THE NEXT DAY.
How 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 breakfast-room, and 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 slept 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 announcement that Everard was gone.
“I dunno, 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’ lemme see, yes, shoo nuff, his big satchel
gone wid 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.
“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 disappeared 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 yea was yea, and
his nay nay, it is very possible that if Everard had not taken him so
promptly at his word,—if he had staid and gone to breakfast as usual and
about his daily avocations, his father would have cooled down 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 defense.
“Yes, you will forgive him,” she said. “You must. 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,” Rossie said, “why did you refuse 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:
“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 something 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 explain, 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 profession, 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 curbstone, where she could speak to him.
“Good morning, Judge Forrest,” she said, as naturally 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 she felt intuitively that a will made just now would be
disastrous to Everard. “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 in 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 would 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 said 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 unconscious condition, nearly
resembling death. Terrified beyond measure, Beatrice dressed herself
hurriedly, and was soon on her way to the house, where she found matters
even worse than she feared.