“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: