TELLS HOW DR. WINTHROP FOUND HIS WIFE.
Yes, Truman Winthrop had found his wife at last! But the discovery came
to him with such a shock that it nearly unhinged his own reason for the
moment, and it almost seemed to him as if the whole world had suddenly
gone mad.
But how did it happen that he came a visitor to Dr. Arnot’s
establishment?
It has been stated that he was making a special study of diseases of the
eye, ear, and brain, and in pursuit of points relating to the latter
subject, he had arranged with a friend and fellow-student to visit
several retreats for the insane in Paris, for the purpose of observing
the different methods of treatment.
They had already been over three other institutions in the city, and Dr.
Arnot’s establishment was to be the last.
That gentleman had received them most graciously. It caused him no
little pride that learned men came to him and his asylum for information
regarding the treatment of diseases of the brain, and he always made
them very welcome.
“They did him great honor,” he would affirm, with many bows and smiles,
but with an inward feeling that it was quite the reverse.
Upon this occasion, he remarked that he would show them about in person;
but he little imagined what the hour would reveal.
Neither had Dr. Winthrop the slightest suspicion that there was any one
in the institution that he had ever seen before. He was intent only upon
learning something new—upon studying different phases of insanity and
their treatment.
He had therefore been greatly shocked when his attention was attracted
to that figure in the nun’s dress, and the attendant had told him that
Sister Angela had become an inmate of that great tomb for the dead in
life; to learn that the faithful nurse to whom he owed so much, had lost
her mind, with no hope of its ever being restored.
He could not understand it either, since the mother-superior and the
sisters at the convent appeared to be ignorant of her condition or
whereabouts. Still, it was possible, he thought, that they did know, but
were unwilling to have her condition known; it might even be that they
had sent her there to be secretly cared for.
His first impulse, as we know, had been to rush to her side—to greet her
kindly, and say something pleasant to her.
Then it suddenly occurred to him how unwise such a proceeding would be
and though it required great effort to control his feelings, he turned
back to seek Dr. Arnot’s advice and counsel, telling him that he knew
the girl, and asking his permission to speak with her.
But the physician, who was greatly startled by the information,
decidedly refused to allow him to hold any conversation with her.
He volubly expressed both surprise and sympathy, upon being told how
faithfully and bravely she had worked during the prevalence of the
plague which had lately passed over Paris—how she had even saved Dr.
Winthrop’s own life; still he insisted that it would be very unwise to
arouse memories of the past, and finally said that he could not permit
him to address her.
“Mademoiselle was exceedingly violent when she was brought here,
monsieur,” he remarked with deep anxiety, lest something should occur to
deprive him of his profitable patient. “The sight of a familiar face
might cause all her former madness to return. She is quiet and docile
just now, and much as I may desire to oblige monsieur, my judgment warns
me to refuse his request. Messieurs,” with a polite bow, which included
both gentlemen, “shall we now pass on to another ward?”
Dr. Winthrop, though saddened and disappointed by this adverse decision,
could only acquiesce in its apparent wisdom, and so turned to follow his
friend from the room.
But as he was about to cross the threshold, he could not refrain from
bestowing one regretful backward glance upon the unfortunate who had
spent so much of her time and strength for the good of others.
He turned just in the doorway, and then a great shock, which seemed
almost like a convulsion, passed over him as he caught sight of that
kneeling figure, as he saw and recognized the beautiful, despairing face
that was turned toward him, and beheld those hands outstretched so
appealingly.
Was he dreaming? was he the victim of some wonderful optical illusion?
or had that violent shock been the rending of his soul from his body,
sending him in an instant into the eternal world to be met thus by this
vision of his lost wife?
No, no! it was no dream, no illusion! It was the real face of his
idolized wife—the one face in all the world that he had ever loved with
all the passion of his nature, and, though he could not understand
it—though it seemed absurdly impossible, he yet instinctively knew that
those delicate features, those wondrous eyes, those sweet, quivering
lips, and that wealth of beautiful hair belonged to Salome alone.
With a mighty effort he broke the spell that held him paralyzed, and
unheeding Dr. Arnot’s polite, though somewhat impatient, efforts to
hurry him away, he leaped suddenly back into the room, and in an instant
that loved form lay upon his breast, and he knew, beyond a doubt, that
his wife was not dead, but living, and all his own once more.
A bitter curse burst from Dr. Arnot’s lips as he witnessed this
astonishing scene, and realized that a formidable investigation was a
probable result.
With a brow as black as night he hastened down the ward after his flying
visitor, and overtook him just as she lost consciousness in his arms.
“Monsieur,” he tried to say calmly, “the girl has only fainted, and,
although your sympathy and agility have saved her fall and does you
great credit, she will be better left with the attendant. Pray lay her
upon the couch yonder, where she will receive every necessary
attention.”
He had not heard the young physician’s passionate exclamation as he
caught his wife in his arms, and was therefore still ignorant of the
true meaning of the scene.
“Lay her upon a couch in this room and leave her with an attendant!” Dr.
Winthrop cried, as he turned almost fiercely upon Dr. Arnot. “Never,
sir! for she is my wife! My God! that I should find her here!”
“Your wife, monsieur!” and the man recoiled as if he had been struck a
blow. “Mon Dieu, monsieur must have been stricken with insanity
himself!” and he anxiously searched the young husband’s face.
He was as pale as Salome herself—his lips twitched from intense emotion,
and the veins stood out like whipcords upon his forehead, while he
hugged that unconscious form to his heart like some miser who had
suddenly recovered his long-lost treasure.
“Yes, my wife!” he replied. “Oh, my love! my love! what brought you into
this den?” Then he added sternly, as he turned to Monsieur Arnot.
