CHAPTER XXII

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THE NEW LIFE AT ROTHSAY.

His first impulse was to ring like any stranger at a door not his own, but thinking to himself, “I will not wound her unnecessarily,” he walked into the hall, and, depositing his satchel and hat upon the rack, went to the dining-room, the door of which was ajar, so that the first object which met his view as he entered was Rossie, standing under the chandelier, but so transformed from what she was when he last saw her, that he stood for an instant wondering what she had done; for, instead of a child in short frock and white aprons, with loose flowing hair, he saw a young woman in a long black dress, with her hair twisted into a large, flat coil, and fastened with a comb.

The morning after Everard’s departure Rossie had gone with Beatrice to order a black dress, which she insisted should be made long. “I am through with short clothes now,” she said to Beatrice. “I feel so old since I did that shameful thing, that for me to dress like a child would be as absurd as for you to do it. I am _not_ a child. I am at least a hundred years old, and you know, it would never do for an heiress to be dressed like a little girl. How could I discuss business with my lawyer in short clothes and bibs,” and she laughed hysterically as she tried to force back her tears.

She had become convinced that for a few years she must submit to be the nominal owner at least of the Forrest property, and she had made up her mind to certain things from which she could not be turned. One was long dresses, and she carried her point, and gave orders concerning some minor details with a quiet determination which astonished Bee, who had hitherto found her the most pliable and yielding of girls. The dress had been sent home on the very afternoon of Everard’s arrival, and without a thought of his coming, Rossie shut herself in her room, and began the work of transformation, first by twisting up her flowing hair, which added, she thought, at least two years to her appearance, though she did not quite like the effect, it was so unlike herself. But the long dress was a success, and she liked the sound of the trailing skirt on the carpet, and looked at herself in the glass more than she had ever done before in her life at one time, and felt quite satisfied with the _tout ensemble_ when she at last went down to the dining-room, where she was standing when Everard came in.

She had been very lonely during his absence, and she was wondering where he had gone, and when he would return, when the door in the hall opened, and he was there before her.

For a moment she stood regarding him just as he was studying her; then, forgetting everything in her joy at seeing him again, she went forward to meet him, and giving him both her hands, while a beautiful flush dyed her cheeks, said to him:

“I am so glad you have come back; it was so lonesome here, and I was just thinking about you.”

Her greeting was so much more cordial than Everard had expected that it made him very happy, and he kept her hands in his until she drew them away with a sudden wrench, and stepping back from him, put on the dignity she had for a moment dropped. But the action became her and her long dress, and Everard looked closely and admiringly at her, puzzled to know just what it was which had changed her so much. He guessed that she was thinking of that scene in his father’s room, but he meant to ignore it altogether, and, if possible, put her on her old familiar footing with himself; so, looking at her from head to foot, he said:

“What is it, Rossie? What have you done to yourself? Pieced down your gown, or what, that you seem so much taller and grander every way,—quite like Bee, in fact? Yes, you have got on a train, sure as guns, and your hair up in a comb; that part I don’t like; the other change is rather becoming, but I’d rather see you so;” and playfully pulling the comb from her head, he let the wavy hair fall in masses upon her neck and shoulders. “There, that’s better; it gives me little Rossie again, and I do not wish to lose my sister.”

He was trying to reassure her, and she knew it, and was very grateful to him for the kindness, and said, laughingly, that she put up her hair because she thought it suited the long dresses which she meant to wear now that she was a woman of business, but if he liked it in her neck it should be worn so; and then she asked him of his journey, and if he was not tired and hungry.

“Tired? No; but cold as a frog and hungry as a bear. What have we for dinner?” And he turned to inspect the little round table laid for one. “Nothing but toast and tea. Why, that would starve a cat. Did you dine in the middle of the day?”

Rosamond colored painfully as she answered:

“I had lunch, as usual. I was not hungry. I am never hungry now, and just have tea at night.”

“Rossie,” and Everard laid both hands on her shoulders and looked her squarely in her eyes, “Rossie, are you practicing economy, so as not to use the money you think belongs to me?”

He divined her motive, for it was the fear of using the Forrest money needlessly which was beginning to rule her life, and had prompted her to omit the usual dinner, the most expensive meal of the day, and have, instead, plain bread and butter, or toast and tea; and Everard read the truth in her tell-tale face, and said:

“That will never do, and will displease me very much; I wish you to live as you ought, and if it is on my account you are trying the bread and water system, I am here now and hungry as a fish, so you can indulge for once and order on everything there is.”

