HOW ROSSIE BORE THE NEWS.
She did not bear it well at all, although she was in some degree
prepared for it by the card which Axie brought her.
“Mrs. J. E. Forrest,—Mrs. J. E. Forrest,” she repeated as she examined
the card, while something undefinable, like the shadow of coming evil,
began to stir her heart. “Who can she be, and where did she come from?
You say she has a maid?”
“Yes, or suffin’ like dat,—a quar-lookin’ woman, who has a lame hand. I
noticed the way she slung the lady’s satchel over it, and it hung
slimpsey like.”
“How does the lady look, and what did she say? Tell me everything,”
Rosamond said; and Axie, who began to have a suspicion that the lady was
not altogether welcome, replied:
“She done squabble fust thing wid the driver, who ax more for fetchin’
and liftin’ her four big trunks, an’ she hold up her gown and walk as ef
the groun’ wasn’t good enough for her, an’ she looked round de room kind
o’ sniffin’ like, wid her nose turned up a bit as she axed me was thar
no fire. But my, she be very hansom’ and no mistake. All in black, with
such nice skin and pretty eyes, wid dem great long lashes, like Miss
Beatrice.”
Rossie could deny herself everything, but she was never indifferent to
the comfort of others, and though she could not help feeling that this
woman, who called herself Mrs. J. E. Forrest, would in some way work her
harm, she could understand just how cold and cheerless the house must
seem to her on that rainy day; and she ordered Axie to build fires in
both the rooms below, as well as in the chamber where Everard
occasionally spent a night, and which was the only guest-room she kept
in order. There was also a consultation on the important subject of
dinner, and then Rossie was left alone for a few moments to puzzle her
brain as to who this woman could be, and wonder why her heart should
feel so like lead, and her pulse beat so rapidly. She did not have long
to wait for a solution of the mystery before Mrs. Markham came in,
showing at once that she was agitated and distressed.
“What is it, Mrs. Markham? Is she any relation to Mr. Everard?” Rossie
asked eagerly.
It would be wrong to keep her in suspense a moment longer than was
necessary, and going up to her, Mrs. Markham replied:
“She says she is Everard’s wife; and I have seen the certificate. They
were married more than four years ago, before his mother died, and
she,—oh, Rossie, my child, my child, don’t give way like that; it may—it
must be false,” she added, in alarm, as she saw the death-like pallor
which spread over Rossie’s face, and the look of bitter pain and horror
which leaped into her eyes, while the quivering lips whispered:
“Everard’s wife? No, no, no!”
“Don’t, Rossie,—don’t!” Mrs. Markham said again, as she passed her arm
around the girl, whose head drooped upon her shoulder, in a hopeless
kind of way, and who said: “You saw the certificate? What was the name?
Was it——”
“Fleming,—Josephine Fleming, of Holburton,” Mrs. Markham replied, and
with a shiver Rossie drew herself away from Mrs. Markham’s arms, and
turning her face to the wall, said: “Yes, I know. I understand it all.
She is his wife. She is Joe Fleming.”
After that she neither spoke nor moved, and when Mrs. Markham, alarmed
at her silence, bent down to look at her, she found that she had
fainted. The shock had proved too great for Rossie, whose mind, at the
mention of Josephine Fleming, had with lightning rapidity gathered all
the tangled threads of the past, and comprehended what had been so
mysterious at times in Everard’s behavior. He _was married_,—hastily, no
doubt, but still married; and Joe Fleming was his wife, and he had never
told her, but suffered her to believe that he loved her, just as she
knew now that she loved him. It was a bitter humiliation, and for an
instant there gathered round her so thick a horror and blackness that
she fancied herself dying; but it was only a faint, and she lay so white
and rigid that Mrs. Markham summoned Aunt Axie from the dining-room,
where she was making preparations for kindling a fire in the grate.
“Be quiet,” Mrs. Markham said to her as she came up the stairs. “Miss
Rossie has fainted, but don’t let those people know it; and bring me
some hot water for her feet, quick.”
Axie obeyed, wondering to herself why her young mistress should faint,
when she never knew her to do such a thing before, and with her ready
wit connecting it in some way with the strangers whom Mrs. Markham had
designated as “those people,” and whom the old negress directly set down
as “no ’count folks.”
It was some time before Rossie came back to consciousness, and when she
did her first words were:
“Where is she? Where is Everard’s wife? Don’t let her come in here; I
could not bear it now.”
“Everard’s wife! Mars’r Everard’s wife!” Axie repeated, tossing her
turbaned head and rolling up her eyes in astonishment. “In de deah
Lord’s name, what do de chile mean? Dat ain’t Mars’r Everard’s wife?”
and she turned to Mrs. Markham, who, now that Rossie had betrayed what
she would have kept until Everard came to confirm or deny the tale,
replied:
“She says she is; but we must wait until Mr. Forrest comes before we
admit it. So don’t go talking outside.”
“Catch me talkin’,” was Axie’s rejoinder. “It’s a lie. Mars’r Everard
hain’t got no wife. I should of knowed it if he had. Don’t you b’lieve
it, honey,” and she laid her hard black hand caressingly on the head of
the girl whom she had long since singled out as Everard’s future wife,
watching shrewdly the growing intimacy between the two young people, and
knowing better than they did just when the so-called brother merged into
the lover, and she would not for a moment believe in another wife, and a
secret one at that. “No, honey,” she continued, “don’t you b’lieve it.
Mars’r Everard hain’t got no wife, and never will have, but you.”
“Yes, Aunt Axie,” Rossie said, “this woman tells the truth. She _is_ his
wife, and Everard ought to come home. We must telegraph at once. He is
in Dighton still.”
Mrs. Markham accordingly wrote on a slip of paper:
“To J. E. FORREST, Dighton:—Come immediately.
“S. MARKHAM.”
And Axie’s granddaughter Lois, who lived in the house, was commissioned
to take it to the office. A fire had been kindled by this time in the
chamber Josephine was to occupy, and she was there with Agnes, and had
rung for warm water, which Lois took up to her before going on her
errand. As the child was leaving the room Josephine said to her: “Is
there a paper published in town?”
“Yes’m, the Rothsay _Star_” was the reply.
“When does it come out?” was the next question, and Lois said:
“Saturday,—to-morrow.”
“Very well. I wish you to take a notice to the office of the _Star_ for
me to-night, and I will give you a quarter.”
Twenty-five cents seemed a fortune to the little negro girl, who was
greatly impressed with the beauty of the lady, and who replied:
“Yes, miss, I’ll do ’em. I’s gwine to the village directly with a
telegraph to Mars’r Everard, and I’ll take yourn same time.”
So, when, a little later, she started for the telegraph office, she bore
with her to the Rothsay Star the following:
“MARRIED.—In Holburton, N. Y., July 17, 18—, by the Rev. John
Matthewson, JAMES EVERARD FORREST, of Rothsay, Ohio, and Miss
JOSEPHINE FLEMING, of Holburton.”