THE NEW REIGN AT THE FORREST HOUSE.
Doctor Matthewson had spent most of the winter in New York, but of
Josephine’s whereabouts little was known. She had been in New York, and
Holburton, and Boston, where she was the guest of Mrs. Arnold, with whom
she had been abroad, and whose good opinion she had succeeded in
retaining by telling her a part only of the truth, and doing it in such
a manner that she appeared to be the party to be pitied rather than
Everard. Mrs. Arnold was not a person who looked very deeply into
matters, she chose rather to take them as they seemed, and Josephine had
been very faithful to her and her interest while they were abroad; and
though she was shocked and surprised when she first heard the story of
the marriage, Josephine told it so well for herself as to make it appear
that she had not been greatly in fault, and the lady believed her more
sinned against than sinning, and invited her to her own home in Boston,
where she was stopping somewhere about the middle of March, when word
came to the man in charge of the Forrest House that the doctor, who had
already been gone two months and more, would remain away still longer,
and that when he returned Mrs. Matthewson would accompany him. Who Mrs.
Matthewson was the letter did not state, but Beatrice readily guessed,
and was not at all surprised when, a week later, she received a letter
from Mr. Morton, who was still in Boston, and who wrote that he had been
asked to officiate at the marriage of Miss Josephine Fleming with Dr.
John Matthewson, said marriage to take place at the house of one of his
parishioners, Mrs. Arnold, April 15th, at eleven o’clock, A. M.
What Everard thought or felt when he heard the news he kept to himself,
but the townspeople unanimously disapproved of the match, and arrayed
themselves against the bride elect and decided that she should be made
to feel the weight of their disapprobation, and know that they resented
her marriage and coming back there to live as an insult to Everard and
an affront to themselves. Nor were they at all mollified by the arrival
of _cards_ inviting them to the wedding. There were in all a dozen
invitations sent to as many families in Rothsay, and Beatrice had a
letter from Josephine, in which she tried to make everything seem fair
and right with regard to the divorce and marriage, and hoped Miss
Belknap would be friendly with her when she came back to Rothsay.
“For myself,” she added, “I would rather not go where Everard is, and
where his friends can hardly wish to see me. But the doctor is
inexorable, and insists upon living at Rothsay a portion of the year at
least. He likes the Forrest House, he says, and would not sell it for
the world. It suits him for a summer residence, and we shall be there
some time in June. He is very kind, and I trust that after the stormy
life I have led there is a bright future in store for me, which, I
assure you, I shall appreciate, and if I can atone for whatever has been
wrong and questionable in the past I certainly shall do so.”
And to do Josephine justice, she did mean to retrieve her character if
possible, and be at least a true wife to the man who had chosen her,
knowing perfectly well what she was and how little to be trusted. There
was about Josephine a most powerful fascination for Dr. Matthewson, who
thought her the most beautiful and attractive woman he had ever seen.
And the doctor liked beautiful and attractive things; they suited his
luxurious tastes, and Josephine was just the one to adorn the kind of
home he was now able to have. She would be equal to any emergency, and
he would enjoy the attentions she was sure to receive at the different
watering-places and hotels, where he meant to take her. If any of her
admirers should become too demonstrative he could easily rid himself of
them and bring his wife under subjection, for he meant to be her master,
and to do exactly as he pleased in everything, and he made a beginning
by refusing to sell the Forrest House, as she wished him to do. For
Josephine was determined not to go back to Rothsay, and at first made it
a condition in marrying the doctor that he should dispose of the place,
or at least not require her to live there even for a few weeks. She had
no wish to meet Everard, or to come in contact with his friends, who
were sure to slight her now. But the doctor was resolved upon making the
house into a kind of palace, where he could enjoy himself after his own
ideas, and as he had not the slightest consideration for the wishes or
feelings of others, he laughed at Josephine’s scruples, which he called
whims, and carried his point with regard to the Forrest House, and the
evening of the 15th of April there appeared in the Boston papers the
following notice:
“MARRIED, this morning at ten o’clock, by the Rev. Theodore Morton,
Dr. John Matthewson to Miss Josephine Fleming.”
