CHAPTER XXXI

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MRS. FORREST’S POLICY.

When Aunt Axie was called so suddenly by Mrs. Markham, she was kindling the fire in the dining-room, which adjoined the room where Josephine sat shivering with cold, and feeling like anything but a happy wife just come to her husband’s ancestral halls. Tired with her rapid journey, and disappointed and shocked by what she had heard from Mrs. Markham of the judge’s will, Josey was nearer giving way to a hearty cry than she had been before in a long time. It had been far better to have staid where she was, and enjoyed the life she liked, than to have come here and subject herself to suspicion and slights from the people who did not know her. And then she was so cold, and chilly, and uncomfortable generally.

But when the fire was made she felt better, and drawing an easy chair close to it assumed her usual indolent and lounging attitude. Twice Axie, who seemed to be excited, passed the door, once when she was taking the hot water to Rossie’s room, and again, later, after she had received an impression of the strangers against whom she had mentally declared war. This time Josephine called her. She had heard an unusual stir above, and from Mrs. Markham’s protracted absence, and Axie’s evident haste, suspected that the bombshell she had thrown had taken effect, especially if, as she believed, Rosamond was particularly interested in Everard.

“Woman,” she said, as the black face glanced in, “what is your name?”

“Axie, ma’am,” was the crisp reply, and Josephine continued: “Oh, yes, I have heard my husband speak of you. I am very sorry he is not here to set matters right. What is the matter up stairs? Is any one suddenly ill?”

Axie was bristling with resentment toward this woman, who called Everard her husband so coolly, and in whom she would not believe till she had her master’s word of confirmation. Still, she must not be insolent, that was against her creed; but she answered with great dignity, “I tole you Miss Hastin’s was sick when you fust come. Her throat be very sore, an’ her head mighty bad; so, you’ll scuse me, now,” and with a kind of suppressed snort Axie departed, jingling her keys and tossing her blue-turbaned head high in the air.

Josephine knew perfectly well how she was regarded in the house, and, irritated and chagrined, decided at once upon her policy. She should be very amiable and sweet, of course, but _firm_ in asserting her rights. She was Everard’s wife, and she could prove it, and it was natural that she should come to what she supposed was his home and hers. It was not her fault that she had made the mistake. The wrong was on his side, and she should stay there until he came, unless they turned her from the door, which she hardly thought they would do.

Just then Mrs. Markham appeared, apologizing for her long absence, and saying that though Miss Hastings was, of course, surprised at what she had heard, she did not discredit it, and would telegraph at once for Mr. Forrest.

“Meantime,” she continued, “she wishes you to remain here till he comes, and has given orders to have you made comfortable. I believe there is a fire in your room, if you wish to go to it before dinner. Miss Hastings is too ill to see you herself.”

“Thanks; she is very kind. I would like to go to my room, and to have one of my trunks sent up. Agnes will show you which one,—the small leather box,” Josephine said, with a dignified bow, as she rose from her chair.

Calling Aunt Axie, Mrs. Markham bade her conduct the lady to her room, where a bright wood fire was blazing, and which looked very cheerful and pleasant; for, as it was Everard’s room, where he always slept when he spent a night at the Forrest House, Rosamond had taken great pains to keep it nice, and had transferred to it several articles of furniture from the other rooms. Here Josey’s spirits began to rise, and it was in quite a comfortable state of mind that she dressed herself for dinner, in a gown of soft cashmere, with just a little white at her throat and wrists. As it was only her mother for whom she mourned, she had decided that she might wear a jet necklace, which heightened the effect of her dress, if indeed it needed anything more to improve it than the beautiful face and wealth of golden hair. Even Mrs. Markham drew an involuntary breath as this vision of loveliness and grace came into the room, apologizing for being tardy, and inquiring so sweetly for Miss Hastings, who, she hoped, was no worse.

Her policy was to be a sweet as well as a firm one, and before dinner was over even Mrs. Markham began to waver a little in her first opinion, and wonder why Everard should have kept secret his marriage with this brilliant, fascinating woman, who seemed so much of a lady, and who evidently was as well born as himself, at least on the maternal side, for Josey took care to say that her mother knew Mrs. Forrest when she was a girl, and was present at her wedding in Boston, but that, owing to adverse circumstances, they saw nothing of each other after the marriage.

“Papa was unfortunate and died, and we moved into the country, where, for a time, mamma had a hard struggle to keep up, and at last took a few boarders in order to live,” she said; and her blue eyes were very tender and pathetic as she told what in one sense was the truth, though a truth widely different from the impression she meant to convey.

Once Agnes, whose face was very white, gave her such a look of sorrowful entreaty that Mrs. Markham observed and wondered at it, just as she wondered at the great difference between the sisters, and could only account for it on the supposition that Agnes’ mother was a very different woman from the second Mrs. Fleming, who had been a friend of Mrs. Forrest, and a guest at her wedding! Miss Belknap was, of course, brought into the conversation, and Josephine was sorry to hear that she was not at home.

