MRS. FORREST’S POLICY.
When Aunt Axie was called so suddenly by Mrs. Markham, she was kindling
the fire in the dining-room, which adjoined the room where Josephine sat
shivering with cold, and feeling like anything but a happy wife just
come to her husband’s ancestral halls. Tired with her rapid journey, and
disappointed and shocked by what she had heard from Mrs. Markham of the
judge’s will, Josey was nearer giving way to a hearty cry than she had
been before in a long time. It had been far better to have staid where
she was, and enjoyed the life she liked, than to have come here and
subject herself to suspicion and slights from the people who did not
know her. And then she was so cold, and chilly, and uncomfortable
generally.
But when the fire was made she felt better, and drawing an easy chair
close to it assumed her usual indolent and lounging attitude. Twice
Axie, who seemed to be excited, passed the door, once when she was
taking the hot water to Rossie’s room, and again, later, after she had
received an impression of the strangers against whom she had mentally
declared war. This time Josephine called her. She had heard an unusual
stir above, and from Mrs. Markham’s protracted absence, and Axie’s
evident haste, suspected that the bombshell she had thrown had taken
effect, especially if, as she believed, Rosamond was particularly
interested in Everard.
“Woman,” she said, as the black face glanced in, “what is your name?”
“Axie, ma’am,” was the crisp reply, and Josephine continued: “Oh, yes, I
have heard my husband speak of you. I am very sorry he is not here to
set matters right. What is the matter up stairs? Is any one suddenly
ill?”
Axie was bristling with resentment toward this woman, who called Everard
her husband so coolly, and in whom she would not believe till she had
her master’s word of confirmation. Still, she must not be insolent, that
was against her creed; but she answered with great dignity, “I tole you
Miss Hastin’s was sick when you fust come. Her throat be very sore, an’
her head mighty bad; so, you’ll scuse me, now,” and with a kind of
suppressed snort Axie departed, jingling her keys and tossing her
blue-turbaned head high in the air.
Josephine knew perfectly well how she was regarded in the house, and,
irritated and chagrined, decided at once upon her policy. She should be
very amiable and sweet, of course, but _firm_ in asserting her rights.
She was Everard’s wife, and she could prove it, and it was natural that
she should come to what she supposed was his home and hers. It was not
her fault that she had made the mistake. The wrong was on his side, and
she should stay there until he came, unless they turned her from the
door, which she hardly thought they would do.
Just then Mrs. Markham appeared, apologizing for her long absence, and
saying that though Miss Hastings was, of course, surprised at what she
had heard, she did not discredit it, and would telegraph at once for Mr.
Forrest.
“Meantime,” she continued, “she wishes you to remain here till he comes,
and has given orders to have you made comfortable. I believe there is a
fire in your room, if you wish to go to it before dinner. Miss Hastings
is too ill to see you herself.”
“Thanks; she is very kind. I would like to go to my room, and to have
one of my trunks sent up. Agnes will show you which one,—the small
leather box,” Josephine said, with a dignified bow, as she rose from her
chair.
Calling Aunt Axie, Mrs. Markham bade her conduct the lady to her room,
where a bright wood fire was blazing, and which looked very cheerful and
pleasant; for, as it was Everard’s room, where he always slept when he
spent a night at the Forrest House, Rosamond had taken great pains to
keep it nice, and had transferred to it several articles of furniture
from the other rooms. Here Josey’s spirits began to rise, and it was in
quite a comfortable state of mind that she dressed herself for dinner,
in a gown of soft cashmere, with just a little white at her throat and
wrists. As it was only her mother for whom she mourned, she had decided
that she might wear a jet necklace, which heightened the effect of her
dress, if indeed it needed anything more to improve it than the
beautiful face and wealth of golden hair. Even Mrs. Markham drew an
involuntary breath as this vision of loveliness and grace came into the
room, apologizing for being tardy, and inquiring so sweetly for Miss
Hastings, who, she hoped, was no worse.
Her policy was to be a sweet as well as a firm one, and before dinner
was over even Mrs. Markham began to waver a little in her first opinion,
and wonder why Everard should have kept secret his marriage with this
brilliant, fascinating woman, who seemed so much of a lady, and who
evidently was as well born as himself, at least on the maternal side,
for Josey took care to say that her mother knew Mrs. Forrest when she
was a girl, and was present at her wedding in Boston, but that, owing to
adverse circumstances, they saw nothing of each other after the
marriage.
“Papa was unfortunate and died, and we moved into the country, where,
for a time, mamma had a hard struggle to keep up, and at last took a few
boarders in order to live,” she said; and her blue eyes were very tender
and pathetic as she told what in one sense was the truth, though a truth
widely different from the impression she meant to convey.
Once Agnes, whose face was very white, gave her such a look of sorrowful
entreaty that Mrs. Markham observed and wondered at it, just as she
wondered at the great difference between the sisters, and could only
account for it on the supposition that Agnes’ mother was a very
different woman from the second Mrs. Fleming, who had been a friend of
Mrs. Forrest, and a guest at her wedding! Miss Belknap was, of course,
brought into the conversation, and Josephine was sorry to hear that she
was not at home.
