One afternoon towards the end of March, Adriana was riding down
Broadway. At Twenty-third Street there was some obstruction and delay,
and she saw Duval and Rose together. They were coming up Fifth Avenue,
and their walk was lingering and absorbed, Duval's attitude being
specially earnest and lover-like. Rose was listening with a faint
smile, and Adriana noticed that she was dressed with great care, and
that she had flowers both at her breast and in her hands. Adriana's
first thought was to alight and join the pair; but her second thought
was a reproof of her suspicion--"Charity thinketh no evil," she mused,
"and Rose may have simply met the man and permitted him to walk at her
side."
Then she reflected that she had never heard Rose name Duval since her
marriage; and that the man had been conspicuously absent from the Van
Hoosen entertainments. She knew also that Rose was vain and
sentimental, and that one of her dear, dangerous pleasures was to make
every man think "it might have been." But she did not know that on the
subject of Mr. Duval Rose and her husband had a passionate,
intermitting quarrel, that Rose put Duval's name on every list of her
guests, and that Antony always crossed it off, with peremptory
positiveness, and that consequently there was in Rose's heart a secret
partisanship which had a dangerous romance about it. For it was
impossible for Antony to prevent Rose from meeting the man in the
houses of friends, in the crowded foyers of the theatre or opera, on
the street, on the drive in the park; and on all such occasions a
glance, a word, a lingering hand clasp, conveyed to Rose a meaning she
ought not to have understood, and won from her in return an interest
or sympathy she ought not to have given.
For once that this secret understanding was established, she found it
hard to escape from its influence; gradually, almost unconsciously,
the intimacy grew; and Rose, feeling sure in her heart that she meant
nothing wrong, was quite off her guard, and only sensible of the
pleasure that the secret, silent romance gave her. Love, however, that
believes itself favored, is not long satisfied with such results, and
Duval had grown more bold, more exacting, more dangerous, with every
meeting. For he was actuated by motives not to be easily dashed, and
he was resolved to carry his point. First, he admired Rose; second, he
was poor, and Rose had at least $10,000 a year entirely at her own
disposal; third, he hated Antony; and for these reasons, to induce
Rose to leave Antony had become the passion of his life--a passion so
eager, earnest, and pervading, that Rose was frightened at its
strength. The man had gained a point at which he could both coax and
threaten, and the poor weak woman--really loving her husband and
adoring her child--was led, and ordered, and pleased, and tormented,
by the whimsies of this sentimental affair, which she thought was
driving Duval either to ruin or to death.
Of this condition Adriana, as well as all others who loved Rose, was
entirely ignorant. Yet the sight of the couple, and their absorbed
manner, forced itself again and again on Adriana's consciousness; and
she resolved to name the circumstance to Harry that night. Harry
listened, and looked much annoyed, but he answered finally:
"I do not believe there is anything wrong, Yanna. It is imprudent of
Rose, and not right; and I wonder at her, for Antony told me an hour
ago that little Emma was seriously ill. What a worry he does make over
that baby of theirs!"
"It is such a frail, lovely little creature; and Antony has such a
tender heart."
"And Rose does not hover over her nursery, as you do, Yanna."
"But you think there is nothing wrong, Harry?"
"In a legal sense, nothing. But, nevertheless, it is a shame for Rose
to carry on such intrigues; and I will see her in the morning and give
her some plain words. Antony is too careful of her feelings. I am glad
she is not my wife."
Then the subject was dropped, and Adriana did not entertain it again.
In her secret heart, she felt that she might forgive Rose if she were
driven to deceive her husband by the force of a strong passion; but
for this silly, weak drifting into sin and danger on little currents
of vanity and sensual romance, she had no toleration. Refusing
consciously to reason out the exact turpitude of Antony's wife, anger
at the erring woman lay at the bottom of all her thoughts, as she
moved about the household duties of the day. "Such a good husband!
Such a lovely little daughter! How can Rose wrong them both so
shamefully?" These unspoken words rang to and fro like a fretful
complaining in her inner self.
While she was taking lunch, Rose came to see her. She entered the room
with much of her old effusiveness; she kissed and petted her
sister-in-law, and said: "Give me a strong cup of tea, Yanna. I am
worn out. Baby was ill all night, and Antony would neither sleep nor
let any one else sleep."
"But if Emma were sick you would not be able to sleep, I am sure. And
she must be better, or you would not have left the little one at
all."
"Mamma is watching her. I just ran over to see you. It always rests me
and makes me strong to see you, Yanna. I know what you are going to
say--that I might, then, come oftener--so also I might go oftener to
church. But I do not love you the less, Yanna; when I am good I always
love you."
