Forrest House

by Mary Jane Holmes

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.