MATTERS ARE ADJUSTED.
If Josephine had not known herself to be worse even than Everard had
charged her with being, she might not have submitted so quietly to the
line of conduct he proposed to pursue toward her, but the consciousness
of misdeeds, known only to herself, made her manageable, and willing to
accept the conditions offered her. Had Rosamond been allowed to give her
a part of her income she would have taken it as something due to her,
but as that was forbidden she was well satisfied with the house and its
surroundings, and the support her husband could give her. To return to
Holburton, after having announced publicly that she was going to her
husband, would have been a terrible mortification, and something which
she declared to herself she would never have done, and so she resolved
to make the most of the situation in Rothsay. To stand well with the
people in town was her great object now, and to that end every art and
grace of which she was capable was brought into requisition, and so well
did she play her part that a few of the short-sighted ones, with Mrs.
Dr. Rider at their head, espoused her cause and looked askance at
Everard, who kept his own counsel, with the single exception of Lawyer
Russell, to whom he told his story, and who assumed such an air of
reserve and dignity that not even his most intimate friends dared
approach him on the subject which was interesting every one so much.
Everard knew that he was an object of suspicion and gossip, but cared
little or nothing for it, so absorbed was he in his own trouble, and in
watching the progress of affairs at the Forrest House, where Josephine
was to all intents and purposes the mistress, issuing her orders and
expressing her opinions and wishes with far more freedom than Rossie had
ever done. She, too, was very reticent with regard to her husband, and
when Mrs. Dr. Rider asked in a roundabout way what was the matter, she
replied, in a trembling voice:
“Oh, I don’t know, except he grew tired of me during the years we were
separated; but please don’t talk to me about it, or let any one else,
for I cannot speak of it,—it makes me so sick.”
She did act as if she were going to faint, and Mrs. Rider opened the
window and let in the cool air, and told Josephine to lean on her till
she was better, and then reported the particulars of her interview so
graphically and well that after a day or so everybody had heard that
poor Mrs. Forrest, when asked as to the cause of the estrangement
between herself and husband, had at once gone into hysterics and fainted
dead away. Of course the curious ones were more curious than ever, and
tried old Axie next, but she was wholly non-committal, and bade them
mind their business and let their betters alone.
Rosamond was now the last hope, but she had nothing to say whatever,
except that under the circumstances she felt that Mrs. Forrest at least
ought to live at her husband’s old home, and that arrangements to that
effect had been made. As for herself, it had been her intention to teach
for a long time, and as Mrs. Markham declared her competent, she was
going to try it, and leave the place to Mrs. Forrest. Nothing could be
learned from Rossie, who was too great a favorite with everyone to
become a subject of gossip; and whatever might be the cause of the
trouble between Everard and Josey, her spotless, innocent life was too
well known for any censure to fall on her, and Josephine could not have
reached her by so much as a breath of calumny, had she chosen to try,
which she did not. With her quick intuition she understood at once how
immensely popular Rossie was, and resolving to be friends with her, if
possible, she waited anxiously for a personal interview, which was
accorded her at last, and the two met in Rossie’s room, where, in her
character as invalid, Rossie sat in her easy-chair, with her beautiful
hair brushed back from her pure, pale face, and her great, black eyes
unusually brilliant with excitement and expectation.
Josephine, too, had been almost as nervous with regard to this interview
as Rosamond herself, and had spent an hour over her toilet, which was
perfect in all its details, from the arrangement of her hair to her
little high-heeled slippers with the fanciful rosettes.
Rosamond was prepared for something very pretty, but not as beautiful as
the woman who came half hesitatingly, half eagerly, into the room, and
stood before her with such a bright, winning smile upon her lovely face
that it was hard to believe there was guile or artfulness there. Rising
to her feet Rossie offered her hand to her visitor, who took it and
pressed it to her lips, while she said something about the great
happiness it was to see one of whom she had heard so much.
“Why, I used actually to be half jealous of the Rossie Everard was
always talking about,” she said, referring to the past as easily and
naturally as if no cloud had ever darkened her horizon, or come between
her and the Everard who had talked so much of Rossie.
When Josephine first entered the room Rossie was very pale, but at this
allusion to herself and Everard there came a flush to her cheeks and a
light to her eye which made Josephine change her mind with regard to her
personal appearance.
“Nobody can ever call her a beauty,” she had said to herself at first,
but as the interview progressed, and Rossie grew interested and earnest,
Josephine looked wonderingly at her glowing face and large black eyes,
which flashed and shone like stars, and almost bewildered and confused
her with their brightness, and the way they had of looking straight at
her, as if to read her inmost thoughts.
It was impossible to suspect Rossie of acting or saying anything she did
not mean, for her face was like a clear, faithful mirror, and after a
little Josephine began to grow ill at ease in her presence. The bright
black eyes troubled her a little when fixed so earnestly upon her, and
she found herself wondering if they could penetrate her inmost thoughts,
and see just what she was. It was a singular effect which Rossie had
upon this woman, whose character was one web of falsehoods and deceit,
and who, in the presence of so much purity and innocence, and apparent
trust in everybody, was conscious of some new impulse within her,
prompting her to a better and sincerer life. Wondering how much Rossie
knew of her antecedents, she suddenly burst out with:
“Miss Hastings, or Rossie,—I so much wish you’d let me call you by the
name I have heard so often. I want to tell you at once how I have hated
myself for taking that money, the price of your lovely hair, and letting
you believe I was a dreadful gambler, seeking Everard’s ruin.”
