“SALOME, YOU HAVE CONQUERED ME!”
Madame Winthrop shuddered as she turned her pale, drawn face upon her
son.
“Truman, it seems as if I could bear no more; but I suppose you will
complete my wretchedness by utterly repudiating me—you will never
forgive me?” she said, in a despairing tone.
“It is not my forgiveness alone that you should seek. If my wife can
forgive you, it would hardly become your son to withhold his pardon from
his mother,” he gravely returned, a tender light breaking over his face
as he thought of the gentle spirit which Salome exhibited under her
bitter persecutions.
The woman flushed hotly at his words.
Could she, with her indomitable pride, her haughty spirit, ever sue to
that girl for pardon?
It seemed a humiliation to which she could never subject herself.
But she could not be the mother of such a son as Truman Winthrop without
possessing some of the elements of nobility with which he had been
endowed, although her nature had become warped and perverted by
long-continued prosperity, selfishness, and the adulation of the world.
She had been shocked and horrified by the revelations of her son, which
showed her how nearly she had come to wrecking all their lives, their
fortunes, and good name. It had aroused her conscience, too, and, though
she shrank with the greatest repugnance from obeying its dictates, she
realized that she could never regain her self-respect, nor the affection
of her boy, until she made proper acknowledgment, and what restitution
she could, for the wrong of which she had been guilty.
“What can we do?” she faltered, trying to stifle for the moment the
voice within her. “Everybody believes that you are soon to marry Miss
Rochester.”
Dr. Winthrop’s lips curled; for it seemed to him as if her first and
only thought was for appearance.
“That is a matter which I believe can be easily arranged,” he replied,
with some coldness. “Norman and Sarah Rochester love each other. If they
will agree, let their engagement be formally announced; let them even be
immediately married, if he can be content to make a woman like her his
wife, and the other belief will pass for a mistake, a society blunder. I
do not wish to sacrifice my brother, however, to escape any scandal
myself,” he added, flushing. “I can bear to have the truth known rather
than that his life should be ruined by an unhappy marriage. Still, if
the girl really loves him, such an arrangement may result in making a
better woman of her.”
Madame Winthrop’s heart sank. She could never bear to have the truth
retailed from one end of Rome to the other.
“I must go home,” she cried, rising. “I cannot remain here. Will you see
Mrs. Tillinghast and make my excuses? Tell her that I have become
suddenly indisposed, which is true enough, for no mortal can know the
bewildered state of mind I am in.”
“Yes, mother, I will make your adieus. But—is there no other message
that you would like me to deliver?” Dr. Winthrop inquired, searching her
face wistfully.
She understood him; he wanted to take an olive-branch of peace from her
to his wife. But her proud heart could not yield in a moment.
“No—not to-night—I cannot think; I am bewildered—dazed—I must go home.
When shall I see you again?” she continued, with nervous incoherence.
“We are at the Quirinal,” the young physician answered coldly. “Any
message for us can be left there at the office, or we can be found there
during the next few weeks.”
Madam almost groaned aloud at this significant response. She saw that
he—her favorite son—would never be at peace with her until she was
willing to be reconciled to his wife; that henceforth they would be as
strangers unless she humbled herself to the girl whom she had so deeply
injured.
Could she yield?
Just at that moment the sound of voices reached them, and glancing up,
they saw Fred Tillinghast, with Salome upon his arm, entering the
conservatory.
The light from the chandelier fell strongly upon the fair wife as she
crossed the threshold, and truly she was a vision of loveliness to
attract the coldest, the most obdurate heart.
She looked brighter and happier than madam had ever seen her, and far
more beautiful. Her form had developed more perfectly, her cheeks had
filled out round and full, her eyes flashed with the fire of health, her
every look and gesture betrayed the hope and happiness that filled her
heart, while her elegant costume served to enhance her beauty, and was
suggestive of the exquisite taste of its wearer.
Dr. Winthrop’s face was a study as he caught sight of her, and it told
his mother that all his pride, his hopes, his happiness, were centred in
her.
