Y:.' t: . ; ^-'-\. |K " -iWif9, <^ POPULAR NOVELS BT MRS. MARY J. HOLMES. TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE. ENGLISH ORPHANS. HOMESTEAD ON HILLSIDE. 'LENA RIVERS. MEADOW BBOOK. DORA DEANE. COUSIN MAUDE. MARIAN GREY. EDITH LTLE. DAISY THOKNTON (New). DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT. HUGH WORTHINGTON. CAMERON PRIDE. ROSE MATHER. ETHELYN'S MISTAKE. MILLS ANK. EDNA BBOWNTNG. WEST LAWN. MILDRED. FORBEST HOUSE (New). Mrs. Holmes is a peculiarly pleasant and fascinating writer. Her books are always entertaining, and she has the rare faculty of enlisting the sympathy and affections of her readers, and of hold- ing their attention to her pages with deep and absorbing interest." All published uniform with this volume. Price $1.50 each. Sold everywhere, and sent/re* by mail on receipt of price, G. W. CAELETON & CO., Publishers, New York. FORKEST HOUSE. BY MRS. MARY J. HOLMES, AUTHOR OP TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE. 'LENA RIVERS. DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT. MARIAN OBEY. ENGLISH ORPHANS. HUGH WORTHINGTON. MILBANK. ETHELYN'S MISTAKE. EDNA BBOWNING, ETC., ETC. "Longueoille. What! are you married, Beaufort! Beaufort. Ay, as fast As words, and hands, and hearts, and priest, Could make us." BEAUMONT AND FLETCHEB. 1STEW YORK: G. JV. Carle fan & Co., Publishers, MA.DISON SQUARE. MDCCCLZXIX. COPYRIGHT, 1879, BY DANIEL HOLMES. [All RiyJits Reserved.] SAMUEL STODDER, TROTT STEBEOTTPER, PIUWTINO AND BOOK-BINDING Co. 90 ANN STREET, N. Y. N. Y. CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. Two LETTERS ............................. 7 n. DR. MATTHEWSON .......................... 10 IH. THE MOCK MARRIAGE ...................... 19 IV. THE FORREST HOUSE ....................... 27 V. BEATRICE BELKNAP ........................ 37 VI. MOTHER AND SON .......................... 44 VII. JOSEPHINE ................................. 56 Vin. EVERARD ................................. 61 IX. THE RESULT ............................. 67 X. HUSBAND AND WIFE ....................... 84 XL AFTER Two YEARS ........................ 90 XII. COMMENCEMENT ...... . .................... 95 XHI. THE RECEPTION ........................... 100 XIV. Two MONTHS .............................. 108 XV. THE HOUSE OF CARDS BEGINS TO FALL ....... Ill XVI. THE HOUSE OF CARDS GOES DOWN ........... 122 XVII. THE NEXT DAY ............................ 129 XVHI. THE SHADOW OF DEATH .................... 135 XIX. THE JUDGE'S WILL ......................... 142 XX. THE HEIRESS .............................. 150 XXI. A MIDNIGHT RIDE ......................... 160 XXII. THE NEW LIFE AT ROTHSAY ................ 166 XXIH. BEE'S FAMILY ............................. 176 XXIV. IN THE SUMMER ........................... 196 XXV. MRS. FLEMING'S BOARDERS ................. 203 XXVI. JOSEPHINE'S CONFIDENCE .......... ....... 212 XXVH. EVENTS OF ONE YEAR AT THE FORREST HOUSE . 218 XXVIH. SOMETHING DOES HAPPEN .................. 225 BS72091 CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE MBS. J. E. FORREST ........................ 232 How ROSSIE BORE THE NEWS ............... 240 XXXL MRS. FORREST'S POLICY ................... 243 XXXII. WHAT THE PEOPLE SAID AND DID ........... 252 XXXIII. EVERARD FACES IT ............... , ........ 254 XXXIV. EVERARD AND ROSSIE ...................... 259 XXXV. MR. AND MRS. J. E. FORREST ............... 263 XXXVI. ROSAMOND'S DECISION ..................... 273 XXXVII. MATTERS ARE ADJUSTED .................... 277 XXXVni. " WAITING AND WATCHING FOR ME " ........ 283 XXXIX. How THE TIDE EBBED AND FLOWED IN ROTH- SAY ................................... 288 XL. DR. MATTHEWSON'S GAME ................. 292 XLL How THE GAME WAS PLAYED ................ 296 XLH. ALAS, POOR ROSSIE ! ...................... 818 XLIII. THE LETTERS ............................. 823 XLIV. THE NEW HEIR ........................... 327 XLV. THE NEW REIGN AT THE FORREST HOUSE ____ 336 XL VI. THE LETTER FROM AUSTRIA ................. 343 XL VII. AGNES FINDS THE LETTER .................. 348 XLVIH. LA MAISON DE SAHTE ...................... 356 XLIX. THE ESCAPE .............................. 364 L. GOING HOME .............................. 370 LI. BREAKING THE NEWS AT THE FORREST HOUSE. 373 LH. BREAKING THE NEWS TO EVERARD .......... 377 LIE. THE ARREST .............................. 383 LIV. TELLING THE TRUTH TO ROSSIE ............ 387 LV. CONCLUSION.. ................... 389 THE FORREST HOUSE. CHAPTER I. TWO LETTERS. HE first, a small half-sheet, inclosed in a large thick envelope, and addressed in a childish, unformed hand to Mr. James Everard Forrest, Junior, Ellicottville, Berkshire County, Mas- sachusetts, with a request in the lower left- hand corner for the postmaster to forward immediately ; the second, a dainty little perfumed missive, with a fanciful monogram, directed in a plain round hand to J. Everard Forrest, Esq., Ellicottville, Mass., with the words " in haste " written in the corner. Both letters were in a hurry, and both found their way together to a brown- haired, brown-eyed, brown-faced young man, who sat under the shadow of the big maple tree on the Common in Ellicottville, lazily puffing his cigar and fanning him- self with his Panama hat, for the thermometer was ninety in the shade, and the hour 10 A. M. of a sultry July day. At first it was almost too much exertion to break the seals, and for a moment J. Everard Forrest, Jr., toyed with the smaller envelope of the two, and studied the handwriting. "I may as well see what Josey wants of me in haste" he said at last, and breaking the seal, he read : " HOLBUETON, July 15. " DEAR NED : You must come to-morrow on the four o'clock train. Everything has gone at sixes and sevens, m 8 TWO LETTERS. for just at the very last Mrs. Murdock, who has been dying for twenty years or more, must really die, and the Murdock boys can't act, so you must take the character of the bridegroom in the play where I am to be the bride. You will have very little to say. You can learn it all in fifteen minutes, but you must come to-morrow so as to rehearse with us once at least. Now, don't you dare fail. I shall meet you at the station. "Yours lovingly, " JOSEPHINE FLEMING. " P. S. Do you remember I wrote you in my last of a Dr. Matthewson, who has been in town a few days stopping at the hotel ? He has consented to be the priest on condition that you are the bridegoom, so do not fail me. Again, with love, JOE." " And so this is my lady's great haste," the young man said, as he finished reading the letter. " She wants me for her bridegoorn, and I don't know but I'm willing, so I guess I'll have to go ; and now for Rossie's inter- esting document, which must be ' forwarded immediate- ly.' I only wish it may prove to have money in it from the governor, for I am getting rather low." So saying he took the other letter and examined it carefully, while a smile broke over his face as he con- tinued : "Upon my word, Rossie did not mean this to go astray, and has written everything out in full, even to Massachusetts and Junior. Good for her. But how crooked ; why, that junior stands at an angle of several degrees above the Mr. Rossie ought to do better. She must be nearly thirteen ; but she's a nice little girl, and I'll see what she says." What she said was as follows : " FORREST HOUSE, July 14th. " MR. EVERARD FORREST : " Dear Sir: Nobody knows I am writing to you, but your mother has been worse for a few days, and keeps talking about you even in her sleep. She did not say send for you, but I thought if you knew how bad she was, you would perhaps come home for a part of your vacation. It will do her so much good to see you. I TWO LETTERS. 9 am very well and your father too. So no more at present. Yours respectfully, " ROSAMOND HASTINGS. "P. S. Miss Beatrice Belknap has come home from New York, and had the typhoid fever, and lost every speck of her beautiful hair. You don't know how funny she looks ! She offered me fifty dollars for mine to make her a wig, because it curls naturally, and" is just her color, but I would not sell it for the world : would you '? Inclosed find ten dollars of my very own money, which I send you to come home with, thinking you might need it. Do not fail to come, will you ? u ROSAMOND." Everard read this letter twice, and smoothed out the crisp ten-dollar bill, which was carefully wrapped in a separate bit of paper. It was not the first time he had received money in his sore need from the girl, for in a blank-book, which he always carried in his pocket, were several entries, as follows : " Jan. 2, from Rosamond Hastings, five dollars : March 4th, two dollars : June 8th, one dollar," and so on until the whole amount was more than twenty dollars, but never before had she sent him so large a sum as now, and there was a moisture in his eyes and his breath came heavily as he put it away in his purse, and said : "There never was so unselfish a creature as Rossie Hastings. She is always thinking of somebody else. And I am a mean, contemptible dog to take her money as I do ; but then, I honestly intend to pay her back tenfold when I have something of my own." Thus re-assuring himself, he put his purse in his pocket, and glancing again at Rossie's letter his eye fell upon Miss Belknap's name, and he laughed aloud as he said : " Poor bald Bee Belknap. She must look comical. I can imagine how it hurts her pride. Buy Rossie's hair, indeed ! I should think not, when that is her only beauty, if I except her eyes, which are too large for her thin face ; but that will round out in time, and Rossie may be a beauty yet, though not like Josey ; no, never like Josey." And that brought the young man back to Miss Fleming's letter, and its imperative request. Could he comply with it now ? Ought he not to go at once to the 1* 10 DR. MATTHEWSON. sick mother, who was missing him so sadly, and who had made all the happiness he had ever known at home? Duty said yes, but inclination drew him to Holburton and the fair Josephine, with whom he believed himself to be and with whom he was, perhaps, as much in love as any young man of twenty well can be. Perhaps Rossie had been unduly alarmed ; at all events, if his mother were so very sick, his father would write, of course, and on the whole he believed he should go to Holburton by the afternoon train, and then, perhaps, go home. And so the die was cast, and the young man walked to the telegraph office and sent across the wires to Miss Josephine Fleming the three words : " I will come." CHAPTER II. DR. MATTHEWSON. train from Ellicottville was late that after- noon. In fact, its habit was to be late, but on this particular day it was more than usually behind time, and the one stage which Holbur- ton boasted had waited more than half an hour at the little station of the out-of-the-way town which lies nestled among the Berkshire hills, just on the bound- ary line between the Empire State and Massachusetts. The day was hot even for midsummer, and the two fat, motherly matrons who sat in the depot alternately in- veighed against the heat and wiped their glowing faces, while they watched and discussed the young lady who, on the platform outside, was walking up and down, seem- ing wholly unconscious of their espionage. But it was only seeming, for she knew perfectly well that she was an object of curiosity and criticism, and more than once she paused in her walk and turning squarely round faced the two old ladies in order to give them a better view, and let them see just how many tucks, and ruffles and puffs there were in her new dress, worn that day for the first time. And a very pretty picture Josephine Fleming DR. MATTHEWSON. 11 made standing there in the sunshine, looking so artless and innocent, as if no thought of herself had ever entered her mind. She was a pink-and-white blonde, with masses of golden hair rippling back from her forehead, and those dreamy blue eyes of which poets sing, and which have in them a marvelous power to sway the sterner sex by that pleading, confiding expression, which makes a man very tender towards the helpless creature appealing so inno- cently to him for protection. The two old ladies did not like Josephine, though they admitted that she was very beautiful and stylish, in her blue muslin and white chip hat with the long feather drooping low behind, too pretty by far and too much of the fine lady, they said, for a daughter of the widow Roxie Fleming, who lived in the brown house on the Common, and sewed for a living when she had no boarders from the city. And then, as the best of women will sometimes do. they picked the girl to pieces, and talked of the scandalot $ way she had of flirting with every man in town, of h airs and indolence, which they called laziness, and wo> .dered if it were true that poor old Agnes, her half-si >ter, made the young lady's bed, and mended her cloth , and waited upon her generally as if she were a pr'/icess, and toiled, and worked, and went without herse /, that Josey might be clothed in dainty apparel, un ? -ecoming to one in her rank of life. And then they v ondered next if it were true, as had been rumored, that she was engaged to that young For- rest from Amherst College, who had boarded at the brown house for a few weeks the previous summer, and been there so often since. "A well-mannered chap as you would wish to see," one of them said, " with a civil word for high and low, and a face of which any mother might be proud ; only " and here the speaker lowered her voice, as she continued : " Only he does look a little fast, for no decent-behaved boy of twenty ought to have such a tired, fagged look as he has, and they do say there were some great carousin's at Widder Fleming's last summer, which lasted up to midnight, and wine was carried in by Agnes, and hot coffee made as late as eleven, and if you'll b'leve it " here the voice was a whisper " they a pack of cards, for Miss Murdock saw them with 12 DR. MATTHEWSON. her own eyes, and young Forrest handled them as if used to the business." " Cards ! That settles it !" was repeated by the sec- ond woman, with a shake of the head, which indicated that she knew all she cared to know of Everard Forrest, but her friend, who was evidently better posted in the gossip of the town, went on to add that " people said young Forrest was an only son, and that his father was very rich, and lived in a fine old place somewhere west or south, and had owned negroes in Kentucky before the war, and was a copperhead, and very close and proud, and kept colored help, and would not like it at all if he knew how his son was flirting with Josephine Fleming." Then they talked of the expected entertainment at, the Village Hall the following night, the proceeds of which were to go toward buying a fire-engine, which the people greatly needed. And Josephine was to figure in most everything, and they presumed she was now wait- ing for some chap to come on the train. For once they were right in their conjecture. She was waiting for Everard Forrest, and when the train came in he stepped upon the platform looking so fresh, and cool, and handsome in his white linen suit that the ladies almost forgave Josephine for the gushing manner with which she greeted him, and carried him off toward home. She was so glad to see him, and her eyes looked at him so softly and tenderly, and she had so much to tell him, and was so excited with it all, and the brown house overgrown with hopvines was so cool and pleasant, and Agnes had such a tempting little supper prepared for him on the back piazza, that Everard felt supremely happy and content, and once, when nobody was looking on, kissed the blue-eyed fairy flitting so joyously around him. " I say, Josey," he said, when the tea-things had been removed, and he was lounging in his usual lazy attitude upon the door-step and smoking his cigar, " it's a heap nicer here than down in that hot, close hall. Let's not go to the rehearsal. I'd rather stay home." "But you can't do it. You must go," Josephine re- plied. " You must rehearse and learn your part, though for to-night it doesn't matter. You can go through the marriage ceremony well enough, can't you ?" DR. HATTHEWSON. 13 " Of course I can, and can say, ( I, Everard, take thee, Josie, to be my lawful wife,' and, by Jove, I wouldn't care if it was genuine. Suppose we get a priest, and make a real thing of it. I'm willing, if you are." There was a pretty blush on Josey's cheek as she re- plied, " What nonsense you are talking, and you not yet through college !" and then hurried him off to the hall, where the rehearsal was to take place. Here an unforeseen difficulty presented itself. Dr. Matthewson was not forthcoming in his character as priest. He had gone out of town, and had not yet re- turned ; so another took his place in the marriage scene, where Everard was the bridegoom and Josephine the bride. The play was called " The Mock Marriage," and would be very effective with the full glamour of lights, and dress, and people on the ensuing night ; and Jose- phine declared herself satisfied with the rehearsal, and sanguine of success, especially as Dr. Matthewson appeared at the last moment apologizing for his tardi- ness, and assuring her of his intention to be present the next evening. He was a tall, powerfully-built man of thirty or more, whom many would call handsome, though there was a cruel, crafty look in his eyes, and in the smile which habitually played about his mouth. Still, he was very gentlemanly in his manner, and fascinating in his con- versation, for he had traveled much, and seen every- thing, and spoke both German and French as readily as his mother tongue. With Miss Fleming he seemed to be on the most intimate terms, though this intimacy only dated from the time when she pleaded with him so prettily and successfully to take the place of the priest in " The Mock Marriage," where John Murdock was to have officiated. At first the doctor had objected, say- ing gallantly that he preferred to be the bridegroom, and asking who that favored individual was to be. "Mr. Everard Forrest, from Rothsay, Southern Ohio," Josephine replied, with a conscious blush which told much to the experienced man of the world. "Forrest! Everard Forrest!" the doctor repeated thoughtfully, and the smile about his mouth was more perceptible. " Seems to me I have heard that name be- fore. Where did you say he lived, and where is he now ?" 14 DR. MATTHEWSON. Josephine replied again that Mr. Forrest's home was in Rothsay, Ohio, at a grand old place called Forrest House ; that he was a student at Araherst, and was spending his summer vacation with a friend in Ellicott- ville. " Yes, I understand," the doctor rejoined, adding, after a moment's pause: " I'll be the priest ; but suppose I had the power to marry you in earnest ; what then ?" " Oh, you wouldn't. You must not. Everard is not through college, and it would be so very dreadful and romantic, too," the girl said, as she looked searchingly into the dark eyes meeting hers so steadily. Up to that time Dr. Matthewson had taken but little notice of Josephine, except to remark her exceeding beauty as a golden-haired blonde. With his knowledge of the world and ready discernment he had discovered that whatever position she held in Holburton was due to her beauty and piquancy, and firm resolve to be noticed, rather than to any blood, or money, or culture. She was not a lady, he knew, the first time he saw her in the little church, and, attracted by her face, watched her through the service, while she whispered, and laughed, and passed notes to the young men in front of her. Without any respect himself for religion or the church, he despised irreverence in others, and formed a tolerably accurate estimate of Josephine and her companions. After her interview with him, however, he became greatly interested in everything pertaining to her, and by a little adroit questioning learned all there was to be known of her, and, as is usual in such cases, more too. Her mother was poor, and crafty and designing, and very ambitious for her daughter's future. That she took in sewing and kept boarders was nothing to her detriment in a village, where the people believed in honest labor, but that she traded on her daughter's charms, and brought her up in utter idleness, while Agnes, the child of her husband's first marriage, was made a very drudge and slave to the young beauty, was urged against her as a serious wrong, and, except as the keeper of a boarding- house, in which capacity she excelled, the WidoV Fleming was not very highly esteemed in Holburton. All this Dr. Matthewson leafned, and then he was told of young Forrest, a mere boy, two years younger DR. MATTHEWSON. 15 than Josey, who had stopped with Mrs. Fleming a few weeks the previous summer, and for whom both Josey and the mother had, to use the landlady's words, " made a dead set," and succeeded, too, it would seem, for if they were not engaged they ought to be, though it was too bad for the boy, and somebody ought to tell his father. Such was in substance the story told by the hostess of the Eagle to Dr. Matthewson, who smiled serenely as he heard it, and stroked his silken mustache thought- fully, and then went down to call upon Miss Fleming, and judge for himself how well she was fitted to be the mistress of Forrest House. When Everard came and was introduced to him after the rehearsal, there was a singular expression in the eyes which scanned the young man so curiously ; but the doctor's manners were perfect, and never had Everard been treated with more deference and respect than by this handsome stranger, who called upon him at Mrs. Fleming's early in the morning, and in the course of an hour established himself on such terms of intimacy with the young man that he learned more of his family history than Josephine herself knew after an acquaintance of more than a year. Everard never could explain to him- self how he was led on naturally and easily to speak of his home in Rothsay, the grand old place of which he would be heir, as he was the only child. He did not know how much his father was worth, he said, as his fortune was estimated at various sums, but it didn't do him much good, for the governor was close, and insisted upon knowing how every penny was spent. Consequently Everard, who was fast and expensive in his habits, was, as he expressed it, always hard up, and if his mother did not occasionally send him something unknown to his father he would be in desperate straits, for a fellow in college with the reputation of being rich must have money. Here Everard thought of Rosamond and what she had sent him, but he could not speak of that to this stranger, who sat smiling so sweetly upon him, and lead- ing him on step by step until at last Rossie's name did drop from his lips, and was quickly caught up by Dr. Matthewson. 16 DR. MATTHEWSON. "Rossie!" he repeated, in his low, purring tone, " Rossie ! Who is she ? Have you a sister ?" " Oh, no. I told you I was an only child. Rossie is Rosamond Hastings, a little girl whose mother was my mother's most intimate friend. They were school-girls together, and pledged themselves to stand by each other should either ever come to grief, as Mrs. Hastings did." "Married unhappily, perhaps?" the doctor suggested, and Everard replied : "Yes ; married a man much older than herself, who abused her so shamefully that she left him at last, and sought refuge with my mother. Fortunately this Hast- ings died soon after, so she was freed from him ; but she had another terror in the shape of his son, the child of a former marriage, who annoyed her dreadfully." "How could he?" the "doctor asked, and Everard replied : " I hardly know. I believe, though, it was about some house or piece of land, of which Mrs. Hastings held the deed for Rossie, and this John thought he ought to share it, at least, and seemed to think it a for- tune, when in fact it proved to be worth only two thousand dollars, which is all Rosamond has of her own." " Perhaps he did not know how little there was, and thought it unjust for his half-sister to have all his father left, and he nothing," the doctor said, and it never once occurred to Everard to wonder how he knew that Mr. Hastings left all to his daughter, and nothing to his son. He was wholly unsuspicious, and went on : " Possibly ; at all events he worried his stepmother into hysterics by coming there one day in winter, and demanding first the deed or will, and second his sister, whom he said his father gave to his charge. But I settled him !" " Yes ?" the doctor said, interrogatively, and Everard continued : " Father was gone, and this wretch, who must have been in liquor, was bullying my mother, and declaring he would go to the room where Mrs. Hastings was faint- ing for fear of him, when I came in from riding, and just bade him begone ; and when he said to me sneer- ' Oh, little David, what do you think you can do DR. MATTHEWSON. 17 with the giant, you have no sling?' I hit him a cut with my riding-whip which made him wince with pain, and J followed up the blows till he left the house vowing vengeance on me for the insult offered him." " And since then ?" the doctor asked. " Since then I have never seen him. After Mrs. Hastings died he wrote an impertinent letter to father asking the guardianship of his sister, but we had prom- ised her mother solemnly never to let her fall into his hands or under his influence, and father wrote him such a letter as settled him ; at least, we have never heard from him since, and that is eight years ago. Nor should I know him either, for it was dark, and he all muffled up." ".And have you no fear of him, that he may yet be revenged ? People like him do not usually take cowhid- ings quietly," the doctor asked. " No, I've no fear of him, for what can he do to me ? Besides, I should not wonder if he were dead. We have never heard of him since that letter to father," was Everard's reply, and after a moment his companion con- tinued : " And this girl, is she pretty and bright, and how old is she now ?" "Rossie must be thirteen," Everard said, "and the very nicest girl in the world, but as to being pretty, she is too thin for that, though she has splendid eyes, large and brilliant, and black as midnight, and what is pecu- liar for such eyes, her hair, which ripples all over her head, is a rich chestnut brown, with a tinge of gold upon it when seen in the sunlight. Her hair is her great beauty, and I should not be surprised if she grew to be quite a handsome woman." " Very likely ; excuse me, Mr. Forrest," and the doc- tor spoke respectfully, nay, deferentially, " excuse me if I appear too familiar. We have talked together so free- ly that you do- not seem a stranger, and friendships, you know, are not always measured by time." Everard bowed, and, foolish boy that he was, felt flattered by this giant of a man, who went on : "Possibly this little Rossie may some day be the daughter of the house in earnest." " What do you mean ? that my father will adopt her 18 DR. MATTHEWSON. regularly ?" Everard asked, as he lifted his clear, honest eyes inquiringly to the face of his companion, who, find- ing that in dealing with a frank, open nature like Ever- ard's he must speak out plain, replied : "I mean, perhaps you will marry her." " I marry Rossie ! Absurd ! Why, I would as soon think of marrying my sister," and Everard laughed merrily at the idea. "Such a thing is possible," returned the doctor, "though your father might object on the score of family, if that brother is such a scamp. I imagine he is rather proud ; your father, I mean, not that brother." " Rossie's family is well enough for anything I know to the contrary," said Everard. "Father would not ob- ject to that, though he is infernally proud. He is a South Carolinian, born in Charleston, and boasts of Southern blood and Southern aristocracy, while mother is a Bostonian, of the bluest dye, and both would think the Queen of England honored to have a daughter marry their son. Nothing would put father in such a passion as for me to make what he thought a mesalli- ance" " Yes, I see, and yet " The doctor did not finish the sentence, but looked instead down into the garden where Josephine was flit- ting among the flowers. " Miss Fleming is a very beautiful girl," the doctor said, at last, and Everard responded heartily : "Yes, the handsomest I ever saw." "And rumor says you two are very fond of each other," was the doctor's next remark, which brought a blush like that of a young girl to Eveord's cheek, but elicited no reply, for there was beginning to dawn upon his mind a suspicion that his inmost secrets were being wrung from him by this smooth-tongued stranger, who, quick to detect every fluctuation of thought and feeling in another, saw he had gone far enough, and having learned all he cared to know, he arose to go, and after a good- morning to Everard and a few soft speeches to Josephine, walked away and left the pair alone. THE MOCK MARRIAGE. 19 CHAPTER HI. THE MOCK MAEEIAGE. HE long hall, or rather ball-room, of the old Eagle tavern was crowded to its utmost capacity, for the entertainment had been talked of for a long time, and as the proceeds were to help buy a fire-engine, the whole town was interested, and the whole town was there. First on the programme came tableaux and charades, interspersed with music from the glee club, and music from the Ellicott band, and then there was a great hush of expec- tation and eager anticipation, for the gem of the perform- ance was reserved for the last. Behind the scenes, in the little ante-rooms where the dressing, and powdering, and masking, and jesting were all going on promiscuously, Josephine Fleming was in a state of great excitement, but hers was a face and com- plexion which never looked red or tired. She was, perhaps, a shade paler than her wont, and her eyes were brighter and bluer as she stood before the little two-foot glass, giving the last touches to her bridal toilet. And never was real bride more transcendently lovely than Josephine Fleming when she stood at last ready and waiting to be called, in her fleecy tarlatan, with her long vail sweeping back from her face, and showing like a silver net upon her golden hair. And Everard, in his dark, boyish beauty, looked worthy of the bride, as he bent over her and whispered something in her ear which had reference to a future day when this they were doing in jest should be done in sober earnest. For a moment they were alone. Dr. Matthewson had managed to clear the little room, and now he came to them and said : " I feel I shall be doing wrong to let this go any further without telling you that I have a right to make the marriage lawful, if you say so. A few years ago I was a clergyman in good and regular standing in the Methodist Episcopal Church at Clarence, in the western part of 20 THE MOCK MARRIAGE. this State. I am not in regular and good standing now ; the world, the flesh, and the devil, especially the latter, got the upper hand of me, but I still have the power to marry you fast and strong. You two are engaged, I hear. Suppose, for the fun of it, we make this marriage real ? What do you say ?" He was looking at Everard, but he spoke to Josephine, feeling that hers would be the more ready assent of the two. She was standing with her arm linked in Everard's, and at Dr. Matthewson's words she lifted her blue eyes coyly to her lover's face, and said : " Wouldn't that be capital, and shouldn't we steal a march on everybody ?" She waited for him to speak, but his answer did not come at once. It is true he had said something of this very nature to her only the night before, but now, when it came to him as something which might be if he chose, he started as if he had been stung, and the color faded from his lips, which quivered as he said, with an effort to smile : " I'd like it vastly, only you see I am not through college, and I should be expelled at once. Then father never would forgive me. He'd disinherit me, sure." " Hardly so bad as that, I think," spoke the soothing voice of the doctor, while one of Josephine's hands found its way to Everard's, which it pressed softly, as she said: " We can keep it a secret, you know, till you are through college, and it would be such fun." Half an hour before Everard had gone with the doc- tor to the bar and taken a glass of wine, which was beginning to affect his brain and cloud his better judg- ment, while Josephine was still looking at him with those great, dreamy, pleading eyes, which always affected him. so strangely. She was very beautiful, and he loved her with all the strength of his boyish, passionate nature. So it is not strange that the thought of possessing her years sooner than he had dared to hope made his young blood stir with ecstasy, even though he knew it was wrong. He was like the bird in the toiler's snare, and he stood irresolute, trying to stammer out he hardly knew what, except that it had some reference to his /ather, and mother, and Rossie, for he thought of her in THE MOCK MARRIAGE. 21 that hour of his temptation, and wondered how he could face her with that secret on his soul. " They are growing impatient. Don't you hear them stamping ? What are you waiting for ?" came from the manager of the play, as he put his head into the room, while a prolonged and deafening call greeted their ears from the expectant audience. " Yes, let's go," Josephine said, " and pray forget that I almost asked you to marry me and you refused. I should not have done it only it is Leap-year, you know, and I have a right ; but it was all in joke, of course. I didn't mean it. Don't think I did, Everard." Oh, how soft and beautiful were the eyes swimming in tears and lifted so pleadingly to Everard's face ! It was more than mortal man could do to withstand them, and Everard went down before them body and soul. His father's bitter anger, so sure to follow, his mother's grief and disappointment in her son, and Rossie's child- ish surprise were all forgotten, or, if remembered, weighed as nought compared with this lovely creature with the golden hair and eyes of blue, looking so sweetly and ten- derly at him. " I'll do it, by George !" he said, and the hot blood came surging back to his face. " It will be the richest kind of a lark. Tie as tight as you please. I am more than willing." He was very much excited, and Josephine was trem- bling like a leaf. Only Dr. Matthewson was calm as he asked : "Do you really mean it, and will you stand to it?" " Are you ever coming ?" came angrily this time from the manager, who was losing all patience. " Yes, I mean it, and will stand to it," Everard said, and so went on to his fate. There was a cheer, followed by a deep hush, when the curtain was withdrawn, disclosing the bridal party upon the stage, fitted up to represent a modern drawing-room; with groups of gayly-dressed people standing together, and in their midst Everard and Josephine, she radiantly beau- tiful, with a look of exultation on her face, but a tumult of conflicting emotions in her heart, as she wondered if Dr. Matthewson had told the truth, and was authorized to marry her really, and if Everard would stand to it or 22 THE MOCK MARRIAGE. repudiate the act ; he, with a face white now as ashes, and a voice which was husky in its tone when, to the question : " Dost thou take this woman for thy wedded wife ? Dost thou promise to love her, and cherish her, both in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her?" he answered : " I do," while a chill like the touch of death ran through every nerve and made him icy cold. It was not the lark he thought it was going to be ; it was like some dreadful nightmare, and he could not at all realize what he was doing or saying. Even Jose- phine's voice, when she too said, " I will," sounded very far away, as did Matthewson's concluding words : " Ac- cording to the authority vested in me I pronounce you man and wife. What God hath joined together let no man put asunder." How real it seemed to the breathless audience so real that Agnes Fleming, sitting far back in the hall, in her faded muslin and old-fashioned bonnet, involuntarily rose to her feet and raised her hand with a deprecating gesture as if to forbid the bans. But her mother pulled her down to her seat, and in a low whisper bade her keep quiet. And so the play went on, and was over at last ; the crowd dispersed, and the tired actors, sleepy and cross, gathered up the paraphernalia scattered everywhere, and went to their several homes. Everard and Josephine were the last to leave, for she had so much to say, and so much to see to, that it was after twelve, and the summer moon was high in the heavens ere they started at last for home, accompanied by the young man with whom Everard was staying in Ellicottville, and who had come down to the play. It had been arranged that young Stafford should pass the night at Mrs. Fleming's, and when the party reached the cottage they found a supper prepared for them, of which hot coffee and sherry formed a part, and under the combined effects of the two Everard's spirits began to rise, and when at last he said good-night to Josephine and went with his friend to his room, he was much like himself, and felt that it would not be a very bad state of affairs, after all, if it should prove that Josephine was really his wife. It would only be expediting matters a THE MOCK MARRIAGE. 23 little, and the secret would be so romantic and unnsual. Still, he was conscious of a feeling of unrest and dis- inclination to talk, and declared his intention of plung- ing into bed at once. " Perhaps you'd better read this first," Stafford said, handing him a telegram. "It came this morning, and I brought it with me, but would not give it to you till after the play, for fear it might contain bad news." Now young Stafford knew perfectly well the nature of the telegram, for he had been in the office when it came, and decided not to deliver it until the play was over. It was from Everard's father, and read as follows : " To J. EVERARD FORREST, JR. Your mother is very sick. Come immediately. J. E. FORREST." " Oh, Stafford," and Everard's voice was like the cry of a wounded child, " why didn't you give me this before. There was a train left at five o'clock. I could have taken it, and saved " He did not finish the sentence, for he could not put into words the great horror of impending evil which had fallen upon him with the receipt of that telegram. In- deed, he could not define to himself the nature of his feelings. He only knew that he wished he had gone home in answer to Rossie's summons, instead of coming to Holburton. And in this he meant no disloyalty to Josephine, nor attributed any blame to her ; and when, next morning, after a troubled night, in which no sleep visited his weary eyes, he met her at the breakfast-table looking as bright, and fresh, and pretty as if she too, had not kept a sleepless vigil, he experienced a delicious feeling of ownership in her, and for a few moments felt willing to defy the whole world, if by so doing he could claim her as his, then and there. He told her of the telegram, and said he must take the first train west, which left in about two hours, and Josephine's eyes instantly filled with tears, as she said : " I am so sorry for you, and I hope your mother will recover. I have always wished to see her so much. Would you mind tellin'g her of me, and giving my love to her ?" This was after breakfast, when they stood together under the vine-wreathed porch, each with a thought of 24 THE MOCK MARRIAGE. last night's ceremony in their minds, and each loth to speak of it first. Stafford had gone to the hotel to settle his bill of the previous day and make some inquiries about the connection of the trains, and thus the family were alone when Dr. Matthewson appeared, wearing his blandest smile, and addressing Josephine as Mrs. Forrest, and asking her how she found herself after the play. At the sound of that name given to Josephine as if she had a right to it, a scarlet flame spread over Everard's face, and he felt the old horror and dread of the night creeping over him again. Now was the time to know the worst or the best, whichever way he chose to put it, and as calmly as possible under the circumstances, he turned to Dr. Matthewson and asked : " Were you in earnest in what you said last night ? Had you a right to marry us, and is Josephine my wife ?" It was the first time he had put it into words, and as if the very name of wife made her dearer to him, he wound his arm around her and waited the doctor's answer, which came promptly and decidedly. " Most assuredly she is your lawful wife ! You took her with your full consent, knowing I could marry you, and I have brought your certificate, which I suppose the lady will hold." He handed a neatly-folded paper to Josephine, who, with Everard looking over her shoulder, read to the effect that on the evening of July 17th, in the Village Hall at Holburton, the Rev. John Matthewson married J. Everard Forrest, Jr. of Rothsay, Ohio, to Miss Jose- phine Fleming of Holburton. "It is all right, I believe, and only needs the names of your mother and sister as witnesses to make it valid, in case the marriage is ever contested," Matthewson said, and this time he looked pitilessly at Everard, who was staring blankly at the paper in Josephine's hands, and if it had been his death-warrant he was reading he could scarcely have been paler. Something in his manner must have communicated itself to Josephine, for in real or feigned distress she burst into tears, and laying her head on his arm, sobbed out : "Oh, Everard, you are not sorry I am your wife! If you are, I shall wish I was dead !" THE MOCK MARRIAGE. 25 " No, no, Josey, not sorry you are my wife," he said, " I could not be that; only I am so young, and have two years more in college,-and if this thing were known I should be expelled, and father would never forgive me, or let me have a dollar again; so, you see it is a deuced scrape after all." He was as near crying as he well could be and not actually give way, and Matthewson was regarding him with a cool, exultant expression in his cruel eyes, when Mrs. Fleming appeared, asking what it meant. Very briefly Dr. Matthewson explained the matter to her, and laying his hand on Everard'sarm said, laugh- ingly : " I have the honor of presenting to you your son, who, I believe, acknowledges your claim upon him." There was a gleam of triumph in Mrs. Fleming's eyes, but she affected to be astonished and indignant that her daughter should have lent herself to an act which Mr. Forrest was perhaps already sorry for. " You are mistaken," Everard said, and his young manhood asserted itself in Josephine's defense. " Your daughter was not more to blame than myself. We both knew what we were doing, and I am not sorry, except for the trouble in which it would involve me if it were known at once that I was married." " It need not be known, except to ourselves," Mrs. Fleming answered, quickly. " What is done cannot be undone, but we can make the best of it, and I promise that the secret shall be kept as long as you like. Josey will remain with me as she is, and you will return to col- lege and graduate as if last night had never been. Then, when you are in a position to claim your wife you can do so, and acknowledge it to your father." She settled it rapidly and easily, and Everard felt his spirits rise thus to have some one think and decide for him. It was not distasteful to know that Josey was his, and he smoothed caressingly the bowed head, still resting on his arm, where Josey had laid it. It would be just like living a romance all the time, and the interviews they might occasionally have would be all the sweeter because of the secrecy. After all, it was a pretty nice lark, and he felt a great deal better, and watched Mrs. Fleming and Agnes as they signed their names to the 26 THE MOCK MARRIAGE. certificate, and noticed how the latter trembled and how pale she was as, with what seemed to him a look of pity for him, she left the room and went back to her dish- washing in the kitchen. Everard had spent some weeks in Mrs. Fleming's family as a boarder, and had visited there occasionally, but he had never noticed or thought particularly of Agnes, except, indeed, as the household drudge, who was always busy from morning till night, washing, ironing, baking, dusting, with her sleeves rolled up and her broad check apron tied around her waist. She had a limp in her left foot, and a weakness in her left arm which gave her a helpless, peculiar appearance ; and the impression he had of her, if any, was that she was unfortunate in mind as well as body, lit only to minister to others as she alwa} 7 s seemed to be doing. She had never addressed a word to him without being first spoken to, and he was greatly surprised when, after Dr. Matthewson was gone, and Mrs. Fleming and Josephine had for a moment left him alone in the room, she came to him and putting her hand on his, said in a whisper, " Did you reaKy mean it, or was it an accident ? a joke ? and do you want to get out of it ? because, if you do, now is the time. Say you didn't mean it ! Say you won't stand it, and there surely will be some way out. I can help, weak as I am. It is a pity, and you so young." She was looking fixedly at him, and he saw that her eyes were soft, and dark, and sad in their expression, as if for them there was no brightness or sunshine in all the wide world, nothing but the never-ending dish-washing in the kitchen, or serving in the parlor. But there was another expression in those sad eyes, a look of truth and honesty, which made him feel intuitively that she was a person to be trusted even to the death, and had he felt any misgivings then, he would have told her so unhesi- tatingly ; but he had none, and he answered her : "I do not wish to get out of it, Agnes, I am satisfied; only it must be a secret for a long, long time. Remem- ber that, and your promise not to tell." "Yes, I'll remember, and may God help you !" she answered, as she turned away, leaving him to wonder at her manner, which puzzled and troubled him a little. But it surely had nothing to do with Josephine, who THE FORREST HOUSE. 27 came to him just before he left for the train, and said so charmingly and tearfully : " I am so mortified and ashamed when I remember how eagerly I seemed to respond to Dr. Matthewson's proposition that we be married in earnest. You must have thought me so forward and bold ; but, believe me, I did not mean it, or consider what I was saying ; so when you are gone don't think of me as a brazen-faced creature who asked you to marry her, will you ?" What answer could he give her except to assure her that he esteemed her as everything lovely and good, and he believed that he did when at last he said good-by, and left her kissing her hand to him as she stood in the door- way under the spreading hop vine, the summer sunshine falling in flecks upon her golden hair, and her blue eyes full of tears. So he saw her last, and this was the pic- ture he took with him as he sped away to the westward toward his home, and which helped to stifle his judgment and reason whenever they protested against what he had done, but it could not quite smother the fear and dread at his heart when he reflected what the consequences of this rash marriage would be should his father find it out. CHAPTER IV. THE FORREST HOUSE. UST where it was located is not my purpose to tell, except that it was in the southern part of Ohio, in one of those pretty little towns which skirt the river, and that from the bluff on which it stood you could look across the water into the green fields and fertile plains of the fair State of Kentucky. It was a large, rambling house of dark gray stone, with double piazza on the front and river side, and huge chimneys, with old-time fire-places, where cheery wood fires burned always when the wind was chill. There was the usual wide hall of the South, with doors opening 28 THE FORREST HOUSE. front and rear, and on one side the broad oak staircase and square landing two-thirds of the way up, where stood the tall, old-fashioned clock, which had ticked there for fifty years, and struck the hour when the first Forrest, the father of the present proprietor, brought home his bride, a fair Southern girl, who drooped and pined in her Northern home until her husband took her back to her native city, Charleston, where she died when her boy was born. This boy, the father of our hero, was christened James Everard, in the grim old church, St. Michael's, and the years of his boyhood were passed in Charleston, except on the few occasions when he visited his father, who lived at Forrest House without other compan- ionship than his horses and dogs, and the bevy of black servants he had brought from the South. When James was nearly twenty-one his father died, and then the house was closed until the heir was married, and came to it with a sweet, pale-faced Bostonian, of rare culture and refinement, who introduced into her new home many of the fashions and comforts of New Eng- land, and made the house very attractive to the educated families in the neighborhood. Between the lady and her husband, however, there was this point of difference ; while she would, if pos- sible, have changed, and improved, and modernized the house, he clung to everything savoring of the past, and though liberal in his expenditures where his table, and wines, and horses, and servants were concerned, he held a tight purse-string when it came to what he called lux- uries of any kind. What had been good enough for his father was 'good enough for him, he said, when his wife proposed new furniture for the rooms which looked so bare and cheerless. Matting and oil-cloth were better than carpets for his muddy boots and muddier dogs, while curtains and shades were nuisances and only served to keep out the light of heaven. There were blinds at all the windows, and if his wife wished for anything more she could hang up her shawl or apron when she was dress- ing and afraid of being seen. He did, however, give her five hundred dollars to do with as she pleased, and with that and her exquisite taste and Yankee ingenuity, she transformed a few of the dark, piusty old rooms into the coziest, prettiest apartments TEE FORREST HOUSE. 29 imaginable, and, with the exception of absolutely neces- sary repairs and supplies, that was the last, so far as ex- penditures for furniture were concerned. As the house had been when James Everard, Jr., was born, so it was now when he was twenty years old. But what it lacked in its interior adornments was more than made up in the grounds, which covered a space of three or four acres, and were beautiful in the extreme. Here the judge lavished his money without stint, and people came from miles around to see the place, which was at its best that warm July morning when, tired and worn with his rapid journey, Everard entered the high- way gate, and walked up the road to the house, under the tall maples which formed an arch over his head. It was very still about the house, and two or three dogs lay in the sunshine asleep on the piazza. At the sound of footsteps they awoke, and recognizing their young master, ran toward him, with a bark of welcome. The windows of his mother's room were open, and at the bark of the dogs a girlish face was visible for an in- stant, then disappeared from view, and Rosamond Hast- ings came out to meet him, looking very fresh and sweet in her short gingham dress and white apron, with her rippling hair tied with a blue ribbon, and falling down her back. " Oh, Mr. Everard," she cried, as she gave him her hand, " I am so glad you have come. Your mother has wanted you so much. She is a little better this morn- ing, and asleep just now ; so come in here and rest. You are tired, and worn, and pale. Are you sick ?" and she looked anxiously into the handsome face, where even she saw a change, for the shadow of his secret was there, haunting every moment of his life. " Xo ; I'm just used up, and so hungry," he said, as he followed her into the cool family room, looking out upon the river, which she had made bright with flowers in expectation of his coming. " Hungry, are you ?" she said. " I'm so glad, for there's the fattest little chicken waiting to be broiled for you, and we have such splendid black and white rasp- berries. I'm going to pick them now, while you wash and brush yourself. You will find everything ready in your room, with some curtains, and tidies on the chairs. 30 THE FORREST HOUSE. I did it myself, hoping you'd find it pleasant, and stay home all the vacation, even if your mother gets better, she is so happy to have you here. Will you go up now ?" He went to the room which had always been his, a large, airy chamber, which, with nothing modern or expensive in it, looked cool and pretty, with its clean matting, snowy bed, fresh muslin curtains, and new blue and white tidies on the high-backed chairs, all showing Rossie's handiwork. Rossie had been in Miss Beatrice Belknap's lovely room furnished with blue, and thought it a little heaven, and tried her best to make Sir. Everard's a blue room too, though she had nothing to do it with except the tidies, and toilet set, and lambrequins made of plain white muslin bordered with strips of blue cambric. The material for this she had bought with her own allowance, at the cost of some personal sacrifice ; and when it was all done, and the two large blue vases were filled with flowers and placed upon the mantel, she felt that it was almost equal to Miss Belknap's, and that Mr. Everard, as she always called him, was sure to like it. And he did like it, and breathed more freely, as if he were in a purer, more wholesome atmosphere than that of the brown house in far-off Holburton, where he had left his secret and his wife. It came to him with a sudden wrench of pain in his quiet room, the difference between Josephine and all his early associates and sur- roundings. She was not like anything at the Forrest House, though she was marvelously beautiful and fair, so much fairer than little Rossie, whose white cape bonnet he could see flitting among the bushes in the garden, where in the hot sunshine she soiled and pricked her fingers, gathering berries for him. He had a photo- graph of Josephine, and he took it out and looked at the great blue eyes and fair, blonde face, which seemed to smile on him, and saying to himself, " She is very lovely," went down to the sitting-room, where Rossie brought him his breakfast. It was so hot in the dining-room, she said, and Aunt Axie was so out of sorts this morning, that she was going to serve his breakfast there in the bay window, where the breeze came cool from the river. So she brought in the tray of dishes, and creamed his coffee, THE FORREST HOUSE. 31 and sugared his berries, and carved his chicken, as if he had been a prince, and she his lawful slave. At Mrs. Fleming's he had also been treated like a prince, but there it was lame Agnes who served, with her sleeves rolled up, and Josephine had acted the part of the fine lady, and never to his recollection had she soiled her hands with household work of any kind. How soft and white they were, while Rossie's hands were thin and tanned from exposure to the sun, and stained and scratched, with a rag around one thumb which a cruel thorn had torn ; but what deft, nimble hands they were, nevertheless, and how gladly they waited upon this tired, indolent young man, who took it as a matter of course, for had not Rossie Hastings ministered to him since she was old enough to hunt up his missing cap, and bring him the book he was reading. Now, as she flitted about, urging him to eat, she talked to him incessantl} T , asking if he had received her letter and its contents safely, it it was very pleasant at Ellicottville with his friend Stafford, and if, she did not finish that question, but her large black eyes, clear as crystal, looked anx- iously at him, and he knew what she meant. "No, Rossie," he said, laughingly, "I do not owe a dollar to anybody, except your dear little self, and that I mean to pay with compound interest; and I haven't been in a single scrape, that is, not a very bad one, since I went back ;" and a flush crept to the roots of his hair as he wondered what Rosamond would think if she knew just the scrape he was in. And why should she not know? Why didn't he tell her, and have her help him keep the secret tormenting him so sorely ? He knew he could trust her, for he had done so many a time and she had not betrayed him, but stood bravely between him and his irascible father, who, forgetting that he once was young, was sometimes hard and severe with his wayward son. Yes, he would tell Rossie, and so make a friend for Josephine, but before he had decided how to begin, Rosamond said : "I'm so glad you are doing better, for " here she hesitated and colored painfully, while Everard said : " Well, go on. What is it ? Do yon mean the gov- ernor rides a high horse on account of my misdemean- ors ?" 32 THE FORREST HOUSE. "Yes, Mr. Everard, just that. Ho is dreadful when you write for more money, which he says you squander on cigars, and fast horses, and fine clothes, and girls' he actually said girls, but ray, your mother told him she knew you were not the kind of person to think of girls, and you so young ; absurd !" And Rossie pursed up her little mouth as if it were a perfectly preposterous idea for Everard Forrest to be thinking of the girls ! The young man laughed a low, musical laugh, and replied, "I don't know about that. I should say it was just in rny line. There are ever so many pretty girls in "Ellicottville and Holburton, and one of them is so very beautiful that I'm half tempted to run away with and marry her. What would you think of that, Rossie ?" For a moment the matter-of-fact Rossie looked at him curiously, and then replied : "I should think you crazy, and you not through college. I believe your father would disinherit you, and serve you right, too." " And you, Rossie ; wouldn't you stand by me and help me if I got into such a muss ?" " Never !" and Rossie spoke with all the decision and dignity of thirty. " It would kill your mother, too. I sometimes think she means you for Miss Belknap; she is so handsome this summer !" " Without her hair ?" Everard asked, and Rossie replied, " Yes, without her hair. She has a wig, but does not quite like it. She means to get another." "And she offered fifty dollars for your hair !" Ever- ard continued, stroking with his hand the chestnut brown tresses flowing down Rossie's back. "Yes, she did; but I could not part with my hair even to oblige her. Of course I should give it to her, not sell it, but I can't spare it." What an unselfish child she was, Everard thought, and yet she was so unlike the golden-haired Josephine, who would make fun of such a plain, simple, unformed girl as Rosamond, and call her green and awkward and countrified; and perhaps she was all these, but she was so good, and pure, and truthful that he felt abashed be- fore her and shrank from the earnest, truthful eyes that THE FORRE8T HOUSE. 33 rested so proudly on him, lest they should read more than he cared to have them. Outside, in the hall, there was the sound of a heavy step, and the next moment there appeared in the door a tall, heavily-built man of fifty, with iron-gray hair and keen, restless eyes, which always seemed on the alert to discover something hidden, and drag it to the light. Judge Forrest meant to be a just man, but, like many just men, when the justice is not tempered with mercy, he was harsh and hard with those who did not come up to his standard of integrity, and seldom made allow- ances for one's youth or inexperience, or the peculiar temptations which might have assailed them. Though looked up to as the great man of the town, he was far less popular with the people of Rothsay than his scamp of a son, with whom they thought him unnecessarily strict and close. It was well known that there was generally trouble between them and always on the money question, for Everard was a spendthrift, and scattered his dollars right and left with a reckless generosity and thoughtless- ness, while the judge was the reverse, and gave out every cent not absolutely needed with an unwillingness which amounted to actual stinginess. And now he stood at the door, tall, grand-looking, and cold as an icicle, and his first greeting was : " I thought I should track you by the tobacco smoke ; they told me you were here. How do you do, sir ?" It was strange the effect that voice had upon Ever- ard, who, from an indolent, care-for-nothing, easy-going youth was transformed into a circumspect, dignified young man, who rose at once, and, taking his father's hand, said that he was very well, had come on the morn- ing train from Cleveland, and had started as soon as he could after receiving the telegram. "It must have been delayed, then. You ought to have had it Wednesday morning," Judge Forrest replied: and blushing like a girl Everard said that it did reach Ellicottville Wednesday, but he was in Holburton, just over the line in New York. " And what were you doing at Holburton ?" the father asked, always suspicious of some new trick or escapade for which he would have to pay. " I was invited there to an entertainment," Everard 2* 34 THE FORREST HOUSE. said, growing still redder and more confused. "You know I boarded there a few weeks last summer, and have acquaintances, so I went down the night before, and Stafford came the next day and brought the telegram, but did not tell me till the play was over and we were in our room; then it was too late, but I took the first train in the morning. I hope my delay has not made mother worse. I am very sorry, sir." He had made his explanation, which his father ac- cepted without a suspicion of the chasm bridged over in silence. " You have seen your mother, of course," was his next remark, and, still apologetically, nay, almost ab- jectly, for Everard was terribly afraid of his father, he replied, "She was sleeping when I came, and Rossie thought I'd better not disturb her, but have my breakfast first. I have finished now, and will go to her at once if she is awake." He had put Rossie in the gap, knowing that she was a tower of strength between himself and his father. During the years she had been in the family Rossie had become very dear to the cold, stern judge, who was kinder and 'gentler to her than to any living being, except, indeed, his dying wife, to whom he was, in his way, sincerely attached. "Yes, very right and proper that you should have your breakfast first, and not disturb her. Rossie, see if she is now awake," he said, and in his voice there was a kindliness which Everard was quick to note, and which made his pulse beat more naturally, while there suddenly woke within him an intense desire to stand well with his father, between whom and himself there had been so much variance. For Josephine's sake he must have his father's good opinion, or he. was ruined, and though it cost him a tre- mendous effort to do so, the moment Rosamond left the room, he said : "Father, I want to tell you now, because I think you will be glad to know, that I've come home and left no debt, however small, for you to pay. And I mean to do better. I really do, father, and quit my fast associates, and study so hard that when I am graduated you and mother will be proud of me." The flushed, eager face, on which, young as it was, THE FORREST HOUSE. 