“IT IS ALL RIGHT, MY DARLING!”
After leaving Salome, Dr. Winthrop hastened at once to a telegraph
office, where he wrote the following cable message:
“TO CONRAD CONVERSE,
“Chambers Street, New York:
“You are hereby notified to quash at once all proceedings for divorce of
Truman H. Winthrop and Salome Winthrop. Answer immediately, stating
exactly how matters stand.
“TRUMAN H. WINTHROP,
“SALOME H. WINTHROP.”
Having dispatched this, the young physician went at once to his hotel,
where, after writing some letters, he retired, to try to shorten by
sleep the long hours which must intervene before he could go again to
Salome.
To say that he was anxious regarding the answer he would receive to his
message, but faintly expresses the torturing suspense which he
experienced.
It was impossible for him to sleep. He tossed on his bed for hours, then
arose and resolutely applied himself to hard study until the day dawned.
Then he refreshed himself with a cold bath, after which he took a long
walk. Upon his return he dallied as long as possible with his breakfast,
read his newspaper, smoked a cigar, while it seemed as if the time had
never passed so slowly.
He wished now that he had not told Salome he would not go to her until
he heard from the lawyer, for he might at least have spent a few hours
of the morning with her. He was half tempted to go, as it was, but the
message might come while he was away, and he was becoming almost
feverishly impatient to receive it.
It is useless to attempt to describe that long, long day. Truman
Winthrop’s powers of endurance were tested to their utmost, for no word
came to him until six o’clock that evening. He signed for the dispatch
with a hand that trembled so that no one would ever have recognized his
signature.
With a face as white as his handkerchief and a heavily beating heart he
tore open the message and read these words:
“No decree granted; unforeseen delay caused by endless red tape. All
proceedings stopped as commanded. Utmost secrecy has been observed.
“CONRAD CONVERSE.”
A long, long sigh of relief burst from the young man, after reading this
and for a few moments he was almost unmanned.
“She is still mine, thank God!” he murmured, after perusing the message
a second time; “I could hardly have borne to have learned that the tie
had been annulled, even though she would have given herself unreservedly
to me again. Now all will be well—oh, my love, I believe there is a
blessed future in store for us.”
He put the precious message carefully away to show Salome, then,
hastening from the house, he called the first cab he saw and was driven
directly to No. 15 Rue de ——.
It was after seven when he arrived at Salome’s door and almost dark, but
a light was burning in the little parlor, and he knew that someone
within was anxiously awaiting his coming.
With a full heart and bounding pulses, he sprang from the carriage and
ran lightly up the steps, to find the door almost instantly opened. A
white robed figure sprang into his arms and was clasped to his breast.
“Tell me, True—tell me!” Salome breathed as she twined her arms about
his neck and laid her cheek to his.
Her own anxiety, and the suspense she had endured had been no less
intense than his.
“It is all right, darling,” he tenderly replied, “the man has
accomplished nothing—we are still one, and nothing can come between us
now. Come and let me show you the answer to my message.”
He led her into the parlor, where he put the precious message into her
trembling hands.
She was quivering in every nerve, but she read the blessed assurance
that she was still Truman Winthrop’s wife—that the sacred bond which had
united them had not been annulled and a great joy and unutterable
thankfulness flooded her heart.
She raised her illumined face to her husband, and he opened his arms to
her.
Again she sprang into them, a sob of thankfulness bursting from her.
“All mine! all mine!” he murmured fondly.
“I am so glad, so happy!” she whispered, with her tremulous lips laid
against his cheek.
* * * * *
Three weeks later, in an elegant apartment of one of the finest hotels
of Paris, a gentleman and lady might have been seen sitting opposite
each other at a daintily spread breakfast-table. On the hotel register
in the office below, any one might have read the entry: “Truman H.
Winthrop, M. D., New York City, U. S. A.; Mrs. Truman H. Winthrop and
maid.”
After their reunion, Dr. Winthrop would not allow Salome to remain
longer in the little house under the shadow of the convent walls, so it
was given up, and taking Harriet with them, as Salome’s maid, they went
for a time to one of the hotels of the city.
“Well, my Peace, we have been here three weeks, and very happy weeks
they have been, too; but is it not about time that we began to plan a
little for the future?” Dr. Winthrop remarked, as he pushed his chair
back from the table, while his eyes rested with a look of fond
admiration upon the lovely figure opposite him.
Salome was exquisitely attired in the palest of pale pink morning robes,
richly trimmed with white lace, and the dress was extremely becoming to
her clear, cream-like complexion, dark hair and eyes.
She had changed much during these three weeks. Her face was radiant with
happiness, her eyes bright with hope, her manner animated, and even gay.
She was wholly unlike the grave, demure little body, who had been known
as Sister Angela, and no one would have dreamed that she could have been
the same person.
The young wife flushed under her husband’s glance. She knew that she was
beautiful, and she had begun to take pleasure in the fact, because of
his evident delight in it.
“I do not want to plan for anything,” she smilingly returned. “I am too
happy in just being with you, to take much thought for the future.”