“My wife—my darling! Is she not lovely?” he breathed. “Surely, mother,
you cannot steel your heart against her! Let me take you to her.”
“No—no; not now—I must go home—I want to get away by myself,” she
faltered, and turning quickly, she walked tremblingly toward the
opposite entrance to the conservatory, while Dr. Winthrop, with a sigh
of regret over her obstinate pride, made his way to Salome’s side.
Just as Madame Winthrop reached the door she encountered Evelyn who had
been searching for her.
She was very pale and excessively agitated.
“Mamma!” she cried breathlessly; “the strangest thing in the world has
happened! Salome is here in this house! I have seen her—she is with Fred
Tillinghast. She was not killed in that fire after all, and she is the
loveliest woman here, not to mention that she has on her person a
fortune in diamonds and rich lace.”
“Hush, Evelyn, and come with me,” Madame Winthrop said, in a hollow
tone, as she took her arm and leaned heavily on it, and the girl knew at
once that something dreadful had happened.
They left the house at once, and returned directly to their own
apartments, whither they found that the Rochesters had already preceded
them.
Then there ensued a scene between those four women which beggars
description. Scorn, contempt and condemnation on the part of Madame
Winthrop; anger, defiance, and the bitterness of defeat, on the part of
Mrs. Rochester.
Sarah Rochester was the most crushed and humiliated of them all, and her
shame and despair were like the mighty rush of pent-up waters that had
burst all barriers and swept everything before them.
She denounced them all, herself no less than the others, but she
fiercely accused her mother of having ruined her life, her character,
her soul, by the false and heartless way in which she had reared and
educated her; by making wealth and selfish pleasure the main object of
existence, and hesitating at no means, right or wrong, to attain her
ends. For a time she was like one bereft of reason, and poured forth a
torrent of fiery, passionate words that made her listeners shiver and
cower before her. Then, exhausted with her passion, she sank in a heap
upon the floor, weeping and sobbing in the utter abandonment of grief
and shame.
Into the midst of this scene Norman Winthrop suddenly came, pale and
stern, but with a resolute purpose written upon his face.
He went directly to the side of the conscience-smitten girl and lifted
her up.
“I have heard all,” he said, with white lips. “I know the whole shameful
story—all the wrong, all the sin and wretched scheming, and the scandal
which must follow its revelation. You are all a set of proud, ambitious,
and false-hearted women; you two,” turning fiercely upon Madame Winthrop
and Mrs. Rochester, “are a fine pair of mothers! It is no wonder that
you make heartless coquettes of your daughters, and ruin the lives of
your sons. You have overreached yourselves, however, at last, and must
reap the reward of your devilish schemes, unless——Sarah, there is no
other way out of it; you know that I love you; will you marry me?”
The sound of her real name from his lips somewhat calmed the
passion-wrought girl, and she lifted her white, despairing face to his,
with a look of incredulous astonishment.
“Oh, I am not fit to be the wife of any man,” she said, with a bitter
sob, yet her fingers closed almost convulsively over his sustaining
hand, and the act sent a throb of joy to the heart of the young man, for
it assured him that she really loved him in spite of all.
“We will not inquire too closely into the fitness of character upon
either side,” he returned, with some bitterness. “I only ask—will you
give yourself to me—will you be my wife?”
And with a burst of genuine sorrow, and a dawning repentance, the girl
dropped her head upon his breast, murmuring:
“Oh, forgive me, forgive me, and I will try to be a better woman.”
“We will both try for better things,” he returned; then he added, with a
sigh of relief, “and our first duty will be to save my brother the shame
and annoyance of a wretched scandal; we owe him that much at least.”
The others stole away and left them alone, Madame Winthrop reflecting
with some comfort, in spite of her own smarting conscience, that matters
would now be comfortably adjusted, and they would all escape being made
disagreeably conspicuous in society.
Evelyn’s haughty spirit had never received so severe a shock before, but
she was still the same selfish girl, and she wondered with some
trepidation if True would deprive her of the handsome sum with which he
had hitherto supplemented her regular income.
