SALOME RELATES SOMETHING OF HER PREVIOUS HISTORY.
Dr. Winthrop was not hurt by his wife’s apparent doubt. He simply folded
her closer in his arms and smiled fondly down upon her.
“Can it be possible that, during all the time you were at the chateau,
you never saw my brother?” he remarked after a moment.
“No; I never saw him except once or twice in the distance, and then I
had but a glimpse, and at dusk, when I was taking the air for a few
moments. I supposed it was your brother, for he was with Madame Winthrop
and your sister,” Salome replied.
“I remember now that he did not come often to my rooms during my
illness,” said Dr. Winthrop reflectively.
“Doubtless,” he thought to himself, “he was improving the time to make
love to Miss Rochester.”
“You recollect that Mr. Tillinghast would not leave you when you were
extremely ill except for needed rest, and we did not think it best to
have too many around you; and then, when you began to improve, you are
aware that your brother went away with your mother and sister,” Salome
responded, but not comprehending just why Dr. Winthrop had spoken of
this.
He looked into her eyes and smiled.
“It was but natural that you should have been deceived. You think you
saw me in Miss Rochester’s parlor that day, but you did not; for, during
all the time that we were at the chateau, I never once entered those
rooms except to prescribe for Miss Rochester when she was ill. The man
you saw with her must have been my brother, Norman—my twin brother—who
resembles me, whose voice and face and figure are so like mine that our
most intimate friends can scarcely tell us apart.”
“Oh, if I had but known!” exclaimed Salome with a look of astonishment,
but with a sigh of infinite relief, while her white fingers closed over
her husband’s hand in a clinging grasp.
“But, my darling, it seems strange that you should have forgotten how
ill I had been—that it would have been impossible for me to have held
Miss Rochester in my arms, or to have supported her upon my breast at
that time!” said Dr. Winthrop smiling again.
“I never thought of that,” Salome answered, wondering how she could have
been so thoughtless and stupid. “If it had been you, you would have
looked thin and white; but I was so wild with grief that it did not once
occur to me to question your identity,” and the sweet face looking up
into his began to clear, while she rested more contentedly in his
embrace.
She was beginning to realize that no rival could ever usurp her place in
her husband’s heart—that his love for her was as strong and deathless as
hers for him.
“More than that, love,” he said. “Norman came to me only a short time
ago, and confessed his love for Miss Rochester. I will tell you frankly
that I expected to be obliged to marry her, although it almost seemed to
me that it would be a crime to do so, when my heart was so filled with
your image.”
And then he explained to Salome how he had been drawn into making a
proposal to the scheming girl and been accepted, and she listened with a
strange look on her face, although she made no comment on the tale.
“But you have spoken of your illness at the chateau—how long were you
ill there?” Dr. Winthrop inquired, when his story was told.
“Three weeks.”
“It does not seem possible!” he cried astonished. “How could they manage
to keep your presence in the house concealed so long? They told me that
you had a fainting turn, and, fearing you were going to be ill, you had
insisted upon going back to Paris. I supposed you were with the sisters
and being most tenderly cared for, never suspecting the contrary until
Harriet came to the chateau to inquire for you, and told me that no one
knew anything about you; but—tell me just how it all happened, and how
you were lured into that wretched place where I found you to-day.”
Salome began with the day when she fainted in the hall before Mrs.
Rochester’s door, and told him everything that had occurred up to the
time when she had discovered his presence in the ward, where she was a
prisoner in Dr. Arnot’s asylum for lunatics.
Dr. Winthrop listened with a stern, white face, as all the treachery of
those two women was revealed to him, and realized how they had plotted
not only to ruin her life, but to make a dupe of him also.
“About this petition for a divorce—when was it sent, Salome?” he gravely
asked, when she had concluded this portion of her story.
She gave him the exact date.
“And to whom?—what was the lawyer’s name?”
She told him.
“Ah! he was abroad last year—I know him. Miss Rochester must have met
him then. Why, Salome, he is one of the most unprincipled scamps in his
profession!—he will do anything for money, and is most successful in
this particular branch of his business. He makes a specialty of
procuring divorces secretly, and is very cunning in bringing about just
what his clients desire. But,” he added, “we will see if we cannot put a
stop to these proceedings at once.”
“Oh, can you—can you?” Salome eagerly cried.
“I am going to try,” he answered gravely. “I shall send a cable message
commanding—if the decree has not already been granted—that all further
attempts to obtain a separation be dropped—that such is the wish of both
you and myself.”
“Oh, do, do! I wish, oh, I wish you would go this moment to send it,”
Salome cried, clinging to him nervously, and raising an appealing look
to him.
“It will do just as well an hour hence, love,” he returned soothingly,
“and there is much about you that I still wish to learn. How did it
happen that I found you in the hospital in this disguise? how did you
happen to be in Paris at all? how did you escape from that terrible
fire? Oh, my darling, go back to the hour of our separation and tell me
everything—spare no one, for I must know the whole truth, no matter whom
it involves.”
