SALOME IS LURED INTO A TRAP.
Miss Rochester seated herself at a table, and drawing forth writing
materials, wrote rapidly for a few moments. Then she handed the
communication to Salome to read. It ran thus:
“_To Conrad Converse, Esq._
“DEAR SIR:—I went through the marriage ceremony in Boston, Mass., with a
man known as Truman Winthrop, M.D., of New York city. My name was given
as Salome Howland, although the latter is not my true surname. I have
been told that the marriage was illegal on that account; I was
repudiated and deserted because of it. Later, I was reported dead, and
Dr. Winthrop, who still believes that I am not living, is about to marry
again. I do not wish him to be undeceived, and I appeal to you to
procure—if his marriage with me were legal—a decree of divorce, without
any publicity whatever. Spare no expense, and let it be done at once.”
“You are to sign that, and then I will attend to all the rest,” Miss
Rochester remarked, when she saw that Salome had finished reading the
missive.
Salome did not make any reply, but sat with pale face and bowed head,
trying to think what she would do.
“If his marriage with me were legal!”
Those words kept running through her mind, and she wondered now that she
had never thought of going to some lawyer to ascertain the truth. There
surely must be some doubt in Miss Rochester’s mind about it not being
so, or she would not be so eager to secure her sanction to a divorce.
She shivered over the word. No divorce would ever make her free; she had
bound herself, heart and soul, to this man, and she should feel herself
morally bound to him as long as she lived, even if she were not
according to the strict letter of the law.
But, she reasoned, he no longer loved her; he had thrust her out of his
home, and now, believing that she was dead, he wanted to marry another.
Ought she to stand in his way?
“How would he feel if he knew that I am not dead?” she asked herself;
and then grew faint and sick as the thought came to her that he would
doubtless wish her so if he should learn the truth—that he would feel
that she was the destroyer of his peace and happiness, if she should
appear before him. How could she think otherwise when she had heard such
passionate words of love from his lips, and seen him holding her enemy
clasped so fondly to his heart?
No, she had no wish to undeceive him, she would never interfere with his
happiness, and he should be free, if any act of hers could make him so.
Her life was ruined, why should she hesitate about giving him the right
to do as he wished? She would sign the letter, and thus end forever all
doubt, all trouble.
She put out her hand for the pen.
The girl, watching her so intently, dipped it freshly in the ink, and
laid it between her fingers.
She wrote her name in a bold, clear hand, at the end of the letter, then
passed it to Miss Rochester without a word.
She seized it, a gleam of triumph flashing from her eyes.
“There, Salome, for once you have done a sensible thing,” she said, and
she folded the paper, and thrust it into her bosom. “It has really made
me quite uneasy to think of marrying Dr. Winthrop, since I discovered
that you were not dead; but this will make everything all right. Mr.
Converse is a very expert lawyer, who makes a specialty of obtaining
divorces without publicity, and there will be no fear that this will not
be granted, provided he gets enough for his services, and since I have
already written to him something regarding the matter he will doubtless
expedite the matter. Ah, here comes mamma.”
The girl arose as she caught the sound of her mother’s footsteps in the
adjoining room, and went to meet her with an exultant look on her face,
and wholly unconscious that Salome, tried beyond endurance, had fainted,
and lay like one dead upon the bed.
The next morning, Mrs. Rochester saw that Salome was served a tempting
and nourishing breakfast, for she was determined that she should have
all the strength necessary to enable her to leave the villa that day.
Her dinner, also, was carefully prepared and appetizing, and after she
had partaken of it she made her lie down to rest, and charged her to
sleep if she could.
“You must be as fresh as possible, for it is quite a drive into Paris,”
she observed. “The carriage will come for you late this afternoon—I
ordered one from the city, as I thought it would attract less notice
than to take Dr. Winthrop’s from the stable.”
Salome submitted to whatever arrangements she chose to make without a
word of objection; all she cared for was to get away, and go back to the
true-hearted honest Harriet, who, she knew, would care for her most
tenderly.
Mrs. Rochester managed everything very adroitly. She had authorized her
daughter to be on the lookout for the carriage far down the avenue, and
order it to be driven to a rarely used side-entrance of the chateau.
Then she conducted Salome to it by a private staircase, and she was off
without any one, save those two women, knowing that a carriage had come
and gone.
The poor heart-broken girl heaved a sigh of relief when the vehicle
passed out of the villa grounds upon the highway, and, throwing herself
back among the cushions, she gave way to a passionate burst of weeping.
Salome was so exhausted by her weeping and the excitement of leaving the
villa, that she soon dropped into a doze, and did not awake until the
carriage stopped so suddenly as to almost throw her off her seat.
It was quite dark and she could only distinguish objects indistinctly,
but she saw that she was in a broad, quiet street, where there seemed to
be fine residences within inclosures that were ornamented with trees and
shrubs.
The driver just then made his appearance at the window, a look of
well-assumed distress on his face.
“Pardon, mademoiselle,” he said, “but one of the traces has parted—it
will detain us a little.”
