And to do Josephine justice, she did mean to retrieve her character if possible, and be at least a true wife to the man who had chosen her, knowing perfectly well what she was and how little to be trusted. There was about Josephine a most powerful fascination for Dr. Matthewson, who thought her the most beautiful and attractive woman he had ever seen. And the doctor liked beautiful and attractive things; they suited his luxurious tastes, and Josephine was just the one to adorn the kind of home he was now able to have. She would be equal to any emergency, and he would enjoy the attentions she was sure to receive at the different watering-places and hotels, where he meant to take her. If any of her admirers should become too demonstrative he could easily rid himself of them and bring his wife under subjection, for he meant to be her master, and to do exactly as he pleased in everything, and he made a beginning by refusing to sell the Forrest House, as she wished him to do. For Josephine was determined not to go back to Rothsay, and at first made it a condition in marrying the doctor that he should dispose of the place, or at least not require her to live there even for a few weeks. She had no wish to meet Everard, or to come in contact with his friends, who were sure to slight her now. But the doctor was resolved upon making the house into a kind of palace, where he could enjoy himself after his own ideas, and as he had not the slightest consideration for the wishes or feelings of others, he laughed at Josephine’s scruples, which he called whims, and carried his point with regard to the Forrest House, and the evening of the 15th of April there appeared in the Boston papers the following notice:
“Married, this morning at ten o’clock, by the Rev. Theodore Morton, Dr. John Matthewson to Miss Josephine Fleming.”
Washington and New York were the cities where the happy pair spent their honeymoon, and it was not until the middle of June that they took possession of their Rothsay house, which had undergone quite a transformation. All through the months of April and May carpenters from Cincinnati had been there, following out the plan which the doctor had forwarded to them with the most minute instructions. Bay-windows were sent out here, and hanging balconies there, and pretty little sunny nooks for plants were cut through the solid mason-work; rooms were thrown together, trees were removed to admit more light and give finer views, until the stately, old-fashioned house assumed the appearance of a modern and rather graceful structure, which the Rothsayites, and even Beatrice herself, thought greatly improved. Every room was refurnished and changed in some way except Rossie’s,—which was left untouched. Not an article of furniture was changed or moved from its place. Some of Rossie’s books were on the shelf where she left them; a work-box was on the table, and in the closet one or two half-worn dresses hung, a prey to any moth or insect which chose to fasten upon them. But the rest of the house was beautiful, and fresh, and new, and ready for the bride, who came one afternoon in June, and was met at the station by the coachman, with the new carriage and high-stepping horses, which pawed the ground and arched their glossy necks as the long train swept by.
There was no one there to meet the bride, for the marriage was very unpopular in town, and every door was virtually closed against the lady who, for once in her life, looked pale and tired, as she took her seat in the carriage, and leaning back wearily, said, to the doctor:
“Please take the straightest road home, for I am tired to death.”
But if the doctor heard her he did not heed her request. He had no feelings of shame or twinges of conscience. He wished the people to see his splendid turnout, and they drove through Main street, past all the shops and offices, where the men and boys stared at them, and a few made a show of recognizing the courteous lifting of the doctor’s hat, and the patronizing wave of his hand.
Josephine was closely vailed, and pretended not to see the ladies who were on the street, and who did not turn their heads as the elegant carriage went by. But Josey knew that they saw her, and felt that her worst fears were to be realized; and when, at a sudden turn in the road, they came upon Beatrice, whose cool little nod seemed more an insult than a recognition, her cup of humiliation was full, and there were tears of mortification and anger in her eyes, and her headache was not feigned when at last they drew up before the house, where a strange woman was waiting to greet them. This was Mrs. Rogers, the housekeeper, imported for that purpose from Cincinnati, as were the other servants. These, however, had all heard the antecedents of their new master and mistress very freely discussed, and the result was that a mutiny was already in progress, for, as the girl who held the post of scullion said, “she had lost one cha-rac-ter by living with folks who wasn’t fust cut, and she didn’t care to lose another.” Still, the wages were good, and all decided to stay a while, and see what the lady who had two husbands living and had once been a servant herself (such was the story as they had it) was like. So they came to meet her, and thought her very handsome and stylish, and a fit occupant of the beautiful rooms of which she was mistress, and for which she did not seem to care, for she never stopped to look at them, but went directly to her own apartments, which she did have the grace to say were pretty.
“Yes, it is all very nice,” she said to the doctor, “but I am frightfully tired, and nervous, too, I think. This last hot day’s ride has just upset me. I believe I’ll have a cup of tea brought to my room, and not go down to dinner, if you’ll excuse me.”
“You won’t do any such thing,” was the doctor’s reply. “You’ll put on one of your swell-dresses, and go down to dinner with me. I wish the servants to see you at your best, and somebody may call this evening.”
“Somebody call!” Josephine retorted, with intense bitterness in her voice. “Don’t flatter yourself that any one whom I care for will call to-night, or ever, while I remain in Rothsay.”