“I depended upon her to vouch for my respectability. She knows me so
well,” she said, explaining that Beatrice had been for some time an
inmate of her mother’s house in Holburton, and that she had liked her so
much, and then, more bewildered than ever, Mrs. Markham went over
half-way to the enemy, and longed for the mystery to be explained.
The next day, which was Saturday, it rained with a steady pour, and
Josephine kept her room, after having expressed a wish to see Miss
Hastings, if possible; but when this request was made known to Rossie by
Mrs. Markham, she exclaimed:
“No, no,—not her; not Joe Fleming! I could not bear it till Mr. Everard
comes.”
She was thinking of her hair and the letter, and the persistence with
which Joe Fleming had demanded money from Everard, and it made no
difference with her that Mrs. Markham represented the woman as pretty,
and lady-like, and sweet. She could _not_ see her, and a message to the
effect that she was too weak and sick to talk with strangers was taken
to Josephine, who hoped Miss Hastings was not going to be seriously ill,
and offered the services of her sister, who had the faculty of quieting
the most nervous persons and putting them to sleep. But Rossie declined
Agnes too, and lay with her face to the wall, scarcely moving, and never
speaking unless she was spoken to. And Josephine lounged in her own
room, and had her lunch brought up by Axie, to whom she tried to be
gracious. But Axie was not easily won. She did not believe in Mrs. J. E.
Forrest, and looked upon her presence there as an affront to herself and
an insult to Rossie, and when about two o’clock the Rothsay _Star_ was
brought into the house by her husband, John, who was in a state of great
excitement over the marriage notice, which had been pointed out to him,
she wrung from Lois the fact that she had carried a note to the editor,
and had been paid a quarter for it by the lady up stairs. She put the
paper away where it could not be found if Rossie chanced to ask for it.
But she could not keep it from the world as represented by Rothsay, for
it was already the theme of every tongue. The editor had read the note
which Josephine sent him before Lois left the office, and had questioned
her as to who sent her with it. Lois had answered him:
“De young lady what comed from de train wid four big trunks and
bandbox.”
“And where is she now?” he asked, and Lois replied: “Up sta’rs in Mas’r
Everard’s room.”
This last was proof conclusive of the validity of the marriage, which
the editor naturally concluded was a hasty affair of Everard’s college
days, when he had the reputation of being rather wild and fast, and so
he published the notice and in another column called attention to it, as
the last great excitement.
Of course there was much wondering, and surmising, and guessing, and in
spite of the rain the ladies who lived near each other got together and
talked it up, and believed or discredited it according to their several
natures. Mrs. Dr. Rider, a chubby, good-natured, inquisitive woman,
declared her intention of knowing the facts before she slept. Her
husband attended Rosamond, and she had a sirup which was just the
medicine for a sore throat and influenza, such as Rossie was suffering
from, and she would take it to her, and perhaps learn the truth of the
story of Everard’s marriage.
Accordingly, about four o’clock that afternoon, Mrs. Dr. Rider’s little
covered phaeton turned into the Forrest avenue, and was seen from the
window by Josephine, who, tired and _ennuyeed_, was looking out into the
rain.
That the phaeton held a lady she saw, and as the lady could only be
coming there she resolved at once to put herself in the way of some
possible communication with the outer world. Glancing at herself in the
mirror she saw that she was looking well, although a little paler than
her wont, but this would make her more interesting in the character she
meant to assume, that of an angelic martyr. As the day was chilly, a
soft white wrap of some kind would not be out of place, and would add to
the effect.
So she snatched up a fleecy shawl of Berlin wool, and throwing it around
her shoulders, took with her a book, and hurrying down to the
reception-room, had just time to seat herself gracefully and becomingly,
when the door opened and Mrs. Dr. Rider came in.
Aunt Axie, who was a little deaf, was in the kitchen busy with her
dinner, while Lois was in the barn, hunting for eggs, and so no one
heard the bell, which Mrs. Rider pulled twice, and then, presuming upon
her long acquaintance with the house, opened the door and walked into
the reception-room, where she stopped for an instant, startled by the
picture of the pretty blonde in black, with the white shawl, and the
golden hair rippling back from the beautiful face.
Here was a stroke of what Mrs. Rider esteemed luck. She had stumbled at
once upon the very person she had come to inquire about, and as she was
not one to lose any time, she shook the rain-drops from her waterproof,
and drawing near to the fire, turned to the lady in the easy-chair, and
said:
“I beg your pardon for my very unceremonious entrance. I rang twice, and
then ventured to come in, it was raining so hard.”
Josephine admitted that it was raining hard, and remarked that she
expected to find it warmer in Southern Ohio than in Eastern New York,
but she believed it was colder, and with a shiver she drew her shawl
around her shoulders, shook back her hair, and lifted her blue eyes to
Mrs. Rider, who responded:
“You came from the East, then?”
“Yes, madam, from Holburton. That is, I am from there just now, but it’s
only two weeks since I returned from Europe, where I have been for a
long time.”