“It is very pleasant to hear you say that, my darling,” Dr. Winthrop
replied, as he came behind her and laid his hand fondly upon her glossy
head, “nevertheless, there are some matters which must be attended to
without delay. My mother and sister must be notified of what has
occurred; Miss Rochester must learn that her schemes have failed, and
then we must go home to attend to securing what rightly belongs to us;
that unprincipled girl shall no longer masquerade in the character and
under the name that rightly belongs to you.”
“But it seems dreadful to have such disagreeable matters to attend to
when we are so happy, does it not?” Salome said with a sigh, as she put
up one white hand to draw his face down upon a level with hers where she
could look into his eyes.
“I believe, Salome, you are ready to forgive everybody the wrong they
have done you,” Dr. Winthrop returned, as he searched her thoughtful
face. “But I am afraid I am not quite as merciful as you are. I am free
to confess to a certain amount of satisfaction—of exultation, even, over
the downfall of the plots that have been laid against us; while too, I
am strangely curious to see how those wicked people, who have done so
much to make us both miserable, will bear their punishment.”
“Punishment!” repeated Salome, looking slightly troubled.
“Yes, dear; they all deserve a severe lesson, and I mean they shall have
it,” the young man replied, with some sternness. “Do not look so
disturbed, love,” he added as he saw the cloud upon her brow. “I am not
a vindictive or hard-hearted man, but I am determined that justice shall
be done. I think you may safely trust me to manage it in a proper
manner.”
“I will leave it all with you,” Salome said confidingly, and feeling
very sure that he would do nothing wrong, although she shrank with keen
sensitiveness, from anything which would seem like revenge for her
wrongs.
“Then what do you say to a trip to Rome next week?” her husband asked.
“Must I meet them?” she cried, shrinking closer to him.
“Not if you recoil from it,” he responded, “but I promised my mother
that I would join her at the end of two months. Six weeks have already
passed, and I think it will be wise not to keep her longer in ignorance
of what has occurred. I could go alone, only I cannot make up my mind to
be separated from you——”
“No—no, True, where you go, I must go,” Salome cried, clinging to him.
“I thought that would be your decision, dear. You shall not meet any of
them if you so desire it; still you can easily understand that all these
recent developments must be explained, and business matters settled
sooner or later. When I have anything disagreeable to do, I like to
attack it boldly and get it off my mind,” Dr. Winthrop concluded,
smiling.
“That is the better way, of course,” Salome gravely answered. “I suppose
I must meet them all again, some time and I may as well school myself to
the ordeal first as last. As for Mrs. Rochester and her daughter, I
believe I should be glad never to see them again, although I wish them
no ill; but, True, for your sake, I would like to win the hearts of your
mother and sister.”
“Can you forgive them for all they made you suffer in New York, Salome?”
her husband wonderingly asked as he searched her earnest face.
The young wife flushed. It was not an easy matter to crush all sense of
injury out of her heart, but strengthened by the great love which she
bore her husband, she believed she could in time do even this.
“Yes, for your sake, True,” she said softly.
He touched her forehead reverently.
“You are more noble than I, dear, for I cannot say as much as that,” he
gravely returned.
There were a few more days of perfect peace and content in Paris, and
then Dr. Winthrop and his wife set out for Rome.
They did not linger on their way, but arrived in Rome near the close of
a pleasant afternoon during the latter part of December.
They drove directly to the Hotel Quirinal in the Via Nazionale, where
they found pleasant rooms and excellent service.
After they had had their dinner, Dr. Winthrop repaired to the
smoking-room to enjoy his cigar, hoping that he might find some one whom
he knew.
He had not been seated ten minutes when he was slapped upon the
shoulder, and looking up, he saw his friend Tillinghast beside him.
It was a joyful meeting.
“I never dreamed of seeing you here to-night, old fellow!” the young man
exclaimed. “When did you arrive?”
“Not quite two hours ago,” Dr. Winthrop replied.
“Then you have not seen your family. I called there a few nights ago and
found them all well excepting your brother; he looks like a ghost,
though he says he is all right,” Mr. Tillinghast remarked, wondering why
his friend was stopping at a hotel instead of going to his family. “I
suppose you will be going around there soon,” he said, in conclusion.
“No, not to-night,” briefly returned the young physician.
“Oh! then you intend to remain here over night?”
“Yes, and possibly for some time.”
“I tell you what, Winthrop,” his friend cried, all aglow with
hospitality, and seeing that there was some mysterious reason why he did
not join his family. “We—my father and the rest of us—have taken a villa
not far from here—there are acres of room in it, and you must come home
with me; my people are just dying to show you how grateful they are for
saving me from that terrible plague. I will not take no for an
answer—you shall not stop a single night in a beastly hotel,” he
continued resolutely.
“Beastly,” repeated Dr. Winthrop, smiling at his friend’s extravagant
expression. “We have secured good rooms, the service is above that of
the average foreign hotel, and we are very comfortable.”
