MRS. FLEMING’S BOARDERS.
It 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-handkerchiefs, 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 shoestrings 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 described and a sick woman with her brats, and blue as a
whetstone undoubtedly, inasmuch as she was a missionary’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 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 boarders 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 candle, so
he hovered around the young beauty, accepting the position of father
instead of brother, and from time to time presenting his _daughter_ with
costly 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
elsewhere.
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 was gambling, that being his only means of livelihood. A
fortunate play, or series of plays, had put a large sum of money into
his hands, and he had gone on a sailing 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 to 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, contrary to her expectations, was
pleased at once.
“I do believe I 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 she 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 apparel. 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 and Beatrice both exclaimed, 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 I 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 dollies, 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. Morton was a dowdy country woman, and that
Miss Belknap 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 morning, 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 something new, and surprised her a little,
especially as there were no gentlemen present to witness the pretty,
childish scene. She passed it off, however, naturally enough, and
introducing her daughter to the ladies went on serving 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
meeting, when, in fact, Agnes had been in and out of Josephine’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 brilliant 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 morning, 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 diminished 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 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 another.
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. Mrs. Fleming had received an impression that Miss
Belknap was from New York, and Josephine began to question her of that
city, asking if she had always lived there.
“I was born there,” Beatrice replied, “but I was educated in Paris, and
my home is really in Rothsay, a little 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 cautious 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 than 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, mentally,
notwithstanding the calmness of her demeanor. Here was a person from
Rothsay 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 behavior.
“Is Everard married yet?” she asked after a moment.
“Married?” Beatrice repeated, and she felt the color rising in her face.
“Why, he has not his profession yet, but is studying very hard in his
father’s office.”
“Ah, yes, I remember, he intended to be a lawyer. I liked him very much,
he was so pleasant and gentlemanly,” Josephine said, and there was a
drooping of the heavy lashes over her blue eyes, as if with regret for
the past, when she knew and liked Everard Forrest.
“But is there no one to whom he is particularly attentive?” she asked.
“He used to be very fond of the girls, and there most be some one in
Rothsay suitable for him, or is his father so proud that he would object
to everybody?”
Beatrice knew perfectly well what Josephine meant, and answered that she
had heard the judge was very particular, and would resent a marriage
which he thought beneath his son, “but 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 continued:
“He used to speak of a little girl, Rosamond, I think, was the name. She
must be well grown by this time. Is she there now?”
“You mean Rossie Hastings, his adopted sister. Yes, she is there still,
and a very nice, womanly little thing. She is sixteen, I believe, though
she seems to me younger,” Beatrice said, and the impression left on
Josephine’s mind of Rossie was of a child, in whom Everard could not be
greatly interested except in a brotherly way.
She had made all the inquiries she cared to make just 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 man, not over twenty, came down the walk flourishing his
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 after his fast horse.
“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 dote on fast horses, but now
you must excuse me.”
Young Gerard was surprised, for he had not expected to find
conscientious scruples 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.
He 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 away; 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
apologetically:
“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 with 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:
“What 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, so fastidious and elegant, as if he had just stepped from a
bandbox.”
“He is very different from that now,” Beatrice replied, 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 careful about expense. He
neither smokes, nor chews, nor 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; “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 Beatrice 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
before the sound of suppressed voices and laughter ceased in the parlor,
and the two buggies were driven rapidly away.