"Dear Rose, I wish you were always what you call 'good.'"
"I wish I were! I do long to be good! I am so weak and silly, but
there is a good Rose somewhere in me. Do you think baby is really very
sick?"
"Babies all suffer dreadfully, Rose, in teething. I often wonder how
grown-up people would endure half-a-dozen teeth forcing their way
through sore, inflamed gums. There would be swearing among the men,
and hysteria among the women, and we should all do as Burns did when
he had only one troublesome tooth--kick the furniture about--really,
or figuratively."
"Poor Emma! I do love her! I do love her! If there is anything on
earth I love, it is Emma. But Antony is simply absurd. He insists on
the whole house teething, too. He will have no company; and some one
has to sit by Emma's cot all night because, he says, 'she must need
cold water often,' and when I told him this morning that we had all
gone through the same suffering once in our lives, he looked at me as
if he thought I was a brute. I was only trying to aggravate him. He
ought not to tempt me to aggravate him; for I cannot help doing it.
And of course, I love Emma far better than he does. I nearly died for
her. I was provoked with Antony this morning."
"What does the doctor say?"
"He says baby is to go to the mountains, so we are to have the
Woodsome house; and papa and mamma are going to Europe. Papa wants
'authorities.' I should think the British Museum may perhaps satisfy
him."
"We are going to Woodsome also, this summer. How soon will you leave
the city?"
"That is what we are disputing about. Antony wants to go at once. I
want to give one, just one, farewell dance before shutting myself up
for months. I wish you could have seen Antony's face when I proposed
it. I just wish you could! It was awful! He said '_No_,' and he stood
on '_No_,' and nothing short of an earthquake could have moved him. I
simply hate Antony, when he is so ugly; and I told him I hated him."
"But it is not right to dance and feast when your child is so ill,
Rose."
"My baby is no worse than other babies in the same condition. I am so
weary of all the trouble. I feel like running away and hiding myself
from every one. I wish I were in some place where Antony, and mamma,
and Harry, and every one, could not be perpetually saying, 'You must
not do this,' or, 'You must do that.' The other day I heard of a
heavenly land, where the sun always shines, and the flowers always
bloom, and loving and dancing and singing and feasting make up the
whole of life."
"Oh, Rose! Rose! That is a very earthly land, indeed."
"A woman has no youth in this country. And I shall only be a very
little time young now. I do grudge spending my young days in gloom,
and sorrow, and scolding. It is too bad. If I should fly away to some
wilderness, would you take care of my baby, Yanna?"
"What nonsense are you talking, Rose?"
"Of course, it is nonsense; and yet I might die--or commit suicide--or
something. If anything happened to you, I would take little Harry and
make him my very own. Would you take little Emma if anything happened
to me? I might die."
"My dear Rose, you are not likely to die."
"I know I am not--but things happen."
"What things?"
"Accidents--and such things. One never knows. It does seem a silly
thing to ask, but I have a sudden feeling about it, Yanna. If I should
die--or anything should happen--you are to take Emma and bring her up
to be good--I mean pious--I mean not like her poor, silly mother. How
absurd I am! Whatever is the matter with me? Am I going to be ill, I
wonder? Am I going to have a fever?"
"I saw you yesterday on Broadway. What a pretty suit you had on! Mr.
Duval was with you."
"Mr. Duval! Yes. I had forgotten. Yes, I met Dick as I came out of a
store, and we walked up a block to Twenty-third Street. Do you know
that store under the Fifth Avenue Hotel, where they sell such lovely
jewelry? I was going there."
"I do not think Antony would like you to go anywhere with Mr. Duval."
"Antony will just have to dislike it then. He has gone as far as I
intend to let him. The past two weeks he has wanted me to sit by the
cradle, day and night, and night and day. I love my child, but I do
want a breath of fresh air sometimes."
"I was speaking of Mr. Duval."
"Harry has also been speaking of Mr. Duval this morning. I told Harry
to mind his own affairs. I say the same to you, Yanna. It is too much,
when a married woman cannot speak to an old friend, cannot walk three
or four blocks with him, without having her whole family suspect her
immediately of breaking--or at least cracking--the ten commandments."
"You know how Antony feels about that Duval."
"I know Antony is an idiot about him. I know his behavior has been
shameful to 'that Duval.' Poor Dick! What has the man done but dare
admire me? A cat may look at a king. Many women would give Antony a
lesson on that subject--they would not be accused for nothing."
