SALOME IS MISSED.
A few days passed. Salome was kindly treated in every respect save that
of being kept a close prisoner.
She was served by a pretty and good-natured maid; she had every luxury
of the season provided to tempt her appetite, and was provided with a
variety of entertaining reading, also with materials for fancy work to
occupy her time.
But she became terribly tired of her solitary confinement, and irritated
at being so hedged about that she could find no way to send out her
letter.
She had tried to sound the fidelity of the girl who waited upon her, but
found that she was entirely devoted to the interests of her employer,
and that it would be worse than useless to attempt to bribe her to
assist to escape; so she wisely refrained from exciting suspicions that
she was contemplating any such measure, and even feigned a content and
cheerfulness in her presence which she was far from feeling.
Dr. Arnot paid her a visit every day, but she always received him with a
cool dignity which rather awed and held him at arm’s length, in spite of
his habitual composure and assurance.
One morning, however, she told him firmly that she could not remain shut
up in that one room any longer—that she must have more liberty or her
health would suffer.
“But I am afraid of you, mademoiselle,” he returned, while he regarded
her searchingly and with a peculiar smile. “There is no reason why you
should not have more freedom if you will only be reasonable and promise
me that you will not make trouble for me by trying to escape.”
Salome smiled scornfully.
“Monsieur Arnot must have a strange distrust of his own power if he
imagines that a weak girl can escape through solid brick walls, or
between iron bars, or elude the vigilance of his many attendants,” she
sarcastically returned. “I do not say,” she continued, “that I should
not avail myself of the opportunity of walking out of this institution
if the way were opened for me; but since your precautions are sufficient
to restrain your hundreds of other patients, they surely ought to be
sufficient for me also. I must at least have the liberty of the ward
with your harmless patients, if nothing more.”
“Have you no fear of them, mademoiselle?” the physician asked with
evident curiosity.
“No; why should I fear them more than they fear each other?”
“But they are mad, and do not know the difference.”
“And I am sane, consequently I do know the difference. Thank you, Dr.
Arnot, for the admission, unintentional though it may have been,” said
Salome dryly, while the man flushed, and thought her very quick-witted.
“Well,” he returned, after considering a moment, “you shall have the
liberty of the ward, if you so desire,” and walking to the door, he
opened it, and held it for her to pass out.
Salome was not slow to avail herself of this privilege, and walked
immediately and fearlessly into the long and lofty room, or hall, into
which twenty or more smaller rooms opened, and where there were
assembled as many women of various ages and appearances.
The portières, which she had noticed on the night of her arrival, and
which had been so cleverly arranged to cut off the end of the hall, had
been swept aside, and she could now look down the whole length of the
vast room.
It was lighted by immense grated windows at either end, and also by a
rotunda in the centre, and was clean, airy, and cheerful.
Salome passed slowly down the ward, her keen glance taking in every
detail of persons and things about her, while she was no less curiously
scrutinized by the other occupants of the place, who were quick to
recognize the fact that there was a stranger in their midst.
She spoke a kind word here and there, for her sympathies were readily
enlisted, gave a smile to others, and it was evident, from the friendly
glances which were bestowed upon her by all, that she would soon become
a favorite with those harmless but pitiable creatures.
Dr. Arnot watched her, a troubled look on his face.
“I don’t like this business—I wish I hadn’t put my finger in it,” he
muttered; “the girl is no more crazy than I am, and I was a fool to lend
myself to madam’s scheme, though I did need the money sadly. I
believe—as soon as I am sure that she has left the country—I’ll make
terms with the girl on condition that she will promise not to denounce
me.”
Alas! delays are dangerous, says the old proverb, and Dr. Arnot’s doom
was sealed when he decided in favor of procrastination.
A fortnight slipped by, and Salome continued to mingle every day with
the poor wrecks about her, and though her heart was often sad with hope
deferred, she became deeply interested in her strange companions. For
some of them she grew to feel a great tenderness, while to them she
seemed like a beautiful saint.
If a patient were ill or fractious, the attendant had only to send for
Salome, when a few quiet words, a clasp of the hand, a softly breathed
hymn, would subdue the unruly spirit, restore harmony, or lull the
restless sufferer to sleep.
But during all this time the anxious girl had found no opportunity to
send her letter to Harriet. It still lay in the depths of the capacious
pocket of her nun’s dress.
There was scarcely a day that there was not some visitor in the ward;
sometimes there were two or three; but no one had yet appeared in whom
she felt that she could have confidence. Besides, they were always
accompanied by Dr. Arnot, one of the other physicians, or by some
attendant, and Salome felt that she was always closely watched at such
times, consequently she had not dared to address any one. There were
times when she was sad and depressed because of hope deferred, but if
anything could have consoled her it would have been the fact that she
was doing good, while it was not entirely uninteresting to study the
different phases of insanity around her.
* * * * *
Meantime Harriet Winter had become very anxious about her young
mistress.
She had received a letter which Salome had inclosed to her in one which
she had written to the mother-superior, and in which she had told her
when she might look for her return to Paris. So she had given herself no
uneasiness until the time had passed and she did not make her appearance
or send her any word regarding plans for the future.
Then she began to be troubled, and one morning took a sudden resolve
that she would go out to the chateau and ascertain the cause of Salome’s
detention.
The Rochesters and Winthrops—the latter having returned a few days after
Salome’s departure, in good health and spirits—were very busy preparing
for their departure to Italy, and Harriet found considerable confusion
prevailing at the villa.