35 there were marks of revels and dissipation, was very handsome and winning, and the dark eyes were moist with tears as the boy finished his confession, which told visibly upon the father. " Yes, yes, my son. I'm glad; I'm glad; but your poor mother will not be here when you graduate. She is going from us fast." And under cover of the dying mother's name, the judge vailed his own emotions of softening toward Everard, whose heart was lighter and happier than it had been since that night when Matthewson's voice had said, " I pronounce you man and wife." And he would be a man worthy of the wife, and his mother should live to see it, and to see Josephine, too, and love her as a daugh- ter. She was not dying; she must not die, when he needed and loved her so much, he thought, as, at a word from Rosamond, he went to the sick room where his mother lay. What a sweet, dainty little woman she was, with such a lovely expression on the exquisitely chiseled features, and how the soft brown eyes, so like the son's, brightened at the sight of her boy, who did not shrink from her as he did from his father. She knew all his faults, and that under them there was a noble, manly nature, and she loved him so much. " Oh, Everard ! " she cried, " I am so glad you have come. I feared once I should never see you again." He had his arms around her, and was kissing her white face, which, for the moment, glowed with what seemed to be the hue of health, and so misled him into thinking her better than she was. " Now that I have come, mother, you will be well again," he said, hanging fondly over her, and looking into the dear face which had never worn a frown for him. " No, Everard," she said, as her wasted fingers threaded his luxuriant hair, " I shall never be well again. It's only now a matter of time ; a few days or weeks at the most, and I shall be gone from here forever, to that better home, where I pray Heaven you will one day meet me. Hush, hush, my child ; don't cry like that," she added, soothingly, for, struck with the expression on her white, pinched face, from which all the color had faded, and which told him the truth more forcibly than she had 36 THE FORREST HOUSE. done, Everard had felt suddenly that his mother was going from him, and nothing in all the wide world could ever fill her place. Laying his head upon her pillow he sobbed a few moments like a child, while the memory of all the errors of his past life, all his waywardness and folly, rushed into his mind like a mountain, crushing him with its mag- nitude. But he was going to do better ; he had told his father so ; he would tell it to his mother ; and God would not let her die, but give her back to him as a kind of re- ward for his reformation. So he reasoned, and with the hopefulness of youth grew calm, and could listen to what his mother was saying to him. She was asking him of his visit in Ellicottville, and if he had found it pleasant there, just as Rossie had done, and he told her of the play in Holburton, but for which he should have been with her sooner, and told her of his complete reform, he called it, although it had but just begun. He had ab- jured forever all his wild associates ; he had kept out of debt ; he was going to study and win the first honors of his class ; he was going to be a man worthy of such a mother. And she, the mother, listening rapturously, believed it all ; that is, believed in the noble man he would one day be, though she knew there would be many a slip, many a backward step, but in the end he would conquer, and from the realms of bliss she might, perhaps, be permitted to look down and see him all she hoped him to be. Over and above all he said to her was a thought of Josephine. His mother ought to know of her, and he must tell her, but not in the first moments of meeting. He would wait till to-morrow, and then make a clean breast of it. He wrote to Josephine that night just a few brief lines, to tell her of his safe arrival home and of his mother's illness, more serious than he feared. " My dear little wife," he began. " It seems so funny to call you wife, and I cannot yet quite realize that you are mine, but I suppose it is true. I reached home this morning quite overcome with the long, dusty ride ; found mother worse than I expected. Josie, I am afraid mother is going to die, and then what shall I do, and who will stand between me and father. I mean to tell her of BEATRICE BELKNAP. 37 you, for I think it will not be right to let her die in ignorance of what I have done, i hope you are well. Please write to me very soon. With kind regards to your mother and Agnes, "Your loving husband, " J. EVEBARD FORREST." It was not just the style of letter which young and ardent husbands usually write to their brides ; nor, in fact, such as Everard had been in the habit of writing to Josephine, and the great difference struck him as he read over his rather stiff note, and mentally compared it with the gushing effusions of other times. " By Jove," he said, " I'm afraid she will think I have fallen off amazingly, but I haven't. I'm only tired to-night. To-morrow I'll send her a regular love-letter after I have told mother ;" and thus reasoning to him- self, he folded the letter and directed it to " Miss JOSEPHINE FLEMING, Holburton, N. Y." CHAPTER V. BEATRICE BELKNAP. HAT afternoon Miss Beatrice Belknap drove her pretty black ponies up the avenue to the Forrest House. Miss Beatrice, or Bee, as she was familiarly called by those who knew her best, was an orphan and an heiress, and a belle and a beauty, and twenty-one, and a distant relative of Mrs. Forrest, whom she called Cousin Mary. People said she was a little fast and a little peculiar in her ways of think- ing and acting, but charged it all to the French educa- tion she had received in Paris, where she had lived from the time she was six until she was eighteen, when, ac- cording to her father's will, she came into possession of her large fortune, and returning to America came to Rothsay, her old home, and brought with her all her 38 BEATRICE BELKNAP. dash and style, and originality of thought and character, and the Rothsayites received her gladly, and were very proud and fond of her, for there was about the bright girl a sweet graciousness of manner which won all hearts, even though they knew she was bored with their quiet town and humdrum manner of living, and that at their backs she laughed at their dress, and talk, and walk, and sometimes, I am sorry to say it, laughed at their prayers too, especially when good old Deacon Read or Sister Baker took the lead in the little chapel on the corner, where Bee was occasionally to be seen. Bee had no preference for any church unless it were St. Peter's, in Rome, or St. Eustace, in Paris, where the music was so fine and some of the young priests so handsome. So she went where she listed, kneeling one Sunday in the square pew at St. John's, where her father had worshiped before her, and where she had been baptized, and the Sunday following patronizing the sect called the Nazarites, be- cause, as she expressed it, "she liked the excitement and liked to hear them holler" And once the daring girl had ''hollered" herself and had the "power," and Sister Baker had rejoiced over the new convert who, she said, "carried with her weight and measure !" but when it was whispered about that the whole was done for effect, just to see what they would say, the Nazarites gave poor Bee the go-by, and prayed for her as that wicked tritter until it came to the building of their new church, when Bee, who was a natural carpenter, and liked nothing better than lath, and plaster, and rubbish, made the cause her own, and talked, and consulted, and paced the ground and drew a plan herself, which they finally adopted, and gave them a thousand dollars besides. Then they for- gave the pretty sinner, who had so much good in her after all, and Bee and Sister Rhoda Ann Baker were the very best of friends, and more than once Rhoda Ann's plain Nazarite bonnet had been seen in the little phaeton side by side with Bee's stylish Paris hat, on which the good woman scarcely dared to look lest it should move her from her serene height of plainness and humility. In spite of her faults, Beatrice was very popular, and nowhere was she more welcome than at the Forrest House, where she was beloved by Mrs. Forrest and wor- shiped by Rossie as a kind of divinity, though she did BEATRICE BELKNAP. 39 not quite like all she did and said. Offers, many and varied, Beatrice had had, both at home and abroad. She might have been the wife of a senator. She might have married her music-teacher and her dancing-master. She might have been a missionary and taught the Feegee Is- landers how to read. She might have been a countess in Rome, a baroness in Germany, and my lady in Edin- burgh, but she had said no to them all, and felt the hard- est wrench when she said it to the Feegee missionary, and for aught anybody knew, was heart-whole and fancy- free when she alighted from her phaeton at the door of Forrest House the morning after Everard's arrival. She knew he was there, and with the spirit of coquetry so much a part of herself she had made her toilet with a direct reference to this young man whom she had not seen for more than a year, and who, when joked about marrying her, had once called her old J2ee JBelfcnap, and wondered if any one supposed he would marry his grandmother. Miss Bee had smiled sweetly on this audacious boy who called her old and a grandmother, and had laid a wager with herself that he should some day offer him- self to "old Bee Belknap," and be refused ! In case he didn't she would build a church in Omaha and support a missionary there five years ! She was much given to building churches and supporting missionaries, this sprightly, dashing girl of twenty-one, who flashed, and sparkled, and shone in the summer sunshine, like a dia- mond, as she threw her reins over the backs of her two ponies, Spitfire and Starlight, and giving each of them a loving caress bade them stand still and not whisk their tails too much even if the flies did bite them. Then, with ribbons and laces streaming from her on all sides, she went fluttering up the steps and into the broad hall where Everard met her. Between him and herself there had been a strong friendship since the time she first came from France, and queened it over him on the strength of her foreign style and a year's seniority in age. From the very first she had been much at the Forrest House, and had played with Everard, and romped with him, and read with him, and driven with him, and rowed with him upon the river, and quarreled with him, too, hot, fierce quarrels, in 40 BEATEICE BELKNAP. which the girl generally had the best of it, inasmuch as her voluble French, which she hurled at him with light- ning rapidity, had stunned and bewildered him ; and then they had made it up, and were the best of friends, and more than one of the knowing ones in Rothsay had predicted a union some day of the Forrest and Belknap fortunes. Once, when such a possibility was hinted to Everard, who was fresh from a hot skirmish with Bee, he had, as recorded, called her old, and made mention of his grandmother, and she had sworn to be revenged, and was conscious all the time of a greater liking for the heir of Forrest House than she had felt for any man since the Feegee missionary sailed away with his Ver- mont school-mistress, who wore glasses, and a brown alpaca dress. Bee could have forgiven the glasses, but the brown alpaca, never, and she pitied the missionary more than ever, thinking how he must contrast her Paris gowns, which he had said were so pretty, with that abominable brown garb of his bride. Everard had never quite fancied the linking of his name with that of Beatrice in a matrimonial way, and it had sometimes led him to assume an indifference which he did not feel, but now, with Josephine between them as an insurmountable barrier, he could act out his real feelings of genuine liking for the gay butterfly, and he met her with an unusual degree of cordiality, which she was quick to note just as she had noted another change in him. A skillful reader of the human face, she looked in Everard's, and saw something she could not define. It was the shadow of his secret, and she could not inter- pret it. She only felt that he was no longer a boy, but a man, old even as his years, and that he was very glad to see her, and looked his gladness to the full. Bee Belknap was a born coquette, and would have flirted in her coffin had the thing been possible, and now, during the moment she stood in the hall with her hand in Ever- ard's, she managed to make him understand how greatly improved she found him, how delighted she was to see him, and how inexpressibly dull and poky Rothsay was without him. She did not say all this in words, but she conveyed it to him with graceful gestures of her pretty hands, and sundry expressive shrugs of her shoulders, and Everard felt flattered and pleased, and for a few BEATRICE BELKNAP. 41 moments forgot Josephine, while he watched this bril- liant creature as she flitted into the sick room, where her manner suddenly changed, and she became quiet, and gentle, and womanly, as she sat down by his mother's side, and asked how she was, and stroked and fondled the thin, pale face, and petted the wasted hands which sought hers so gladly. Bee Belknap always did sick people good, and there was not a sick bed in all Rothsay, from the loftiest dwelling to the lowest tenant house, which she did not visit, making the rich ones more hope- ful and cheerful from the effect of her strong, sympa- thetic nature, and dazzling, and bewildering, and grati- fying the poor, with whom she often left some tangible proof of her presence. " You do me so much good ; I am always better after one of your calls," Mrs. Forrest said to her ; and then, when Bee arose to go, and said, " May I take Everard with me for a short drive?" she answered readily : "Yes, do, I shall be glad for him to get the air." And so Everard found himself seated at Beatrice's side, and whirling along the road toward the village, for he wished to post his letter, and asked her to take him first to the post-office. " What would she say if she knew?" he thought, and it seemed to him as if the letter in his pocket must burn itself through and show her the name upon it. And then he fell to comparing the two girls with each other, and wondering why he should feel so much more natural, as if in his own atmosphere and on his good behavior, with Beatrice than he did with Josephine. Both were beautiful ; both were piquant and bright, but still there was a difference. Beatrice never for a moment allowed him to forget that she was a lady and he a gen- tleman ; never approached to anything like coarseness, and he would as soon have thought of insulting his mother as to have taken the slightest familiarity either by word or act with Bee. Josephine, on the contrary, allowed great latitude of word and action, and by her free-and-easy manner often led him into doing and saying things for which he would have blushed with shame had Beatrice, or even Rossie Hastings, been there to see and hear. Had Josephine lived in New York, or any other city, she would have added one more to that large class of people 42 BEATRICE BELKNAP. who laugh at our time-honored notions of propriety and true, pure womanhood, and on the broad platform of liberality and freedom sacrifice all that is sweetest and best in their sex. As a matter of course her influ- ence over Everard was not good, and he had imbibed so much of the subtle poison that some of his sensibilities were blunted, and he was beginning to think that his early ideas were prudish and nonsensical. But there was something about Rosamond and Beatrice both which worked as an antidote to the poison, and as he rode along with the latter, and listened to her light, graceful badinage, in which there was nothing approaching to vulgarity, he was conscious of feeling more respect for himself than he had felt in many a day. They had left the village now, and were out upon the smooth river road, where they came upon a young M. D. of Rothsay, who was jogging leisurely along in his high sulky, behind his old sorrel mare. Beatrice knew the doctor well, and more than once they had driven side by side amid a shower of dust, along that fine, broad road, and now, when she saw him and his sorry-looking nag, the spirit of mischief and frolic awoke within her, and she could no more refrain from some saucy remark con- cerning his beast and challenging him to a trial of speed than she could keep from breathing. Another moment and they were off like the wind, and to Bee's great sur- prise old Jenny, the sorrel mare, who, in her long-past youth had been a racer and swept the stakes at Cincin- nati, and who now at the sound of battle felt her old blood rise, kept neck to neck with the fleet horses, Spit- fire and Starlight. At last old Jenny shot past them, and in her excitement Beatrice rose, and standing up- right, urged her ponies on until Jenny's wind gave out, and Starlight and Spitfire were far ahead and rushing down the turnpike at a break-neck speed, which rocked the light phaeton from side to side and seemed almost to lift it from the ground. It was a decided runaway now, and people stopped to look after the mad horses and the excited but not in the least frightened girl, who, still standing upright, with her hat hanging down her back and her wig a little awry, kept them with a firm hand straight in the road, and said to the white-faced man beside her, when he, too, sprang up to take the reins : BEATRICE BELKNAP. 43 " Sit down and keep quiet. I'll see you safely through. We can surely ride as fast as they can run. I rather enjoy it." And so she did until they came to a point where the road turned with the river, and where in the bend a little school-house stood. It was just recess, and a troop of boys came crowding out, whooping and yelling as only boys can whoop and yell, when they saw the ponies, who, really frightened now, shied suddenly, and reared high in the air. After that came chaos and darkness to Ever- ard, and the next he knew he was lying on the grass, with his head in Bee's lap, and the blood flowing from a deep gash in his forehead, just above the left eye. This she was stanching with her handkerchief, and bathing his face with the water the boys brought her in a tin dipper from the school-house. Far off in the distance the ponies were still running, and scattered at intervals along the road were fragments of the broken phaeton, together with Bee's bonnet, and, worse than all, her wig. But Bee did not know that she had lost it, or care for her ruined phaeton. She did not know or care for anything, except that Everard Forrest was lying upon the grass as white and stiil as if he were really dead. But Everard was not dead, and the doctor, who soon came up with the panting, mortified Jennie, said it was only a flesh wound, from which nothing serious would result. Then Bee thought of her hair, which a boy had rescued from a playful puppy who was doing his best to tear it in pieces. The sight of her wig made Bee herself again, and with many a merry joke at her own expense, she mounted into a farmer's wagon with Everard, and bade the driver take them back to the Forrest House. It was Rossie who met them first, her black eyes growing troubled and anxious when she saw the band- age on Everard's head. But he assured her it was noth- ing, while Bee laughed over the adventure, and when the judge would have censured his son, took all the blame upon herself, and then, promising to call again in the evening, went in search of her truant horses. 44 MOTHER AND SON. CHAPTER VI. MOTHER AND SON. HAT afternoon Mrs. Forrest seemed so much better that even her husband began to hope, when he saw the color on her cheek, and the increased brightness of her eyes. But she was not deceived, She knew the nature of her dis- ease, and that she had not long to live. So what she would say to her son must be said without delay. According- ly, after lunch, she bade Rossie send him to her, and then leave them alone together. Everard obeyed the sum- mons at once, though there was a shrinking fear in his heart as he thought, " Now I must tell her of Josey," and wondered what she would say. Since his drive with Beatrice it did not seem half so easy to talk of Jose- phine, and that marriage ceremony was very far away, and very unreal, too. His mother was propped up on her pillows, and smiled pleasantly upon him as he took his seat beside her. " Everard," she began, " there are so many things I must say to yqp about the past and the future, and I must say them now while I have the strength. Another day may be too late." He knew to what she referred, and with a protest against it, told her she was not going to die ; she must not ; she must live for him, who would be nothing without her. Very gently she soothed him into quiet, and he lis- tened while she talked of all he had been, and all she wished him to be in the future. Faithfully, but gently, she went over with his faults, one by one, beseeching him to forsake them, and with a bursting heart he prom- ised everything which she required, and told her again of the reform already commenced. " God bless you, my boy, and prosper you as you keep this pledge to your dying mother, and whether you are great or not, may you be good and Christlikc, and come one day to meet me where sorrow is unknown," she MOTHER AND SON. 45 said to him finally ; then, after a pause, she continued: " There is one subject more of which, as a woman and your mother, I must speak to you. Some day you will marry, of course " " Yes, mother," and Everard started -violently, while the cold sweat stood in drops about his lips, but he could say no more then, and his mother continued : " I have thought many times who and what your wife would be, and have pictured her often to myself, and loved her for your sake ; but I shall never see her, when she comes here I shall be gone, and so I will speak of her now, and say it is not my wish that you should wait many years before marrying. I believe in early marriages, where there is mutual love and esteem. Then you make allowance more readily for each other's habits and pecu- liarities. I mean no disrespect to your father, he has been kind to me, but I think he waited too long ; there were too many years between us ; my feelings and ideas were young, his middle-aged ; better begin alike for perfect unity. And, my boy, be sure you marry a lady." "A lady, mother?" Everard said, wondering if his mother would call Josephine a lady. "Yes, Everard," she replied, " a lady in the true sense of the word, a person of education and refinement, and somewhere near your own rank in life. I never believed in the Maud Muller poem, never was sorry that the judge did not take the maiden for his wife. He might, perhaps, never have blushed for her, but he would have blushed for her family, and their likeness in his children's faces would have been a secret annoyance. I do not say that every mesalliance proves unhappy, but it is better to marry your equal, if you can, for a low-born person, with low-born tastes, will, of necessity, drag you down to her level." She stopped a moment to rest, but Everard did not speak for the fierce struggle in his heart. He must tell her of Josephine, and could he say that she had no low- born tastes ? Alas, he could not, when he remembered things which had dropped from her pretty lips so easily and naturally, and at which he had laughed as at some- thing spicy and daring. His mother would call them coarse, with all her innate refinement and delicacy, and a shiver ran through him as he seemed to hear again the 46 MOTHER AND SON. words " I pronounce you man and wife." They were always ringing in his ears, louder sometimes than at others, and now they were so loud as almost to drown the low voice which after a little went on : " I do not believe in parents selecting companions for their children, but surely I may suggest. You are not obliged to follow my suggestion. I would have your choice perfectly free," she added, quickly, as she saw a look of consternation on his face, and mistook its mean- ing. " I have thought, and think still, that were I to choose for you, it would be Beatrice." "Beatrice! Bee Belknap ! mother," and Everard fairly gasped. " Bee Belknap is a great deal older than I am." " Just a year, which is not much in this case. She will not grow old fast, while you will mature early; the disparity would never be thought of," Mrs. Forrest said. " Beatrice is a little wild, and full of fun and frolic, but under all that is a deep-seated principle of propriety and right, which makes her a noble and lovely character. I should be willing to trust you with her, and your father's heart is quite set on this match. I may tell you now that it has been in his mind for years, and I wish you to please him, both for his sake and yours. I hope you will think of it, Everard, and try to love Beatrice; surely it cannot be hard to do that ?" "No, mother," Everard said, "but you seem to put her out of the question entirely. Is she to have no choice in the matter, and do you think that, belle and flirt as she is, she would for a moment consider me, Ned Forrest, whom she calls a boy, and ridicules unmercifully? She would not have me, were I to ask her a thousand times." "I think you may be wrong," Mrs. Forrest said. "It purely can't be that you love some one else ?" and she looked at him searchingly. Now was the time to speak of Josephine, if ever, and while his heart beat so loudly that he could hear it, he said, " Yes, mother, I do like some one else ; it is a young girl in Holburton, where I staid last summer. She is very beautiful. This is her picture," and he passed Josephine's photograph to his mother, who studied it carefully for two or three minutes; then turning her eyes to her son she said : " She is beautiful, so far as features MOTHER AND SON. 47 and complexion are concerned, but I am greatly mistaken in you if the original of this face can satisfy you long." " Why, mother, what fault have you to find with her? Isn't she a born lady?" Everard asked, a little scornfully, for he was warming up in Josephine's defense. " Don't misunderstand what I mean by a lady," Mrs. Forrest said. " Birth has not all to do with it. Per- sons may be born of the lowliest parentage, and in the humblest shed, but still have that within them which will refine, and soften, and elevate till the nobility with- in asserts itself, and lifts them above their surroundings. In this case," and she glanced again at the picture, " the inborn nobility, if there were any, has had time to assert itself, and stamp its impress upon the face, and it has not done that." " For pity's sake, mother, tell me what you see to dislike so much in Josephine !" Everard burst out, indig- nantly. His mother knew he was angry, but she would not spare him, lest a great misfortune should befall him. She saw the face she looked upon was very fair, but there was that about it from which she shrank intuitively, her quick woman instinct telling her it was false as fair, and not at all the face she would have in her boy's home ; so she answered him unhesitatingly : " Shall I tell you the kind of person I fancy this girl to be, judging from her picture? Her face is one to attract young men like you, and she would try to attract you, too, and the very manner with which she would do it would be the perfection of art. There is a treacher- ous, designing look in these eyes, so blue and dreamy, and about the mouth there is a cruel, selfish expression which I do not like. I do not believe she can be trusted. And then, it may be a minor matter, I do not like her style of dress. A really modest girl would not have sat for her picture with so much exposure of neck and arms, and so much jewelry. Surety you must have noticed the immense chain and cross, and all the show of brace- lets, and pins, and ornaments in her hair." Everard had thought of it, but he would not acknowl- edge it, and his mother continued : " Tfye whole effect is tawdry, and, excuse me for 48 MOTHER AND SON. putting it so strongly, but it reminds me of the dollar store, and the jewelry bought there. She cannot have the true instincts of a lady. Who is she, Everard, and where does she live ?" Everard was terribly hurt and intensely mortified, while something told him that his mother was not alto- gether wrong in her estimation of the girl, whose picture did resemble more a second-rate actress tricked out in her flashy finery than a pure, modest young girl ; but he an- swered his mother's question, and said : "She lives in Holburton, New York, and her name is Josephine Fleming. I boarded for three weeks last summer with her mother, Widow Roxie Fleming, as the people call her." He spit the last out a little defiantly, feeling resolved that his mother should know all he knew about the Flemings, be it good or bad, but he was not prepared for the next remark. " Roxie ? Roxie Fleming ? Is she a second wife, and is there a step daughter much older than Josephine?" " Yes; but how did you know it, and where have you seen them ?" Everard asked, eagerly, his anger giving way to his nervous dread of some development worse even than the dollar jewelry, which had hurt him cruelly. " Years ago, when I was a young girl, we had in our family a cook, Roxie Burrows by name, competent, tidy, and faithful in the discharge of her duties, but crafty, designing and ambitious. Our butcher was a Mr. Flem- ing, a native of Ireland, and a very respectable man, whose little daughter used sometimes to bring us the steak for breakfast in the morning, and through whom Roxie captured the father, after the mother died. She was so sorry for the child, and mended her frocks, and made much of her till the father was won, when, it was said, the tables were turned, and little Agnes mended the frocks and darned the socks, while Roxie played the lady. I remember hearing of the birth of a daughter, but I was married about that time, and knew no more of the Flemings until a few years later, when I was visiting in Boston, and mother told me that he was dead, and Roxie had gone with the children to some place West. I am sure it must be the same woman with whom you MOTHER AND SON. 49 boarded. Has she sandy hair and light gray eyes, with long yellow lashes ?" ' Yes, she has ; it is the same," Everard replied, with a feeling like death in his heart as he thought how im- possible it was now to tell his mother that Josephine was his wife. How impossible it was that she would ever be recon- ciled to the daughter of her cook and butcher, who added to her other faults the enormity of wearing dollar jew- elry ! And I think that last really hurt Everard the most. On such points he was very fastidious and par- ticular, and more than once had himself thought Josey's dress too flashy, but the glamour of love was over all, and a glance of her blue eyes, or touch of her white hands always set him right again and brought him back to his allegiance. But the hands and the eyes were not there now to stand between him and what his mother had said, and he felt like crying out bitterly as he took back his photograph and listened a few moments longer, while his mother talked lovingly and kindly, telling him he must forgive her if she had seemed harsh, that it was for his good, as he would one day see. He would forget this boyish fancy in time and come to wonder a his in- fatuation. Forget it ! with those words ever in his ears, " I pronounce you man and wife." He could not forget, and it was not quite sure that he would do so if he could. Josey's face and Josey's wiles had a power over him yet to keep him comparatively loyal. He had loved her with all the intensity of a boy's first fervent passion, which never stopped to criticise her manner, or language, or style of dress, though, now that his eyes were opened a little, it occurred to him that there might be something flashy in her appearance, and something told him that the massive chain and cross, so conspicuous on Josephine's bosom, came from that store in Pittsfield, where everything was a dollar, from an immense pic- ture down to a set of spoons. And his mother had de- tected it, by what subtle intuition he could not guess ; and had traced her origin back to a butcher and a cook ! Well, what then ? Was Jose^t the worse for that ? Was it not America's boast that the children of butchers, and bakers, and candlestick-makers should stand in the high places and give rule ? Certainly it 50 MOTHER AND SON. was, and his mother herself had said it was neither birth nor blood which made the lady. It was a nobleness from within asserting itself without, and stamping its impress upon its possessor. And had Josephine this inborn re- finement and nobility, or had she not ? That was the point which troubled the young man as he went out from his mother's presence, and sought a little arbor in a re- tired part of the grounds where he would be free to think it out. With his head, which was aching terribly, bowed upon his hands, he went over all the past as connected with Josephine, detecting here and there many a word and act which, alas, went far toward proving that his mother's estimate of her was not very wrong. But how did his mother divine it ? Had women some secret method of reading each other unknown to the other sex. Could Beatrice read her, too, from that photograph, and what would Bee's verdict be ? He wished he knew ; wished he could show it to her incidentally as the photo- graph of a mere acquaintance. And while he was thus thinking he heard in the distance Bee's voice, and lifting up his head he saw her corning down the long walk gayly and airily, in her pretty white muslin dress, with a bit of pink coral in her ears and in the lace bow at her throat. One could see that she was a saucy, fun-loving, frolic- some girl, with opinions of her own, which sometimes startled the staid ones who walked year by year in the same rut, but she was every whit a lady, and looked it, too, as she came rapidly toward Everard, who found himself studying and criticising her as he had never criticised a woman before. She was not like Josephine, though wherein the difference consisted he could not tell. He only knew that the load at his heart was heavier than ever, and that he almost felt that in some way he was aggrieved by this young girl, who, when she saw him, hastened her steps and was soon at his side. " Oh, here you are," she said, " Rossie told me I should find you in the garden. I came to inquire after that broken head, for which I feel responsible. Why, Ned," she continued, calling him by the old familiar name of his boyhood, u how white you are ! I am afraid it was more serious than I supposed ;" and she looked anxiously into his pale, worn face. His head was aching terribly, but he would not ac- MOTHER AND SON. 51 knowledge it. He only said he was a little tired, that the cut on his forehead was nothing, and would soon be well ; then, making Beatrice sit down beside him, he be- gan to ask her numberless questions about the people of Rothsay, especially the young ladies. Where was Sylvia Blackmer, and where was Annie Doane, and, by-the-\vay, where was Allie Beadle, that pretty little blonde, with the great blue eyes, who used to sing in the choir. " By Jove, she was pretty," he said, " except that her hair was a little too yellow. She looks so much like a girl east that some of the college boys rave about, only this girl, Miss Fleming, is the prettier of the two. I shouldn't wonder if I had her photograph somewhere. She had a lot taken and gave me one. Yes, here it is," he continued, after a feint of rummaging his pocket- book. "What do you think of her?" he asked, passing the picture to Beatrice, and feeling himself a monster of duplicity and deception. Bee took the card, and looking at it a moment, said : " Yes, she is very pretty ; but you don't want any- thing to do with that girl. She is not like you." It was the old story repeated, and Everard felt net- tled and annoyed, but managed not to show it, as he replied : " Who said I did want anything to do with her ? But honestly, though, what do you see in her to dislike?" "Nothing to dislike," Bee said, " I do not fancy her make-up, that's all. She looks as if she would wear cot- ton lace !" and having said what in her estimation was the worst thing she could say of a woman, Beatrice handed him back the picture, which he put up silently, feeling that he could not tell Beatrice of Josey. He could not tell anybody unless it was Rossie, and he did not believe he cared to do that now, though he would like to show her the picture and hear what she had to say. Would she see dollar jewelry and cotton lace in the face he thought so divine? He meant to try her, and after Beatrice was gone he strolled off to a shaded part of the grounds, where he came upon Rossie watering a bed of fuchsias. She was not sylph-like and graceful, or clad in airy muslin, like Beatrice. She was unformed and angular, and her dress was a dark chintz, short enough to show her slender ankles, which he ha$ 53 MOTHER AND SON. once teasingly called pipe-stems, and her thick boots, which were much too large, for she would not have her feet pinched, and always wore shoes a size and a-half too big. A clean white apron, ruffled and fluted, and a white sun-bonnet, completed her costume. Josephine would have called her " homely," if she had noticed her at all, and some such idea was in Everard's mind as he ap- proached her ; but when, at the sound of his footsteps, she turned and flashed upon him from beneath the cape- bonnet those great, brilliant eyes, he changed his mind, and thought : " Won't those eyes do mischief yet, when Rossie gets a little older." She was glad to see him, and stopped watering her flowers while she inquired after his head, and if Miss Belknap found him. " Yes, she did," he said, adding, as he sat down in a rustic chair : " Bee is handsome and no mistake." " That's so," Rossie replied, promptly, for Bee Bel- knap's beauty was her hobby. " She is the handsomest girl I ever saw. Don't you think so ?" Here was his opportunity, and he hastened to seize it. " Why, no," he said, " not the very handsomest I ever saw. I have a photograph of a girl I think prettier. Here she is." And he passed Josephine's picture toward Rossie, who set down her watering-pot, and wiping her soiled hands, took it as carefully as if it had been the picture of a goddess. " Oh, Mr. Everard !" she cried, " she is beautiful ; more so than Miss Beatrice, I do believe. Such dreamy eyes, which look at you so kind of kind of coaxingly, somehow ; and such lovely hair ! Who is she, Mr. Everard ?" " Oh, she's one of the girls," Everard answered, laugh- ingly, and experiencing a sudden revulsion of feeling in Josey's favor at Rossie's opinion of her. Here was one who could give an unprejudiced opin- ion ; here was a champion for Josey ; and in his delight, Everard thought how, with his first spare money, he would buy Rossie a gold ring, as a reward of merit for what she had said of Josey. Her next remarks, how- ever, dampened his ardor a little. " She's very rich, isju't she ?" Rossie asked ; and he replied ; MOTHER AND SON. 53 " No, not rich at all. Why do you think that ?" " Because she has such a big chain and cross, and such heavy bracelets and ear-rings, and is dressed more than Miss Belknap dresses at a grand party," Rossie said : and Everard answered her quickly : " Rossie, you are a little thing, not much bigger than my thumb, but you have more sense than many older girls. Tell me, then, if you know, is it bad taste to be overdressed in a picture, and is it a crime, a sin, to wear bogus jewelry ?" She did not at all know at what he was aiming, and, pleased with the compliment to her wisdom, answered, with great gravity : " Not a crime to wear flash jewelry, no. I wore a brass ring once till it blacked my finger. I wore a glass breast-pin, too, which cost me twenty-five cents, till your mother said it was foolish, and not like a lady. But I do not think it's a crime ; it's only second-classy. A great many do it, and I shouldn't wonder a bit if," here the little lady looked very wise, and lifted her fore- finger by way of emphasis "I shouldn't wonder a bit if this chain and cross were both shams, for now that I look at her more closely, she looks like a sham, too." Rosamond's prospect for a ring was gone forever, and Everard's voice trembled as he took back his pic- ture, and said : " Thank you, Rossie, for telling me what you thought. Maybe she is a sham. Most things are in this world, I find." Then he walked rapidly away, while Rossie stood looking after him and wondering if he was angry with her, and who the young girl was, and if he really liked her. " I hope not," she thought, " for though she is very handsome, there is something about her which does not seem like Mr. Everard and Miss Beatrice. They ought to go together ; they must ; it is so suitable ;" and having settled the future of Beatrice and Everard to her own satisfaction, the little girl resumed her work among the flowers, and did not see Everard again until supper- time, when he looked so pale and tired that even his father noticed it and asked if he were sick. Ihe cut over his eye was paining him, he said, and if 54 MOTHER AND SON. they would excuse him he would retire to his room early, and should probably be all right on the morrow. The night was hot and sultry, and even the light breeze from the river seemed oppressive and laden with thunder, and for hours Everard lay awake thinking of the future, which stretched before him so drearily with that burden on his mind. How he wished that it might prove a dream, from which he should awake to find himself free once more, free to marry Josephine if he chose, and he presumed he should, but not till his college days were over, and he could take her openly and publicly as a true man takes the woman he loves and honors. How he hated to be a sneak and a coward, and he called him- self by these names many times, and loathed himself for the undefinable something creeping over him, and which made him shrink even from Josephine herself as Jose- phine. He said he did not care a picayune for the butcher and the cook, and he did not care for the dollar jewelry and cotton lace, though he would rather his mother and Bee had not used the opprobrious terms, but he did care for the sham of which his mother had spoken, and which even. Rossie had de- tected. Was Josey a sham, and if so, what was his life with her to be ? Alas for Everard ! he was only just entering the cloud which was to overshadow him for so many wretched years. At last he fell into a troubled sleep, from which he was aroused by the noise of the storm of rain which had swept down the river and was beating against the house, but above the storm there was another sound, Rossie calling to him in tones of affright, and bidding him hasten to his mother, who was dying. Of all which followed next Everard retained in after life but a vague consciousness. There was a confused dressing in the dark, a hurrying to his mother, whose white face turned so eagerly toward him, and whose pallid lips were pressed upon his brow as they prayed God to keep him from evil, and bring him at last to the world she was going to. There were words of love and tender parting to the stricken husband and heart-broken Rossie, who had been to her like a daughter, and whom she committed to the care of both Everard and his father, as a precious legacy left in their charge. Then, MOTHER AND SON. 55 drawing Everard close to her, she whispered so low that no one else could hear : "Forgive me if I seemed harsh in what I said of Josephine. I only meant it for your good. I may have been mistaken ; I hope I was. I hope she is good, and true, and womanly, and if she is, and you 'love her, her birth is of no consequence, none whatever. God bless you, my child, and her, too !" She never spoke again, and when the early summer morning looked into the room, there was only a still, motionless figure on the bed, with pale hands folded upon the bosom, and the pillow strewn with flowers, which Rosamond had put there. Rosamond thought of everything ; first of the dead, then of the stern judge, who broke down entirely by the side of his lost Mary, and then of Everard, who seemed like one stunned by'a heavy blow. With the constantly increasing pain in his head, blinding him even more than the tears he shed, he wrote to Josephine : " Oh, Josey, you will be sorry for me when I tell you mother is dead. She died this morning at three o'clock, and I am heart-broken. She was all the world to inc. What shall I do without my mother?" He posted the letter himself, and then kept his room, and for the most part his bed, until the day of the fune- ral, when, hardly knowing what he was doing, or realiz- ing what was passing around him, he stood by his mother's grave, saw the coffin lowered into it, heard the earth rattling down upon it, and had a strange sensation of wonder as to whom they were burying, and who ho was himself. That puzzled him the most, except, in- deed, the question as to where the son was, the young man from Amherst College, who drove such fast horses, and smoked so many cigars, and sometimes bet at cards. " He ought to be here seeing to this," he thought ; and then, as a twinge of pain shot through his temple, he moaned faintly, and went back to the carriage, in which he was driven rapidly home. There was a letter from Josephine in his room, which had come while he was at his mother's grave. lie recog- nized the handwriting at once, and with a feeling as if something were clutching his throat and impeding his breath, he took it up, and opening it, read his first letter from his wife. JOSEPHINE. CHAPTER VII. JOSEPHINE. IMMEDIATELY after Everard's departure she wrote to the postmaster at Clarence, making inquiries for Doctor Matthewson, and in due time received an answer addressed to the fictitious name which she had given. There had been a clergyman in town by that name, the post- master wrote, but he had been dismissed for various mis- demeanors. However, a, marriage performed by him, with the knowledge and consent of the parties, would undoubtedly be binding on such parties. Latterly he had taken to the study of medicine, and assumed the title of " Doctor." There could be no mistake, and the harrowing doubt which had so weighed on Josephine's spirits gave way as she read this answer to her letter. She was Mrs. James Everard Forrest, and she wrote the name many times on slips of paper which she tore up and threw upon the floor. Then, summoning Agnes from the kitchen, she bade her arrange her hair, for there was a concert in the Hall that night, and she was going. Al- ways meek and submissive, Agnes obeyed, and brushed and curled the beautiful golden hair, and helped array her sister in the pretty blue muslin, and clasped about her neck and arms the heavy bracelets and chain which had been so criticised and condemned at the Forrest House. They were not quite as bright now as when the young lady first bought tiiem in Pittsfield. Their luster was somewhat tarnished, and Josephine knew it, and felt a qualrn of disgust every time she looked at them. She knew the difference between the real and the sham quite as well as Beatrice herself, and by and by, when she was established in her rightful position as Mrs. Ever- ard Forrest, she meant to indulge to the full her fondness for dress, and make amends for the straits to which she had all her life been subjected. " She would make old Forrest's money fly, only let JOSEPHINE. 57 her have a chance," she said to Agnes, to whom she was repeating the contents of the letter just received from Clarence. "Then it's true, and you are his wife?" Agnes said, her voice indicative of anything but pleasure. This Josephine was quick to detect, and she answered, sharply : "His wife? yes. Have you any objection? One would suppose by your manner that you were sorry for Everard." " And so I am," Agnes answered, boldly. " I don't believe lie knew what he was doing. It's a pity for him, he is so young, and we so different." "So different, Agnes? I wish you wouldn't forever harp on that string. As if I were not quite as good as a Forrest or any other aristocrat. Can't you ever forget your Irish blood ? It does not follow because the poor people in Ireland and England lie down and let the nobility walk over them, that we do it in America, where it does sometimes happen that the daughter of a butcher and a cook may marry into a family above her level." " Yes, I know all that," Agnes said. " Praised be Heaven for America, where everybody who has it in him can rise if he will ; and yet, there's a difference here, just as much and more, I sometimes think, for to be some- body you must have it in you. I can't explain, but I know what I mean, and so do you." " Yes, I do," Josephine replied, angrily. " You mean that I have not the requisite qualifications to make me acceptable at the Forrest House ; that my fine lady from Boston would be greatly shocked to know that the mother of her daughter-in-law once cooked her dinner and washed her clothes." " No, not for that, not for birth or poverty," Agnes said, eagerly, " but because you are, you are " "Well, what?" Josephine demanded, impatiently, and Agnes replied : " You are what yon are." " And pray what am I?" Josephine retorted. " I was Miss Josephine Fleming, daughter of Mrs. Roxie Flem- ing, who used to work for the Bigelows of Boston till she married an Irish butcher, who was shabby enough to die and leave her to shift for herself, which she did by 3* 58 JOSEPHINE. taking boarders. That's what I was. Now, I am Mrs. James Everard Forrest, with a long line of blue-blooded Southern ancestry, to say nothing of the bluer Bigelows of Boston. That's who I am ; so please button my boots and bring me my shawl and fan ; it's high time I was off." Agnes obeyed, and buttoned the boots,, and put a bit of blacking on the toe where the leather was turning red, and brought the fleecy shawl and wrapped it care- fully around her sister, who looked exceedingly graceful and pretty, and bore herself like a princess as she entered the Hall and took one of the most conspicuous seats. How she wished the people could know the honor to which she had come; and when, to the question as to who she was, asked by a stranger behind her, she heard the reply, " Oh, that's Joe Fleming ; her mother keeps boarders," she longed to shriek out her new name, and announce herself as Mrs. James Everard Forrest. But it was policy to keep silent, and she was content to bide her time, and anticipate what she would do in the future when her marriage was announced. Of Everard himself she thought a great deal, but she thought more of his position and wealth than she did of him. And yet she was very anxious to hear from him, and when his letter came she tore it open eagerly, while a bright flush col- ored her cheek when she saw the words, "My dear little wife," and her heart was very light as she read the brief letter, so light, in fact, that it felt no throb of pity for the sick and dying mother. Josey had heard from her mother of the aristocratic Miss Bigelow, at whose grand wedding governors and senators had been present, and she shrank from this high-born woman, who might weigh her in the balance and find her sadly wanting. So she felt no sympathy with Everard's touching in- quiry, "What shall I do without my mother?" He \vould do very well indeed, she thought, and as for her- self, she would rather reign alone at Forrest House than share her kingdom with another. How she chafed and fretted that she could not begin her triumph at once, but must wait two years, at least, and be known as Jo- sephine Fleming, who held her position in Hoi burton only with her pretty face and determined will. But there was no help for it, and, for the present, she must JOSEPHINE. 69 be content with the knowledge that Everard was hers, and that by and by his money would be hers also. To do her just ice, however, she was just now a good deal in love with her young husband, and thought of him almost as often as of his money, though that was a very weighty consideration, and when her mother suggested that there was no reason why she should not, to a certain degree, be supported by her husband, even if she did not take his name, she indorsed the suggestion heartily, and the letter she wrote to Everard, in reply to his, contained a request for money. The letter was as follows : " HOLBTJRTON, July . " DEAR EVERAED : T was so glad to get your letter, and oh, my darling, how sorry I am to hear of your dear mother's dangerous illness ! I trust it is not as bad as you feared, and hope she may recover. I know I should love her, and I mean to try to be what I think she would wish your wife to be. I am anxious to know if you told her, and what she said. " I have written to Clarence, as Dr. Matthewson bade me do, and find that he really was a clergyman ; so there can be no mistake about the marriage, and if you do not regret it I certainly do not, only it is kind of forlorn to know you have a husband and still live apart from him, and be denied the privilege of his name. It is for the best, however, and I am content to wait your pleasure. And, now, my dear husband, don't think meanly of me, will j'ou, and accuse me of being mercenary. You would not if you knew the straits we are driven to in order to meet our expenses. Now that I am your wife I wish to take lessons in music and French, so as to fit myself for the position I hope one day to fill in your family. You must not be ashamed of me, and you shall not, if I only have the means with which to improve my mind. If yon can manage to send me fifty dollars I shall make the best possible use of it. You do not know how I hate to ask you so soon, but I feel that I must in order to carry out my plans for improvement. " And now, my darling husband, I put both my arms around your neck and kiss you many, many times, and 60 JOSEPHINE. ask you not to be angry with me, but write to me soon, and send the money, if possible. " Truly, lovingly, faithfully, your wife, JOE." "I haven't told more than three falsehoods," Josey said to herself, as she read the letter over. " I said I hoped his mother would recover, and that I knew I should love her, and that I wanted the money to pay for music and French, when, in fact, I want more a silk dress in two shades of brown. And he will send it, too. He'll manage to get it from his father or mother, and I may as well drop in at Hurt's and look at the silk this after- noon, on my way to post this letter." She did drop in at Burt's and looked at the silk, and saw another piece, more desirable every way, and fifty cents more a yard. And from looking she grew to cov- eting, and was sorry that she had not asked for seventy- five instead of fifty dollars, as the one would be as likely to be forthcoming as the other. Once she thought to open her letter and add a P. S. to it, but finally decided to wait and write again for the extra twenty-five. The merchant would reserve the silk for her a week or more, he said, and picturing to herself how she should look in the two shades of brown, Josey tripped off to the post- office, where she deposited the letter, which Everard found upon his table on his return from his mother's grave. It was the silk which in Josey's mind was the most desirable, but the music and the French must be had as well, and so she called upon a Mrs. Herring, who gave music lessons in the town, and proposed that she should have two lessons a week, with the use of piano, and that as compensation the lady's washing, and that of her lit- tle girl, should be done by sister Agnes, who was repre- sented as the instigator of the plan. As the arrangement was better for the lady than for Josey, the bargain was closed at once, and Mrs. J. E. Forrest took her first lesson that very afternoon, showing such an aptitude and eager- ness to learn that her teacher assured her of quick and brilliant success as a performer. The French was man- aged in much the same way, and paid for in plain sewing, which Josey, who was handy and neat with her needle, undertook herself, instead of putting it upon her mother or poor Agnes, who, on the Monday following, saw, with EVERARD. 61 dismay, the basket piled high with extra linen, which she was to wash and iron. There was a weary sigh from the heavily-burdened woman, and then she took up this added task without a single protest, and scrubbed, and toiled, and sweat, that Josey might have the accomplishments which were to fit her to be mistress of the Forrest House. Every day Josey passed the shop window at Burt's, and stopped to admire the silk, and at last fell into the trap laid for her by the scheming merchant, who told her that three other ladies had been looking at it with a view to purchase, and she'd better decide to take it at once if she really wanted it ; so she took it, and wrote to Everard that night, asking why he did not send the fifty dollars, and asking him to increase it with twenty-five more. CHAPTER VHL EVEEAED. E was so giddy, and sick, and faint, when he returned to the house from his mother's grave, that he had scarcely strength to reach his room, where the first object which caught his eye was Josephine's letter upon the table. Very eagerly he caught it up, and breaking the seal, began to read it, his pulse quickening and his heart beat- ing rapidly as he thought, "She would be so sorry for me if she knew." He was so heart-sore and wretched in his bereavement, and he wanted the sympathy of some one, wanted to be petted, as his mother had always petted him in all his griefs, and as she would never pet him again. She was dead, and his heart went out with a great yearning after his young wife, as the proper person to comfort and sootlie him now. Had she been there he would have declared her his in the face of all the world, and laying his aching head in her lap would have sobbed out his sorrow. But she was far away, and he was read- 62 EVERARD. ing her letter, which did not give him ranch satisfaction from the very first. There was an eagerness to assure him that the marriage was valid, and he was glad, of course, that it was so, and conld not blame her for chafing against the secrecy which they must fora time maintain ; but what was this request for fifty dollars, this hint that she had a right to ask support from him? In all his dread of the evils involved in a secret marriage he had never dreamed that she would ask him so soon for fifty dollars, when he had not five in the world, and but for Rosamond's generous forethought in sending him the ten lie would have been obliged to borrow to get home. Fifty dollars ! It seemed to the young man like a fabulous sum, which he could never procure. For how was he to do it? He had told his father distinctly that he was free from debt, that he did not owe a dollar, and if lie should go to him now with a request for fifty dollars what would he say ? It made Everard shiver just to think of confronting his stern father with that demand. The thing was impossible. " I can't do it," he said; and then, in his despair, it occurred to him that Josey had no right to make this demand upon him so soon ; she might have known he could only meet it by asking his father, which was sure to bring a fearful storm about his head. It was not modest, it was not nice in her, it was not womanly ; Bee would never have done it, Rossie would never have done it ; but they were different and there came back to him the remembrance of what his mother had said, and with it a great horror lest Jose- phine might really lack that innate refinement which marks a true lady. But he would not be disloyal to her even in thought ; she was his wife, and she had a right to look to him for support when she could have nothing else. She could not take his name, she could not have his society, and he was a brute to feel annoyed because she asked him for money with which to fit herself for his wife. "She is to be commended for it," lie thought. " I wish her to be accomplished when I present her to Bee, who is such a splendid performer, and jabbers French like a native. Oh, if I had the money," he con- tinued, feeling as by a revelation that Josephine would never cease her importunings until she had what she wanted. EVERAttD. 63 But how should he get it? Could he work at some- thing and earn it, or could he sell his watch, his mother's gift when he was eighteen ? " No, not that ; I can't part with that," he groaned :, and then he remembered his best suit of clothes, which had cost nearly a hundred dollars, and a great many hard words from his father. He could sell these in Cin- cinnati ; he had just money enough to go there and back, and he would do it the next day, and make some excuse for taking a valise, and no one need be the wiser. That was the very best thing he could do, and comforted with this decision he crept shivering to bed just as the clock was striking the hour of eleven. Breakfast waited a long time for him the next morn- ing, and when she saw how impatient the judge was growing, Rosamond went to his door and knocked loudly upon it, but received no answer, except a faint sound like a moan of pain, which frightened her, and sent her at once to the judge, who went himself to his son's room. Everard was not asleep, nor did he look as if he had ever slept, with his blood-shot, wide-open eyes rolling restlessly in his head, which moved from side to side as if in great distress. He did not know his father ; he did not know anybody ; and said that he was not sick, when the doctor came, and he would not be blistered and he wouldn't be bled ; he must get up and have his clothes, his best ones, and he made Rossie bring them to him and fold them up and put them in his satchel, which he kept upon his bed all during the two weeks when he lay raving with delirium and burning with fever induced by the cut on his head, and aggravated by the bleeding and blistering which he had without stint. Rossie was the nurse who staid constantly with him, and who alone could quiet him when he was determined to get up and sell his clothes. This was the burden of his talk. "I must sell them and get the money," he would say, but, with a singular kind of cunning common to crazy people, he never said money before his father. It was only to Rosamond that he talked of that, and once, when she sat alone with him, he said : ; ' Don't let the governor know, for your life." " No, I won't ; you can trust me," she replied ; then, 64 EVERARD. while she bathed his throbbing head, she asked : " Why do you want the money, Mr. Everard ? What will you do with it ?" " Send it to Joe" he said. " Do you know Joe ?" Rossie didn't know Joe, and she innocently asked : "Who is he?" " Who is he?" Everard repeated : " ha, ha ! that's a good joke. Jfe, Joe would enjoy that ; he is a splendid fellow, I tell you." " And you owe him ?" Rossie asked, her heart sinking like lead at his prompt reply. " Yes, that's it ; you've hit the nail. I owe him and I must pay, and that's why I sell my clothes. I owe him money, him, that's capital." He had told her that he had no debts and she believed him, and had been so glad, and thought he had broken from his old associates and habits, and was trying to do better. And it was not so at all ; he had not broken off ; he still had dealings with a mysterious Joe, who- ever he might be. Some great hulking fellow, no doubt, who drank, and raced, and gambled, and had led Ever- ard astray. Rossie's heart was very sad and her voice full of vsorrow as she asked next : " Was it gambling ? Was it at play that you in- curred this debt ?" " Yes, by George, you've hit it again !" he exclaimed, catching at the word /to/. "It was a play, and for fun I thought at first, but it proved to be the real thing, a lark, a sell, a trap. By Jove, I b'lieve it was a trap, and they meant me to fall into it ; I do, upon my word, and I fell, and now Joe must have fifty dollars from me." " Fifty dollars !" and Rossie gasped at the enormous Bum. Where would he get it? Where could he get it? Not from his father, that was certain, and not from her, for her quarterly interest on her two thousand dollars was not due in weeks, and even if it were, it was not fifty dollars. Perhaps Miss Belknap would loan it if she were to ask her, and assume the payment herself. But in that case she must give the reason, and she would not for the world compromise Everard by so much as a breath of censure. Bee must think well of him at all EVERARD. 