She had her hand on the “lovely hair,” and was passing her white fingers
through it and letting it fall in curling masses about Rossie’s neck and
shoulders, as she went on:
“It was such a funny mistake you made with regard to me, and it was
wrong in me to take the money. I would not do it now; but we were so
poor, and I needed it so much, and Everard could not get it. Has he told
you all about those times, I wonder, when we were first married, and he
did love me a little.”
“He has told me a good deal,” was Rossie’s straightforward answer; and
sitting down upon a stool in front of her Josey assumed the attitude and
manner of a child as she went on to speak of the past, and to beg Rossie
to think as leniently of her as possible.
“Men are not always correct judges of women’s actions,” she said, “and I
do not think Everard understands me at all. Our marriage in that hasty
manner was unwise, but if I erred I surely have paid the severest
penalty. Such things fall more heavily upon women than upon men, and I
dare say you think better of Everard this moment than you do of me.”
Rossie could not say she didn’t, for there was something in Josephine’s
manner which she did not like. It seemed to be all acting, and to one
who never acted a part, it was very distasteful. But she tried to evade
the direct question by answering: “I have known Everard so long that I
must of course think better of him than of a stranger. He has been so
kind to me;” then, wishing to turn the conversation into a channel where
she felt she should be safer, she plunged at once into her plan of
leaving the house to Josephine, saying that she had never thought it
right for her to have it, and speaking of the judge’s last illness, when
she was certain he repented of what he had done.
At first Josephine made a very pretty show of protesting against it.
“It is _your own_ home,” she said, “and though I appreciate your great
kindness, I cannot feel that it is right to take it from you.”
“But I thought you understood that it was quite a settled thing that I
am to go away, as I have always intended doing. Everard told you so.
Surely he explained it to you,” Rossie said, in some surprise.
Josephine did not quite know how to deal with a nature like Rossie’s,
but she guessed that for once it would be necessary for her to say very
nearly what she thought, and so for a few moments the two talked
together earnestly and soberly of the future, when Rossie would be gone
and Josephine left in charge.
“You will only be taking what is yours a little in advance,” Rossie
said, “for when I am of age I shall deed it back to Everard; and then,
on the principle that what is a man’s is also his wife’s, it will be
yours, and I hope that long before that it will be well with you and
Everard; that the misunderstanding between you will be cleared up; that
he will do right, and if,—if,—you are conscious of any defect in your
character which annoys him, you will overcome it and try to be what he
would like his wife to be, for you might be so happy with him, if only
you loved each other.”
The great black eyes were full of tears, and Rossie’s face twitched
painfully as she compelled herself to make this effort in Everard’s
behalf. But it was lost on Josephine, who, thoroughly deceitful and
treacherous herself, could not believe that this young girl really meant
what she said; it was a piece of acting to cover her real feeling, but
she affected to be touched, and wiped her own eyes, and said
despondingly that the time was past, she feared, the opportunity lost
for her to regain her husband. He did not care for her any longer; his
love was given to another, and she looked straight at Rossie, who
neither spoke nor made a sign that she heard or understood, but she
looked so very white and tired that Josephine arose to go, after
thanking her again for her kindness and generosity, and assuring her
that everything about the house should be kept just as she left it, and
that in case she changed her mind after trying the life of a governess,
and wished to return, she must do so without any reference to her
convenience or pleasure.
And so the interview ended, and Josephine went back to her room and
Agnes, to whom she said that she had found Miss Hastings rather pretty,
and that she was on the whole a nice little body, and had acted very
well about the house, “though,” she added:
“I consider it quite as much mine as hers. That old man was crazy, or he
would never have left everything to her, and he tried afterward to take
it back, it seems, and right the wrong he had done. She told me all
about it, and how his eyes followed her, and shut and opened as she
talked to him. It made me so nervous to think of those eyes; I believe
they will haunt me forever. And Everard never told me that, but let me
believe his father died just as angry with him as ever. I tell you,
Agnes, I am beginning to hate that man quite as much as he hates me, and
if I were sure of as comfortable a living and as good a position
elsewhere as he can give me here, I’d sue for a divorce to-morrow, and
get it, too, and then,—‘away, away, to my love who is over the sea.’”
She sang the last words in a light, flippant tone, and then sat down to
write to Dr. Matthewson, whose last letter, received before she left
Europe, was still unanswered.
Three weeks after this interview Rosamond left Rothsay for St. Louis,
where she was to be governess to Mrs. Andrews’ children on a salary of
three hundred dollars a year. Everard and Josephine both went to the
depot to see her off, the one driving down in the carriage with her, and
making a great show of regret and sorrow, the other walking over from
his office, and maintaining the utmost reserve and apparent
indifference, as if the parting were nothing to him; but at the last,
when he stood with Rossie’s hand in his, there came a look of anguish
into his eyes, and his lips were deathly white as he said good-by, and
knew that all which made life bearable to him was leaving him, forever.