There was not much, but a slice of cold ham was found, and some cheese, and jam and pickles, and Axie made a delicious cup of coffee, and brought more bread and butter, and offered to bake him a hoe cake if he would wait, but he was too nearly starved to wait for hoe cakes, he said, and he took his father’s place at the table, and was conscious of a great degree of comfort in and satisfaction with his surroundings, especially with the sight of the young girl who sat opposite to him and poured his coffee, and once or twice laughed heartily at some of his funny remarks. He seemed in excellent spirits, and though much of it was forced for Rossie’s sake, he really was happier than he had been since his father’s death. His future, so far as Josephine was concerned, was settled. He should never attempt to live with her now.

All the evening he sat with Rossie, and piled the wood upon the fire until the flames leaped merrily up the chimney, and infused a genial warmth through the large room. And Rosamond enjoyed it thoroughly because it was done for him. She would never have added a single superfluous chip for herself, lest it should diminish what was one day to go back to him; but for Everard she would almost have burned the house itself and felt she was doing her duty.

The next morning he spent with Beatrice, to whom he told the story of the midnight ride from Albany.

“After seeing and hearing what I did, I cannot ask her to live with me lest she should consent,” he said, and Beatrice could not say a word in Josephine’s defense, but asked what he proposed to do. Was he going away, or would he remain in Rothsay? A few days ago Everard would have answered promptly, “No, anywhere but here, in the place so full of unpleasant memories;” but now matters had somehow changed. That coming home the previous night, that bright fire on the hearth, and more than all, the sweet young face on which the firelight shone, and the eyes which had looked so modestly at him had made him loth to leave Rothsay and go away from the shadowy firelight and the young girl with the new character and the long dress. He might have left the _child_ Rossie in the hands of Beatrice and Lawyer Russell, knowing she would be well cared for, but to leave Miss Hastings was quite another thing, and when Bee questioned him of his intentions, he hesitated a moment and was glad when, in her usual impetuous, helpful way, she said:

“Let me advise you before you decide. I saw Lawyer Russell in your absence, and had a long talk with him, and he thinks the best thing you can do is to stay in the office where you are and accept the guardianship of Rossie and the administration of the estate. That will bring you money which you certainly can have no scruples in taking, as it will be honestly earned and must go to some one. You can still go on with your study of law and write your essays and reviews, and so have plenty of means to satisfy Josephine, if money will do it. I do not suppose you will live at the Forrest House, that might not be best; but you will be in the village near by and can have a general oversight of Rossie herself as well as her affairs. What do you think of my plan?”

The idea of remaining in Rothsay and having an oversight of Rosamond was not distasteful to the young man, and when he left Beatrice he went directly to his father’s office, where he found Lawyer Russell, who made the same suggestion with regard to the guardianship and administration of the estate which Beatrice had done. Of course it was necessary that Rosamond herself should be seen, and the two men went to the Forrest House to consult with her on the subject.

They found her more than willing, and in due time Everard was regularly installed as guardian to Rosamond and administrator of the estate. And then began a conflict with the girl, who manifested a decision of character and dignity of manner with which Everard found it difficult to cope. She insisted upon knowing exactly how much the Forrest property was estimated at, where the money was invested, and when interest on each investment was due. This she wrote down in a book of her own, and then she made an estimate of the annual expenses of the household as it was at present conducted.

“Don’t you think that a great deal?” she asked.

“Father did not find it too much, and he was as close about expenditures as one need to be,” Everard replied; and Rosamond continued:

“Yes, but I propose to reduce everything.”

“What do you mean, Rossie?” Everard asked, greatly puzzled to understand this girl, who seemed so self-possessed and assured in her long dress, to which he charged everything new or startling in her conduct.

Rosamond hesitated a moment, and then replied:

“You have convinced me against my will that I am at present the lawful heir of your father’s property; I have tried hard not to accept that as a fact, but I am compelled to do so. You say that I am really and truly the mistress of Forrest House, and don’t mistresses of houses do as they like about the arrangement of matters in the house?” Everard said, “Generally, yes,” and Rossie went on.

“Well, then, this is what I mean to do. First, I shall keep a strict account of the income and a strict account of the outgo, so far as that outgo is for me personally. You know I have two thousand dollars of my own, and I shall use that first, and by the time that is gone I hope to be able to take care of myself. I am going to have some nice, middle-aged lady in the house as companion and teacher, and shall study hard, so that in a year or two at most I shall be able to go out as governess or teacher in some school. My mind is quite made up. There are some things I cannot do, and there are some things I can, and this is one of them. I shall have the teacher and get an education, and meanwhile shall live as economically as possible; and I wish you to sell the horses and carriage, too; I shall never use them, and horses cost so much to keep. I like to walk, and have good strong feet and ankles,—great big ones, you used to say,” and she tried to smile, but there was a tear on her long eyelashes as she referred to a past which had been so pleasant and free from care. “A part of the land is a park,” she went on, “and does not need much attention except to pick up and prune, and cut the grass occasionally. Uncle Abel told me so. I have talked with him ever so much, and he says if I give him three dollars more a month he can do all there is to be done in the grounds, if he does not have the horses to look after, so I shall keep him, and his little grandson, Jim, to do errands and wait on the table and door, and Aunt Axie to work in the house, and send the rest away.”