"But not you, Rose! Not you, dear Rose! Do not be impatient. Baby will
soon be well, and Antony does love you so----"
"Do hush, Yanna! Antony loves nothing about me. But I must go now, or
else I shall get another scolding for leaving baby so long; or a look
worse than words; or silence, and Antony ostentatiously walking Emma
up and down the floor; and mamma sighing; and the doctor solemnly
standing by; and the nurse tip-toeing about the room; and the room so
dark, and smelling of drugs, and full of suffering--it is all so
dreadful! For I want to be out in the fresh spring air, and wind, and
sunshine. I want to dance and run in it. My blood goes racing through
my veins like quicksilver, and it is a kind of torture to sit still,
and talk in whispers, and see baby's white waxy face, and smell
nothing but drugs. When I went to show myself to Antony yesterday in
my new suit, and held the lovely roses to his face, he turned away as
if I were a fright, and put the flowers from him, as if they hurt.
Such ways I cannot understand!"
This conversation rather quieted than increased Yanna's misgivings.
She thought she understood the restless woman. Beautiful, and longing
to exhibit her beauty, full of the pulse and pride of youth, excited
by dreams of all sensuous delights, romantic, sentimental, and vain,
she was resentful at the circumstances which bound her to the
stillness and shadow of the sick room, because she was incredulous of
any necessity for such devotion. For the latter feeling Mrs. Filmer
was much to blame. She had not the keen intuitions regarding life and
death which Antony possessed; she had dim remembrances of her own
children's trials, she had the experiences of her friends on the same
subject, and she did not honestly believe little Emma was in any
special danger. Consequently, she had supported Rose in her claim to
regard her own health, and go out a little every day. And if Antony
had been asked for the reason of his great anxiety, he would not have
cared to explain it to his wife or his mother-in-law. Both these women
would have smiled at what he had learned through the second sight of
dreams, in that mysterious travail of sleep, by which the man that
feareth God is instructed and prepared for "the sorrow that is
approaching"; because, if apprehension of the supernatural is not in
the human soul, neither miracle nor revelation can authenticate it to
them.
So Antony bore his fear in silence, and told no one _the Word_ that
had come to him; strengthening his heart with the brave resolve of the
wise Esdras: "Now, therefore, keep thy sorrow to thyself; and bear
with a good courage that which hath befallen thee."
About ten days after this event, Rose left her home early one morning
to complete the shopping necessary for their removal to Woodsome on
the following day. Mrs. Filmer promised to remain with the sick child
until her return; but she urged Rose to make all haste possible, as
there were various matters in the Filmer household to attend to ere
Mr. Filmer and herself could comfortably leave for Europe on the
Saturday's steamer. With these considerations in view, she was annoyed
at Rose for positively refusing the carriage. "I want to walk, mamma,"
she said crossly; "and if I get tired, I will take the street cars."
"But you may be delayed by them, and time is precious now."
Then she kissed her mother affectionately, and stooped to little
Emma's cot, and with a long, soft pressure of her lips to the lips of
the fragile-looking child, she went away, promising to be home
certainly before noon. But she was not home at one o'clock; and Mrs.
Filmer and Antony ate their lunch together, both of them with a hot,
angry heart at Rose's indifference. At two o'clock Rose was still
absent, and a singular feeling of alarm had taken the place of anger.
"What keeps Rose so long, mother?" asked Antony, in an anxious voice.
"I do not know, Antony. She could have been back in an hour. It is
four hours since she left."
"Can you think of anything? Have you not some idea where she is?"
"She was very tired and low-spirited. She may have gone to see her
father, and then--being so tired--have taken a glass of wine, and lain
down to rest in her own old room. I can think of nothing else."
"She would not be likely to make calls?"
"Make calls so early! in a shopping costume! and without a carriage!
She would not think of such a thing."
"May she have gone to Yanna's?"
"I should say not. She does not care for Yanna as she used to do."
"Will you go home and see if she is in her old room resting? I have a
strange, unhappy feeling about her."
"I will go at once. I shall find her at home, no doubt."
But though Mrs. Filmer spoke confidently, she was by no means sure of
her affirmation. She went home with a trembling, sick heart, and found
that Rose had not been there at all. For a moment or two she was
unable to think or to act, and she was going blindly to Mr. Filmer's
study when she met Harry.
"Oh, my dear boy!" she cried, "you are just the one person needed. I
am almost distracted, Harry. Rose went out this morning at ten
o'clock; and she has not come home, and we are wretched about her."
Harry took out his watch. "It is not quite three, mother. Rose has
perhaps gone to see Yanna, or some of her acquaintances; or she may be
at her dressmaker's, or----"
"Harry, there is something wrong. You cannot reason the certainty out
of my heart. I am sick with fear."
"Dear mother, there is nothing wrong at all. Go and lie down, or talk
to father, and I will bring you word that all is well in an hour.
Sure."
"Where are you going?"
"I am going home. Yanna will know something."
He took a cab at the nearest stand, and drove rapidly to his own
house. Adriana started, and stood up quickly, as he entered. "What is
the matter, Harry?" she cried.
"Rose seems to have got herself out of the way. She left home at ten
o'clock this morning, and has not returned. Mother is quite nervous
and ill about her. Has she been here?"
For a minute Adriana stood motionless, as one by one the thoughts
flashed across her mind which led her to the truth; and when she
spoke, it was in the voice of a woman who had pulled herself together
with the tightest rein. "Harry," she answered, "while I put on my hat
and cloak, have the carriage made ready. Do not lose a single
moment."
"Where are you going?"
"To pier sixteen, East River."
"What in heaven are you going there for?"
"The Cuban steamer."
"The Cuban steamer?"
"Have you forgotten? Duval is a Cuban. I know now who told Rose of a
land all sunshine and flowers--and misery and cruelty," she added
passionately, as she ran to her room with a hurry that sent Harry to
the stables with equal haste.
When the carriage came to the door, Adriana was waiting. Harry was
stepping, to her side, but she shook her head positively. "You must go
for Antony," she said. "Bring him to the steamer. It is the only
way."
At a very rapid pace the carriage was driven to the foot of Wall
Street. It was, however, to Adriana a tedious journey, and often
interrupted; and she sat wringing her hands in impotent impatience at
every delay. When she reached the pier, she found herself in all the
tumult and hurry that attends a departing steamer; but the gangway was
clear, and she went straight on board _The Orizaba_. The first persons
she saw were Duval and Rose. They were leaning over the taffrail, with
their backs to Adriana, and Duval was talking impetuously, holding
Rose's hand in his own. Her attitude was reluctant and hesitating, and
when Adriana said, "Excuse me, Mr. Duval, I have come for Mrs. Van
Hoosen," Rose turned with a sharp cry, and put her hand in Yanna's.
"Pardon, madame," answered Duval in a passion, "Mrs. Van Hoosen
chooses to remain with me."
"Rose, dear Rose! think of your little daughter. Turn back, dear one,
for God's sake! turn back! Have you forgotten your mother and father,
your brother and your loving husband? Rose, come with me. Fly for your
life! Fly for your soul! Come! Come! There is no time to lose."
Duval was urging the foolish, distracted woman at the same time,
pleading his misery, and contrasting her dull, unhappy life in
Woodsome village with all the joys he promised her in Cuba. And Rose
was weeping bitterly. It was also evident that she had been taking
wine, and very likely some drug in it. For her mind was dull, and her
conscience was dull, and she seemed too inert to decide so momentous a
question herself.
But as they stood thus together, and Rose was weakly clinging to
Yanna's arm, Antony came towards them, swift and stern as Fate. He
put his hand on Rose's shoulder, and turned the dear wretched sinner
round till she faced him. He had no need to speak. She looked
piteously at Yanna, and said, "Tell Antony why I came--there is
nothing wrong." And then she laughed so foolishly that Adriana thought
the laugh far more pitiful than tears.
"Mr. Duval is going to Cuba," said Adriana to her brother. "We will
now say 'farewell' to him."
"Mrs. Van Hoosen is going to Cuba also," said Duval, with a mocking
air. "Come, Rose, my love!"
Then in his throat Antony gave him the lie, and with one back-handed
blow, struck him in the mouth and sent him reeling backward like a
drunken man.
Ere he could recover himself, Rose and Antony, followed by Adriana,
were going down the gangway, and a sailor was ringing a bell, and
bidding all not for the voyage to make for the shore. Duval did not
make for the shore. He waited until Antony was putting Rose and
Adriana in the carriage ere he shouted after Antony scandalous
epithets, which he did not deign to notice. But they went like fire
into his ears; and he looked into Rose's apathetic face, sullen and
angry, with a sense of such shame and misery as he had never before
experienced.
Silently they drove to Adriana's house, and then Antony kissed her,
and said with some difficulty, "I can never thank you enough, Yanna,"
and Yanna, smiling sadly in reply, turned to Rose and said, "Good-bye,
Rose. I shall see you at Woodsome, I hope, soon."
Rose did not respond in any way. Her eyes were cast down, she seemed
to be lost to sense and feeling, except for a perceptible drawing away
from her husband when he took the seat which Yanna had vacated.
Furtively she glanced into his face, and she was aware of, though she
was not sorry for, its utter wretchedness. Indeed, in no way did she
evince the slightest contrition for her offence. Antony, however,
doubted whether she was in a condition to fully realize it. With
soulless eyes, she gazed on the panorama of the streets, and if she
had any just knowledge of sin committed, it lay in some corner of her
conscience, far below the threshold of her present intelligence.