65 costs, for Rossie's heart was quite as much set on Bea- trice's being the mistress of Forrest House, some day, as the mother's had been. She could not borrow of Miss Belknap, but, Rossie started from her chair as quickly as if she had been struck, while her hands involuntarily clutched her luxuriant hair, rippling in heavy masses - down her back. She could do that for Mr. Everard, but her face was white to her lips, which quivered a little as she resumed her seat, and said : " What is Joe's other name ? Joe what ?" Everard looked at her cunningly a moment, and then replied : " Guess !" " I can't," she replied, " I have nothing to start from ; nothing to guide me ; I might guess all day, and not get it." " Suppose you start with some kind of fruit, say pears. What varieties have we in our garden ?" he said ; and Rossie answered : " There are the Seckels. Is it Joe Seckels ?" " No." " Joe Bartlett ?" "No." "Joe Bell?" "No." " Joe Vergelieu ?" "No." "Joe Sheldon?" "No." " There's the Louise Bonne de Jersey. It can't be Joe Bonne de Jersey." "No, stupid." . " Well, Flemish Beauty ? It can't be that." " How do you know ? Joe is a beauty, and a Flemish one, if you change the sh into ng. No, try 'em again." "Joe Fleming?" Rossie asked, and with an insane chuckle Everard replied : " You bet! Rossie, you are a brick ! You are a trump ! You've hit it exactly, Joe Fleming." Rossie had in her pocket a pencil, and on a bit of newspaper wrote the name rapidly, and then asked : " Does he live in Amherst ?" "No." 66 EVE BAUD. " In Ellicottville ?" "No." " Well, then, in Holburton, where you were last summer. Didn't you board with a Fleming ?" "You are right again. He lives in Ilolburton," Evcrard replied, laughing immoderately at the idea of he as applied to Josephine. Thus far he had answered all Rossie's questions cor- rectly, but when she said, "Tell me, please, his right name. Is it Joel, or Joseph, or what?" the old look of cunning leaped into his eyes, and he answered her : "No, you don't. Joe is enough for you to know. Besides, why are you questioning me so closely? What are yon going to do?" " I'm going to try and get you out of your trouble," Rossie said, and starting up in bed, Everard exclaimed : " Get me out of the scrape ! Oh, Rossie, if you only would, if you only could !" " I can, I will !" Rossie said, emphatically, and he continued : "Out of every single bit of it? the whole thing, so I'll be free again ?" "Yes," Rossie answered at random ; "I think, I am sure, I will. But you must keep very quiet and not get excited, or talk. Try to sleep, and I'll fix it for you beautifully." How hopeful she was, and the delirious man believed and trusted in her, arid promised to sleep while she was gone to fix it. "But it may take a few days, you know," she said, "so you must be patient, and wait." lie acceded to everything, and closed his eyes as she left the room and repaired to her own, where she went straight to the glass, and letting out her heavy braids of hair, suffered it to fall over her shoulders like a vail. Then Rossie studied herself, and saw a thin face, with great, wide-open, black eyes, which would look larger, more wide-open still, with all that hair gone. What a fright she would be without her hair, which was beauti- ful. Bee Belknap had said so, others had said so, and, if she was not mistaken, Everard had said so, too, and for his sake she'd like to keep it, though for his sake she was deciding to part with it. Maybe he did not think THE RESULT. 67 it pretty, after all. She wished she knew ; and, yielding to a sudden impulse, she went back to his room with all her shining tresses about her, and so astonished him that he called out : " Halloo, Lady Godiva ! ' Are you going to ride through the town, clothed with modesty ?" Rossie was not well versed in Tennyson, and knew nothing of Lady Godiva, but she said to him : " Mr. Everard, do you think my hair pretty ?" "Nothing extra," 'was his reply. "I've seen hair handsomer than that. Don't be vain, Rossie. You will never be a beauty, hair or no hair." Her pride was hurt a little, but her mind was made up, and retiring to her room and fastening herself in, she sat down to write to Joe Fleming. CHAPTER IX THE RESULT. EASON said to her, " Perhaps there is no such person as Joe Fleming. Mr. Everard is crazy and does not know what he is saying ;" but to this Rossie replied, "That may be, but even then there can be no harm in writing. The letter will go to the dead-letter office and no one be the wiser, and if there is a Joe, he deserves to have a piece of ray rnind. I shall write any way." And she did write, and this is a copy of the letter : " FOKREST HOUSE, ROTHSAY, OHIO, ) "August 3d, 18. j" "MB. FLEMIXG Sir: I take the liberty of writing to you, because I think you ought to know how sick Mr. Everard Forrest is, and how much he is troubled about the money he owes you. He was thrown from a car- riage and hurt, more than ten days ago, and his mother died that same night, and you wrote for money, and everything together made him very sick and out of hia 68 THE RESULT. head, and that is the way I came to know about you and that gambling debt of his. I am Rosamond Hastings, a little girl who lives in the family, and Mr. Everard is like a brother to me, and I take care of him, and heard him talk of Joe and money which he had to pay, and he wanted to sell his clothes to raise it, and I found out from him that your name was Fleming, and that he owed you fifty dollars which must be paid at once. " I suppose rnen would call it a debt of honor, but, Mr. Fleming, do you think it right to gamble and entice young men like Mr. Everard to play ? I think it is very wicked, and dishonorable, and disreputable, and that you ought not to expect him to pay. Why, he cannot, for he has no money of his own, and his father would not give it to him for that, and would be so very angry that whatever comes he must never know it, never. " Xow, w r ill you give up the debt and not bother him any more? If you will, please write to him and say so. If you will not, write to me, and I shall try what I can do, for Mr. Everard must not be troubled with it. " Hoping you will excuse me, and that you will re- form and be a better man, I am, "Yours respectfully, " ROSAMOND HASTINGS." "P. S. You are not to suppose that Mr. Everard knows I am writing, for he does not ; nor are you to think that he has spoken ill of you in his delirium. On the contrary, I imagine that he likes you very much in- deed, and so I am led to hope that there is much good in you, and that you will not only release him, but quit gambling j-ourself." She sealed the letter, and directing it to "ME. JOE FLEMING, ESQ., Ilolburton, Mass.," posted it herself, and then anxiously waited the answer. Three days laler, and the clerk in the post-office at Ilolburton said, in reply to Josey's inquiry for letters : "There's one here for Mr. Joe Fleming ; that can't be you." " Let me see it," Josey said ; and when she saw that it was from Rothsay, Ohio, she continued : "It is for me, and it is done for a joke. I will take it." Then, hurrying home, she broke the seal and read THE RESULT. 69 the curious letter, amid screams of convulsive laughter, which brought both her mother and Agnes to her side. "Look here ; just listen, will yon?" she said, "some- body thinks I'm a man, and a gambler, and everything bad." And she read the letter aloud, while the tears ran down her face, and she grew almost hysterical with her glee. " Did you ever know a richer joke? What a stupid thing that girl must be," she said. But Agnes made no reply, and went quietly back to her work, while Josephine read the letter, a third time, feeling a little sorry for and a little anxious about Ever- ard. Rossie's postscript that he seemed to like her very much touched her and brought something like moisture to her eyes ; but she never for a moment thought of giv- ing up the debt. She must have the fifty dollars, for the brown silk was nearly finished, and the merchant ex- pected his money, so she wrote to Rossie as follows : " HOLBURTOX, August 7th, 18 . " Miss ROSAMOND HASTINGS : " Your letter is received, and though I am very sorry for Mr. Forrest's illness, and agree with you that it is wrong to gamble, I must still insist upon the money, as I am in great want of it, and Mr. Forrest will tell you that my claim is a just one. I may as well add that twenty-five dollars more are due me, which I shall be glad to have you send. I have written Mr. Forrest about it, but presume he has not been able to attend to it. " Hoping he is better, I am " Yours truly, "JoE FLEMING." Josephine's handwriting was large and plain, and she took great pains to make it still plainer and more mascu- line, and Rossie, when she received the letter, had no suspicion that it was not written by a man. Hastily breaking the seal, she read, with sinking heart, that the money must be paid, and, worse than all, that it was seventy-five instead of fifty dollars, as she had supposed. And she must raise it, and save Mr. Everard from all further trouble and anxiety. He was better now, and very quiet, and had allowed her to remove the satchel of clothes from his bed. Occasionally he spoke to her 70 THE RESULT. of Joe, and asked if she was sure she could help him out of the scrape. "Yes, sure," was always the reply of the brave lit- tle girl ; and she must keep her word at the sacrifice of what she held most dear, her abundant and beautiful hair. Rossie's mind was made up, and, after lunch was over, she started for Elm Park, where Miss Belknap lived. Bee was at home, and glad to see her little friend. She was very fond of Rossie, whose quaint, old-fashioned ways amused and rested her ; and she took her at once to the pretty blue chamber, which Rossie admired so much, and which seemed so in keeping with its lovely mistress. All Bee's tastes were of the most luxurious kind, and, as she had no lack of means, she gratified them to the full. The fever, which had deprived her of her hair, had hurt her pride sorely ; for the wig which she was wearing until her own hair grew again was not a success, and she chafed against it, and hated herself every time she looked in the glass ; and when Rosamond, who could not wait lest her courage should fail her, said, " Miss Beatrice, are you in earnest about my hair? Will you buy it now ?" she answered, " Buy it ? Yes, in a moment." "And give me seventy-five dollars ?" Rossie faltered, ashamed of herself for asking this enormous sum. But it did not at all appall Miss Belknap. Seventy- five dollars was nothing if she wished for anything, and she did want Rossie's hair. It was just the color and texture of her own, and she could have such a natural- looking wig made of it. "Yes, give you seventy-five dollars willingly;" she said. "But it seems very mean and selfish in me to take it," she continued ; and Rossie, fearful lest the bargain should fall through, answered eagerly : " Oh, no, it don't. I want the money very much in- deed. I am anxious to sell it, and, if you do not buy it, I shall go to some one else. But you must not ask me why, I can't tell that ; only, it is not for myself, it's for a friend ; I don't think the hair worth seventy-five dollars, but that is what I must have, and so I asked it. Maybe if you can give me fifty, and loan me twenty- five, I can pay it when my allowance is due." THE RESULT. 71 " You conscientious little chit," Bee said, laugh- ingly, " you have not yet learned the world's creed, take all you can get. I am willing to give yon seventy- five dollars, and, even at that price, think it cheap. But yon are a little girl, and will not look badly with short hair." With her natural shrewdness and her knowledge of some of Everard's shortcomings, Bee guessed that it was for him the sacrifice was ma le, and, when the barber's scis- sors gleamed among the shining tresses, she saw that they did not cut too close and make the girl a fright. But the loss of her hair changed Rossie very much, and when she went back to the Forrest House she shrank from the eyes of the servants, and stole up to her own room, where she could inspect herself freely, and see just how she looked. " Oh, how ugly I am, and how big my eyes are !" . she said, and two hot tears rolled down her cheeks ; but she resolutely dashed them away, and thought, u His mother would be so glad if she knew I was doing it for him." And the memory of the dead woman, who had been so kind to her, helped her. For her sake she could bear almost anything, and, putting on her hat, she left the house again, going this time to the office of the family lawyer, Mr. Russell, a kind, elderly man, who was very fond of Rossie, and at once put aside his papers when she came in. " Can I do anything for you to-day ?" he asked, and she replied : " I've come to ask you to write me just such a receipt as you would write if somebody owed you seventy-five dollars and you paid it in full. Don't ask me anything, only write it, and make it read as if the debtor didn't owe the creditor a penny after the date." 31 r. Russell looked curiously at the flushed face raised so eagerly to him, and in part guessed her secret. Like Bee, he knew of Everard's expensive habits, a.id sus- pected that this money had something to do with him. But he merely said : " What name shall I use ? The receipt will read like this: * Received of, blank, seventy-five dollars,' and so forth, Sow, how shall I fill the blank ?" 72 THE RESULT. Rossie thought a moment, and then replied : " Will it make any difference who writes the re- ceipt ?" "Not at all; the signature is what gives it its value." " Then will you please give me a form, a true one, you know, which I can copy and send, and ought I not to register the letter to make it safe V" She was quite a little business woman, and the old lawyer looked at her admiringly as he gave her the neces- sary directions, suggesting that a draft or post-office order would be better than to send the money. But Rossie did not care for so much publicity as she fancied drafts and post-office orders would involve. She pre- ferred to send the bills, a fifty, a twenty, and a five, directly to Joe, and she did so that very afternoon, for, as good luck would have it, Beatrice asked her to drive to an adjoining town, where she registered and posted her letter, and felt as if a weight were lifted from her mind. She had no suspicion of Joe's playing her false. He would, of course, return the receipt, and Mr. Everard would be free, and her heart was almost as light as her head when she returned home and went to Everard's room. That poor shorn head, how it stared at her in the glass, and how she tried to brush up the short, wavy hair, and make the most of it. But do the best she could, she presented rather a forlorn appearance when she went in to Everard, and asked him how he was. He had missed her very much that day, and greeted her with a bright smile, so much like himself, that she exclaimed, joyfully : " Oh, Mr. Everard, you are better ; you are almost well!" He was better, but his mind was still unsettled, and running upon the scrape from which Rossie was to ex- tricate him, and he said to her : " Have you fixed it yet ? Is it all right ?" " Yes, all right," she answered ; and he continued : " Every single bit right? Ami cut loose from the whole thing ?" She thought he was, and soothed him into quiet until he suddenly noticed her head, and exclaimed : " Halloa, what have you been doing ? Where's your THE RESULT. 73 hair ? Have you taken it off and laid it in the drawer as mother used to do ? I thought yours was a different sort from that ; not store hair, but genuine. I say, Rossie, you look like a guy." She knew he was not responsible for what he said, but it hurt her all the same, and tears sprang to her eyes as she answered him : "My hair was very heavy and very warm this hot, sultry weather. I am sorry you do not like my looks. It will grow again in time." That was Rossie's one comfort. Her hair would grow again, and she met bravely the exclamations of her girl friends and of the servants, who asked her number- less questions. But she kept her own counsel, and waited impatiently for the assurance that the money had gone in safety to Holburton. It came at last, on the very day when Everard began to seem like himself, and spoke to those about him rationally and naturally. His reason had returned, and his first question to Rossie was to ask if any letters had come to him during his illness, and his second, to interrogate her with regard to her hair, and why she had cut it off. She told him the old story of its being heavy and warm, and then hastened to bring his letters, of which she had taken charge. She was certain that some of them were from Joe Fleming, though the handwriting was much finer than that which had come to her in that morning's mail. Joe had sent back the receipt without a word of comment, but Rossie did not care for that ; she only felt that Everard was free, and she had the receipt in her pocket, and her face was almost pretty in her bright eagerness and gladness as she came to his bedside and handed him his letters. Three were from college chums, and three from Jose- phine. These he opened first, beginning with the one bearing the oldest date. She had not then heard of his mother's death, and she wrote for more money, twenty- five dollars more, which were absolutely neede*d. Seventy-five in all it was now, and the perspiration started from every pore and stood thickly on Everard's forehead and about his lips, as, with an involuntary moan, he dropped the letter from his nerveless hand and turned his eyes toward Rossie, not with a thought that she could help him, only with a feeling that he would 4 74 THE RESULT. tell her, and ask her what to do, and if it were not better to leave college at once, acknowledge his mar- riage, and hire out as a day laborer, if nothing better offered. . She saw the hunted, hopeless expression in his eyes, and guessed the cause of it. In hers there was a great gladness shining, as she said : " I, am almost certain that letter is from .Mr. Joe Fleming, and I have one from him, too, or rather, a receipt in full for the gambling debt !" and taking the receipt from her pocket, she handed it to Everard, and watched him while he read it. There it was in black and white, an acknowledgment of seventy-five dollars, and a receipt in full of all Ever- ard Forrest's indebtedness to Joe Fleming up to that date. What did it mean ? What could it mean ? Ever- ard asked, while through his mind there flitted a vague remembrance of something about Joe, and money, arid the scrape. from which Rossie was to extricate him. "Rossie, tell me, what do you know of Joe ? What does it mean ?" he asked, and then Rossie told him how he had raved about a Joe, to whom he said he owed money, and how once, when he seemed a little rational, she had questioned him, and found out that the man was Joe Fleming, who lived in Holburton, and to whom he owed fifty dollars which he could not pay. "You had your best clothes in your valise on the bed, and were going to sell them to get it," Rossie said, "and I felt so sorry for you that I wrote to Mr. Fleming myself, and told him what I thought about such debts, and how sick and crazy you were, and your mother just dead, and you no way to pay, and asked him to give up the debt."' "Yes, , yes," Everard gasped, while his face grew white as ashes ; and still he could not forbear a smile at the mistake with regard to Joe's sex, a mistake of which he was very glad, however. ."Yes," he continued, "you wrote all this, and what was the reply ?" "Just what you might expect from the bad, unprin- cipled, grasping man," Rossie said, energetically, shaking her shorn head. "I told him it was wrong to gamble and tempt you to play, and told him how sick you were, and how angry your father would be, and added that, if THE RESULT. 73 after all this, he still insisted upon the money, he was not to trouble you, but write directly to me, and he was mean enough to do it. He said he was sorry you were sick, but he must have the money, and that you owed him seventy-five, and you would tell me he had a right to ask it." " Yes," Everard said again, but the yes was like a groan, and every muscle of his face twitched painfully, "yes. He wrote this to you, and you raised the money ; but how?" Rosamond hesitated a moment, and then replied : "Do you remember I told you that Miss Belknap once offered to buy my hair ?" "Oh, Rossie!" Everard exclaimed, as the truth flashed upon him, making the plain face of that heroic littte girl seem like the face of an angel, " oh, Rossie, you sold your beautiful hair for me, a scamp, a sneak, a coward ! Oh, why did you humiliate me so, and make me hate and loathe myself ?" and in his great weakness and utter shame Everard covered his face with his hands and sobbed like a child. Rosamond was crying, too, was shedding bitter tears of disappointment that she had made the great sacrifice for nothing except to displease Mr. Everard. " Forgive me," she said at last, " I thought you would like it. I did not want you to sell your clothes, did not want your father to know. I meant to do right. I am sorry you are angry." " Angry !" and in the eyes which looked at Rossie there was anything but anger. " I am not angry except with myself ; only I am so mortified, so ashamed. I think you the dearest, most unselfish person in the world. Who else would have done what you have?" " Oh, ever so many," Rossie said, " if they were sorry for you and loved you ; for, Mr. Everard, I am so sorry, and I lov-e you a heap, and then, and then, I did it some because I thought your mother would like it if she knew." Rosamond's lip quivered as she said this, and there was such a pitiful look in her soft eyes that Everard raised himself in bed, and drawing her toward him, took the thin little face between his hands and kissed it ten- 76 THE RESULT. derly, while his tears flowed afresh at the mention of his dead mother, who had been so much to him. "Rossie," he said, " what can I ever do to show you how much I appreciate all you have done for, and all you are to me ?'' The girl hesitated a moment, and then said : "If you will promise never to have anything to do with Joe Fleming, I shall be so happy, for I am sure he is a bad man, and leads you into mischief. Will you promise not to go near Joe Fleming again ?" Everard groaned as he answered her : " You do not know what you ask. I cannot break with Joe Fleming. I, oh, Rossie, I am a coward, a fool, and I wish I were dead, I do, upon my word ! But there is one thing I can promise you, and I will. I pledge myself solemnly, from this day forth, never to touch a card of any kind in the way of gambling, never to touch a drop of spirits, or a cigar, or a fast horse, or to bet, or do anything of which you would not approve." " I am so glad," Rossie said, " and to make it quite sure, suppose you sign something just as they do the pledge to keep from drinking." He did not quite know what she meant, but he an- swered, unhesitatingly : "I'll sign anything you choose to bring me." " I'm going to write it now," Rossie said, and the next moment she left the room, and Everard was free to finish his letters alone. Taking the second one from Josephine, he read that she was sorry to hear of his affliction, and wished she could comfort him, and that it must be a consolation for him to know that his mother was in heaven, where he would one day meet her if he was a good man. This attempt at piety disgusted Everard, who knew how little Josephine cared for anything sacred, and how prone she was to ridicule what she called pious people. Immediately following this mention of his mother, she said she was missing and longing for him so much, and hoped he would write at once, and send her the money for which she was obliged to ask him. Then she added the following : "I find myself in rather a peculia:- position. So long THE RESULT. 77 as I am known as Miss Fleming, I shall of course be sub- ject to the attentions of gentlemen, and what am I to do ? Shall I go on as usual, discreetly, of course, and receive whatever attentions are paid to me, never allow- ing any one to get so far as an offer ? I ask you this because I wish to please you, and because, since my mar- riage, it seems as if so many men were inclined to be polite to me. Even old Captain Sparks, the millionaire, has asked me to ride after his fast horses ; and as there was no reason which I could give him why I should not, I went, and he acted as silly as an old fool well can act. Tell me your wishes in the matter, and they shall be to me commands." For an instant Everard felt indignant at Captain Sparks for presuming to ride with and say silly things to Josephine, but when he reflected a moment he knew that to the captain there was no reason why he should not do so. Josephine was to him a young, marriageable maiden, and rumor said that the old man was looking for a fourth wife, and as he would, of course, look only at the young girls, it was natural for him to single out Josephine as an object of favor. " Josey must, of course, hold her place as an unmar- ried person," he thought, " but oh ! the horror of this de- ception. I'd give worlds to undo the work of that night." He thought so more than ever when he read the third and last letter, in which, after expressing her sorrow and concern for his sickness, she told him of her correspond- ence with Rosamond, and which, as it gives a still clearer insight into the young lady's character, we give, in part, to the reader : " DEAR EVERARD : What do you suppose has hap- pened ? Why, I laughed until I nearly split my sides, and I almost scream every time I think of the funny let- ter I got from Rosamond Hastings, the little girl who lives with you, and who actually thinks I am a man, a bad, good-for-nothing, gambling, swearing man, who leads you into all sorts of scrapes, and to whom you owe money. It seems she gathered this when you were crazy, and took it upon herself to write to Mr. Joe Fleming, that's what she called me, and lecture him soundly on his badness. You ought to hear her once ; but I'll keep 78 THE RESULT. the letter and show you. She wished me to give up the debt, which she took for granted was a gambling one, but said if I would not I must write to her and not trouble you. Now, I suppose it would have been generous and nice in me to say I did not care for the money, but you see I did ; I must have it to pay my bills; and so I wrote to her and said you would tell her my claim was a just one, if she asked you about it. In due time she sent me seventy-five dollars, though how she raised it I am sure I cannot guess, unless she coaxed it from your father, and I hardly think she did that, as she seemed in great fear lest he should know that you owed Joe Fleming ! She is a good business woman, for, accom- panying the money was a receipt, correctly drawn up, and declaring you discharged in full from all indebtedness to me. I wonder what the child would have done if I had not returned it, and just for the mischief of it I thought once I wouldn't, for a while at least, and see what she would do. But Agnes made such a fuss that I thought better of it, and shall send the receipt in the same mail which takes this to you. By the way, you've no idea how much Agnes has you and your interests at heart. I believe, upon my word, she thinks you did a dreadful thing to marry me as you did, and she says her prayers in your behalf, to my certain knowledge, three or four times a day. Verily, it ought to make your calling and election sure. " Dr. Matthewson was in town yesterday, and in- quired particularly for you. I told him of your mother's death, and that I had written to Clarence as he bade me do, and made inquiries about him, and had not received a very good report of his character as a clergyman. He took it good-humoredly, and said that the Gospel didn't agree with him very well. I like the doctor immensely, he is so amusing and friendly. I hope you will not care because I told him of Rosamond's mistake, and showed him her letter. How he did roar ! Why, he actually laid down on the grass, and rolled and kicked, and would not believe me till I showed him the letter. He left town this morning, saying he should be here again in the fall, and would like to board with mother. " How I hate this life, planning how to get your bread and butter, and how glad I shall be when I am THE RESULT. 79 out of it ; but I mean to be patient and bear it, knowing what happiness there is in the future for me. When shall I see you, I wonder? Will you not come as soon as you are able to travel and spend the remainder of your vacation with me ? You will at least stop here on the way to Amherst, and for that time I live. " Lovingly yours, JOE." It would be impossible to describe the nature .of Evera.rd's feelings as he read this letter, which seemed to him coarse, and selfish, and heartless in the extreme. Couldn't Josephine understand such a character as Rossie's, or appreciate the noble thing she had done ? Could she only see in it a pretext for laughing till "she split her sides," and was it a nice thing in her to tell Dr. Matthewson of the letter, and even show it to him, making him roll on the grass, and roar and kick in her presence ? Had she no delicacy or refinement, to allow such a thing ? Would any man dare do that with Beaor even Rossie, child though she was ? Was Josey devoid of that womanly dignity which puts a man always on his best behavior ? lie feared she was, he said sadly to himself, as he recalled the free and easy manner he had always assumed with her. How many times had he sat with his feet higher than his head, and smoked directly in her face, or stretching j himself full length upon the grass while she sat beside him, laid his head in her lap and talked such slang as he would blush to have Rossie hear; and she had laughed, and jested, and allowed it all, or at the most reproved him by asking if he were not ashamed of himself. Josey was not modest and woman- ly, like his mother, and Bee, and Rosamond. She was not like them at all, and for a moment there swept over the young man such a feeling of revulsion and disgust that his whole being rose up against the position in which he was placed, and from his inmost soul he cried out, "I cannot have it so!" He had sown the wind, and he was beginning to reap the whirlwind; and it was a very nervous, feverish patient which Rossie found when she came back to him, bringing the paper he was to sign, and which was to keep him straight. She called it a pledge, and it read : " I hereby solemnly promise never to drink a drop of 80 THE RESULT. liquor, never to smoke a pipe or cigar, never to race with fast horses, never to play cards or any other game for money, never to bet, and to have just as little to do with Joe Fleming as I possibly can. " Signed" by ine, at the Forrest House, this day of August, 18 ." " There !" Rossie said, as she read it to him, and offered him the pen ; " you'll sign that and then be very safe." " Rossie," he said vehemently, " I wish to Heaven I could honorably subscribe to the whole of it, but I can- not. I must erase the part about Joe Fleming. I cannot explain to you why, but I must keep my acquaintance with Joe, but I'll promise not to be influenced in that direction any more. Will that do?" "Yes, but I did so hope yon would break with him entirely. I know he makes you bad. You told me when you came home you had no debts, and I believed you, and yet you owed this man seventy-five dollars, and I was so sorry to find you did not tell me true." Rossie's eyes were full of tears as she said this, for losing faith in Everard had hurt her sorely, but he has- tened to reassure her. "Rossie," he said, "I did not know of this debt then. It has come up since. What I told you was told in good faith. Bad as I am, I would not tell a deliberate lie, and you must believe me." She did believe him, and watched him as he put his pen through the sentence, " have just as little to do w r ith Joe Fleming as I possibly can," and then signed his name to the paper. " There !" he said, as he handed it to her with a sickly effort to smile. "Keep it, Rossie, and if I break that pledge, may I never succeed in anything I under- take so long as I live ; and now bathe my head with the coldest ice-water in the house, for it feels as if there was a bass drum in it." He was very restless and nervous, and did not im- prove as fast as the doctor had said he would, if once his reason returned. Indeed, for a few days he did not seem to improve at all, and Beatrice and Rosamond both nursed him tenderly, and pitied him so much when they THE RESULT. 81 saw him lying so weak and still, with his eyes shut, and the great tears rolling down his face. " It's for his mother," Rossie whispered to her com- panion, and her own tears gathered as she remembered the sweet woman whose grave was so fresh in the church- yard. But it was not altogether for the dead mother that Everard's tears were shed. It was rather from remorse and sorrow for the deed he would have given so much to undo ; for he was conscious of an intense desire to be free from the chain which bound him. Not free from Josephine, he tried to make himself believe, for if that were so he would indeed be the most wretched of men, but free from his marriage vow, made so rashly. How was it that he was tempted to do it ? he asked himself, as he went over in his mind with the events of that night. He was always more or less intoxicated with Josephine's beauty when he was with her, and he remembered how she had bewitched and bewildered him with the touch of her soft hands, and sight of her bare arms and neck. She had challenged him to the act, and Dr. Matthewson had given him the wine, which he knew now must have clouded his reason and judgment, and so he was left to his fate. And a terrible one it seemed, as, in his weak- ness and languor, he looked at it in all its aspects, and saw no brightness in it. Even Josephine's beauty seemed fading into nothing, though he tried so hard to keep his hold on that, for he must hold to something, must retain his love for Jier or go mad. But she was so unlike Beatrice, so unlike Rosamond, so unlike what his mother had been, and they were his standards for all that was noble, and pure, and sweet in womankind. Josey was selfish and unreh'ned ; he could not put it in any milder form when he remembered the past as connected with her, and remembered how she had ridiculed little Rossie Hastings, whose letter she had shown to Dr. Matthewson. How plainly he could see that scene, when the doctor rolled upon the'grass and roared and kicked, and Josephine laughed with him at the generous, unsel- fish child who, to save him, had sacrificed her only beauty. And Josephine was his wife, and he must not cease to respect her one iota, for that was his only chance for happiness, and he struggled so hard to keep her in his 82 THE RESULT. heart and love that it is not strange the great drops of sweat stood thickly on his brow, or that the hot tears at intervals rolled down his cheeks. It was Rossie who brushed them away, Rossie who wiped the sweat from his face, and whispered to him once : " Don't cry, Mr. Everard. Your mother is so happy where she has gone, and I don't believe she has lost all care for you either, she loved you so much when she was here." Then Everard broke down entirely, and holding Ros- sie's little, brown, tanned hands in his, said to her : " It isn't that, though Heaven knows how much I loved my mother, and how sorry I -am she is dead ; but there are troubles worse than death, and I am in one now, and the future looks so dark and the burden so heavy to carry." " Can I help you bear it?" Rossie asked, softly, with a great pity in her heart for this young man who had given way like a child. " No, Rossie, nobody can help me, nobody," he said; and after a moment Rossie asked timidly : " Is it Joe Fleming again ?" " Yes, Rossie, Joe Flermng again ;" and Everard could scarcely restrain a smile, even in his grief, at this queer mistake of Rossie's. In her mind Joe Fleming was a dreadful man, through whole Mr. Everard had come to grief, and she ventured at last to speak of him to Beatrice as somebody of whom Everard had talked when he was crazy, and who had led him into a great trouble of some kind. "And that's what ails him now, and keeps him so weak and low, and makes him cry like a girl," she said. And then Beatrice resolved to help the sick youth, if possible, and that afternoon when she sat alone with him for a few moments, she said to him : "Everard, I am quite sure that something is troubling you, something which retards your recovery. I do not ask to know what it is, but if money can lighten it let me help you, please. I have so much more than I know what to do with. Let me lend you some, do." " Oh, Bee," Everard cried, " don't talk to me that way ; you will kill me, you and Rossie together ; and you can't help me. Nobody can. It is past all help." THE RESULT. 83 She did not at all know what he meant, but with her knowledge of what money could do, ghe felt sure it could help, 'and so she said : " Not so bad as that, I am sure. You have probably been led astray by some designing person, but there is always a backward path, you know, and you w T ill take it sure ; and if you should want money, as you may, will you ask me for it, Everard ? "Will you let me give it to you, as if I were your sister?" He did not know ; he could not tell what he might do in sore need, for he felt intuitively that the call on him for money, commenced so soon, would increase with every year ; so he thanked her for her kind offer, which, he said, he would consider, should the time ever come when he wanted help. For ten days more Everard kept his room, and then arose suddenly one morning and said that he was able to go back to college, where he ought to have been two weeks ago, for he was getting far behind his class, and would have to study hard to overtake and keep up with it as he meant to do. Nothing could restrain him ; go he must, and go he did, early one morning in September, before the people of Rothsay were astir. He had held a short conference with Rosamond, and bidden her tell the postmaster to forward to Amherst any letters which might come to him, and on no account let them go to the Forrest House. And Rossie had promised to comply with all his wishes, and pressed Upon him a twenty-dollar bill, which she made him take, because, as she said, she did not need it a bit, and should just squander it for peanuts, and worsteds, and things which would do her no good. It was a part of her quarterly interest, and she could do what she liked with it, and so Everard took it, and felt humiliated, and hated himself, especially as he knew just where the money would go. A letter from Josephine had come to him, asking for more funds, with which to replenish her wardrobe for the autumn. They had no boarders now except Dr. Matthewson, who was occasionally in town for a day or two and stopped with them, and Mrs. Fleming did not get as much sewing as usual, and so Josey was compelled to come to her husband for money, though sorely against her will, for she feared she must seem mercenary to him, 84 HUSBAND AND WIFE. and she hoped he would forgive her and love her just the same. It was this letter which had determined him to return to Amherst without delay. On his way thither, he should stop in Holburton over a train, and tell Josephine how impossible it was for him to supply her demands until in a position to help himself. "If father would only give me something more than my actual needs," he thought; and, strangely enough, his father did. Possibly the memory of the dead mother pleaded for her boy, and prompted the judge to give his son at part- ing a fifty-dollar bill over and above what he knew was needed for board and tuition. " Make it go as far as you can ; it ought to last you the whole year," he said, and Everard's spirits sank like lead as he foresaw the increasing drain there would be on him, and felt how impossible it would be to ask his father for more. There was still his best suit of clothes ; and a little diamond pin and a ring Rossie had given him, and his books, which he could sell, and perhaps he could find something to do after study hours which would bring him money. He might write for the magazines or illus- trate stories ; he had a natural taste for drawing, and could dash off a sketch from nature in a very few min- utes. He could do something, he assured himself, and his heart was a little lighter, when he at last said good- by to Rossie and his father, and started northward for college and Josephine. CHAPTER X. HUSBAND AND WIFE. E had sent no word of his coming, for he did not know just when he should reach Holbur- ton. His strength might fail him, and he be obliged to stop for the night on the road. But he kept up wonderfully, and arrived at Holburton on the same train which had taken him there HUSBAND AND WIFE. 85 from Ellicottville on that memorable day which he would gladly have stricken out. There was no one at the little station except the ticket agent, who, being new to the place, scarcely noticed him as he crossed the platform and passed down the street toward the brown house on the common. There had been a storm of wind and rain the previous day, and the hop vine, which in the summer grew over the door, was torn down and lay upon the ground. A part of. the fence, too, was nearly down, and a shutter hung by one hinge and swayed to and fro in the autumn wind. Taken as a whole, the house presented rather a forlorn appearance, and he found himself won- dering how he had ever thought it so attractive. And still he felt his blood stir quickly at the thought of meet- ing Josephine again, and he half looked to see her come flying out to meet him as she had sometimes done. But only the cat, who was chasing a grasshopper through the uncut grass, came to welcome him by purring and rub- bing herself against his logs as he went up the walk. Agnes let him in, the same sun-bonnet on her head he had seen so many times, her sleeves rolled up, and her wide apron smelling of the suds she had come from. At sight of him she uttered an exclamation of sur- prise, and for a moment her tired face lighted up with something like pleasure ; then that expression faded and was succeeded by an anxious, startled look, as she glanced nervously down the road as if expecting some one to whom she would give warning. Mrs. Fleming was in Boston, seeing to some mortgage on the house, and Josey had gone to ride, she said, as she led the way into the little parlor, which, even to Everard's not very critical eye, presented an appearance of neglect unusual in Mrs. Fleming's household. Evidently it had not been cared for that day, for the chairs were moved from their places, two standing close together, just where their last occupants had left them. There were crumbs of cake on the carpet, and two empty wineglasses on the table, with a fly or two crawling lazily on the inside and sip- ping the few red drops left there. As Agnes opened the window and brushed up the crumbs, she said she was intending to right up the room before Josephine came home, then, bidding Everard 86 HUSBAND AND WIFE. make himself as comfortable as possible, she left him alone, and went back to her work in the kitchen. Taking a chair near the window, where he could com- mand a view of the street, the young man sat waiting for Josephine, until he heard at last a loud, long laugh, which was almost a shriek, and, looking through the shutters of the open window, he saw first a cloud of dust, and then a low buggy coming rapidly across the com- mon, in the direction of the house. In the buggy sat Captain Sparks, the millionaire, whose penchant for young and pretty girls was well known throughout the entire county. Short, fat and grizzly, he sat with folded arms, smiling complacently upon the fair blonde, who, in her brown silk dress of two shades, with a long white lace scarf twisted round her hat and flying far behind, held the reins of the high-mettled horse, and was driving furiously. In his surprise and indignation, Everard failed to note how beautiful she was, with the flush of excitement on her cheeks and the sparkle in her eye ; he only thought she was his wife, and that Captain Sparks lifted her very tenderly to the ground, and held her by the shoulders a moment, while he said something which made her turn her head coquettishly on one side, as she drew back from him, and said : " You mean old thing ! You ought to be ashamed !" Everard had heard this form of expression many times. Indeed, it was her favorite method of reproof for liberties of speech or manner, and meant nothing at all. Everard knew it did not, and Captain Sparks knew it did not, and held her hand the tighter ; but she drew it away at last, and ran gayly up the walk, throwing him a kiss from the tips of her daintily-gloved hand. Then she entered the side door, and Everard heard her say to Agnes, who was hurrying to meet her and announce his arrival : " Upon my word, if you are not in that old wash-dud yet ! I'll bet you haven't touched the parlor, and the captain is coming at eight o'clock. W/ia-a-t ?" and her voice fell suddenly, as Agnes said something to her in a tone too low for Everard to hear. That it concerned him and his presence there he was sure, and he was not greatly surprised when the next instant the door opened swiftly, and Josephine rushed HUSBAND AND WIFE. 87 headlong into his arms. He opened them involuntarily to withstand the shock, rather than to receive her ; but the result was the same, she laid her golden head on his bosom and sobbed like a child. Josey could feign a cry admirably when she chose to do so, and now she trem- bled and shook, and made it seem so real that Everard forgot everything except that she was very fair and un- deniably glad to see him. Very gently he soothed her, and made her lift her head, that he might look into her face, and hated himself for thinking that for such a thunder-gust as she had treated him to her eyes were not very red, nor her cheeks very wet. But she was so hap- py, and so glad he had come, and so sorry she was not there to receive him. " That old fool, Captain Sparks, had recently taken to haunting her with attentions, and as the easiest way to be rid of him, she had consented for once to ride with him, and had taken the occasion to tell him it could not be repeated. But then it was rare fun to drive his fast horse, she was so fond of driving, and Blucher was so fleet and spirited, and had brought them up to the house in such style. Did Everard see them, and what did he think?" ' " Yes, -I saw you, and thought you were enjoying it hugely," Everard said ; and Josey detected something in his tone which made her suspect that he did not quite like the captain's manner of lifting her from the car- riage. But she was equal to the emergency, and made fun of the old man, and called him a love-sick muff, and took him off to the life, and then, in a grieved, martyred kind of way, said, "it was rather hard for her to know just what to do, situated as she was, married, and yet not married, in fact. She would not for the worjd do any- thing to displease Everard, but must she decline all at- tention and make a nun of herself, and how soon could she let her marriage be known ?" " Not yet, Josey," Everard said, explaining to her rapidly how much worse the matter was for them now his mother was dead. She might, and would, have helped them when the crisis came, but now there was no one to stand between him and his father, who was sure to take some desperate 88 HUSBAND AND WIFE. step if he knew of the rash marriage before his son was through college. " We must wait, Josey, two years, sure," he said ; and, because she could not help herself, Josephine assented, very sweetly, though with something of an injured air, and managed next to speak of money, and asked if he hated her for being such a leech. " You mustn't, for I couldn't help it," she said, and she leaned on his arm, and buttoned and unbuttoned his coat, and caressed him generally, as she continued : " Maybe you didn't know how poor the bride was, or you would not have taken her. Mother is in Boston now about some mortgage on the house, and it takes so much to live decently, and my lessons cost frightfully ; but you are glad to have me improve, dearest ?" Of course he was glad, he said, but he had no means of getting money except from his father, and if she knew to what humiliation he was subjected when he asked for funds, she would spare him all she could. By and by, when he had money of his own, there should be no stint, but now she must be economical, he told her ; and then she spoke of Rosamond, and asked who and what that queer little old-fashioned thing could be. " Such a lecture as she gave Mr. Joe Fleming for gambling, and leading you wrong generally. Why, I laugh till I cry every time I think of it," Josey said, proving the truth of what she asserted by laughing heartily. But the laugh grated on Everard, as in some way an affront to Rossie, and he shrank from saying much of her, except to tell who she was, and how she came to be living at the Forrest House. " And was it her own money she sent me, or where did she get it ? Has she the open sesame to your father's purse? If so, you had better apply to her, when in need," Josey said ; and in a sudden spasm of fear lest in some way Rossie should become a victim of the greed he was beginning dimly to comprehend, he told the story of the hair, but withheld the name of Beatrice, from a feeling that he would rather Josephine should not know of his acquaintance with her. " What do you think of a girl who could do so gen- erous a thing as that for a great lout like me ?" he asked, HUSBAND AND WIFE. 89 and Josephine replied, "I think she was a little goose ! Catch me parting with ray hair ; though I am glad she did it, as it relieved you, and was of great benefit to Joe Fleming !" She laughed lightly, but Everard was disgusted and in- dignant at her utter want of appreciation of the sacrifice which few girls would have made. She saw the shadow on his face, and, suspecting the cause, changed her tactics, and became greatly interested in Rosamond, and said that she must be a generous, self-denying little thing, and she wished Everard would allow her to write to her in her own proper character as his wife. But to this he would not consent. He was not deceived by this change in her manner. He knew Josey had expressed her real senti- ments at first, and there was in his heart a constantly- increasing sense of disappointment and loss of something, he scarcely knew what. Nor could all Josephine's wiles and witcheries lift the shadows from his face, and make him feel just as he used to do when he sat alone in the little parlor with her at his side. She was very charming in her brown silk, which fitted her admirably, and Beatrice herself could not have been softer, and sweeter, and gentler than she tried to be ; but there was something lacking, and though Everard put his arm around her slender waist, and her golden head was pillowed on his shoulder, his heart beat with heavy throbs of pain as he spoke of her last letter to him, in which she had asked for more money. It had been his intention to give her all he had, and bid her make it last the year, but he changed his mind suddenly, and handed her only twenty dollars, and told her it was by mere chance that he was fortunate enough to have so much to give her, and that he hoped she would do the best she could with it ; for, though he would gladly give her ten times the amount, if he could, the thing was impossible. She thanked him graciously, and said she meant to be very economical, only things did cost so much, and as Mrs. Forrest, she felt that she must dress better than Josephine Fleming had done. If he said so she would take in sewing, or even washing, if he liked, anything to show him she really meant to please him. He vetoed the washing and the sewing, of course, and then, as he heard the rattling of dishes in the adjoining room, he 90 AFTER TWO TEARS. hastened to say that he was to leave on the half-past seven train, so as to reach Amherst that night. There was a passionate protest, and a pretty, pouting declara- tion that he did not care for her any more, and then she allowed herself to be comforted, and felt really relieved when she remembered Captain Sparks and his engage- ment for eight o'clock. There were waffles for supper, Everard r s favorites, and Josephine sat by him and buttered them for him, and made his tea, and helped him to peaches and cream, and between times studied the face which baffled and puzzled her so, with its new ex- pression, born of remorse and harrowing unrest. She had married a boy whom she thought to mold so easily, but she found him now a man, for whom she felt a little awe and fear, and there was something of real timidity and slyness in her manner when at last she said good- by to him, arid watched him through the darkness as he went rapidly from her to the train which was to take him on his way to Amherst. CHAPTER XI. AFTER TWO YEAES. T is not my intention to linger over the inci- dents of the next two years, or more than glance at the Forrest House, where Rosa- mond Hastings laughed, and played, and romped, gaining each day health, and strength, and girlish beauty, but retaining always the same straightforward, generous, self-denying, truthful character which made her a favorite with every one. To Everard she was literally a good angel, and never was a son watched more carefully by an anxious mother than she watched and guarded him. She wrote him letters of advice and sage counsel such as a grand- mother of seventy might have written, and which frequently had in them some word of warning against bad associates in general, and Joe Fleming in par- ticular. She knew he had not broken with Joe alto- AFTER TWO YEARS. 91 gether, for he told her so, and more than once in his sore need he had taken the money she never failed to send him when her quarterly allowance was paid. But for the rest, he was manfully keeping to the pledge Avhich she had drawn for him to sign. Only once in all the two years had he ventured to ask his father for more money than that close-dealing man chose to give him, and the storm of anger which that request had evoked determined him never to repeat the act. He sent his father's letter to Josephine, that she, too, might understand how difficult it was for him to supply her constantly increasing wants, and for a time the effect was good ; but an inordinate fondness for dress was one of Josey's weaknesses, and having once indulged it to a certain extent she could not readily deny herself, especially as she felt she had aright to a part, at least, of the Forrest money. So she wrote to Everard again and again, sometimes for five dollars, some- times for ten, or twenty, and when she found that sooner or later it came she ventured to ask for more, and at last demanded fifty dollars, which she needed for furs, as her old ones were worn out. Then Everard sold the little diamond pin his mother had given him, and parted with it almost without a pang, he was getting so accustomed to these things. He had long before parted with his best suit of clothes, and from the most exquisitely dressed young man in college he was fast becoming the plainest, and was getting the reputation of penuriousness in every- thing. His first-class boarding-house was exchanged for a third-rate club, where the poorest young men lived ; he wrote articles for the magazines and sold them for whatever he could get, and once, when the janitor was sick for a week, he took his place, and earned a few dol- lars with which to swell the amount he found it neces- sary to keep on hand for the woman who sported a handsomer wardrobe than the greatest lady in Holbur- ton. Of course the world must have some explanation for this, or the girl's reputation be ruined forever. And Josey made the explanation, and said a distant relative of her father's had died in Ireland, and left her a few pounds to do with as she liked. And in this story there w r as a semblanca of truth, for a maiden aunt, who for years had lived in Portrush, on the northern coast of 92 AFTER TWO YEARS. Ireland, and taken lodgers during the summer season, did die and leave to her grand-nieces in America the sum of fifty pounds, which was ostensibly divided between Agnes and Josephine, though the latter had the greater share, and immediately appeared on the street in an ex- pensive velvet sack, which attracted much attention and elicited a great many remarks from those who were watching the career of the young girl. She was not popular, for with her fine dress she had also put on all sorts of airs, and her manner was haughty and offensive in the extreme, while her flirtations with gentlemen were so marked as to make her notorious as a heartless and unprincipled coquette. Captain Sparks had laid himself and his immense fortune at her feet, only, of course, to. be refused ; but she had told him no so sweetly, with tears in her liquid blue eyes, that he was not more than half convinced that she meant it, and dangled still in her train of hangers-on. Dr. Matthewson, too, was there frequently, and people had good reasons for thinking him the favored one, judging from the familiar relations in which they seemed to stand to each other. Once in a great while Everard himself went over to Holburton, but he never stopped more than a few hours at the most, and was seldom seen in the street with Josephine, who was supposed to have lost her hold on him, and so in fact she had ; all his fancied love for her was dead, and her beauty never moved him now, or made his pulses quick- en one whit faster than their wont. She was his wife, and he accepted the fact, and resolved to make the best of it, but the future held nothing bright in store for him. On the contrary, he shrank from it with a kind of nerv- ous terror, and felt no throb of joy when his college days drew near their close, and he knew that he stood first in his class, and should graduate with every possible honor. He had worked hard for that, but it was more to please Beatrice and Rosamond than for any good to himself that he had studied early and late, and made himself what he was. They were coming on from Roth- say with his father, to see him graduated, and hear his vale- dictory, for that honor was awarded him, and he had en- gaged rooms for them at a private house where he knew they would be more comfortable than at the hotel. Rossie was all eagerness and excitement, and wrote frequently AFTER TWO YEARS. 93 to Everard, telling him once that if Joe Fleming was there not to let him know who she was, but to be sure to point him out to her, as she had a great desire to see a real gambler and blackleg. She had recently applied this last term to Joe Fleming, and Everard smiled when he read the letter, but felt a great pang of fear lest Josephine should thrust herself upon the notice of his father and Beatrice. He had given her no hint that her presence would be agreeable to him, but he knew she did not need it, and was not at all disappointed when lie received a note from her saying that she was coming down to see him graduate, but should not trouble him more than she could help, as a friend who lived about a mile from town had asked her to* spend a few days with her, and be present at the exercises. She should, of course, expect him to call and pay her any little attention which he consistently could. It was long since Josephine had attempted anything like love-making with Everard, for she felt that he understood her perfectly now, and had no respect what- ever for her. He had found her a sham, just as Rossie had said she was, and had accepted his fate with a bit- terness and remorse such as few men of his age had ever experienced. He did not believe in her at all, and when- ever he was with her, and met the soft, pleading glance of the eyes which had once so fascinated and bewitched him, he only felt indignant and disgusted, for he knew how false it all was, and that the eyes which looked so beseechingly up to him would the next hour rest as lov- ingly upon Dr. Matthewson, or Captain Sparks, or any other man whom she deemed worthy of her notice. Once, when he was in Holburton, he accidentally discov- ered that the washing and ironing, with which Agnes seemed always busy, were done to pay the music bills and sundry other expenses, for which he had sent the money, and in his surprise he asked a few leading questions and learned more than he had dreamed of. As the worm will turn when trodden upon, so Agnes, who chanced to be smarting under some fresh indignity imposed upon her, turned upon her tyrant and told many things which, for Everard's peace of mind, would have been better unsaid, for she dwelt mostly upon Josey's free-and-easy 94 AFTER TWO YEARS. manner with the gentlemen who came to the house to call, or chanced to be boarding there. "I don't mean she does anything bad," she said, "anything you could sue for if you wanted to, but she just makes eyes at them, and leads them on, -iiud gets them all dangling on her string, and wants to be their sister, and all that sort of stuff, and when the fools offer themselves, as some of them do, she rises up on her tip- toes and wonders how they could presume to do such a thing, as she had never meant to encourage them, she was simply their friend ; and, if you'll believe it, they mostly stick to her just the same, and the sister business goes on, and she a married woman ! I'm sorry for you, Mr. Forrest !" And oh, how sorry he was for himself, and how after this revelation he shrank from the gay butterfly which flitted around him so gracefully, and treated him to the eyes of which Agnes had spoken so significantly. And still there was no open rupture between the two, no words of recrimination or reproach on either side. He was always courteous and polite, though cold as the polar sea ; while she was sweetness itself, and only the expression of her face told occasionally that she fully realized the situation, and knew just how she stood with him. But he was her husband, and as such would one day be known to the world, and she was far prouder of him now in his character as a man than she had been when she took him, a boy ; and she meant to see him on the stage in Amherst, and compel him to pay her some attention which should mark her as an object of prefer- ence. She knew he did not wish to have her there, but she did not care for that, and wrote to him her intention to be present at the Commencement, and her wish that he should pay her some attention. The old, weary, hopeless look, which had become habitual to his face, deepened in intensity as Everard read the note, and then began to calculate the chances of a meeting between his friends and Josey. He was very morbid about this secret, which he had kept so long that it seemed to him now that he never could divulge it, even if sure that his father's bitter anger would not follow. And he did not wish Beatrice and Rossie to see his wife, if he could help it, and perhaps he could. There COMMENCEMENT. 95 would be a great crowd in the church; they could not see her there ; and, as Mrs. Everts lived more than a mile from town, they might not meet her at all, unless at the reception given by the president, and to this Josey would hardly be invited. So he breathed a little more freely, and completed his arrangements for his family, and wrote a line to Josey, saying he would call upon her at Mrs. Everts' when she came, but should be so very busy that he could not be with her a great deal. To Rosamond he wrote quite differently, and told her how glad he was that she was coming, and how much he hoped she would enjoy the trip, and that there was the coziest, prettiest room imaginable waiting for her in one of the pleasantest houses in town. And Rossie was crazy with delight and anticipation, and scarcely slept a wink the night before they started. And still she was very bright, and fresh, and pretty, in her suit of Holland linen, and never was journey more enjoyed than she en- joyed hers, seeing everything, and appreciating every- thing, and declaring that she was not a whit tired when at last they reached Amherst, and found Everard waiting for them. CHAPTER XII. COMMENCEMENT. T was nearly a year since they had seen Ever- ard, and Bee and Rossie were struck at once with the great change in his personal appear- ance, while even the jucjge noticed how thin and pale he was, but attributed it naturally to hard study. Fresh air and exercise at home would soon make that all right, he thought, and so dismissed it from his mind. But Beatrice and Rosamond both saw more than the thin face, which had grown so pale and troubled. They saw that Everard 's hat was the same worn the year before when he was at home ; saw that his pants were shining about the knees, and his coat shining and worn about the sleeves, while his boots were carefully patched. Once he had been the best and most 96 COMMENCEMENT. fashionably-dressed young man in college, but he was far from that now, though he was scrupulously neat and clean, and looked every whit a gentleman as he walked with the young ladies down the shaded street, and tried to seem natural, and answer gayly to Beatrice's light badinage and Rossie's quaint remarks. But it was up- hill business, for how could he be happy when he knew that Josey would soon be watching for him, and expect- ing him to pass a part of the evening, at least, with her? What if she should take it into her head to come to town and hunt him up, arid find him there with his friends ? What could he say or do, and what would they think of her? It made him faint and sick just to imagine Bea- trice weighing Josephine as she would weigh her, and discovering more than the enormity of cotton lace and dollar jewelry, while Rossie, he could not define to him- self why he shrank so nervously from having her clear, honest eyes scan Josephine Fleming, as he knew they would do. After tea was over, Everard took his father through the town and introduced him to some of the professors, and then, as the twilight began to fall, asked to be ex- cused a short time, as he had an engagement to call upon a friend ; so his father returned alone to his lodgings, and Everard started on a rapid walk toward Mrs. Everts'. He did not know the lady personally, but he knew where she lived, and was soon. at her gate, where he paused a moment in some surprise at the sounds of talking and laughter which greeted his ears. The parlor was lighted up, and through the open windows lie caught a glimpse of Josephine, fair and lovely, in pure white, with only a bit of honeysuckle at her throat and in her hair, which fell like a golden shower upon her neck, and gave her a very youthful appearance. Gathered around her were four young men, juniors and sophomores, each striving for the preference, and each saying some soft thing to her, at which she laughed so prettily and coquettishly that their zeal and admiration were increased tenfold. " How did these puppies know her?" Everard asked himself, as he leaned against the gate ; then he remem- bered having heard that one of them had spent a little time in Ilolburton, and probably he was in the habit of COMMENCEMENT. 