“Why, Rosamond,” Everard said, staring at her in amazement, “you don’t know what you are talking about; Aunt Axie cannot do all the work.”

“Nor will she,” Rossie said; “I am going to shut up most of the house, and only use two rooms up stairs, one for myself and one for the teacher, and the dining-room down stairs, and little sitting-room off for any calls I may have. I can take care of my own room and the teacher’s, too, if she likes.”

She had settled everything, and it only remained for Everard, as her guardian, to acquiesce in her wishes when he found that nothing which he could say had power to change her mind. She had developed great decision of character, and so clear a head for business in all its details, that Everard told her, laughingly, that it would be impossible for him to cheat her in so much as a penny without being detected. He was intensely interested in this queer girl, as he styled her to himself, and so far as was consistent with her good, did everything she asked, proving himself the most indulgent of guardians and faithful of administrators. Together with Beatrice he inquired for and found, in Cincinnati, a Mrs. Markham, a lady, and the widow of an English curate, who seemed exactly fitted for the situation at Forrest House as Rossie’s teacher and companion. All Rossie’s wishes with regard to reducing the expenditures of the household were carried out, with one exception. Everard insisted that she should keep one of the horses, which she could drive, and the light covered carriage which had been Mrs. Forrest’s. To this Rossie consented, but sent away three of the negroes, and shut up all the rooms not absolutely essential to her own and Mrs. Markham’s comfort. In this way she would save both fuel and lights, and the wear of furniture, she said, and to _save_ for Everard had become a sort of mania with her. And when he saw he could not move her, Everard humored her whims and suffered her in most things to have her way. He had a cheap, quiet boarding-house in town, where he was made very comfortable by his landlady, who felt a little proud of having Judge Forrest’s son in her family, even if he were disowned and poor. Blood was better than money, and lasted longer, she said, and as Everard had the bluest of blood, she made much of him, and petted him as he had never been petted in his life. And so, under very favorable auspices, began the new life of the two persons with whom this story has most to do.

So far as Rossie was concerned it bade fair to be very successful. Mrs. Markham was both mother and friend to the young girl, in whom she was greatly interested. A thorough scholar herself, she had a marvelous power of imparting her information to others, and Rossie gave herself to study now with an eagerness and avidity which astonished her teacher, and made her sometimes try to hold her back, lest her health should fail from too close application. But Rossie seemed to grow stronger, and fresher, and rounder every day, notwithstanding that all her old habits of life were changed.

Every day Beatrice came to the Forrest House, evincing almost as much interest in Rosamond’s education as Mrs. Markham herself, and giving her a great deal of instruction with regard to her French accent and music. Every Sunday Everard dined with her, and called upon her week days when business required that he should do so; and he looked forward to these visits with the eagerness of a schoolboy going home. In some respects Everard was very happy, or, at least, content, during the first months of the new life. He was honorably earning a very fair livelihood, and at the same time advancing with his profession. No young man in town was more popular than himself, for the people attached no blame to him for his father’s singular will, which they thought unjustifiable. There was, of course, always present with him a dread of the day which must come when his secret would be known,—but Holburton was an out-of-the-way place, where his friends never visited, and it might be months or even years before Josephine heard of his father’s death, and until that time he meant to be as happy as he could. Josephine did not trouble him often with letters which he felt obliged to answer. He took care to supply her frequently with money, which he sent in the form of drafts, without any other message, and she seemed satisfied. He had sold his horse, his stock was yielding him something regularly now, and with the percentage due him for his services as administrator, he was doing very well, and would have been quite content but for that undefinable sense of loss ever present, with him. He had lost the child Rossie, and he wanted her back again, with the short gingham dress and white apron, and cape bonnet, and big boots, and little tanned hands; wanted the girl whom he had teased, and petted, and domineered over at will; who used to romp the livelong day with the dogs and cats, and teach even the colts and calves to run and race with her; who used to chew gum, and burst the buttons off her dress, and eat green apples and plums, and cry with the stomach-ache. All these incidents of the past as connected with Rossie came back to him so vividly, that he often said to himself:

“What has become of the child Rossie?”

