MRS. AND MISS ROCHESTER RECEIVE STARTLING NEWS.
Mrs. Rochester continued to improve daily. She had been in perfect
health at the time of her accident, and so suffered no inconvenience
from it other than that caused by the temporary uselessness of her arm.
But this she could very cheerfully submit to, since she believed it was
serving to lure the handsome and wealthy Dr. Winthrop into the
matrimonial net from which he had so nearly escaped.
He came every day to visit her, whether her wound needed dressing or
not, and always remained for a social chat afterward.
Sometimes Miss Rochester was present, but often she was absent, or she
would occasionally come in before he left for a few moments. She always
greeted him with perfect frankness and without the slightest
embarrassment or self-consciousness. It almost seemed as if she had
forgotten that marriage between them had ever been thought of, and only
remembered that he was her friend.
All this was very pleasant to the unsuspecting physician, who did not
dream that it tended toward a dangerous pitfall laid for his unwary
feet; that Mrs. Rochester was only adroitly alluring him with her
charming conversation and manifestations of friendliness; that her
daughter was simply piquing his interest by purposely absenting herself
from his presence, and only occasionally permitting him to bask in the
sunlight of her smiles and fascinating society.
It is not strange that Dr. Winthrop eagerly availed himself of anything
that would serve to distract his mind from his own mental suffering, and
really it would have been hard to find two women more calculated to make
a man forget his trouble, for their tact and resources were boundless.
Upon two or three occasions he had invited Miss Rochester to join him
with his friend and Miss Savage on excursions to different points of
interest, but she invariably declined with thanks, telling him with her
sweetest smile that she could not feel comfortable to leave mamma;
perhaps when she was better and able to go out again she would be glad
to avail herself of his kind offer to act as their escort, if—he was
still in Paris.
He thought it was very lovely in her to be so devoted to her mother—a
step-mother at that—and did not once suspect that she was only cunningly
angling for the fish which she was determined to land, if possible, high
and dry upon the shores of matrimony.
Meantime Madame Winthrop and Evelyn—the latter being intimate with Miss
Nellie Savage and in regular correspondence with her—had learned that
Dr. Winthrop had met the Rochesters in Paris, and how the meeting had
been brought about.
“Everything is coming out all right, mamma,” Evelyn had triumphantly
remarked, after imparting the information to her mother. “Miss Savage
writes that Sadie Rochester is a very fascinating girl, as well as a
thorough society woman, and that True is a constant visitor at their
hotel.”
“That is the best news that I have heard for months,” madam responded,
her face lighting with pleasure; “and now, Evelyn, I think the wisest
thing we can do will be to go directly to Paris, make the acquaintance
of the Rochesters, and do all that we can to bring about that marriage.”
“I believe that would be a good move, mamma; but would papa consent to
the plan?” Miss Winthrop inquired, in some doubt.
“Yes; he said only yesterday that he wished he were back again on the
other side of the Atlantic. I imagine, as his health is not fully
restored, that he does not feel quite safe to be so far away from
Truman, in whose medical skill he has absolute faith.”
“Then let us go at once, by all means. I have been dying to get away
from New York ever since that dreadful fire; the place seems haunted to
me.”
The plan met the ready approval of both Mr. Winthrop and his son Norman;
it was, therefore, immediately acted upon, and a few weeks later the
whole family were pleasantly settled in spacious apartments overlooking
the Place de la Concorde.
Dr. Winthrop was greatly surprised and not very well pleased by their
sudden and unlooked-for appearance; but, at his father’s earnest
request, he consented to give up his lodgings and come to them, so that
he might be at hand if any one were taken ill. Mr. Winthrop had been
very nervous about himself ever since his last attack.
Mrs. Rochester and Madame Winthrop at once became very friendly, and
freely opened their hearts to each other; they agreed that a union
between the Hamilton heir and Rochester heiress was the one thing, of
all others, to be most desired, and pledged themselves to spare no pains
to bring about the desired alliance.
