"Wanted!--Information of Salome Owen, who will confer a favor on her
friends, and secure a handsome legacy by calling at No. -- ----."
"Dr. Grey, for six months this advertisement has appeared every
morning in two of the most popular journals in Paris, and as it has
elicited no clew to her whereabouts, I am reluctantly compelled to
believe that she is no longer in France."
Mr. Granville refolded the newspaper, and busied himself in filling
and lighting his meerschaum.
"By whom was that notice inserted?"
"By M. de Baillu, the agent and banker of Mr. Minge of Boston, who was
warmly and sincerely attached to your _protegee_, and earnestly
endeavored to marry her. When she left Palermo, Mr. Minge came to this
city and solicited my aid in discovering her retreat."
"Pardon me, but why did he apply to you?"
"Simply because he knew that I was an old acquaintance, and he had
seen me with her, when she first came from America."
"How did you ascertain her presence in Paris?"
"Accidentally; one night, at the opera, whither she accompanied
Professor V----, I recognized her, and of course made myself known.
To what shall I ascribe the honor of this rigid cross-questioning?"
"To reasons which I shall very freely give you. But first, permit me
to beg that you will resume your narrative at the point where I
interrupted you. I wish to learn all that can be told concerning Mr.
Minge."
"He was an elderly man of ordinary appearance, but extraordinary
fortune, and seemed completely fascinated by Salome's beauty. He
offered a large reward to the police for any clew that would enable
him to discover her, and finally found the physician whom she had
consulted with reference to some disease of the throat, which
occasioned the loss of her voice. He had prescribed for her several
times, but knew nothing of her lodging-place, as she always called at
his office; and finally, without assigning any reason, her visits
ceased. Mr. Minge redoubled his exertions, and at last found her in
one of the hospitals connected with a convent. The Sisters of Charity
informed him that one bleak day when the rain was falling drearily,
they chanced to see a woman stagger and drop on the pavement before
their door, and, hurrying to her assistance, discovered that she had
swooned from exhaustion. A bundle of unfinished needlework was hidden
under her shawl, and they soon ascertained that she was delirious from
some low typhus fever that had utterly prostrated her. For several
weeks she was dangerously ill, and was just able to sit up when Mr.
Minge discovered her. He told me that it was distressing and painful
beyond expression to witness her humiliation, her wounded pride, her
defiant rejection of his renewed offer of marriage. One day he took
his sister Constance and a minister of the gospel to the hospital, and
implored Salome to become his wife, then and there. He said she wept
bitterly, and thanked him, thanked his sister also, but solemnly
assured him she could never marry any one,--she would sooner starve in
the--"
Dr. Grey raised his hand, signalling for silence, and for some moments
he leaned his forehead against the chair directly in front of him.
Mr. Granville cleared his throat several times, and loosened his
neck-tie, which seemed to impede his breathing.
"Shall I go on? There is little more to tell."
"If you please, Granville."
"Mr. Minge would not abandon the hope of finally persuading her to
accept his hand, but next day when he called to inquire about her
health, and to request the sisters to watch her movements, and
prevent her escape, he was shocked to learn that she had disappeared
the previous night, leaving a few lines written in pencil on a
handkerchief, in which she had wrapped her superb suit of hair. They
were addressed to the Sisters of Charity, and briefly expressed her
gratitude for their kindness in providing for her wants, while she
assured them that as soon as possible she would return and compensate
them for their services in her behalf. Meantime, knowing the high
price of hair, she had carefully cut off her own, which was
unusually long and thick, and tendered it in part payment. When she
was taken into the building, her nurse found concealed in her dress a
very elegant watch, bearing her name in diamond letters, and she
requested that the sisters would hold it in pawn, until she was able
to redeem it. During her illness, it had been locked up, and they
supposed she left it, fearing that an application for it would arouse
suspicions of her intended flight. Mr. Minge bought the hair and
handkerchief, and, after a liberal remuneration for their care of
the invalid, he took charge of the watch, and left his address to be
given her when she called for her property. That her mind had become
seriously impaired, there can be little doubt, since nothing but
insanity can explain her refusal to accept one of the handsomest
estates in America. Unfortunately, a few days subsequent to her
departure from the hospital, Mr. Minge was taken very violently ill
with pneumonia, and died. Conscious of his condition, he prepared a
codicil to his will, and bequeathed to Salome twenty-five thousand
dollars, and an elegant house and lot in New York City. He exacted
from his sister a solemn promise that she would leave no means
untried to ferret out the wanderer, to whom he was so devotedly
attached; and, should all efforts fail, at the expiration of five
years the legacy should revert to the hospital which had sheltered
her in the hour of her destitution. The watch he left with his sister
Constance; the hair, he ordered buried with him. Three months have
elapsed, and no tidings have reached Miss Minge, who remains in
Paris for the purpose of complying with her brother's dying request."