“Well, but all hotels are beastly compared with a well-ordered American
home. But,” regarding his companion searchingly, “you used the plural;
who are we?”
“My wife and I.”
“Your wife! Good gracious, man! it is an open secret among the American
population here that you are going to marry Miss Rochester, and that the
wedding is set for no distant date,” exclaimed Tillinghast, in
undisguised astonishment.
“That is a mistake,” Dr. Winthrop calmly replied, as he coolly dislodged
the ashes from his cigar. “I am not going to marry Miss
Rochester—possibly my brother may be the happy bridegroom if everything
goes well. As for myself, I am already married, as I told you, and my
wife is with me.”
“I cannot comprehend you, Winthrop,” his companion returned, and looking
perplexed. “When were you married?”
“A little less than two years ago.”
“But I thought you lost your wife—that she perished in some fire.”
“So I believed until recently; but she was saved and I came upon her in
an almost miraculous way in Paris, less than two months since. Sister
Angela, to whom you and I both owe so much, was my wife!”
“Winthrop! you take away my breath. I cannot believe it!”
“It is a long story, but if you can spare me a few minutes I will give
you a brief outline of it,” Dr. Winthrop responded, and then proceeded
to tell how he had found Salome and something of her previous history.
After all was told he insisted that his friend should go up to their
parlor and be introduced, and the young man could scarcely credit his
senses when he was ushered into the presence of the beautiful woman and
Dr. Winthrop smilingly remarked:
“Tillinghast, allow me to present you to my wife; but I hardly think you
will need any introduction.”
Salome greeted him with charming cordiality, and laughingly exclaimed:
“You hardly recognize Sister Angela, do you, Mr. Tillinghast?”
“It does not seem possible that you can be one and the same,” he
replied, as he bowed low over her hand; “but, Mrs. Winthrop, if it is
true—and I cannot doubt it—I owe you a great deal.”
“You surely do, Fred; you and many others would have died but for the
faithful nursing which you had,” said Dr. Winthrop gravely.
“Pray do not give me more credit than I deserve, True,” his wife
interposed, flushing slightly, “for I am sure that the treatment which
his conscientious and intelligent physician bestowed upon him was no
less efficacious. But,” she added, to change the subject, as she turned
again to her guest, “I think Dr. Winthrop is very fortunate in finding
you here. I, too, am very happy to meet you again.”
Could it be possible that this lovely girl, with her perfect composure,
her high-bred manner, her graceful figure, and beautiful face, was the
quiet, demure, and self-contained nun who, in her unbecoming dress, had
done so much for him in Paris? It was hard for him to believe it.
“Thank you,” he replied; “but I assure you, I regard myself as the
favored one, and I have been trying to persuade the doctor to come home
with me. Won’t you second me, Mrs. Winthrop, please? It will give us all
great pleasure to entertain you.”
“You are very good, Fred, and we appreciate your hospitality,” Dr.
Winthrop interposed; “but I think we will remain where we are for the
present.”
“Then you will at least honor my mother’s reception to-night,” the young
man eagerly urged. “She is to entertain the American Consul, and all
America will be there—at least all that is resident in Rome at
present—and I am sure she would be greatly disappointed—knowing you were
here—if you were not present.”
Dr. Winthrop turned to Salome.
“Are you too weary from your journey to go, dear?” he asked.
“I am not weary at all; we have come so short a distance to-day,” she
answered. “But——” and she glanced inquiringly at him.
He knew of what she was thinking—that she would probably meet his
mother, sister, and the Rochesters at this reception—and he smiled
reassuringly; then turned again to his friend, remarking:
“Thank you, Fred; we shall be happy to accept your invitation. At what
hour does Mrs. Tillinghast receive?”
“At nine, and later. I am delighted, old fellow. And now I will go to
take the good news to my mother,” the young man said, rising to leave.
“True,” said Salome, as soon as the door closed after him, “I am afraid
they will be terribly surprised—it will be a great shock to them.”
“I want them to be taken by surprise,” he replied sternly; “that is to
be a part of their punishment. Do you not think that I was surprised,
shocked, when I looked back down that ward and saw my wife upon her
knees appealing to me? And, Salome,” he continued more quietly, “I want
you to look your best to-night—wear that exquisite costume of white
lace, which we selected at Worth’s, and I wish you had your diamonds
here! Oh, my love, how very proud you were to leave all my gifts
behind!” he concluded reproachfully.
“True, my husband, believing as I did, I could not take anything that
your money had purchased for me—every gift, every obligation was a
burden on my heart. Besides,” she added smiling, “everything would have
been burned. It is fortunate I did leave your gifts behind, for now I
can have them again.”
“Ah, I did not think of that,” he said thoughtfully. “Still I wish you
had the diamonds.”
“I have diamonds,” Salome quietly returned; “some very fine ones, too;
they are a part of the legacy left me by Miss Leonard, and,” with a
roguish little twinkle gleaming from her eyes, “I think I shall be able
to make myself quite presentable for Mrs. Tillinghast’s reception.”