BREAKING THE NEWS AT THE FORREST HOUSE.
A wild storm was sweeping over Southern Ohio that November night, and
nowhere was it wilder or more violent than in Rothsay, where the rain
fell in torrents, and ere it reached the ground was taken up by the wind
and driven in blinding sheets through the deserted streets. But wild as
the storm was in the village, it seemed wilder still in the vicinity of
the Forrest House, which fairly shook on its solid foundations with the
force of the tempest. Tree after tree was blown down, shrubs were
uprooted, and the fanciful summer-house which the doctor had erected on
the spot where Rossie used to tend and water her geraniums and fuchsias,
went crashing down, a heap of ruins, while within, in the most costly
and elegant chamber, a fiercer storm was raging between a soul trying to
free itself from its prison walls of clay and the body which struggled
so hard to retain it.
Josephine had not improved, as at one time it was thought she might. The
secret which she held and the loss of the letter had worn upon her
terribly, and the constant dread of some impending evil had produced a
kind of brain fever, and for days her life had been in imminent danger,
and the doctor had staid by her constantly, marveling at the strangeness
of her talk, and wondering sometimes if it were possible that she could
have become possessed of the secret which at times filled even him with
horror and a haunting fear of what might come upon him should his guilt
be known. But Josephine could have no knowledge of his crime. Van
Schoisner was safe as the grave so long as the money was paid, as it
would continue to be, for he had set aside a certain amount, the
interest of which went regularly to Haelder-Strauchsen, and would go so
long as Rossie lived. This, in all human probability, would not be long,
for Von Schoisner wrote of her failing health, and told how bewildered
she was growing in her mind. Should she become hopelessly insane, he
would be almost as safe as if she were dead, the doctor thought, and he
always waited with fierce impatience for news from Austria, when he knew
that it was due. Von Schoisner’s last letter had reported her as very
weak, with growing symptoms of imbecility, and though the villainous man
did feel a pang of remorse when he remembered the sunny-faced girl who
had so loved and trusted him, he knew he had gone too far to think of
retracing his steps. There was nothing left but to go on, and as his
life at the Forrest House had not proved a success he had made up his
mind to sell it and go to Europe to live permanently as soon as
Josephine was better. He could hide himself there from justice, should
it attempt to overtake him, and he waited anxiously for any signs of
amendment in his wife.
She did seem better that stormy night, when even he quailed a little and
felt nervous as he listened to the roaring wind, which, he fancied, had
in it the sound of human sobbing. She had slept for more than an hour,
and when she awoke she was quiet, and more rational than she had been
for days. But there was a look of death about her mouth and nose, and
her eyes were unnaturally bright as they fixed themselves on Agnes, who
sat watching her.
The doctor had taken advantage of her sleep to steal away for a while,
and in the dining-room was trying to stifle his conscience with the
fumes of tobacco and the brandy, of which he drank largely and often.
Thus Agnes was left alone with her sister, whose first question, asked
in a whisper, was:
“Where is _he_,—the doctor, I mean?”
“Gone to rest,” was the reply, and Josephine continued:
“Yes, let him rest while he can. It will soon be over, and then a
dungeon for _him_, and darkness, and blankness, and utter forgetfulness
for me; Aggie, that’s all a fable about a hereafter,—a rag of mythology
which recent science has torn in shreds. We do not go somewhere when we
die; we perish like the brutes.”
“Oh, no, no! God forbid!” and falling on her knees, with her hands
clasped together, Agnes murmured words of prayer for the soul so deluded
and deceived.
“Hush, Agnes,” Josephine said, almost fiercely. “There’s more important
work on hand just now than praying for one who does not want your
prayers, for even if there be a hereafter, it’s now too late for me, and
I care no more for it than a stone. I cannot feel, and it’s no use to
try. If there is a hell, which I don’t believe, I shall go there; if
there is not, then I am all right, and the sooner I am like the clods
the better; but I must do one good act. Agnes, do you think Everard
would come here to-night if he knew I was dying,—for I am; I feel it,
and I must tell him something, which will perhaps make him think more
kindly of me than he does now. Can you manage it for me?”
