“No, Aggie, let her do as she likes,—I deserve it all. But don’t feel badly, Aggie. I am glad to see you, at any rate, and I feel better because you are here; and now go to the dinner, which has waited so long.”
Agnes was not deceived in the least, and her heart was very heavy as she went down to the dining-room and took her seat by her sister, who affected to be so gay and happy, and who tried to soften old Axie by praising everything immoderately.
But Axie was not deceived, either. She knew it was not all well between the young couple, and as soon as she had sent in the dessert, she started up stairs in quest of her boy, finding him in the chamber where his mother had died, and kneeling by the bed in such an abandonment of grief that, without waiting to consider whether she was wanted or not, she went softly to his side, and laying her hard old hands pityingly on his bowed head, spoke to him lovingly and soothingly, just as she used to speak to him when he was a little boy, and sat in her broad lap to be comforted.
“Thar, thar, honey; what is it that has happened you? Suffin dreffle, or you wouldn’t be kneelin’ here in de cold an’ dark, wid only yer mother’s sperrit for company. What is it, chile? Can’t you tell old Axie? Is it her that’s a vexin’ you so? Oh, Mars’r Everard, how could you do it? Tell old Axie, won’t you?”
And he did tell her how the marriage occurred, and when, and that it was this which had caused the trouble between him and his father. He said nothing against Josephine, except that he had lived to see and regret his mistake, and that it was impossible for him to live with her as his wife. And Axie took his side at once, and replied:
“In course you can’t, honey, I seen that the fust thing. She hain’t like you, nor Miss Beatrice, nor Miss Rossie. She’s pretty, with them eyes and long winkers, an’ she’s kind of teterin’ an’ soft; but can’t cheat dis chile. ’Tain’t the real stuff like your mother was. Sposin’ I go and paint my face all over with whitenin’. I ain’t white for all dat. Thar’s nobody but ole black nigger under de whitewash, for bless your soul, de thick lips and de wool will show, an’ it’s just de same with no ’count white folks. But don’t you worry, I’ll stan’ by you. Course you can’t live with her. I’ll make a fire an’ fetch you some supper, an’ you’ll feel better in de mornin’,—see if you don’t.”
But Everard asked to be left alone, that he might think it out and decide what to do. He could not go to bed, and so he sat the entire night before the fire in the room where his mother had died, and where his father had denounced him so angrily, and where Rosamond had come to him and asked to be his wife. How vividly that last scene came up before him, and he could almost see the little girl standing there again, just as she stood that day, which seemed to him years and years ago. And but for that fatal misstep that little girl, grown to sweet womanhood, now might have been his. Turn which way he would, there was no help, no hope; and the future loomed up before him dark and cheerless, with always this burden upon him, this bar to the happiness which might have been his had he only waited for it. Surely, if his sin was great, his punishment was greater, and when at the last the gray morning looked in at the windows of his room, it found him white, and haggard, and worn, with no definite plan as to his future course, except the firm resolve that whatever his life might be, it would be passed apart from Josephine.
CHAPTER XXXVI.
ROSAMOND’S DECISION.
Rosamond had sent word to Everard that she would see him after breakfast, and he went to her at once, finding her sitting up just as she was the previous night, but much paler, and more worn-looking, as if she had not slept in months. But the smile with which she greeted him was as sweet and cordial as ever, and in the eyes which she fixed so steadily upon him he saw neither hatred nor disgust, but an expression of unutterable sorrow and pity for him, and for herself, too, as well. Rossie was not one to conceal her feelings. She was too much a child, too frank and ingenuous for that, and there was a great and bitter pain in her heart which she could not hide. Everard had never said in words that he loved her, but she had accepted it as a fact, and when her dream was so rudely dispelled she could no more conceal her disappointment than she could hide the ravages of sickness so visible upon her face.