“Who was this girl whom your son married under such romantic
circumstances, and who died such a dreadful death?” Mrs. Rochester
inquired one day during a long and confidential conversation with her
new friend.
“She was a Miss Howland.”
“Howland! Howland!” repeated Mrs. Rochester meditatively, as if the name
had a familiar sound, and yet she could not quite identify it.
“Yes—Salome Howland,” said Madame Winthrop.
Mrs. Rochester was sitting by a window, and happened to be looking down
upon the street at that moment, so that her companion could not see the
deadly pallor that suddenly settled over her face, nor the look of
horror that leaped into her eyes at the sound of that name.
“Salome Howland!” she managed to articulate, after a moment, during
which she had fought against a deadly faintness that threatened to
overcome her; “Salome! that is not a common name. What kind of a person
was she? I have a—a great desire to know what she was like.”
“Well, I am bound to confess that she was a very attractive-looking
girl—very. She had very dark hair and eyes, a peculiarly fair,
cream-like skin, delicate, beautiful features, and a very graceful form.
She was, perhaps, five feet and a half in height, and in her manner and
bearing she was peculiarly self-possessed and pleasing. She had
beautiful teeth and small, shapely hands and feet, was well educated,
and even accomplished, especially in music.”
“Heavens!” murmured Mrs. Rochester, under her breath, and a shiver, as
if from a sudden chill, ran over her.
She rose from her chair and straightened herself, as if to throw off a
certain numbness that seemed creeping over her, and moved toward the
fire.
“It is cold to-day,” she remarked, as she bent over the glowing coals,
hoping that the ruddy flame within the grate would impart a tinge of
color to her face and warm her chilled blood.
“Yes, we are having an unusually severe winter for Paris,” Madame
Winthrop responded, but without appearing to notice that there was
anything peculiar in either the manner or appearance of her guest.
“And your son, Dr. Winthrop, really loved this girl, you think?” Mrs.
Rochester resumed, as she sank into a low rocker by the grate.
“Yes,” replied her companion, with a frown, “it was a clear case of
infatuation, though it mortifies me to confess it in connection with my
son. I would not have believed that Truman could have so lost his head
over any woman, much less over one surrounding whom there was so much
mystery. And he does not seem to get over it, either. It is true that
when he is in company he throws off his gloom for a time, but here at
home he is sad and depressed—entirely unlike himself,” and she sighed
heavily as she concluded.
She realized that she was paying dearly for her treatment of her son’s
wife and for her sinful scheming, for it was only too evident that Dr.
Winthrop could not forget it; he had said he would never forgive her,
and it was doubtful if he ever did.
“But she is dead—you are sure she is dead?” eagerly inquired Mrs.
Rochester, with a peculiar gleam in her eyes.
“Oh, yes; there cannot be the slightest doubt upon that point, for we
made the most searching and careful inquiries.”
Mrs. Rochester soon after took her leave, but as she went out to her
carriage she walked as one in a dream, and her coachman was obliged to
ask her twice where she wanted to go before she heard him.
“Home,” she briefly said, and all the way she sat rigid as a statue,
seeing nothing, hearing nothing of what was going on about her.
She found Sadie in the drawing-room arranging a profusion of flowers in
some vases.
“Aren’t they lovely, mamma?” she cried with unusual animation as the
door opened and her mother entered.
“Yes; where did you get them?” she asked, but in an indifferent tone.
“Mr. Winthrop sent them.”
“Mr. Winthrop?” Mrs. Rochester repeated sharply, bestowing a searching
glance upon the young lady.
“Yes—Mr. Norman Winthrop,” and a swift wave of color flitted across the
girl’s fair face; for since the arrival of the Winthrop family in Paris,
Dr. Winthrop’s twin brother had paid very marked attention to Sadie
Rochester.
“S—adie!” said her mother in a tone of grave reproof as she noticed the
flush. “I hope there will be no nonsense in that direction.”
The young girl laughed lightly but with averted face.