“I depended upon her to vouch for my respectability. She knows me so well,” she said, explaining that Beatrice had been for some time an inmate of her mother’s house in Holburton, and that she had liked her so much, and then, more bewildered than ever, Mrs. Markham went over half-way to the enemy, and longed for the mystery to be explained.

The next day, which was Saturday, it rained with a steady pour, and Josephine kept her room, after having expressed a wish to see Miss Hastings, if possible; but when this request was made known to Rossie by Mrs. Markham, she exclaimed:

“No, no,—not her; not Joe Fleming! I could not bear it till Mr. Everard comes.”

She was thinking of her hair and the letter, and the persistence with which Joe Fleming had demanded money from Everard, and it made no difference with her that Mrs. Markham represented the woman as pretty, and lady-like, and sweet. She could _not_ see her, and a message to the effect that she was too weak and sick to talk with strangers was taken to Josephine, who hoped Miss Hastings was not going to be seriously ill, and offered the services of her sister, who had the faculty of quieting the most nervous persons and putting them to sleep. But Rossie declined Agnes too, and lay with her face to the wall, scarcely moving, and never speaking unless she was spoken to. And Josephine lounged in her own room, and had her lunch brought up by Axie, to whom she tried to be gracious. But Axie was not easily won. She did not believe in Mrs. J. E. Forrest, and looked upon her presence there as an affront to herself and an insult to Rossie, and when about two o’clock the Rothsay _Star_ was brought into the house by her husband, John, who was in a state of great excitement over the marriage notice, which had been pointed out to him, she wrung from Lois the fact that she had carried a note to the editor, and had been paid a quarter for it by the lady up stairs. She put the paper away where it could not be found if Rossie chanced to ask for it.

But she could not keep it from the world as represented by Rothsay, for it was already the theme of every tongue. The editor had read the note which Josephine sent him before Lois left the office, and had questioned her as to who sent her with it. Lois had answered him:

“De young lady what comed from de train wid four big trunks and bandbox.”

“And where is she now?” he asked, and Lois replied: “Up sta’rs in Mas’r Everard’s room.”

This last was proof conclusive of the validity of the marriage, which the editor naturally concluded was a hasty affair of Everard’s college days, when he had the reputation of being rather wild and fast, and so he published the notice and in another column called attention to it, as the last great excitement.

Of course there was much wondering, and surmising, and guessing, and in spite of the rain the ladies who lived near each other got together and talked it up, and believed or discredited it according to their several natures. Mrs. Dr. Rider, a chubby, good-natured, inquisitive woman, declared her intention of knowing the facts before she slept. Her husband attended Rosamond, and she had a sirup which was just the medicine for a sore throat and influenza, such as Rossie was suffering from, and she would take it to her, and perhaps learn the truth of the story of Everard’s marriage.

Accordingly, about four o’clock that afternoon, Mrs. Dr. Rider’s little covered phaeton turned into the Forrest avenue, and was seen from the window by Josephine, who, tired and _ennuyeed_, was looking out into the rain.

That the phaeton held a lady she saw, and as the lady could only be coming there she resolved at once to put herself in the way of some possible communication with the outer world. Glancing at herself in the mirror she saw that she was looking well, although a little paler than her wont, but this would make her more interesting in the character she meant to assume, that of an angelic martyr. As the day was chilly, a soft white wrap of some kind would not be out of place, and would add to the effect.

So she snatched up a fleecy shawl of Berlin wool, and throwing it around her shoulders, took with her a book, and hurrying down to the reception-room, had just time to seat herself gracefully and becomingly, when the door opened and Mrs. Dr. Rider came in.

Aunt Axie, who was a little deaf, was in the kitchen busy with her dinner, while Lois was in the barn, hunting for eggs, and so no one heard the bell, which Mrs. Rider pulled twice, and then, presuming upon her long acquaintance with the house, opened the door and walked into the reception-room, where she stopped for an instant, startled by the picture of the pretty blonde in black, with the white shawl, and the golden hair rippling back from the beautiful face.

Here was a stroke of what Mrs. Rider esteemed luck. She had stumbled at once upon the very person she had come to inquire about, and as she was not one to lose any time, she shook the rain-drops from her waterproof, and drawing near to the fire, turned to the lady in the easy-chair, and said:

“I beg your pardon for my very unceremonious entrance. I rang twice, and then ventured to come in, it was raining so hard.”

Josephine admitted that it was raining hard, and remarked that she expected to find it warmer in Southern Ohio than in Eastern New York, but she believed it was colder, and with a shiver she drew her shawl around her shoulders, shook back her hair, and lifted her blue eyes to Mrs. Rider, who responded:

“You came from the East, then?”

“Yes, madam, from Holburton. That is, I am from there just now, but it’s only two weeks since I returned from Europe, where I have been for a long time.”