It seemed a never-ending ride to Antony. The familiar streets were
strange to him, and his own house was like a house in a dream. He
fancied the coachman looked curious and evilly intelligent. It was not
that his body burned, his very soul burned with shame and pity and
just anger. He gave Rose his arm, however, up the flight of steps, but
she withdrew herself with a motion of impatience as soon as they
entered the hall, and she was not at all aware of a feeling, an
atmosphere, a sense of something sorrowful and unusual, which struck
Antony as quickly as he passed the threshold. The next moment a door
opened, and the family physician came forward.
Antony looked at him and divined what he was going to say. "She is
worse, doctor?" he whispered.
"She is well, sir. Well, forever!"
Then, with such a cry as could only come from a wounded soul, Antony
fled upstairs. Rose sank into the nearest chair. She had not yet any
clear conception of her misery. But in a moment or two, Antony
returned with his little dead daughter in his arms. He was weeping
like a woman; nay, he was sobbing as men sob who have lost hope.
"Oh, my darling!" he cried. "My little comforter! My lost angel!" and
with every exclamation he kissed the lovely image of Death. Straight
to the trembling, dazed mother he took the clay-cold form, which had
already been dressed for its burial. And when Rose understood the
fact, she was like one awakening from a dream--there was a moment's
stupor, a moment's recollection, a moment's passionate realization of
her loss; and then shriek after shriek, from a mind that suddenly lost
its balance and fell from earth to hell.
Fortunately, the physician was at hand, and for once Antony left Rose
to his care. His sympathy seemed dead. He had borne until his capacity
for suffering was exhausted. He lay down on the nursery couch, close
to his dead child, and God sent him the sleep He gives to His beloved
when the sorrow is too great for them. On awakening he found Mrs.
Filmer at his side. She was weeping, and her tears made Antony blind
also. He drew his hands across his eyes, and stood up, feeling weak
and shattered, and ill from head to feet.
"Antony," said Mrs. Filmer, "you have behaved nobly this day. I cannot
thank you as I would like to."
"Emma is dead!" he answered. "Dear mother, that is all I can bear
to-night. Such a sad, little, suffering life! If I could only have
suffered for her! If I could only have been with her at _the hour_. I
watched for that favor. I grudged to leave her, even to eat or
sleep--and I missed it after all! For I hoped at the moment of parting
to have some vision or assurance that her tender little soul would not
have to pass alone through the great outer space and darkness. Where
is she now? Who is her Helper? Will Christ indeed carry her in his
bosom until her small feet reach the fields of Paradise? Mother!
mother! I am broken-hearted this night. Who was with her when she
died?"
"It seems that she died alone. The nurse thought she was asleep, and
she went downstairs to make herself a cup of tea. When she came back
Emma was dead. The doctor says she had a fit and died in it."
"No one to help her! No one to kiss her! It is too cruel! My dear one
would open her eyes at last and find no father--no mother--no one at
all to say 'good-bye' to her!"
"Come, come, Antony! The doctor thinks she never recovered consciousness.
He says she did not suffer. You have saved Rose. Go and say a word to
her. She is in despair."
"I will speak to her as soon as I can. I cannot see her until--until
the child has been taken away from me."
Mrs. Filmer pressed him no further. She thought it best to leave him
much alone. His thin, worn cheeks, and sunken eyes--showing pain,
anxiety, and sleepless nights--were touchingly human. They said
plainer than any words could, "Trouble me no more until I am stronger;
until my soul can reach that serene depth where it can say, 'Thy will
be done,' until, indeed, I can turn to Romans, the eighth chapter and
the twenty-eighth verse, and stand firmly with its grand charter of
God's deliverance in my hand."
When the child was buried, Antony made an effort to speak to his wife.
But she would not speak to him. She had assumed an attitude quite
unexpected--that of an injured woman. She complained to her mother
that an infamous advantage had been taken of a trifling escapade. "I
simply went to see an old friend off to Cuba; and Yanna--because of a
conversation I had with her a few days previously--is sure I am going
to desert my husband and child. She races down to the steamer, and
makes a scene there; and Antony follows to bring on a grand climax!
No! I will not forgive either Yanna or Antony."
"What had you said to Yanna?"
"Just a little serious conversation--such as I wanted to be good, and
so on--and I asked her if anything happened to me to look after baby.
Feeling always makes a fool of me. I won't feel any more. I won't want
to be good any more."
"You had no necessity to ask that woman to look after baby. Was not I
sufficient?"
"I was in one of my good moods. I wanted Yanna to think I was lovely.
I do not care now what any one thinks."