“You intend to marry Dr. Winthrop, don’t you?” pursued the elder woman,
looking anxious.
“Yes, if I can only induce him to ask me,” Miss Rochester answered
coldly, but looking a trifle pale.
“Then let his brother alone,” said her mother sternly—“you have no
business to coquet with him; you’ve broken hearts enough without making
mischief in that family.”
“Pshaw, mamma!” retorted the young lady impatiently, but her under lip
trembled slightly as she spoke. “Norman Winthorp is capable of taking
care of his own heart.”
“Capable or otherwise, you had better take my advice and let him alone,”
was the quick retort. “Why can’t you behave yourself, if you have made
up your mind to marry his brother? Dr. Winthrop is a man who will never
be trifled with, if, indeed, he can be won at all. And, S—adie——”
“Why do you keep halting and stumbling over my name in that fashion,
mamma?” Miss Rochester demanded, with an irritable tap of her pretty
foot—“it is, to say the least, very—unpleasant.”
“Yes, I know, but somehow, I am so upset, I couldn’t help it. You will
not wonder that I halt and stumble, when I tell you—oh! whom do you
suppose Dr. Winthrop’s wife was?”
“What a question! How could I possibly know?” returned Miss Rochester,
with an indifferent shrug of her shapely shoulders, as she stood back a
step or two to admire the arrangement of her flowers.
“Salome Howland!”
“What!” screamed the astonished young woman, as she turned and faced her
mother, doubt and terror depicted upon her face, which was now as white
as the dainty cashmere robe in which she was clad.
“It is true,” said her mother.
“Good gracious, mamma! it can’t be possible! I cannot believe it!
And—and you know we thought she was dead long ago.”
Miss Rochester had now forgotten both her flowers and their
giver—everything but the amazing news which her mother had brought her,
and, sinking weakly upon a chair, she continued to stare blankly at her.
“So she is—now,” Mrs. Rochester returned, with a satisfied inflection
upon the adverb. “I do not wonder that you are astonished,” she resumed.
“I thought I should lose my senses when Madame Winthrop told me of it.
That girl who died in London must have been some one else of the same
name.”
“Oh, I hope there is no mistake this time,” whispered Miss Rochester
hoarsely, “for she was the only one who knew, and if she should turn up
now it would be dreadful.”
“I do not think there can be any mistake,” returned her mother, and then
she proceeded to relate all that Madame Winthrop had told her, and
concluded by remarking, “I never had such a shock as when I realized
that Dr. Winthrop had married your cousin; it seemed simply impossible,
and yet when she described her, I knew it must be true. She must have
gone directly to America after disappearing so strangely. And then to
think of her going into a hospital as a common nurse! Still she was
always very skilful in your father’s sick-room. I hope the Winthrops
will never learn the truth—it would ruin all your hopes of ever winning
the doctor, if he should ever suspect.”
“Nonsense, mamma!” returned Miss Rochester, who was beginning to recover
her self-possession and her spirits; “how could they ever suspect the
truth, when there is no one now to hint at it? Everything is coming out
beautifully, at least I have strong hopes of it. At any rate you and I
have had a grand good time this last year by ourselves. Salome was
always such a bore and a marplot, in spite of her generosity. However,
we shall have it all our own way now, and if I can only manage to win
Truman Winthrop I shall have reached the summit of my ambition.”
“What an avaricious creature you are, Sadie! But I am afraid Dr.
Winthrop will never love you as well as he loved her. Madam says he
idolized her,” said Mrs. Rochester regretfully.
“I do not expect that he will; I do not want him to. I imagine it would
be rather tiresome to be so idolized,” the young lady coldly returned;
and yet, as she went back to her flowers, her eyes softened and a
delicate flush rose to her cheek.
A knock upon the door presently sounded, and a servant announced Mr.
Norman Winthrop.
The two women rose to welcome him, one with a smile and blush of
pleasure, the other with a sigh and with a look of anxiety upon her pale
face.