97 going there occasionally, and bad taken the others with him. At all events she seemed to know them well, and they were in the full tide of flattery and mirth when his ring broke the spell, and he was ushered into the par- lor. " Oh, I am so glad to see you !" Josey exclaimed, com- ing gracefully forward, and giving him both her hands, an act which was noted by the juniors and sophomores, and mentally resented. What business had that grave, dignified Forrest there, and why should Miss Fleming greet him so cor- dially, and where did she know him anyway ? They had heard he was very wealthy, and that he once was very fast and wild, but something had changed him. entirely, and transformed him into a sober, reticent, and, as they believed, very proud and stingy young man, whose perfectly correct behavior was a living rebuke to themselves. He was not popular with their set, and they showed it in their faces, and pulled at their cravats, and fingered the bouquets in their button-holes, and stood round awkwardly, while he talked with Josey, and asked her of her journey, and her mother and Agnes, and answered her questions about the exercises the next day, and the best place for her to sit. "Oh, we will arrange that ; we will see that you have a good seat," the juniors and sophomores echoed in chorus ; and with a slight sneer, perceptible to Josey, on his face, Everard said to her : " I do not see that there is any chance for me to offer you any attention, you seeni so well provided for." Josey bit her lip with vexation, for though she was delighted to have so many admirers at her side, she would far rather have been cared for particularly by this husband, of whom she was beginning to be a good deal afraid. He was so greatly changed that she could not understand him at all, or guess what was passing in his mind, and when at last he rose to go she said to him almost beseechingly : " I hope I shall see you to-morrow." " Possibly, though I shall be very busy," was his reply ; and just then one of the juniors said to him : "By the way, Forrest, who is that fine-looking, 98 COMMENCEMENT. elderly gentleman I saw with you this evening ? Your father ?" " Yes, my father," Everard replied, feeling a desire to throttle the young man, and glancing involuntarily at Josephine, over whom a curious change had come. The was a blood-red spot on her cheeks, and an unnatural glitter in her eyes, as she said to the quartette around her : " Excuse me a moment. I have just thought of some- thing which I particularly wish to say to Mr. Forrest." The next moment she stood in the hall with him, and was saying to him rapidly and excitedly : "Your father is here, and you did not tell me. I don't like it. I wish to see him, wish him to see me, and you must introduce me at the reception. I intend to be there." " Very well," was all Everard said, but he felt as if a band of iron was drawn around his heart as he went back to Beatrice and Rossie, who were waiting for him, and who noticed at once the worried look upon his face, and wondered a little at it. Had anything happened to disquiet him, that he should seem so absent minded and disturbed ? Rossie was the first to reach a solution of the mystery, and when at his request Beatrice seated herself at the piano and began to play, she stole up to him, and whimpered very low, " Have you seen Joe Fleming to-night ?" " Yes," was his reply, and Rossie's wise little nod said plainly, " I guessed as much." In her mind every trouble or perplexity which came to Everard had something to do with the mysterious Joe Fleming, though in what way she could not guess. She only knew that it was so, and she felt an increased desire to see this bete noir of Mr. Everard's. " And perhaps I shall have a chance to-morrow night at the reception. It will be just like his impudence to be there," she thought, when at last she laid her tired head upon her pillow. Rossie was very pale and haggard when she came down to breakfast the next morning. She was accus- tomed to the headache, and knew that one was coming on, but she fought the pain back bravely, for she could not miss the valedictory. COMMENCEMENT. C9 It was comparatively early when she and Beatrice entered the church, which, even at that hour, was densely packed. But good seats were found for them, and Rossie sat all through the exercises and listened breath- lessly to Mr. Everard's oration, and threw him a bou- quet, and wondered who the beautiful lady was who stood up on tiptoe to cheer him, and who seemed so desirous that her bouquet of pansies and rose geraniums should reach him in safety. Beatrice did not see the lady, but she saw the bouquet of pansies which fell at Everard's feet, where he seemed disposed to let it lie, until a boy picked it up and handed it to him. It was very pretty, and the pansies showed well against the background of green, but Beatrice little guessed how faint and sick the young man felt as he held them with the flowers Rossie had thrown. These he had picked up himself, and smiled pleasantly upon the young girl, whose pride and satisfaction shone in her brilliant eyes, and whose face was almost as white as the dress she wore. For Rossie was growing sick very fast, and when the exercises were over she could not even wait to speak to Everard, but hurried with Beatrice to her room, where she went directly to bed. The reception was given up, but Rossie saw Everard a moment and told him how proud she was of him, and how fine she thought his valedictory. Everard's spirits were much lighter now than they had been in the morning, but when he remembered what had lightened them, he felt himself a very brute and monster, for it was nothing less than the sight of Rossie's pale, sick face, and the knowing that she would not attend the reception, or Beatrice either, for the latter insisted upon staying with the little girl, and said she was only too glad to do so, for she did not care for the people she should meet, and would much rather remain at home with Rossie. 100 THE RECEPTION. CHAPTER XIII. THE BECEPTION. T was a rather stupid affair, with a great many more gentlemen than ladies. Indeed, there were but very few of the latter present, and these mostly the wives and daughters of the professors, with any guests who chanced to be visiting them, so that when Josephine entered the room in her flowing robes of white, with her beautiful hair falling down her back, she created a great sensation. How she obtained an invitation to the reception it would be difficult to tell, but obtained it she had, and had spent hours over her dress, which was a master-piece of grace and girlish simplicity. It was white tarletan, which fitted her perfectly, and left bare just enough of her neck and arms to be becoming. Clusters of pansies looped up the overdress, and formed her shoulder-knots, while a bunch of the same flowers, mingled with sweet mig- nonette, was fastened at her throat, and around her neck was a delicate chain of gold from which was sus- pended a turquoise locket, set with a few small pearls. Everything about her, though not costly, was in perfect taste, and she looked so charming, so fresh and lovely, when she entered the hot parlor, accompanied by one of the seniors, who was her escort, that the guests held their breath for a moment to look at her; then the gen- tlemen who knew her, and there were a dozen or more of them, pressed eagerly forward, each ambitious to pay her some attention. Everard was standing by his father and the president when she came in, and at sight of her, smiling sweetly and bearing herself so royally, he felt for an instant a thrill of something like pride in her. But when he re- membered that this beauty, and grace, and sweetness was all there was of the woman; that her manner was studied, even to the smile on her lips and the expression of her eyes, he turned from her with a feeling of dis- gust, but glanced nervously at his father to see what effect she would have upon him. Judge Forrest saw TUB RECEPTION. 101 her, and stopped a moment in the midst of something he was saying to the president to look at her; then, moved by one of those unaccountable prejudices which one sometimes takes against a stranger without knowing why, he turned his back and resumed his interrupted conversation, and so he did not see young Allen, her at- tendant, when he presented her to Everard as one whom she had never met. There was a comical gleam in Josey'seyes, and Ever- ard's face was scarlet as he said, " I have the pleasure of knowing Miss Fleming, I be- lieve." Seeing an opening in the crowd, Allen tried to pass on; but Josey had no intention of leaving that locality, and, as soon as she could, she disengaged herself from him, and standing close to Everard, said, in a low tone : " Present me to your father." He had no alternative but to obey, and in a few moments Josey's great blue eyes were looking up coyly and deferentially at the stern old judge, and, a few mo- ments later, her arm was linked in his, and he was lead- ing her toward an open window, where it was cooler, and the crowd was not so great. She had complained that it was warm and close, and asked the judge if he would mind taking her near the conservatory, where it must be more comfortable. And so the judge gave her his arm and piloted her to the window, where she got between him and the people and compelled him to stand and listen, while she talked in her most flattering strain, telling him how glad she M T as to meet him, she had heard so much of him from his son, who sometimes visited at her mother's, and how much he was like what she had fancied him to be from Everard's description, only so much more youthful looking. If there was anything the judge detested it was for an old man to look younger than his years. It was in some sense a living lie, he thought, and he abominated anything like deception. So when Josephine spoke of his youthful appearance, he answered gruffly, "I am sixty, and look every day of it. If I thought I didn't, I'd proclaim it aloud, for I hate deception of every kind." 102 THE RECEPTION. " Yes, I should know you did, and there we agree perfectly," Josephine replied, and she leaned a little more heavily upon his arm and made what Agnes called her eyes at him, and asked him to hold her fan while she buttoned her glove, and asked him about Charleston as it was before the war, and wished that she could have seen it in its glory. " Do you know," and she spoke very low and looked straight up into his face, "it is very naughty in me, I admit, but at heart I believe I'm a bit of a rebel, and though, of course, I was very young when the war broke out, and didn't quite know what it was about, I secretly sympathized with you Southerners, and held a little ju- bilee by myself when I heard of a Southern victory. Do you think me a traitor?" and she smiled sweetly into the face which never relaxed a muscle, but was cold and frigid as ice. Judge Forrest was, to his heart's core, a Southerner, and had sympathized with his people during the rebellion, because they were his people ; but had he been born North he would have been just as strong a Federal as he was a Confederate, so, instead of thinking more highly of Miss Josey for her rebel sentiments, he thought the less of her, and answered rebukingly, " Young woman, I do not quite believe you know all the word traitor im- plies ; if you did, you wouldn't voluntarily apply it to yourself." " No, perhaps not. I'm a foolish, silly girl, I know," Josey answered him humbly, while great tears swam in her blue eyes, but produced no effect upon the judge. Indeed, he scarcely saw them, he was so intent upon ridding himself of this piece of affectation and vul- garity, as he mentally pronounced her, and it was all in vain that she practiced upon him the little coquetries which she was wont to play off on other men with more or less success. He did not care for her innocence, nor her pretty pretense of ignorance of the world, nor tim- idity nor shyness, nor love of books and poetry, nor ad- miration of himself, for she tried all these, one after another, and felt herself growing angry with this man who stood so unmoved before her and seemed only anxious to get away. She had made no impression on him what- ever, at least no good impression, and she knew it, and THE RECEPTION. 103 resolved upon one final effort. He might be reached through his son, and so she mentioned Everard, and com- plimented his oration, and told how high he stood in the estimation of the professors, and what an exemplary young man he was, and ended by saying, " You must be very proud of him, are you not?" Here was a direct question, but the judge did not answer it. There was beginning to dawn upon him a sus- picion that this girl, whose flippant manner he so much disliked, was more interested in his son than in himself, and if so, possibly, his son was interested in her. At all events he meant "to know the extent of their acquaint- ance, and instead of answering her question, he asked : " Have you known my son long ?" Josey thought the truth would answer better than equivocation, and she told him that Everard had boarded with her mother a few weeks three years ago. " You remember," she said, " he spent his long vaca- tion East, and a part of it in Holburton, where we live. Perhaps you may have heard him speak of my mother. She knew your wife well, and was at your wedding, though you would not remember her, of course, among so many strangers." The judge did not remember her, nor could he recall the name as one which he had ever heard, but he did not think of doubting Josey's word, and never suspected that, though her mother had been present at his bridal, it was as a former servant in the Bigelow family ; he only knew that if she had been the most intimate friend of his wife, he did not like her daughter, and he greeted with rapture the young man who at last appeared and took her off his hands. Her attempt at familiarity with him had failed, and she felt intensely chagrined, and mor- tified, and disappointed, for she began to understand how difficult it would be for Everard to confess his marriage, and to fear the consequences if he did. A tolerably skill- ful reader of human nature, she saw what kind of man Judge Forrest was, and felt that Everard had not misrepre- sented him. She saw, too, that he had conceived a dislike to herself, and for the first time began to dread the result should he know that she was his daughter-in-law. Dis- inheritance of Everard might follow, and then farewell to her dream of wealth, and luxury, and position. It is 104 THE RECEPTION. true the latter would be hers to a certain extent, for the wife of Everard Forrest would always take precedence of Josephine Fleming, but Josey liked what money would bring her better than position, and perhaps it would be well to keep quiet a while longer, provided her rapidly increasing wants were supplied. In this conclusion she was greatly strengthened when, the morning following the reception, Everard came for a few moments to see her and escort her to the train, for she was to leave that morning for home. Between Everard and his father there had been a little conversation concerning Miss Josey, and not very complimentary to her either. " Who was that bold, brazen-faced girl you introduced to me?" the judge had asked, and Everard replied : "Do you mean that blonde in white ? That is Miss Fleming from Holburton. She is called very beautiful." " Umph ! looks well enough, for that matter, but I do not like her. She is quite too forward, and familiar, and affected. There's nothing real about her, but her brass and vulgarity. And you boarded there, it seems, and knew her well?" the judge said, testily, and Everard stammered out that he did board with Mrs. Fleming, and had found Josephine a very agreeable young lady. He must say so much in defense of the girl who was his wife, but it seemed to vex his father, who began to lose his temper, and said he should think very little of a young man who could find anything agreeable in that girl! " Why, she's no modesty or womanly delicacy at all, or she would not try to attract as she does with her eyes, and her hands, and her fan, and her naked arms, and the Lord only knows what. You are no son of mine if you can find pleasure in the society of such women as she represents. Why, she is as unlike Beatrice and Rossie as darkness is unlike daylight." This was the judge's verdict, and Everard felt his chain cutting deeper and deeper as he thought how im- possible it was for him to acknowledge the marriage now. lie did not sleep at all that night, and the morning found him pale, and haggard, and spiritless, as he walked down the road in the direction of Mrs. Everts'. Josey was waiting for him and ready for the train. She had not THE RECEPTION. 105 told any of her numerous admirers that she expected to leave that morning, as she wished to see Everard alone. She was neither pale, nor fagged, nor tired-looking, though she, too, had passed a sleepless night, but her complexion was just as soft, and creamy, and smooth, and her eyes just as bright and melting as she welcomed her husband, and laying her hand on his, said to him : " You are going with your father, I suppose. How long before I can come too ?" There was a sudden lifting of his hand to his head as if he had been struck, and Everard staggered a little back from her, as he replied : " Come to Forrest House ? I don't know. I am afraid that will never be while father lives." "Yes, I saw he took a great dislike to me, and prob- ably he has been airing his opinion of me to you," she said, tartly ; then, as Everard did not speak, she con- tinued : " Tell me what he said of me." " Why should he say anything of you to me ? He knows nothing," Everard asked, and Josephine replied : "I don't know why. I only know he has ; so, out with it. I insist upon knowing the worst. What did he say ?" There was a hard ring in her voice, which Agnes knew well, but which Everard had never heard before, and a look in her eyes before which he quailed ; and after a moment, during which she twice repeated : "Tell me what he said," he answered her : "I would rather not, for I have no wish to wound you unnecessarily, and what father said was not compli- mentary." "I know that. I knew he hated me, but I insist upon knowing just what he said and all he said," Josie cried passionately, for she, who seldom lost her temper except with Agnes, was beginning to lose it now. "If you will insist I must tell you, I suppose," Everard said, "but remember that father's prejudices are sometimes unfounded." He meant to soften it to her as much as possible, but he told her the truth, and Josie was conscious of a keener pang of mortification than she had ever felt be- fore. She had meant to win the judge, just as she won all men when she tried, but she had failed utterly. 5* 106 THE RECEPTION. He disliked and despised her, and if he knew she was his son's wife he might go to any length to be rid of her, even -to the attempting a divorce. Once, when sorely pressed, Agnes had suggested that idea as something which might occur to Everard, and said : "You know that under the circumstances he could get one easily." Josephine knew that he could, too, but she had faith in Everard. He would not bring this publicity upon himself and her ; but his father was quite another sort of person. She was afraid of him, and of what he might do if roused to action as a knowledge of the marriage would rouse him. He must not know of it at present, and though she had intended to make Everard acknowl- edge her as soon as he was graduated and settled at home she changed her mind suddenly, and was almost as anxious to keep the secret as Everard himself. " I am greatly obliged to your father for his opinion of me," she said, when she could command herself to speak. " He is the first man lever failed to please when I really tried to do so, and I did try hard to make an im- pression, but it was all a waste of words ; he is drier and stiffer than an old powder-horn. I don't like your father, Everard, and I am free to say so, though, of course, I mean no blame to you. I am glad I have met him, for I understand the situation perfectly, and know just how you shrink from letting him know our secret. I hoped that you would take me home as soon as you were settled at your law studies in your father's office, but I am convinced that to announce your marriage with me at present would be disastrous to your future ; so we must wait still longer, hoping that something will turn up." She spoke very cheerfully, and her hand was on Everard's, and her eyes were wearing their sweetest ex- pression as she added : " But you will write to me often, won't you, and try to love me again as you did before that night, which I wish had never been for your sake, because I know you are sorry." He did not say he was not ; he did not say any- thing, but the shadow lifted from his face, and his heart gave a great bound when he heard from her own lips THE RECEPTION. 107 that she should not urge her claim upon him at once. He had feared this with such fear as a freed slave has of a return to his chains, and now that he was to have a little longer respite, he felt so happy and grateful withal that when she said to him : " I wish you'd kiss me once for the sake of the old time ;" he stooped and kissed her twice, and let her golden head rest against his bosom, where she laid it for a moment, but he felt no throb of love for this woman who was his wife. That was dead, and he could not rekindle it, but he could be kind to her, and do his duty to her, and he talked with her of his future, and said he meant to go to work at something at once, and hoped to become a regular contributor to a magazine which paid well, and he seemed so bright and cheerful that Josey flattered herself that she had touched him, again. Nothing could have been farther from the truth, though he was very polite to her and went with her to the station, where she was immediately surrounded by a bevy of students who were there also to take the train, and who, in their eagerness to serve her, left E\ erard far in the background. The fact that youcg Forrest, who, from the fastest, wildest young man in college had become the soberest, most reserved, and, as they fancied, most aristocratic member of his class, had attended Miss Fleming to the train, did not in the least lessen her in the estimation of the students who gathered round her so thickly. Indeed, it increased her importance, and she knew it, and felt a great pride in the tall, handsome, dignified man who stood and saw one take her satchel, another her shawl, and another her umbrella, while he who alone had a right to render her these attentions looked on silently. What- ever he thought he gave no sign, and his face was just as grave as ever when at last he said good-by, and walked away. * * * * * * "Did you come up hereto see that girl off?" was said close to his ear, in a voice and tone he knew so well, just as he left the depot, and turning suddenly, he saw his father, with an unmistakable look of displeasure on his face. The judge was taking his morning stroll, and had 108 TWO MONTHS. sauntered to the station just in time to see the long curls he remembered so well float out of the car window, and to see the fluttering of the handkerchief Josephine was waving at his son. "Yes, father, I came to see her off. There was no one else to do it, and I know her so well ; her mother was very kind to me." " Umph ! I've no doubt of it. Such people always are kind to young men like you," the judge said, con- temptuously ; " but I won't have it ; I tell you, I won't ! That girl is just as full of tricks as she can hold, and is never so happy as when she has twenty or more fools dangling after her. She will marry the one with the most money, of course, but it must not be you ; re- member that. I believe I'd turn you out of doors." Just then they met one of the professors, and that changed the conversation, which did not particularly tend to raise Everard's spirits, as he went to the house where Beatrice and Rosamond were stopping. Still, he felt a great burden gone when he remembered that of her own free will Josephine had decided that their secret must be kept for a while longer, and something of his own self came back to him as he thought of months, if not a whole year of freedom, with Beatrice and Rossie, at the old home in Rothsay. CHAPTER XIV. TWO MONTHS. F the every-day lives of the three young peo- ple, Beatrice, Everard, and Rosamond, I wish to say a few words before hurrying on to the tragedy which cast so dark a shadow- over them all. But there was no sign of the storm now in the rose-tinted sky, and Everard never forgot that bright sumnaer and autumn which followed his return from college, when he was so happy in the society of Beatrice and Rossie. It is true he never forgot that he was bound fast, with no hope of TWO MONTHS. 109 ever being free, but here in Rothsay, miles and miles away from the chain which bound him, it did not hurt so much or seem quite so hard to bear. Josephine was not very troublesome; in fact, she had only written to him twice, and then she did not ask for money, and seemed quite as anxious as himself that their secret should be kept from his father until some way wag found to reconcile him to it. Possibly her reticence on the subject of money arose from the fact that he sent her fifty dollars in his first letter written after his return to Rothsay. This large sum he had got together by the most rigid economy in his own expenses, and by the in- terest on a few shares of railroad stock which a relative had left to him as her godson. This stock for a time had been good for nothing, but recently it had risen in value, so that a dividend had been declared, and Everard had sent the first proceeds to Josephine; but his boyish love was dead, and he did not try to resuscitate it, or build another love where that had been; he was content with the present as it was. His father, who was very kind to him, and seemed trying to make amends for his former severity and harshness, had said he was not to enter the office to study until October. Looking in his boy's face, he had seen something which he mistook for weari- ness, and too close application to books, and he said, " You do not seem quite well. Your mother's family were not strong; so rest till October. Have a good time with Rossie and Bee, and you will be better fitted to bone down to work when the time for it comes." This was a great deal for Judge Forrest to say, but he felt very indulgent toward his son, who had gradu- ated with so much honor, and who seemed to be wholly upright and steady; and in a fit of wonderful generosity he went so far as to present him with a fine mustang, as a fitting match to Beatrice's fleet riding-horse. This was just what Everard wanted, and he and Miss Belknap rode miles and miles together over the fine roads and through the beautiful country in the vicinity of Rothsay. Rosamond sometimes accompanied them, but she was not fond of riding, and old Bobtail, the gray mare, sent her up so high, and seemed so out of place beside Bee's shining black pony, and Everard's white-faced mustang, that she preferred remaining at home; and so the two 110 TWO MONTHS. were left to themselves, and people talked knowingly of what was sure to be, and hinted it to Rosamond, who never contradicted them, but by her manner gave credence to the story. She believed implicitly that Beatrice was coming to be mistress of the Forrest House, and was very happy in the prospect, for next to Mr. Everard she liked Bee Belknap better than any person in the world. Many were the castles she built of the time when Ever- ard should bring his bride home. Since Mrs. Forrest's death so many rooms had been shut up, and the house had seemed so lonely and almost dreary, especially in the winter, but with Bee there all would be changed, and Rossie even indulged in the hope that possibly the fur- niture in her own little room might be replaced by better, or at least added to. The judge, too, watched matters with an immense amount of satisfaction. Years ago he had settled it that Everard would marry Bee, and he was sure of it now. That girl with the yellow hair, as he always called Josephine to himself, was not anything to his son, as he had once feared she might be. Everard could never stoop to her ; Everard would marry Bee, and it might as well take place at once; there was no need to wait, and just as soon as his son was established in the office he meant to speak to him, and if it were not already settled it should be, and Christmas was the time fixed in his own mind as a fitting season for the bridal festivities. He would fill the house with guests all through the holidays, and when they were gone the young couple might journey as far as Wash- ington, or even Florida, if they liked. Then in the spring Bee could fit up the south side of the house as expensively as she chose, and Rossie should have the large corner room next his own on the north side, thus leaving the newly-married pair as much to themselves as possible. And so the wires were being laid, and Everard stepped over and around them all unconsciously, and took the goods the gods provided for him, whether in the shape of Beatrice, or Rosamond, or his father's uniform kind- ness toward him ; and the September days went by, and October came, and found him a student at last in his father's office, where he bent every energy to mastering the law and gaining his profession. There were no more THE HO US? OF CARDS BEGINS TO FALL. Ill long rides with Beatrice, and his mustang chafed and fretted and gr/' ff unmanageable for want of exercise. There were no / .ore strolls in the leafy woods with Rossie, who gathered he nuts, and ferns and grasses alone, and rarely had E erard's society except at meal-time, when she manage 4 to post him with regard to all the details of her qp'.et, every-day life. She was reading Chateau- briand's " Atala " in French, and found it rather stupid ; or she was-learning a new piece of music she knew he would like ; or old Blue had six new kittens in his trunk up in the garret, and she wished him to go and see them. Everard was always interested in what interested Rosamond, and on no one did his glance rest so kindly as on this little old-fashioned girl, in whom there seemed to be no guile ; but he had no leisure time to give her. It was his plan to get his profession as soon as possible, and then, taking Josephine, go to some new place in the far West, where he could grow up with the town, and perhaps be comparatively independent and happy. But his future had been ordered otherwise, and suddenly, without a note of warning, his house of cards came down, and buried him in its ruins. CHAPTER XV. THE HOUSE OF CAKDS BEGINS TO FALL. IVERARD had been in his father's office five weeks or more, when, on a rainy morning early in November, just as he was settling himself to his books, and congratulating himself upon the luxury of a quiet day, his father came in, and after looking over the paper, and poking the fire vigorously, seated himself opposite his son, and began : " Everard, put down your book ; I want to talk with you/' "Yes, sir," Everard replied, closing the book and fac- ing his father with an unaccountable dread that some- thing unpleasant was coming. 113 THE HOUSE OF CARDS BEGINS TO FALL. " It's never my way to beat round the bush," the judge began ; " I come to the point at once, and so I want to know if you and Bee have settled it yet ?" " Settled what ?" Everard asked ; and his father re- plied : " Don't be a fool and put on girlish airs. Marrying is as much a matter of business as anything else, and we may discuss it just the same. You don't suppose me in my dotage, that I have not seen what is in everybody's mouth, your devotion to Beatrice and her readiness to receive it ; wait till I'm through," he continued, authori- tatively, as he saw Everard about to speak. " I like the girl ; have always liked her, though she is a wild, saucy thing, but that will correct itself in time. Your mother believed in her fully, and she knew what was in women. She hoped you would marry Bee some day, and what I wish to say is this : you may think you must wait till you get your profession, but there is no need of that at all. You are twenty-two. You have matured wonder- fully the last two years, and I may say improved, too ; time was when I could hardly speak peaceably of you for the scrapes you were eternally getting into, but you dropped all that after yo'ur poor mother died. I was proud of you at Commencement. I am proud of you now, and I want you to marry at once. The house needs a mistress, and I have fixed upon Christmas as the proper time for the wedding, so if you have not settled it with Bee/do so at once." " But, father," Everard gasped, with a face as white as snow, '* it is impossible that I should marry Beatrice. I have never for a moment considered such a thing." "The deuce you haven't," the judge exclaimed, be- ginning to get angry. " Pray, let me ask you why you have been racing and chasing after her ever since you came home, if you never considered the thing, as you say ? Others have considered it, if you have not. Every- body thinks you are to marry her, and, by George, I won't have her compromised. No, I won't ! She could sue you for breach of promise, and recover, too, with all this dancing, and prancing, and scurripping round the country. If you have not thought of it, you must think of it now. You surely like the girl." He stopped to take breath, and Everard answered him: THE HOUSE OF CARDS BEGINS TO FALL. 113 "Yes, father, I like her very much, but not in that way, not as a wife, and I never can. It is impossible." " Why impossible ? What do you mean ?" the judge said, loudly and angrily. "Is there somebody else? Is it that yellow-haired hussy who made those eyes at me, because, if it is, by Jove, you are no son of mine, and you may as well understand it first as last. I'll never sanction that, never ! Why don't you answer me, and not stare at me so like an idiot? Do you like that white-livered woman better than Beatrice ? Do you think her a fitter wife for you and companion for Rosa- mond ?" Everard had opened his lips to tell the truth, but what his father said of Josephine sealed them tight; but he answered his father's last questions, and said : " No, I do not think her a fitter companion for Rossie than Beatrice, and I do not like her better." "Then what in thunder is in the way?" the judge asked, slightly appeased. "Have you any fears of Bee's saying no ? I can assure you there. I know she won't. I am as certain of it as that I am living now." Suddenly there shot across Everard's mind a way of escape from the difficulty, a chance for a longer respite, and he said : "If I were to ask Bee to marry me and she refused would you be satisfied ?" " With you ? Yes, but, I tell you she won't refuse. And don't you ask her unless you intend to stick to it like a man," the judge replied, as he rose to end the conference. " I shall ask her, and to-night," was Everard's low- spoken answer, which reached his father's ears, and sent him home in a better frame of mind. He was very gracious to Everard at dinner, and paid him the compliment of consulting him on some business matter, but Everard was too much pre-occupied to heed what he was saying, and declining the dessert excused himself from the table, and went to his own room. Never since his ill-starred marriage had he felt so troubled and perplexed as now, when the fruit of his wrong-doing was staring him so broadly in the face. That his father would never leave him in peace until he proposed to Beatrice, he knew, and unless he confessed everything 114 THE HOUSE OF GAUDS BEGINS TO FALL. and threw himself upon his mercy, there was but one course left him to pursue, tell Beatrice the whole story, wi hout the slightest prevarication, and then go through the farce of offering himself to her, who must, of course, refuse. This refusal he could report to his father, who would not blame him, and so a longer probation would come to himself. In his excitement he did not stop to consider what a cowardly thing it was to throw the responsibility upon a girl, and make her bear the burden for him. To do him jnstice, however, he did not for a moment suppose Beatrice cared for him as his father believed she did, or he would never have gone to insult her with an offer she could not accept. He knew she was beautiful and sweet, and all that was lovely and desirable in womanhood, but she was not for him. She, nor any one like her, could ever be his wife. He had made that impossible ; had by his own act put such as she far out of his reach. But when he reached Elm Park and saw her, so graceful and lady- like, and heard the well-bred tones of her voice, and remembered how pure and Ood she was, there did come to him the thought that if there was no Josephine in the way, he might in time have come to say in earnest to this true, spotless girl what now was but a cruel jest, if she cared for him, which she did not in the way his father believed she did ; he was her friend, her brother. The Fejee missionary, whose name she saw so often in the papers, and who had recently been removed to a more eligible field, had never been quite forgotten, though there was nothing left to her now of him except a faded pond-lily, given the day she told him no, and with his kiss, the first and last, upon her forehead, sent him away to the girl among the Vermont hills, with the glasses and the brown alpaca dress. She had no suspi- cion of the nature of his errand, and was surprised when, as if anxious to have it off his mind, he began, impul- sively : " Beatrice, 1 have come to say something serious to you to-night, and I want you to stop jesting and be as much in earnest as I am, for I, I am terribly in earnest for once in my life. Bee, I, I feel as if I were going to be hang and do the deed myself." THE HOUSE OF CARDS BEGINS TO FALL. 115 But his face was white as marble, and his voice shook as he continued : " I am going to tell you something, going to ask you something, going to ask you to be my wife, but you must refuse." It was an odd way of putting it, and not at all what Everard had intended to do. He meant to tell her first and offer himself afterward as a mere form, but in his agitation and excitement he had just reversed it, had told her he was there to ask her to marry him, and she must tell him no ! and a look of scorn sprang to her eyes as she drew back from him and said, " You pre- sume much on my good nature, when you tell me in one instant that you propose asking me to be your wife, and next that I must refuse you if you do. What reason have you to think I would accept you, pray ?" He knew she was indignant, and justly so, and he an- swered her with such a pleading pathos in his voice as disarmed her at once of her wrath. " Don't be angry with me, Bee. I have commenced all wrong. I believe my mind is not quite straight. I did not come to insult you. I came because I must come. I want you for a friend, such as I have not in all the world. I want your advice and sympathy. I want, oh, I am the most wretched person living !" And he seated himself upon the sofa, and sat with his face buried in his hands, while Beatrice stood looking at him a moment ; then, going forward she laid her hand softly on his head, and said, "What is it, Everard? What is it you wish to tell me?" Without looking up he answered her : " Oh, Bee, I wish I were dead ! Sit down beside me and listen to all I have to tell." She sat down beside him, and listened intently to the story Everard told her in full, concealing nothing where he was concerned, but shielding Josephine as far as was possible. Rosamond's noble sacrifice of her hair was ex- plained, and her mistake about Joe Fleming, who in her imagination still existed somewhere in whiskers and tall boots, and was the evil genius of Everard's life. Here Beatrice laughed merrily once, then questioned Everard rapidly with" regard to every particular of his marriage, Ii6 THE HOUSE OF CARDS BEGINS TO FALL. and the family, and the girl. Where was she now and what was she like ? "You have seen the picture, Bee," he said. "I showed it to you that day I broke my head, two years ago, and you said she looked as if she might wear cotton l:ice, while mother, to whom I showed it, too, hinted at dollar jewelry, and Rossie said she looked as if she were a sham." Here Everard laughed himself, but there was more of bitterness than mirth in it, and Beatrice laughed, too, as she said : "That was rather hard ; cotton lace, dollar jewelry, and a sham, though, after all, Rossie's criticism was really of the most consequence, if true ; perhaps it is not. Have you her picture now ?" He passed it to her, and with a shrewd woman's in- tuition, quickened by actual knowledge, Beatrice felt that it was true, and her first womanly instinct was to help and comfort this man who had brought his secret to her. " Ned," she said to him, and the name, now so seldom used, took her back to the days when she first came from France and played and quarreled with him. It made her altogether his sister, and as such she spoke. " Ned, I am so sorry for you ; sorrier than I can express, and I want to help you some way, and I think it must be through Josephine. She is your wife, and by your own showing you were quite as much in fault as she." " Yes, quite," and Everard shivered a little, for he guessed what was coming. " Well, then," Beatrice went on, " ought you not to make the best of it? You took her for better or worse, knowing what you were doing. You loved her then. Can you not do so again ? Is it not your duty to try?" " Oh, Bee, you do not know, you do not understand. She is not like you, nor Rossie, nor mother." " Well, try to make her like us, then," Beatrice re- plied. " If her surroundings are not such as please you, remove her from them at once. Recognize her as your wife. Bring her home to Forrest House and I will stand her friend to the death." Everard knew that Bee meant what she said, and that her influence was worth more than that of the whole THE HOUSE OF CARDS BEGINS TO FALL. 117 town, and if he could have felt any love or even desire for Josephine, it would have seemed easy to acknowledge his marriage, with Bee's hopeful words in his ear and Bee's strong nature to back him, but he did not. He had no love, no desire for her ; he was happier away from her, happier to live his present life with Beatrice and Rossie ; and, besides that, he could not bring her home ; his father would never permit it, and would probably turn him from the door if he knew of the alliance. This Bee did not know, but he told her of the great aversion his father had conceived for the girl whom he stigma- tized as the yellow-haired hussy from Massachusetts, " and after that, do you think I can te'.l him ?" he asked. "It will be hard, I know," Beatrice replied, "but it seems your only course, if he insists upon your marrying me." " But if I tell him you refused me, it may make a difference, and things can go on as they are until I get my profession," Everard pleaded, with a shrinking which he knew was cowardly from all which the telling his father might involve. "Even then you are but putting off the evil day, and a thing concealed grows worse as time goes on," Bee said. " You must confess it some time, and why not do it now. At the most your father can but turn you from his door, and if he does that take your wife and go some- where else. You are young, and the world is all before you, and if there is any true womanhood in Josephine, it will assert itself when she knows all you have lost for her. She will grow to your standard. She has a sweet, childish face, and must have a loving, affectionate nature. Give her a chance, Everard, to show what she is." This giving her a chance was just what Everard dreaded the most. So long as his life with Josephine was in the future, he could be tolerably content, and even happy, but when it looked him square in the face, as something which must be met, he shrank from meet- ing it. " Oh, I cannot do that, at least, not yet," he said. " It will hamper me so in my studies. I cannot tell father, and bear the storm sure to follow. Josephine must stay where she is till I see what I can do." 118 THE HOUSE OF CARDS BEGINS TO FALL. " But is that best for her ?" Beatrice asked. " What sort of a woman is her mother ? She may be a lady, and still be very poor. What is she, Everard ?" He had refrained from speaking of Josephine's ante- cedents to Beatrice. He would rather she should not know all he knew of the family. It would be kinder to Josephine to spare her so much ; but when Beatrice ap- pealed to him with regard to the mother, he told just who Mrs. Fleming was. Bee Belknap was a born aristocrat, and some of the bluest blood of Boston was in her veins. Indeed, she traced her pedigree back to Miles Standish on her father's side, while her mother came straight down from a Scottish earl, who married the rector's daughter. She was proud of her birth, and the training she had received at home and abroad had tended to increase this pride, and it was hard for her to understand just how people like Roxie Fleming could stand on the same social plat- form with herself. She knew they did, but she rebelled against it, and for a moment Josephine's cause was in danger of being lost so far as she was concerned. She had thought of her as probably the daughter of some poor, but highly respectable farmer, or mechanic, whose mother took boarders, as many women do to make a lit- tle money, and whose daughters, perhaps, stitched shoes or made bonnets, as New England girls often do, but now that she knew the truth she stood for a moment aghast, and then, her strong, sensible nature asserted it- self and whispered to her, " a man's a man for a' that." Josephine was no more to blame for the accident of her birth than was she, Beatrice Belknap, to be praised for hers. " I'll stand by her all the same," she said to her- self, but she did not urge quite so strenuously upon Ev- erard the necessity of telling his father at once, for she felt sure the irascible judge would leave no stone un- turned to ascertain who his daughter-in-law was, and that the ascertaining would result even worse than Everard feared. " It may be better to keep silent a little longer," she said, and meanwhile she'd turn the matter over in her own mind and see what she could do to help him. "But in order to have any peace at home I must tell father that you refused me," Everard said, " and I have THE HOUSE OF CARDS DEGIXS TO FALL. 119 not yet gone through the farce of offering myself, or you of refusing the offer." Then, with the ghost of a smile on his face he arose, and standing before Beatrice, continued : " Bee, will you marry me y " Xo, Everard, I will not," was Bee's reply, as she, too, rose, and looked at him, with eyes in which the hot tears gathered swiftly, while there came to her suddenly a feeling that she had lost something which had been very dear to her, and that her intercourse with Everard could never again be just what it had been. It is true, she had never seriously thought of him as her future husband, but she knew that others had thought it, and with his words, "Bee, will you marry me?" it came to her with a great shock that possibly, under other cir- cumstances, she might have answered yes. But all that was over now. He had put a bar between them, and by neither word nor look must she tempt him to cross it; so, brushing her tears away with a quick, impatient gesture, and forcing a merry laugh, which sounded not unlike a hysterical sob, she said, "What children we are, Ever- ard." Yes, they were children in one sense, and in another the man and woman was strong within them, and Ever- ard saw something in the girl's eyes which startled him, and made his heart throb quickly as he, too, thought "it might have been" But with the instincts of a noble, true man he forced the new-born feeling down, and tak- ing both her hands in his held them while he said : "You must forgive me, Bee, for seeming to insult you with words which were a mere farce. You have been my friend, the best I ever had, and your friend- ship and society are very dear to me, who never knew a sister's love. Can I keep them still after showing y^ou just the craven coward and sneak I am?" "Yes, Everard, you may trust me. I will always be your friend, and your wife's friend as well," Beatrice re- plied, and then Everard went away, and she was left alone to think of the story she had heard, and to realize more and more all she had lost in losing Everard. The boy, whom she had teased, and ridiculed, and tormented, and who had likened her to his grandmother, had be- come so necessary to her in his fresh young manhood, 120 THE HOUSE OF CARDS BEGINS TO FALL. that it was hard to give him up ; but Bee was equal to the emergency, and with a little laugh she said : "On the whole I am glad there is one man whom I cannot get upon my string, as Aunt Rachel would say ; but that this man should be the boy who I once vowed should offer himself to me and be refused, or I would build a church in Omaha, is mortifying to my pride. He has offered and been refused, and so the church obli- gation is null and void. But I must do something as a memorial of this foolishness, which I never dreamed of until to-night. I wonder if Sister Rhoda Baker don't want something for her church by this time. I'll go and see to-morrow, and take her mother to ride. It's an age since I gave her an airing, and my purple velvet will contrast beautifully with her quilted hood and black shawl." Bee Belknap was a queer compound, and when, next morning, the distant relative who lived with her as chap- eron, and whom she called Aunt Rachel, said to her : "What was that Forrest here for so late? I thought he'd never go," she answered, readily : " He was here to ask me to marry him, and I refused him flat." " You refused him ! Are you crazy, Beatrice ?" Aunt Rachel exclaimed, putting down her coffee-cup and star- ing blankly at the young girl, who replied : " Yes. Have you any objections ?" " Objections ! Beatrice Belknap ! I thought this was sure. See if you don't go through the woods and take up with a crooked stick at last. Do you know how old you are ?" " Yes, auntie. I am twenty-three ; just eleven months and fifteen days older than Everard, and in se^n years more I shall be thirty, and an old maid. A^rer that, tortures cannot wring my age from rne. Honestly, though, Everard was not badly hurt. He will recover in time, and maybe marry, well, marry Rossie ; who knows?" " Marry Rossie ! That child, homely as a hedge fence !" was the indignant reply of Aunt Rachel, who was not always choice in her selection of language. " Rosamond is fifteen, and growing pretty every day," Beatrice retorted, always ready to defend her pet. THE HOUSE OF CARDS BEGINS TO FALL. 121 " She has magnificent eyes and hair, and the sweetest voice I ever heard. Her complexion is clearing up, her face and figure rounding out, and she will yet be a beauty, and cast me in the shade, with my crows-feet and wrinkles ; see if she does not ; but I cannot afford to quar- rel any longer ; I am going to take Widow Ricketts out to ride, so good-by, auntie, and don't be sorry that I am not to leave you yet. You and I will have many years together, I hope." She kissed her aunt, and went gayly from the room, singing as she went. An hour later and she was whirl- ing along the smooth river road, with the quilted hood and black shawl of Widow Ricketts, who, unused to such fast driving, held on to the side of the little phae- ton, sweating like rain with fear, and feeling very glad when at last she was set down safe and sound at her daughter's door without a broken neck. Rhoda's church was wanting a new furnace, and Bee's check for fifty dollars made the heart of the good Nazarite woman very warm and tender toward the girl who had once pretended to have the " power," just for the fun of the thing ! On reaching home Bee found a note from Everard, which had been left by a boy from the village, during her absence, and which ran as follows : " DEAR BEE : After leaving you last night, I went to father, who was waiting for me, and goaded me into telling him everything there was to tell of Josephine. Of course, he turned me out of doors immediately, and said I was no longer his son. I might sleep in my room during the night, but in the morning I must be off. But I did not sleep there. I couldn't, with his dreadful lan- guage in my ears. If I had been guilty of murdei\ke could not have talked worse to me than he did, or calWfc me viler names. So I packed a few things in my valise, and staid in the carriage-house till it was light. Now, I am writing this to you, and shall have some boy to deliver it, as I take the first train South. I have given up law, and shall find something in Cincinnati or Louis- ville which will bring me ready money. If you should wish to communicate with me, direct to the Spencer House. I shall get my mail there a while, as I know 122 THE HOUSE OF CARDS GOES DOWN. the clerk. Don't tell Rossie of Josephine. I'd rather she should not know. God bless her and you, my best friends in all the world. And so, good-by. I've sown the wind, and am reaping the whirlwind with a ven- geance. J. E. FOKKEST." CHAPTER XVI. THE HOUSE OF CAKDS GOES DOWN. T was past eleven when Everard left Elm Park after his interview with Beatrice, and nearly half-past when he reached home, expecting to find the house dark, and the family in bed. But as he walked slowly up the avenue, he saw a light in his father's room, and the figure of a man walking back and forth, as if impatient of something. " Can it be he is waiting for me ?" he thought, and a sigh escaped him as he felt how unequal he was to a con- flict with his father that night. Entering the hall as noiselessly as possible he groped his way up stairs to the broad landing, when the dark- ness was suddenly broken by a flood of light which poured from Rossie's room, and Rossie herself appeared in the door, holding her gray flannel dressing-gown together with one hand, and with the other shedding her hair back from her face, which looked tired and sleepy, as she said: "Oh, I'm so glad you've come. Your father wants to see you, and asked me to sit up and tell you when you came. Good-night !" and she stepped back ttito her room, while he passed slowly down the hall, and she saw him knock at his father's room at the far end of the passage. " Well, my son, so you've come at last," the judge said to him, but there was no anger in his voice, only a plight tone of irritation that he had been kept up so late. " You have been to see Bee, I take it, and, from the length of time you staid, conclude that you settled the little matter we were talking about this morning." THE HOUSE OF CARDS GOES DOWN. 123 " Yes, father, we settled it," Everard said, but his voice was not the voice of a hopeful, happy lover, and his father looked suspiciously at him as he continued : "With what result?" " Beatrice refused me ;" and Everard's voice was still lower and more hopeless. "Refused you ! 