"My poor, perverse Salome! To what desperate extremities has she been
reduced by her unfortunate wilfulness. Gerard, will you tell me
frankly your own conjecture concerning her fate?"
"If alive, I believe she has left Europe."
"Upon what do you base your supposition?"
"Mr. Minge was convinced that her attachment to some one in America
was the insurmountable barrier to his success as a suitor; and, if
so, she probably returned to her native land. Dr. Grey, I will speak
candidly to you of a matter which has doubtless given you some
disquiet. Muriel informs me that you have no confidence in the
sincerity of my attachment to her, and that upon that fact is founded
your refusal to allow the consummation of our engagement, so long as
she continues your ward. I confess I am not free from censure, but,
while I have acted weakly, I am not devoid of principle. Sir, I was
strangely and powerfully attracted to Salome Owen, and she exerted
a species of fascination over me which I scarcely endeavored to
resist. In an evil hour, infatuated by her face and her marvellous
voice, I was wild enough to offer her my hand, and resolved to ask
Muriel to release me. Dr. Grey, even at my own expense, I wish to
exonerate Salome, who never for an instant, by word or look,
encouraged my madness. She repulsed my advances, refused every
attention, and when I rashly uttered words, which, I admit, were
treasonable to Muriel, she almost overwhelmed me with her fiery
contempt and indignation,--threatening to acquaint Muriel with my
inconstancy, and appealing to my honor as a gentleman to keep
inviolate my betrothal vows. Dr. Grey, if my heart temporarily
wandered from its allegiance to your ward, it was not Salome's
fault, for in every respect her conduct towards me was that of a
noble, unselfish woman, who scorned to gratify her vanity at the
expense of another's happiness. She shamed me out of my folly, and
her stern honesty and nobility saved me from a brief and humiliating
career of dishonorable duplicity. Whether living or dead, I owe this
tribute to the pure character of Salome Owen."
"Thank Heaven! I had faith in her. I believed her too generous to
stoop to a flirtation with the lover of her friend; and, deplorable as
was your own weakness, I am rejoiced, Gerard, to find that you have
conquered it. Tell Muriel all that you have confided to me, and in her
hands we will leave the decision."
"Do you intend to prosecute the search which has proved so fruitless?"
"I do. She has not returned to America,--she is here somewhere; and,
living or dead, I must and will find her."
Dr. Grey seemed lost in perplexing thought for some time, then drew a
sheet of paper before him, and wrote, "Ulpian Grey wishes to see
Salome Owen, in order to communicate some facts which will induce her
return to her family; and he hopes she will call immediately at No.
Rue ----."
"Gerard, please be so good as to have this inserted in all the leading
journals in the city; and give me the address of Mr. Minge's agent."
At the expiration of a month, spent in the most diligent yet
unsuccessful efforts to obtain some information of the wanderer, Dr.
Grey began to feel discouraged,--to yield to melancholy forebodings
that an untimely death had ended her struggles and suffering.
Once, while pacing the walks in the Champs-Elysees, he caught a
glimpse of a face that recalled Salome's, and started eagerly forward;
but it proved that of a Parisian _bonne_, who was romping with her
juvenile charge.
Again, one afternoon, as he came out of the Church of St. Sulpice, his
heart bounded at sight of a woman who leaned against the railing, and
watched the play of the fountain. When he approached her and peered
eagerly into her countenance, blue eyes and yellow curls mocked his
hopes. One morning, while he walked slowly along the _Rue du Faubourg
St. Honore_, his attention was attracted by the glitter of pretty
baubles in the _Maison de la Pensee_, and he entered the establishment
to purchase something for Jessie.
While waiting for his parcel, a woman came out of a rear apartment and
passed into the street, and, almost snatching his package from the
counter, he followed.