And she acted out this programme to its last letter. She was either
despondently or mockingly indifferent to all that was proposed. After
some delay, her father and mother went to Europe. Yanna and Harry went
to stay with Miss Alida; and Antony made what preparations were
necessary, and removed his household to the Filmer place at Woodsome.
Rose took no part in the removal. When she perceived that the house
was to be closed, she accompanied Antony to the country. But no good
resulted from the change. She refused to see visitors; if she went
out, it was entirely alone; and she passed Yanna and Miss Alida as if
they were utter strangers to her. A spoiled, wilful girl, who had
never felt the bit on her life, she had suddenly thrown off all
control but that of the evil spirit which had taken possession of
her.
Still she preserved a kind of decorum. There was a general impression
that she had nearly lost her reason about her child's death; and
people excused and pitied her aberrations in consequence, or if rumors
of the real truth permeated society at Woodsome, it was quickly
discredited. Men and women alike pointed to the devotion of Antony and
refused to believe it; and in some way the sorrowful shake of Miss
Alida's head at Rose's name, and Yanna's painful silence, impressed on
the community an idea of Rose's suffering rather than of her
wickedness. Sometimes a servant would say boldly that Mrs. Van Hoosen
was ill-tempered and took too much wine, but no one credited the
judgment, except those who hated Rose and wished to believe it.
Indeed, in the latter respect Rose's temper had had a good result.
Antony would have neither wine nor liquor of any kind in his house,
and as Rose refused to visit, her opportunities for indulging the
taste were limited. She did not appear to mind this deprivation as
much as might have been expected. Her insane indulgence of temper
swallowed up every other vice. She had drunk mainly to induce that
exhilaration which she fancied added so much to her beauty, and to
excite that boundless flow of repartee which made her the center of a
crowd of silly young men who liked to have their small wits tickled,
and who hoarded her jokes to retail as their own.
She had now no little circle to entertain; she did not care to please
any one in Woodsome; she even took a pleasure in displeasing Antony,
and her one daily excitement was to try to meet Yanna and Miss Alida
driving, and embarrass their movements, or pass them with insolent
disdain. Peter Van Hoosen was the only person she treated with her old
kindness and charm. To him she was gentle and sad, and one morning
she wandered an hour with him in his garden, listening to his words
of comfort about little Emma, until they were both ready to weep. So
that when Peter saw his son next, he spoke sharply to him about Rose,
and frankly told him he was not worthy to have the charge of such a
little, proud, sensitive heart; indeed, Peter was quite sure that Rose
would have been an excellent wife under such guidance as he would have
given her.
So the summer went away and Rose had the satisfaction of feeling that
she had made all her friends as wretched as she had made herself. Yet
there was no apparent effort to do this; and there was no need of
effort; for the power of those indirect influences which distil from a
life are greater than effort, and Rose had only to wander about the
house and grounds, a picture of woe, lonely and uncomplaining, to
destroy the summer sunshine and set every one on the edge of
quarreling about her. For she had really a strong personality, and her
unhappy moods affected the household as perceptibly as rain affects
the atmosphere.
For weeks Antony endeavored to understand and conquer this attitude.
He followed her in her lonely walks, and she listened to what he said
as if she heard him not. Or she permitted him to walk at her side, and
yet behaved precisely as if he were not there. If he visited her in
her own apartment, she made him just the same nonentity. She heard no
question he asked; she answered no remark he made. Kind or reproachful
words fell alike upon her consciousness, and she made no sign of being
touched by them; for to Antony she had ceased even to pretend to be an
angel.
In this abandonment of her duty there was but one hopeful sign--she
never neglected herself or her appearance. Whenever she permitted
Antony to see her she was beautifully dressed. Her black and white
garments were of the loveliest materials, and were so made and worn as
to give an air of plaintive pathos and elegance to all her movements.
Every day Antony, furtively watching her going out and her coming in,
was touched and smitten afresh by loveliness so near and dear to him,
and yet so far beyond his power to influence. And yet, every day he
grew more hopeless, for Rose's sin was now very different from what it
had been. Her temptation to drink had been in his sight a deformity, a
disease, a calamity, but while Rose sinned against her will he did not
call it a sin; he was as ready to forgive as she was to be sorry. But
this indulgence of a defiant temper in the face of her actual
transgression, was a sin having its origin in _the will_; and it was,
therefore, in all its essence and results devilish and sorrow-making.
Towards the close of this unhappy summer a lady in the vicinity gave a
masked dance, and Antony and Rose received invitations. Antony
regarded them as mere courtesies, for they were still in mourning, and
it was hardly possible Rose would deny and defy all her summer
attitude by accepting them. As she was passing him in the hall he
said, "Rose, Mrs. Lawson has sent us invitations to her mask dance. Of
course they are merely complimentary."
