HUSBAND AND WIFE.
He had sent no word of his coming, for he did not know just when he
should reach Holburton. 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 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 wondering how he had ever thought it so attractive. And
still he felt his blood stir quickly at the thought of meeting 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 rubbing
herself against his legs 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 surprise, 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 sipping 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 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 command 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 common, 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.
_Wha-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 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
trembled and shook, and made it seem so real that Everard forgot
everything except that she was very fair and undeniably 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 happy, 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
carriage. 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 world do anything to displease
Everard, but must she decline all attention 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 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 generous a thing as that
for a great lout like me?” he asked, and Josephine replied, “I think she
was a little goose! Catch me parting with my 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 indignant 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 sentiments 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 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 declaration 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 engagement for eight
o’clock. There were waffles for supper,—Everard’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 expression, 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 shyness in
her manner when at last she said good-by to him, and watched him through
the darkness as he went rapidly from her to the train which was to take
him on his way to Amherst.