She had been such a rest, such a comfort to him, and in one sense she was a comfort now, at least she was a study, an excitement and a puzzle to him, and he always found himself looking forward to the visits which he made her with an immense amount of interest. Every Sunday he dined with her, and walked with her to church in the evening, and sat in his father’s pew, and walked back with her and Mrs. Markham to the house after service was over, and said good-night at the door, and wondered vaguely if women like Mrs. Markham always went to church, if they never had a headache, or a cold, and were compelled to stay at home. Occasionally, too, he went to the Forrest House on business, asking only for Rosamond; but Mrs. Markham always appeared first, coming in as if by accident, and seating herself, with the shawl she was knitting, far off by the window, just where she could see what was done at the other end of the room. After a little Rosamond would appear, in her long black gown, which trailed over the carpet as she walked, and exasperated Everard with the sound of its trailing, for to that he charged the metamorphosis in Rossie. It was the cause of everything, and had changed her into the quiet, dignified Miss Hastings, to whom it was impossible to speak as he used to speak to Rossie.

One day as he was looking from his office window he saw Mrs. Markham going by for the long walk she was accustomed to take daily. He had seen her pass that way frequently with Rosamond at her side, but Rossie was not with her now; and though Everard had been at the Forrest House the night before, he suddenly remembered a little matter of business which made it very necessary for him to go again, and was soon walking rapidly up the long avenue to his old home. Aunt Axie let him in, and went for Rossie, who came to him at once,—evincing some surprise at seeing him again so soon, and asking, rather abruptly, if there was more business.

“Yes,” and he blushed guiltily, and felt half vexed with her for standing up so straight and dignified, with her hands holding to the back of a chair, while he explained that the Ludlow mortgage would be due in a few days, and asked if she would like to have it renewed, as it could be, or have the money paid and invested somewhere else at a higher rate? He had forgotten to mention it the previous night, he said, and as she had expressed a wish to know just how the moneys were invested, he thought best to come again and consult her.

Rossie did not care in the least; she would leave it entirely to him, she said, and then waited, apparently for him to go. But Everard was in no haste, and passing her a chair he said:

“Sit down, Rossie. I am not going just yet. Now that I have you to myself for a few moments, I wish to ask how long this state of things is to go on?”

She did not know at all what he meant, and looked at him wonderingly as she took the proffered chair and said, “What state of things? What do you mean?”

“I mean the high and mighty air you have put on toward me. Why, you are so cold and dignified that one can’t touch you with a ten-foot pole, and this ought not to be. I have a right to expect something different from you, Rossie. I dare say I can guess in part what is the matter. You are always thinking of that day you came to me in father’s room and said what you did. But for Heaven’s sake, forget it. I have never thought of it as a thing of which you need feel ashamed. You had tried every way to give me the money, and when that idea was suggested you seized upon it without a thought of harm, and generously offered to marry me and then run away, and so reinstate me in my rights.”

Rossie’s face was scarlet, but she did not speak, and he continued:

“It was a noble, unselfish act, and just like you, and I don’t think a whit the less of you for it. I know you did not mean it _that way_, as you assured me so vehemently. I am your brother. You have known me as such ever since you can remember anything here, and my little sister was very dear to me, and I miss her so much now that I have lost her.”

“Lost her, Mr. Everard! Lost me! No, you haven’t,” Rosamond said, her eyes filling with tears, which shone like stars, as Everard went on:

“Yes, I have. I lost her when you put on those long dresses and began to meet me in such a formal way, with that prim, old duenna always present, as if she was afraid I was going to eat you up. Mrs. Markham is very nice, no doubt, but I don’t like that in her. It may be English propriety, but it is not American. I’m not going to hurt you, and I want sometimes to see you here alone and talk freely and cozily, as we used to talk,—about your cats, if you like, I don’t care what, if it brings you back to me, for you don’t know how I long for the child whom I used to tease so much.”

He stopped talking, and Rossie was almost beautiful, with the bright color in her cheeks and the soft light in her eyes, which were full of tears, as she said, impulsively, “You shall have the child Rossie again, Mr. Everard. I am glad you have told me what you have. It will make it so much easier now to see you. I was always thinking of _that_, and feeling that you were thinking of it, too, and I am happy to know you are not. I don’t wish to be stiff and distant with you, and you may come as often as you choose, and Mrs. Markham need not always be present,—that was as much my idea as hers; but the long dress I must wear now; it suits me better than the short clothes which showed my feet so much. You know how you used to tease me.” She was beginning to seem like herself again, and Everard enjoyed himself so well that he staid until Mrs. Markham returned, and when at last he left, it was with a feeling that he liked the graceful, dignified young girl almost as well as he had once liked the child Rossie.

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