“Ah, can it be mended easily?” Salome questioned nervously, for it was
so dark that she was very anxious to reach home and Harriet.
“Perhaps—we will see,” and the man disappeared.
Presently she heard him muttering angrily to himself, as if he had
discovered more mischief than he had at first seen, and then a gentleman
came slowly out from the inclosure near by, and made some inquiries in a
kindly tone, though Salome could not catch his words.
The driver explained his trouble with much volubility and irritation,
and with many profuse regrets on account of the “annoyance to
mademoiselle, the sister.”
Presently the gentleman made his appearance at the carriage window, and
lifting his hat, respectfully addressed her.
“Pardon, sister,” he began; “the coachman says he must take one of the
horses and go on to his stable to get a new trace; it seems not the
right thing for a lady to sit alone in the street at this hour of the
evening. My residence is just here, and at your service; my wife will be
charmed to entertain you while you wait. Will the sister do me the favor
to accept my hospitality, while the driver attends to the broken
harness?”
“Thanks, monsieur,” returned Salome thoughtfully. Then she asked, “is it
far to the Rue de——?”
“Mon Dieu!” responded the gentleman, in a tone of surprise, “the sister
will have to ride more than a mile yet.”
Salome sighed regretfully. She knew that her strength would not allow
her to walk such a distance, and she must, perforce, wait until the
return of the man.
She did not like the idea of sitting there alone in the street; neither
did she like to trust herself with an entire stranger, even though she
believed that her nun’s costume would protect her against wrong or
insult.
Yet the invitation was tempting; the stranger had spoken of his wife—he
seemed a gentleman, and had addressed her most courteously, while she
judged from his tone and appearance that he must be a middle-aged man.
She glanced toward the house he had indicated. The lights were
glimmering cheerfully through the trees, and she could plainly discern
the figure of a woman sitting upon the broad porch. It was warm and
close and lonely in the carriage, and it looked very inviting within the
inclosure.
“Has the sister travelled far?” inquired the gentleman, who was becoming
a trifle impatient over her evident hesitation and reluctance to accept
his offer.
“Six or seven miles,” Salome replied.
“Ah! doubtless upon some errand of mercy, and surely you must be weary.
Pray, good sister, come in and be refreshed.”
The invitation was heartily, yet courteously, given, while he at the
same time turned the handle and opened the door for her to alight.
Salome’s scruples were overcome, and she acceded to his request.
He helped her to the ground, and then she followed him inside the
adjacent grounds, without a suspicion of the trap into which she had so
readily fallen.
Reaching the house, the gentleman explained briefly the accident to the
lady sitting upon the porch whom he introduced as his wife—Madame Arnot.
Madam greeted the sister with charming frankness and cordiality,
regretted the accident which had caused such delay and annoyance, and,
bringing forward a comfortable chair, invited her to be seated.
She then began chatting in an easy manner, while now and then monsieur
would join in the conversation.
Thus an hour passed, and Salome began to grow anxious and impatient to
resume her journey.
At last she suggested that it was getting late, whereupon monsieur
sprang to his feet, remarking he would go to the gate and ascertain if
her coachman had returned.
He soon came back, saying the carriage was still there, but there were
no signs of the driver.
Salome looked troubled, but madam said never mind, all would soon be
well; then she laughingly quoted the proverb, “Be careful to entertain
strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares,” at the
same time ringing a little silver bell.
A servant appeared almost immediately, bearing a tray upon which there
was arranged a dainty meal. She deposited it upon the table, which she
wheeled forward into the centre of the porch, and set chairs for three
around it.
Madam then rose and politely invited Salome to join herself and her
husband, and at once began to serve them in an easy and graceful manner.
The young girl was hungry, and really enjoyed the delicious meal,
although she was conscious of a feeling of uneasiness and anxiety to get
away to her own quiet little home and Harriet.
Another hour passed thus, for monsieur and madam were both good eaters
as well as good talkers, and they had not finished their meal when there
came a loud ring at the gate.
Monsieur went to answer it and soon returned saying the coachman had
come back, but without having succeeded in getting his harness mended;
neither had he been able to replace the broken trace with a whole one,
for there was a grand wedding, and every horse, carriage, and harness
belonging to his employer was in use. Mademoiselle would have to wait
where she was until morning, and then he would come for her.
Salome started to her feet in dismay at this intelligence.
“Oh, no, I cannot!” she cried; “I must get home. Why did he not go
elsewhere and send me another carriage?”
“Surely he might have done so,” monsieur returned; “but the stupid
fellow evidently did not think of such a thing, and at once rode away
after explaining the situation.”
“What shall I do?” Salome exclaimed, in a troubled tone.
“Pray—pray do not be so disturbed; Sister Angela is most welcome to a
lodging here, if she will so honor us,” said madam cordially.
“And it is late,” interposed monsieur, glancing at his watch—“after ten.
I beg the sister will make herself at home, and accept our hospitality
as freely as it is offered.”