“No, no,” Agnes exclaimed. “He would not come here to-night of all
others, because——”
She checked herself suddenly, and then added:
“Listen to the rain and the wind; did you ever hear such a storm?”
“Yes, I hear,” Josephine replied, excitedly. “It was sent for me, and I
am going out on its wings, but it seems dreary to go in such a way. Oh,
Aggie, if there should be a hereafter,—but there is not. We all do
sleep,—sleep. But Everard, Everard,—I must see him, or maybe you would
tell him when I am dead. Lock the door, Aggie; then come close to me and
swear,—swear that you will tell him,—that Rossie——Oh, Agnes, I am so
afraid of him,—the doctor, that I dare not say it!” and on the white
face there was a look of terror such as Agnes had never seen before.
There could be no doubt in her mind as to what her sister meant, and
regardless of consequences, she bent down and whispered:
“I know,—I understand. Rossie is not dead. She is alive and coming
home.”
“How do you know? Have you seen the letter?” Josephine almost shrieked,
and Agnes replied:
“Yes, I found it under the carpet long ago, just after I came here, but
I did not suppose that you had ever seen it.”
“I had; I did; I put it there,” Josephine said, gasping out the story of
her having taken it from the office, and the hiding it afterward. “And
you found it? Where is it now?” she asked, and Agnes replied:
“I gave it to Miss Belknap, and she——”
Agnes did not finish, for Josephine started upright in bed, exclaiming:
“I see; I know. She went suddenly to Europe,—to find Rossie; tell me the
truth. Has she found her, and is she coming home, and what will it be
for him?”
Agnes knew that by _him_ Dr. Matthewson was meant, and she replied
unhesitatingly:
“State prison for him and poverty for you.”
“Yes, I know. Poverty, disgrace, State prison for life, and how soon?
Tell me how soon? He might have time to fly, for I,—I,—he is not good,
but I’d rather he did not go to prison. He is my husband, you know. How
soon? Tell me truly.”
“To-night,—now,—the train is due and overdue. I do not believe he can
get away. I think he is watched. Lawyer Russell knows,—not Everard yet;
and Mr. and Mrs. Morton are coming to-night with Rossie,” Agnes said,
rapidly; and the next moment a wild shriek rang through the house, which
Dr. Matthewson heard above the storm, and he came reeling up the stairs
from his brandy and cigars, but was sobered at once when he found his
wife in the most horrible fit he had ever witnessed.
When it was over, and she became conscious again, it was pitiable to see
how hard she tried to speak and warn him of his danger, but could not,
for the power of utterance was gone, and she only gave forth
inarticulate sounds which he could not comprehend any more than he could
understand what had affected her so strangely. It was in vain that he
appealed to Agnes, who was whiter if possible than her sister, and
trembling from head to foot. She was sworn to secrecy,—and if she had
inadvertently said to Josephine things which she ought not, she must
keep silence before the doctor, and bear the glance of the eyes which
looked so imploringly at her, and seemed about to leap from their
sockets when she shook her head in token that she could not tell. There
were flecks of blood and foam about the pallid lips, and drops of sweat
upon the face and hands, the latter of which beat the air hopelessly as
the dying woman tried to speak. At last, when they had no more power to
move, they dropped helplessly upon the bed, and the white, haggard face
grew whiter and more haggard as she lay with ears strained to catch the
sound for which she listened so intently, and which came at last in a
shrill, prolonged whistle, which was distinctly heard in the pauses of
the abating storm, as the train so long delayed swept through the town.
Then, summoning all her remaining strength for one last great effort,
Josephine raised her arm in the air, and motioning to the door, said to
her husband in a voice which was to sound in his ears through many years
to come:
“Doomed,—doomed,—fl——”
She could not finish and say “fly,” as she wished to do, for the word
died away in a low, gurgling moan; the white foam poured again from lips
and nose, and when the convulsions ceased and the distorted features
resumed their natural look, the soul had gone to meet its God.