There was no answer.
"Mrs. Lawson knows we are in mourning; and besides, we may be in the
city before the twentieth."
Rose was leisurely walking upstairs, but she heard the words, and a
sudden resolve to cap all her contradictions by going to the dance
entered her mind. It gave her such a fillip of mischievous pleasure as
she had not felt for a long time: and the following day she went into
New York and bought what she desired for the occasion. Antony sent a
polite refusal and thought no more of the matter. Indeed, on the day
before the dance, he began to prepare for a return to the city; and on
the twentieth he went into New York to make arrangements for the
continuance of his lease, as his own house was not finished. He did
not return until a later train than usual, and Rose was in hopes of
escaping his notice until her object had been accomplished. Then, of
course, there would be a scene; and she enjoyed the prospect of it.
She was brewing a storm, and delighting herself in the hellish
concoction.
When Antony came home he saw the carriage at the front door, and the
coachman waiting by the horses. "Where are you going at this time of
night, Clemens?" he asked.
"Mrs. Van Hoosen is going to Mrs. Lawson's dance, sir."
Then Antony turned into the parlor, and leaving open the door, waited
for his wife's approach. Very soon a maid ran down with her carriage
wraps, and then there was a light step, with a vague waft of perfume,
and Antony went to the foot of the staircase. Rose was descending with
her mask in her hand. Her fair auburn hair was loose and crowned with
poppies. Her short and scanty dress was of vivid scarlet and black,
her hose were of scarlet silk, her slippers of black satin, and her
arms covered to above the elbows with black gloves. She was, as she
mockingly said, "a _diablesse_ in scarlet and black."
Antony looked at her, and his face burned with shame; then with a
grasp she could not resist, he led her into the parlor, turned the key
in the door, and put it in his pocket. At that, she found it possible
to speak to her husband.
"Let me out, sir!" she cried, passionately. "How dare you lock me in
any room?" And she was wickedly beautiful as she imperiously ordered
her own release. Sensitive to her influence, and trembling under her
power, Antony defied it.
"You shall not leave this house to-night," he answered. "You shall
never leave it in such a shameless garb. You outrage yourself and all
who love you by it."
"As I intend to remain unknown, the precious self-respect of anybody
that loves me will not be hurt. As for myself, it makes no matter.
Give me the key, sir."
"I will not."
"Then I shall go out by the window."
"You will do nothing of the kind. I am going to remain here with you.
You will not surely compel me to use force."
"You are brutal enough to use force."
"Rose, I must save you from yourself. Some day you will thank me for
it."
"I wish you would let me alone. I do not want you to save me. I wish I
had never seen you. I hate you from morning to night. I wish you would
go where I could never see your face or hear your voice again!"
"You are angry now, Rose. But have you not been cross long enough?
Come, sit down, and let us talk, not of the past, but of the future.
Let us try and make it happier."
He was approaching her as he spoke; and she put out her hands and
waved him away. "Do not dare to come near me!" she cried. "Not one
step further! You shall not put a finger on me. I will not listen to
your voice. Let me go away from your presence."
He sat down, covering his face with his hands, and he was still as a
stone. But Rose felt that he was on guard, and that resistance or
entreaty would be alike useless. So she threw herself on a sofa, shut
her eyes, and began to sing.
The whole appearance and atmosphere of the woman were now repellant;
and a great indignation burned in Antony's heart. He said to himself
that he had done wrong to tolerate so long the evil spirit in his wife
and home. He had forgiven practically what he ought to refuse to
forgive at all. He had encouraged sin by enduring it. And he had done
so because he loved the sinner. "But I shall do what is right in the
future!" he said.
Then he rose up, and Rose, who was watching him from beneath her
nearly closed eyelids, was startled by the new man she saw. He looked
taller, his countenance was stern, and he told the coachman to take
away the carriage in a voice that was quite new to her. But she went
on humming her song, and watching developments. So all the night the
gas burned, and Antony sat guarding his wife, and his wife looked at
him, and sang at him, and paraded herself about the room to irritate
him. But about three o'clock she was very weary, and she fell into a
deep sleep. Then Antony rose and looked at her. Her head was hanging
off the pillow, and one of her feet nearly touched the floor. He
lifted it gently, placed the dear poppy-crowned head comfortably on
the pillow, threw an Afghan over the sleeping form, and with one long
farewell look went quietly out of the room.
