A FLIGHT FROM WAR AND PESTILENCE.
Mr. Norman Winthrop was so like his brother, the physician, that, to a
casual observer, he would have appeared to be the same man.
He had the same symmetrical, stalwart form and noble carriage; the same
fine, clear-cut intelligent face, and smile, and hair and eyes. But he
lacked something that Dr. Winthrop possessed. Perhaps it was the grave,
yet gentle dignity which always characterized the latter; or it may have
been the frank, honest, straightforward look with which he met the
glance of every one, which Norman had never possessed.
They frequently had occasion to laugh over the fact of their striking
resemblance and the ludicrous mistakes which sometimes occurred. For
instance, Dr. Winthrop and his brother were once invited to a reception
which the young physician was unable to attend. When Mr. Norman Winthrop
presented himself before his hostess, she inquired for his brother and
he explained that an important engagement had detained him. But chancing
just then to glance toward the other end of the room, he exclaimed:
“Why, no! there he is now!”
And excusing himself to the lady, he went to meet his brother and walked
straight up to a full-length mirror that had been let into one side of
the room, to find that he had mistaken his own reflection for the young
doctor.
But Miss Sadie Rochester had never yet been guilty of mistaking one for
the other, let her meet them where she would.
She had thought, the first time she saw Dr. Winthrop, that she had met
her fate, for she had been attracted toward him as no other man had ever
attracted her. She recognized in him a nature more lofty, a character
more true than other men of her acquaintance possessed, and she believed
that if she could win him for her husband and thus secure also the two
great fortunes, she would have nothing left to wish for.
But when Norman Winthrop suddenly made his appearance upon the scene she
realized at once her mistake.
The moment he greeted her—the moment his hand clasped hers and his eyes
looked into hers she recognized a magnetic influence which his brother
lacked, and from that hour he began to weave a strange spell about her.
She could not say that she liked Dr. Winthrop less, and had she never
seen his twin she would have believed that she loved him; but there was
a subtle power in every look, tone, and movement of Norman, which set
all her pulses thrilling, as if they had been wrought upon by some weird
and fascinating music.
Was it the element of wickedness inherent in both their natures which
recognized in each other a kindred spirit?
The young man, on his part, seemed fascinated from the hour of their
introduction, and, despite the fact that he knew Miss Rochester had for
years been the destined bride of his brother, he devoted himself to her,
attending her upon every possible occasion, calling upon her frequently,
and constantly sending her fruit, flowers, or some other reminder of
himself.
Mrs. Rochester saw danger ahead from all this attention, and the evident
pleasure with which Sadie received it. She was very much troubled,
heartily wishing that Norman Winthrop had never made his appearance in
Paris; but she seemed powerless to change anything, or to prevent the
development of the acquaintance, and was therefore obliged to let
matters take their own course.
It was a very gay winter, in spite of the fact that death had so
recently visited both families.
Miss Rochester wilfully insisted that there was no sense in shutting
one’s self away from all life and enjoyment, simply because they
happened to be in mourning, while Madame Winthrop and Evelyn declared
that Dr. Winthrop owed it to them to act as their escort, since Mr.
Winthrop was unable to endure excitement of any kind and they always
managed—when Norman did not interfere—so that he and Miss Rochester
would be thrown together.
Thus the season passed, and both Evelyn and Miss Rochester became so
absorbed in their pleasure-seeking that they utterly refused to heed the
warning of their friends to leave Paris, for the signs of the times
betokened serious political complications.
They laughed to scorn the idea that Americans could be in any danger,
and kept putting off their departure until it was too late, and the
insurrection of that ever-memorable year burst upon them, with all its
horrors. Every avenue of escape from the city was suddenly cut off, and
there appeared no possibility of their being able to leave for a place
of safety. Those were experiences which tried the souls of both men and
women, and it is doubtful if the Winthrop or Rochester ladies were ever
so subdued as when they discovered that they were shut into that
turbulent city with unknown dangers on every hand.