Washington and New York were the cities where the happy pair spent their
honeymoon, and it was not until the middle of June that they took
possession of their Rothsay house, which had undergone quite a
transformation. All through the months of April and May carpenters from
Cincinnati had been there, following out the plan which the doctor had
forwarded to them with the most minute instructions. Bay-windows were
sent out here, and hanging balconies there, and pretty little sunny
nooks for plants were cut through the solid mason-work; rooms were
thrown together, trees were removed to admit more light and give finer
views, until the stately, old-fashioned house assumed the appearance of
a modern and rather graceful structure, which the Rothsayites, and even
Beatrice herself, thought greatly improved. Every room was refurnished
and changed in some way except Rossie’s,—which was left untouched. Not
an article of furniture was changed or moved from its place. Some of
Rossie’s books were on the shelf where she left them; a work-box was on
the table, and in the closet one or two half-worn dresses hung, a prey
to any moth or insect which chose to fasten upon them. But the rest of
the house was beautiful, and fresh, and new, and ready for the bride,
who came one afternoon in June, and was met at the station by the
coachman, with the new carriage and high-stepping horses, which pawed
the ground and arched their glossy necks as the long train swept by.
There was no one there to meet the bride, for the marriage was very
unpopular in town, and every door was virtually closed against the lady
who, for once in her life, looked pale and tired, as she took her seat
in the carriage, and leaning back wearily, said, to the doctor:
“Please take the straightest road home, for I am tired to death.”
But if the doctor heard her he did not heed her request. He had no
feelings of shame or twinges of conscience. He wished the people to see
his splendid turnout, and they drove through Main street, past all the
shops and offices, where the men and boys stared at them, and a few made
a show of recognizing the courteous lifting of the doctor’s hat, and the
patronizing wave of his hand.
Josephine was closely vailed, and pretended not to see the ladies who
were on the street, and who did not turn their heads as the elegant
carriage went by. But Josey knew that they saw her, and felt that her
worst fears were to be realized; and when, at a sudden turn in the road,
they came upon Beatrice, whose cool little nod seemed more an insult
than a recognition, her cup of humiliation was full, and there were
tears of mortification and anger in her eyes, and her headache was not
feigned when at last they drew up before the house, where a strange
woman was waiting to greet them. This was Mrs. Rogers, the housekeeper,
imported for that purpose from Cincinnati, as were the other servants.
These, however, had all heard the antecedents of their new master and
mistress very freely discussed, and the result was that a mutiny was
already in progress, for, as the girl who held the post of scullion
said, “she had lost one _cha-rac-ter_ by living with folks who wasn’t
fust cut, and she didn’t care to lose another.” Still, the wages were
good, and all decided to stay a while, and see what the lady who had two
husbands living and had once been a servant herself (such was the story
as they had it) was like. So they came to meet her, and thought her very
handsome and stylish, and a fit occupant of the beautiful rooms of which
she was mistress, and for which she did not seem to care, for she never
stopped to look at them, but went directly to her own apartments, which
she did have the grace to say were pretty.
“Yes, it is all very nice,” she said to the doctor, “but I am
frightfully tired, and nervous, too, I think. This last hot day’s ride
has just upset me. I believe I’ll have a cup of tea brought to my room,
and not go down to dinner, if you’ll excuse me.”
“You won’t do any such thing,” was the doctor’s reply. “You’ll put on
one of your swell-dresses, and go down to dinner with me. I wish the
servants to see you at your best, and somebody may call this evening.”
“Somebody call!” Josephine retorted, with intense bitterness in her
voice. “Don’t flatter yourself that any one whom I care for will call
to-night, or ever, while I remain in Rothsay.”
“Why, what do you mean?” the doctor asked, and she replied:
“I mean that as Everard Forrest’s divorced wife, married to another man,
I am to be tabooed in this town. Didn’t you notice how the ladies we
passed on the street pretended to be looking another way so as not to
see me. They did not wish to recognize me even with a nod, and you
surely noticed the insulting bow which Miss Belknap gave me. There was
not a particle of cordiality in it. I knew it would be so, and that was
why I was so opposed to coming here. I wish I had remained firm to my
first resolution.”
She was more than half crying with anger and vexation, but the doctor
only laughed at what he termed her groundless fears. Supposing she was a
divorced woman, with her first husband living in the same town, what did
that matter? He knew of many such instances, and if the people in
Rothsay were disposed to slight him at first, he should live it down,
for money could accomplish everything.
