University of Virginia Library

33. CHAPTER XXXIII.

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 protégée,
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 needle-work 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-Elysées, 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. Honoré, his attention was attracted by the glitter of pretty
baubles in the Maison de la Pensée, 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,
“Adèle 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 attaché
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 Dentellière,” 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
floors 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 can not
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, —

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, —

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.'”