Salome looked from one to the other. Both faces were frank and smiling,
and yet, in spite of their apparent kindness, she shrank with a feeling
of distrust from remaining with them over night. But what could she do?
She was helpless. Her coachman had gone, and she could not go out by
herself at that hour of the evening to seek another carriage. If
monsieur had but offered to send for one, or to have her taken home in
his own; but he did not, and she was too timid to ask the favor of him.
So, after considering their proposition for a moment, she thanked them
for their hospitality, said she would remain, and requested that she
might be allowed to retire immediately.
Madam arose with alacrity, and said that she would herself attend her to
her chamber.
She led her within the house, and up a long stairway to the second
story, where the corridor seemed to be cut off from some other portion
of the house by portières.
Here she opened a door and ushered her into a small room that was simply
but very neatly furnished.
She provided Salome with a night-dress, remarking that she would find
towels and toilet articles in a drawer of the dressing-case; then,
bidding her a kind and cheerful good-night, she left the room, quietly
closing the door after her and noiselessly turning the well-oiled lock
until the bolt shot into its socket.
Salome was very weary as well as homesick, and, quickly undressing,
crept into bed and was soon sleeping soundly.
When she awoke in the morning, the sun was shining brightly into her
room, and she felt her spirits rise under the influence of its genial
rays. In a little while she would be safe with Harriet, and then her
troubles would be over.
She arose and dressed, realizing that she was much stronger—that her
long, restful sleep had greatly refreshed her. Then she went to her
window and pulled aside the pretty draperies which hung over it, when to
her astonishment she found herself before an iron-grated casement.
“Why, how strange!” she exclaimed, and looking out she saw that the
building she was in inclosed three sides of a square, which was
beautifully laid out with beds of flowers and variegated foliage. A
fountain was in the centre, while numerous rustic seats were scattered
about the grass-plots and finely gravelled walks.
But as her eye traversed the circuit of the spacious building, she
noticed that almost every window was grated like her own.
What could it mean? Surely it was not a prison that she was in! and yet
it had the appearance of one.
She was startled and depressed by the discovery; still she told herself
that whatever the nature of the place might be, it could not affect her,
since she was simply the guest of Monsieur and Madame Arnot for the
night.
She resolved, however, that she would leave at as early an hour as
possible, she would not wait for her coachman but order another
carriage; and with this in view, she put on her bonnet and wrap and made
herself ready for her departure.
But to her consternation, when she attempted to open her door she found
that it was locked on the outside, and her heart sank within her.
She dropped, pale and trembling, into a chair, a vague suspicion of the
truth beginning to dawn upon her.
Presently she heard steps outside her door, the key was softly turned,
and the next moment a maid entered, bearing a tray upon which was a nice
breakfast.
She put it upon the table, and then rolled it toward Salome, who thought
the girl regarded her curiously, although she greeted her with a
pleasant “good-morning.”
“I do not care for any breakfast,” Salome remarked. “I will go down and
consult with Monsieur Arnot about sending for a carriage immediately.”
“Mademoiselle will surely eat something first,” the girl said in a
coaxing tone, such as she might have used towards fractious child.
“No, thank you; I will go directly to Monsieur Arnot,” and Salome arose,
as she spoke, to leave the room.
But her attendant dexterously slipped before her and turned the key in
the lock.
“Mademoiselle cannot go down just now,” she said firmly.
“Why not?” Salome demanded with kindling eyes, and resenting the
restraint thus imposed upon her.
“Because she is the patient of Dr. Arnot, and he will himself visit
mademoiselle when he makes his usual round of the wards. Come, now, here
is a nice bit of broiled steak, some fine hot rolls, delicious coffee,
and luscious berries with cream,” the girl concluded soothingly, while
she arranged the viands temptingly before her charge.
But Salome again sank weakly upon her chair.
Those words, “the patient of Dr. Arnot—he will visit mademoiselle when
he makes his usual round of the wards,” had opened her eyes to the
terrible truth.
She knew now where she was, understood the meaning of those grated
windows and her locked door.
She was an inmate of a private insane asylum, and like a flash it had
come to her that she had been cunningly decoyed into the abominable
place.
She remembered now the peculiar look that had swept over Mrs.
Rochester’s face when she had insisted upon returning to Paris, and the
equally peculiar inflection of her tones when she had replied, “You
shall go to-morrow—I promise you, you shall go to-morrow.”
Then she recalled the fact that she had suddenly disappeared and been
absent all the afternoon, and she knew that she must have come to Paris
and arranged this plot to shut her up, where she would have no power to
interfere with any of her plans or to reveal to any one, if she was so
disposed, what she knew regarding her past life.
She saw that Mrs. Rochester feared that she would reveal her identity to
Dr. Winthrop, and thus frustrate all her designs and her daughter’s
prospects.
“Oh,” she murmured, with a thrill of horror, as she dropped her face
upon her hands, “have I not already suffered enough at their hands
without being buried alive like this?”
The girl who had brought in her breakfast took advantage of this moment
of weakness and stole softly from the room again, locking the door after
her.