“They are all a set of sickly, sentimental fools!” was Mrs. Rochester’s
angry verdict as she shut herself into her own room, no less wretched,
but more defiant than the others. “I always hated that girl, and now I
hate her a hundredfold. I never dreamed that she could triumph over me
thus—I thought she was so safely caged in that mad-house—that
treacherous doctor and I will have a serious reckoning yet—I wonder how
she got out? She has outwitted me, but I shall at least have the income
of the fifty thousand, and I can manage to make myself comfortable on
that.”
But alas! she reasoned foolishly, like the rich man in the parable, and
morning found her a helpless paralytic! The shock and excitement of her
defeat had been too much for her system, and her days were numbered.
She lived a week, but could neither speak nor move during that time, and
it was agony to those who watched beside her, to see her follow them
with remorseful appealing eyes, which betrayed something of the mental
suffering she experienced. Madame Winthrop believed that the look would
follow her to her grave.
It was a relief to them all when at last she ceased to breathe, and the
white lids drooped and shut out forever that expression of remorse and
despair.
Throughout this time of trial and sorrow, Salome had proved herself to
be truly a friend in need. She put aside her personal feeling, took her
place at the bedside of the sufferer, and assumed the burden of care
which no one else seemed equal to, and was as tender and thoughtful for
her comfort as the fondest daughter could have been.
She planned everything when the end came, saw that all due respect was
paid to her father’s widow, and, after she had been laid away in a quiet
spot outside the city, kindly asked Sarah if she could be of any
assistance to her in her arrangements for the future.
The girl’s proud spirit seemed to be utterly subdued by her recent
trials, while the new resolves and hopes which had begun to take root in
her heart were already showing signs of bearing good fruit in the
future.
She broke down entirely at Salome’s considerate offer.
“I deserve nothing from you, Sadie,” she sobbed; “nothing but your
hatred and contempt, for I have never been anything but your enemy. I
only wonder how you could be so kind to mamma and so helpful to me at
this dreadful time. You know, I suppose,” she went on, flushing, “that I
am going to marry Norman Winthrop; I love him and—he loves me, even
though he knows all. But I will never annoy you with my presence; we
will go to live in some place where you and I need never meet. I am
sorry and ashamed for—everything. I know that expresses very little,
but, truly, to me it means a great deal.”
This confession occurred just after their return from the burial of Mrs.
Rochester, and Salome was too weary and exhausted to say much to the
remorseful girl; besides, it had come upon her so unexpectedly that she
scarcely knew how to answer her.
“Let us not talk any more of this now,” she said, “for you are worn out
with grief and watching; but, Sarah, you know that I am not vindictive.
Now, let me help you to bed, and when you are rested, I will come to see
you again.”
Sarah Rochester knew that she was forgiven for all the wrong of the past
by those few kind words, and for the first time in her life she wondered
how she could have cherished a feeling of enmity toward one who was so
thoroughly good and noble.
During this season of trouble, Salome had, of course, been obliged to
come in contact with Madame Winthrop and Evelyn, but she met them with
quiet courtesy, and during all their intercourse, was as respectful as
if she had entertained only the highest esteem for them. They were her
husband’s mother and sister, and for his sake she was careful to show
them all due regard.
They were astonished at her. They knew, of course, that as Sister Angela
she had accomplished almost miracles for them when she was at the
chateau; but it had not seemed so wonderful then. They had looked up to
her, relied upon her, and trusted in her, for such results had seemed
only in accordance with her character as a nurse and sister of mercy.
But now, as she moved so gently and deftly about the sick-room in all
her delicate beauty, doing just the right thing at the right moment, and
never sparing herself for one who had wronged and ill-used her for long
years, they marvelled not only at her efficiency but at her loveliness
of character and at her dignity of bearing under such trying
circumstances.
“I have lived in the world for fifty-five years,” Madame Winthrop said
to herself one day, as she watched Salome, while, with exceeding
gentleness, she bathed the hot face and hands of the sufferer and tried
in other ways to make her more comfortable, “and I have never been the
womanly woman that she is to-day in her youth.”
It was not a pleasant reflection, but it helped on the good work—the
better impulses and purposes that were beginning to take root in her
heart.