“She is no more insane than you are; show me at once to some private
room where I can give her the care she needs.”
Dr. Arnot stood regarding him suspiciously and trying to decide what
course to pursue in this unexpected emergency.
Dr. Winthrop saw that he doubted him.
“I swear that this woman is my wife,” he said, “and if you do not wish
to bring serious trouble upon yourself, you will do as I request,
instantly.”
His fellow-student now came to his side and laid his hand upon his
shoulder.
“What is the meaning of this, Winthrop?” he gravely inquired.
“Just what I have said. I have found my wife, whom for almost two years,
I have believed to be dead. How she ever happened to be in Paris, and in
this place is more than I can understand. There is some terrible mystery
about it; but if you doubt my word, look here!”
He supported Salome with one arm while he thrust his other hand within
his bosom and drew forth a small case which he passed to his friend.
“Look at the face painted there, then at the one upon my breast, and
doubt my word if you can,” he said, with quivering lips.
The man opened the case and at once recognized Salome’s lovely face,
which Dr. Winthrop had had copied upon ivory from a photograph after he
had believed her to be dead, and had carried about with him ever since.
It had needed but a glance at the still, white features resting upon Dr.
Winthrop’s bosom to assure him that he spoke the truth, and then he
quietly passed the picture to Dr. Arnot.
Dr. Arnot grew very pale as he, too, saw the perfect likeness to his
patient; then he turned and without a word led the way to the room which
Salome had occupied ever since she had been an inmate of the
institution.
Dr. Winthrop laid his precious burden upon the bed, and began at once to
restore her to consciousness.
The fainting turn proved an obstinate one, but it finally yielded to his
judicious treatment. Salome began to show signs of returning life, and
then the young husband banished every one from the room, feeling that he
could bear no eye to witness their reunion when she could fully come to
herself.
Never was music sweeter to mortal ears than when she heaved a long sigh,
that was yet more of a sob than a sigh, and in a voice full of agony,
cried out:
“True, True! oh, my husband, save me!”
That had been the prayer of her heart when she saw him leaving the ward
and believed that she was looking her last upon him forever, and dooming
herself to perpetual imprisonment in that horrible place; now she
involuntarily gave utterance to it.
Dr. Winthrop gathered her two cold white hands in his and hugged them to
his breast, as he bent fondly over her.
“My love, you are safe for all time—nothing shall ever separate
us—nothing shall ever harm you again while I live.”
Salome lifted her eyes wonderingly to his face.
Instinctively she trusted him, and yet she could not understand it—the
situation, his fond looks, and loving words.
She believed that the last time she had seen him, he was holding Sarah
Rochester in his arms, and pouring words of passionate love into her
ears. She believed that he was betrothed to her—that he hoped and
expected to marry her.
But surely unmistakable love for her now beamed in his eyes; his voice
was full of tremulous tenderness, and her confidence in him was for the
moment restored.
A faint smile broke over her face, two crystal drops gathered in her
eyes and rolled slowly over her cheeks.
Her husband wiped them away with his own handkerchief, and stooping,
kissed her softly on the lips.
Then he lifted her head upon his arm with all the gentleness of a woman,
and made her drink from a glass something he had prepared for her.
“I am so tired,” she said, nestling more closely to his breast, like a
weary child that has at last found a place of refuge and safety.
The act almost unmanned him, for it told him how thoroughly she had
become exhausted by the mental strain of the last few weeks; how all the
burden of care and anxiety had suddenly dropped from her, now that she
found herself safe with him, and she simply wanted to rest in his
protection.
“I know it, my darling,” he murmured fondly, “I know that you must be
worn out with sorrow and fear; but it is all over now. Will you try to
sleep a little while I go to make arrangements with Dr. Arnot for your
removal?” and he laid her gently back upon the bed.
She caught his hand, a look of fear leaping to her eyes.
“Do not leave me,” she whispered nervously.
“No, I will not, if you object,” he returned reassuringly, “but, dear, I
want to take you away from this place immediately and I thought that if
I could arrange for it while you had a little nap, it would facilitate
matters. I will not go away from your door—I will step outside and send
an attendant to ask Dr. Arnot to come to me. Are you willing—will you
trust me and try to sleep?”
“Yes,” she said, instantly releasing his hand while she turned her head
upon her pillow and closed her eyes.
Dr. Winthrop went softly out of the room, but did not move from the
door.
He beckoned to an attendant, and sent him with a message to Dr. Arnot
requesting his presence.
That gentleman did not keep him waiting long, but he looked pale and
anxious, and remarked as he approached the young physician, that his
friend was waiting below for him.
“I cannot go yet,” Dr. Winthrop replied, and taking a card from his
case, he wrote a few lines upon it, and then asked that it be sent down
to the gentleman.
Dr. Arnot complied with his request, after which Dr. Winthrop drew him
to a seat just outside Salome’s door, and requested him to explain how
his wife had come to be an inmate of his establishment.
The wily physician’s brain had been busy ever since the discovery of
Salome, and he had a cunningly constructed tale all ready for the young
man’s ear.
He represented that a lady, calling herself Madame Rochester, had come
to him a few weeks before in great distress because one of her daughters
had exhibited marked symptoms of insanity. She was on the eve of
departing for Rome, where she was to spend the winter—she could not take
a crazy girl with her, and she wished to leave her in his care until her
return.
Her story was so straight and credible—it was so evident from her
description of the girl’s condition that she could not be in her right
mind, that he had not a suspicion but that everything was as she
represented, and so he had consented to receive mademoiselle into his
institution, and do what he could for her recovery, during the absence
of her friends. She had already improved greatly, he remarked, in
conclusion, for when she was brought there, she had been very violent,
while of late she had seemed quite docile and more rational, and he had
great hopes of her entire recovery.