As it happened, Mrs. Rochester was passing through the great hall just
as the servant was admitting her, and instantly realized that she was on
the brink of a danger which she had not foreseen.
It will be remembered that when Mrs. Rochester had questioned Salome
regarding her relations with the woman, the young girl had evaded her,
and she had no suspicions that they had any interests in common. She
simply imagined that the woman was grateful for the care which had been
bestowed upon her during her illness, and so when Salome had called upon
her for help in her extremity, at the chateau, she had cheerfully
responded, to prove her gratitude. She did not dream that they lived
together, or that the woman felt any special responsibility regarding
Salome’s safety or well-being, and, since she had not known of the
letter received through the mother-superior, she did not suppose her to
know anything of the movements or intentions of Salome; she was,
therefore, considerably disturbed when she heard her inquiring in
somewhat excited tones for Sister Angela.
She immediately went forward, sent the servant away, and quietly drew
Harriet into a small reception-room and shut the door against intruders,
while she congratulated herself that she had happened to appear upon the
scene just at that opportune moment.
“My good woman, what do you wish?—what can I do for you?” she inquired,
assuming a tone of kindly interest.
“I’ve come to see Miss Sa—Sister Angela,” Harriet returned, having
almost betrayed her knowledge of Salome’s identity, in her excitement.
“Why,” exclaimed Mrs. Rochester, affecting great surprise, “did you
expect to find Sister Angela here now?”
“Of course I did, marm! Where else should I look for her?” Harriet
returned, growing more distressed at the confirmation of the statement
made by a servant that the nun was not there. “She came here to nurse,”
she went on, “but wrote me about three weeks ago that she should come
home in about a fortnight. It’s three weeks now; so I came to see for
myself what kept her. I keep house for her, marm, in a little house just
under the convent walls,” she concluded, in explanation.
“But,” responded Mrs. Rochester, still with an appearance of surprise,
“Sister Angela’s duties here ceased some four weeks ago. Did she not
return to Paris at that time?”
“What!” cried Harriet in a frightened tone, and growing pale; “it’s
true, then, what the servant told me—she isn’t here?”
“No; she left Dr. Winthrop some four weeks ago,” Mrs. Rochester
answered. “She was taken ill here very suddenly one day—she fainted, and
seemed quite worn out; but, as soon as she was able, she insisted upon
returning to Paris.”
“Good gracious, marm! you can’t mean it!” exclaimed the woman wildly;
“and she never came home at all!”
“Is it possible?” said Mrs. Rochester with sympathetic earnestness.
“Perhaps, then, she went to the convent.”
“No, marm; she has her own house, and she would have come directly to
me,” said Harriet.
“Then she isn’t a nun at all,” remarked her companion in a peculiar
tone; “for nuns do not keep house by themselves.”
“Well, that doesn’t matter now,” Harriet returned evasively, but looking
rather crest-fallen at having betrayed so much. “It does matter, though,
where she is now. I must find her right away. When did she go away from
here?” she demanded rising, for she was wild to begin her search for the
missing girl.
“Let me see,” mused Mrs. Rochester; “I believe it was just four weeks
ago yesterday, that——”
“Four weeks!” interrupted Harriet scornfully. “Why, I had a letter from
her three weeks ago, and she said she’d be at home in about a fortnight,
as I told you before.”
Mrs. Rochester remembered and had been somewhat upset by the
intelligence; still she was bound to stick to her text if possible.
“Are you sure the letter was written only three weeks ago?” she
inquired, simply to gain time.
“Sure, marm; I ain’t likely to make many mistakes about Miss—about
Sister Angela,” Harriet replied.
“But it certainly was four weeks ago yesterday that she had the attack I
spoke of; Dr. Winthrop would himself tell you so, and that she wished to
return at once to Paris.”
“Well, I’m beat!” Harriet exclaimed in a tremulous voice; “for that
letter was certainly written three weeks ago, and it was postmarked from
this town.”
“Perhaps,” Mrs. Rochester suggested, a bright idea occurring to her,
“she was taken worse after leaving here, and was obliged to stop over at
the inn or somewhere in the village; then, when she was a little better,
she may have written you, but, not wishing to alarm you, told you that
she would be home in a couple of weeks; then she may have been taken
worse again, and—and perhaps is ill somewhere now.”
“No—no, marm, that isn’t like her at all; if she had been sick, she’d
have sent for me to come and take care of her,” Harriet returned, tears
streaming over her cheeks. “I tell you, marm, it’ll be a sad day for me
if anything has happened to her.”
Her heart was full of anxiety and fear, and she imagined a hundred ills
that might have befallen her dear young lady; but she did not once
suspect treachery on the part of any one at the chateau, for she could
conceive of no motive that would prompt any one to injure her. Salome
had never confided anything of her history, and she did not suppose she
had ever met either the Rochesters or the Winthrops before she went to
nurse them at the villa.
The wily Mrs. Rochester, after suggesting that perhaps Sister Angela had
probably succumbed to a sudden and fatal attack of illness, was
extremely anxious to get rid of her excitable visitor. She feared that
Dr. Winthrop might learn that the devoted and self-sacrificing nun who
had nursed him back to life was unaccountably missing. If so, he would
certainly spare no efforts to get tidings of her, and, if possible,
restore her to the lamenting Harriet.
When Harriet Winter left the chateau, it was with the determination to
use every means in her power to find her beloved friend.