A week after Mrs. Rochester’s burial, Norman Winthrop sought Sarah and
begged for an immediate marriage.
“It is the only thing for us to do,” he urged. “You are alone in the
world, and need me to take care of you, while I need you to give me an
object in life; come, Sarah, let us begin together a new life, and see
if we two cannot manage to shed some lustre upon the name of Winthrop
before we die.”
She yielded to his pleadings, and a few days later there was a quiet
wedding in their pretty drawing-room, where, in the presence of only the
family and the Tillinghasts, they plighted their vows with more of
conscious responsibility and solemnity than either had ever experienced
before.
When the Americans then in Rome read the announcement of the marriage in
the next morning’s papers, it was very generally remarked that “it was
strange everybody had made such a mistake as to suppose that Dr.
Winthrop was to marry Miss Rochester,” and nothing more was said about
the matter.
The young couple had planned to leave immediately for New York, where
Norman intended to begin the practice of law, and just before their
departure Salome drew the bride quietly one side, as if for the purpose
of a private leave-taking.
The new Mrs. Winthrop was visibly agitated, and looking wistfully in her
companion’s face, said:
“Salome, you have been very good to me, and, believe me, it is hard for
me to say good-by. Once more let me tell you that I am sorry——”
“Hush; this is your wedding-day,” Salome said, smiling, and interrupting
her speech. “I believe you are going to be very happy in your new life—I
hope so, at any rate, and let this be the seal of my pardon.”
She slipped a small package into her hands as she spoke, adding,
hurriedly, as she turned away:
“Do not open it until you get home.”
Three weeks later, Sarah Winthrop broke the seal of that package, as she
sat with her husband in their room in the Hoffman House, New York, and
found within it a deed of gift to herself of fifty thousand dollars—the
interest only of which was to have fallen to her mother upon the
consummation of the Rochester-Hamilton marriage.
She threw herself into her husband’s arms weeping passionately.
“Norman! Norman!” she cried, “that girl is an angel, and my whole life
shall be spent in trying to be like her.”
Three months passed, and then Dr. Winthrop and his party arrived in New
York.
Madame Winthrop had not been well, and they had been obliged to delay
their return on her account, while her son was not a little anxious
regarding the state she was in.
There had been a terrible struggle going on in the proud woman’s heart
ever since the evening of Mrs. Tillinghast’s reception in Rome, and it
was slowly but surely undermining her health.
She was continually conscious of the great wrong that she had done her
son’s wife; she knew that she ought to acknowledge it, and yet her
almost indomitable will would not yield to what her conscience told her
was a solemn duty.
Salome knew how she was suffering, both mentally and physically, and she
sincerely pitied her, and longed to be at peace with her; yet she did
not really know how to help her, or how she would receive any attempt at
a reconciliation on her part.
The vessel on which they returned steamed into the harbor of New York
just as the sun was setting, one lovely afternoon. Madame was reclining
in her steamer-chair, where she had sat most of the day, somewhat remote
from every one else, as she supposed, for of late she had seemed to shun
all society, and they had humored her whim.
But she had not heard or noticed the slight, graceful figure that had
stolen upon her and now stood just behind her chair, regarding her with
an expression of sorrowful yearning.
The unhappy woman uttered a deep sigh as her heavy eyes swept the
gorgeous sky and then rested upon the spires and chimneys of the great
city which they were approaching.
“Home—home at last! I wonder if I shall ever be happy again?” she
muttered gloomily.
“It will be pleasant to be at home again, will it not?” said a low,
musical voice in her ear. “And—mother—will you not let me, from this
time forth, be a daughter to you in every sense of the word?”
Madame Winthrop started, and looked up into the tender, beautiful face
bending over her, an expression of wonder in her eyes, which gradually
filled with tears.
“Salome!” she said tremulously; “surely you were rightly named, for your
nature is—peace! The Word of God is true; it says, ‘a little child shall
lead them.’ You have led me where I would not voluntarily go, but I
believe, I hope, the way will end in ‘green pastures, and beside still
waters.’ My daughter, you have conquered me.”
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.