THE ARREST.
At Elm Park the utmost secrecy was maintained with regard to Rossie,
whose presence in the house was wholly unsuspected by any one except the
few necessarily in the secret. The servants knew, of course, but they
were trusty and silent as the grave, and almost as eager for the
denouement as Yulah, herself, who had personal wrongs to be avenged, but
who seldom spoke to any one lest she should betray what must be kept.
Two or three times, after dark, she had stolen up to the Forrest House,
which she examined minutely, while she shook her fist and muttered in
execration of the man who, she heard, sat constantly by his wife, with
his face buried in his hands, as if he really mourned for the woman whom
he knew so much better than any one else. And to a certain extent his
grief was genuine. Her beauty had dazzled and pleased him, and something
in her selfish, treacherous nature had so answered to his own, that in a
way she was necessary to him, and when she went from him so suddenly, he
experienced a shock and sense of loss which struck him down as he had
never before been stricken.
Agnes wished to have her sister taken to Holburton and buried by her
mother. But Holburton was too democratic a town, and Roxie Fleming’s
bones far too plebeian for his wife to lie beside, and so he bought a
vacant lot in Rothsay, and gave orders that no expense should be spared
to make the funeral worthy of his money and position as the richest man
in the county.
And now, at the close of the third day, the grand funeral was over,—and
grand it certainly was, if a costly coffin, a profusion of flowers,
twenty carriages, and a multitude of lookers-on, could make it so; but
how much real grief there was, aside from what Agnes felt, was a matter
of speculation to the people, who went in crowds to the Forrest House,
which was filled from kitchen to parlor. And the doctor knew they were
there, and felt a thrill of gratification at the honor paid him, though
he sat with his head bent down, and never once looked up or seemed to
notice any one. Even had he glanced about him at the sea of heads
filling anterooms and halls, he would not have remarked the men, who,
without any apparent intention, were always in the foreground, just
where they could command a view of the chief mourner in the imposing
procession which moved slowly to the cemetery, where all that was mortal
of Josephine was buried from sight. At the grave the doctor’s grief took
a demonstrative form, and he stood with his face covered with his hands,
while his body shook as if from suppressed sobs, and when a low cry
escaped Agnes as the coffin box scraped the gravelly earth, he put out
his arm toward her as if to comfort and reassure her; but she
instinctively drew back, with a feeling of treachery in her heart, as if
for the sake of the dead sister she ought to warn him of his danger, and
give him a chance to escape, if it were possible, which she doubted;
for, though she did not know just what the plan was, she knew how
closely the house had been watched, and recognized in the crowd the men
whom she had seen on the premises, and whose office she rightly
conjectured. But she had sworn to keep the secret, and so her lips were
sealed, and she never uttered a word as they drove back to the house,
where she went directly to her room, and on her knees begged forgiveness
if she were doing a wrong to the unsuspecting man, who, all unconscious
of peril, went also to his own room to draw what consolation he could
from the fumes of his best cigars and the poison of his brandies.
And so he was as surely doomed as if the manacles were already upon his
hands, and the prison walls around him. In the hall below there was the
sound of voices in low consultation, Everard’s voice, and Lawyer
Russell’s, and the officers of justice, who had taken possession of the
house and locked every door below to shut off all means of escape. In
the kitchen the astonished and frightened servants were crowded
together, asking each other what it meant and what was about to happen,
but not one of them dared to move after the officers commanded that they
keep quiet, whatever might occur. Then, up the stairs came the two
strange men, with Everard and Mr. Russell following close behind, and on
through the hall to the door of the doctor’s room. It was a little ajar,
and he heard their footsteps, and half rose to meet them as they stepped
across the threshold. But when he saw Everard’s white, set face, and saw
how excited Lawyer Russell seemed, there flashed over him an inkling of
the truth, and when the foremost of the officers advanced toward him,
and laying his hand on his arm, arrested him for perjury, he felt sure
that the desperate game he had been playing had ended in disgrace and
defeat. But he was too proud to manifest any emotion whatever. If his
revolver had been in his pocket, where he usually carried it, he would
have used it unhesitatingly, but it was not. He had no means of defense,
and in as natural a tone of voice as he could command, he asked what
they meant, and on what ground the arrest was made; how had he perjured
himself, and when?
“When you swore that Rossie was dead, and knew that it was false, and
that she was incarcerated in a mad-house where you put her, you villain!
Rossie is not dead; she is here in town,—at Elm Park, and all your
infernal rascality is known,” Everard burst out, for he could restrain
himself no longer, and he felt a thrill of triumph when he saw how white
the doctor grew, and how for a moment he tottered as if he would fall.
He did not attempt to get away; he merely said:
“Rossie here? Rossie alive? Take me to her. I must see her. Gentlemen,
there is some mistake, which can be cleared up if only I can see her. I
beg of you, take me to her.”
But his request was not granted. He was a prisoner, and all resistance
was vain. Cold and pallid, and seemingly indifferent, he did just what
they bade him do, and went with them down the stairs and out of the
house he was never to enter again. On the piazza outside they
encountered a strange woman, who threw herself directly in the
prisoner’s way, and shrieked into his ear:
“It bees you, Dr. Matthewson. I knows you, sure, and I has the revenge.
I finds her there in Haelder-Strauchsen, and sends the letter here to
_him_, (pointing to Everard), and the lady, Madame Morton. She comes and
I gets her away, and you into the _conciergerie_,—ha, ha! What does you
think now of the tragic queen?” and she snapped her fingers in his face,
which was deadly white, and livid in spots as he recoiled from her,
exclaiming:
“Yulah! betrayed by you!”
“Yes, me. I swore it. I’s glad to be revenge,” she cried, and was going
on with more abuse when the officer stopped her, and hurried the doctor
away to a place of safety, where a close guard was placed over him, and
he was left alone with his wretched thoughts.
It did not take long for the news to spread over the town, for secrecy
was no longer necessary, and never had there been such wild excitement
in Rothsay. That Rossie Hastings had been alive all this time, and
buried in a mad-house, while her brother enjoyed her property, seemed
almost incredible, but there could be no doubt of it, for old Axie had
seen her, and talked with her face to face, and in their fury a mob,
preceded by the old negress, assembled in the streets, and surrounding
the building where the doctor was confined, demanded the prisoner, that
they might wreak vengeance on him then and there.
Order was, however, soon restored, and the wretched man was left in
quiet to think over his wicked past, and to dread the future, which he
knew had no hope for him. His sin had found him out, and though he had
not conscience enough to be much troubled with remorse, his pride and
self-love were cruelly wounded, and he writhed in the anguish of bitter
mortification and rage.