SALOME LOSES HER VALUED FRIEND.
June first found Miss Leonard with her companion and maid upon the briny
deep, looking forward with evident pleasure to an extended trip abroad.
Fortunately not one of the trio was ill, and the voyage was one of
unalloyed enjoyment, for they all loved the sea.
To Salome’s great delight Miss Leonard did not make any of her
idiosyncrasies disagreeably prominent during the voyage; indeed, she
appeared to try to subdue her natural antagonism, and to adapt herself
to others, so that she was regarded by the passengers only as a somewhat
quaint and original person, whom they rather enjoyed.
Salome was of course a general favorite; so gentle and loving a
disposition could not fail to win all hearts, while she was kind and
helpful, wherever she could be so, to those who suffered from
sea-sickness.
They landed at Liverpool and proceeded directly to London, where they
remained for a couple of weeks, after which they went to Scotland, to a
quiet, home-like hotel near Lake Katrine, where they spent two
delightful months enjoying the beauties surrounding them, and making
many excursions to points of interest.
Miss Leonard was a good traveller; she was well read in history, and
desirous of visiting every place of note, while she had a faculty of
fixing dates and places in her mind that was truly surprising as well as
convenient. Salome was very hopeful, too, for she had secured much
reading matter relating to the routes they travelled, and entertained
her companions, during their evenings, by reading up in advance, and
thus they were always well posted regarding the history of the different
places they visited.
In September they went to Germany, following the Rhine slowly down to
Lake Constance, where they spent the last week in October; thence
through the Austrian Tyrol, and on to Italy, arriving in Rome about the
first of January.
Everything went well with them—there had been nothing of any moment to
mar their pleasure, and Miss Leonard complimented Salome very highly for
the tact which she exercised in travelling.
“I should imagine that you had been used to it all your life,” she
remarked one day, when Salome had smoothed over some difficulty
regarding their baggage, which they encountered in crossing the Austrian
frontier. “You are a very comfortable traveller, and I should surely
think you had been abroad before, Salome;” she had taken to calling her
by her Christian name of late.
Salome smiled at the compliment, but made no reply to the supposition
that she had previously been in Europe, though she flushed slightly, and
Miss Leonard’s suspicions were strengthened.
Then she could speak French and German with much fluency, and seemed to
know all about the different kinds of money they were obliged to handle.
But it was not until they reached Rome that Miss Leonard’s suspicions
were confirmed. Here Salome’s enthusiasm overflowed, and she discoursed
about the Forum, the Coliseum, the Palace of the Cæsars and the
Catacombs in a way which plainly betrayed that she had visited them
before.
“When were you in Rome before, Salome?” Miss Leonard dryly asked one
evening, breaking in upon an eloquent description of certain points in
St. Peter’s and the Vatican.
“I did not say that I had ever been here before,” Salome stammered,
flushing hotly.
“True, but you talk like an old sight-seer.”
“You forget that we read a great deal about these places last evening,”
the young girl answered.
“No, I do not; but if my memory serves me right, there was nothing in
these books about the comparative merits of the Pompeian baths and those
of Caracalla, and you have given me several points upon the subject.
Salome, you have been abroad before?”
“Yes,” the young girl confessed, tears starting to her eyes over
memories thus aroused.
“When?”
“Not so very long ago—less than two years.”
“You must have been tenderly reared—your parents must have been
wealthy?”
“Yes.”
“And you have lost all your friends—all your money?”
“All—everything!” she returned sadly, but just how much those two words
comprehended, she alone knew.
“And a lover too, if I am not mistaken,” Miss Leonard mused, her glance
resting tenderly upon the pained, downcast face of her gentle companion.
“Poor child! and yet trouble has not hardened or embittered her as it
did me. Well, the Bible says ‘a little child shall lead them,’ and I
believe she is leading me into a state I never should have reached if
some pitiful fate had not sent her to me.”
She asked no more questions to pain her, however, but from that day
there was an added gentleness in her manner toward her companion.
So while Dr. Winthrop and his family, with the Rochesters, were
wintering in Paris, Salome was spending a very pleasant season in Rome
with Miss Leonard.