Here there was a solution in part of the mystery. This wife had been in
Europe, and that was why the secret had been kept so long, and little
Mrs. Dr. Rider flushed with eager excitement and pleasurable curiosity
as she said:
“From Europe! You must be tired with your long journey. Have you ever
been in Rothsay before? From your having come from the East I suppose
you must be a relative of Mrs. Forrest, who was born in Boston?”
Josephine knew she did not suppose any such thing, and that in all
probability she had seen the notice in the _Star_, and had come to spy
out the land, but it was not her policy to parade her story unsolicited;
so she merely replied that she was not a relative of Mrs. Forrest’s,
though her mamma and that lady had been friends in their girlhood. To
have been a friend of the late Mrs. Forrest stamped a person as
somebody, and Mrs. Rider began at once to espouse the cause of this
woman, to whom she said:
“I hope you will excuse me if I seem forward in what I am about to say.
I am Mrs. Rider, wife of the family physician, and a friend of Everard,
and when I saw that notice of his marriage in the _Star_ I could hardly
credit it, though I know such things have been before; but four years is
such a long time to keep an affair of that kind a secret. May I ask if
it is true, and if you are the wife?”
“It is true, and I am his wife, or I should not be here,” Josey said,
very quietly.
“Yes, certainly not, of course,” Mrs. Rider replied, hardly knowing what
she was saying, and wishing that the fair blonde whose eyes were looking
so steadily into the fire would say something more, but she didn’t.
She was waiting for her visitor to question her, which she presently
did, for she could never leave the matter in this way, so she said:
“You will pardon me, Mrs. Forrest, but knowing a little makes me want to
know more. It seems so strange that Everard should have been a married
man for more than four years and we never suspect it. It must have been
a private marriage.”
“Ye-es, in one sense,” Josephine said, with the air of one who is having
something wrung from him unwillingly. “A great many people saw us
married, for it was in a drama,—a play,—but none of them knew it was
meant to be real and binding, except Everard and myself and the
clergyman, who was a genuine clergyman. We knew and intended it, of
course, or it would not have been valid. We were engaged, and did it on
the impulse of the moment, thinking no harm. Nor was there, except that
we were both so young, and Everard not through college. We told mother
and sister, but no one else, and as the villagers did not know of our
intention to be married, or that Dr. Matthewson was a clergyman, they
never suspected the truth, and the secret was to be kept until Everard
was graduated, and after that——”
She spoke very slowly now, and drew long breaths, as if every word she
uttered were a stab to her heart.
“After that I hoped to get out of my false position, but there was some
fear of Judge Forrest, which kept Everard silent, waiting for an
opportunity to tell him, for I was not rich, you know, and he might be
angry; so I waited patiently, and his father died, and I went to Europe,
and thus the years have gone.”
The blue eyes, in which the tears were shining, more from steadily
gazing into the fire than from emotion of any kind, were lifted to Mrs.
Rider, who was greatly affected, and then said:
“Yes, I see; but when the judge died there was nothing in the way of
acknowledging the marriage. I am surprised and disappointed in Everard
that he should treat you thus.”
Mrs. Rider’s sympathy was all with the injured wife, who seemed so
patient and uncomplaining, and who replied:
“He had good reasons, no doubt. His father disinherited him, I believe,
and that may have had its effect; but I do not wish it talked about
until Everard comes. It is very awkward for me that he is absent. I
expected to meet him. I must come, of course; there was no other way,
for mamma recently died, and the old home was broken up. I must come to
my husband.”
She kept asserting it as if in apology for her being there, and her
voice trembled, and her whole air was one of such injured innocence that
Mrs. Rider resolved within herself to stand by her in the face of all
Rothsay, if necessary. Mrs. Rider was a very motherly little woman, and
her heart went out at once to this girl, whose blue eyes and black dress
appealed so strongly to her sympathies. She liked Everard, too, and did
not mean to be disloyal to him, if she could help it, but she should
stand by the wife; and she was so anxious to get away and talk up the
wonderful news with her acquaintances that she forgot entirely the sirup
she had brought for Rossie’s throat, and would have forgotten to inquire
after Rossie herself if Aunt Axie had not accidentally put her head in
the door and given vent to a grunt of surprise and disapprobation when
she saw her in close conversation with Josephine, and, with her
knowledge of the lady’s character for gossip, foresaw the result.
“Oh, Miss Rider, is you here?” she said, advancing into the room; “and
does Miss Markham know it? I’ll fotch her directly, ’cause Miss
Ros’mon’s too sick to see yer.”
“Never mind, Axie,” Mrs. Rider said, rising and beginning to adjust her
waterproof. “I drove up to inquire after Rossie, and have spent more
time than I intended talking with Mrs. Forrest,” and she nodded toward
Josephine, who also arose and acknowledged the nod and name with a
gracious bow.
She saw the impression she had made on her visitor, who took her hand at
parting, and said:
“You will probably remain in Rothsay now, and I shall hope to see a
great deal of you.”
Again Josephine bowed assentingly to Mrs. Rider, who at last left the
room, followed by Axie, whose face was like a thunder-cloud as she
almost slammed the door in the lady’s face in her anxiety to be rid of
her.