A few yards in advance was a graceful but thin figure, clad in a
violet-colored muslin, with a rather dingy silk scarf wound around her
shoulders. A straw hat, with a wreath of faded pink roses, drooped
over her face, and streamers of black lace hung behind, while over the
whole she had thrown a thin gray veil.
Dr. Grey had not seen a feature, but the _pose_ of the shoulders, the
haughty poise of the head, the quick, nervous, elastic step, and,
above all, the peculiar, free, childish swinging of the left arm, made
his despondent heart throb with renewed hope.
Keeping sufficiently near not to lose sight of her, he walked on and
on, down cross streets, up narrow alleys, towards a quarter of the
city with which he was unacquainted. The woman never looked back,
rarely turned her head, even to glance at those who passed her, and
only once she paused before a flower-stall, and seemed to price a
bunch of carnations, which she smelled, laid down again, and then
hurried on.
Dr. Grey quickly paid for the cluster, and hastened after her.
In turning a corner, she dropped a small parcel that she had carried
under her scarf, and as she stooped to pick it up, her veil floated
off. She caught it ere it reached the ground, and when she raised her
hands to spread it over her hat, the loose open sleeves of her dress
slipped back, and there, on the left arm, was a long, zigzag scar,
like a serpentine bracelet.
With great difficulty Dr. Grey stifled a cry of joy, and waited until
she had gained some yards in advance.
The woman was so absorbed in reverie that she did not notice the
steady tramp of her pursuer, but as the number of persons on the
street gradually diminished, he prudently fell back, fearing lest her
suspicion should be excited.
At a sudden bend in the crooked alley which she rapidly threaded, he
lost sight of her, and, running a few yards, he turned the angle just
in time to see the flutter of her dress and scarf, as she disappeared
through a postern, that opened in a crumbling brick wall.
Above the gate a battered tin sign swung in the wind, and dim letters,
almost effaced by elemental warfare, announced, "_Adele Aubin,
Blanchisseuse_."
Dr. Grey passed through the postern, and found himself in a narrow,
dark court, near a tall, dingy, dilapidated house, where a girl ten
years of age sat playing with two ragged, untidy children.
It was a dreary, comfortless, uninviting place, and a greenish slime
overspread the lower portions of the wall, and coated the uneven
pavement.
From the girl, who chatted with genuine French volubility and freedom,
Dr. Grey learned that her father was an attache of a barber-shop, and
her mother a washer and renovater of laces and embroideries. The
latter was absent, and, in answer to his inquiries, the child informed
him that an upper room in this cheerless building was occupied by a
young female lodger, who held no intercourse with its other inmates.
Placing a five-franc piece in her hand, the visitor asked the name of
the lodger, but the girl replied that she was known to them only as
"_La Dentelliere_," and lived quite alone in the right-hand room at
the top of the third flight of stairs.
The parley had already occupied twenty minutes, when Dr. Grey cut it
short by mounting the narrow, winding steps. The atmosphere was close,
and redolent of the fumes of dishes not so popular in America as in
France, and he saw that the different doors of this old tenement were
rented to lodgers who cooked, ate, and slept in the same apartment. At
the top of the last dim flight of steps, Dr. Grey paused, almost out
of breath; and found himself on a narrow landing-place, fronting two
attic rooms. The one on the right was closed, but as he softly took
the bolt in his hand and turned it, there floated through the key-hole
the low subdued sound of a sweet voice, humming "_Infelice_."
It was not the deep, rich, melting voice, that had arrested his drive
when first he heard it on the beach, but a plaintive, thrilling echo,
full of pathos, yet lacking power; like the notes of birds when
moulting-season ends, and the warblers essay their old strains.
Cautiously he opened the door wide enough to permit him to observe
what passed within.
The room was large, low, and irregularly shaped, with neither
fire-place nor stove, and only one dormer window opening to the south,
and upon a wide waste of tiled roofs and smoking chimneys. The floor
was bare, except a strip of faded carpet stretched in front of a small
single bedstead; and the additional furniture consisted of two chairs,
a tall table where hung a mirror, and a washstand that held beside
bowl and pitcher a candlestick and china cup. On the table were
several books, a plate and knife, and a partially opened package
disclosed a loaf of bread, some cheese, and an apple.
In front of the window a piece of plank had been rudely fastened, and
here stood two wooden boxes containing a few violets, mignonette, and
one very luxuriant rose-geranium.