Late in the spring, however, they again turned their faces northward,
reaching Paris about the middle of May, and all of our _dramatis
personæ_ were together within the walls of that doomed city.
Miss Leonard and her party were within a stone’s throw of the Place de
la Concorde, and did not once dream of the terrible experiences through
which they were soon to pass.
Being by themselves, and absorbed in their sightseeing, they did not
realize, neither did they have any one to warn them of the danger they
were in. They knew that the city was in a state of unusual excitement,
but did not suppose they could suffer from it, and the insurrection
burst like a thunderbolt upon them. Every avenue of escape was closed,
and they were prisoners in the turbulent place before they were aware of
the fact.
They were filled with anxiety and dismay upon discovering their
situation; but Miss Leonard, who had been brought up a Catholic, was
suddenly inspired with a bright and sagacious plan. She visited one of
the convents of the city, explained to the mother-superior her
unprotected condition, and begged to be admitted, with her maid and
companion, as boarders within its protecting walls.
Her request was readily granted, and the timid trio immediately became
inmates of the gray nunnery.
They were there when the cholera broke out, and Miss Leonard was the
very first one in the building to fall a victim to the dreaded disease.
She insisted from the first that she could not get well, although she
was not violently attacked, and her attendants did not consider her
dangerously ill.
During her illness she related her whole history to Salome. We cannot
rehearse it here, as it has no direct bearing upon our story, but the
young girl did not wonder, as she listened, that the woman’s nature had
become embittered and warped by her troubles.
“That night, child, when you sang that air from the opera of the
‘Bohemian Girl,’ I thought I should go insane with the memories it
aroused,” she explained among other things. “The last time I had heard
it my betrothed had sung it to me under peculiarly trying circumstances.
A party of young people in Washington had prepared that opera to be
rendered at a private musicale. I had the part of Arline, and my
betrothed, who was a fine singer and who had come on to Washington for
our marriage, which was to occur a week later, had the part of Rupert.
The night arrived; the opera was in progress, when, while we two were
waiting our turn to go on the stage, we had a bitter quarrel. No matter
what it was about; it had been all planned and instigated by others,
with the express purpose of breaking off our marriage, although I did
not know this until afterward. A little forbearance, a word or two of
explanation on my part would have set everything right; but I was too
proud to make it, and the last time I ever spoke to my lover was just as
we went on the stage, when he was to sing the song you sang to me. ‘I
will never forgive you—never!’ I cried, as the call was given; and then
I sprang toward the wing where I was to enter. When he came on he was
pale but calm, and he sang to me as I had never heard him sing before.
The pathos and entreaty which he threw into those thrilling words I have
never forgotten; they have haunted me through all these long years:
“‘When hollow hearts shall wear a mask
’Twill break your own to see.
In such a moment I but ask
That you’ll remember me.’”
“O Horace! I have remembered,” the woman sobbed, breaking down utterly
for a moment. “I believe I should have yielded and set everything right
when he finished,” she resumed, “if I had not chanced to see our enemies
exchanging significant sneers as they, too, realized how he had thrown
his whole soul into his song. That hardened me again; I turned my back
coldly on him the moment the opera was over, and went home alone in my
carriage, and thus my life was ruined. My lover left the city the next
day, after having sent me a letter breaking our engagement, saying that
under the circumstances it would be but mockery to fulfil our vows, and
I never saw him again. He died six months later, and then I learned of
the wicked plot that had been contrived to separate us. It changed me
from a loving, trusting girl into a proud and bitter woman. I hated
everybody, and those most who seemed happiest. This mood grew upon me as
I grew older, until I believed that nothing could ever soften or change
my nature. But, Salome, I am sure the good God sent you to me upon an
errand of redeeming love, for you have influenced me as no one ever
influenced me before. I tried to resist even you; I said I would hate
you as I had hated all others, although you moved me strangely the
moment you came into my presence on that day when you applied for the
situation of companion. Then your sweetness and gentleness, your
sympathy for me—your faithfulness, when I lay so long ill, finally
aroused what little affection there remained in me, and I grew to love
you as if you had been my own daughter. I, with my indomitable pride and
wilfulness, have been my own worst enemy, Salome; but of late I have
really tried to be a better woman—have tried to believe, with you, that
there is a kind Father above who does not willingly afflict his
children. I have even begun to hope that there may have been a germ of
good left in my nature, which you have quickened, and to trust that it
will be allowed to develop more fully in the future life. I see all too
late, and regret my wasted opportunities here in this world. I have not
quite missed all sweetness, for I have at least learned to love you,
Salome, and I have enjoyed these months of travel with you more than I
can express.”