Here there was a solution in part of the mystery. This wife had been in Europe, and that was why the secret had been kept so long, and little Mrs. Dr. Rider flushed with eager excitement and pleasurable curiosity as she said:

“From Europe! You must be tired with your long journey. Have you ever been in Rothsay before? From your having come from the East I suppose you must be a relative of Mrs. Forrest, who was born in Boston?”

Josephine knew she did not suppose any such thing, and that in all probability she had seen the notice in the _Star_, and had come to spy out the land, but it was not her policy to parade her story unsolicited; so she merely replied that she was not a relative of Mrs. Forrest’s, though her mamma and that lady had been friends in their girlhood. To have been a friend of the late Mrs. Forrest stamped a person as somebody, and Mrs. Rider began at once to espouse the cause of this woman, to whom she said:

“I hope you will excuse me if I seem forward in what I am about to say. I am Mrs. Rider, wife of the family physician, and a friend of Everard, and when I saw that notice of his marriage in the _Star_ I could hardly credit it, though I know such things have been before; but four years is such a long time to keep an affair of that kind a secret. May I ask if it is true, and if you are the wife?”

“It is true, and I am his wife, or I should not be here,” Josey said, very quietly.

“Yes, certainly not, of course,” Mrs. Rider replied, hardly knowing what she was saying, and wishing that the fair blonde whose eyes were looking so steadily into the fire would say something more, but she didn’t.

She was waiting for her visitor to question her, which she presently did, for she could never leave the matter in this way, so she said:

“You will pardon me, Mrs. Forrest, but knowing a little makes me want to know more. It seems so strange that Everard should have been a married man for more than four years and we never suspect it. It must have been a private marriage.”

“Ye-es, in one sense,” Josephine said, with the air of one who is having something wrung from him unwillingly. “A great many people saw us married, for it was in a drama,—a play,—but none of them knew it was meant to be real and binding, except Everard and myself and the clergyman, who was a genuine clergyman. We knew and intended it, of course, or it would not have been valid. We were engaged, and did it on the impulse of the moment, thinking no harm. Nor was there, except that we were both so young, and Everard not through college. We told mother and sister, but no one else, and as the villagers did not know of our intention to be married, or that Dr. Matthewson was a clergyman, they never suspected the truth, and the secret was to be kept until Everard was graduated, and after that——”

She spoke very slowly now, and drew long breaths, as if every word she uttered were a stab to her heart.

“After that I hoped to get out of my false position, but there was some fear of Judge Forrest, which kept Everard silent, waiting for an opportunity to tell him, for I was not rich, you know, and he might be angry; so I waited patiently, and his father died, and I went to Europe, and thus the years have gone.”

The blue eyes, in which the tears were shining, more from steadily gazing into the fire than from emotion of any kind, were lifted to Mrs. Rider, who was greatly affected, and then said:

“Yes, I see; but when the judge died there was nothing in the way of acknowledging the marriage. I am surprised and disappointed in Everard that he should treat you thus.”

Mrs. Rider’s sympathy was all with the injured wife, who seemed so patient and uncomplaining, and who replied:

“He had good reasons, no doubt. His father disinherited him, I believe, and that may have had its effect; but I do not wish it talked about until Everard comes. It is very awkward for me that he is absent. I expected to meet him. I must come, of course; there was no other way, for mamma recently died, and the old home was broken up. I must come to my husband.”

She kept asserting it as if in apology for her being there, and her voice trembled, and her whole air was one of such injured innocence that Mrs. Rider resolved within herself to stand by her in the face of all Rothsay, if necessary. Mrs. Rider was a very motherly little woman, and her heart went out at once to this girl, whose blue eyes and black dress appealed so strongly to her sympathies. She liked Everard, too, and did not mean to be disloyal to him, if she could help it, but she should stand by the wife; and she was so anxious to get away and talk up the wonderful news with her acquaintances that she forgot entirely the sirup she had brought for Rossie’s throat, and would have forgotten to inquire after Rossie herself if Aunt Axie had not accidentally put her head in the door and given vent to a grunt of surprise and disapprobation when she saw her in close conversation with Josephine, and, with her knowledge of the lady’s character for gossip, foresaw the result.

“Oh, Miss Rider, is you here?” she said, advancing into the room; “and does Miss Markham know it? I’ll fotch her directly, ’cause Miss Ros’mon’s too sick to see yer.”

“Never mind, Axie,” Mrs. Rider said, rising and beginning to adjust her waterproof. “I drove up to inquire after Rossie, and have spent more time than I intended talking with Mrs. Forrest,” and she nodded toward Josephine, who also arose and acknowledged the nod and name with a gracious bow.

She saw the impression she had made on her visitor, who took her hand at

## parting, and said:

“You will probably remain in Rothsay now, and I shall hope to see a great deal of you.”

Again Josephine bowed assentingly to Mrs. Rider, who at last left the room, followed by Axie, whose face was like a thunder-cloud as she almost slammed the door in the lady’s face in her anxiety to be rid of her.

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