The faded blue cambric curtain was twisted into a knot, and as it was
now nearly noon, the sun shone in and made a patch of gold on the
stained and dusky floor.
On the bed lay the straw hat, garlanded with roses that had lost their
primitive tints, and before the window in a low chair sat the lonely
lodger.
On her knees rested a cushion, across which was stretched a parchment
pattern bristling with pins, and with bobbins she was swiftly knitting
a piece of gossamer lace, by throwing the fine threads around the
pins.
Over the floor floated her delicate lilac dress, and the sleeves were
looped back to escape the forest of pins.
Dr. Grey had only a three-quarter view of the face that bent over the
cushion, and though it was sadly altered in every lineament,--was
whiter and thinner than he had ever seen it,--yet it was impossible to
mistake the emaciated features of Salome Owen.
The large, handsome head, had been shorn of its crown of glossy braids
that once encircled it like a jet tiara, and the short locks clustered
with childlike grace and beauty around the gleaming white brow and
temples.
There was not a vestige of color in the whilom scarlet mouth, whose
thin lines were now scarcely perceptible; and, in the finer oval of
her cheeks, and along the polished chin, the purplish veins showed
their delicate tracery. The hands were waxen and almost transparent,
and the figure was wasted beyond the boundaries of symmetry.
In the knot of ribbon that fastened her narrow linen collar, she had
arranged a sprig of mignonette, that now dropped upon the cushion as
she bent over it. She paused, brushed it off, and for a few seconds
her beautiful hazel eyes were fixed on the blue sky that bordered her
window.
The whole expression of her countenance had changed, and the
passionate defiance of other days had given place to a sad, patient
hopelessness, touching indeed, when seen on her proud features. Slowly
she threw her bobbins, and a fragment of "_Infelice_" seemed to drift
across her trembling lips, that showed some lines of bitterness in
their time-chiselling.
As Dr. Grey watched her, tears which he could not restrain trickled
down his face, and he was starting forward, when she said, as if
communing with her own desolate soul,--
"I wonder if I am growing superstitious. Last night I dreamed
incessantly of Jessie and home, and to-day I cannot help thinking that
something has happened there. Home! When people no longer have a home,
how hard it is to forget that blessed home which sheltered them in the
early years. Homeless! that is the dreariest word that human misery
ever conjectured or human language clothed. Never mind, Salome Owen,
when God snatched your voice from you, He became responsible; and your
claims are like the ravens and sparrows, and He must provide. After
all, it matters little where we are housed here in the clay, and
Hobbs was astute when he selected for the epitaph on his tombstone,
'This is the true philosopher's stone.' Home! Ah, if I sadly missed my
heart's home, here in the flesh, I shall surely find it up yonder in
the blessed land of blue."
A tear glided down her cheek, glistened an instant on her chin, and
fell on her pattern. She brushed it away, and smiled sorrowfully,--
"It is ill-omened to sprinkle bridal lace with tears. Some day this
fine web will droop around a bride's white shoulders and after a time
it may serve to deck the cold limbs of some dead child. If I could
only have my shroud now, I would not make lace a _desideratum_; serge
or sackcloth would be welcome. Patience,--
... 'What if the bread
Be bitter in thine inn, and thou unshod
To meet the flints? At least it may be said,
Because the way is _short_, I thank thee, God!'"
She partially rose in her chair, and took from the table a volume of
poems. After some search, she found the desired passage, and, rocking
herself to and fro, she read it aloud in a low, measured tone,--
"O dreary life! we cry, 'O dreary life!'
And still the generations of the birds
Sing through our sighing, and the flocks and herds
Serenely live, while we are keeping strife
With heaven's true purpose in us, as a knife
Against which we may struggle! Ocean girds
Unslackened the dry land, savannah-swards
Unweary sweep,--hills watch unworn; and rife
Meek leaves drop yearly from the forest-trees,
To show above the unwasted stars that pass
In their old glory. '_O thou God of old,
Grant me some smaller grace than comes to these!
But even so much patience, as a blade of grass
Grows by, contented through the heat and cold._'"
The book slipped from her fingers and fell upon the floor, and with a
sob the girl bowed her head in her hands.
Quickly the intruder glided unseen into the room, and stood at the
back of her chair.
He knew she was praying, and almost breathlessly waited several
minutes.
