CHAPTER XXVII

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EVENTS OF ONE YEAR AT THE FORREST HOUSE.

It was near the last of October when Bee returned to Rothsay, where Everard greeted her gladly as one who could understand, and sympathize with him. It had come to him at last like a shock that he loved Rosamond Hastings as he had never loved Josephine, even in the days of his wildest infatuation; and far different from that first feverish, unhealthy passion of his boyhood was this mightier love of his maturer manhood, which threatened at last to master him so completely that he determined at last to go away from Rothsay for a month, and, amid the wilds of California and the rocky dells of Oregon try to forget the girl whom to love was sin.

To Beatrice he confessed everything, and rebelled hotly against the bar which kept him from his love.

He had thought of divorce, he said. He could easily obtain one under the circumstances, but he was sure Rossie would never believe in any divorce which was not sanctioned by the Bible. He had assumed a case similar to his own, which he pretended was pending in the court, and warmly espousing the husband’s cause, had asked Rosamond if she did not think it perfectly right for the man to marry again.

And she had answered decidedly:

“I should despise him and the woman who married him. I abominate these divorces so easily obtained. It is wicked, and God will never forgive it.”

After this there was nothing for Everard to do but to take up his burden and carry it away with him to the Far West, hoping to leave it there. But he did not, and he came back to Rothsay to find Rossie sweeter, fairer than ever, and so unfeignedly glad to see him that for an hour he gave himself up to the happiness of the moment, and defying both right and wrong, said things which deepened the bloom on Rossie’s cheeks, and brought to her eyes that new light which is so beautiful in its dawning, and which no one can mistake who is skilled in its signs.

He did not tell her he loved her; but he told her how he had missed her, and how she alone had brought him back sooner than he meant to come. And with a shyness which sat so prettily on her, and a drooping of the eyelids, she listened to him, and though she said but little the mischief was done, and never again would her eyes meet his as frankly and readily as before. Something in the tone of his voice and the unwonted tenderness of his manner kindled a fire in that young heart which many waters could not extinguish, and to Rossie it came with a thrill, half fearful, half ecstatic, that she loved Everard Forrest, not as a sister loves a brother or friend loves friend, but as a true, good woman loves the one who to her is the only man in all the world. But could she have followed him back to his room she would scarcely have known the white-faced, haggard man whom the dawn found with his head resting upon the table, where it had lain most of the night, while he fought the demon trying so hard to conquer him. He must not love Rosamond Hastings; he must not let her love him; and to prevent it he must tell her the whole truth, and this was what he was trying to make up his mind to do.

Possibly his resolution to confess the whole to Rosamond was in a measure prompted by a sudden fear which had come upon him lest the knowledge of his marriage should reach her through some other channel. On his return from Oregon, and before he went to the Forrest House, he had found several letters which had come during his absence, and which had not been forwarded. One was from Josephine, who was still abroad and perfectly happy, if her word was to be believed. She had found Mrs. Arnold everything that was kind, and generous, and considerate; had made many delightful acquaintances; had learned to speak both German and French, and had come across Dr. Matthewson, who was at the same hotel with herself, the Victoria, in Dresden.

This letter did not particularly affect Everard either way. Dresden was very far off, and Josephine might remain abroad another year, and into that time so much happiness might be crowded that he would take the good offered him, and not cross the river of difficulty until he fairly reached it. But on his return from the Forrest House he found two more letters on his desk, one postmarked at Dresden, the other at Holburton, and this he opened first. It was from Agnes, and had been sometime on the road, and told him that Mrs. Fleming had died suddenly, after an illness of two days only, and Agnes was left alone. There was still a mortgage on the house, she said, and after that was paid, and the few debts they were owing, there would be but little left for her, and this little she must, of course, divide with Josephine. She offered no complaint, nor asked for any help. She said she could take care of herself, either as housekeeper, cook, or nurse, and, on the whole, she seemed to be in a very resigned and cheerful state of mind for a person left so entirely alone. The other letter proved to be from a Cincinnati acquaintance, with whom he had once been at school, and who had recently married and gone abroad, and was in Dresden, at the Victoria Hotel, where, he said, there were many pleasant Americans, both from Boston and New York, and Everard felt morally sure that the pleasant people from Boston were Mrs. Arnold and Josephine. And his friend, Phil Evarts, was just the man to be attracted by Josey, even if he had a hundred wives, and Josephine was sure to meet him more than half-way, and find out first that he was from Cincinnati, and then that he had been in Rothsay, and knew Judge Forrest’s family, and then,—a cold sweat broke out all over Everard’s face as he thought, _what then?_ while something whispered to him, “Then you will reap the fruit of the deception practiced so long, and you deserve it, too.”