But Josephine was not to be soothed by his words, and bade him mind his
business and leave her to herself. It was the first ebullition of temper
she had shown toward him; so he received it good-humoredly, and touched
her playfully under her chin, and had his way in everything, and took
down to dinner a most beautiful and elegantly-dressed woman, who looked
as if made for just the place she was occupying at the head of that
handsomely appointed table.
No one called either that evening, or the next, or the next, and when
Sunday came she was really sick with mortification and disappointment,
and the doctor went to church without her, and met only cold words from
those to whom he tried to talk after service was over. Nobody mentioned
his wife, although he spoke of her himself, and said that she was sick,
and asked Mrs. Rider to tell her husband to call in the afternoon and
see her. Even that ruse failed, for there was no solicitude expressed
for the lady’s health, no inquiry as to what ailed her, and the doctor
drove home in his handsome carriage, feeling that after all Josephine
might be right, and that the people were determined to show their
disapprobation. But he meant to live it down, and not let the good
fortune he had so coveted turn to ashes on his hands. But living it down
was not so easy as he had supposed, and as day after day went by, and no
one came to see his grandeur, or paid the least attention to him, his
spirits began to flag, and he half-suspected that he had made a mistake
in bringing his wife to Rothsay, where the Forrest star was evidently in
the ascendant.
Once he decided to fill the house with young men from New York and
Cincinnati, but when he thought of Josey he gave that up, for his love,
or rather passion, for her was strong enough to make him wish to keep
her smiles and blandishments for himself; and so the New York guests
were given up, and he spent his time driving his fast horses through the
country during the morning, and in the afternoon lounging, and smoking,
and reading, and looking over his handsome house until his elaborate
dinner, which was served at half-past six, and notice of which was given
to the portion of the town nearest him by the loud bell which he caused
to be rung as a signal to himself and wife that dinner was ready. The
doctor was very particular and exacting on every point of table
etiquette, and required as much form, and ceremony, and attention, as if
a multitude of guests sat daily at his board, instead of himself and
Josephine, who was always elegantly dressed in silks, and laces, and
diamonds, and looked a very queen as she took her seat at the head of
her table with a languor which was not feigned, for in her heart she was
tired and sick to death of the grand, lonely life she led. Nobody came
near her, and when by chance she met any of her old acquaintances they
were too much hurried to do more than bow to her; while even the
tradespeople lacked that deference of manner which she felt was her due.
The doctor seldom asked her to join him in his drives, and as she did
not care to go out alone and face the disapproving public, she spent her
time mostly in her room reading French novels and eating candy and
bonbons, with which she was always supplied.
Everard she had never met face to face, though she had seen him in the
distance from her window, and watched him as he went by with a strange
feeling at her heart which wrung a few hot, bitter tears from her, as
she remembered the summer years ago when her boy-lover was all the world
to her, and the life before her seemed so fair and bright. Not that she
really wanted Everard back, but she wanted something; she missed
something in her life which she longed for intensely, and at last made
up her mind that it was Agnes, the despised sister, who was in
Holburton, earning her own living as housekeeper for Captain Sparks.
When they first returned to the Forrest House, Dr. Matthewson had
signified to her his wish that Agnes should remain where she was. She
would hardly be ornamental in his household, he said. He liked only
beautiful objects around him, and Agnes was not beautiful. She would be
an ugly blot upon the picture, and he did not want her, though he was
willing to supply her with money, if necessary. But Agnes did not wish
for his money. She could take care of herself, and was happier in
Holburton than she could be elsewhere. But as the summer went by, the
longing in Josephine’s heart for the companionship of some woman grew so
strong that she ventured at last to write, begging her sister to come,
and telling how lonely she was without her.
“I have been hard and selfish, and wicked, I know,” she wrote, “but,
Aggie, I am far from being happy, and I want you here with me so much
that I am sure you will come. I believe I am sick or nervous, or both,
and the sight of your dear old face will do me good.”
Josephine did not tell her husband of this letter, lest he should forbid
her sending it. She was beginning to be a good deal afraid of him, but
she thought she knew him well enough to feel sure that if Agnes were
once in the house he would make no open opposition to it, and she was
willing to bear a good deal in private for the sake of having her sister
with her again. So she wrote her letter, and as the day was fine, took
it to the post-office herself, in order to insure its safety.