The dance was then over, and the bitterest night of his life was
over. He had watched against Indians; he had watched against death in
mines, and camps, and lonely gorges in the mountains; he had watched
the life-breaths of his little daughter pass away, night after night,
in weary painfulness; but such a terrible watch as this one, beside
his wilfully wicked wife, he had never conceived of as possible. He
was weary to death, and her cruel words remained in his heart like
arrows.
He went to his room, and after writing for some time he drank a cup of
coffee and left the house. At the stables he got a horse and buggy,
and drove over to Miss Alida's. He met Harry just outside the gate,
and he called him.
"I was trying to catch the early train," explained Harry. "Is anything
wrong? Why are you here before seven o'clock?"
"Come with me. I have something to say to you, Harry."
Then Harry sent back his own buggy, and seated himself beside Antony.
"Where are you going?" he asked; "there is no station up this road."
"It is quiet. That is enough. Listen, Harry." Then he gave his friend
and brother a brief outline of the life he had led, and of Rose's
behavior on the previous night. He made few complaints, he merely
stated facts; but Harry understood what was not told.
"She says she hates me. She never wants to see my face again. She
never wants to hear me speak to her more. I think my presence
irritates her and makes her cross and cruel. I am going to my place in
the Harqua Hala Range. I ought to have been there long ago. They are
finding gold there. When Rose is sorry, you will let me know?"
He was quietly weeping, and not at all conscious of the circumstance;
and Harry was burning with anger at his wrongs. "It was a bad day for
you, Antony, when the Filmers came into your life," he said. "You have
flung your love away on Rose, and your gold away on me. I do not know
what I shall do without you. You are the greatest soul I ever met. Do
not go away, Antony!"
"There is nothing else to be done. I have worn out her patience, and
she has worn out mine. Be kind to her; and when you have an
opportunity, say a kind word for me."
Far into the morning they talked, and then Antony drove to the
station, and went his lonely way, too miserable to think of adieus,
too ashamed and heart-broken to bear more, either of advice or
consolation. Harry watched his thin, sorrowful face out of sight; and
at the last moment lifted his hat to so much departing love and worth.
Then he drove as fast as his horse could take him to the Filmer
place.
Rose had awakened from her sleep, and had had her breakfast. She was
miserable in all her being. Her head ached; her heart ached. She was
humiliated and chagrined, and the thought of Antony haunted her and
would not let her rest. Also the house was miserable. Everything was
waiting on Antony. Some of the things to be taken to the city were
already packed; others were lying on the chairs and tables, and the
servants were each and all taking their own ill way about affairs.
Rose could think of nothing but an order to let the packing alone
until Mr. Van Hoosen returned; but there was a most unsettled feeling
through the house, and she was quite aware nothing was being done that
ought to be done.
She was greatly relieved to see Harry coming. Harry was the one member
of her family whom she regarded. He had not offended in the Duval
matter, and so it was generally through Harry she was influenced to do
what was required of her. But this morning Harry gave her back no
smile; he did not answer her greeting, and when she offered her hand,
he put it crossly away.
"Rose," he said, "you have managed to behave abominably for a long
time. But your conduct last night is unpardonable. If you were my wife
I would shut you up in a madhouse until you put your senses above your
temper."
"Thanks! I am not your wife, I am happy to say. No one but the divine
Adriana could----"
"Stop your foolish chatter! You have driven your husband from you, at
last. Now I hope you are satisfied."
"So he has gone, has he? And pray, where has my lord gone?"
"To Arizona."
"I am glad he has gone so far."
"Now, madam, you will have to fight the world without him. There is
not a decent woman who will notice you."
"What have I done wrong? And I do not believe Antony has gone. He will
come trailing home to-night."
"He will not. And as to what you have done wrong, if there were
nothing against you but that Duval affair it shuts you out of
society."
Then she rose in a passion, and snapped her fingers in his face.
"You!" she cried, "you dare to come here and reproach me with Duval!
Pray, what about Cora Mitchin? It is the devil correcting sin for you
to talk virtuously. And the divine Yanna is just as bad to live with
you. I would not. I would have respected Antony if he had turned on
his heel when he saw me with Duval on the steamer; if he had turned on
his heel and left me forever, I would have respected him! As it is, I
despise him. Arizona is the best place for him."
"There is no use, and no sense, in putting your fault and mine on the
same level, Rose. Society will teach you who is the worst next
winter."
"What do I care for society? Society is not Jehovah; and being a _man_
will not help you, sir, at the Day of Judgment. You are a great deal
worse than I am. You are not fit for any woman's company; and the
sooner you leave mine, the better I shall like it."
And Harry went. He had nothing further to say. He was convicted by his
own conscience, and by the swift passage through his mind of certain
words that came from the Blameless One--"He that is without sin among
you, let him first cast a stone at her."