ROSAMOND’S DECISION.
Rosamond had sent word to Everard that she would see him after
breakfast, and he went to her at once, finding her sitting up just as
she was the previous night, but much paler, and more worn-looking, as if
she had not slept in months. But the smile with which she greeted him
was as sweet and cordial as ever, and in the eyes which she fixed so
steadily upon him he saw neither hatred nor disgust, but an expression
of unutterable sorrow and pity for him, and for herself, too, as well.
Rossie was not one to conceal her feelings. She was too much a child,
too frank and ingenuous for that, and there was a great and bitter pain
in her heart which she could not hide. Everard had never said in words
that he loved her, but she had accepted it as a fact, and when her dream
was so rudely dispelled she could no more conceal her disappointment
than she could hide the ravages of sickness so visible upon her face.
“I’ve been thinking it all over,” she began, as he sat down beside her,
“and though my opinion may not be worth much, I hope you will consider
it, at least, and give it some thought before deciding not to adopt it.”
He guessed what was coming, and nerved himself to keep quiet while she
went on:
“Everard, she is your wife. You cannot undo that, except in one way, and
that you must not take, for it is wicked and wrong. You loved her once.
You say you were quite as much to blame for the marriage as she, and you
know you have been wrong in keeping it a secret so long. She has just
cause for complaint, and I want you to try to love her again. You _must_
support her, and it will be so much better, and save so much talk and
gossip if you live in the same house with her,—in this house, your
rightful home.”
“Never, Rossie!” he exclaimed, vehemently, “never can I make her really
my wife, feeling as I do. It would be a sin, and a mockery, and I shall
not do it. You say I loved her once; perhaps I did, though it seems to
me now like a child’s fancy for some forbidden dainty, which, if
obtained, cloys on the stomach and sickens one ever after. No, Rossie,
you talk in vain when you ask me to live with Josephine as my wife, or
even live with her at all. The same roof cannot shelter us both. Support
her I shall, but live with her, never! and I am prepared for all the
people will say against me. If I have your respect and sympathy I can
defy the world, though the future looks very dreary to me.”
His voice trembled as he spoke, and he leaned back in his chair as if
he, too, were faint and sick, while Rossie continued:
“Then, if you will not live with her under any circumstances, this is my
next best plan. Forrest House is her natural home, and she must stay
here, whatever you may do.”
“Here, Rossie! Here with you! Are you crazy?” Everard exclaimed, and
Rosamond replied:
“I am going away. I have thought it all over, and talked with Mrs.
Markham. She has a friend in St. Louis who is wanting a governess for
her three children, and she is going to write to-day and propose me, and
if the lady consents, I,—I am going away.”
Rossie finished the sentence with a long drawn breath, which sounded
like a sob, for this going away from all she loved best was as hard for
her as for Everard, who felt suddenly as if every ray of sunlight had
been stricken from his life. With Rossie gone the world would be dark
indeed, and for a few moments he used all his powers of eloquence to
dissuade her from the plan, but she was quite resolved, and he
understood it at last, and answered her:
“Perhaps you are right; but Heaven pity me when you are gone!”
For a moment Rosamond was silent, and then she said, in her usual frank
way:
“Yes, Everard, I understand, or I think I do, and it would be foolish in
me to pretend _not_ to know,—to believe,—I mean,” and the bright color
began to mount to Rossie’s cheeks as she went on: “I mean that I believe
you do care for me some,—that if I were dead you would remember me
longer than any one else. I guess you like me a little, don’t you,
Everard?”
It was the child Rossie,—the little girl of his boyhood,—who spoke with
all her old simple-heartedness of manner, but the face which looked up
at the young man was not the face of a child, for there was written on
it all a woman’s first tenderness and love, and the dark eyes were full
of tears, and the parted lips quivered even after she ceased to speak,
and sat looking at him as fearlessly and as little abashed as she had
looked at him when she asked to be his wife. And how could he answer
that question so innocently put? “You do like me a little, don’t you,
Everard?” How, but to stoop and kiss the quivering lips which kissed him
back again unhesitatingly, but when he sought to wind his arms around
her, and hold her closely to him, she motioned him away, and said: “No,
Everard, you might kiss me once, and I might kiss you back, as we would
do if either of us were dying, and it was our farewell to each other, as
this is. I can never kiss you again, never; nor you me, nor say anything
like what we have been saying. Remember that, Everard. The might have
been is past, and when we meet, as we sometimes may, it will be on the
old footing, as guardian and ward, or brother and sister, if you like
that better. And now listen, while I finish telling you what my wishes
are with regard to the future.”
Rosamond’s was the stronger spirit then, and she compelled him to sit
quietly by and hear her while she planned the future for him. Josephine
was to live at Forrest House, and to receive a certain amount of income
over and above the support which he would give her. But to this last he
stoutly objected. Not one dollar of Rossie’s money should ever find its
way to her, he said. He could support her with his profession, and if
Rossie did not choose to use what was rightly her own it would simply
accumulate on her hands, without doing good to any one.
So Rossie gave that project up, but insisted that she should vacate the
house as soon as she was able, and leave Josephine in possession, and
Everard was commissioned to tell her so, and to say that she must excuse
Miss Hastings from seeing her until she was stronger, and that she must
feel perfectly at home, and free to ask for whatever she liked.
At first Josie listened incredulously to Everard; it seemed so
improbable that Rossie would deliberately abandon her handsome home, and
give it up to her. But he succeeded in making her understand it at last,
taking great care to let her know that she was to have nothing from the
Forrest estate except the rent of the house; that for everything else
she was dependent upon him, who could give her a comfortable support,
but allow nothing like luxury or extravagance.
To this Josephine assented, and was gracious enough to say that it was
very kind and generous in Miss Hastings, and to express a wish that she
might see her and thank her in person. But to this Everard gave no
encouragement. Miss Hastings was very weak, he said, and had already
been too much excited, and needed perfect quiet for the present. Of
course, so long as she remained there she would be mistress of the
house, and Josephine her guest. For himself, he should return to his old
quarters in town, and only come to the house when it was necessary to do
so on business. If Josephine was needing money, he had fifty dollars
which he could give her now, and more would be forthcoming when that was
gone.
Nothing could have been more formal than this interview between the
husband and wife, and after it was over Josephine sat down to write to
Mrs. Arnold in Europe, while Everard went boldly out to face the world
waiting so eagerly for him.