'Tig false ! You never asked her !" the judge exclaimed, growing angry at once. " Father !" and now Everard looked straight in his sire's face, " do you mean to say I lie, and I your son and mother's ?" The judge knew that in times past Everard had been guilty of almost everything a fast young man ever is guilty of, but he had never detected him in a falsehood, and he was obliged to answer him now : "No, not exactly lie, though I don't understand why she should refuse you. If I know anything about girls she is not averse to you, and here you come and tell me that she refused you flat. There's some trick some- where; something I do not understand. Beatrice likes you well enough to marry you, and you know it. Why then did she refuse you, unless you made a bungle of the whole thing, and showed her you were not more than half in earnest, as upon my soul I believe you are not ; but you shall be. I've had my mind on that marriage for years, and I will not easily give it up. Do you hear or care for what I am saying?" he asked, in a voice growing each instant louder and more excited. "Yes, father," Everard answered wearily, with the air of one who did not really comprehend. "I hear, I care, but I am so tired to-night. Let me off, won't you, till another time, when I can talk with you better and tell you all I feel." "Xo, I won't let you off," the judge replied. "I intend to know why you are so indifferent to Bee. Is it, as I have suspected, that yellow-haired woman ? Because if it is, by the lord Harry, you will be sorry ! She shall never come here ; never ! The bold-faced, vulgar thing !" "Father !" and Everard roused himself at last, "you must not speak so of Josephine. I will not listen to it." That was the speech which fired the train, and the judge grew purple with rage as he demanded by what 124 THE HOUSE OF CARDS GOES DOWN. right his sou forbade bim to speak as be pleased of Jose- phine. " What is she to you?" he asked, and with white, quivering lips Everard answered back : " She is my wife!" The words were spoken almost in a whisper, but they echoed like thunder through the room, and seemed to repeat themselves over and over again during the moment of utter silence which ensued. Everard had told his secret, and felt better already, as if the worst was over ; while his father stood motionless. and dumb, glaring upon him with a baleful light in his eyes, which boded no good to the sorely-presred young man, who was the first to speak. " Let me tell you all about it," he said, " and then you may kill me if you choose ; it does not matter much." " Yes, tell me ;" his father said, hoarsely ; and with- out lifting up his bowed head, or raising his voice, which was strangely sad and low, Everard told his story, every word of it, even to Josephine's parentage and Rossie's generous conduct in his behalf. Of Josephine herself he said as little as possible, and did not by the slightest word hint at his growing aver- sion for her. That would not help matters now. She was his wife, and he called her so two or three times, and did not (=63 how at the mention of that name his father ground his teeth together and clutched at his cravat as if to tear it off, and give himself more room to breathe. " I have told you everything now, father," Everard said in conclusion, "everything there is to tell, except that since that night I have not committed a single act of which I am not willing you should know. I have tried to do my best, as I promised mother I would the last time I talked with her. She believed in me then ; she would forgive me if she were here, and for her sake I ask you to forgive me too. I am so sorry, sorrier than you can possibly be. Will you forgive me for mother's sake ?" He had made his plea and waited for the answer. He knew how ungovernable his father's temper \v;is at times, but it was so long since he had met it in its worst form that he was wholly unprepared for the terrible THE HOUSE OF CARDS GOES DOWN. 125 burst of passion to which his father gave vent. He had listened quietly to his son's story, without comment or interruption, but his anger had grown stronger and fiercer with each detail, so that even the mention of his dead wife had no power to move him now. On the contrary, it exasperated him the more, and, at Everard's appeal for pardon, the storm burst and he began in a voice of such withering scorn and contempt that Everard looked wonderingly at the old man, who shook with rage and whose face was livid in spots. There was nothing to be hoped for from him, and Everard bowed his head again, while the tempest raged on. " Forgive you for your mother's sake ! Dastard ! How dare you cringe and creep behind her name, when you have disgraced her in her coffin ? Forgive you ? Never ! So long as I have sense and reason left !" This was the preface to what followed, for, taking up the case as a lawyer takes up the case of the criminal whom it is his duty to prosecute, the judge went through it step by step, speaking first of the puling weakness which would allow one to fall into the damna- ble trap set for him by a crafty, designing woman, then of the base hypocrisy, the living lie of years, the sys- tematic deception, the mean cowardice, the sneaking, contemptible spirit which would even take money from a child to squander on that yellow-haired Jezebel, the insult to Beatrice, asking her to marry him just for a farce, and lastly, the audacity in thinking such enormities could bo forgiven. Everard did not think they could by the time his case was summed up. He did not think of much of anything, he was so benumbed and bewildered, and his father's voice sounded like some great roaring river very far away. " Forgive you !" it said again, with all the concen- trated bitterness of hatred. " Forgive you ! Never, so long as I live, will I forgive or own you for my son, or in any way recognize that jade as your wife. From this time on you are none of mine. I disown you. I cast you off, forever. You may sleep here to-night, but in the morning you leave, and go back to your darling and her high-born family, but you'll never cross my threshold 126 THE HOUSE OF CARDS GOES DOWN. again while I am living. Do you hear, or are you a stone, a clod, that you sit there so quietly ?" His son's demeanor exasperated him, and he would have been better pleased had Everard fought him inch by inch, and given him back scorn for scorn. But this Everard could not do ; he was too completely crushed to offer a word in his own defense. Only at the last, when he heard himself disowned, he roused and said, " Do you mean it, father? Mean to turn me from your house ?" " Mean it ? Yes ; don't you understand plain lan- guage when you hear it?" thundered the judge. '* Yes, father, I understand, and I will go," Everard said, rising slowly, as if it were painful to move ; then, half staggering to the door, he stopped a moment and added, " I deserve a great deal, father, but not all you have given me. You have been too hard with me, and you will be sorry for it some day. Good-by ; I am going." " Go, then, and never come back," came like a savage growl from the infuriated man, and those were the last words which- ever passed between the father and the son. " Good-by, father, I am going." " Go, then, and never come back." They sounded through the stillness of the night, and Everard shivered, as he went through the long, dark hall and up the stairs, where the old clock was striking one, and where the light from Rossie's door again shone into the gloom, and Rossie's face looked out, pale and scared this time, for she had heard the judge's angry voice, and knew a dreadful battle was in progress. So she wrapped a shawl about her and waited till it was over, and she heard Everard coming up the stairs. Then she went to him, for something told the motherly child that he was in need of comfort and sympathy, and such crumbs as she could give she would. But she was not prepared for the cowed, humiliated look of utter hopelessness, and not knowing what she was doing, she drew him into her room, and making him sit down, she took his icy hands and rubbed and chafed them, while she said, "What is it, Mr. Everard ? Tell me all about it. I heard your father's voice so loud and angry that it frightened me, and I sat up to wait for you and tell you how sorry I am. What is it ?" THE HOUSE OF CARDS GOES DOWN. 127 Her sympathy was very sweet to Everard, and touched him so closely that for a moment he was unable to speak ; then he said : " I cannot tell you, Rossie, what it is ; only that it is something which dates far back, before mother died, and father has just found it out, and has turned me from his door." " Oh, Mr. Everard, you must have misunderstood him ; he did not mean that. You are mistaken," Rossie cried, in great distress ; and Everard replied : " When a man calls his son a sneak, a coward, a clod, a villain, a scoundrel, a scamp, a hypocrite, a liar, there can be no misunderstanding the language, or what it means; and father called me all these names, and more, and said things I never can forget. I deserve a great deal, but not all this. Oh, if I had died years and years ago !" His chin quivered and his voice trembled as he talked, while Rossie's tears flowed like rain as she stood, not holding his hands now, but gently stroking the hair of the head bowed down so low with its load of grief and shame. " Mr. Everard," she said at last, " has this trouble anything to do with Joe Fleming ?" " Yes, everything!" Everard answered, bitterly; and Rossie continued: " Oh, I am so sorry ! I hoped you had broken with him forever. You have been so good and nice, and kept that pledge so beautifully! How could you have any- thing to do with Joe ?" "I tell you it dates far back, a hundred years ago, it seems to me. I got into an awful scrape, from which I cannot extricate myself," Everard said, and Rossie continued: " I see, you did something which Joe knows about, and so has you in his power, and you have just told your father." " Yes, that is it, very nearly," Everard replied. " I wish you'd tell me what it is. I 'most know I could help you; at all events, I could speak to your father; he is always kind to me, and will listen to rea- son, I think," Rossie said; and then Everard looked up quickly, and spoke decidedly: 123 THE HOUSE OF CARDS GOES DOWN. " Rossie, you must not speak to father for me. I will not have it. He has taunted me enough with * hang- ing on to the apron-strings of a little girl;' that's what he said, referring to my having taken money from you ; for you see I told him everything, even to the hair you sold, and I think that made him more furious than all the rest. It was a dastardly thing in me, and there must be no repetition. You must not interfere by so much as a word; remember that when I am gone, for I am going to Cincinnati first, and if I find nothing to do there, I shall go on to Louisville, and possibly farther South. I shall write to you as soon as I know what I am going to do, perhaps before; and, Rossie, among all the pleasant memories of my old home, the very sweetest will be the memory of the little girl who always in my sorest need lightened, if she could not remove, the burden. Hush, Rossie; don't cry so for me. I am not worth it," he said, as she burst into a passionate fit of weeping. He had risen now and was bending over her and holding her hands in his, and when he saw her sobbing thus he wound his arm around her, and drawing her close to him, tried to quiet and comfort her. "Don't, Rossie, don't ; you unman me entirely, to see you give way so ; I'd rather remember you as the brave little woman who always controlled herself." Down over Rossie's shoulders her unbound hair was falling, and lifting up one of the wavy tresses. Everard continued, " I shall be gone in the morning, Rossie, and I want to take with me a lock of this hair. It will be a constant reminder of the sacrifice you once made for me, and keep me from temptation. May I have it, Rossie ?" She would have given him her head had he asked for it, and the lock was soon severed from the rest and laid in his hand. Holding it to the light he said, " Look how long, and bright, and even it is. You have beau- tiful hair, Rossie." He meant to divert her mind, but her heart was very sore, and her face tear-stained and wet as she tied the hair with a bit of ribbon, and placing it in a paper, handed it to him. "Thank you, Rossie," he said ; "no man ever had a dearer sister than I, and if I am ever anything, it will be wholly owing to your influence and Bee's." THE NEXT DAT. 129 At the mention of Bee's name Rossie looked quickly up, struck with a sudden idea. " Oh, Mr. Everard," she said, "how can you go away and leave Miss Beatrice ? and I thought you and she would some time be married, and we should all be so happy." " That can never be," Everard replied ; " Beatrice will not have me ; I cannot have her. We settled that to-night, but are the best of friends, and I esteem her as one of the noblest girls I ever knew. You may tell her so if she ever speaks of me after I am gone ; tell her that with you she represents to me all that is purest and sweetest in womanhood ; and now, Rossie, I must say good-by. It is almost two o'clock." He took her upturned face between both his hands and held it a moment, while he looked earnestly into the clear, bright eyes which met his without a shadow of consciousness, except the consciousness that he was going away, and this was his farewell. Then he stooped and kissed her forehead and said, " God bless you, Rosamond; be a daughter to my father. You are all the child he has now." An hour later and Rosamond had cried herself to sleep, amd did not hear Everard's cautious footsteps, as, with his satchel in his hand, he stole down the stairs and out to the carriage-house, where he passed the few re- maining hours of the November night, feeling that he was indeed an outcast and a wanderer. CHAPTER XVII. THE NEXT DAY. |OW much or how soundly the judge slept after that stormy interview with his son, or whether there came to him any twinges of regret for all the bitter things he had said, none ever knew. He prided himself upon seldom changing his mind, when once it was made up ; and so, perhaps, his temper was still at a boiling pitch when promptly at his usual hour he descended to the break- 6* 130 THE NEXT DAY. fast-room, arid bade John bring in the coffee and eggs. His face was very red, and his eyes were blood-shot and watery, and his hands, which held the morning paper, trembled so, that John glanced curiously at him as he brought in the breakfast and arranged it upon the table. " Where's Miss Rosamond and my son ? Are they not ready ?" the judge asked a little irritably, for he required every one to be prompt where he was concerned. His questions were partly answered by the appearance of Rosamond, who looked as fresh and bright as usual, as she took her seat at the table and began to pour the coffee. She had stept soundly, and did not feel the effects of last night's excitement, except in a little tremor of fear and anxiety with regard to Everard. Whatever happened, she was not to interfere or plead for him. He had said so expressly, and she must obey, and as she looked furtively at the inflamed face opposite her, she felt for the first time in her life a great fear of the man, who, as Everard did not appear, said angrily, " Go to my son's room and see what is keeping him ; and tell him I sent you," he added, as if that message would necessarily hasten the laggard young man. Then Rossie dropped her spoon and sat shaking in her chair until the servant came swiftly back, with wonder and alarm upon his face, saying that his young master was not there and his bed had not been slept in. " Not there ! and his bed not slept in ! What does it mean ? Where is he, then ?" the judge asked, in a voice that made Rossie tremble even more than the an- nouncement that Everard was gone. " I duniK), mass'r, where he can be. I know he's not thar, an' I disremember seen' him since he went out last night after dinner. Maybe he didn't come back." " Blockhead, he did come back, and he's here now, most likely. I'll see for myself," said the judge, as he started for his son's room, followed by Rossie and John, the latter of whom said : "Very well, mass'r, you see for yourself; he gone sure, an' left the bed as Axie fix it for him, an' Jemme see, yes, shoo nuff, his big satchel gone wicl him, and his odder suit. I shouldn't wonder if he's gone away," the loquacious negro continued, as he investigated the closet and room. THE NEXT DAT. 131 " You black hound," roared the infuriated judge, " why should he run away ? What had he to run from ? Leave the chamber instantly, before I kick you down stairs, for giving your opinion." " Yes, mass'r, I's gwine," was John's reply as he dis- appeared from the scene, leaving the judge and Rossie alone. The latter was white as a sheet, and leaned against the mantel, for she knew now that Everard was really gone. Her paleness and agitation escaped the judge's attention, for just then he picked up from the dressing- table the few lines that Everard had left for him, and which read as follows : " FATHER: You have always said your yea was yea, and your nay nay, and I know you meant it when you bade me leave your house and never come back again ; so I have taken you at your word, and when you read this I shall be many miles away from Rothsay. After what you said to me I cannot even pass the night under this roof, and shall stay in the carriage-house until time to take the train. I am sorry for all that has passed, very sorry, and wish I could "undo my part of it, but cannot, and so it is better for me to go. Good-by, father. Your son, EVERARD." Notwithstanding the judge's favorite assertion that his vea was yea, and his nay nay, it is very possible that if 3 -verard had not taken him so promptly at his word, if he had staid and gone to breakfast as usual and abo t his daily avocations, his father would have cooled do\\ n gradually, and come in time to look the matter over soberly and make the best of it. But Everard had gone, and the irascible old man broke forth afresh into invectives against him, denouncing him as a dog, to sleep in carriage-houses, and then run away as if there was anything to run from. " I'll never forgive him," he said to Rossie, who had stood silently by, appalled at the storm of passion such as she had never seen before, until at last, forgetful of Everard's charge not to interfere, she roused in his de- fense. "Yes, you will forgive him," she said. "You must. 132 THE NEXT DAY. He is your son, and though I don't know what he has done to make you so angry, I am sure it is not sufficient for you to treat him so, and you will send for him to come back. I know where he's gone. He came and told me he was going, though I did not think it would be till this morning, when I hoped you might make it up." " And so he asked you to intercede for him as you have been in the habit of doing, and maybe told you the nice thing he had done-?" the judge said, forgetting her assertion that she did not know. " No, sir. Oh, no," Rossie cried. " He did not ask me to intercede ; he said, on the contrary, that I was on no account to mention him, and he did not tell me what it was about, except that it happened long ago ; and he is so sorry and has tried to be good since. You know he was trying, Judge Forrest, and you will forgive him, won't you ?" " By the lord Harry, no ! and you would not ask it if you knew the disgrace he has brought upon me. I'll fix him !" was the judge's angry reply, as he broke away from her, and striding down the stairs took his hat from the hall-stand, and hurried to his office. Great was the consternation among the servants in the Forrest household when it was known that Mr. Everard had left the house, and gone no one knew whither, and many were the whispered surmises as to the cause of his going. " Some row between him and old mass'r," John said, and his solution of the mystery was taken as the correct one, the negroes all siding with Mr. Everard, who was very popular with them. Old Axie, the cook, ventured to question Rosamond a little ; but Rossie kept her own counsel, and, returning to her room, was crying herself sick, when a message came that Beatrice was asking for her. Immediately after reading Everard's note, Beatrice had driven over to the Forrest House, where she was admitted at once to Rossie's room, and heard all that Rossie knew of the events of the previous night. "Oh, Miss Beatrice," Rossio said, "why did you re- fuse him ? He told me about it, and I 'most know if you had said yes it would all have been so different." Bee's face was scarlet as she replied : THE NEXT DAT. 133 " He told you that, and nothing more ?" " Yes, he said something about wouldn't and couldn't, I don't know what, for it is all confused to me. I thought you liked him and he liked you. He said he did, and he bade me tell you that you were the purest and sweetest woman in the world, and the best, or some- thing like that, and I think you ought to marry him, I do," and Rossie looked reproachfully at poor Bee, who was very pale, and whose voice was sad and low as she said : " Rossie, I could not marry Everard if I wished to. There is an insuperable barrier, and if he did not ex- plain, I must not. Did he give you any hint as to the cause of his quarrel with his father ?" " No," Rossie replied, " only that it dated far back, and had something to do with Joe Fleming. I wish Joe was in Guinea ; he is always doing harm to Mr. Everard." Beatrice could not forbear a smile at this ludicrous mistake of sex, and for a moment was tempted to tell the girl the truth ; but remembering that Everard had said Rossie was not to know, she held her peace, and Rossie was left in ignorance of Joe's real identity. After leaving the Forrest House Beatrice drove past the judge's office, with a faint hope that she might see him, and perhaps be of some service to Everard by speaking for him, should the opportunity occur. It was years since the judge, who once stood high in his profes- sion, had done much business, and his office was occupied by Mr. Russell, his legal adviser ; but he was frequently there, and as Bee drove down the street she saw him standing outside the door, glancing up and down as if looking for some one. Something in his attitude or manner induced her to rein her ponies up to the curb- stone, where she could speak to him. " Good morning, Judge Forrest," she said, as natur- ally as if in her heart she did not think him a monster of cruelty. " Were you waiting for me ?" " No, not exactly," and a faint smile appeared on the dark face. " I was looking for Parker, but maybe you'll do as well if you choose to step in and witness my will." " Your will !" Bee replied, and all the blood in her body seemed surging into her face as sUe felt intuitively 134 THE NEXT DAY. that a will made just now would be disastrous to Ever- ard. " Have you never made your will before ?" she asked, and he replied : "Never ; but it's high time I did. Yes, high time !" and he shook his head defiantly at something invisible. " Can you go iii as well as not ?" he continued ; and, summoning all her courage for the conflict, Beatrice said to him : " I am willing to go in, but not to witness any will which is in any way adverse to Everard." " Who said it was adverse to him, the dog? Do you know how he has disgraced me ? but yes, you do ; he said he told you all, and insulted you with an offer, and now he has run away as a crowning feat. If you can forgive him, I can't ;" and the judge trembled from head to foot as he talked of his son to Beatrice, who came bravely to the rescue, and standing nobly for Everard, tried to bring his father to reason, and make him say he w T ould forgive his son and endure the wife because she was his wife. But she might as well have given her words to the winds, for any effect they had. The judge was past all reason, and only grew more and more angry as he talked of the disgrace which Everard's marriage had brought upon his name. Finding that what she naid was of no avail in the judge's present mood, Beatrice bade him good morning and drove away, resolving to see him again as soon as his temper had cooled, and try what she could do by way of a reconciliation. The next morning breakfast was much later than usual at Elm Park, for Beatrice had slept but little, and she was still in bed when her maid brought a message to her from Rosamond to the effect that she must come at once to the Forrest House, as the judge had been smitten suddenly with apoplexy, and was lying in a half uncon- scious condition, nearly resembling death. Terrified beyond measure, Beatrice dressed herself hurriedly, and was soon on her way to the house, where she found mat- ters even worse than she feared. THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 135 CHAPTER XVIII. THE SHADOW OF DEATH. REAKFAST at the Forrest House had been late that morning, for the judge, who was usually so prompt, did not make his appear- ance, and Rosamond waited for him until the clock struck eight. Then, as the minute-hand crept on and he still did not come down, she went to the door of his room and knocked, but there, came no answer, though she thought she heard a faint sound like the moan of some one in pain. Knocking still louder, with her ear to the keyhole, she called, " Judge Forrest, are you awake ? Do you hear me ? Do you know how late it is?" This time there was an effort to reply, and without waiting for anything further, Rosamond went unhesitat- ingly into the room. The shutters were closed and the heavy curtains drawn, but even in the darkness Rossie could discern the white, unnatural face upon the pillow, and the eyes which met hers so appealingly as the judge tried in vain to speak, for the blue lips gave forth only an unmeaning sound, which might have meant anything. There was a loud call for help, and in a moment the room was full of the terrified servants, who ran over and against each other in their frantic haste to execute Miss Rossie's orders, given so rapidly. " Open the shutters and windows wide and let in the air, and bring some camphor, and hartshorn, and ice- water, quick, and somebody go for the doctor and Miss Belknap as soon as they can, and don't make such a noise with your crying, it's only a, a, a fit of some kind ; he will soon be better," Rossie said, with a forced calmness, as she bent over the helpless man and rubbed and chafed the hands which, the moment she let go of them, fell with a thud upon the bed-clothes, where they lay helpless, nerveless, dead, as it were, to all action or feeling ; and while she rubbed and worked over him and asked him questions he could not answer, his eyes fol- lowed her constantly, as if with some wish the dumb lips could not express. 136 THE SHADOW OF DEATH. The doctor was soon there, but a glance at his patient convinced him that his services were of no avail, except to make the sufferer a little more comfortable. It was partly apoplexy, partly paralysis, induced by some great excitement or over-work, he said to Rosamond, whom he questioned closely as to the judge's appearance the pre- vious night. He had come home about four o'clock, Rosamond said, and eaten a very hearty dinner, and drank more wine than usual. She noticed, too, that his face was very red, and that he smoked a long time after dinner before he came into the parlor where she was getting her lessons. He had asked her to play some old- fashioned tunes, which he liked best, he said, because they took him back to the time when he was a boy at home in Carolina. Then he told her of his home and his mother, and talked of his dead wife, and said he hoped Forrest House would one day have a mistress as sweet and good as she was. When at last he said good-night, he kissed her forehead and said, "My child ; you are all I have left me now. Heaven bless you !" then he went up stairs, and Rossie knew nothing more till she found him in the morning. There was no hope ; it was merely a matter of a few days at most, the doctor said ; and then he asked where Everard was, saying, he ought to be sent for. This was to Beatrice and Rossie both, after the former had arrived and before she had seen the judge. The two girls exchanged glances, and Beatrice was the first to speak. " Everard left home for Cincinnati early yesterday morning," she said, " but I know his address, and will telegraph at once." " Very well," the doctor replied, looking curiously at her, for he had heard a flying rumor of something wrong at the Forrest House, which had driven the heir away. Accordingly, a telegram was sent to the Spencer House, Cincinnati, to the effect that Judge Forrest was dangerously ill, and Everard must come immediately. " Not here, and has not been here," was the answer telegraphed back ; and then a message went to the Gait House, in Louisville, where Everard always stopped, but that too elicited the answer " Not here." Where was he, then, the outcast son, when his THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 137 father lay dying, with that white, scared, troubled look upon his face, and that vain effort to speak and let his wishes be known. Dead his body was already, so far as power to move was concerned, but the mind was appar- ently unimpaired, and expressed itself in the agonized expression of his face, and the entreating, beseeching, pleading look of the dim eyes which followed Rosamond so constantly and seemed trying to communicate w r ith her. " There is something he' wants," Rossie said to Bea- trice, who shared her vigils, " and if I could only guess what it was ;" then, suddenly starting up, she hurried to his side, and taking the poor, palsied hand in hers rubbed and caressed it pityingly, and smoothing his thin hair, said to him, "Judge Forrest, you want something, and I can't guess what it is, unless, unless ;" she hesitated a moment, for as yet Everard's name had not been men- tioned in his hearing, and she did not know what the effect might be ; but the eyes, fastened so eagerly upon her, seemed challenging her to go on, and at last she said, " unless it is Mr. Everard. Has it anything to do with him ?" Oh, how hard the lips tried to articulate, but they only quivered convulsively and gave forth a little moan- ing sound, but in the lighting up of the eager eyes, which grew larger and brighter, Rossie thought she read the answer, and emboldened by it went on to say that they had telegraphed to Cincinnati and Louisville both, and had that morning dispatched a message to Memphis and New Orleans. " We shall surely find him somewhere," she contin- ued, "and he will come at once. I do not think he was angry with you when he went away, he spoke so kindly of you." Again the lips tried to speak, but could not ; only the eyes fastened themselves wistfully upon Rosamond, fol- lowing her wherever she went, and as if by some subtle magnetism bringing her back to the bedside, where she stayed almost constantly. How those wide-open, never- sleeping eyes haunted and troubled her and made her at last almost afraid to stay alone with them, and meet their constant gaze ! Beatrice had been taken sick, and was unable to come to the Forrest House, and the judge seemed so much more quiet when Rossie was sitting 138 THE SHADOW OF DEATH. where he could look her straight in the face, that the man hired to nurse him staid mostly in the adjoining room, and Rossie kept her vigils alone, wearying herself with the constantly recurring question as to what it was the sick man wished to tell her. Something, sure, and something important, too, for as the days went on, and there came no tidings of his son, the eyes grew larger, and seemed at times about to leap from* their sockets, to escape the horror and remorse so plainly written in them. What was it he wished to say ? What was it troubling the old man so, and forcing out the great drops of sweat about his lips and forehead, and making his face a won- der to look upon ? Rosamond felt sometimes as if she should go mad herself sitting by him, with those wild eyes watching her so intently that if she moved away for a moment they called her back by their strange power, and compelled her not only to sit down again by them, but to look straight into their depths, where the unspeak- able trouble lay struggling to free itself. " Judge Forrest," Rossie said to him the fifth day after his attack, " you wish to tell me something and you cannot, but perhaps I can guess by mentioning ever so many things. I'll try, and if you mean no look straight at me as you are looking now ; if you mean yes, turn your eyes to the window, or shut them, as you choose. Do you understand me ?" There was the shadow of a smile on the wan face, and the heavy eyelids closed, in token that he did com- prehend. Rossie knew the judge was dying, that at the most only a few days more were his, and ought not some one to tell him? Was it right to let that fierce, turbulent spirit launch out upon the great sea of eternity unwarned ? " Oh, if I was only good, I might help him, perhaps," she thought ; "at any rate he ought to know, and maybe it would make him kinder toward Everard," for it was of him she meant to speak, through this novel channel of communication between herself and the sick man. She must have the father's forgiveness with which to comfort the son, and with death staring him in the face he would not withhold it ; so she said to him : " You are very sick, Judge Forrest ; you know that, don't you ?" THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 139 The eyes went slowly to the window and back again, while she continued in her plain, outspoken way : " Do you think I ought to tell you if you are going to die ?" There was a momentary spasm of terror on the face, a look such as a child has when shrinking from the rod, and then the eyes went to the window and back to Ros- sie, who said : " We hope for the best, but the case is very bad, and if you do not see Mr. Everard again shall I tell him you forgive him, and were sorry?" Quick as lightning the affirmative answer agreed upon between them was given, and in great delight Rossie exclaimed, "I am so glad, for that is what you have tried so hard to tell me. You wish me to say this to Mr. Everard, and I will. Is that all ?" This time the eyes did not move, but looked into hers with such an earnest, beseeching expression, that she knew there was more to come. Question after question followed, but the eyes never left her face, and she could see the pupils dilate and the color deepen in them, as they seemed burning themselves into hers. ' What is it ? What can it be ?" she asked, despair- ingly. " Does it concern Mr. Everard in any way ?" "Yes," was the eye answer quickly given, and then Rosamond guessed everything she could think of, the possible and impossible, but the bright eyes kept their steady gaze upon her until, thinking of Joe Fleming, she asked, "Is somebody else concerned in it?" " Yes," was the response, and not willing to introduce Joe too soon, Rossie said : " Is it the servants ?" "No." " Is it Beatrice ?" "No." "Is it I?" She had no thought it was, and was astonished when the eyes went over to the window in token that it was. "Is it something that I can do?" she asked, and the eyes seemed to leap from her face to the window. "And shall I some time know what it is ?" Again the emphatic " yes," while the sweat ran like rain down his face. "Then, Judge Forrest," and Rossie put on her 140 THE SHADOW OF DEATH. wisest, oldest air, "you may be certain I'll do it, for I promise you solemnly that if anything comes to light which you left undone, and which I can do, I'll do it, sure." The eyes fairly danced now, and there was no mis- taking the joy shining in them, while the lips moved as if in blessing upon the girl, who took the helpless hand and found there was a slight pressure of the limp, life- less fingers which clung to hers. "Is that all? have you made me understand?" she asked, and he answered yes, and this time his eyes did not come back to her face, but closed wearily, and in a few moments he was sleeping quietly, as he had not done before since his illness. The sleep did him good, and he was far less restless after he awoke, and there was a more natural look in his face, but nothing could prolong his life, which hung upon a thread, and might go out at any time. There was no more following Rossie with his eyes, though he wanted her with him constantly, and seemed happier when she was sitting by him and ministering to his comfort. Sometimes he seemed to be in a deep reverie, with his eyes fixed on vacancy, and the great sweat-drops standing thickly on his face from the intensity of his thought. Of what was he thinking as he lay there so helpless ? of the wasted years which he could not now re- claim ? of sins committed and unforgiven in the days which lay behind him ? of the wife who had died in that room and on that very bed ? of the son to whom he had been so harsh and unforgiving, and who was not there now to cheer the dreary sick-room ? And did the unknown future loom up darkly before him and fill his soul with horror and dread of the world so near to him that he could almost see the boundary line which divides it from us ? Once, when Rossie said to him, " Shall I read you something from the Bible ?" he answered her with the affirmative sign, and taking her own little Bible, which her mother once used, she opened it at the first chapter of Isaiah, and her eyes chancing to fall upon the 18th verse, she commenced reading in a clear, sweet voice, which seemed to linger over the words, "Come now and let us reason together, saith the Lord ; though your sins THE SHADOW OF DEATH. 141 be as scarlet they shall be white as snow ; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool." There were spasms of pain distorting the pinched features on the pillow, as the judge listened to those blessed words of promise and hope for even the worst of sinners. Scarlet sins and crimson sins all to be forgiven, and what were his but these ? "I do believe he's concerned in his mind," Rossie thought, as she looked at him ; and bending close to him she whispered, amid her own tears, " Shall I say the Lord's Prayer now ?" She knew he meant yes, and kneeling by his bedside, with her face on his hands, she said the prayer he could not join in audibly, though she was sure he prayed in his heart; and she wished so much for some one older, and wiser, and better than herself, to see and talk to him. "Shall I send for the minister or for Mrs. Baker?" she asked, feeling in that hour that there was something in the Nazaritc woman, fanatical though she might be, which would answer to the sore need. But the judge wished neither the clergyman nor Mrs. Baker, then; he would rather that pure young girl should read to and pray with him, and he made her understand it, and every day from that time on until the end came, she sat by him and read, and said the simple prayers of her childhood, and his as well, prayers which took him back to his boyhood and his mother's knee, and made him sob sometimes like a little child, as he tried so often to repeat the one word "forgive." Gradually there came a more peaceful expression upon his face; his eyes lost that look of terror and dread, and the muscles about his mouth ceased to twitch so painfully, but of the change within, if real change there had been, he could not speak; that power was gone forever, and he lay, dead in limb as a stone, waiting for the end. Once Rossie said to him, " Do you feel better, Judge Forrest, about dying. I mean, are you afraid now ?" He looked her steadily in the face and she was sure his quivering lips said no to her last question. That was the day he died, and the day when news was received from Evorard. He had returned to Louisville from a journey to Alabama, had found the telegrams, and was 142 THE JUDGE'S WILL. hastening home as fast as possible. Beatrice was better, and able to be again at the Forrest House, but it was Rossie who took to the dying man the message from his son. He was lying perfectly quiet, every limb and muscle composed, and a look of calm restfulness on his face, which lighted suddenly when Rossie said to him, " We have heard from Mr. Everard ; he is on his way home ; he will be here to-night. You are very glad," she continued, as she saw the unmistakable joy in his face. "Maybe you will be able to make him understand what it was you wished to have done, but if you cannot and I ever find it out, depend upon it I will do it, sure. You can trust me." She looked like one to be trusted, the brave, unselfish little girl, on whom the dying eyes were fixed, so that Rossie's was the last face they ever saw before they closed forever on the things of this world, and entered upon the realities of the next. Everard was not there, for the train was behind time, and when at last the Forrest House carriage came rapidly up the avenue, bringing the son who ten days ago had been cast out from his home and bidden never to enter it again, there were knots of crape upon the bell-knobs, and in the chamber above a sheeted figure lay, scarcely more quiet and still than when bound in the relentless bands of paralysis, but with death upon the w r hite face, which in its last sleep looked so calm and peaceful. CHAPTER XIX. THE JUDGE'S WILL. T was Rosamond who met Everard as he came into the house, and taking his hands in hers, held them in token of sympathy, but said no word by way of condolence, or of the dead father either. She merely asked him of his journey and the delay of the train, and if lie was not cold and hungry, and saw that his supper was served him by a bright, cheerful fire, and made him in all re- THE JUDGE'S WILL. 143 spects as comfortable as she could, while the servants vied with each other in their attentions to him, for was lie not now their master, the rightful heir of all the For- rest property. Whether Everard experienced any sense of freedom and heirship, or not, I cannot tell, or what he felt when at last he stood by his dead father, and looked upon the face which, when he saw it last, had been dis- torted with passion and hatred of himself. How placid and even sweet it was in its expression now, so sweet that Everard stooped down, kissing the cold forehead, and whispered softly : "I am so sorry, father, that I ever made you angry with me ;" then, he replaced the covering and went out from the silent room. In the hall he met Rossie, who, seeing the trace of weeping on his face, thought to comfort- him by repeating the mes- sage left him by his father. " Would you mind ray telling you all about his sick- ness ; can you bear to hear it ?" she asked, and he replied : " Yes, tell me about it, from the very first." So they sat down together, and in her quaint, straight- forward way Rossie told the story of the last ten da)**, softening as much as possible the judge's anger when he found his son had taken him at his word and gone, and dwelling the most upon the change which came over him while lying so helpless and weak. She told of the method of communication she managed to establish, and which had been suggested to her by reading Monte Cristo, and then continued : "He seemed so glad when I told him we had sent for you, and so sorry that we could not find you, and his eyes kept following me all the time as if there was something he wanted to say and couldn't, and at last I found out what it was. If he never saw you again, he wished me to tell you that he forgave you everything ; that was it, I know, and he was so happy and quiet after it, though he wanted you to come so much." Here Rossie paused, and thought of that mysterious thing which had seemed to trouble him the most, and which she was pledged to do when she found out what it was. "I wonder if I ought to tell him that now," she thought, and finally concluded that she would not until something definite came to her knowledge of which she could speak. 144 THE JUDGE'S WILL. The next morning Beatrice came over, with a great pity in her heart for Everard, and a great fear as well, when she remembered the angry man who had asked her to witness his will. Had he carried out his purpose and left behind him a paper which would work mischief to his son, or had he thought better of it, and destroyed it, perhaps, or left it unwitnessed? She could not guess. She could only hope for the best, so far as the will was concerned ; but there was a heavier trouble in store for the young man than loss of property, the acknowledging his marriage and bringing home his wife, for he would do that now, of course. There was no other way, and Beatrice resolved at once to stand bravely by Mrs. J. E. Forrest when she should arrive. Then came the funeral, a grand affair, with a score of carriages, a multitude of friends, and crowds of people, who came to go over the house and through the grounds more than for any respect they had for the man who lay in his costly coffin, unmindful of the curious ones who looked at him and speculated upon the nature of the trouble which had driven his only son from home. Everybody knew there had been trouble, and each one put his or her construction on it, and all exonerated Everard from more blame than naturally would attach to the acts of a young man like him, as opposed to the ideas of a man like his father. Beatrice went with Everard and Rossie to the grave, and then back to the house, which in their absence had been cleansed from the atmosphere of death. The win- dows and doors had been opened to admit the fresh, pure air blowing up from the river ; then they were closed again and wood fires kindled on the hearth, and the table arranged in the dining-room, and one of Aunt Axie's best dinners was waiting for such of the friends as chose to stay. Between Beatrice and Lawyer Russell there had been a private talk concerning the will which so much troubled Bee, and the lawyer had inclined to the belief that there was none of recent date, or he should have known it. lie would look, however, he said, as he had a key to the judge's private desk in the office. He had looked, and to his surprise had found a will, which must have been made the very day before the judge's sickness, and dur- THE JUDGE'S WILL. 145 ing his own absence from the office. This he communi- cated to Beatrice, and with her remained at the Forrest House to dinner for the purpose of making the fact known to Everard as soon as possible. As for Everard, he had not thought of a will, or indeed of anything, ex- cept in a confused, general kind of way, that he was, of course, his father's natural heir, and that now Josephine must come there as his wife, and from that he shrank with a feeling amounting to actual pain; and he was not a little surprised when, after dinner was over, and they had returned to the long parlor, Lawyer Russell, as the old and particular friend of the family, said to him, " I found in looking over your father's papers a will, and as it was inclosed in an envelope directed to me, I took charge of it, and have it with me now. Shall I read it aloud, or give it to you ?" " A will !" Everard said, and a deep flush spread it- self over his face as if he dimly felt the coming blow which was to strike him with such force. "Did father leave a will? I never supposed he made one. Read it aloud, of course. These are all my friends," and he glanced at the clergyman and his wife, and Beatrice and Rossie, the only people present. The two girls were sitting side by side on a low sofa, and opposite them was Everard, looking very pale and nervous as he bent forward a little to listen to the will. It was made the day before the judge's illness, and was duly drawn up and witnessed by Parker and Merritt, the two students in the office, and after mentioning a few thousands which were to be given to different individuals and charities, the judge went on : " the remainder of my estate, both real and personal, I give, bequeath, and devise to the girl, Rosamond Hastings, and " Lawyer Russell got no further, for there was a low cry from Rossie as she sprang to her feet, and crossed swiftly to Everard's side. He, too, had risen, and with clasped hands was gazing fixedly at the lawyer, like one listening to his death-warrant. " What did he say, Mr. Everard, about me ? What does it mean?" Rossie asked, laying both hands on Ever- ard's arm, and drawing his attention to herself. "It means that my father disinherited me, and made 7 146 THE JUDGE'S WILL. you his heir," Everard answered her, a little bitterly, while she continued : " It is not so. It does not read that way. There is "some mistake ;" and before the lawyer was aware of her intention she snatched the paper from him, and ran her eye with lightning rapidity over what was written on it, comprehending as she read that what she had heard was true. Everard was disinherited, and she was the heiress of all the Forrest estate. Her first impulse was to tear the paper in pieces, but Everard caught her hands as she was in the act of rending it asunder, and said : "Rossie, you must not do that. The will will stand just as my father meant it should." Rossie's face was a study as she lifted it toward Everard, pale as death, with a firm, set look about the mouth, and an expression in her large black eyes such as the Cenci's might have worn when upon the rack. " Oh, Mr. Everard," she said, " you must always hate me, though I'll never let it stand. I did not know it. I never dreamed of such a thing. I shall never touch it, never. Don't hate me, Mr. Everard. Oh, Beatrice, help me, somebody help me. I believe I am going to die." But she was only fainting, and Everard took her in liis arms and carried her to an open window in the ad- joining room, and giving her to the care of Beatrice, waited to see the color come back to her face and motion to her eyelids ; then lie returned to the parlor, where Lawyer 'Russell was examining the document which had done so much harm and made the memory of the dead man odious. " Everard, this is a very strange affair ; a most inex- plicable thing," the lawyer said. " I cannot understand it, or believe he really meant it. I do not wish to pry into your affairs, but as an old friend of the family, may I ask if you know of any reason, however slight, why he should do this ?" " Yes," Everard answered promptly, " there is a rea- son ; a good one, many would say ; and that I was rightly punished. The will is just ; 1 have no fault to find with it. I shall not try to dispute it. The will must stand." He spoke proudly and decidedly, with the air of one THE JUDGE'S WILL. 147 * whose mind was made up, and who did not wish to con- tinue the conversation, and who would not be made an object of pity or sympathy by any one. But when Law- yer Russell was gone, and Beatrice came to him as he sat alone by the dying fire> and putting her hand on his bowed head, said to him : " I am so sorry, and wish I could help you some way," he broke down a little, and his voice shook as he replied : "Thank you, Bee. I know you do, and your friend- ship and sympathy are very dear to me now, for you know everything, and I can talk to you as to no one else. Father must have been very angry, and his anger reaches up out of his grave and holds me with a savage grip, but I do not blame him much, and, Bee, don't think there is no sweet with the bitter, for that is not so. It is true I like money as well as any one, and I do not say that I had not to some degree anticipated what it would bring me, but, Bee, with that feeling was another, a shrinking from what would be my plain duty, if I were master here. You know what I mean." "You would bring your wife home," Bee answered, and he continued : " Yes, that would have to be done, and, Heaven forgive me if I am wrong, but I almost believe I would rather be poor and work for her, she living in Hoi bur- ton, than be rich and live with her here. And then, if I must be supplanted, I am so glad it is by Rossie. She takes it hard, poor child ; how was she when you left her?" " Over the faint, but crying bitterly, and she bade me tell you to come to her," Beatrice replied, and Ever- ard went to Rossie's room, where she was lying on the couch, her eyes swollen with weeping, and her face very pale. She was taking it hard, her sudden accession to riches, and when she saw Everard she began sobbing afresh as if her heart would break. " Please go away," she said to Beatrice, " I want to see him alone." Beatrice complied, and the moment she was gone Rosamond began to tell Everard how impossible it was that she should ever touch the money left her in a fit of anger. 148 THE JUDGE'S WILL. " It is not mine," she said. " I have no shadow of right to it, and you must take it just the same as if that will had never been. Say you will, or I believe I shall go mad." But Everard was as immovable as a rock, and an- swered her: " Do you for a moment think my pride, if nothing else, would allow me to touch what was willed away from me ? Never, Rossie. 1 would rather starve; but I shall not do that. I am young and strong, and the world is before me, and I am willing to work at what- ever I find to do, and shall do so, too, and make far more of a man, I dare say, than if I had all this money. I am naturally indolent and extravagant, and very likely should fall into my old expensive habits, and I don't want to do that. I am so glad you are the heiress; so glad to have you mistress here in the old home. You will make a dear little lady of Forrest House." He spoke almost playfully, hoping thus to soothe and quiet her, for she was violently agitated, and shook like a leaf; but nothing he said had any effect upon her. Only one thing could help her now. She felt that she had unwittingly been the means of wronging Everard, and she never could rest until the wrong was righted, and his own given back to him. " I'll never be the lady of Forrest House," she said, energetically. "I shall give it back to you, whether you will take it or not. It is not mine." " Yes, Rossie, it is yours. He knew what he was doing; he meant you to have it," Everard said ; and starting suddenly, as the remembrance of something flashed upon her, Rossie shed back her hair from her spotted, tear-stained face, and exclaimed, with a ring of joy in her voice: " He might have meant it at first, when he was very angry, but he repented of it and tried to make amends. I see it now. I know what he meant, the something which concerned you, and which I was to do. I promised solemnly I would, it will be a dreadful lie if I don't ; but you will let me when you hear, when you know how he took it back." She was very much excited, and her eyes shone like stars as she stood before Everard, who looked at her THE JUDGE'S WILL 149 curiously, with a thought that her mind might really be unsettled. "Sit down, Rossie, and compose yourself," he said, trying to draw her back to the couch ; but she would not sit down, and she went on rapidly : " I told you how I managed to talk with your father, and to find out that he wanted to forgive you, but I did not tell you the rest. I thought I'd wait till it came to me what I was to do, and it has come. I know now just what he meant. He was not quiet after the forgiveness, as I thought he'd be, but his eyes followed me every- where, and said as plain as eyes could say, * There is something more ;' so I began to question him again, and found it was about you and another person. That person was myself, and I was to do something when I found out what it was. I said, 4 Is it something I am to do for Mr. Everard ?' and his eyes went to the window ; then I asked, * Shall I some day know what it is ?' and he answered ' Yes.' Then I said, ' I'll surely, surely do it,' and the poor, helpless face laughed up at me, he was so pleased and happy. After that he was very quiet. So you know he meant me to give the money back, and you will not refuse me now ?" For a moment Everard could not speak. As Rossie talked, the great tears had gathered slowly and dropped upon his face. He could see so vividly the scene which she described, the dim, eager eyes of his dead father trying to communicate with the anxious, excited little girl, who had, perhaps, interpreted their meaning aright. There could be but little doubt that his father, when his passion cooled down, was sorry for the rash act, and Everard was deeply moved by it, and for a little space of time felt uncertain how to act, but when he remem- bered who must share his fortune with him, and all his father had said of her, he grew hard and decided again, and said to Rosamond : " I am glad you told me this, Rossie. It makes it easier to bear, feeling that possibly father was sorry, and wished to make reparation, but that does not change the facts, nor the will. He gave everything to you, and you cannot give it to me now, if you would. You are not of age, you see." " Do you mean," Rosamond asked, " that even if you 150 THE HEIHE88. would take the money, I cannot give it back till I am twenty-one ?" "Not lawfully, no," Everard replied; and Rossie ex- claimed, almost angrily: " I can ; I will. I know there is some way, and I'll find it out. I will not have it so, and I think you are mean to be so proud and stiff." She was losing all patience with Everard for what she deemed his obduracy; her head was aching dread- fully, and after this outburst she sank down again upon the couch, and burying her face in the pillow told him to go away and not come again till he could do as she wished him to do. It was not often that Rosamond was thus moved, and Everard smiled in spite of himself at her wrath, but went out and left her alone as she desired. CHAPTER XX. THE HEIRESS. HE looked like anything but an heiress the next morning when she came down to break- fast, with her swollen face and red eyes, which had scarcely been for a moment closed in sleep. Everard was far brighter and fresher. He had accepted the situation, and was re- solved to make the best of it, and though the memory of his father's bitter anger rested heavily on his heart, it was softened materially by what Rosamond had told him, and, contrary to his expectations, he had slept soundly and quietly, and though very pale and worn, seemed much like himself when he met Rossie in the breakfast-room. Not a word was said on the subject uppermost in both their minds; he carved, sitting in his father's old place, and she poured the coffee with a shak- ing hand, and Bee did most of the talking, and was so bright and merry that when at last she said good-by and went to her own home, Rossie's face was not half so sorry-looking, or her heart so heavy and sad, though she was 'just as decided with regard to the money. THE HEIRESS 151 She had not yet talked with Lawyer Russell, in whom she had the utmost confidence. He surely would know some way out of the trouble, some way by which she could give Everard his own ; and she sent for him to come to the house, as she would not for the world appear in the streets with this disgrace upon her, for Rossie felt it a disgrace, of having supplanted Everard ; and she told the lawyer so when he came, and assuring him of her unalterable determination never to touch a dollar of the Forrest money, asked if there was not some way by which she could rid herself of the burden and give it back to Everard. She told him what had occurred be- tween herself and the judge, and asked if he did not think it had reference to the will. The lawyer was cer- tain it had, and asked if Everard knew this fact. Yes, Rossie had told him, and though he seemed glad in one way to know his father had any regrets for the rash act, he still adhered to his resolve to abide by the will. " But he cannot ; he shall not ; he must take the money. I give it to him ; it is not mine, and I will not have it," she said, impetuously, demanding that he should fix it some way. Mr. Russell had seen Everard for a few moments that morning, and heard from him of his firm resolve not to enter into any arrangement whereby he could be benefited by his father's fortune. " Father cast me off," he said, " and no arguments can shake my purpose. Rossie is the heiress, and she must take what is thrust upon her ; but make it as easy as you can for the child ; let her choose her own guard- ian, and I trust she will choose you. I know you will be trustworthy." All this the lawyer repeated to Rossie, and then, as she still persisted in giving back, as she expressed it, he explained to her how impossible it was for her to do it until she reached her majority, even if Everard would take it. " You are a minor yet," he said ; " are what we call an infant. You must have a guardian, and I propose that you take Everard, and he may also be appointed ad- ministrator of the estate ; he will then be entitled to a certain amount of money as his legitimate fees, and so get some of it." 152 THE HEIRESS. Exactly what the office of guardian and administra- tor was, Rosamond did not know, but she grasped one idea, and said : "Yon mean that whoever is administrator will be paid, and if Mr. Everard is that he will get some money which belongs to him already ; that is it, is it not ? Now, I want him to have it all ; if I cannot give it to him till I am twenty-one, I shall do it then, so sure as I live to see that day, and, meanwhile, you must contrive some way for him to use it just the same. You can, I know. I am quite resolved." She had risen as she talked and stood before him, her cheeks flushed, her eyes unnaturally bright, and her head thrown back, so that she seemed taller than she really was. Lawyer Russell had always liked Rossie very much, and since that little business matter touching the receipt, he had felt increased respect and admira- tion for her, for he was certain she had helped Everard out of some one of the many scrapes he used in those days to be in. Looking at her now he thought what a fine-looking girl she was growing to be, and started sud- denly as he saw a way out of the difficulty, but such a way that he hesitated a moment before suggesting it. Taking off his glasses, and wiping them with his hand- kerchief, he coughed two or three times and then said : " How old are you, Rossie ?" "Fifteen last June/' was her reply, and he con- tinued : "Then you are almost fifteen and a half, and pretty well grown. Yes, it might do ; there have been queerer things than that." " Queerer things than what ?" Rossie asked, and he replied : " Than what I am going to suggest. There is a way by which Everard can use that money if he will." " What is it ? Tell me," she exclaimed, her face all aglow with excitement. " lie could marry you, and then what was yours might be his." The lawyer had thrown the bombshell and waited for the explosion, but there was none. Rossie's face was just as bright and eager, and showed not the slightest consciousness or shrinking back from a proposition which THE HEIRESS. 153 would have covered some girls with blushes and con- fusion. But Rossie was a simple-hearted girl, who, never having associated much with companions of her own age, had never had her mind filled with lovers and matrimony, and when the lawyer proposed her marrying Everard she looked upon it purely as a business transac- tion, a means of giving him his own ; love had nothing to do with it, nor did it for a moment occur to her that there would be anything out of the way in such an act. She should not live with him, of course ; that would be impossible. She should simply marry him, and then leave him to the enjoyment of her fortune, and her first question to the lawyer was : ' Do you think he would have me ?" The old man took his glasses off again and looked at her, wondering much what stuff she was made of. Whatever it was he was sure she was as modest, and pure, and innocent as a new-born child, and he answered her : " I've no doubt of it. I would if I were in his place." " And if he does, he can live right along here as if there had been no will ?" was her next question ; and the lawyer replied : Yes, just as if there had been no will ;" then, re- membering he had an engagement with a client and that it was already past the hour, he arose to go, and Rosamond was left alone. It was not her nature to put off anything she had to do, and feeling that she should never rest until some- thing definite was settled, she inquired at once where Everard was, and finding that he was in his father's room, started thither immediately. He was sitting in his father's chair by the table, arranging and sorting some papers and letters, but he arose when she came in and asked what he could do for her. " I have been talking with Lawyer Russell," she said, "trying to fix it some way, and he says I cannot give it to you till I am twenty-one ; then I can do as I please, but it is so long to wait, five years and a-half. I am most fifteen and a-half now. (This in parenthesis, as if to con- duce him of her mature age, preparatory to what was to follow.) I want you to have the money so much, for it is yours, no matter what the law may say. I do not like the law, and there is but one way out of .it, the trouble, I 7* 154 THE HEIRESS. mean. Lawyer Russell says if you marry me, yon can use the money just the same. Will you, Mr. Everard ? I am fifteen and a-half." This she reiterated to strengthen her cause, looking him straight in the face all the time, without the slight- est change of color or sign of self-consciousness. Had she proposed in serious earnestness to murder him Everard could not have been more startled, or stared at her more fixedly than he did, as if to see what manner of girl this was, asking him to marry her as coolly and in as matter-of-fact a way as she would have asked the most ordinary favor. Was she crazy ? Had the trouble about the will actually affected her brain ! He thought so, and said to her very gently, as he would have spoken to a child or a lunatic : "You are talking wildly, Rossie. You do not under- stand what you are saying. You are tired and excited. You must rest, and never on any account let any one know what you have said to me." "I do know what I am saying, and I am neither tired nor excited," Rossie answered. " Lawyer Russell said that was the only way you could use the money before I was twenty-one." "And did he send you here to say that to me?" Everard asked, and she replied : "No, he only suggested it as a means, because I would have him think of something. I came myself." He saw she was in earnest ; saw, too, that she did not at all comprehend what she was doing, or the position in which she was placing herself if it should be known. In her utter simplicity r ' lack of worldly wisdom, she might talk of this thing to others and put herself in a wrong light before the world, and however painful the task, he must enlighten her. " Rossie," he began, " you do not at all know what yon have done, or how the act might be construed, by women, especially, if they knew it. Girls do not usually ask men to marry them ; they wait to be asked." Slowly, as the shadow of some gigantic mountain creeps across the valley, there was dawning on Rossie's mind a perception of the construction which might be put upon her words, and the blood-red flame suffused her face and neck, and spread to her fiuger-tips, as she said, THE HEIRESS. 155 vehemently : "You mistake me, Mr. Everard, I did not mean it as you might marry Miss Beatrice, or somebody you loved. I did not mean anything except a way out. I was not going to live here at all ; only marry you so you could have the money, and then I go away and do for myself. That's what I meant. You know I do not love you in a marrying way, and that I'm not the brazen- faced thing to tell you so if I did. If I thought you could believe that of me, I should drop dead at your feet, and I almost wish that I could now, for very shame of what I have done." As she talked there had come to Rossie more and more the great impropriety and seeming immodesty of what, in all innocence of purpose she had done, and the knowledge almost crushed her to the earth, making her cover her burning face with her hands, and transforming her at once from a child into a woman, with all a sensi- tive woman's power to feel and suffer. She did not wait for him to speak, but went on rapidly : "You cannot despise me more than I despise myself, for I see it now just as you do, and I must have been an idiot, or crazy. You will loathe me always, of course, and I cannot blame you ; but remember, I did not mean it for love, or think to stay with you. I do not love you that way;s\io\\ a thing would be impossible, and I would not marry you now for a thousand times the money." She had used her last and heaviest weapon, and with- out a glance at him turned to go from the room, but he would not suffer her to leave him thus. Over him, too, as she talked, a curious change had come, for he saw the transformation taking place^aijj^new he was losing the sweet, old-fashioned, guileless xrtilld, who had been so dear to him. She was leaving him, forever, and in her place there stood a full-fledged woman, rife with a woman's instincts, quivering with passion, and burning with resentment and anger, that he had not at once un- derstood her meaning just as she understood it. How her words, "I do not love you that way ; such a thing is impossible ; and I would not marry you now for a thousand times the money," rang through his ears, and burned themselves into his memory to be recalled after- ward, with such bitte>* pain as he had never known. He did not quite like this impetuous assertion of the impos- 156 THE HEIRESS. sibility of loving him. It grated upon him with a sense of something lost. He must stand well with Rossie, though her love that way, as she expressed it, was some- thing he had never dreamed of as possible. " Rossie," be said, putting out his arm to detain her, " you must not go from me feeling as you do now. You have done nothing for which you need to blush, because you had no bad intent, and the motive is what exalts or condemns the act. Sit here by me. I wish to talk with you." He made her sit down beside him upon the sofa, and tried to take her hand, but she drew it swiftly away, with a quick, imperative gesture. He would never hold her hand again, just as he had held the little brown, sun- burned hands so many times. She was a woman now, with all her woman's armor bristling about her, and as such he must treat with her. It was a novel situa- tion in which he found himself, trying to choose words with which to address little Rossie Hastings, and for a moment he hesitated how to begin. Of her strange offer to himself he did not mean to speak, for there had been enough said on that subject. It is true he had neither accepted nor refused, but that was not necessary, for she had withdrawn her proposition with such fiery energy as would have made an allusion to it impossible, if he had been free and not averse to the plan. He was not free, and as for the plan, it struck him as both laughable and ridiculous, but he would not for the world wound the sensitive girl beside him more than she had wounded herself, and so when at last he began to talk with her it was simply to go again over the whole ground, and show her how impossible it was for him to take the money or for her to give it to him. He appreciated her kind intentions ; they were just like her, and he held her as the dearest sister a brother ever had ; but she must keep what was her own, and he should make his fortune as many a man had done before him, and probably rise higher eventually than if he had money to help him rise, lie had not yet quite decided what he should do, but that he should leave Rothsay was probable. He should, however, stay long enough to see that her affairs were in a way to be smoothly managed, and to see her fairly installed in the THE HEIRES9. 157 Forrest House with some respectable elderly lady as her companion and protector. Lawyer Russell would, of course, be her guardian, and the administrator of the es- tate. She could not be in better hands ; and however far away he might be, he should never lose his interest in her or cease to be her friend. "Meanwhile," he said, with an effort to smile, od-by. You will, of course, write to Mollie as soon as you get home." " Yes, certainly," Beatrice said, hating herself be- BEE "3 FAMILY. 195 cause the name Mollie as spoken by Theo grated on her nerves, and seemed in some way a wrong to herself. Bee knew such feelings were foolish, and as often as they rose within her, she took Trix in her lap and kissed her, and talked to her of the mother they were leaving so far behind, and whose eyes looked at her through the child's, save that Trixey's were larger, and more weird in their expression. It was late in the afternoon when they reached Roth- say, and were driven to Elm Park. Bee had telegraphed to Aunt Rachel that she was coming with a little girl, so everything was in readiness for them, and Trixey was made much of, and talked to and looked at, until she began to nod in her chair, and was taken up to bed. That evening Everard came up to Elm Park with Rosamond. They had just heard of Bee's return, and hastened at once to see her. Everard was looking about the same as when Beatrice saw him last, except that he was perhaps a little thinner. He was working pretty hard, he said, and earning some money, but his dress did not indicate anvthing like reckless expenditure upon himself, and Beatrice felt sure that Josephine was draw- ing heavily upon him. He was now quite at home at the Forrest House, and was there nearly every evening, and Beatrice frit some- thing like a throb of fear when she saw his eyes resting upon Rossie, as if loth to lt-ave the fresh young face, which had grown so bright and attractive during the last few months. She was growing very pretty, and her figure looked graceful and womanly when at last she arose to go, and stood while Everard folded her shawl around her, drawing it close up about her neck so as to shield her throat, which was a little sore. Something in that shawl adjustment and the length of time it took sent another thrill through Bee's nerves, and the moment they were gone she went to her room, where Trixey lay sleeping, and bending over the child, wondered if in all lives things got as t rribly mixed as they were in hers and Everard's. 196 IN THE SUMMER. CHAPTER XXIV. IN THE SUMMER. RIXEY did not thrive well in her new home, though everything which human ingenuity could devise was done to make her happy and contented. But in spite of everything Trixey could not quite overcome her home- sickness. Many times a day she disappeared from sight and was gone a long time, and when she came back there was a mysterious redness about her eyes, which she said, by way of explanation, were " kind of sore, she dessed. Maybe she had got some dust in 'em." This went on for weeks, until at last, in a fit of re- morse lest she had been guilty of a lie, the conscientious child burst out: " 'Tain't dust, 'tain't sore that makes 'ein red; it's wantin' to see papa, and mamma, and Bunchie, and baby brudder. Was it a lie, and is I a naughty diii to make breve it was dust?" Then Bee felt that it would be wrong to keep her any longer, and wrote to Mrs. Morton to that effect. Mrs. Morton and Bunchie were still in Bronson, but Theo was supplying a vacant pulpit in Boston, and onl}' saw his wife once in two or three weeks. There was room in the parsonage now for homesick Trixey, for the sickly baby had died suddenly with cholera infantnm, and the same letter which carried the news to Beatrice asked that Trixey might be sent to Vermont. " Sent her by express," Mrs. Morton wrote, " or will you bring her yourself ? We shall be so glad to see you, though we cannot offer you a bed here, we are so full, but there is a good country hotel near us, and Cousin Julia Hayden, whom you met in New York, wishes me to say that she will be very glad to entertain you at her own house. I hope you will come, for though our ac- quaintance is so recent, you seern to me like a friend of years, and I feel that the sight of you may do me good, now that my heart is so sore with the loss of my baby." " J'll go," ]3ee said, as she finished reading the letter, IN THE SUMMER. 197 deciding all the more readily on account of a little in- cident which had occurred the night before, and which filled her with alarm for both Everard and Rosamond. They had walked together to Elm Park, and sat with her for an hour or more on the piazza, where the full moon was shining brightly. This time there had been no shawl to adjust, for the early June night was warm, and balmy, but there was a slight dampness in the air, and Everard's solicitude lest Rosamond should take cold or contract a sore throat was noticeable in the extreme. Two or three times he pulled the fleecy cloud of Berlin wool about her neck, and asked if she were quite com- fortable, and once he let his hand rest on her shoulder for some minutes, while he sat looking at her with an expression on his face which Josephine might have re- sented had she seen it. And Bee, with her strong sense of right and wrong, resented it for her, or rather for Rosamond, whom she would not see sacrificed without a protest. So when they arose to go home, she led Ever- ard away from Rossie, and when sure she could not be heard, said to him, earnestly : " Pardon me, Everard, but you are altogether too solicitous about Rosamond's health. Let her take care of herself. She is capable of doing it, and, remem- ber, there are bounds you must not pass, or suffer her to approach. It would be very cruel to her." " Yes, I know," he answered, coloring deeply as he spoke. "You need not fear for Rossie. She is my sister, nothing more ; and even if I were disposed to make her something else, do you suppose I can ever for- get the past ?" He spoke bitterly, and showed plainly how gladly he would free himself, if possible, from the bond which held him, and which was growing daily more and more hateful to him. As far as she could see them in the moonlight Bea- trice watched Everard and Rossie as they walked slowly down the avenue which led to the street, and when they were out of sight she said to herself : "He ought to ac- knowledge his marriage, and he must, even if he does not take his wife, which might be the better thing to do. There must be good in her, something to build upon, if under the right influence, with somebody to encourage 198 IN THE SUMMER. and stimulate her to do her best. I wish I knew her, wish I dared face her in her own home, and judge what kind of person she is." This was Bee's thought the night before she read Mrs. Morton's letter inviting her to Bronson, and when she read it the thought resolved itself into a fixed pur- pose, the first step of which was to take Trixey to her mother. Poor iiitle Trixey, who turned so white, but did not at first shed a tear, when told of her baby brother's dea'-h. Ha!f an hour later, however, Beatrice found her in the garden, with her face in the grass, sobbing as if her heart wouid break for the dead brother, of whom she said to Bee, " I wouldn't feel so bad to have him with Jesus, only I shaked him once hard, when he was so cross and heavy, and I was so tired, and he wouldn't go to sleep. I'se so sorry. Will God let me go to Heaven some day and see him, and teli him I'se sorry ?" As well as she could, Beatrice comforted and re- assured the weeping child, whose conscientiousness and sweet faith and trust in God were leading her into ways she had only known in theory, but which were be- ginning to be very pleasant to her feet, as she learned each day some new lesson from the trusting child. It was near the latter part of June, the season of roses, and pinks, and water lilies in New England, when she at last took Trixey to the old brown house under the shadow of the apple trees, where the mountain air was filled with perfume from the flowers blossoming on the borders by the door, and where Bunchie played in the soft summer sunshine under the snow-ball tree by the well. It was such a plain, but pleasant old house, with the rafters overhead showing in the kitchen, and the great box-like beams in the corners of the room, for the old house claimed to have seen a hundred years, and to have heard the guns of the Revolu- tion. But it was very cheerful and home- like, and neat as soap and sand and Aunt Nancy's hands could make it. Aunt Nancy was the first to wel- come Miss Belknap, looking a little askance at her style and manners, and wondering how they could ever enter- tain so fine a lady even for a few hours. Mrs. Morton was sick with a headache, and Mrs. Brown was still down with nervous prostration, having stoutly resisted IN THE SUMMER. 199 all Mrs. Julia Hayden's advice about making an effort, and hints which sometimes amounted to assertions that she could get up if she liked, and would diet on oatmeal and barley. In her last letter to Mrs. Morton, Beatrice had declined Mrs. Hoyden's offer, and said she should feel more independent at the hotel for the short time she should remain in Bronson, but within half an hour after her arrival at the parsonage, Mrs. Hayden was there also, in her handsome carriage, drawn by her shining black horses, and driven by a shining black coachman, in gloves and brass buttons, and she insisted so hard upon Beatrice stopping with her, that the latter finally ac- cepted the invitation, but said she would remain for the day where she was and see if she could not be of some comfort and holp to Mrs. Morton, who seemed better from the moment she came and laid her soft hands on her head. " Nothing can help her or her mother, either, unless they make an effort," Mrs. Hayden said, with a toss of her head, and a flash of her black eyes. " Spleen y and notional both of them as they can be; call it nervous, if you like; what's nervousness but fidgets ? I was never nervous; but if I'd give up every time the weather changes, or I felt a little weak, I might have prostration, too. There's Harry, ray husband, would have died long ago if I had not kept him up just by my own energy and will. I make him sleep with the w'indows open, and he takes a cold bath every morning at six o'clock, and eats oatmeal for his breakfast, with a cup of hot water instead of coffee or tea." "And does he thrive on that diet? Is he well and strong ?" Bee asked, and Mrs. Hayden replied : "Well and strong? No: he could not be that in the nature of things, he comes from a sickly stock; but he keeps about, which is better than lying in bed and moping all the time." How strong and full of life Mrs. Hayden was, and so unsympathetic that Beatrice did not wonder Mrs. Mor- ton shivered and shrank away even from the touch of her large, powerful hands. " I am sometimes wicked enough to wish she might be sick herself, or at least nervous, so as to know how it feels," Mrs. Morton said, after her cousin had gone. 200 IN THE SUMMER. "She thinks I can do as she does, and the thing is impos- sible. My health is destroyed, and I sometimes fear I shall never be well again." She had failed since Beatrice saw her, and her eyes looked so large and glassy as she lay upon the pillow, and her cough was so constant and irritating, that to talk of effort and oatmeal to her seemed preposterous and cruel. What she needed was rest, and nursing, and care, and change of thought and occupation, and these she could not have in their fullest extent at the parson- age, with poverty and a sick mother, and bustling, irrita- ble Aunt Nancy to act as counter influences. She must be taken entirely away, and amused, and nursed, and pet- ted, and Beatrice began to see the first step pf that vague plan formed in Rothsay, and which she meant to carry out. For a day or two she staid in Bronson, sleeping and eating in Mrs. Hayden's grand house, and feeling all her sympathies enlisted for shriveled-up Mr. Hayden, who in the morning came shivering to the table from his cold bath, and swallowed his oatmeal and hot water dutifully, but with an expression on his thin, sallow face which showed how his stomach rebelled against it and craved the juicy steak and fragrant coffee with which his bloom- ing wife regaled herself, because she was strong and could bear it. Once Bee ventured to suggest that steak an-d beef-tea might be a more nutrit.ous diet even for a dyspeptic than oatmeal and barley, varied with dry toast and baked apples ; but Mrs. Hayden knew. She had read up on stomachs, and nerves, and digestion, and knew every symptom of dyspepsia, and its cause, and what it needed, and how a person ought to feel ; and her husband submitted quietly, and said, " Julie was right," and grew thinner, and paler, and weaker every day with cold baths and starvation ; but he kept the respect of his wife because he tried to be well, and that was a great thing to do, for in his estimation she was a wonderful woman, and represented the wisdom of the world. On the third day Beatrice left Bronson, to look, she said, for some quiet, pleasant nook, where she could spend a few weeks during the hot weather. She found such a place in Holburton, whither she came one warm July afternoon, when the town was at its best. It IN THE SUMMER. 201 was not an unheard-of thing for city people to pass a few weeks in Holburtou during the hot weather, and no one was surprised when Miss Belknap registered her name on the hotel books, and said she -was looking for some quiet and reasonable boarding-house for an invalid with two children. Several were recommended to her, and with the list in her hand she started out to recon- noiter. Mrs. Roxie Fleming was the fourth name on her pa- per, but she went there first, and was pleased with the place at once, because it looked so cool and inviting un- der the wealth of hop vines which covered one side of it. The day was warm, and Mrs. Fleming, in her clean, purple calico gown, sat sewing on the door-steps, while a woman with a deep pasteboard bonnet on her head, concealing her face from view, was sweeping the grass in the back yard. But she turned as she heard the gate open, and seeing Beatrice, came forward until she saw her mother ; then she withdrew, leaving Mrs. Fleming to con- fer with the stranger. She had rooms to let, she said ; did the lady wish them for herself? and she looked curiously at Beatrice, who was so different from the boarders who usually came to her, for her rooms were low and scantily furnished, and not at all like the apartments city people desired. Miss Belknap wanted board for herself and a friend with two children ; two sleeping-rooms and a, parlor would do nicely for them ail, and she was willing to pay whatever it was worth. Mrs. Fleming readily guessed that money was no consideration with/the ladv, and as it was of much im- portance to her, she decided to ask the highest possible price at first, and then fall if necessary. After a mo- ment, during which she seemed to be thinking, she said : "I don't know but lean accommodate you with three rooms, though I do not often rent an extra parlor, and if I do so now my daughter Josephine must give up the room she occupies when she is here." " Then she is not at home ?" Beatrice said, feeling that she must know that fact before she eng.ig^d bo.ird, wh'T'3 the only attraction was Josephin \ who, she found, h.id only gone for a wB-?k or so to O ik Blaffj, with a party of friends, add was expected daily. 9* 202 IF THE SUMMER. The price named for the three rooms, though high for Ilolburton, did not seem unreasonable to Beatrice, and the bargain was closed with the understanding that Beatrice was to take immediate possession. "It will be a change for Mrs. Morton ; a relief to Aunt Nancy ; a possible benefit to Everard, and an amusement to me,'' Beatrice thought, as she hurried back to Bronson, where she found the Rev. Theodore him- self, handsomer, more elegant in appearance, because better dressed, than when she saw him last, and very glad to see her, as an old friend who was kind to his wife and children. To the Ilolburton plan he listened approvingly. It would do Mollie good, he said, for two sick people in one house were quite too many for the comfort of either. But Mollie demurred ; she could not sleep in new places unless everything were right, and she presumed there were swarms of crickets and tree-toads, and possibly bull-frogs, there among the mountains, to make the night hideous. It would be impossible to portray the scorn and dis- gust which blazed in the black eyes of Mrs. Julia Hay- den, who was present, when Mollie uttered her protest against Ilolburton. "Crickets, and tree-toads, and bull-frogs, indeed! She'd like to see the bull-frog which could keep her awake, even if it sat on her pillow and croaked in her ear ; it was all nonsense, such fidgets. Just use your will and a little common sense, and you will sleep through everything." This was Mrs. Ilayden's theory, which made Mollie cry and Beatrice angry, and Theodore laugh. He had to stand between them all, and keep them from, quarreling, and he did it admirably, and smoothed everything so nicely, and made the trip to Ilolburton seem so desirable, that Mollie began to want to go, especially as he assured her he could well afford it, as the church in Boston paid him liberally, and had just given him a hundred dollars to do with as he liked. Beatrice had intended to meet the expenses herself, but could not press the matter without hurting more than she did good. It was just possible that Mrs. llayden migiit follow them with her husband, if good rooms and MBS. FLEMINGS BOARDERS. 203 board could be found for her, for she had taken a great liking to Miss Belknap, who stood even higher in her estimation than Mrs. Sniffe, and whose acquaintance she readily saw would do her more real good in a social point of view. So it was finally arranged that Mollie and the children should go to Holburton for the summer, and word to that effect was forwarded to Mrs. Fleming, with instructions to have the rooms in readiness by the middle of July. CHAPTER XXV. MRS. FLEMING'S BOARDERS. T was a lovely summer day when the party arrived at Holburton and were driven to the brown house on the common, where they found everything in readiness for them, and Mrs. Fleming and Agnes waiting to receive them. Josephine was not visible, for she had resolutely set her face against them. She did not want a lot of women in the house any way, she said ; they were a nuisance, and made as much again trouble as men. They were never satisfied with their board, were always in the kitchen washing out their pocket-handkercli.efs, heating flat-irons and making a muss generally. For her part, she liked to be free to do as she liked without the fear of being torn into shoe- strings by some meddling, jealous old woman. If they must have boarders, take gentlemen ; there were plenty who would be glad to come. She would rather have clerks, or even mechanics, than the fine lady they de scribe^l and a sick woman with her brats, and* blue as a whetstone undoubtedly, inasmuch as she was a mission- ary's wife. She'd be wanting family prayers and a blessing at the table, and be horrified to know there were two packs of cards in the house, and that they were used, too ! This was Josephine's opinion, but her mother had her 204 MRS. FLEMING'S BOARDERS. way in spite of it, and went on with her preparations, while Josephine sulked, and declared her intention of avoiding them entirely, and never, in any way, coming in contact with them. Still, there was a consolation in the fact that the small room she was compelled to take was down stairs, and so far removed from the board- ers that they would not know how late she was out on the street with admirers, of which she had several, or how long they staid with her after she came in. Josephine liked the kind of life she was leading at present. No lady in town dressed better than she did, and though she knew that people commented upon it, and wondered where she got the money, and hinted at things which no real modest woman would like to have laid to her charge, she did not care, so long as she knew it was all right, and that some day everything would be explained, and she stand acquitted before the world, which criticised her unmercifully, but because there was no tangible proof against her, noticed her just the same as if there were no breath of suspicion attaching to her name. She would be noticed, and if she saw signs of rebellion in any quarter she fought it down inch by inch and rode triumphantly over the opinions of those who tried to slight her. No young lady in town could boast as many admirers as she, and she managed to keep them at her side even after they found there was no hope. Old Captain Sparks, the millionaire, had long known this, and yet, as the moth flutters around the can- dle, so he hovered around the young beauty, accepting the position of father instead of brother, and from time to time presenting his daughter with cosily presents, which she accepted so sweetly and prettily because she knew it would hurt him if she refused. To the other lovers she was sister and friend, and she gave them a great deal of good advice, and made them believe they were much safer with her than they would be else- where. Only Dr. Matthewson knew her thoroughly, and him she never tried to deceive. And still, the doctor was more absolutely under her influence than any of the train who visited her constantly. But just now he was away on business, he called it, though Josephine knew that the business \vas gambling, thai being his only MRS. FLEMING'S BOARDERS. 205 moans of livelihood. A fortunate play, or series of plays, bad put a large sum of money into bis hands, and be "had gone on a Hailing vessel to the West Indies, thinking to visit England before returning to America. Josephine was a little ennuyeed without the doctor, whom she preferred to any man living. And yet, could she have had him by giving up Everard she would not have done it, for though she had no love for her husband, she had a fancy for the money and position he could give her by and by, and for which she was patiently waiting. Had her life been less pleasant and exciting, or had Everard sent her less money, she might have rebelled against it, and taken steps which would have resulted in her learning the state of affairs at the Forrest House. But as it was she was content to wait and enjoy herself in her own way, which was Vp dress and flirt, and come and go at her pleasure, and be waited on at home as if she were some princess of the blood. And this was about the state of affairs when Beatrice reached the Fleming house with Mrs. Morton, who, con- trary to her expectations, was pleased at once. "I do believe 1 shall rest here and get well again, everything is so comfortable," she said, as she lay down upon the chintz-covered lounge for a few moments before taking the cup of tea which was brought to her by Agnes, who, in her clean calico dress, with her dark hair combed smoothly back, and a sad but peaceful expression on her white, tired face, enlisted Beatrice's sympathies at once, for she saw from her manner that she was a mere household drudge, and resolved to stand her friend whatever might come. Agnes was very fond of children, and when sho had arranged the tray for Mrs. Morton, she turned to the little ones and tried to coax them to her side. Bunchie came at once, but Trixey held aloof, and, with her hands behind her, watched the woman curiously, and it would seem without a very complimentary verdict in her favor. Trixey was fond of bright, gay colors and elegant ap- parel." Beatrice's style suited her better than this faded, spiritless woman, whom she, nevertheless, regarded very intently, and at last startled with the question : " How did you look when you were new?" *'Oh, Trixey !" Mrs. Morton aud Beatrice both ex- 206 MRS. FLEMINGS BOARDERS. claimed, in a breath, fearing lest Agnes' feelings should be hurt, but she only laughed a hearty, merry laugh, which changed her face completely, and made it almost young and pretty, as she said : " I don't know how 1 looked, it was so very long ago ; but I love little girls like you, and my old black hands have made them so many pies and cakes, and paper dol- lies, and they shall make some for you, if you'll let me kiss you." Trixey was won by this, and when Agnes went back to the kitchen she was followed by both the children, who were intent upon the little cakes she had made that morning in expectation of their coming. Josephine had watched the arrival of the ladies through the half-closed shutters, deciding that Mrs. Mor- ton was a dowdy country woman, and that Miss Bel- knap was very elegant even in her plain traveling dress, and that, perhaps, she was somebody whom it would be policy to cultivate. But she would not present herself that afternoon ; she was tired, and wished to keep herself fresh for evening, when she expected a call from a young man from Albany, whose mother had taken rooms at the hotel for the summer, and whom she had met at a picnic the day before. The next day was Sunday, and though breakfast was served later than usual, Josephine was later still, and the meal was nearly half over when she entered the room, attired in a blue cambric gown, with gold pendants in her ears, and a bit of honeysuckle at her throat. There was a very sweet, apologetic expression on her face as she went up to her mother and kissed her good morn- ing, saying, coaxingly : " Late again, as usual, mamma, but you must excuse me. I was so sleepy ;" then, with a graceful recognition of the strangers, she took her seat at the table by the side of Trixey, whom she patted on the head, saying : "And how is the little girl, this morning?" Mrs. Fleming was accustomed to all manner of moods and freaks in her daughter, but the kissing was some- thing new, and surprised her a little, especially as there were no gentlemen present to witness the pretty, child- ish scene. She passed it off, however, naturally enough, and introducing her daughter to the ladies went on serv- MBS. FLEMING'S BOARDERS. 207 ins: the breakfast. Agnes waited upon the table, and so there was no kiss for her, only a gracious nod and a " good morning, sister," as if this was their first meet- ing, when, in fact, Agnes had been in and out of Jose- phine's room three or four times, carrying hot water, and towels, and soap. But Agnes was accustomed to such things and made no sign, except as a slight flush passed across her pale face, which was unobserved by Beatrice, who was giving all her attention to the young beauty, sipping her coffee so leisurely, and saying pretty things to Trixey. How beautiful she was, with those great dreamy blue eyes, those delicately chiseled features, and that dazzling complexion, which Bee thought at first must be artificial, it was so pure, and white, and smooth. But she was mistaken, for Josephine's complexion had never known powder or paste, or wash of any kind. It was very bril- liant and fresh, and she looked so young, and innocent, and child-like that Beatrice found it hard to believe there was aught of guile or deceit in her. Everard must have become morbidly sensitive to any faults she might have, and Bee's thoughts were at once busy with what she meant to do for this estranged couple. There must be much of good in her. Surely that face and those eyes, which looked so confidingly at you, could not cover a bad heart. Weak, and vain, and faulty she might be, but not bad ; not treacherous and unwomanly, as Everard believed, and Beatrice was so glad she had come there to see and judge for herself. Every action was perfectly lady-like, every movement graceful, while the voice was soft and low, and well-bred in its tone ; and during the few moments they talked together after breakfast, Beatrice felt herself fascinated as she had never been before by any human being. As she was tired, and had a slight headache, she did not go to church that morn- ing, but saw Josephine leave the house, and watched her out of sight with feelings of wonder and perplexity. Could this be the woman whom Everard regarded with so much disgust ? the Joe Fleming whom she had thought so detestable ? Nor was her wonder at all di- minished when, that afternoon, she found Josephine in the garden, seated under a tree with Bunchie in her lap and Trixey at her side, listening intently while she told 208 MRS. FLEMING'S BOARDERS. them the story of Moses in the bulrushes. They had heard it before, but it gained new power and interest when told in Josephine's dramatic way, and they hung on every word, and when it was done begged her for an- other. Surely, here was more of the angel than the fiend, and Beatrice, too, sat down, charmed in spite of herself with the girl she had expected to despise. " She must be good, and Everard is surely mistaken," she thought, and her admiration was at its height when Josephine finished her stories and began to talk to her. Airs. Fleming had received an impression that Miss Bel- knap was from New York, and Josephine began to ques- tion her of that city, asking if she had always lived there. " I was born there," Beatrice replied, " but I was ed- ucated in Paris, and my home is really in Rothsay, a lit- tle town in southern Ohio." At the mention of Rothsay Josephine started, and there was an increase of color in her face, but otherwise she was very calm, and her voice was perfectly natural as she repeated the word Rothsay, evidently trying to recall something connected with that place. At last she succeeded, and said, " Rothsay Rothsay, in Ohio. Why, that is where Mr. Forrest lives. Mr. J. Everard Forrest, Jr. He boarded with mamma two or three years ago. He was in college at Amherst. Probably you know him," and the blue eyes looked very innocently at Beatrice, who, warned by the perfect acting to be cau- tious and guarded, replied, " Oh, yes, I know Everard Forrest. His mother was a distant relative of mine. She is dead. Did you know ?" "I think I heard so. Everard was very fond of his mother," Josephine said ; then, after a pause she added, " Judge Forrest is very wealthy, and very aristocratic, isn't he ?" " He was always called so, and the Forrest property is said to be immense," Beatrice replied, quieting her conscience with the fact that, so far as the judge was concerned, she had put him in the past tense, and spoken of what he was once rather th;in of what he was at present, but Josephine paid no attention to tenses, and had no suspicion whatever of the truth. She was really a good deal startled and shaken, men- MBS. FUSJONGTS BOARDERS tally, notwithstanding the calmness of her demeanor. Here was a person from Rth*ay who knew Everard Forrest, and who might be of great service to her in the future, and it behooved her to be on her best be- havior. "Is Everard married yet?" she asked after a mo- ** Married !" Beatrice repeated, and she felt the color rising in her face. "Why, he ha* not his profession yet, but is studying very hard in his father's office." "Ah, yes, I remember, be intended to be a lawyer. I liked him very mncii, he was so pleasant and gentle- manly," Josephine said, and there was a drooping of the heavy Lishe* over her blue eyes, as if with regret for the past, when she knew and liked Everard Forrest. *" Bat is there no one to whom he is particularly at- tentive T she asked, ft* used to be very fond of the girls, and there must be some one in Rothsay suitable for him, or is his father so proud that he would object to everybody? 9 " Beatrice knew perfectly well what Josephine meant, and answered that she had heard the judge was very particular, and would resent a marriage which be thought beneath his son, "bat if the woman was good, and true, and pure, and did her best, I think it would all be well in time," she added, as an encouragement to this girl in whom she was trying to believe ; and Josephine con- tinned: "He used to speak of alittle girl, Rosamond, I think, was the name. She must be well grown by this time. Is she there now !" "You mean Ros^HafCings, his adopted sister. Tea, she is there still, and a very nice, womanly little thing. She is sixteen, I believe, though she seems to me ," Restriee said, and the impression left on Jose- mind of Rossie was of a child, in whom Ever- could not be greatly interested except in a brotherly way. ^ ' ' / ". .'.-. :;-;- -> -' ~ : ,-"- : : " :/!>: '" '. '' then, lest she should excite suspicion in Beatrice, and was meditating a retreat, when the sound of rapid wheels reached them, and a moment after a tall, slender young not over twenty, came down the walk ioonshing 210 MS. FLEMINGS BOARDERS. bis little cane and showing plainly the half-fledged boy, who was beginning to feel all the independence and superiority of a man. Bowing very low to Beatrice, to whom he was introduced as Mr. Gerard from Albany, he told Josephine he had come to ask her to drive alter his fast horse. li You were at church all the morning, and deserve a little recreation," he said, as he saw signs of refusal in Josey, who, sure that Miss Belknap would not accept a like invitation felt that she, too, must refuse; so she said very sweetly and a little reprovingly: "Thank you, Mr. Gerard, but I do not often ride on Sunday. Some other day I shall be happy to go with you, for I dole on fast horses, but now you must excuse me." Young Gerard was surprised, for he had not expected to find consc entvnis scrup.es in the girl who. the previous night, had played euchre with him until half-past eleven, and then stood another half hour at the gate, laughing and flirting with him, though she had met him but once before, Pie was not accustomed to be thwarted, and he showed that he was annoyed, and answered loftily : "Certainly, do as you think best. If you won't ride with me, I must find somebody who will. I wish you good-afternoon, ladies." Touching his hat very politely he walked awav ; but Josephine could not let him go in this mood. He was her latest conquest, and she arose and followed him, and walked with him to the gate, and said to him apologet- ically : " I want to go awfully, but it will never do with a missionary's family in the house." " Bother take the missionaries," he said. "I wanted to show you how fast Dido can trot." "Yes, I know ; but there are other days than Sunday, and there are lots of girls aching to go witli you to-day," Josephine said, as she fastened a little more securely the bouquet in his button-hole, and let her hands rest longer on his coat-sleeve than was necessary. "But I shan't take 'em. I shall wait for you," he answered, quite soothed and mollified. Then he bade her good-by, and drove off, while Josephine returned to Beatrice and said, laughingly : MBS. FLEMING'S BOARDERS. 211 " Wh.it bores boys of a certain age are, and how they always fasten upon a girl older than themselves ! This Gerard cannot be over twenty. He reminds me a little in his dress of Everard Forrest when he first came here, BO fastidious and elegant, as if he had just stepped from a bandbox." " He is very different from that now," Beatrice re- plied, rousing up at once in Everard's defense. "Of course he can never look like anything but a gentleman, but he wears his coats and boots and hats until they are positively shabby. It would almost seem as if he were hoarding up money for some particular purpose, he is so cu.eful about expense. He neither smokes, nor chews, uor drinks, and it is said of him that he has not a. single bad habit ; his wife, should he ever have one, ought to be very proud of him. ' Beatrice was very eloquent and earnest in her praises of Everard, and watched closely the effect on Josephine. There certainly was a different expression on her face as she listened to this high encomium on her husband, whose economies she well knew were practiced for her, and there was something like a throb of gratitude or affection in her heart when she heard that the money she had supposed was given him by his father was earned or saved by himself, that she might be daintily clothed. "I am delighted with this good account of him, and so will mamma be," she said ; u he must have changed so much, for he was very extravagant and reckless when we knew him, but I liked him exceedingly." Again there was the sound of wheels stopping before the gate, and excusing herself, Josephine hurried away to meet the second gallant who had come to take her to ride. Of course she could not go, and so the young man staid with her, and Walter Gerard drove back that way, and seeing her in the parlor tied his horse to the fence and came sauntering in with the air of one sure of a welcome. Josephine did not appear at the tea-table, but Bea- trice saw Agnes taking a tray into the parlor, and knew the trio were served in there, and felt greatly shocked and disgusted when she heard the clock strike twelve be- fore the sound of suppressed voices and laughter ceased in the parlor, and the two buggies were driven rapidly away. 212 JOSEPHINE'S CONFIDENCE. CHAPTER XXVI. JOSEPHINE'S CONFIDENCE. HE next day Josephine wrote Evorard the first real letter she had sent him for many weeks. Heretofore she had merely acknowl- edged his drafts made payable to her mother, but now she filled an entire sheet, and called him her dear husband, and told him of Miss Belknap's presence in the house, and what she had said of his habits and strict economy. " I know it is all for me," she wrote, " and I felt like crying when she was talking about you. I am so glad she told me, for it has made me resolve to be worthy of you and the position I am one day to fill as your wife. When will that be, Everard ? Must we wait forever ? Sometimes I get desperate, and am tempted to start at once for Rothsay, and, facing your father, tell him the truth, and brave the storm which I suppose would follow. But then I know you would be angry at such a proceeding, and so I give it up, and go on waiting patiently, for I do wish to please you, and am glad this Miss Belknap is here, as I am sure of her friendship when the time of trial comes. She is very sweet arid lovely, and I wonder you did not prefer her to your un- worthy but loving Josey." Beatrice also wrote to Everard that day, and told him where she was, and why, and said of Josephine, " there must be good in her, or she could not seem so sweet, and amiable, and affectionate. A little vain she may be, and fond of attention, and why not? She can- not look in the glass and not know how beautiful she is. And her voice is so soft, and low, and musical, and her manners so lady-like. You see I am more than half in love with her, and I am quite disposed to advise a re- cognition on your part of her claim upon you. Of course I shall not betray you. That is not my business here. I came to see what this girl is, whose life is joined with yours. I find her quite up to the average of women, JOSEPHINE'S CONFIDENCE. 213 and think it your safer course to acknowledge her, and not leave her subject to the temptations which must necessarily beset a pretty woman like her, in the shape of admiration and attention from every marriageable man in town. It is your safer way, Everard, for remember there is a bar between you and any other face which may look to you inexpressibly fair and sweet, and all the sweeter and fairer because possession is impossible." These letters reached Everard the same evening, and he found them in his office on his return from the For- rest House, where he had sat with Rossie an hour on the piazza, with the moonlight falling on her face and softening the brilliancy of her great black eyes. How beautiful those eyes were to him now, and how modestly and confidingly they looked up occasionally in his face, and drooped beneath the long lashes which rested on the fair cheeks. She was so sweet and loving, this pure, fresh young girl ; and her face and eyes haunted Ever- ard all the way down the avenue and the long street to his office, where he found his letters, one from Beatrice, one from Josephine, and this last he saw first, recoiling from it as from a serpent's touch, and remembering with a bitter pain the face seen in the moonlight, and the pressure of the hand he had held in his at parting. Then he took Bee's letter, and turned it over, and saw it was postmarked at Holburton, and with a start of fear and apprehension tore it open and read it eagerly. "But I shall never do it," he said, as he read Bee's advice with regard to recognizing Josephine. "The goodness is not there ; and so Bee will discover if she stops there long enough." Then, as he finished her letter, he felt as if all the blood in his body were rushing to his head, for he guessed what she meant by " that other face, so inex- pressibly fair and sweet." It was Rossie's, and he ground his teeth together as he thought of the bar which made it sinful for him to look too often upon that face, fast budding into rare beauty, lest he should find it too sweet and/'tfzr for his own peace of mind. And then he told himself that Rosamond was only his sister ; his ward, in whom he must necessarily have an unusual interest. Beatrice was too fastidious, and did not trust enough to 214 JOSEPHINE'S CONFIDENCE. his good sense. He was not in love with Rosamond, nor in danger of becoming so. Tims tbe young man reasoned, wbile be tore Josey's letter into shreds, which he tossed into the waste-basket. He did not believe in her or intend to answer it, for whenever he thought of her now it was as he saw her last, at midnight in the car, sleeping on Dr. Matthewson's arm. He wrote to Beatrice, however, within a few days, expressing his surprise at what she had done, and telling her that any interference between Josephine and himself was useless, and that if she staid long in llolbur- ton she would probably change her mind with regard to the young lady. And in this he was right, for before his letter reached Holburton, Beatrice and Mrs. Morton both had learned that the voice, so soft and flute-like and well-bred when it addressed themselves, had another ring when alone in the kitchen with Agnes, who drudged from morning till night, that the unusually large household might be kept up. There were more boarders now in the house, for Mrs. Julia Hayden and husband had come to Hoi- burton, hoping a change would benefit Mr. Hayden, who liked the quiet, pleasant town, and the pure air from the hills, which was not quite so bracing as that which blew down from tne mountains around Bronson. The Hay- dens occupied the parlor below, greatly to the annoyance of Miss Josey, who was thus compelled to receive her numerous calls either in the dining-room or on the back piazza, or on the horse-block near the gate. It was not unusual for Josey to receive three admirers at a time, and she managed so admirably that she kept them all amiable and civil, though each hated the other cordially, and wondered why he would persist in coming where he was not wanted. Night after night Mrs. Mor- ton and Mr. Hayden were kept awake till after midnight by the low hum of voices and occasional bursts of sup- pressed laughter which came from the vicinity of the horse-block, and when Mrs. Morton complained of it in the presence of Josephine, that young lady was very sorry, and presumed it was some of the hired girls in town, who had a great way of hanging over gates with their lovers, and sitting upon horse-blocks into all hours of the night. JOSEPHINE'S CONFIDENCE. 215 But Mrs. Julia was not deceived. Her great black eyes read the girl aright, and when she saw a female figure steal cautiously up the walk into the house, and heard the footsteps of two or three individuals going down the road, she guessed who the " hired girls" were, and Josephine suspected that she did, and removed her tryst- incj-place from the horse-block to the rear of the garden, wluM-e she was out of ear-shot of the " old muffs," as she styled Mrs. Morton and Mrs. Hayden. And here she received her friends, as she called them, and laughed, and flirted, and played with them, but was very careful not to overstep certain bounds of propriety, and thus give Everard an excuse on which to base an action for divorce, should he ever bring himself to consider such an act, which she doubted. He was too proud for that, and would rather live with and dislike her, than repudiate her openly, and bring a stain upon the Forrest name. It was impossible for her to understand Tiis real feelings toward her. Indifferent he was, of course, and sorry, no doubt, for the tie which bound them; but she was so thoroughly convinced of her own charms and power to fascinate, that she had little fear of winning him back to something like allegiance when she once had him under her influence again. He could not resist her; no man could, except the old judge; and secure in this belief she went on her way, while Beatrice watched her narrowly, and began at last to believe there was no real good in her. " The most shameless flirt I ever saw, with claws like a cat," Mrs. Hayden said of her, " why, she has actually tried her power on Harry, and asked him so insinuat- ingly and pityingly if he really thought oatmeal agreed with him as well as a juicy steak or mutton-chop." Bee laughed merrily at the idea of Josey's casting her eyes upon poor, shriveled, dyspeptic Harry Hayden, whom, to do her justice, she did pity, for the cold baths he was compelled to take every morning, and the rigid diet on which he was kept. That he lacked brain force, as his wife asserted, she did not doubt, or he would never have submitted as meekly as he did, with the ste- reotyped phrase, "Julie knows best," but she pitied him just the same r and occasionally conveyed to him on the sly hot cups of beef-tea or mutton-broth, and once 216 JOSEPHINES CONFIDENCE. coaxed him to drink lager-beer, but Mrs. Julia found it out by the culprit's breath, and disliked Josey worse than ever. It was now five weeks since Beatrice first came to Hoi burton, and as Mrs. Morton did not seem to im- prove, she was thinking of finding another place for her, when Josephine came to her one morning as she was sitting alone with her work, and, taking a seat beside her, began to talk of herself and the life she was leading. " I am of no use to any one," she said, " for both mother and Agnes are afraid I shall soil my hands or burn my face. I am tired of this kind of life. I want to see the world and have larger experiences ; and for- tunately I have an opportunity to do so. When I was at the sea-side I met a widow-lady, a Mrs. Arnold, who is rich and an invalid. She was kind enough to pretend to like me, and I think she did, for I have received a letter from her, asking me to go as a companion with her to Europe, she defraying all the expenses, of course, and leaving me nothing to do but to make myself agree- able to her, and enjoy what I see. Now, would you go or not ?" " I think I would," Beatrice replied, for it seemed to her as if this going to Europe would somehow be the severing link between Everard and Josephine. Some- thing would happen to bring on the crisis which must come sooner or later. "I would go, most certainly," she said again, and then she asked some questions concerning Mrs. Arnold, whose letter Josey showed to her. Evidently she was not a woman of great discernment or culture, but she was sin- cere in her wish to take Josephine abroad, and disposed to be very generous with her. " She will be gone a year at least, and possibly two, and I can see so much in that time, I am quite dizzy with anticipation," Josephine said, while Beatrice entered heart and soul into the project, which was soon known to the entire household. That night young Gerard from Albany called on Josephine as usual, and hearing of the proposed trip to Europe offered himself to her, and cried like a baby when she gave him her final " no," and made him understand that she meant it. But she held his hand in hers, and there was one of her tears on his boy- JOSEPHINE'S CONFIDENCE. 217 ish face when at last he said good -night and walked away, somewhat soothed and comforted with the thought that he was to be her friend of friends, the one held as the dearest and best in her memory when she was far over the sea. The news of the intended journey made Everard wild with delight, for, with the ocean between them, he felt that he should almost be free again ; and he sent her a hundred dollars, and told her he hoped she would enjoy herself, and then, intoxicated with what seemed to him like his freedom, went up to see Rosamond, and staid with her until the clock was striking ten, and Mrs. Markham came into the room to break up the tete- a-tete. It was the last day of August that the Nova Zembla sailed out of the harbor of Boston with Josephine on board, her fair hands waving kisses and adieux to the two men on the shore, watching her so intently, young Gerard and old Captain Sparks, who had followed her to the very last, each vieing with the other in the size and cost of the bouquets, which filled one entire half of a table in the dining saloon, and stamped as somebody the beautiful girl who paraded them rather ostentatiously before her fellow-passengers. For two days they adorned the table at which she sat, and filled the saloon with perfume, and were ex- amined and talked about, and she was pointed out as that young lady who had so many large and elegant bouquets; and then, the third day out, when their beauty and perfume were gone, they were thrown overboard by the cabin-boy, and a great wave came and carried them far out to sea, while Josey lay in her berth limp, wretched and helpless, with no thought of flowers, or Gerard, or Captain Sparks, but with a feeling of genuine longing for the mother and Agnes, whose care and ministrations she missed so much in her miserable condition. 10 218 EVENTS OF ONE TEAR CHAPTER XXVII. EVENTS OF ONE YEAR AT THE FORREST HOUSE. T was near the last of October when Bee re- turned to Rothsay, where Everard greeted her gladly as one who could understand, and sympathize with him. It had come to him at last like a shock that he loved Rosamond Hastings as he had never loved Josephine, even in the days of his wildest infatuation ; and far different from that first feverish, unhealthy passion of his boyhood was this mightier love of his maturer manhood, which threat- ened at last to master him so completely that he deter- mined at last to go away from Rothsay for a month, and, amid the wilds of California and the rocky dells of Ore- gon try to forget the girl whom to love was sin. To Beatrice he confessed everything, and rebelled hotly against the bar which kept him from his love, He had thought of divorce, he said. He could easily obtain one under the circumstances, but he was sure Rossie would never believe in any divorce which was not sanctioned by the Bible. He had assumed a case similar to his own, which he pretended was pending in the court, and warmly espousing the husband's cause, had asked Rosamond if she did not think it perfectly right for the man to marry again. And she had answered decidedly : "I should despise him and the woman who married him. I abominate these divorces so easily obtained. It is wicked, and God will never forgive it." After this there was nothing for Everard to do but to take up his burden and carry it away with him to the Far West, hoping to leave it there. But he did not, and lie came back to Rothsay to find Rossie sweeter, fairer than ever, and so unfeigned ly glad to see him that for an hour he gave himself up to the happiness of the moment, and defying both right and wrong, said things which deepened the bloom on Rossie's cheeks, and brought to her eyes that new light which is so beautiful AT THE FORREST HOUSE. 219 in its dawning, and which no one can mistake who is skilled in its signs. He did not tell her he loved her ; but he told her how he had missed her, and how she alone had brought him back sooner than he meant to come. And with a shyness which sat so prettily on her, and a drooping of the eye- lids, she listened to him, and though she said but little the mischief was done, and never again would her eyes meet his as frankly and readily as before. Something in the tone of his voice and the unwonted tenderness of his manner kindled a fire in that young heart which many waters could not extinguish, and to Rossie it came with a thrill, half fearful, half ecstatic, that she loved Everard Forrest, not as a sister loves a brother or friend loves friend, but as a true, good woman loves the one who to her is the only man in all the world. But could she have followed him back to his room she would scarcely have known the white-faced, haggard man whom the dawn found with his head resting upon the table, where it had lain most of the night, while he fought the demon trying so hard to conquer him. He must not love Rosamond Hastings ; he must not let her love him ; and to prevent it he must tell her the whole truth, and this was what he was trying to make up his mind to do. Possibly his resolution to confess the whole to Rosa- mond was in a measure prompted by a sudden fear which had come upon him lest the knowledge of his marriage should reach her through some other channel. On his return from Oregon, and before he went to the Forrest House, he had found several letters which had come dur- ing his absence, and which had not been forwarded. One was from Josephine, who was still abroad and per- fectly happy, if her word was to be believed. She had found Mrs. Arnold everything that was kind, and gene- rous, and considerate ; had made many delightful ac- quaintances ; had learned to speak both German and French, and had come across Dr. Matthewson, who was at the same hotel with herself, the Victoria, in Dresden. This letter did not particularly affect Everard either way. Dresden was very far off, and Josephine might re- main abroad another year, and into that time so much happiness might be crowded that he would take the good offered him, and not cross the river of difficulty until he 220 EVENTS OF ONE YEAR fairly reached it. But on his return from the Forrest House he found two more letters on his desk, one post- marked at Dresden, the other at Holburton, and this he opened first. It was from Agnes, and had been sometime on the road, and told him that Mrs. Fleming had died suddenly, after an illness of two days only, and Agnes was left alone. There was still a mortgage on the house, she said, and after that was paid, and the few debts they were owing, there would be but little left for her, and this little she must, of course, divide with Josephine. She offered no complaint, nor asked for any help. She said she could take care of herself, either as housekeeper, cook, or nurse, and, on the whole, she seemed to be in a very resigned and cheerful state of mind for a person left so entirely alone. The other letter proved to be from a Cincinnati acquaintance, with whom he cud once been at school, and who had recently married and gone abroad, and was in Dresden, at the Victoria Hotel, where, he said, there were many pleasant Americans, both from Boston and New York, and Everard felt morally sure that the pleasant people from Boston were Mrs. Arnold and Josephine. And his friend, Phil. Evarts, was just the man to be attracted by Josey, even if he had a hun- dred wives, and Josephine was sure to meet him more than half-way, and find out first that be was from Cincin- nati, and then that he had been in Rothsay, and knew Judge Forrest's family, and then, a cold sweat broke out all over Everard's face as he thought, what then f while something whispered to him, "Then you will reap the fruit of the deception practiced so long, and you de- serve it, too." Everard knew he deserved it, but when one is reaping the whirlwind, I do not think it is any comfort to know that he has sowed the wind, or this harvest would never have been. It certainly did not help Everard, but rather added to the torments he endured as he thought of Jose- phine, enraged and infuriated, swooping down upon him, bristling all over with injured innocence, and making for herself a strong party, as she was sure to do. But worse than all woald be the utter loss of Rossie, for she would be lost to him forever, and possibly turn against him for his duplicity, and that he could not bear. "I'll tell her to-morrow, so help me Heaven!" he AT THE FOREEST HOUSE. 221 said, as he laid his throbbing head upon his writing- table and tried to think how he should commence, and what she would say. He knew how she would look, not scornfully and angrily upon him, but so sorry, so disappointed, and that would hurt him worse than her contempt. How fair and sweet she seemed to him, as he went over all the past as connected with her, remembering, first, the quaint, old-fashioned child he had teased so unmercifully, and of whom he had made a very slave ; then the girl of fifteen, whose honest eyes had looked straight into his without a shadow of shame or consciousness, as she asked to be his wife ; and, lastly, the Rossie of to-day, the Rossie of long dresses and pure womanhood, who was so dear to him that to have had her for his own for one short, blessed year he felt that he would give the rest of his life. But that could not be. She could never be his, even were he free from the hated tie, as he could be so easily. In her single-heartedness and truth she would never recognize as valid any separation save that which death might make, and this he dared not wish for, lest to his other sins that of murder should be added. He must tell her, and she would forgive him, even while she banished him from her presence ; but after she knew it, whose opinion was worth more to him than that of the whole world, he could bear whatever else might come. But how could he tell her? Ver- bally ? and so see the surprise, and disappointment, and pain which would succeed each other so rapidly in those clear, innocent eyes which faithfully mirrored what she felt. He knew there would be pain, for as he loved her so he felt that she cared or could care for him, if only it were right for her to do so, and selfish as he was, it hurt him cruelly that she must suffer through his fault. But it must be, and, at last, concluding that he never could sit face to face with her while he confessed his secret, he decided to write it out and send it to her, and then wait a few days before going to see the effect. He made this resolve just as the autumnal morning shone full into his room, and he heard across the common the bell from his boarding-house summoning him to break- fast. But he could not eat, and after a vain effort at swallowing a little coffee, he went back to his office, 223 EVENTS OF ONE TEAR where, to his utter amazement and discomfiture, he found Rosamond herself seated in his chair and smiling brightly upon him as he came in. When he was with her the night before she had for- gotten to speak to him of a certain matter of business which must be attended to that day, and immediately after breakfast, which was always early at the Forrest House, she had walked down to the office, and telling the boy in attendance that he need not wait until Mr. Forrest's return, she sent him to his breakfast, and was there alone when Everard came in. " Oh, Rossie, Rossie," he gasped, as if the sight of her unnerved him entirely, " why did you come here this morning ?" She did not tell him why she came, for she forgot her errand entirely, in her alarm at his white, haggard face, and the strangeness of his manner. " Oh, Mr. Everard !" she cried, for she called him " Mr. Everard" still, as she had done when a child. " You are sick. What is the matter? Sit down and let me do something for you. Are you faint, or what is it ?" and, talking to him all the time, she made him sit down in the chair she vacated, and brought him some water, which he refused, and then, standing beside him, laid her soft, cool hand upon his forehead, and asked if the pain was there. At the touch of those hands Everard felt that he was losing all his self-command. Except as he had held them a moment in his own when he met her, or said good-by, he had not felt those dainty fingers on his flesh since the weeks of his sickness after his mother's death, when Rossie had been his nurse, and smoothed his aching brow as she was doing now. Then her hands had a strange power to soothe and quiet him, but now they made him wild. He could not bear it, and, pushing her almost rudely from him, he exclaimed: " Don't, Rossie! I can't bear that you should touch me." There were tears in Rossie's eyes at being so repulsed, and for an instant her cheeks grew scarlet with resent- ment, but before she could speak, overcome by an im- pulse he could not resist, Everard gathered her swiftly in his arms, and, kissing her passionately, said : " Forgive me, Rossie. I did not mean to be rude, AT THE FOHRE8T HOUSE. 223 but why did you come here this morning to tempt me. I was going to write and tell, you what I ought to have told you long ago, and the sight of you makes me such a coward. Rossie,my darli?ig ; I will call you so once, though it's wrong, it's wicked, remember that. I am not what I seem. I have deceived you all these years since father died, and before, too, long before. You cannot guess what a wretch I am." It was a long time since Rossie had thought of Joe Fleming, with whom she believed Everard had broken altogether ; but she remembered him now, and, at once attributing Everard's trouble to that source, she said, in her old, child-like way : "It's Joe Fleming again, Mr. Everard, and I hoped you were done with him forever." She was very pale, and her eyes had a startled look, for the sudden caress and the words " my darling," had shaken her nerves, and roused in her a tumult of joy and dread of she scarcely knew what ; but she looked stead- ily at Everard, who answered her bitterly : "Yes, it is Joe Fleming, always Joe Fleming, and I am going to tell you about it ; but, Rossie, you must promise not to hate me, or I never can tell you. Bee knows and does not hate me. Do you promise, Rossie?" "Yes, I promise, and I'll help you if I can," Rossie said, without the slightest suspicion of the nature of the trouble. She never suspected anything. The shrewd, far-see- ing ones, who scent evil from afar, would say of her that she was neither deep nor quick, and possibly she was not. Wholly guileless herself, she never looked for wrong until it was thrust in her face, and so was easily deceived by what seemed to be good. She certainly suspected no evil in Everard, and was anxious to hear the story which he would have told her had it not been for an interruption in the shape of Lawyer Russell, who came suddenly into the office, bringing with him a stranger who wished to consult with both the old lawyer and the young. That, of course, broke up the confer- ence, and Rosamond was compelled to retire, thinking more of the hot kiss which she could still feel upon her forehead, and the words " my darling," as spoken by Everard, than of the story he had to tell. And all that day she flitted about the house, warbling 224 EVENTS OF ONE TEAR snatches of song, and occasionally repeating to herself " my darling," as Everard had said it to her. If indeed she were his darling, then nothing should separate them from each other. She did not care for his past misdeeds, or for Joe Fleming. That was in the past. She be- lieved in Everard as he was now, and loved him, too. She acknowledged that to herself, and her face burned with blushes as she did so. And, looking back over the past, she could not remember a time when she did not love him, or rather worship him, as the one hero in the world worthy of her worship. And now? Rossie conld not give expression to what she felt now, or analyze the great happiness dawning upon her, with the belief that as she loved Everard Forrest, so was she loved in return. She was very beautiful with this new light shining over her face, and very beautiful without it. It was now two years since she went unabashed to Everard and asked to be his wife. Then she was fifteen and a-half, and a mere child, so far as knowledge of the world was concerned, and in some respects she was a child still, though she was seventeen and had budded into a most lovely type of womanhood. Her features were not as regular as Bee's, nor her complexion as soft and waxen ; but it was very fresh and bright and clear, and there was something inexpressibly sweet and attractive in her face and the ex- pression of her eyes, while her rippling hair was wound in masses about her well-shaped head, adding somewhat to her apparent height and giving her a more womanly ap- pearance than when she wore it loosely in her neck. If Rossie thought herself pretty, it was never apparent in her manner. Indeed, she never seemed to think of her- self at all, though, as the day of which I arn writing drew to a close, she did spend more time than usual at her toilet, and when it was finished felt tolerably satis- fied with the image reflected by her mirror, and was sure that Everard would be suited, too. He would come that night, of course. There was nothing else for him to do after the events of the morning. But Everard did not come, and about noon of the next day she received a few lines from him saying that a business matter, of which Lawyer Russell" and the stranger with him were the harbingers, would take him for a week or more, to southern Indiana. lie had not SOMETHING DOES HAPPEN. 225 time to say good-by in person, but he would write to her from Dighton, and he hoped to find her well on his return. That was all. Not an allusion to the confession he was going to make, not a sign that he had held her for a moment in his arms and kissed her passionate!}', while he called her his darling. He was going away on busi- ness and would write to her. Nothing could be briefer or more informal, though he called her his dear Rossie. And Rossie, whose faith was not easily shaken, felt that she was dear to him even though he disappointed her. She would hold to that while he was absent, and though her face was not quite as bright and joyous as the night before, there was upon it an expression of happiness and content which made watchful Mrs. Markham think that, as she expressed it to herself, " something had hap- pened." CHAPTER XXVIII. SOMETHING DOES HAPPEN. T had rained all day in Dresden, a steady, persistent rain, which kept the guests of the Hotel Victoria in-doors, and made them so tired, and uncomfortable, and restless that by night every shadow of reserve was swept away, and they were ready to talk to any one who would answer them in their own tongue. Conspicuous among the guests assembled in the parlor was Miss Fleming, " Miss Josephine Fleming, Boston, U. S. A.," she was registered, and she passed for one of those Bostonians who, whether deservedly or not, get the reputation abroad of being very exclusive, and proud, and unap- proachable. Just now this character suited Josephine, for she found that she was more talked about when she was reserved and dignified than when she was forward and flippant ; so, though they had been at the Victoria some weeks, she had made but few acquaintances, and these among the English and the most aristocratic of the 10* 226 SOMETHING DOES HAPPEN. Americans. And Josephine had never been so beautiful as she was now. And she had the satisfaction of know- ing that she was always the most attractive woman in every company, and the one most sought after. Of her poverty she made no secret, and did not try to conceal the fact that she was Mrs. Arnold's companion. But she had seen better days, of course, before papa died and left his affairs so involved that they lost everything, and mamma was compelled to take a few boarders to eke out their income. This was her story, which took well when told by herself, with sweet pathos in her voice and a drooping of her long lashes over her lovely blue eyes. Every one of her acquaintances of any account in America had been stepping-stones in Europe, where she met people who knew the Gerards, and John Hayden, and Miss Belknap, who was her very heaviest card, the one she played most frequently, and with the best success. The New Yorkers all knew Beatrice, and were inclined to be very gracious to her friend. Occasionally she had come across some graduate from Amherst, whom she had met before, but never till the rainy day with which this chapter opens had she seen any one from the vicinity of Rothsay, or who knew her husband personally. She was in the habit of looking over the list of arrivals, and had seen the names of " Mr. and Mrs. Philip Evarts, Cincinnati, IT. S. A.," and had readily singled out the new-comers at table d'hote, divining at once that the lady was a bride ; but no words had passed between them until the even- ing of the rainy day ; then Josephine entered the parlor faultlessly gotten up, and looking very sweet and lovely in her dark-blue silk and velvet jacket, with her golden hair caught up with an ivory comb. Nothing could be prettier than she was, and Phil Evarts, who, as Everard had said, was just the man to be attracted by such a woman as Josephine, and whose wife was sick with a headache in her room, managed to get near the beauty, who took a seat apart from the others, and met his ad- vance with a swift glance of her dreamy eyes, which made his heart beat faster than a man's heart ought to beat when his wife is up-stairs with the headache. It was her business to speak first, and she said, very modestly : SOMETHING DOES HAPPEN. 227 " Excuse me, sir, but do you know if there has been a mail since lunch ?" " I don't," he replied, " but I will inquire. I am just going to the office. What name shall I ask for ?" She told him, and during the few minutes he was gone he found out who Miss Fleming from Boston was, and all about her that the English-speaking clerk knew. But there was no letter for her, for which he was very sorry. She was sorry, too ; she did so want to hear from home and sister. She did not say mamma, for she knew her mother was dead, and had known it for a week, and kept it to herself until she could decide whether to wear black or not, and so shut herself out from any amusements they might have in Paris, where they were going next. Naturally the two began to talk of America, and when Mr. Evarts spoke of Cincinnati as his home, she said: " I have a friend who was once at school there. Everard Forrest, of Rothsay, do you know him ?" She had no idea that he did, and was astonished at the vehemence with which he responded : " Ned Forrest, of Rothsay ! Of course I know him. We were at school together. He's the best fellow in the world. And he is your friend, too ?" " Yes," Josey answered, beginning at once to calcu- late how much knowledge of Everard she would confess to. " I knew him when he was in college at Amherst. We lived in Hoi burton then, a little town over the line in New York, and he was sometimes there, but I have not seen him for a long time. I hope he is well." "He was the last time I saw him, which was three or four months ago, perhaps more," Mr. Evarts replied. " He was in the city for a day, and I saw him just a mo- ment. He is working like a dog ; sticks to his business like a burr, which is so different from what I thought he'd do, and he so rich, too." "Is he?" Josephine asked; and Evarts replied: " Why, yes; his father must have been worth half a million, at least, and Ned got the whole, I suppose. There are no other heirs, unless something was given to that girl who lived in the family. Rosamond Hastings was the name, I think." 228 SOMETHING DOES HAPPEN. " Is his father dead?" Josephine asked; and in her voice there was a sharp ring which even stupid Phil Evarts detected and wondered at. "Dead? Yes," he replied. "He has been dead I should say nearly, if not quite, two years." Josephine was for a moment speechless. Never in her life had she received so great a shock. That Judge Forrest should have been dead two years and she in ignorance of it seemed impossible, and her first feeling after she began to rally a little was one of incredulity, and she asked: "Are you not mistaken ?" "No, I'm not," Mr. Evarts replied. "I saw Everard in Covington a few weeks after his father's death, and talked to him of the sickness, which was apoplexy or something of that sort. Anyway, it was sudden, and Ned looked as if he hadn't a friend in the world. I did not suppose he cared so much for his father, who, I always thought, was a cross old tyrant. I used to visit at Forrest House occasionally years ago, when we were boys, but have not been there since the judge's death. Ned does not often come to Cincinnati, and as I have been gone most of the time for the last two years, I have heard but little of him." " How long, did you say, has his father been dead ?" Josephine asked ; and Mr. Evarts replied : "It must be two years in November, or there- abouts." " And this Rosamond Hastings who lives there, how old is she, and is he going to marry her?" Josephine asked next ; while Evarts thought to himself : "Jealous, I do believe," but he answered her : " Miss Hastings must be seventeen or eighteen, and when I saw her, five or six years ago, was not so very handsome." " Yes, thank you," Josey said, and as she just then saw Mrs. Arnold coming into the salon, she bowed to her new acquaintance, and walked away, with such a tumult in her bosom as she had never before experienced. It would take her a little time to recover herself and decide what to do. She must have leisure for reflection; and she took it that night in her room, and sat up the en- tire night thinking over the events of the last two years, SOMETHING DOES HAPPEN. 229 as connected with Everard, and coming at last to the conclusion that he was a scoundrel, whom it was her duty as well as pleasure to punish by going to America at once and claiming him as her husband. In the first days of her sudden bereavement, Agnes' kind heart had gone out with a great yearning for her young sister, to whom she had at once written of their mutual loss, saying how lonely she was, and how she hoped they would henceforth be more to each other than they ever had been. And Josephine had been touched and softened, and had written very kindly to Agnes, and had cried several times in secret for the dead mother she would never see again, but whose death she did not then see fit to announce to Mrs. Arnold ; but she would do so now, and make it a pretext for going home at once. Nothing should keep her from wreaking swift vengeance on the man who had deliberately deceived her for two years, and who, she had no doubt, was faithless to her in feeling, if not in act. Of course there was a woman concerned in the matter, and that woman was probably Rossie Hastings, who, Mr. Evarts said, was still living at the Forrest House, whither she meant to go in her own person as Mrs. J. E. Forrest, and so rout the enemy, and establish her own claims as a much-injured wife. She did not mean to be violent or harsh, only grieved, and hurt, and forgiving, and she had no doubt that in time she should be the most popular woman in Rothsay, not even excepting Beatrice, whose silence with regard to the judge's death she could not understand, inasmuch as she could have had no reason for keeping it a secret. It may seem strange that as a friend of Everard's Phil Evarts had not heard of the judge's will, but fo'r the last two or three years he had led a wandering kind of life, and spent most of his time in Rio Janeiro, and as Everard had never spoken of his affairs on the few occa- sions they had met since the judge's death, he was in total ignorance of the manner in which the judge had disposed of his property. Had he known it, and told Josephine, she might have acted differently, and hesitated a little before she gave up a situation of perfect ease and comparative luxury for the sake of a husband whom she did not love, and who had nothing for her support ex- cept his own earnings. But she did not know this, and 230 SOMETHING DOES HAPPEN. she was eager to confrQnt him and the jade, as she stig- matized Rosamond, and she packed some of her clothes that night that she might start at once. Fortunately for her plans the next morning's mail from Paris brought her another letter from Agnes, who thought she might be anxious to know what she had de- cided to do, for the present, at least, until they could consult together. But Josephine cared very little what Agnes did. She was going to the Forrest House, and she was glad that Dr. Matthewson, who had been with her for a time at the hotel, had started for Italy only a few days before. He might have opposed her plan, and she knew from experience that it was hard to resist the influence he had over her. Utterly reckless and unprin- cipled, he seemed really to like this woman, whom he thoroughly understood, and in whose nature he recog- nized something which responded to his own. Two or three times he had talked openly to her of a divorce, and had hinted at a glorious life in Italy or wherever she chose to go. But Josephine was too shrewd to consider that for a moment. Dr. Matthewson lived only by his wits, or to put it in plainer terms, by gambling and spec- ulation and intrigue. To-day he was rich, indulging in every possible luxury and extravagance, and to-morrow he was poor and unable to pay even his board ; and much as she liked him she had no fancy to share his style of living. She preferred rather to be the hated wife of Everard Forrest and the mistress of his house ; so she took Agnes's letter to Mrs. Arnold, and with a great show of feeling told her her mother was dead, and her sister Aggie left all alone, and wanting her so badly that sTie felt it her imperative duty to start at once for America. "I am sorry, of course, to leave you," she said, "but you have so many acquaintances now, and your health is so much better, that you will do very nicely without me, I am sure, and I have long felt that my position was merely a sinecure. I am only an unnecessary expense." Mrs. Arnold knew that to some extent this was true. Josephine was rather an expensive luxury, and she had more than once seen in her signs of selfishness and duplicity which shocked and displeased her. But the girl had been uniformly kind and attentive to her, and SOMETHING DOES HAPPEN. 23 J she was loth to part with her, and tried to persuade her to wait till spring. But Josephine was determined, and seeing this Mrs. Arnold ceased to oppose her, and gen- erously gave her two hundred dollars for her expenses home; and Josephine took it, and smiled sweetly through her tears, and kissed her friend gushingly, and then hur- ried away to complete her preparations. The next day she left Dresden for Paris, where she staid a week, while she selected a most becoming ward- robe in black, and was delighted to see what a pretty, appealing woman she was in her mourning, and how fair and pure her skin showed through her long crape vail, and how blue and pathetic her eyes looked, especially when she managed to bring a tear into them. Of course she was noticed, and commented upon, and admired on shipboard, and when it was known why she was going home alone, and why she was in such deep mourning, she had everybody's sympathies, "and was much sought after and petted. She was certainly a very fair picture to contemplate, and the male portion of her fellow travelers indulged in that pastime often, and anticipated her every movement, and vied with each other in taking her chair to the most sheltered and comfortable place, and adjusting her wraps, and drawing her shawl a little closer around her neck, and helping her below whenever she was at all dizzy, as she frequently was ; and when at last the Vitte de Paris came into port, and she stood on shore, fright- ened, bewildered, and so much afraid of those dreadful custom-house officers, though she had nothing dutiable except a Madonna bought for mamma before she knew she was dead, at least ten gentlemen stood by her, reas- suring her and promising to see her through, and suc- ceeding so well that not one of her four big trunks was molested, and the captain himself helped her into the carriage which was to take her to the Harlem depot. With all tne gallantry of a Frenchman he saw her com- fortably adjusteo, and squeezing her hand a little, lifted his hat politely, and wishing her bon voyage, left her to drive away toward the new life which was to be so dif- ferent from the old. MRS. J. E. FORREST. CHAPTER XXIX. MRS. J . E. F ORREST. VERARD had been gone nearly two weeks in- stead of one, and Rosamond had not heard from him except through Mr. Russell, who told her that the business, which had refer- ence to sundry infringements on patents and some missing deeds, was occupying him longer than he had supposed it would, as it required much research and a good deal of travel ; " but he ought to be home now, very soon," he said to her one rainy morn- ing in November, when he came to see her on business and found her sick in her room with a sore throat and severe cold. Rossie had been very lonely with both Everard and Beatrice away, for the latter had been in New York since September, and at last accounts was on her way to Florida with Mollie Morton, who wished to try the effect of a milder climate than Vermont, and as Mr. Morton could not leave his church in Boston, which had now become a permanancy, Bee had consented to accompany her, so Rossie was alone, and in a measure defenseless, on the afternoon when Mrs. Markham an- nounced that the hack which ran to and from the depot had turned into the avenue and was coming to the house, and that it contained two ladies and at least three trunks, if not four. " Ladies and trunks coming here?" Rossie ex- claimed, starting up in bed and trying to listen to the voices, which were soon heard speaking together at the side door, where the hack had stopped. But she could distinguish nothing, and Mrs. Markham went to ascertain who the strangers were. Half-way down the stairs she met old Aunt Axie, who held in her hand a black-bordered card on which was engraved the name, " MRS. J. E. FORREST." " The young lady done gin me this to fotch to Miss Hastings," Axie said, as she handed the card to Mrs. Markham, who twice repeated the name " MRS. J. E. FORREST." MBS. J. E. FORREST. 233 " Who can she be ? Had the judge any near rela- tives ?" she asked Axie, who replied : " Not's I knows on. I never hearn tell of any J. E. Forrests, but Mars'r Everard." " Where is the lady ?" was Mrs. Markham's next question, and Axie replied : "In the 'ception room, kind of shivrin' and shakin' as if she war cold. I reckon she's come to stay a spell, case the four big trunks is all in a pile in de side entry, and she acts as ef she think she belong here, for she ask sharp like, l Ain't thar no fire you can take me to ? I'm chilled through.' " 'Thar's a fire in Miss Rossie's room,' I said, ' but she's sick.' "'Miss who?' she said, sharper still. 'Is it Miss Hastings you mean ? Take her my card and say I'd like to see her if possible,' and that's every blessed thing I know 'bout 'em, only the old one looks queer and scart like, and nothin' in the house for dinner but a bit of bacon," and having told all she knew of the visitors, Axie went on her way to report the same to Rosamond, and confer with her about the dinner and the rooms the guests were to occupy, while Mrs. Markham went down to the reception-room to meet MRS. J. E. FORREST. Josephine had greatly surprised her sister by walking in upon her unannounced one morning a few days pre- viously, and had still further astonished her by saying that Judge Forrest was dead, and that she had come home in order to go at once to Rothsay and her husband. She laid great stress on that word, and gave Agnes to understand that he had written to her of his father's death, and that it was at his request she had crossed the sea to join him. " But won't he come here for you ? Seems to me that would have a better look," Agnes said, and her sister replied: " He is quite too busy to waste his time that way, for we can go alone; he knows I am accustomed to trav- eling. We will start at once, I am so anxious to be there. We can shut up the house for the present, until matters are adjusted, when you or I can come back and see to the things." Could Agnes have had her choice she would have 234 MRS. J. E. FORREST. preferred remaining where she was, for she dreaded change of any kind. But go she must, for her presence would add weight and respectability to Josephine, who was very kind to her, and made the leaving Holburton as easy as possible. To a few of her old friends Josephine told the secret of her marriage, showing her certificate, a id saying, now her father-in-law was dead there was nothing in the way of publishing the marriage to the world, and that she was going to her husband. Of course all Holburton was excited, some believing the story, others discrediting it, but all remembering the play and the mock marriage which had seemed so solemn and real. But Josephine was not popular, and few if any regrets were sent after her when she started for the Forrest House, which she reached on the chill No- vember day, when everything was looking its very worst. Even the grounds had a bare, gray look, but they were very spacious and large, and Josephine felt a throb of pride as she rode up the avenue, looking eagerly out at the great, square, old-fashioned building, which, though massive, and stately, and pretentious, was not . quite what she had expected to find. There was about it a shut-up, deserted air, which made her ask the hack- man if there was any one at home, or why the blinds were all closed except in the wing. The hackman was a negro who had once been in Judge Forrest's employ, and he replied : " Miss Rossie's dar whar you see de shutters Qpen, but de rest she keep closed sense old marster died." There was something like a flash of indignation in Josephine's eyes as she thought how soon she would change the administration of the household, and make Miss Rossie know her place. They had reached the side entrance by this time, and Josephine waited in her seat an instant in the hope that her truant lord might come himself to see who his visitors were. In that case she meant to be forgiving, and put her arms around his neck, and kiss him, and whisper in his ear : "I know everything, but I come in peace, not in war. Let us be friends, and do you leave the expla- nation to me." She had decided upon this plan since leaving Holbur- ton, for the nearer she drew to Rothsay the more she MBS. J. E. FORREST. 235 began to dread and fear the man who she knew had out- lived all love and respect for her. But only Aunt Axle's broad, black face looked out into the rain, and beamed a smile on Luke, the driver, who was a distant relative. Springing lightly from the carriage Josey ran up the steps into the hall, where she stood while Agnes joined her, and Luke deposited the heavy trunks and claimed his customary fee, and a little more on the plea of " so many big boxes to tote." But Josephine refused him sharply, and then followed Aunt Axie into the cold reception-room, where no fire had been made that day, for Rossie had never abandoned her determination to use as little as possible of the For- rest money, and nothing superfluous was expended either in fuel, or eatables, or dress. So far as her own income, a matter of one hundred and forty dollars or there- abouts, was concerned, she was very generous and free ; but when it came to Everard's money, as she called it, her economies were almost painful at times, and wrung many a remonstrance from old Axie, the cook. With a shiver and a quick, curious glance around the cheerless room, Josephine turned to Aunt Axie and said : "Is Mr. Forrest at home, Mr. Everard Forrest ?" " No, miss. He done went away quite a spell ago, but Miss Rossie's 'spectin' him every day. He don't live here, though, when he's home ; he stay mostly in de town." Josephine did not understand her, and continued : " He will come here, I suppose, as soon as he returns ?" " Yes, miss, he's sure to do dat," and Axie nodded knowingly. Of course, she had no suspicion who this lady was, walking about the room and examining the furniture with a critical and not favorable eye, and asking, at last, if there was no fire where she could warm herself after her cold ride ? On being told there was a fire in Miss Rossie's room, she took from her purse one of the cards she had had en- graved in Paris, and bidding Axie take it to Miss Hast- ings, sat down to await the result. To Agnes she said, in something of her old, dictatorial tone : " Pray, don't look so nervous and frightened, as if 236 MBS. J. E. FORREST. we were a pair of burglars. It is ray husband's house, and I have a right here." " Yes, I know," faltered Agnes ; " but it looks as if they did not expect you, as if he did not know you were coming, or he would have been home, and it's all so dreary ; I wish I was back in Holburton," and poor, homesick Agnes began to cry softly. But Josephine bade her keep quiet. " You let me do the talking," she said. " You need not speak, or if you have to you must assent to what you hear me say, even if it is not all quite true." Josephine had expected Rosamond herself, and had taken a very pretty attitude, and even laid off her hat so as to show her golden hair, which, in the dampness, was one mass of waves and curls and little rings about her forehead. She meant to astonish and dazzle the girl whom she suspected as her rival, and who she imagined to be plain and unprepossessing, and when she heard a step outside she drew herself up a little, but had no in- tention of rising. She should assert her superiority at once, and sit while she received Miss Hastings rather than be received by her. How then was she disappointed and chagrined when, instead of Rossie, there appeared on the threshold a middle-aged woman, who showed that she was every whit a lady, and whose manner, as she bowed to the blonde beauty, brought her to her feet im- mediately. "Mrs. Forrest?" Mrs. Markham said, interrogatively, consulting the card she held, and then glancing at Jose- phine, who answered her: " Yes, Mrs. J. E. Forrest. My husband, it seems, is not here to receive me and explain matters, for which I am very sorry." Even then Mrs. Markham had no suspicion of the truth. The husband referred to was, of course, some distant relative, who was to have been there in advance of his wife, and she replied: "No, there has been no gentleman here, but that does not matter, except as it may be awkward for you. Miss Hastings will make you very welcome, though she is sick to-day and in bed. Your husband is a relative of Mr. Everard Forrest, I nresume." "A relative ! My husband is Mr. Everard Forrest," MBS. J. E. FORREST. 237 Josephine said. " We were married four years ago last summer, and at his request, I have kept it a secret ever since. But my sister," and she nodded toward Agnes, " saw me married, and I have my marriage certificate in my bag. Agnes, give me my satchel, please," and she turned again to Agnes, who knew now that they were there unexpected and unknown, and her face was very white as she brought the satchel for Josephine to open. Mrs. Markham was confounded and incredulous, and she showed it in her face as she dropped into a chair and stared wonderingly at her visitor, who, from a little box fastened with lock and key, abstracted a paper which she handed her to read. "I know just how I must seem to you," Josephine said. "You think me an adventuress, an impostor, but I am neither. I am Everard Forrest's lawful wife, as this certificate will show you." Mrs. Markham did not reply, for she was reading that, at Holburton, New York, on the evening of the 17th of July, 18 : , Mr. James E. Forrest, of Rothsay, Ohio, was united in matrimony to Miss Josephine Fleming, by the Rev. Mr. Matthewson. There could be no mistake apparently, unless this paper was a forgery and the woman a lunatic, and still Mrs. Markham could not believe it. She had a great respect and liking for Everard, and held him as a model young man, who would never stoop to deception like this, and then, there was Rossie ! and the kind-hearted woman felt a pang of pity and a throb of indignation as she thought how Rossie had been wronged and duped if this thing were true, and this woman confronting her so calmly and unflinchingly were really Everard's wife. "I cannot believe it. I will not believe it," she thought ; and as composedly as it was possible for her to do, she said : " This is a strange story you tell me, and if it is true it bears very heavily against Mr. Forrest, who has never been suspected of being a married man." " I knew it ; I guessed as much. Oh, Josey, why did you come before he sent for you ? Let's go away. You are not wanted here !" Agnes exclaimed, as she came swiftly to her sister's side and laid her hand on her arm. 238 MRS. J. E. FORREST. But Josephine shook it off fiercely, and in a tone she knew so well how to assume, said commandingly, as if speaking to a child: " Mind your business, Agnes, and let me attend to my own affairs. I have kept quiet long enough; four years of neglect would try the patience of any woman, and if he does not choose to recognize me as his wife I shall compel him to do so. You saw me married; you know I am telling the truth. Speak, Agnes, did you not see me married to Everard Forrest ?" " Yes, I did, may God forgive me," was Agnes' meek reply, but still Mrs. Markham could not believe her, and was silent while Josephine went on: " I do not wish for any scene, or talk, or excitement. I am Everard Forrest's wife, and I wish only to be known as such. I hoped to find him here, for then it would be his duty to explain, not mine. Do I understand he is not in' town, or not at home? Possibly he is in his office, in which case I will seek him there." " He is not in town," Mrs. Markham said ; " he went to Indiana on business more than a week ago, and has not yet returned. He does not live here when he is at home ; he boards in the village. Miss Hastings lives here ; this is her house ; perhaps you do not know that Judge Forrest died, and " "Yes, I do," Josephine interrupted her, beginning to get irritated and lose her self-command as she saw that she was not believed, " I do know Judge Forrest is dead, and has been for two years or more; but I learned it ac- cidentally, and as he was the only obstacle in the way of my recognition as Everard's wife, I came at once, as I had a right, to my husband's house." " But this is not his house," Mrs. Markham replied. " It belongs to Miss Hastings. Everything belongs to her. Judge Forrest left it to her by will. Didn't you know that?" " No, I did not," Josephine answered, and for a mo- ment she turned deathly white as she saw the ground slipping from under her feet. "Left everything to Miss Hastings and disinherited his son ! Why was that ?" she asked. "I don't know why he did it," Mrs. Markham replied, " I know only that he'did, and it is strange Mr. Forrest MRS. J. K FORREST. 239 did not write that to you, as you must, of course, have been in correspondence with him." She spoke sarcastically, and Josephine knew she was looked upon with distrust, notwithstanding the certifi- cate, which she had thought would silence all doubt; and that, added to what she had heard of the disposition of the Forrest property, provoked her to wrath, and her eyes, usually so dreamy and blue, emitted sparks of an- ger, and seemed to turn a kind of whitish gray as she burst out : " My correspondence with my husband has not been very frequent or full. I told you I did not hear from him of his father's death ; he never hinted at such a thing, and how was I to know that he was disinherited ? If I had it might have made a difference, and I should have thought twice before crossing the sea and giving up a life I enjoyed, for the sake of coming here to find myself suspected as an impostor, which, under the cir- cumstances, is natural perhaps, and to find also that my husband is a pauper, and the home I had confidently expected would one day be mine given to a stranger." Josephine was almost crying when she finished this imprudent speech, in which she betrayed that all she really cared for was the home and the money which she had expected to find. Mrs. Markham saw this, and it did not tend to increase her respect for the lady, though she did pity her, if, as she affirmed, she were really Everard's wife, for with her knowledge of human na- ture, she guessed that if there really had been a marriage it was a hasty thing, repented of almost as soon as done, by Everard at least. But she did not know what to say until Josephine, who had recovered herself, continued : " I should like to see Miss Hastings, if possible, and apologize for my intrusion into her house, and then I will go to the hotel and await my husband's return ;" then she answered quickly ; " Miss Hastings, I am sure, will say you are welcome to remain here as long as you like, but I do not think she will see you to-day, and if you will excuse me, I will go to her now, as she must bo anxious to know who her visitors are." With this Mrs. Markham arose, and bowing to Josephine left the room, and went directly to Rosa- mond. 240 HOW ROSS1E BORE THE NEWS. CHAPTER XXX. HOW EOSSIE BORE THE NEWS. HE did not bear it well at all, although she was in some degree prepared for it by the card which Axie brought her. "Mrs. J. E. Forrest, Mrs. J. E. For- rest," she repeated as she examined the card, while something undefinable, like the shadow of coming evil, began to stir her heart. " Who can she be, and where did she come from ? You say she has a maid ?" "Yes, or suffin' like dat, a quar-lookin' woman, who has a lame hand. I noticed the way she slung the lady's satchel over it, and it hung slimpsey like." " How does the lady look, and what did she say ? Tell me everything," Rosamond said; and Axie, who be- gan to have a suspicion that the lady was not altogether welcome, replied: " She done squabble fust thing wid the driver, who ax more for fetchin' and liftin' her four big trunks, an' she hold up her gown and walk as ef the groun' wasn't good enough for her, an' she looked round de room kind o' sniffin' like, wid her nose turned up a bit as she axed me was thar no fire. But my, she be very hansom' and no mistake. All in black, with such nice skin and pretty eyes, wid dem great long lashes, like Miss Beatrice." Rossie could deny herself everything, but she was never indifferent to the comfort of others, and though she could not help feeling that this woman, who called herself Mrs. J. E. Forrest, would in some way work her harm, she could understand just how cold and cheerless the house must seem to her on that rainy day; and she ordered Axie to build fires in both the rooms below, as well as in the chamber where Everard occasionally spent a night, and which was the only guest-room she kept in order. There was also a consultation on the impor- tant subject of dinner, and then Rossie was left alone for a few moments to puzzle her brain as to who this woman could be, and wonder why her heart should feel HOW HOSSIE BORE THE NEWS. 241 BO like lead, and her pulse beat so rapidly. She did not have long to wait for a solution of the mystery before Mrs. Markham came in, showing at once that she was agitated and distressed. " What is it, Mrs. Markham ? Is she any relation to Mr. Everard ?" Rossie asked eagerly. It would be wrong to keep her in suspense a moment longer than was necessary, and going up to her, Mrs. Markham replied: "She says she is Everard's wife ; and I have seen the certificate. They were married more than four years ago, before his mother died, and she, oh, Rossie, my child, my child, don't give way like that ; it may it must be false," she added, in alarm, as she saw the death-like pallor which spread over Rossie's face, and the look of bitter pain and horror which leaped into her eyes, while the quivering lips whispered : " Everard's wife ? No, no, 110 !" " Don't, Rossie, don't !" Mrs. Markham said again, as she passed her arm around the girl, whose head droop- ed upon her shoulder, in a hopeless kind of way, ami who said : " You saw the certificate ? What was the name ? Was it " " Fleming, Josephine Fleming, of Holburton," Mrs. Markham replied, and with a shiver Rossie drew herself away from Mrs. Markham's arms, and turning her face to the wall, said : " Yes, I know. I understand it all. She is his wife. She is Joe Fleming." After that she neither spoke nor moved, and when Mrs. Markham, alarmed at her silence, bent down to look at her, she found that she had fainted. The shock had proved too great for Rossie, whose mind, at the mention of Josephine Fleming, had with lightning rapidity gathered all the tangled threads of the past, and comprehended what had been so mysterious at times in Everard's behavior. He was married, hastily, no doubt, but still married ; and Joe Fleming was his wife, and he had never told her, but suffered her to believe that he loved her, just as she knew now that she loved him. It was a bitter humiliation, and for an instant there gathered round her so thick a horror and blackness that she fancied herself dying ; but it was only a faint, and she lay so white and rigid that 11 242 HOW BOSSIE BOHE TEE NEWS. Mrs. Markham summoned Aunt Axie from the dining- room, where she was making preparations for kindling a fire in the grate. "Be quiet," Mrs. Markham said to her as she came up the stairs. "Miss Rossie has fainted, but don't let those people know it ; and bring me some hot water for her feet, quick." Axie obeyed, wondering to herself why her young mistress should faint, when she never knew her to do such a thing before, and with her ready wit connect- ing it in some way with the strangers whom Mrs. Markham had designated as " those people," and whom the old negress directly set down as " no 'count folks." It was some time before Rossie came back to con- sciousness, and when she did her first words were : "Where is she? Where is Everard's wife ? Don't let her come in here ; I could not bear it now." " Everard's wife ! Mars'r Everard's wife !" Axie repeated, tossing her turbaned head and rolling up her eyes in astonishment. " In de deah Lord's name, what do de chile mean ? Dat ain't Mars'r Everard's wife ?" and she turned to Mrs. Markham, who, now that Rossie had betrayed what she would have kept until Everard came to confirm or deny the tale, replied : "She says she is ; but we must wait until Mr. Forrest comes before we admit it. So don't go talking outside." "Catch me talkin'," was Axie's rejoinder. "It's a lie. Mars'r Everard hain't got no wife. I should of knowed it if he had. Don't you b'lieve it, honey," and she laid her hard black hand caressingly on the head of the girl whom she had long since singled out as Everard's future wife, watching shrewdly the growing intimacy between the two young people, and knowing better than they did just when the so-called brother merged into the lover, and she would not for a moment believe in another v, wife, and a secret one at that. "No, honey," she con- tinued, "don't you b'lieve it. Mars'r Everard hain't got no wife, and never will have, but you." "Yes, Aunt Axie," Rossie said, "this woman tells the truth. She is his wife, and Everard ought to come home. We must telegraph at once. He is in Dighton still." Mrs. Markham accordingly wrote on a slip of paper : MRS. FORREST "S POLICY. "To J. E. FORREST, Dighton : Come immediately. "S. MARKHAM." And Axie's granddaughter Lois, who lived in the house, was commissioned to take it to the office. A fire had been kindled by this time in the chamber Josephine was to occupy, and she was there with Agnes, and had rung for warm water, which Lois took up to her before foing on her errand. As the child was leaving the room osephine said to her: "Is there a paper published in town ?" " Yes'ra, the Rothsay Star" was the reply. " When does it come out ?" was the next question, and Lois said : " Saturday, to-morrow." " Very well. I wish you to take a notice to the office of the Star for me to-night, and I will give you a quarter." Twenty-five cents seemed a fortune to the little negro girl, who was greatly impressed with the beauty of the lady, and who replied: " Yes, miss, I'll do 'em. I's gwine to the village directly with a telegraph to Mars'r Everard, and I'll take yourn same time." So, when, a little later, she started for the telegraph office, she bore with her to the Rothsay Star the fol- lowing : "MARRIED. In Holburton, N. Y., July 17, 18, by the Rev. John Matthewson, JAMES EVERARD FORREST, of Rothsay, Ohio, and Miss JOSEPHINE FLEMING, of Hoi- burton." CHAPTER XXXI. MRS. FORREST'S POLICY. HEN Aunt Axie was called so suddenly by Mrs. Markhara, she was kindling the fire in the dining-room, which adjoined the room where Josephine sat shivering with cold, and feeling like anything but a happy wife just come to her husband's ancestral halls. Tired with her 244 MBS. FORREST'S POLICY. rapid journey, and disappointed and shocked by what she had heard from Mrs. Markham of the judge's will, Josey was nearer giving way to a hearty cry than she had been before in a long time. It bad been far better to have staid where she was, and enjoyed the life she liked, than to have come here and subject herself to sus- picion and slights from the people who did not know her. And then she was so cold, and chilly, and uncomfortable generally. But when the fire was made she felt better, and drawing an easy chair close to it assumed her usual in- dolent and lounging attitude. Twice Axie, who seemed to be excited, passed the door, once when she was taking the hot water to Rossie's room, and again, later, after she had received an impression of the strangers against whom she had mentally declared war. This time Jose- phine called her. She had heard an unusual stir above, and from Mrs. Markham's protracted absence, and Axie's evident haste, suspected that the bombshell she had thrown had taken effect, especially if, as she believed, Rosamond was particularly interested in Everard. ' Woman," she said, as the black face glanced in, " what is your name ?" " Axie, ma'am," was the crisp reply, and Josephine continued : " Oh, yes, I have heard my husband speak of you. I am very sorry he is not here to set matters right. What is the matter up-stairs ? Is any one sud- denly ill ?" Axie was bristling with resentment toward this woman, who called Everard her husband so coolly, and in whom she would not believe till she had her master's word of confirmation. Still, she must not be insolent, that was against her creed ; but she answered with great dignity, " I tole you Miss Hastin's was sick when you fust come. Her throat be very sore, an' her head mighty bad ; so, you'll sense me, iww," and with a kind of sup- pressed snort Axie departed, jingling her keys and toss- ing her blue-turbaned head high in the air. Josephine knew perfectly well how she was regarded in the house, and, irritated and chagrined, decided at once upon her policy. She should be very amiable and sweet, of course, but firm in asserting her rights. She was EveranJ's wife, and she could prove it, and it was MRS. FORREST'S POLICY. 245 natural that she should come to what she supposed was his home and hers. It was not her fault that she had made the mistake. The wrong was on bis side, and she should stay there until he came, unless they turned her from the door, which she hardly thought they would do. Just then Mrs. Markham appeared, apologizing for her long absence, and saying that though Miss Hastings was, of course, surprised at what she had heard, she did not discredit it, and would telegraph at once for Mr. Forrest. "Meantime," she continued, " she wishes you to re- main here till he comes, and has given orders to have you made comfortable. I believe there is a fire in your room, if you wish to go to it before dinner. Miss Hast- ings is too ill to see you herself." " Thanks ; she is very kind. I would like to go to my room, and to have one of my trunks sent up. Agnes will show you which one, the small leather box," Jose- phine said, with a dignified bow, as she rose from her chair. Calling Aunt Axie, Mrs. Markham bade her conduct the lady to her room, where a bright wood fire was blaz- ing, and which looked very cheerful and pleasant ; for, as it was Everard's room, where he always slept when he spent a night at the Forrest House, Rosamond had taken great pains to keep it nice, and had transferred to it sev- eral articles of furniture from the other rooms. Here Josey's spirits began to rise, and it was in quite a com- fortable state of mind that she dressed herself for din- ner, in a gown of soft cashmere, with just a little white at her throat and wrists. As it was only her mother for whom she mourned, she had decided that she might wear a jet necklace, which heightened the effect of her dress, if indeed it needed anything more to improve it than the beautiful face and wealth of golden hair. Even Mrs. Markham drew an involuntary breath as this vision of loveliness and grace came into the room, apologizing for being tardy, and inquiring so sweetly for Miss Hast- ings, who, she hoped, was no worse. Her policy was to be a sweet as well as a firm one, and before dinner was over even Mrs. Markham began to waver a little in her first opinion, and wonder why Everard should have kept secret his marriage with this 246 MRS. FORREST'S POLICY. brilliant, fascinating woman, who seemed so much of a lady, and who evidently was as well born as himself, at least on the maternal side, for Josey took care to say that her mother knew Mrs. Forrest when she was a girl, and was present at her wedding in Boston, but that, ow- ing to adverse circumstances, they saw nothing of each other after the marriage. " Papa was unfortunate and died, and we moved into the country, where, for a time, marnma had a hard strug- gle to keep up, and at last took a few boarders in order to live," she said ; and her blue eyes were very tender and pathetic as she told what in one sense was the truth, though a truth widely different from the impression she meant to convey. Once Agnes, whose face was very white, gave her such a look of sorrowful entreaty that Mrs. Markham observed and wondered at it, just as she wondered at the great difference between the sisters, and could only account for it on the supposition that Agnes' mother was a very different woman from the second Mrs. Fleming, who had been a friend of Mrs. Forrest, and a guest at her wedding ! Miss Belknap was, of course, brought into the conversation, and Josephine was sorry to hear that she was not at home. "I depended upon her to vouch for my respectability. She knows me so well," she said, explaining that Bea- trice had been for some time an inmate of her mother's house in Holburton, and that she had liked her so much, and then, more bewildered than ever, Mrs. Markham went over half-way to the enemy, and longed for the mystery to be explained. The next day, which was Saturday, it rained with a steady pour, and Josephine kept her room, after having expressed a wish to see Miss Hastings, if possible ; but when this request was made known to Rossie by Mrs. Markham, she exclaimed : " No, no, not her ; not Joe Fleming ! I could not bear it till Mr. Everard cornea." She was thinking of her hair and the letter, and the persistence with which Joe Fleming had demanded money from Everard, and it made no difference with her that Mrs. Markham represented the woman as pretty, and lady-like, and sweet. She could not see her, and a MBS. FORREST'S POLICY. 247 message to the effect that she was too weak and sick to talk with strangers was taken to Josephine, who hoped Miss Hastings was not going to be seriously ill, and offered the services of her sister, who had the faculty of quieting the most nervous persons and put- ting them to sleep. But Rossie declined Agnes too, and lay with her face to the wall, scarcely moving, and never speaking unless she was spoken to. And Josephine lounged in her own room, and had her lunch brought up by Axie, to whom she tried to be gracious. But Axie was not easily won. She did not believe in Mrs. J. E. Forrest, and looked upon her presence there as an affront to herself and an insult to Rossie, and when about two o'clock the Rothsay Star was brought into the house by her husband, John, who was in a state of great excite- ment over the marriage notice, which had been pointed out to him, she wrung from Lois the fact that she had carried a note to the editor, and had been paid a quarter for it by the lady up-stairs. She put the paper away where it could not be found if Rossie chanced to ask for it. But she could not keep it from the world as repre- sented by Rothsay, for it was already the theme of every tongue. The editor had read the note which Josephine sent him before Lois left the office, and had questioned her as to who sent her with it. Lois had answered him : "De young lady what corned from de train wid four big trunks and bandbox." "And where is she now ?" he asked, and Lois replied : " Up sta'rs in Mas'r Everard's room." This last was proof conclusive of the validity of the marriage, which the editor naturally concluded was a hasty affair of Everard's college days, when he had the reputation of being rather wild and fast, and so he pub- lished the notice and in another column called attention to it, as the last great excitement. Of course there was much wondering, and surmising, and guessing, and in spite of the rain the ladies who lived near each other got together and talked it up, and believed or discredited it according to their several natures. Mrs. Dr. Rider, a chubby, good-natured, in- quisitive woman, declared her intention of knowing the facts before she slept. Her husband attended Rosa- 248 MRS. FORREST'S POLICY. mond, and sbe bad a sirup which was just the medicine for a sore throat and influenza, such as Rossie was suffering from, and she would take it to her, and per- haps learn the truth of the story of Everard's marriage. Accordingly, about four o'clock that afternoon, Mrs. Dr. Rider's little covered phaeton turned into the For- rest avenue, and was seen from the window by Jose- phine, who, tired and ennuyeed, was looking out into the rain. That the phaeton held a lady she saw, and as the lady could only be coming there she resolved at once to put herself in the way of some possible communication Avith the outer world. Glancing at herself in the mirror she saw that she was looking well, although a little paler than her wont, but this would make her more interesting in the character she meant to assume, that of an angelic martyr. As the day was chilly, a soft white wrap of some kind would not be out of place, and would add to the effect. So she snatched up a fleecy shawl of Berlin wool, and throwing it around her shoulders, took with her a book, and hurrying down to the reception-room, had just time to seat herself gracefully and becomingly, when the door opened and Mrs. Dr. Rider came in. Aunt Axie, who was a little deaf, was in the kitchen busy with her dinner, while Lois was in the barn, hunt- ing for eggs, and so no one heard the bell, which Mrs. Rider pulled twice, and then, presuming upon her long acquaintance with the house, opened the door and walked into the reception-room, where she stopped for an in- stant, startled by the picture of the pretty blonde in black, with the white shawl, and the golden hair rippling back from the beautiful face. Here was a stroke of what Mrs. Rider esteemed luck. She had stumbled at once upon the very person she had come to inquire about, and as she was not one to lose any time, she shook the rain-drops from her waterproof, and drawing near to the fire, turned to the lady in the easy- chair, and said: " I beg your pardon for my very unceremonious en- trance. I rang twice, and then ventured to come in, it was raining so hard." Josephine admitted that it was raining hard, and re- MRS. FORREST'S POLICY. 249 marked that she expected to find it warmer ill Southern Ohio than in Eastern New York, but she believed it was colder, and with a shiver she drew her shawl around her shoulders, shook back her hair, and lifted her blue eyes to Mrs. Rider, who responded: " You came from the East, then ?" " Yes, madam, from Holburton. That is, I am from there just now, but it's only two weeks since I returned from Europe, where I have been for a long time.'' Here there was a solution in part of the mystery. This wife had been in Europe, and that was why the secret had been kept so long, and little Mrs. Dr. Rider flushed with eager excitement and pleasurable curiosity as she said: " From Europe ! You must be tired with your long journey. Have you ever been in Rothsay before ? From your having come from the East I suppose you must be a relative of Mrs. Forrest, who was born in Boston ?" Josephine knew she did not suppose any such thing, and that in all probability she had seen the notice in the Star, and had come to spy out the land, but it was not her policy to parade her story unsolicited ; so she merely replied that she was not a relative of Mrs. Forrest's, though her mamma and that lady had been friends in their girlhood. To have been a friend of the late Mrs. Forrest stamped a person as somebody, and Mrs. Rider began at once to espouse the cause of this woman, to whom she said: " I hope you will excuse me if I seem forward in what I am about to say. I am Mrs. Rider, wife of the family physician, and a friend of Everard, and when I saw that notice of his marriage in the Star I could hardly credit it, though I know such things have been before; but four years is such a long time to keep an affair of that kind a secret. May I ask if it is true, and if you are the wife ?" "It is true, and I arn his wife, or I should not be here," Josey said, very quietly. "Yes, certainly not, of course," Mrs. Rider replied, hardly knowing what she was saying, and wishing that the fair blonde whose eyes were looking so steadily into the fire would say something more, but she didn't. She was waiting for her visitor to question her, which 11* 250 MRS. FORREST'S POLICY. she presently did, for she could never leave the matter in this way, so she said: " Yon will pardon me, Mrs. Forrest, but knowing a little makes me want to know more. It seems so strange that Everard should have been a married man for more than four years and we never suspect it. It must have been a private marriage." " Ye-es, in one sense," Josephine said, with the air of one who is having something wrung from him unwil- lingly. "A great many people saw us married, for it was in a drama, a play, but none of them knew it was meant to be real and binding, except Everard and my- self and the clergyman, who was a genuine clergyman. We knew and intended it, of course, or it would not have been valid. We were engaged, and did it on the impulse of the moment, thinking no harm. Nor was there, except that we were both so young, and Everard not through college. We told mother and sister, but no one else, and as the villagers did not know of our inten- tion to be married, or that Dr. Matthewson was a cler- gyman, they never suspected the truth, and the secret was to be kept until Everard was graduated, and after that " She spoke very slowly now, and drew long breaths, as if every word she uttered were a stab to her heart. " After that I hoped to get out of my false position, but there was some fear of Judge Forrest, which kept Everard silent, waiting for an opportunity to tell him, for I was not rich, you know, and he might be angry; so I waited patiently, and his father died, and I went to Europe, and thus the years have gone." The blue eyes, in which the tears were shining, more from steadily gazing into the fire than from emotion of any kind, were lifted to Mrs. Rider, who was greatly af- fected, and then said : " Yes, I see ; but when the judge died there was nothing in the way of acknowledging the marriage. I am surprised and disappointed in Everard that he should treat you thus." Mrs. Rider's sympathy was all with the injured wife, who seemed so patient and uncomplaining, and who re- plied : " He had good reasons, no doubt. His father disiu- MRS. FORREST'S POLICY. 251 herited him, I believe, and that may have had its effect ; but I do not wish it talked about until Everard comes. It is very awkward for me that he is absent. I expected to meet him. I must come, of course ; there was no other way, for mamma recently died, and the old home was broken up. I must come to my husband." She kept asserting it as if in apology for her being there, and her voice trembled, and her whole air was one of such injured innocence that Mrs. Rider resolved within herself to stand by her in the face of all Rottosay, if necessary. Mrs. Rider was a very motherly little woman, and her heart went out at once to this girl, whose blue eyes and black dress appealed so strongly to her sympa- thies. She liked Everard, too, and did not mean to be disloyal to him, if she could help it, but she should stand by the wife ; and she was so anxious to get away and talk up the wonderful news with her acquaintances that she forgot entirely the sirup she had brought for Rossie's throat, and would have forgotten to inquire after Rossie herself if Aunt Axie had not accidentally put her head in the door and given vent to a grunt of surprise and disapprobation when she saw her in close conversa- tion with Josephine, and, with her knowledge of the lady's character for gossip, foresaw the result. "Oh, Miss Rider, is you here?" she said, advancing into the room ; " and does Miss Markham know it ? I'll fotch her directly, 'cause Miss Ros'mon's too sick to see yer." "Never mind, Axie," Mrs. Rider said, rising and be- ginning to adjust her waterproof. "I drove up to in- quire after Rossie, and have spent more time than I intended talking with Mrs. Forrest," and she nodded toward Josephine, who also arose and acknowledged the nod and name with a gracious bow. She saw the impression she had made on her visitor, who took her hand at parting, and said : " You will probably remain in Rothsay now, and I shall hope to see a great deal of you." Again Josephine bowed assentingly to Mrs. Rider, who at last left the room, followed by Axie, whose face was like a thunder-cloud as she almost slammed the door in the lady's face iu her anxiety to be rid of her. 353 WHAT THE PEOPLE SAID AND DID. CHAPTER XXXII. WHAT THE PEOPLE SAID AND DID. EFORE bed-time half the people in Rothsay knew of the marriage, and that Mrs. Dr. Rider had seen and talked with the lady, who was reported as very beautiful, and young, and stylish, and cultivated, and traveled, and a Bostonian, whose family had been on the most intimate terras with the Bigelows. She was also a friend of Bee Belknap, who had spent a summer with her, and proba- bly knew of the marriage, which was a sort of escapade gotten up on the spur of the moment, and kept a secret at first because Everard was not through college, and feared his father's displeasure. But why it was not made public after the judge's death was a question which even the wise ones could not answer ; and so the wonder and excitement increased. The next morning, which was Sunday, dawned clear and bright. The rain was over, and at the usual hour the Rothsayites betook themselves to their accustomed place of worship. Trinity church was full that morning, for though the people hardly expected Mrs. J. E. Forrest herself, they did expect Mrs. Markham, and hoped to hear something more from her. But Mrs. Markham was not there, and the large, square pew which the Forrests had occupied for many years, and which was far up the middle aisle, was empty until the reading of the Psalms commenced, when there was heard outside the sound of rapidly approaching wheels, which stopped before the door, and a moment after there entered a graceful figure clothed in black, with the prettiest little Paris bonnet perched on the golden hair,' the long crape vail thrown brick, disclosing the fair, blonde face, which was a little flushed, while the blue eyes had in them a timid, bashful expression as they glanced quickly round in quest of the sexton, who, having fulfilled his duties at the bell, had gone to the organ loft, for he was blower as well as bell- ringer, and left to others the task of seating strangers. But Josey did not have to wait long, for four men, two WHAT THE PEOPLE SAID AND DID. 253 young, one middle-aged, and one white-haired and old, simultaneously left their pews and made a movement to- ward her, the youngest reaching her first and asking if she would have a seat. "Yes, thank you. Please show me Judge Forrest's pew," was the reply, and every head was turned as her long skirts went trailing up the aisle, and the air was filled with the costly and delicate perfume she carried with her, and which was fresh from Pinaud's. What a long time she remained upon her knees, and how devout she was after she had arisen, and how clearly and sweetly she sang the "Gloria," and how wonderfully her overskirt was looped, and how jauntily her jacket fitted her, with such a pretty stand-up collar, and how white her neck was above it, and how beautiful the wavy hair under the lovely bonnet. All these details, and more, were noted by every woman in church who could get a view of her, while even the clergyman, good and conscientious man as he was, found it difficult to keep his eyes from straying too often to that crimson- cush- ioned pew and the black-robed figure whose responses were so audible and clear, and who seemed the very in- carnation of piety and innocence. He had heard of Mrs. J. E. Forrest, and he guessed who the stranger was, and when service was over he came down to speak to her. Mrs. Rider, however, was there before him, and was shaking hands with the lady, whom she presented to the rector, and to his wife, and to several others who sat near, and who involuntarily moved in that direction. And Josephine received them with a modesty of de- meanor which won their sympathy, if not their hearts, at once. Not the slightest allusion did they make to her husband, but she spoke of him herself, naturally and easily. She had hoped to find him at home when she came and have him present her to his friends, but unex- pected business had called him away, she believed. How- ever, he would soon return, as Miss Hastings had tele- graphed for him, and then she should not feel so much alone. How very gentle and gracious she was, answering all questions with great modesty, and without seem- ing to volunteer any direct remarks, adroitly man- aging to drop a good many scraps of information with 254 EVE BAUD FACES IT. regard to herself and her past life, all of course highly advantageous to herself. Of Everard she said very little, but when she did speak of him it was always as " My husband, Mr. Forrest." She should certainly expect him on the morrow, she said, and then she should not feel so much like a stranger, Eossibly an impostor, and she laughed a little musical tugh, and her blue eyes sparkled so brightly and her lips curled so prettily that every heart was won, and the whole bevy of ladies follower! her to the carriage telling her they should call and see her very soon, stood watch- ing her as she drove away, and talked together of her and her recreant husband, in whom there must be some- thing wrong, or he would long ago have acknowledged this peerlees woman as his wife. And so the talk in- creased and every conceivable story was set afloat, and poor Everard stood at rather a low ebb in public opinion, when the six o'clock train came in the next day and left him standing upon the platform, bewildered and confounded with the words which greeted him as he left the car, and which gave him the first intimation of what he was to expect. The editor of the Rothsay Star was standing there, and hitting Everard upon the shoulder, exclaimed : " Hallo, Forrest. A nice trick you've been playing upon us, married all this time, and not let us know." " Married ! What do you mean ?" And Everard turned white to his lips, while his friend replied : " What do I mean ? Why, I mean that your wife is up at Forrest House, and thunder to pay generally." CHAPTER XXXIII. EVERARD FACES IT. HEN Everard was interrupted in his interview with Rosamond, his first feeling was one of regret, for he had made up his mind to tell her everything. He had held her in his arms for one blissful moment, and pressed his lips to her forehead, and the memory of that would help him EVERARD FACES IT. 255 to bear the wretchedness of all the after life. But be- fore he could begin his story, Lawyer Russell came in, and the opportunity was lost. He could, however, write, and he fully meant to do so, and after his arrival at Dighton he began two or three letters, which he tore in pieces, for he found it harder than he had expected to confess that he had a wife to the girl he had kissed so passionately, and who, he felt certain, loved him in re- turn. He had seen it in her eyes, which knew no decep- tion, and in the blushes on her cheek, and his greatest pain came from the knowledge that she, too, must suffer through him. And so he put off the writing day after day, and employed his leisure moments in hunting up the laws of Indiana on divorce, and felt surprised to find how comparatively easy it was for those whom Heaven had joined together to be put asunder by the courts of man. Desertion, failure to support, uncongeniality, were all valid reasons for breaking the bonds of matrimony ; and from reading and dwelling so much upon it he came at last to consider it seriously as something which in his case was excusable. Whatever Rossie might think of it he should be happier to know the tie was broken, even if the whole world disapproved ; and he at last deliber- ately made up his mind to free himself from the hated marriage, which grew tenfold more hateful to him when there came to his knowledge a fact which threw light at once upon some things he had never been able to under- stand in Dr. Matthewson. He was sitting one evening in the room devoted mostly to the use of gentlemen at the hotel where he was stopping, and listening in a careless kind of way to the conversation of two men, one an inmate of the house, and the other a traveler just arrived from western New York. For a time the talk flowed on indifferent topics, and drifted at last to Clarence, where it seemed that both men had once lived, and about which the Dightou man was asking some questions. " By the way," he said, " whatever became of that Matthewson, he called himself, though his real name when I first knew him was Hastings. You know the Methodist Church got pretty well bitten with him. He was always the tallest kind of a rascal. I knew him. well." 256 EVERARD FACES IT. Everard was interested now, and while seeming to read the paper he held in his hands, did not lose a word of all which followed next. "Matthewson? Oh, yes, I know," the Clarence man replied. " You mean the fellow who was so miraculously converted at a camp-meeting, and then took to preach- iflg, though a bigger hypocrite never lived. I don't know where he is now. He dabbled in medicine after he left Clarence, and got "Doctor" hitched to his name, and has been gambling through the country ever since. The last I heard of him somebody wrote to Clarence asking if he had a right to marry a couple, by which I infer that he has been doing a little ministerial duty by way of diversion." "I should hardly think a marriage performed by him valid, though I dare say it would hold in court," the Dighton man, who was a lawyer, replied ; adding, after a moment, " Matthewson is the name of his aunt, which he took at her death, together with a few thousands she left him. His real name is John Hastings. I knew him when he was a boy, and he was the most vindictive, un- principled person I ever met, and his father was not much better, though both could be smooth as oil, and in- gratiate themselves into most anybody's favor. He had a girl in tow some two or three years ago, I was told ; a very handsome filly, but fast as the Old Nick himself, if, indeed, she was not worse than that." Here the conversation was brought to a close, and Everard went to his room, where for a time he sat, stunned and powerless to move. Like a flash of light- ning it came upon him just who Dr. Matthewson was, and his mind went back to that night when, with a rash boy's impetuosity, he had raised his hand against the mature man who, while smarting under the blows, had sworn to be revenged. And he had kept his word, and Everard could understand now why he had seemed so willing and even anxious that there should be a perfect understanding of the matter so as to make the marriage valid. " Curse him !" Everard said to himself. " He meant to ruin me. He could not have known what Josey was, but he knew it was not a fitting match for me, and no time or way for me to marry, if it were; but that was his EVEBARD FACES IT. 257 revenge. I remember he asked me if I did not fear the man whom I had punished, and said people like him did not take cowhidings meekly; and he is Rossie's half- brother; but if 1 can help it, she shall never know how he has injured me, the rascal. I'll have a divorce now, at all hazards, even though it may do me no good, so far as Rossie is concerned. I'll nee that lawyer to- morrow and tell him the whole story." But before the morrow came, Everard received Mrs. Markham's telegram, which startled him so much that he forgot everything in his haste to return home and see if aught had befallen Rosamond. It had something to do with her he was sure, but no thought that it had to do with Josephine entered his mind until he stepped from the car and heard that she was at the Forrest House. For an instant his brain reeled, and he felt and acted like a drunken man, as he went to claim his traveling-bag. Then, without a word to any one, he walked rapidly away in the darkness, with a face as white as the few snow-flakes which were just beginning to fall, and a feel- ing like death in his heart as he thought of Rossie left alone to confront Joe Fleming as his wife. And yet it did not seem very strange to him that Josephine was there. It was rather as if he had expected it, just as the murderer expects the day when his sin will find him out. Everard's sin had found him out, and as he sped along the highway, half running in his haste to know the worst, he was almost glad that the thing he had dreaded so long had come at last, and to himself he said : "I'll face it like a man, whatever the result may be." From the windows of Rossie's room a faint light was shining, but it told him nothing of the sick girl lying there, so nervous and excited that bright fever spots burned on her cheeks, and her hands and feet were like lumps of ice as she waited and listened for him, hearing him the moment he struck the gravel-walk beneath her window, for he purposely turned aside from the front piazza, choosing to enter the house in the rear, lest he should first encounter the woman, who, like Rossie, was wailing and watching for him, and feeling herself grow hot and cold alternately as she wondered what he would say. Like Rossie, she was sure he would come on that train, and had made herself as attractive 258 EVERARD FACES IT. as possible in her black cashmere and jet, with the white shawl around her shoulders, and her golden hair falling on her neck in heavy masses of curls. And then, with a French novel in her hand, she sat down to wait for the first sound of the carriage which was to bring him, for she did not dream of his walking that cold, wet night, and was not on the alert to see the tall figure which came so swiftly through the darkness, skulking like a thief behind the shrubbery till it reached the rear door, where it entered, and stood face to face with old Aunt Axie, who in her surprise almost dropped the bowl of gruel she had been preparing for Rosamond. She did spill it, she set it down so quickly, and putting both her hands on Everard's shoulders she exclaimed : " Oh, Mars'r Everard, praise de Lord you am come at last ! I couldn't b'ar it much longer, with Miss Rossie sick up sta'rs, and that woman below swashin' round wid her long-tailed gowns, an' her yaller ha'r hangin' down her back, and sayin' she is your wife. She isn't your wife, Mas'r Everard, she isn't?" and Axie looked earnestly at the young man, who would have given more than half his life to have been able to say, " No, she is not." But he could not do that, and his voice shook as he replied : " Yes, Aunt Axie, she is my wife." Axie did not cry out or say a word at first, but her black face quivered and her eyes filled with tears, as she took a rapid mental survey of the case as it stood now. Everard's wife must of course be upheld for the credit of the family, and, though the old negress knew there was something wrong, it was not for her to inquire or to let others do so either ; and when at last she spoke, she said : " If she's your wife, then I shall stan' by her." He did not thank her or seem to care whether she stood by his wife or not, for his next question was : " You said Rosamond was sick. What is the matter ?" " Sore throat and bad cold fust, and then your wife corned an' took us by surprise, an' Miss Rossie fainted cl'ar away, and has been as white, an' still, an' slimpsy as a rag ever since." EVERARD AND ROSSIE. 