Before bed-time half the people in Rothsay knew of the marriage, and that Mrs. Dr. Rider had seen and talked with the lady, who was reported as very beautiful, and young, and stylish, and cultivated, and traveled, and a Bostonian, whose family had been on the most intimate terms with the Bigelows. She was also a friend of Bee Belknap, who had spent a summer with her, and probably knew of the marriage, which was a sort of escapade gotten up on the spur of the moment, and kept a secret at first because Everard was not through college, and feared his father’s displeasure. But why it was not made public after the judge’s death was a question which even the wise ones could not answer; and so the wonder and excitement increased.
The next morning, which was Sunday, dawned clear and bright. The rain was over, and at the usual hour the Rothsayites betook themselves to their accustomed place of worship. Trinity church was full that morning, for though the people hardly expected Mrs. J. E. Forrest herself, they did expect Mrs. Markham, and hoped to hear something more from her. But Mrs. Markham was not there, and the large, square pew which the Forrests had occupied for many years, and which was far up the middle aisle, was empty until the reading of the Psalms commenced, when there was heard outside the sound of rapidly approaching wheels, which stopped before the door, and a moment after there entered a graceful figure clothed in black, with the prettiest little Paris bonnet perched on the golden hair, the long crape vail thrown back, disclosing the fair, blonde face, which was a little flushed, while the blue eyes had in them a timid, bashful expression as they glanced quickly round in quest of the sexton, who, having fulfilled his duties at the bell, had gone to the organ loft, for he was blower as well as bell-ringer, and left to others the task of seating strangers. But Josey did not have to wait long, for four men,—two young, one middle-aged, and one white-haired and old,—simultaneously left their pews and made a movement toward her, the youngest reaching her first and asking if she would have a seat.
“Yes, thank you. Please show me Judge Forrest’s pew,” was the reply, and every head was turned as her long skirts went trailing up the aisle, and the air was filled with the costly and delicate perfume she carried with her, and which was fresh from Pinaud’s.
What a long time she remained upon her knees, and how devout she was after she had arisen, and how clearly and sweetly she sang the “Gloria,” and how wonderfully her overskirt was looped, and how jauntily her jacket fitted her, with such a pretty stand-up collar, and how white her neck was above it, and how beautiful the wavy hair under the lovely bonnet. All these details, and more, were noted by every woman in church who could get a view of her, while even the clergyman, good and conscientious man as he was, found it difficult to keep his eyes from straying too often to that crimson-cushioned pew and the black-robed figure whose responses were so audible and clear, and who seemed the very incarnation of piety and innocence. He had heard of Mrs. J. E. Forrest, and he guessed who the stranger was, and when service was over he came down to speak to her. Mrs. Rider, however, was there before him, and was shaking hands with the lady, whom she presented to the rector, and to his wife, and to several others who sat near, and who involuntarily moved in that direction.
And Josephine received them with a modesty of demeanor which won their sympathy, if not their hearts, at once. Not the slightest allusion did they make to her husband, but she spoke of him herself, naturally and easily. She had hoped to find him at home when she came and have him present her to his friends, but unexpected business had called him away, she believed. However, he would soon return, as Miss Hastings had telegraphed for him, and then she should not feel so much alone.
How very gentle and gracious she was, answering all questions with great modesty, and without seeming to volunteer any direct remarks, adroitly managing to drop a good many scraps of information with regard to herself and her past life, all of course highly advantageous to herself. Of Everard she said very little, but when she did speak of him it was always as “My husband, Mr. Forrest.”
She should certainly expect him on the morrow, she said, and then she should not feel so much like a stranger, possibly an impostor, and she laughed a little musical laugh, and her blue eyes sparkled so brightly and her lips curled so prettily that every heart was won, and the whole bevy of ladies followed her to the carriage telling her they should call and see her very soon, stood watching her as she drove away, and talked together of her and her recreant husband, in whom there must be something wrong, or he would long ago have acknowledged this peerless woman as his wife. And so the talk increased and every conceivable story was set afloat, and poor Everard stood at rather a low ebb in public opinion, when the six o’clock train came in the next day and left him standing upon the platform, bewildered and confounded with the words which greeted him as he left the car, and which gave him the first intimation of what he was to expect. The editor of the Rothsay Star was standing there, and hitting Everard upon the shoulder, exclaimed:
“Hallo, Forrest. A nice trick you’ve been playing upon us,—married all this time, and not let us know.”
“Married! What do you mean?” And Everard turned white to his lips, while his friend replied: