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 postmaster wrote,
but he had been dismissed for various misdemeanors. 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. Always
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 them in
Pittsfield. Their luster was somewhat tarnished, and Josephine knew it,
and felt a qualm 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. Everard 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 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 he 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
somebody 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 you are.”
“And pray what am I?” Josephine retorted. “I _was_ Miss Josephine
Fleming, daughter of Mrs. Roxie Fleming, 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
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 carefully 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 colored 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 inquiry, “What shall I do without my
mother?” He would do very well indeed, she thought, and as for herself,
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
Josephine Fleming, who held her position in Holburton only with her
pretty face and determined will. But there was no help for it, and, for
the present, she must be content with the knowledge that Everard was
hers, and that by and by his money would be hers also. To do her
justice, 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:
“HOLBURTON, July—.
“DEAR EVERARD:—I 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 you, 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 you 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 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 Burt’s and look at the
silk this afternoon, 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 coveting, 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 little
girl, should be done by sister Agnes, who was represented 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
eagerness to learn that her teacher assured her of quick and brilliant
success as a performer. The French was managed 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 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.