259 Something like a groan escaped from Everard's lips, as he said : "Tell Miss Rossie I am here, and ask if I can see her, at once, before I meet anybody else." " Yes, I'll tell her," Axie said, as she hurried to the room, where, to her great surprise, she found her young mistress in her flannel dressing-gown and shawl, sitting in her easy-chair, with her head resting upon pillows scarcely whiter than her face, save where the red spots of fever burned so brightly. In spite of Mrs. Markham's remonstrance Rossie had insisted upon getting up and being partly dressed. u I must see Everard," she said. " You can't under- stand, and I can't explain, but he will come to me, and I must see him alone. " Yes. Tell him to come up; I am ready for him, 1 ' she said to Aunt Axie. And Everard advanced, with a sinking heart, and knocked at Rossie's door just as a black-robed figure, with a white wool shawl wrapped around it, started to come up the stairs. CHAPTER XXXIV. EVEKAKD AND EOSSIE. HE voice which said " Come in " did not sound like Rossie's at all, nor did the little girl sit- ting in the chair look much like the Rossie he had last seen, flushed with health and hap- piness, and the light of a great joy shining in the eyes which now turned so eagerly toward him as he came in. On the stairs outside there was the rustling of skirts, and he heard it, and involuntarily slid the bolt of the door, and then swiftly crossed to where Ros- sie's face was upturned to his with a smile of welcome, and Rossie's hands were both outstretched to him as she said: " Oh, Mr. Everard, I am glad you have come ; we have wanted you so much." 260 EVERARD AND ROSSIE. He had thought she would meet him with coldness and scorn for his weakness and duplicity, and he was prepared for that, but not for this ; and forgetting him- self utterly for the moment, he took the offered hands and held them tightly in his own, until she released them from him and motioned him to a seat opposite her, where he could look into her face, which, now that ho saw it more closely, had on it such a grieved, disap- pointed expression that he cried out : " Kill me, Rossie, if you will ! but don't look at me that way, for I cannot bear it. I know what I've done and what I am, better than you do." Here he paused, and Rossie said : "I am sorry, Everard, that you did not tell me long ago, when it first happened. Four years and more, she says. I've been thinking it over, and it must have been that time you came home when your mother died and you were so sick afterward. You were married then." How quietly and naturally she spoke the words "married then," as if it was nothing to her that he was married then or now, but the hot blood flamed up for a moment in her face and then left it whiter than before, as Everard replied : " Yes, if that can be called a marriage which was a mere farce, and has brought nothing but bitter humilia- tion to me, and been the cause of my ruin. I wish that day had been blotted from my existence." " Hush, Everard," Rossie said. "You must not talk that way, and your wife here in the house waiting for you. I have not seen her yet, but they tell me she is very beautiful." " Yes, with that cursed beauty which lures men, or rather fools, to their destruction ; and I was a fool !" Everard answered, bitterly, "an idiot, who thought myself in love. Don't call her my wife, Rossie. She has never been that ; never will be. But I did not come here to abuse her. I came to tell you the whole truth at last, as I ought to have told it years ago, when my mother was on her death-bed. I tried to tell her, but I could not. I made a beginning by showing her Josephine's picture, which she did not like. The face was pretty, she said, but not the face of a true, refined woman, but rather of one who wore dollar jewelry," and EVERARD AND ROSSIS. 261 here E'/erard laughed sarcastically as he went on ; "then I showed the picture to Bee, who said she looked as if she might wear cotton lace. But you, Rossie, said the hardest thing of all, and decided me finally not to tell, for I had almost made up my mind to make you my con- fidante." "I, Everard ? I decided you? You must be mis- taken. When was it, Everard ?" Rossie exclaimed, her eyes growing very large and bright in her excitement. " Do you remember I once showed you a picture of a young girl ?" Everard said. " You were watering flowers in the garden ; and you said she was very beauti- ful, but suggested that the jewelry, of which there was a superfluity on her neck and arms, might be a sham, and said she looked like a sham, too. How could I tell you after that, that she was ray wife ? I couldn't, and I kept it to myself ; and mother died, and I went crazy, and you cut off your hair and sold it to pay what you be- lieved to be a gambling debt, and you wrote to Joe Fleming, and I did not open my lips to undeceive you. " I will have my say out," he continued, fiercely, as Rossie put up her hands to stop him ; " I deserve a good cudgeling, and I'll give it to myself, for no one knows as well as I do just what a sneaking coward I have been all these years, when you have been believing in me and keep- ing me from going to the . No, I won't swear; at least before you, who have been my good angel ever since you knew enough to chide me for my faults. Oh, Ros- sie ! what would I give to be put back to those old days when I was comparatively innocent, and you, in your cape sun-bonnet and long-sleeverl aprons, were the dear- est, sweetest little girl in all the world, just as you are now. I will say it, though I am killing you, I know, and I am almost wicked enough not to care, for I would rather there were no Rossie in this world than to know she lived to hate and despise me." " No, Everard, never that, never !" and Rossie again stretched toward him her pale little hands, which he seized and held while he told her rapidly the whole story of his marriage, beginning at the time he first saw Josey Fleming and went to board with her mother. One item, however, he withheld. He did not tell her that it was her half-brother who had married him, nor 263 SVBRABD AND ROSSIE. did he give the name of the clergyman. He would spare her all pain in that direction, if possible, and let her think as well as she could of the brother she could scarcely remember, and who, she believed, must be dead, or he would ere this have manifested some interest in her. Of Josephine he spoke very plainly, and though he did not exaggerate her faults, he showed conclusively, in what he said, that his love for her had long since died out, and he went on from one fact to another so rapidly that Rossie felt stunned and bewildered and begged him to stop. But he would not. She must hear him through, he said, and at the close of his story she looked so white and tired that he bent over her in alarm, chafing her cold hands and asking what he could do for her. "Nothing but to leave me now," she said. "I have heard so much and borne so much that none of it seems real. " There's a buzzing in my head, and I believe I'm going to faint again, or die. How could you do all this, and I trusted you so ? and, oh, Everard, where are you ? It grows so dark and black, and I'm so sick and faint," and with a sobbing, hysterical cry, Rossie involuntarily let her tired, aching head fall upon the arm which held it so gladly, and which fain would have kept it there forever. Rossie did not faint quite away, as she had done when the news of Everard's marriage reached her, but she lay still and helpless in Everard's arms until she felt his hot kisses upon her forehead, and that roused her at once. He had no right to kiss her, she no right to suffer it, and she drew herself away from him to the safe shelter of her pillows, as she said, with her old childish manner: " Everard, you must not kiss me like that. It is too late. Such things are over between us now." She seemed to accept the fact that he loved her, and though the love was hopeless, and, turn which way she would, there was no brightness in the future, the knowl- edge of what might have been was in one sense very sweet to her, and the face which Everard took between his hands and looked earnestly into, while his lips quiv- ered and his eyes were full of tears, seemed to him like the face of an angel. MR. AND MRS. J. E. FORREST. 263 " Heaven pity me, Rossie," he said. " Heaven pity us both for this which lies between us." There was a knock outside the door and a voice Rossie had never heard before, said: "Miss Hastings, if my husband is with you, tell him his wife will be glad to see him when he can tear himself away. I have waited an hour, and surely I may claim my own now." There was an unmistakable coarseness of meaning in the words which brought the hot blood to Rossie's cheeks, but Everard was pale as death, as, with a muttered exe- cration, he stepped back from Rossie, who said: " Yes, go, Everard. She is right. Her claim is first. Say I am sorry I kept you. Go, and when I have thought it all out I'll send for you, but don't come till I do." She motioned him to leave her, and with the look of one going to the rack, he obeyed, and unbolting the door, went out, shutting it quickly behind him, and thus giving the woman outside no chance for more than a glance at the white-faced little girl, of whose personal appearance no impression could be formed. CHAPTER XXXV. MB. AND MRS. J. E. FORREST. T had been Josephine's intention to try and make peace with her husband, if possible, in the hope of winning him back to at least an outward semblance of harmony. And to do this she relied much on her beauty, which she knew had not diminished in the least since those summer days in Holburton, when he had likened her to every beautiful thing in the universe. She knew she was more attractive now than then, for she had studied to acquire an air of refinement and high-breeding which greatly enhanced her charms, and when she saw herself in the long mirror, with her toilet complete, and the made-up expression of sweetness and graciousnes on her face, she felt almost sure he could not withstand her. 264 MR. AND MRS. J. E. FORREST. She had heard from Lois that Everard was in the house, and as the moments went by and he did not come, the sweetness left her face, and there was a glitter in her blue eyes, as she walked impatiently up and down her chamber, listening for his footsteps. At last, as she grew more and more impatient, she went down to the dining-room, thinking to find him there ; but he was still with Axie in the kitchen, and so she waited until she heard his step as he went rapidly up the stairs. Swiftly and noiselessly she glided into the ball and followed, but was only in time to see the shutting of the door of Rossie's room and hear the sliding of the bolt, while her quick ear caught the sound of Rossie's voice as she welcomed Everard. For a moment Josephine stood shaking with rage, and feeling an inclination to kick at the closed door, and demand an entrance. But she hardly dared do that, and so she waited, and strained her ear to catch the conversation carried on so rapidly, but in so low a tone and so far from her that she could not hear it all, or even half. But she knew Everard was telling the story of the marriage, and as he grew more earnest his voice naturally rose higher, until she could hear what he said, but not Rossie's replies. Involuntarily clenching her fists, and biting her lips until the blood came through in one place, she listened still more intently and knew there was no hope for her, and felt sure that the only feeling she could now inspire in her husband's heart was one of hatred and disgust. At last, when she could endure the suspense no longer, she knocked upon the door and claimed " her own " and got it, for her husband, whom she had not seen for more than two years, stood face to face with her, a tall, well- developed man, with a will and a purpose in his brown eyes, and a firm-set expression about his mouth which made him a very different person from the boy-lover whom she had swayed at her pleasure. Everard was a thorough gentleman, and it was not in his nature to be otherwise than courteous to any woman, and he bowed to Josephine with as much polite- ness and deference as if it had been Bee Belknap stand- ing there so dignified and self-possessed, and with an air of assurance and worldly wisdom such as he had never MR. AND MRS. J. E. FORREST. 265 seen in Josephine Fleming. For a moment he looked at her in surprise, but there was no sign of welcome in his face, no token of admiration for the visible improvement in her. He had an artist's eye, and noticed that her dress was black, and that it became her admirably, and that the delicate white shawl was so knotted and ar- ranged as to heighten the effect of the picture ; but he knew the woman so well that nothing she could do or wear could move him now. When she saw that she must speak first, she laughed a little, spiteful laugh, and said : "Have you nothing to say to me after two years' separation, or have you exhausted yourself with her?" nodding toward Rossie's door. That roused him, and he answered her : " Yes, much to say, and some things to explain and apologize for, but not here. I will go with you to your room. They tell me you are occupying my old quarters." He tried to speak naturally, and Josephine's heart beat faster as she thought that possibly he might be won to an outward seeming of friendship after all, and it would be better for her every way. So, when the pri- vacy of her chamber was reached, and there was no danger of interruption, she affected the loving wife, and laying her hands on Everard's arm, said, coaxingly and prettily : " Don't be so cold and hard, Everard, as if you were sorry I came. I had nowhere else to go, and I'm no more to blame for being your wife than you are for being my husband, and I certainly have just cause to complain of you for having kept me so long in ignorance of your father's death. Why did you do it ? But I need not ask why," she continued, as she saw the frown on his face, and guessed he was not to be coaxed ; " the reason is in the apartment you have just quitted." Josephine got no further, for Everard interrupted her and sternly bade her stop. " So long as you censure me for having kept my father's death a secret from you I am bound to listen, for I deserve it ; but when you assail Rosamond Hastings you have gone too far. I do not wish to quarrel with you, Josey, but we may as well understand each other first as last. You had a right to come here, thinking it 12 266 MR. AND MRS. J. E. FORREST. was still ray home, and I am justly punished for my de- ceit, for which no one can hate me as I hate myself. If I had been candid and frank from the first, it would have saved me a great deal of trouble and self-abase- ment. You heard of my father's death " " Yes, but no thanks are due you for the information. Mr. Everts, whom I met in Dresden, told me of it. At first I did not believe him, for I had credited you with being a man of honor, but he convinced me of the fact, and in my anger I started home at once, and came here, to find that girl the mistress of the house, and, they tell me, your father's heir. Is that true ?" " I've nothing but what I earn," he said, " but I think I have proved conclusively that I can support you, whatever may come to me, and I expect to do so still, but it must be apart from myself. I wisli that distinctly understood, as it will save further discussion. You could not be happy with me ; I should be miserable with you after knowing what I do, and seeing what I have seen." Here she turned fiercely upon him, and with flashing eyes and dilated nostrils demanded what he meant. "I will tell you when I reach it," he replied ; "but first, let me go over the ground from the beginning " "No need of that," she replied, angrily. " You went over the ground with her, that girl whom I hate with deadly hatred. I heard you. I was outside the door." "Listening!" Everard said, contemptuously. "A worthy employment, to which no lady would stoop." "Who said I was a lady ?" she retorted, stung by his manner and the tone of his voice, and forgetting herself entirely in her wrath. " Don't you suppose I know that it was because I was not a lady according to your creed that your father objected to me arid that yon have sickened of me. A poor, unknown butcher's daughter is not a fit match for you ; and I was just that. You thought you married the daughter of Roxie Fleming, who kept a boarding-house, and so you did, and some- thing more. You married the daughter of the man who used to deliver meat at your grandfather's door in Bos- ton, and of the woman who for years cooked in your mother's family. I knew this when you first came to us, and laughed in my sleeve, for I kn,ow how proud you. MR. AND MRS. J. E. FORREST. 267 are of family blood and birth, and I can boast of blood, too, but it is the blood of beasts, in which my father dealt, not the blue-veined kind, which shows itself in hypocrisy and the deliberate deception of years. I told your father, when I met him at Commencement, that my mother was present at his wedding, and she was. She made the jellies and ices, and stood with the other ser- vants to see the ceremony. Wouldn't your lady mother turn over in her coffin if she could know just whom her boy married ?" Was she a woman, or a demon ? Everard wondered, as he replied : "If possible, I would rather not bring my mother into the conversation, but since you will have it so, I must tell you that she did know who you were." " How ! did you tell your mother of the marriage, and have you kept that from me, too ?" Josephine asked, and he replied : "I did not tell her of the marriage, although I tried to, and made a beginning by showing her your picture, and telling her your name and that of your mother, whom she at once identified as the Roxie who had lived in her father's family so long." " And of course my fine lady objected to such stock," Josephine said, with a sneer in her voice. " Josephine," and Everard spoke more sternly than he had ever spoken to her in his life, '* say what you like to me, but don't mention my mother in that tone or spirit again. She did not despise you for your birth. No true woman would do that. She said that innate re- finement or delicacy of feeling would always assert itself, and raise one above the lowest and humblest of positions. Almost her last words to me were of you, in. whom she knew I was interested, for I had confessed as much. " ' If she is so good, and womanly, and true, her birth is of no consequence none whatever,' she said. So you see she laid less stress upon it than do you, who know better than she did whether you are good, and womanly and true." Here Josephine began to cry, but Everard did not h^ed her tears, and went on : " There is in this country no degradation in honest labor ; it is the character, the actions, which tell ; and 203 MR. AND MRS. J. E. FORREST. were you what I believed you to be when in my mad- ness I consented to that foolish farce, I would not care though your origin were the lowest which can be con- ceived." Here Josephine stopped crying, and demanded, sharply : " What am I, pray ? What do you know of me ? you, who have scarcely seen me half a dozen times since I became your wife." " I know more than you suppose, have seen more than you guess," he replied ; " but let me begin with the morning I left you in Holburton, four years ago last June, and cotpe down to the present time." When he hinted that he knew more of her life than she supposed, there instantly flashed into Josephine's mind the memory of all the love affairs she had been concerned in, and the improprieties of which she had been guilty, and she wondered if it were possible that Everard could know of them, too. But it was not, and, assuming a calmness she was far from feeling, she said : " Go on, I am all attention." Very rapidly, Everard went over with the events of his life as connected with her up to the time of his father's death and his own disinheritance, and here he paused a moment, while Josephine said : "And so it was through me you lost your money. I am very sorry, and I must say I think it mean in that girl to keep it, knowing as she does how it came to her." "You misjudge her," Everard said, quickly. "You know nothing of her, or how she rebelled against it and tried to give it back to me. But she cannot do it while she is under age, and I would not take it if she could. I made her believe it at last, and then counseled with Miss Bel knap as to my future course " "Miss Belknap, indeed!" Josephine exclaimed, in- dignantly. "Don't talk to me of Miss Belknap, the tricky, deceitful thing, to come into our house, knowing all the time who I was, and yet pretending such entire ignorance of everything. How I hate her, and you, too, for sending her there as a spy upon my actions." " You are mistaken," Everard said. " Bee was no tale-bearer, and no spy upon your actions. Neither was she sent to you, for I did not know she was there till she MR. AND MRS. J. E. FORREST. 269 wrote me to that effect. She had the best of motives in going to your mother's house. She wished to see you for herself, and, pardon me, Josey, if I speak very plainly, she wished to find all the good there was in you, so as to know better how to befriend you, should you need it." " Which, thank Heaven, I don't, so she had her trouble for her pains," was Josephine's rejoinder, of which Everard took no notice, but simply went on : " Beatrice has been your best friend from the mo- ment she first heard of you, and after father's death she advised me to go straight to you and tell you the whole truth, and offer you a home such as I could make for you myself, in short, offer you poverty and protection as my acknowledged wife." " Strange you did not follow her advice, with your high notions of morality," Josephine said, with a sneer ; and he replied : " I started to do it in good faith, and went as far as Albany without a thought that I should not do it, but there I began to waver, for I saw you, myself unseen and my presence unsuspected, so that you acted and spoke your feelings without restraint. "Perhaps you can recall a concert or opera which you attended with Doctor Matthewson as your escort, and perhaps, though that is not so likely, you may remember the man who seemed to be asleep in the seat behind the one you took when you entered the car, talking and laughing so loudly that you drew to yourself the atten- tion of all the passengers, and especially the young man, who listened with feelings which can be better imagined than described, while his wife made light of him, and allowed attentions and liberties such as no pure-minded woman would for a moment have suffered from any man, and much less from one of Dr. Matthewson's character. I hardly know what restrained me from knocking him down and publicly denouncing you, but shame and dis- gust kept me silent, while words and glances which made my blood boil passed between you two until you were tired out and laid you head on his arm as readily as you would have rested it on mine had I sat in his place. And there I left you asleep, and I have never looked upon your face since until to-night, when I found 270 MR. AND MRS. J. E. FORREST. you at Miss Hastings' door. After that scene in the car I could not think of offering to share my poverty wilh you. We were better apart, and I made a vow that never for an hour would I live with you as my wife. The thing is impossible; but because I dreaded the notori- ety of an open rupture, and the talk and scandal sure to follow an admission of the marriage, I kept quiet, trusting to chance to work it out for me as it has done at last. And now that the worst has come, I am ready to abide by it and am willing to bear the blame myself, if that will help you any. The people in Rothsay will undoubtedly believe you the injured party, and I shall let them do so. I shall say nothing to your detriment except that it is impossible for us to live together. I shall support you just as I have done, but I greatly pre- fer that it should be in Holburton, rather than in Roth- say. It is the onlv favor I ask, that you do not remain here." " And one I shall not grant," was Josephine's quick reply. " I like Rothsay, so far as I have seen it, and here I shall stay. Do you think that I will go back to Holburton, and bear all the malicious gossip of that gossipy hole ? Never ! I'll die first ! You accuse me of being fond of Dr. Matthewson, and so I am, and I like him far better than I ever liked you, for he is a gen- tleman, while you are a knave and a hypocrite, and that girl across the hall is as bad as you are ; I hate her, I hate you both !" She was standing close to him now, her face livid with rage, while the blue of her eyes seemed to have faded into a dull white, as she gave vent to her real feelings. But Everard did not answer her, and as the dinner-bell just then rang for the third time, she added sneeringly, "If you are through with your abuse I'll end the interview by asking you to take me down to dinner. No? You do not wish for any dinner? Very well, I can go alone, so I wish you good-evening, advising you not to fast too long. It is not good for you. Possibly you may find some cracker and tea in Miss Hastings' room, with which to refresh the inner man." And sweeping him a mocking courtesy she started to leave the room, but at the door she met her sister, and stopped a moment while she said : MR. AND MRS. J. E. FORREST. 271 " Ah, Agnes, here is your brother, who, I hope, will be better pleased to see you than he was to see me. If I remember rightly you were always his favorite. Au re- voir" and kissing the tips of her fingers to Everard, she left the room, and he heard her warbling snatches of some old love song as she ran lightly down the stairs to the dining-room, where dinner had waited nearly an hour, and where Aunt Axie stood with her face blacker than its wont, giving off little angry snorts as she re- moved one after another the covers of the dishes, and pronounced the contents spoiled. " Whar's Mars'r Everard ? Isn't he comin' ?" Aunt Axie asked, as Josephine showed signs of commencing her dinner alone, Mrs. Markham, who ate by rule and on time, having had tea and cold chicken, and gone. " Mr. Forrest has lost his appetite and is not coming," Josephine replied, with the utmost indifference, and as Agnes just then appeared, the sisters began their dinner alone. But few words had passed between Agnes and Ever- ard. She had taken his hand in hers and held it there while she looked .-earchingly in his face, and said: " I didn't want to come, but she would have it so, and I thought you knew and had sent for her. Maybe I can persuade her to go back." " No, Aggie, let her do as she likes, I deserve it all. But don't feel badly, Aggie. I am glad to see you, at any rate, and I feel better because you are here ; and now go to the dinner, which has waited so long." Agnes was not deceived in the least, and her heart was very heavy as she went down to the dining-room and took her seat by her sister, who affected to be so gay and happy, and who tried to soften old Axie by praising everything immoderately. But Axie was not deceived, either. She knew it was not all well between the young couple, and as soon as she had sent in the dessert, she started up stairs in quest of her boy, finding him in the chamber where his mother had died, and kneeling by the bed in such an abandonment of grief that, without waiting to consider whether she was wanted or not, she went softly to his side, and lay- ing her hard old hands pityingly on his bowed head, spoke to him lovingly and soothingly, just as she used to 272 MR. AND MRS. J. E. FORREST. speak to him when he was a little boy, and sat in her broad lap to be comforted. " Thar, thar, honey ; what is it that has happened you? Suffin dreffle, or you wouldn't be kneelin' here in de cold an' dark, wid only yer mother's sperrit for com- pany. What is it, chile ? Can't you tell old Axie ? Is it her that's a vexin' you so? Oh, Mars'r Everard, how could you do it ? Tell old Axie, won't you ?" And he did tell her how the marriage occurred, and when, and that it was this which had caused the trouble between him and his father. He said nothing against Josephine, except that he had lived to see and regret his mistake, and that it was impossible for him to live with her as his wife. And Axie took his side at once, and replied : "In course you can't, honey, I seen that the fust thing. She hain't like you, nor Miss Beatrice, nor Miss Rossie. She's pretty, with them eyes and long winkers, an' she's kind of teterin' an' soft ; but can't cheat dis chile. 'Tain't the real stuff like your mother was. Sposin' I go and paint my face all over with whitenin'. I ain't white for all dat. Thar's nobody but ole black nigger under de whitewash, for bless your soul, de thick lips and de wool will show, an' it's just de same with no 'count white folks. But don't you worry, I'll stan' by you. Course you can't live with her. I'll make a fire an' fetch you some supper, an' you'll feel better in de mornin', see if you don't." But Everard asked to be left alone, that he might think it out and decide what to do. He could not go to bed, and so he sat the entire night before the fire in the room where his mother had died, and where his father had denounced him so angrily, and where Rosamond had come to him and asked to be his wife. How vividly that last scene came up before him, and he could almost see the little girl standing there again, just as she stood that day, which seemed to him years and years ago. And but for that fatal misstep that little girl, grown to sweet womanhood, now might have been his. Turn which way he would, there was no help, no hope ; and the future loomed up before him dark and cheerless, with always this burden upon him, this bar to the happi- ness which might have been his had he only waited for ROSAMOND'S DECISION. 273 it. Surely, if his sin was great, his punishment was greater, and when at the last the gray morning looked in at the windows of his room, it found him white, and haggard, and worn, with no definite plan as to his future course, except the firm resolve that whatever his life might be, it would be passed apart from Josephine. CHAPTER XXTtYI. ROSAMOND'S DECISION. OSAMOND had sent word to Everard that she would see him after breakfast, and he went to her at once, finding her sitting up just as she was the previous night, but much paler, and more worn-looking, as if she had not slept in months. But the smile with which she greeted him was as sweet and cordial as ever, and in the eyes which she fixed so steadily upon him he saw neither hatred nor disgust, but an expression of unutterable sorrow and pity for him, and for herself, too, as well. Rossie was not one to conceal her feelings. She was too much a child, too frank and ingenuous for that, and there was a great and bitter pain in her heart which she could not hide. Everard had never said in words that he loved her, but she had accepted it as a fact, and when her dream was so rudely dispelled she could no more conceal her disappointment than she could hide the rav- ages of sickness so visible upon her face. " I've been thinking it all over," she began, as he sat down beside her, "and though my opinion may not be worth much, I hope you will consider it, at least, and give it some thought before deciding not to adopt it." He guessed what was coming, and nerved himself to keep quiet while she went on: " Everard, she is your wife. You cannot undo that, except in one way, and that you must not take, for it is wicked and wrong. You loved her once. You say you were quite as much to blame for the marriage as she, and you know you have been wrong in keeping it a secret 12* 274 R08AMON&S DECISION. so long. She has just cause for complaint, and I want you to try to love her again. You must support her, and it will be so much better, and save so much talk and gos- sip if you live in the same house with her, in this house, your rightful home." "Never, Rossie !" he exclaimed, vehemently, "never can I make her really ray wife, feeling as I do. It would be a sin, and a mockery, and I shall not do it. You say I loved her once ; perhaps I did, though it seems to me now like a child's fancy for some forbidden dainty, which, if obtained, cloys on the stomach and sickens one ever after. No, Rossie, you talk in vain when you ask me to live with Josephine as my wife, or even live with her at all. The same roof cannot shelter us both. Sup- port her I shall, but live with her, never ! and I am pre- pared for all the people will say against me. If I have your respect and sympathy I can defy the world, though the future looks very dreary to me." His voice trembled as he spoke, and he leaned back in his chair as if he, too, were faint and sick, while Ros- sie continued : " Then, if you will not live with her under any circum- stances, this is my next best plan. Forrest House is her natural home, and she must stay here, whatever you mav do." " Here, Rossie ! Here with you ! Are you crazy ?" Everard exclaimed, and Rosamond replied : "I am going away. I have thought it all over, and talked with Mrs. Markham. She has a friend in St. Louis who is wanting a governess for her three children, and she is going to write to-day and propose me, and if the lady consents, I, I am going away." Rossie finished the sentence with a long-drawn breath, which sounded like a sob, for this going away from all she loved best was as hard for her as for Ever- ard, who felt suddenly as if every ray of sunlight had been stricken from his life. With Rossie gone the world would be dark indeed, and for a few moments he used all his powers of eloquence to dissuade her from the plan, but she was quite resolved, and he understood it at last, and answered her: " Perhaps you are right ; but Heaven pity me when you are gone !" ROSAMOND'S DECISION. 275 For a moment Rosamond was silent, and then she said, in her usual frank way: " Yes, Everard, I understand, or I think I do, and it would be foolish in me to pretend not to know, to be- lieve,^ I mean," and the bright color began to mount to Rossie's cheeks as she went on: "I mean that I be- lieve you do care for me some, that if I were dead you would remember me longer than any one else. I guess you like me a little, don't you, Everard ?" It was the child Rossie, the little girl of his boy- hood, who spoke with all her old simple-heartedness of manner, but the face which looked up at the young man was not the face of a child, for there was written on it all a woman's first tenderness and love, and the dark eyes were full of tears, and the parted lips quivered even after she ceased to speak, and sat looking at him as fear- lessly and as little abashed as she had looked at him when she asked to be his wife. And how could he answer that question so innocently put? "You do like me a little, don't you, Everard ?" How, but to stoop and kiss the quivering lips which kissed him back again unhesitatingly, but when he sought to wind his arms around her, and hold her closely to him, she motioned him away, and said : " No, Everard, you might kiss me once, and I might kiss you back, as we would do if either of us were dying, and it was our farewell to each other, as this is. I can never kiss you again, never; nor you me, nor say anything like what we have been saying. Remember that, Everard. The might have been is past, and when we meet, as we sometimes may, it will be on the old footing, as guardian and ward, or brother and sister, if you like that better. And now listen, while I finish telling you what my wishes are with regard to the future." Rosamond's was the stronger spirit then, and she compelled him to sit quietly by and hear her while she planned the future for him. Josephine was to live at Forrest House, and to receive a certain amount of in- come over and above the support which he would give her. But to this last he stoutly objected. Not one dol- lar of Rossie's money should ever find its way to her, he said. He could support her with his profession, and if Rossie did not choose to use what was rightly her own it 276 ROSAMONDS DECISION. would simply accumulate on her hands, without doing good to any one. So Rossie gave that project up, but insisted that she should vacate the house as soon as she was able, and leave Josephine in possession, and Everard was commis- sioned to tell her so, and to say that she must excuse Miss Hastings from seeing her until she was stronger, and that she must feel perfectly at home, and free to ask for whatever she liked. At first Josie listened incredulously to Everard ; it seemed so improbable that Rossie would deliberately abandon her handsome home, and give it up to her. But he succeeded in making her understand it at last, taking great care to let her know that she was to have nothing from the Forrest estate except the rent of the house ; that for everything else she was dependent upon him, who could give her a comfortable support, but allow nothing like luxury or extravagance. To this Josephine assented, and was gracious enough to say that it was very kind and generous in Miss Hast- ings, and to express a wish that she might see her and thank her. in person. But to this Everard gave no en- couragement. Miss Hastings was very weak, he said, and had already been too much excited, and needed per- fect quiet for the present. Of course, so long as she re- mained there she would be mistress of the house, and Josephine her guest. For himself, he should return to his old quarters in town, and only come to the house when it was necessary to do so on business. If Jose- phine was needing money, he had fifty dollars which he could give her now, and more would be forthcoming when that was gone. Nothing could have been more formal than this inter- view between the husband and wife, and after it was over Josephine sat down to write to Mrs. Arnold in. Europe, while Everard went boldly out to face the world waiting so eagerly for him. MATTERS ARE ADJUSTED. 277 CHAPTER XXXVII. MATTERS ARE ADJUSTED. F Josephine had not known herself to be worse even than Everard had charged her with being, she might not have submitted so quietly to the line of conduct he proposed to pursue toward her, but the consciousness of misdeeds, known only to herself, made her manageable, and willing to accept the conditions offered her. Had Rosamond been allowed to give her a part of her income she would have taken it as something due to her, but as that was forbidden she was well satisfied with the house and its surroundings, and the support her husband could give her. To return to Holburton, after having an- nounced publicly that she was going to her husband, would have been a terrible mortification, and something which she declared to herself she would never have done, and so she resolved to make the most of the situation in Rothsay. To stand well with the people in town was her great object now, and to that end every art and grace of which she was capable was brought into requi- sition, and so well did she play her part that a few of the short-sighted ones, with Mrs. Dr. Rider at their head, espoused her cause and looked askance at Everard, who kept; his own counsel, with the single exception of Law- yer Russell, to whom he told his story, and who assumed such an air of reserve and dignity that not even his most intimate friends dared approach him on the subject which was interesting every one so much. Everard knew that he was an object -of suspicion and gossip, but cared little or nothing for it, so absorbed was he in his own trouble, and in watching the progress of affairs at the Forrest House, where Josephine was to all intents and purposes the mistress, issuing her orders and expressing her opinions and wishes with far more free- dom than Rossie had ever done. She, too, was very re- ticent with regard to her husband, and when Mrs. Dr. Rider asked in a roundabout way what was the matter, siie replied, in a trembling voice : 278 MATTERS ARE ADJUSTED. " Oh, I don't know, except he grew tired of me dur- ing the years we were separated ; but please don't talk to me about it, or let any one else, for I cannot speak of it, it makes me so sick." She did act as if she were going to faint, and Mrs. Rider opened the window and let in the cool air, and told Josephine to lean on her till she was better, and then reported the particulars of her interview so graph- ically and well that after a day or so everybody had heard that poor Mrs. Forrest, when asked as to the cause of the estrangement between herself and husband, had at once gone into hysterics and fainted dead away. Of course the curious ones were more curious than ever, and tried old Axie next, but she was wholly non-com- mittal, and bade them mind their business and let their betters alone. Rosamond was now the last hope, but she had nothing to say whatever, except that under the circumstances she felt that Mrs. Forrest at least ought to live at her hus- band's old home, and that arrangements to that effect had been made. As for herself, it had been her inten- tion to teach for a long time, and as Mrs. Markham de- clared her competent, she was going to try it, and leave the place to Mrs. Forrest. Nothing could be learned from Rossie, who was too great a favorite with everyone to become a subject of gossip ; and whatever might be the cause of the trouble between Everard and Josey, her spotless, innocent life was too well known for any cen- sure to fall on her, and Josephine could not have reached her by so much as a breath of calumny, had she chosen to try, which she did not. With her quick intuition she understood at once how immensely popular Rossie was, and resolving to be friends with her, if possible, she waited anxiously for a personal interview, which was ac- corded her at last, and the two met in Rossie's room, where, in her character as invalid, Rossie sat in her easy- chair, with her beautiful hair brushed back from her pure, pale face, and her great, black eyes unusually bril- liant with excitement and expectation. Josephine, too, had been almost as nervous with regard to this interview as Rosamond herself, and had spent an hour over her toilet, which was perfect in all its details, MATTERS ARE ADJUSTED. 279 from the arrangement of her hair to her little high-heeled slippers with the fanciful rosettes. Rosamond was prepared for something very pretty, but not as beautiful as the woman who came half hesi- tatingly, half eagerly, iiito the room, and stood before her with such a bright, winning smile upon her lovely face that it was hard to believe there was guile or artful- ness there. Rising to her feet Rossie offered her hand to her visitor, who took it and pressed it to her lips, while she said something about the great happiness it was to see one of whom she had heard so much. " Why, I used actually to be half jealous of the Ros- sie Everard was always talking about," she said, refer- ring to the past as easily and naturally as if no cloud had ever darkened her horizon, or come between her and the Everard who had talked so much of Rossie. When Josephine first entered the room Rossie was very pale, but at this allusion to herself and Everard there came a flush to her cheeks and a li^ht to her eye which made Josepnine change her mind with regard to her personal appearance. " Nobody can ever call her a beauty," she had said to herself at first, but as the interview progressed, and Rossie grew interested and earnest, Josephine looked wonderingly at her glowing face and large black eyes, which flashed and shone like stars, and almost bewildered and confused her with their brightness, and the way they had of looking straight at her, as if to read her inmost thoughts. It was impossible to suspect Rossie of acting or say- ing anything she did not mean, for her face was like a clear, faithful mirror, and after a little Josephine began to grow ill at ease in her presence. The bright black eyes troubled her a little when fixed so earnestly upon her, and she found herself wondering if they could pene- trate her inmost thoughts, and see just what she was. It was a singular effect which Rossie had upon this woman, whose character was one web of falsehoods and deceit, and who, in the presence of so much purity and inno- cence, and apparent trust in everybody, was conscious of some new impulse within her, prompting her to a better and sincerer life. Wondering how much Rossie knew of her antecedents, she suddenly burst out with: 280 MATTERS ARE ADJUSTED. "Miss Hastings, or Rossie, I so much wish you'd let me call you by the name I have heard so often. I want to tell you at once how I have hated myself for taking that money, the price of your lovely hair, and letting you believe I was a dreadful gambler, seeking Everard's ruin." She had her hand on the "lovely hair," and was pass- ing her white fingers through it and letting it fall in curling masses about Rossie's neck and shoulders, as she went on : " It was such a funny mistake you made with regard to me, and it was wrong in me to take the money. I would not do it now ; but we were so poor, and I needed it so much, and Everard could not get it. Has he told you all about those times, I wonder, when we were first married, and he did love me a little." " He has told me a good deal," was Rossie's straight- forward answer ; and sitting down upon a stool in front of her Josey assumed the attitude and manner of a child as she went on to speak of the past, and to beg Rossie to think as leniently of her as possible. "Men are not always correct judges of women's actions," she said, " and I do not think Everard under- stands me at all. Our marriage in that hasty manner was unwise, but if I erred I surely have paid the severest penalty. Such things fall more heavily upon women than upon men, and I dare say you think better of Everard this moment than you do of me." Rossie could not say she didn't, for there was some- thing in Josephine's manner which she did not like. It seemed to be all acting, and to one who never acted a part, it was very distasteful. But she tried to evade the direct question by answering: "I have known Ever- ard so long that I must of course think better of him than of a stranger. He has been so kind to me ;" then, wishing to turn the conversation into a channel where she felt she should be safer, she plunged at once into her plan of leaving the house to Josephine, saying that she had never thought it right for her to have it, and speak- ing of the judge's last illness, when she was certain he repented of what he had done. At first Josephine made a very pretty show of pro- testing against it. MATTERS ARE ADJUSTED. 281 "It is your own home," she said, "and though I ap- preciate your great kindness, I cannot feel that it is right to take it from you." "But I thought you understood that it was quite a settled thing that I am to go away, as I have always in- tended doing. Everard told you so. Surely he ex- plained it to you," Rossie said, in some surprise. Josephine did not quite know how to deal with a na- ture like Rossie's, but she guessed that for once it would be necessary for her to say very nearly what she thought, and so for a few moments the two talked together earn- estly and soberly of the future, when Rossie would be gone and Josephine left in charge. " You will only be taking what is yours a little in ad- vance," Rossie said, " for when I am of age I shall deed it back to Everard ; and then, on the principle that what is a man's is also his wife's, it will be yours, and I hope that long before that it will be well with you and Everard ; that the misunderstanding between you will be cleared up ; that he will do right, and if, if, you are con- scious of any defect in your character which annoys him, you will overcome it and try to be what he would like his wife to be, for you might be so happy with him, if only you loved each other." The great black eyes were full of tears, and Rossie's face twitched painfully aa she compelled herself to make this effort in Everard's behalf. But it was lost on Jose- phine, who, thoroughly deceitful and treacherous herself, could not believe that this young girl really meant what she said; it was a piece of acting to cover her real feel- ing, but she affected to be touched, and wiped her own eyes, and said despondingly that the time was past, she feared, the opportunity lost for her to regain her hus- band. He did not care for her any longer; his love was given to another, and she looked straight at Rossie, who neither spoke nor made a sign that she heard or under- stood, but she looked so very white and tired that Jose- phine arose to go, after thanking her again for her kind- ness and generosity, and assuring her that everything about the house should be kept just as she left it, and that in case she changed her mind after trying the life of a governess, and wished to return, she must do so without any reference to her convenience or pleasure. 282 MATTERS ARE ADJUSTED. And so the interview ended, and Josephine went back to her room and Agnes, to whom she said that she had found Miss Hastings rather pretty, and that she was on the whole a nice little body, and had acted very well about the house, "though," she added: " I consider it quite as much mine as hers. That old man was crazy, or he would never have left everything to her, and he tried afterward to take it back, it seems, and right the wrong he had done. She told me all about it, and how his eyes followed her, and shut and opened as she talked to him. It made me so nervous to think of those eyes ; I believe they will haunt me forever. And Everard never told me that, but let me believe his father died just as angry with him as ever. I tell you, Agnes, I am beginning to hate that man quite as much as he hates me, and if I were sure of as comfortable a living and as good a position elsewhere as he can give me here, I'd sue for a divorce to-morrow, and get it, too, and then, ( away, away, to my love who is over the sea.' " She sang the last words in a light, flippant tone, and then sat down to write to Dr. Matthewson, whose last letter, received before she left Europe, was still unanswered. Three weeks after this interview Rosamond left Roth- say for St. Louis, where she was to be governess to Mrs. Andrews' children on a salary of three hundred dollars a year. Everard and Josephine both went to the depot to see her off, the one driving down in the carriage with her, and making a great show of regret and sorrow, the other walking over from his office, and maintaining the utmost reserve and apparent indiffer- ence, as if the parting were nothing to him; but at the last, when he stood with Rossie's hand in his, there came a look of anguish into his eyes, and his lips were deathly white as he said good-by, and knew that all which made life bearable to him was leaving him, forever. " WAITING AND WATCHING FOR ME." 283 CHAPTER XXXVIII. " WAITING AND WATCHING FOE ME." T was the first of January when Rossie left Rothsay for St. Louis, and three weeks from that day a wild storm was sweeping over the hills of Vermont, and great clouds of sleet and snow went drifting down into the open grave in Bronson church-yard, toward which a little group of mourners was slowly wending its way. Nei- ther Florida skies nor Florida air had availed to restore life and health to poor wasted, worn-out Mollie Morton, although at first she seemed much better, and Trix and Bunchie, in their childish way, thanked God, who was making their mamma well, while the Rev. Theo- dore, in Boston, felt something like new hope within him at the cheerful letters Mollie wrote of what Florida was doing for her. But the improvement was only tempo- rary, and neither orange blossoms or southern sunshine could hold the spirit which longed so to be free, and which welcomed death without a shadow of fear. " I have had much to make me happy," Mollie said to Beatrice, one day, when that faithful friend sat by her holding the tired head upon her bosom, and gently smoothing the once black hair, which now was more than three-fourths gray, though Mollie was only thirty- one. " Two lovely children, and the kindest, best hus- band in the world, the man I loved and wanted so much, and who I think, likes me, and will miss me some when I am gone forever." This she said, looking straight at Beatrice, whose face was very pale as she stooped to kiss the white forehead and answered: " I am sure he will miss you, and so shall I, for I have learned to love you so much, and shall be so sorry when you are gone." " Truly, truly, will you be sorry when I am dead ? I hardly thought anybody would be that but father and mother, and the children," Mollie said, while the lips 284 " WAITING AND WATCHING FOR ME." quivered and the great tears rolled down her cheeks as she continued : " We are alone now, for the last time it may be, and I want to say to you what has been in my heart to say, and what I must say before I die. When I was up in that dreary back room in New York, so sick, and forlorn, and poor, and you came to me, bright, and gay, and beautiful, I did not like it at all, and for a time I felt hard toward you and angry at Theodore, who, I knew, must see the difference between me, faded, and plain, and sickly, and old before my time, and you, the woman he loved first, fresh, and young, and full of life, and health, and beauty. How you did seem to fill the dingy room with brightness and beauty, and what a con- trast you were to me; and Theodore saw it, too, when he came in and found you there. But if there was a regret in his heart, a sigh for what ought to have been, he never let it appear, but after you were gone, and only the delicate perfume of your garments lingered in the room, he came and sat by me and held my thin, hard hands, so unlike your soft white ones, and tried by his manner to make me believe he was not sorry, and when I could stand it no longer, and said to him: 'I am not much like her, Theo, am I ?' he guessed what was in my mind, and answered me so cheerily, ' No, Mollie, not a bit like her. And how can you be, when your lives have been so different; hers all sunshine, and yours full of care, and toil, and pain. But you have borne it bravely, Mollie; better, I think, than Bee would have done.' He called you Bee to me for the first time, and there was something in his voice, as he spoke the name, which told me how dear you had been to him once, if, indeed, you were not then. But he was so good, and kind, and tender toward me that I felt the jealousy giving way, though there was a little hardness left toward you, and that night after Theo was sleeping beside me I prayed and prayed that God would take it away, and He did, and I came at last to know you as you are, the dearest, noblest, most unselfish woman the world ever saw." " No, no, you must not say that. I am not good or unselfish; you don't know me," Bee cried, thinking re- morsefully of the times when she had ridiculed the brown alpaca dress and the woman who wore it, and how often " WAITING AND WATCHING FOR ME." 285 she had tired of her society, in which she really found no pleasure, such as she might have found elsewhere. But she could not wound her by telling her this. She could only protest that she was not all Mrs. Morton believed her to be. But Mollie would not listen. " You must be good," she said, " or you would never have left your beautiful home and your friends and attached yourself to me, who am only a drag upon you. But sometime in the future you will be rewarded ; and, forgive me, Miss Belknap, if I speak out plain, now, like one who stands close down to the river of death, and, looking back, can see what probably will be. I do not know how you feel toward Theo, but of this I am sure, he has never taken another into the place you once filled, and at a suitable time after I am gone he will repeat the words he said to you years ago, and if he does, don't send him away a second time. He is nearer to your standard now than he was then. He is growing all the time in the estimation of his fellow-men. They are going to make him a D. D., and the parish of which he is pastor is one of the best and most highly cultivated in Boston. And you will go there, I hope, and be a mother to my children, and bring them up like you, for that will please Theo better than my homely ways. Trix is like you now, and Bunchie will learn, though she is slower to imitate. You will be happy with Theo, and I am glad for him and the children ; but you will not let them forget me quite, but will tell them sometimes of their mother, who loved them so much. I hoped to see Theo once more before I died, but something tells me he will not be here in time ; that when he comes I shall be dead. So you will ask him to forget the many times I worried and fretted him with my petty cares and troubles. Tell him that Mollie puts her arms around his neck and lays her poor head, which will never ache again, against his good, kind heart, and so bids him good-by, and goes away alone into the brightness beyond, for it is all bright and peaceful ; and just over the river I am crossing I seem to see the distant towers of ' Jerusalem the Golden ' gleaming in the heavenly sunshine, which lies so warm upon the everlasting hills. And my babies are there wait- ing and watching for me. Sin