She paused a moment, then went on:
“Before we left home, my child, I made my will, and excepting a few
legacies to my servants, some of whom have stood by me in spite of my
crabbed ways, and a gift to the blind asylum of New York, I have made
you my sole heir——”
“But, dear Miss Leonard——” Salome began, aghast, astonished beyond
measure by this unexpected intelligence.
“Do not pain me, Salome by refusing to accept my bequest,” interposed
the dying woman appealingly, “for it is too late to make any change,
even if I knew of any one else to whom to leave my money. The will is in
the hands of Mr. Travis, of New York, who has long conducted my business
affairs. I have no relatives—there is no one in all the world whom I
love save you, and I want you to have whatever I leave. And, Salome, I
hope you will remember me kindly—forget, if you can, my disagreeable
traits, and if you have found anything pleasant about me, treasure it.”
“Indeed I have, dear friend, found much that has been pleasant in our
relations,” the young girl returned with streaming eyes. “I began to
love you that night when I so wounded you with my song, for I knew how
sad your life had been, and my heart went out in sympathy toward you.
Then, we always learn to love those for whom we care, you know; while
you were ill the bond was strengthened, and now, since we have travelled
together, and found that we had so many tastes that were alike, so many
sympathies in common, I feel as if I almost belong to you.”
Miss Leonard’s face lighted with pleasure, and drawing the fair girl
down to her, she kissed her fondly.
“Then of course all that I have should be yours,” she said. “At all
events I have so decreed—I so wish. You have done me good—I die a better
woman for your influence. Kiss me again, Salome, and tell me once more
that you love me a little.”
“Not a little,” Salome sobbed, laying her cheek to the wan one on the
pillow, “but a great deal. Oh, I wish that you could have been spared to
me longer, for I am so alone in the world.”
“Bless you, dear child! but you know that I am dying now, though you
would not believe it at first—another sunrise will find me beyond that
line of mystery which we call death; but I am not afraid—you have taught
me to hope for a better life hereafter. Now repeat that psalm you love
so well, then I will go to sleep.”
She did go quietly to sleep, but it was a slumber from which she never
awoke, and in less than six hours she had passed the “line of mystery.”
It was a sad bereavement to Salome; but she had no time in which to
indulge her grief. She had to attend to all the details pertaining to
the burial of her friend, and the simple funeral rites were scarcely
over when Harriet was attacked with the plague, and she was obliged to
devote all her energies to her.
The woman was very sick, but she had a strong constitution, and, with
the good care she received, she was soon on the road toward recovery,
while from that time she was ready to lay down her life for the
beautiful girl to whom she owed so much.
As soon as she was able to leave her room, she begged Salome to go home
to New York; but it was not possible for them to leave the country until
the scourge had spent itself, for fear they might carry contagion with
them.
“More than this, Harriet,” she continued, a holy purpose shining in her
lovely eyes, “I do not want to go at present—I want to stay and help to
take care of those who suffer——”
“And sacrifice your own precious life,” interposed the woman, with an
anxious look. “No—no, Miss Salome, don’t do that—don’t do it; it would
break my heart if you should die too, and that’s why I’m so anxious to
get away.”
“I do not believe I shall have the cholera, Harriet,” Salome returned
with grave assurance, “somehow I feel that I shall not, and I shall
certainly use every precaution against it. But the people here are wild
with fear, and nurses are very scarce. I know that I am a good nurse, it
comes naturally to me to care for the sick, and I know that it is my
duty to throw myself into this work; some feeling over which I have no
control impels me to do so. If you want to go home, I will ask the
sisters to use their influence to get you passed through the lines, and
you shall go the first opportunity that offers.”
