It was impossible to suspect Rossie of acting or saying anything she did not mean, for her face was like a clear, faithful mirror, and after a little Josephine began to grow ill at ease in her presence. The bright black eyes troubled her a little when fixed so earnestly upon her, and she found herself wondering if they could penetrate her inmost thoughts, and see just what she was. It was a singular effect which Rossie had upon this woman, whose character was one web of falsehoods and deceit, and who, in the presence of so much purity and innocence, and apparent trust in everybody, was conscious of some new impulse within her, prompting her to a better and sincerer life. Wondering how much Rossie knew of her antecedents, she suddenly burst out with:
“Miss Hastings, or Rossie,—I so much wish you’d let me call you by the name I have heard so often. I want to tell you at once how I have hated myself for taking that money, the price of your lovely hair, and letting you believe I was a dreadful gambler, seeking Everard’s ruin.”
She had her hand on the “lovely hair,” and was passing her white fingers through it and letting it fall in curling masses about Rossie’s neck and shoulders, as she went on:
“It was such a funny mistake you made with regard to me, and it was wrong in me to take the money. I would not do it now; but we were so poor, and I needed it so much, and Everard could not get it. Has he told you all about those times, I wonder, when we were first married, and he did love me a little.”
“He has told me a good deal,” was Rossie’s straightforward answer; and sitting down upon a stool in front of her Josey assumed the attitude and manner of a child as she went on to speak of the past, and to beg Rossie to think as leniently of her as possible.
“Men are not always correct judges of women’s actions,” she said, “and I do not think Everard understands me at all. Our marriage in that hasty manner was unwise, but if I erred I surely have paid the severest penalty. Such things fall more heavily upon women than upon men, and I dare say you think better of Everard this moment than you do of me.”
Rossie could not say she didn’t, for there was something in Josephine’s manner which she did not like. It seemed to be all acting, and to one who never acted a part, it was very distasteful. But she tried to evade the direct question by answering: “I have known Everard so long that I must of course think better of him than of a stranger. He has been so kind to me;” then, wishing to turn the conversation into a channel where she felt she should be safer, she plunged at once into her plan of leaving the house to Josephine, saying that she had never thought it right for her to have it, and speaking of the judge’s last illness, when she was certain he repented of what he had done.
At first Josephine made a very pretty show of protesting against it.
“It is your own home,” she said, “and though I appreciate your great kindness, I cannot feel that it is right to take it from you.”
“But I thought you understood that it was quite a settled thing that I am to go away, as I have always intended doing. Everard told you so. Surely he explained it to you,” Rossie said, in some surprise.