proud, somewhat cold-hearted
woman, but she was shocked by such utter heartlessness as this.
Salome at length revived, and they helped her to her own room and called
Nellie to attend her.
It can easily be imagined that she was in a wretched state mentally,
while the terrible excitement to which she had been subjected made her
really ill for the time.
She saw nothing more of her husband’s mother and sister that day, for
she shut herself in her chamber and charged Nellie not to admit any one.
She tried to calm herself sufficiently to think over what she had heard
and to reason out her position. She wondered how madam could have
learned all that she appeared to know about her. Could it be possible
that that man had followed her home and revealed to her what he knew of
her history? The thought for a moment appalled her, then she discarded
it, for if such had been the case they must have learned her name and
some other things which madam had seemed so anxious to extort from her.
Then her thoughts reverted to what had been told her about her marriage.
Could it be possible that there had really been any flaw in it? that the
simple fact of her withholding her surname would invalidate it?
It did not seem at all reasonable; but she knew that the law was very
often peculiar and arbitrary, and it might be as Mrs. Winthrop had said.
If she was no wife—horrible thought—then she had no right to be in the
home of Dr. Winthrop, acting as mistress at his table, driving his
horses, spending his money.
“Oh, it cannot—it cannot be true!” she moaned, as she hid her burning
face in her hands. “What shall I do? what is right—what is my duty?
True, True, have you ruined your life—have you ruined three lives from a
mistaken sense of obligation—of gratitude to me? I would rather have
died than that it should be so.”
She was very wretched, both mentally and physically, and Nellie grew
alarmed at her condition and begged her to send for some physician.
But she refused to see any one—she knew that no advice, no medicine,
would do any good until she could fight out her battle and determine
upon some course to pursue.
All night long she lay awake, trying to decide the important question;
and at last in the small hours of the morning she resolved that she
would write everything to her husband, for such he still seemed to her,
in spite of the doubt that had been cast upon their relations. She would
begin at the very beginning, and tell him all the sad story of her life
up to her meeting with him. She would also tell him of her encounter
with that bad man yesterday, of her subsequent interview with his mother
and sister, and their judgment of her. She would tell him that if she
was no wife—if he had been pledged to some one else whom he loved and
wished to marry, before meeting her, and feeling that he owed her such a
return for the service which she had rendered him—if he wished to be
free and to take advantage of the flaw in their marriage, she would
willingly submit—she would go away and never see or trouble him again.
It was a heroic resolve—a resolve worthy a martyr; but having determined
upon it, she arose and proceeded to put it into execution.
She wrote for more than an hour steadily, never faltering over a single
point—she laid her whole heart and life bare before him.
“Dear, dear True,” she wrote in conclusion, “it makes me utterly
wretched to think that I may have ruined your life—though
unintentionally—I would rather that you had left me in that cheerless
hospital—left me there to die; for I should have died, I know—I could
not have lived and suffered on alone after having poured my whole soul
through my blood into your veins. But even such a result would have been
far better than that I should have brought life-long sorrow and regret
to you and yours. Oh! answer me at once, that I may not be in suspense.
If you pronounce sentence upon me, I will not murmur; I will go quietly
away, and you shall never know anything more of me—you shall be free.
But if—can such joy be in store for me?—if you love me as I have hoped,
if you wish me to remain as your wife, I shall be happy, content, and
will cheerfully and joyfully await your return, trusting you fully, and
pay no attention to what others may say. Pray—pray send me but one word,
‘stay,’ by cable, to relieve the torturing suspense of your
“SALOME.”
When this lengthy epistle was finished, she sent it down by Nellie to
the mail-box, so that the postman might take it on his first round, and
then, with her mind greatly relieved, she threw herself again upon her
bed, and was soon sleeping the sleep of exhaustion.
But Evelyn Winthrop heard Nellie as she went down with Salome’s letter,
and at once suspected that she had made a clean breast of everything to
her husband, and appealed to him to protect her from their further
persecution.
“She will make a pretty mess for us if she has told him all that has
happened since he went away, and he will never forgive us,” she
muttered, with a frown.
She arose, early as it was, and hastily throwing on her wrapper and
thrusting her feet into a pair of felt slippers, stole softly down to
the vestibule to inspect the letter-box.
Yes, there was a bulky epistle addressed to her brother, as she had
expected, while at that instant she heard the postman’s whistle, just
across the street. Evelyn was intensely curious to know what was inside
that letter; if she could but master its contents and send it on by the
next mail—provided there was nothing objectionable in it—no one would be
any the wiser and no harm would be done.
She hastily slipped the missive from the box, thrust it into her bosom,
and sped noiselessly back to her chamber, a few moments before the
postman called to deliver the double mail, and, as was his custom, take
what letters were ready for the post-office.
Evelyn reached her room without encountering any one, although she was
mortally afraid of meeting Nellie, and after locking her door sat down
before her glowing grate, where with a sharp penknife she carefully
unsealed the envelope inclosing Salome’s letter and drew forth its
closely written contents.
The morning was very dark, for a severe storm was raging, and she found
that she must have more light before she could read it.
She arose, and carelessly laid the open letter on the mantel, and then
went to draw back the heavy curtains from her windows.
The several sheets of paper, which had not been thoroughly creased in
the haste in which Salome had folded them, began to creep apart, and
having been carelessly laid too near the edge of the mantel slipped
off—would probably only have fallen to the floor had not a gust of wind
at that moment increased the draft to the chimney, when the ill-fated
missive was sucked directly in upon the bed of red-hot coals in the
grate.
Instantly it was in flames, and when Evelyn turned to see what had
caused the sudden ruddy glow in the room, it was past all hope of
recovery and the blackened flakes of the consuming paper were being
rapidly drawn up the chimney.
A look of consternation swept over her face as she contemplated the
ruins before her, and then gave place to one of excessive anger at being
foiled in her design to penetrate the mystery which seemed to surround
her brother’s wife.
“What an idiot I was not to be more careful,” she muttered passionately
as she watched, with covetous eye, the last of the fragments disappear
up the black-throated chimney. “What shall I do?”
She could of course do nothing but endure her wrath and disappointment
and make the best of a bad matter. She would never humble herself enough
to confess to Salome or any one else what she had done, and so her only
alternative was to make sure of not being detected by burning the
envelope also, and then let matters adjust themselves as they would.
She was long in recovering from her wrath, and she found it no easy
matter to dissemble and go down to breakfast with a serene brow and
composed manner when the bell rang for that meal.