One morning Dr. Winthrop called at Mrs. Rochester’s rooms, and his pale
face and hurried manner, plainly betrayed that he was laboring under
great anxiety.
Miss Rochester was alone in the drawing-room when he entered, for her
mother, not feeling well that morning, had not yet made her appearance.
“What is the matter?” Miss Rochester questioned, as she gave her hand to
the young physician; then, with a sudden sense of impending evil as she
searched his troubled face, she laid her other hand upon his arm.
“I have come to see if you and Mrs. Rochester can be ready to leave
Paris at a moment’s notice,” he replied.
“Why; are we in any danger?” she cried in alarm.
“Every one in the city is in danger,” he answered. “There is no knowing
what may happen during the next twenty-four hours. I am going to try to
arrange for a place of safety for you, with my mother and sister, if you
will be guided by me and consent to go with them.”
“Of course I will be guided by you. How good you are to think of us!”
Miss Rochester returned, clinging to him and looking up into his face
with an air of trust, which she meant should tell him a great deal.
In spite of the strange power which his brother had acquired over her,
she was determined to marry Dr. Winthrop if she could win him; the great
possessions which the union would secure to her were of more consequence
than all the sentiment in the world.
“Of course I should think of you, when you and Mrs. Rochester, have no
protector,” the young man replied. “I am only sorry now that I did not
insist upon your all leaving Paris when I first proposed it.”
“Where can we go?” she asked.
“I do not know yet,” he said thoughtfully; “I am on my way now to see
what arrangements I can make with the American Consul for your safety.”
“For our safety!” she repeated. “Surely you are coming with us,” and
Miss Rochester’s white fingers closed almost convulsively over his arm,
while her anxious eyes searched his face.
“Yes, I shall not leave you until you are all comfortable somewhere,
but——”
“You will not then return?” she cried in a startled tone.
“Yes,” he reluctantly admitted, “I did not mean to tell any one of my
intention, but since you have suspected it, I may as well own that I am
coming back to offer my services as surgeon and physician in the
hospitals.”
“Oh, pray do not! think of the danger!” Miss Rochester pleaded in tones
of distress.
“I have no fear,” he said gravely, while he added to himself that it
could not matter much to him what danger or fate awaited him, for life
had few charms for him without Salome to share it.
“No, perhaps not for yourself,” his companion returned, in tremulous
tones, “but for the sake of others you should guard your life. If—if
anything should happen to you! Oh, Dr. Winthrop, I could not bear it.”
She had spoken very rapidly, and almost passionately—apparently driven
on by feelings which she could not control, while the look in her eyes
revealed to him just what she had long been trying to make him
understand, that he had become all in all to her.
Then all at once, she appeared to become conscious of how much she was
betraying. A look of consternation and dismay swept over her face—the
rich blood rushed in a crimson tide over cheek, neck, and brow, and the
next moment, as if overcome with shame for such an unguarded confession,
she dropped her head in graceful humility upon the hand which still
clasped his arm, and murmured brokenly.
“Forgive me—forgive me!—I forgot—I did not mean——”
At that instant a door, close by which the young couple were standing in
such a suggestive attitude, opened, and Mrs. Rochester appeared upon the
scene.
Her face lighted with glad surprise, as, at a glance, she seemed to take
in the situation.
It was too late to beat a retreat, for Dr. Winthrop had already seen
her, so she thought she might as well take time by the forelock and give
the young man to understand that she believed him a happy accepted
lover.
“I hope you will pardon me,” she said, with a frank, delighted smile, “I
would not have intruded had I suspected the nature of this interview;
but you will at least allow me to express my pleasure, and offer
congratulations.”
“Oh, mamma!” burst from Miss Rochester, and then, as if overcome with
confusion, she darted through the open door, telling herself with a
feeling of triumph, that Dr. Winthrop, having been caught in such a
compromising position, could not do otherwise than yield gracefully to
his fate and ratify the engagement which both families so much desired.