At last she raised her face, and while tears trembled on her lashes,
she said meekly,--
"I ought not to complain and repine. I will be patient and trust God;
for I can afford to suffer all through time, provided I may spend
eternity with Christ and Dr. Grey."
"Oh, Salome! Thank God, we shall be separated neither in time nor in
eternity! Dear wanderer, come back to your brother!"
He stepped before her, and involuntarily held out his arms.
She neither screamed nor fainted, but sprang to her feet, and a
rapture that beggars all description irradiated her worn, weary,
pallid face.
"Is it really you? Oh! a thousand times I have dreamed that I saw
you,--stood by you; but when I tried to touch you, there was nothing
but empty air! Oh, Dr. Grey!--my Dr. Grey! Am I only dreaming, here in
the sunshine, or is it you bodily? Did you care for me a _little_? Did
you come to find _me_?"
She grasped his arm, swept her hands up and down his sleeve, and then
he saw her reel, and shut her eyes, and shudder.
"My poor child, I came to Paris solely to hunt for my wayward Salome,
and, thank God! I have found her."
He put his arm around her, and placed her head against his shoulder.
Ah, how his generous heart ached, as he noted the hungry delight with
which her splendid eyes lingered on his features, and the convulsive
tenacity with which she clung to him, trembling with excess of joy
that brought back carmine to her wasted lips and carnation bloom to
her blanched cheeks.
He heard her whispering, and knew it was a prayer of thanksgiving for
the blessing of his presence.
But very soon a change came over her sparkling, happy face, like an
inky cloud across a noon sky, and he felt a shiver stealing through
her form.
"Let me go! You said once, that when I came to Europe to enter on my
professional career, you wished never to touch my hands again,--you
would consider them polluted."
"Dear Salome, I recant all those harsh, unjust words, which were
uttered when I was not fully aware of the latent strength of your
character. Since then, I have learned much from Professor V----, and
from Gerard Granville, that assures me my noble friend is all I could
desire her,--that she has grandly conquered her faults, and is worthy
of the admiration, the perfect confidence, the earnest affection,
which her adopted brother offers her. Your pure, true heart makes pure
hands, and as such I reverently salute them."
He took her hands, raised and kissed them respectfully, tenderly.
She hid her burning face on his bosom, and there was a short pause.
"Salome, sit down and let me talk to you of home,--your home. Have you
no questions to ask about your pet sister and brother?"
He attempted to release himself, but she clung to him, and clasping
her arms around his neck, said in a strained, husky tone,--
"Dr. Grey, did you bring your--your wife to Paris?"
"I have no wife."
She uttered a thrilling cry of delight, threw her head back, and gazed
steadily into his clear, calm, blue eyes.
"Oh, sir, they told me you had married Mrs. Gerome."
He placed her in the chair, and kneeling down beside her, took her
quivering face in his palms and touched her forehead softly with his
lips.
"The only woman I ever wished to make my wife is bound for life to a
worthless husband. Salome, I loved her before I knew this fact; and,
since I learned (soon after your departure) that she was separated
from the man whom she had wedded, I have not seen her, although she
still resides at 'Solitude.' Salome, I shall never marry, and I ask
you now to come back to Jessie and Stanley, who will soon require your
care and guidance, for it is my intention to return to the position in
the U.S. naval service, which only Janet's feeble health induced me to
resign. God bless you, dear child! I wish you were indeed my own
sister, for I am growing very proud of my brave, honest friend,--my
patient lace-weaver."
The girl's head sank lower and lower until it touched her knees, and
sobs rendered her words scarcely audible.
"If you deem me worthy to be called your friend, it is because of your
example, your influence. Oh, Dr. Grey,--but for you,--but for my hope
of meeting you in the kingdom of Christ, I shudder to think what I
might have been! Under all circumstances I have been guided by what I
imagined would have been your wishes,--your advice; and my reward is
rich indeed! Your confidence, your approbation! Earth holds no
recompense half so precious."
"Thank God! my prayers have been abundantly answered, my highest hopes
of your future fully realized. Henceforth, let us with renewed energy
labor faithfully in the vast, whitening fields of Him who declares,
'The harvest is plentiful, but the laborers are few.'"
"O human soul! as long as thou canst so
Set up a mark of everlasting light,
Above the howling senses' ebb and flow,
To cheer thee and to right thee if thou roam,
Not with lost toil thou laborest through the night,
Thou makest the heaven thou hopest indeed thy home."