“And leave you here?” cried the woman, aghast. “No—no indeed, Miss
Salome! I shall never leave you; it was more on your account that I
wanted to go. I’ve had the plague, so I’m not afraid of that, now, and
maybe I can lend a hand myself in the care of others. At all events, if
you stay, I shall stay to look after you.”
Later, Salome went to the lady-superior, and informed her that she had
resolved to go into one of the hospitals as a nurse.
“I am alone, save for the companionship of Harriet, and unprotected in a
strange city,” she told her, “and, if I may be allowed to do so, I
should like to adopt the dress of your sisterhood and go out under the
auspices of your convent. This would shield me from all insult and
danger, while if I should be attacked by illness I should feel that I
had a place of refuge to fly to.”
The mother-superior not only gave her consent to her appeal, but her
benediction and blessing upon her holy purpose, and told her that she
should go out under the name of “Sister Angela.”
But Harriet objected to being left alone in the convent.
“The mother is kind and the sisters are good,” she said, “but I shall
die if I have to be shut up behind these gloomy walls; besides, Miss
Salome, they don’t live as you ought to live. I wish we could have three
or four rooms somewhere that I could make comfortable for you; then when
you get tired out with your work you could come home to me and I could
look after you.”
Salome thought favorably of this and hired a tiny house just under the
shadow of the convent, which made a cozy home for Harriet and herself.
Every day, after her duties were over, she would go there to rest and to
be refreshed and cared for by the faithful woman, whose chief aim in
life now seemed to be to devote herself to her, although she told her
that she “never could believe she was Miss Salome until she took off
those ugly bandages and sombre dress and put on her pretty white
wrapper.”
Salome had now ample means at her command, for Miss Leonard had taken a
generous letter of credit when she went abroad, and before her death she
had made this over to her companion. More than that, she had written to
her lawyer that she had not long to live and directed him to honor any
call which Salome might make upon him for needful funds.
It would be impossible to estimate the amount of good which she
accomplished in that plague-smitten city. She was in perfect health; her
voyage and subsequent travel, with its pleasant, varying scenes, its
comfort and freedom from anxiety, had been of great benefit to her, and
she had grown strong and active, and was thus well fortified for the
work into which she threw herself.
Every day she went to some hospital and devoted many hours to the care
of the sick and the relief of the overworked nurses. She visited many
homes, where disease was cutting down the brightest and best, while she
never refused to relieve poverty and suffering wherever she found them.
And so Dr. Winthrop, while he was also devoting himself to similar work,
was brought in contact with her in one of the hospitals where he was
stationed. He did not recognize her—no one would have, meeting her by
chance and disguised as she was—but the first time she saw him in the
ward where she happened to be serving, she was so overcome by the shock
of the meeting that she nearly fainted, for until that moment she had
not a suspicion that he was in Paris.
The next day she appeared in the same ward again, but more completely
disguised by a pair of double blue spectacles, which so thoroughly
concealed her eyes and changed her appearance that those who knew her
hardly recognized her.
And here she came constantly after that.
In spite of the great wrong which she believed she had suffered through
Dr. Winthrop, there was yet a strange fascination in being near him. She
loved him still, and after learning that he was practising in that
hospital she gave up her work in other places, and attached herself
permanently to that institution.
The observing physician had often noticed and admired the manner in
which the gentle nun had ministered to the suffering patients in his
ward, and so when his friend, Tillinghast, had been stricken down, he
had appealed to her for help in the sore emergency. Later, when his own
family fell victims to the dread foe, his confidence in her skill and
judgment was so strong he had begged her, as we know, to go to them.
Even though he did not dream who she was, though she rarely spoke to
him, he felt strangely drawn toward her, as did others also; there was
something peculiarly soothing in her quiet presence, and he often found
himself watching the motions of her beautiful hands as they so deftly
ministered to the comfort of his patients—“blessed hands,” he called
them, and truly they were blessed.
Often, after he began to recover from his own illness, he had been
seized with a longing to clasp them, and press his grateful lips to
them—to tell her that they had saved his life, which, though not
especially precious to himself personally, was valuable to others; but
her supposed station, her sacred garb, restrained him—she was holy in
his eyes, and no act or impulse of his should profane her calling.