THE RECEPTION.
It 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 tarlatan, 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
mignonette, was fastened at her throat, and around her neck was a
delicate chain of gold from which was suspended 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 gentlemen 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
remembered 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
disgust, but glanced nervously at his father to see what effect she
would have upon him. Judge Forrest saw 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
attendant, when he presented her to Everard as one whom she had never
met.
There was a comical gleam in Josey’s eyes, and Everard’s face was
scarlet as he said,
“I have the pleasure of knowing Miss Fleming, I believe.”
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 moments later, her arm was linked in his, and he was
leading 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 was 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.”
“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 jubilee 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 implies; 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 vulgarity, 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 timidity nor shyness, nor love of books and poetry,
nor admiration 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 whatever, at least no good impression, and she knew it, and resolved
upon one final effort. He might be reached through his son, and so she
mentioned Everard, and complimented 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 suspicion 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 acquaintance, 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 vacation 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 mortified, 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 skillful reader of human nature, she saw what kind of man
Judge Forrest was, and felt that Everard had not misrepresented 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. Disinheritance of Everard might follow, and then
farewell to her dream of wealth, and luxury, and position. It is 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 impossible it was for him to acknowledge
the marriage now. He 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 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 probably he has been
airing his opinion of me to you,” she said, tartly; then, as Everard did
not speak, she continued: “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 complimentary.”
“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 before. She had meant to win the judge, just as she
won all men when she tried, but she had failed utterly. 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 acknowledge 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 I ever
failed to please when I really tried to do so, and I did try hard to
make an impression, 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 expression 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 anything, but the shadow
lifted from his face, and his heart gave a great bound when he heard
from her own lips 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
Everard far in the background.
The fact that young 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. Whatever 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 here to 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 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, contemptuously; “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; remember 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.