Salome leaned back in his arms, and, laying her head upon his shoulder,
where she could look up and watch every varying expression of his dear
face, began her story, and told him, as he requested, all that had
occurred since their parting in New York. She tried to be as lenient as
possible in speaking of his mother and sister, but she was truthful, and
he could not fail to understand how much they had been to blame for the
suffering which they had both been called upon to endure.
“What a tale!” he exclaimed, when she concluded; “it is full of
romance—full of suffering, too. What danger, love, you have been in;
what a narrow escape you had from that burning building. But nothing
shall ever separate us again—not a thousand treacherous women; not a
hundred marriage contracts made by arbitrary match-makers.”
Salome’s lovely face brightened at his words like a flower after a
refreshing shower.
“Then you do not regret the fortune which your uncle left you upon such
strange conditions?” she said inquiringly.
“Regret it, love! A world in the balance with you would be as nothing,”
he cried, and caught her to him with a passion, which told her how
heartfelt were his words.
It was very sweet, very comforting to her to be so loved after all the
loneliness and barrenness of her life, during the long months of their
separation.
But presently she raised her head and searched his face earnestly.
“What is it, dear? why are you so grave, as if you were regretting the
fortune that I have lost?” he asked smilingly.
“I was wondering how I could best tell you something else,” she
remarked, with something of hesitation in her manner.
“What do you mean? is it that old secret of the past?” he asked, growing
grave, “the history of your life which has been the cause of so much
suspicion, persecution, and wrong? Of course I shall be glad to have you
give me your confidence, dear; but whatever you may have to tell me can
never make the slightest difference in my love for you.”
She smiled.
“I know it,” she said, “and had I only known a little more of your own
history, all this trouble and sorrow need never have come upon us. A
word would have set everything right.”
“If you had known a little more of my history? I do not understand you,
Salome,” Dr. Winthrop remarked, looking perplexed.
“Why did you not tell me about this Rochester-Hamilton contract?”
“Because I hated the very thought of it; and after I had broken the
conditions, and forfeited my fortune by marrying the woman I loved,
there was nothing to be said. Besides, what possible difference could it
have made in our relations?”
“It would have made this difference, True,” Salome said, as she regarded
him with tender earnestness, “that we should have escaped all that has
made us so wretched, for I—your wife—am the Sadie Rochester whom you
were destined by that arbitrary will to marry; you have already
fulfilled the contract, which you so hated to contemplate, and the
united estates of Brookside and Englehurst might have been our home long
ago, if you had but confided to me the fact that you were Milton
Hamilton’s heir and namesake.”
Dr. Winthrop sat regarding his wife in speechless astonishment during
this explanation.
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed, as she concluded, “I am half tempted to
believe that your brain has been turned after all. You surely cannot
know what you are saying!”
“Oh, yes, I do. What I have told you is a fact,” she quietly returned.
“My true name—the poor name that has occasioned so much suspicion and
trouble—is Salome Howland Rochester.”
“And you are the Miss Rochester—the daughter of my uncle’s friend—whom
these two wills destined me to marry?” the young physician cried, his
face still blank with amazement and incredulity.
“Yes.”
“Then who is this other girl who has been masquerading under your name,
and trying to trick me into a marriage with her?” he demanded in
perplexity.
“Her real name is Sarah Rockwell. My father married Mrs. Rockwell, who
was the widow of a cousin of my mother, when her daughter was a girl of
twelve, and I was ten years of age. That would make her a distant
cousin, in fact we called ourselves cousins, until she came to live in
the same house with me.
“Her mother stipulated, when she became my father’s wife, that her
daughter should be regularly adopted so that she could bear the same
name, and thus she became Sarah Rochester. How she came to be called
Sadie you will understand as I go on. When I was a little child I had a
nurse who was very fond of me and she would not call me Salome. She said
the name was too old-fashioned—too old-maidish. She tried to nickname me
by calling me ‘Lomie;’ but this my mother objected to, and the nurse
laughingly said there was nothing else but Sally. ‘Yes, we can call her
Sadie,’ said my mother, and Sadie I was from that time on. After my
father’s second marriage it was a little troublesome to have two
children in the family with names so nearly alike, and my step-mother
wanted to use my whole name, Salome; but my father had become accustomed
to the other, and would not countenance the change. As I said before,
she was twelve and I ten when she came to live with us, and she shared
equally with me in every advantage, for Mrs. Rochester was particular to
demand as much for her child, in every respect, as my father gave to
his. But from the very first she was strangely jealous of me, and though
she dared not be otherwise than civil to me in my father’s presence, it
was soon patent to me that she was secretly my bitter enemy. My father
was an invalid for many years, but though he was often irritable and had
many whims and fancies, as invalids often have—even though he was
strangely cold and indifferent to me—I loved him very dearly, and was
never so happy as when I was in his room waiting upon him and
ministering to his many wants. He had his own private attendant, but he
often used to tell me that I was the better nurse of the two, and I know
that I did become quite proficient in the care of him. We came abroad
shortly after his marriage with Mrs. Rockwell, and travelled about from
place to place, according to his pleasure or fancy; but nothing was ever
said to me about his plans for my future, until a few months before he
died. Then one day he told me that he had pledged me to the son and heir
of his dearest friend and college chum, Milton Hamilton; who, although
he resided in New York most of the time, owned the estate adjoining
Brookside—a fine place belonging to my father, but which he had left
after my mother’s death and had only visited at intervals since. I
supposed from what my father told me, that the name of the man whom he
wanted me to marry was also Hamilton; he did not tell me that he was
simply the adopted son of his friend. He said that he was expecting him
to join us abroad that fall, and he wished me to be prepared to give him
a gracious reception. Of course I secretly rebelled at this arbitrary
disposition of my hand; but at the time he told me about it, he was not
as well as usual, and I said nothing in reply, fearing to excite him if
I opposed the arrangement in any way. It came out afterward that he had
told his wife more than he told me regarding these plans, but even she
was appalled upon learning the truth regarding the disposal of his
property. My father died very suddenly one day, while we were all out
shopping, and we came home to find the servants wild with excitement,
and the house in the greatest confusion. Mrs. Rochester is, however, a
woman of rare executive ability, as you have doubtless learned, and she
managed everything during this unlooked-for emergency very wisely, and
with the utmost propriety.