Dr. Winthrop, whose mind was intent only upon getting safely out of
Paris, did not realize that then was the proper time to disclaim the
honor which was being thrust upon him. He pitied the fair girl, who had
so thoughtlessly betrayed her love for him, and felt that it would
perhaps be best to leave her to make her own explanations to her mother.
So he only bowed gravely in reply to Mrs. Rochester’s greeting, though a
deep flush swept across his brow; then, ignoring her remark entirely, he
said.
“I came this morning to ask Miss Rochester if you and she could be ready
to leave Paris at short notice. The city is in such a turbulent state
that we all feel it would be best to get away as soon as possible.”
“Is it so bad as that?—are we in danger personally?” she asked, growing
pale with anxiety.
“I will not deceive you—yes. The people are so excited and unreasonable
that there is no knowing what they may do.”
“Then let us go at once—I can be ready in less than an hour,” said Mrs.
Rochester, all her native energy and courage rising to meet this
emergency.
“We will if we can—if every avenue is not closed against us,” he
replied. “Get your trunks packed and be ready when I come, or send for
you.”
“We will,” was the decided answer, “and,” with a significant smile,
“Sadie is, of course, perfectly willing to be guided by you, now.”
He made no reply to this, but took his leave at once, although not in a
very comfortable frame of mind, for it was very evident that Mrs.
Rochester regarded him as a prospective son-in-law and was very much
delighted in the belief.
“Surely Miss Rochester will not allow her mother to imagine that I have
made her an offer of marriage; she will of course explain our
unfortunate position,” he mused, as he went out. “It was very
disagreeable, and I am surprised at her for losing her self-possession
so completely. I did not imagine that the girl really cared for me in
any such way, she has always been so frank and friendly. I did not dream
that she would fall in love with me; I half suspected that she was
getting fond of Norman.”
“Well, since she has fallen in love with you, why shouldn’t you marry
her? You are free, and you are not likely to meet another woman so
loving and accomplished as Sadie Rochester; and then you could settle at
once and forever the vexing question of the Hamilton-Rochester
contract,” was the question which arose in his mind in answer to his
previous musings. He thoroughly believed in Sadie Rochester, never once
suspecting that she had been playing a part during all these months.
Though he recognized her beauty and many accomplishments, and knew that
she would shine in any position, he had an instinctive shrinking from an
alliance with her.
But these thoughts could not long remain uppermost in his mind. His
chief anxiety now was to get his family to a place of safety, and in
this undertaking he was peculiarly fortunate.
Mr. Tillinghast met him soon after he left Mrs. Rochester, and told him
that he knew of a couple of families who were going outside the city
limits that very evening. They had secured passes through some one in
high authority, and were to occupy a portion of a large villa that was
almost a palace, on the banks of the Seine, about ten miles out. He
believed that Dr. Winthrop might succeed in getting his family and the
Rochesters passed out with them.
It was an opportunity to be instantly seized upon. He sought the parties
at once. They were very kind and sympathetic, and consented to take the
frightened Americans in charge. Everything was arranged with comparative
ease, and the next day they were all safely housed in the spacious
villa, and delighted to be out of danger.
When Dr. Winthrop had seen them comfortably settled, he informed his
mother that he was going to return to Paris to resume his practice in
the hospital or wherever he should be most needed.
Madam rebelled violently against this plan.
“You have no right to do it—no right to thus rashly risk your life,
especially now,” she vehemently asserted with significant emphasis on
the last word.
“What is my life?” he demanded bitterly, with a slight quiver of his
lips; “and what especial value can it have at this time?”
“Can you ask,” his mother inquired, astonished, “when at last you have
come to your senses?”
“What do you mean?” he questioned, astonished, in his turn.
“Why, that you are finally going to do the proper thing, and marry Sadie
Rochester.”
“Who said I was going to marry Miss Rochester? Did she tell you so?” Dr.
Winthrop gravely inquired.
“No; of course not. Such an announcement should come from you. But Mrs.