Everard knew he deserved it, but when one is reaping the whirlwind, I do not think it is any comfort to know that he has sowed the wind, or this harvest would never have been. It certainly did not help Everard, but rather added to the torments he endured as he thought of Josephine, enraged and infuriated, swooping down upon him, bristling all over with _injured innocence_, and making for herself a strong party, as she was sure to do. But worse than all would be the utter loss of Rossie, for she _would_ be lost to him forever, and possibly turn against him for his duplicity, and that he could not bear.

“I’ll tell her to-morrow, so help me Heaven!” he said, as he laid his throbbing head upon his writing-table and tried to think how he should commence, and what she would say.

He knew how she would look,—not scornfully and angrily upon him,—but so sorry, so disappointed, and that would hurt him worse than her contempt. How fair and sweet she seemed to him, as he went over all the past as connected with her, remembering, first, the quaint, old-fashioned child he had teased so unmercifully, and of whom he had made a very slave; then the girl of fifteen, whose honest eyes had looked straight into his without a shadow of shame or consciousness, as she asked to be his wife; and, lastly, the Rossie of to-day, the Rossie of long dresses and pure womanhood, who was so dear to him that to have had her for his own for one short, blessed year he felt that he would give the rest of his life. But that could not be. She could never be his, even were he free from the hated tie, as he could be so easily. In her single-heartedness and truth she would never recognize as valid any separation save that which death might make, and this he dared not wish for, lest to his other sins that of murder should be added. He must tell her, and she would forgive him, even while she banished him from her presence; but after she knew it, whose opinion was worth more to him than that of the whole world, he could bear whatever else might come. But how could he tell her? Verbally? and so see the surprise, and disappointment, and pain which would succeed each other so rapidly in those clear, innocent eyes which faithfully mirrored what she felt. He knew there would be pain, for as he loved her so he felt that she cared or could care for him, if only it were right for her to do so, and selfish as he was, it hurt him cruelly that she must suffer through his fault. But it must be, and, at last, concluding that he never could sit face to face with her while he confessed his secret, he decided to write it out and send it to her, and then wait a few days before going to see the effect. He made this resolve just as the autumnal morning shone full into his room, and he heard across the common the bell from his boarding-house summoning him to breakfast. But he could not eat, and after a vain effort at swallowing a little coffee, he went back to his office, where, to his utter amazement and discomfiture, he found Rosamond herself seated in his chair and smiling brightly upon him as he came in.

When he was with her the night before she had forgotten to speak to him of a certain matter of business which must be attended to that day, and immediately after breakfast, which was always early at the Forrest House, she had walked down to the office, and telling the boy in attendance that he need not wait until Mr. Forrest’s return, she sent him to his breakfast, and was there alone when Everard came in.

“Oh, Rossie, Rossie,” he gasped, as if the sight of her unnerved him entirely, “why did you come here this morning?”

She did not tell him why she came, for she forgot her errand entirely, in her alarm at his white, haggard face, and the strangeness of his manner.

“Oh, Mr. Everard!” she cried, for she called him “Mr. Everard” still, as she had done when a child. “You are sick. What is the matter? Sit down and let me do something for you. Are you faint, or what is it?” and, talking to him all the time, she made him sit down in the chair she vacated, and brought him some water, which he refused, and then, standing beside him, laid her soft, cool hand upon his forehead, and asked if the pain was there.

At the touch of those hands Everard felt that he was losing all his self-command. Except as he had held them a moment in his own when he met her, or said good-by, he had not felt those dainty fingers on his flesh since the weeks of his sickness after his mother’s death, when Rossie had been his nurse, and smoothed his aching brow as she was doing now. Then her hands had a strange power to soothe and quiet him, but now they made him wild. He could not bear it, and, pushing her almost rudely from him, he exclaimed: “Don’t, Rossie! I can’t bear that you should touch me.”