“Every mark of respect was paid to the dead, and even the most critical
could have found no fault with her deportment and arrangements at this
time. But when the will was produced and read she was simply furious. It
was then, too, that I learned the whole truth regarding his plans for my
future. The will stated that I was to marry Mr. Hamilton’s heir, or
forfeit the Rochester homestead and a hundred thousand dollars besides;
fifty thousand dollars alone being held in reserve for me in case I
refused to comply with my father’s wishes. A will to the same tenor and
effect was made after his marriage with Mrs. Rockwell, which stated that
the income of the previously mentioned fifty thousand dollars should go
to her if I married Mr. Hamilton’s heir; if I did not, she was simply to
share a certain amount of the income until I married to please myself,
when she would receive ten thousand outright. The income of the fifty
thousand dollars was to revert to me at her death. I will not attempt to
describe her anger over this state of affairs. She claimed that my
father had promised her fifty thousand dollars, and that he had
shamefully wronged her by making such a will. She appeared to imagine
that I was responsible for it, and she treated me accordingly. Of course
she immediately became very anxious that I should fulfil the
Rochester-Hamilton contract; you were expected to arrive at any time,
and she insisted that the marriage must be solemnized immediately upon
your arrival, or as soon after as it could be arranged.
“I was shocked at what seemed to me such indecent haste, especially when
there had been a death so recently in the family, and I rebelled;
besides, the idea of promising to marry a man whom I had never seen, and
who, for aught I knew, might not be attracted to me, was horrible. She
demanded a promise of obedience; I was high-spirited and refused to give
it, and even threatened to leave her and return to America to escape
you. Thereupon she locked me in my room, telling me that I should remain
there a prisoner until I relented and came to her terms. This only made
matters worse, arousing a feeling of antagonism and obstinacy within me;
and one day, when Mrs. Rochester and Sarah were out driving, I bribed
the maid, who was left to guard me, to let me run away. She sympathized
with me, and agreed to the proposal. She even packed my trunk, and had
it secretly taken out to a carriage which she ordered. I went directly
to Calais, then to Dover, and from there to London. I remained there for
a few weeks, trying to find some congenial employment, when, one day, I
met a man who had once been a servant in our family.
“This meeting frightened me so I went to Liverpool, boarded a steamer,
and sailed directly to Boston, where I arrived one dreary day in
November. I had very little money left when I reached that city and felt
like a stranger in a strange land, although America was my native
country. I had never had to depend upon myself for a livelihood, but I
knew that I must now do something. A happy inspiration led me to the
City Hospital, for I believed that my experience in the sick-room of my
father had fitted me for a nurse. The superintendent appeared to be
pleased with me, even agreeing to give me a trial without the required
recommendations and—the rest you know already, True.”
“My darling, what a sad experience you have had!” said Dr. Winthrop
sadly. “It is no wonder that you rebelled against that wretched
contract; but you need not have feared me. I was no less averse to it,
for I felt that two men had no right to thus control the destinies of
others. Still I had promised that I would meet you, and only the
breaking out of an epidemic in New York prevented my arriving in Berlin
before your father’s death. I wrote, explaining the delay, but it seems
that my letter was never received. I intended, if we were pleased with
each other, to ask you to be my wife, but I should never have urged the
union—I could never have made any woman my wife against her will, even
though a dozen fortunes were to be won by such a measure.”
“And I imagined that you were eager for the marriage,” replied Salome.
“I thought you were coming to us to make it merely a matter of business,
and I should be sacrificed at any cost. If I could have but known how
well I should love you, how happy we might have been!” she concluded
with a sigh.
“Ah, if I had but listened to you when you first wished to tell me your
story, my darling, it would have saved us much of the sorrow that we
have since known,” her husband remarked regretfully.
“Perhaps and yet——” Salome began thoughtfully.
“Yet what, my Peace?”
“I believe we should not have been so content in each other’s love; we
might have had a feeling—a suspicion that each was thinking more of the
union of the fortunes than the union of hearts, if we had met as was
planned in the first place. I believe that I love you better for all the
trial and sorrow.”