Rochester has told me what happened in her drawing-room the other
morning. She said that you might not be quite ready to formally announce
it, for she could get nothing definite from Sadie; but she was confident
that you were engaged.”
“Mrs. Rochester is surely very good to arrange everything so comfortably
for me,” Dr. Winthrop replied with a curling lip, while in his heart
there arose a feeling of contempt for Miss Rochester, because she had
neglected to set matters straight.
No matter what her own feelings might be, she at least should have
exonerated him from the suspicion of having proposed to her and been
accepted.
He turned abruptly and left his mother, without attempting to explain
further, and returned directly to Paris. Certainly no one could have
thought him very lover-like to depart without taking leave of his
supposed _fiancée_.
Madam spent the remainder of the day in tears; for the estrangement of
her son was a great trial to her, since it proved that he had not
forgiven her for the part she had taken against Salome.
Several days passed, and then the terrible crisis came—a crisis the
memory of which makes many a Frenchman shudder to-day—and then, before
the horrors of the insurrection had fairly begun to subside, there went
abroad the paralyzing rumor that cholera had broken out in the doomed
city.
Who shall describe the weeks that followed? The terrors of riot and of
war were as nothing compared with the onward march of that silent and
stealthy foe, that mowed down thousands with its invisible but deadly
weapons.
Dr. Winthrop was in Paris through it all, and had thrown himself heart
and soul into caring for the perishing ones around him.
He had advised his father and brother to take the family and go to
England or Scotland, or to some other healthful resort, where there
would be little or no danger of the dread disease.
But his mother obstinately refused to go, while he remained, and of
course the other members of the family would not leave her.
Every one else had fled from the villa upon the first rumor of cholera,
and Mrs. Rochester would have been glad to follow, but her daughter was
as obstinate as Madame Winthrop herself. She had so set her heart upon
winning Truman Winthrop, so determined to secure the prize for which she
had schemed and humiliated herself, that she resolved to boldly face
death rather than run the risk of losing him. Besides, Norman Winthrop
was obliged to remain.
So the Winthrops and the Rochesters had the magnificent villa to
themselves, and a charming place it was.
It was finely and healthfully situated, and Dr. Winthrop said that if
they were bound to remain in France they could not be in a better place.
Still he would have much preferred that they should go to Scotland, and
it was a continual cause for anxiety to know that they were in danger
from the pestilence.
Mr. Tillinghast, too, had refused to leave his friend, but he was also
one of those heroes who never think of self, and he had insisted upon
going into the hospital to act under the direction of Dr. Winthrop.
But in his enthusiasm he overtaxed himself, and one day he was stricken
with the dread disease.
Dr. Winthrop felt as if the “tug of war” had set in, in good earnest. He
could not devote himself exclusively to his friend, for the entire care
of some of the wards of the hospital devolved upon him during certain
hours of each day, while nurses were very scarce, and he found it
impossible to secure the constant services of any one in the private
room which he had, by paying an exorbitant price, managed to secure for
Tillinghast.
“I must have a nurse and a competent one,” he exclaimed, almost in
despair, after searching for more than an hour one day, and an hour in
the race with death was very precious.
He had just come into one of the wards where he belonged, and was about
to begin his rounds, when his eye fell upon a couple of nuns, who were
in the habit of coming every day to assist and relieve some of the
nurses. They belonged to the order of Gray Nuns, and were clad in the
loose and homely garb worn by that sisterhood. But little could be seen
of their faces, for they wore the close, gray bonnet, with a wide frill
of black tissue plaited about the edge of a little black silk cap worn
underneath, and white bandages about their foreheads and chins. The only
way that they could be distinguished from each other—for they were of
the same height—was by a pair of double blue glasses which one of them
wore.
But they were very helpful, very sweet and gentle in their ways,
particularly the sister in blue glasses, who was known as Sister Angela,
or “The Angel in Gray,” as the poor soldiers and patients soon learned
to call her.