There were tears in Rossie’s eyes at being so repulsed, and for an instant her cheeks grew scarlet with resentment, but before she could speak, overcome by an impulse he could not resist, Everard gathered her swiftly in his arms, and, kissing her passionately, said:

“Forgive me, Rossie. I did not mean to be rude, but why did you come here this morning to tempt me. I was going to write and tell you what I ought to have told you long ago, and the sight of you makes me such a coward. Rossie, _my darling_; I will call you so once, though it’s wrong, it’s wicked,—remember that. I am not what I seem. I have deceived you all these years since father died, and before, too,—long before. You cannot guess what a wretch I am.”

It was a long time since Rossie had thought of _Joe Fleming_, with whom she believed Everard had broken altogether; but she remembered him now, and, at once attributing Everard’s trouble to that source, she said, in her old, child-like way:

“It’s Joe Fleming again, Mr. Everard, and I hoped you were done with him forever.”

She was very pale, and her eyes had a startled look, for the sudden caress and the words “my darling,” had shaken her nerves, and roused in her a tumult of joy and dread of she scarcely knew what; but she looked steadily at Everard, who answered her bitterly:

“Yes, it is Joe Fleming,—always Joe Fleming,—and I am going to tell you about it; but, Rossie, you must promise not to hate me, or I never can tell you. Bee knows and does not hate me. Do you promise, Rossie?”

“Yes, I promise, and I’ll help you if I can,” Rossie said, without the slightest suspicion of the nature of the trouble.

She never suspected anything. The shrewd, far-seeing ones, who scent evil from afar, would say of her that she was neither deep nor quick, and possibly she was not. Wholly guileless herself, she never looked for wrong until it was thrust in her face, and so was easily deceived by what seemed to be good. She certainly suspected no evil in Everard, and was anxious to hear the story which he would have told her had it not been for an interruption in the shape of Lawyer Russell, who came suddenly into the office, bringing with him a stranger who wished to consult with both the old lawyer and the young. That, of course, broke up the conference, and Rosamond was compelled to retire, thinking more of the hot kiss which she could still feel upon her forehead, and the words “my darling,” as spoken by Everard, than of the story he had to tell.

And all that day she flitted about the house, warbling snatches of song, and occasionally repeating to herself “my darling,” as Everard had said it to her. If indeed she were his darling, then nothing should separate them from each other. She did not care for his past misdeeds,—or for Joe Fleming. That was in the past. She believed in Everard as he was now, and loved him, too. She acknowledged that to herself, and her face burned with blushes as she did so. And, looking back over the past, she could not remember a time when she did not love him, or rather worship him, as the one hero in the world worthy of her worship. And now?—Rossie could not give expression to what she felt now, or analyze the great happiness dawning upon her, with the belief that as she loved Everard Forrest, so was she loved in return. She was very beautiful with this new light shining over her face, and very beautiful without it. It was now two years since she went unabashed to Everard and asked to be his wife. Then she was fifteen and a-half, and a mere child, so far as knowledge of the world was concerned, and in some respects she was a child still, though she was seventeen and had budded into a most lovely type of womanhood. Her features were not as regular as Bee’s, nor her complexion as soft and waxen; but it was very fresh and bright and clear, and there was something inexpressibly sweet and attractive in her face and the expression of her eyes, while her rippling hair was wound in masses about her well-shaped head, adding somewhat to her apparent height and giving her a more womanly appearance than when she wore it loosely in her neck. If Rossie thought herself pretty, it was never apparent in her manner. Indeed, she never seemed to think of herself at all, though, as the day of which I am writing drew to a close, she did spend more time than usual at her toilet, and when it was finished felt tolerably satisfied with the image reflected by her mirror, and was sure that Everard would be suited, too. He would come that night, of course. There was nothing else for him to do after the events of the morning.

But Everard did not come, and about noon of the next day she received a few lines from him saying that a business matter, of which Lawyer Russell and the stranger with him were the harbingers, would take him for a week or more, to southern Indiana. He had not time to say good-by in person, but he would write to her from Dighton, and he hoped to find her well on his return.

That was all. Not an allusion to the confession he was going to make,—not a sign that he had held her for a moment in his arms and kissed her passionately, while he called her his darling. He was going away on business and would write to her. Nothing could be briefer or more informal, though he called her his dear Rossie. And Rossie, whose faith was not easily shaken, felt that she was dear to him even though he disappointed her. She would hold to that while he was absent, and though her face was not quite as bright and joyous as the night before, there was upon it an expression of happiness and content which made watchful Mrs. Markham think that, as she expressed it to herself, “something had happened.”

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