Immediately after Everard’s departure she wrote to the postmaster at Clarence, making inquiries for Doctor Matthewson, and in due time received an answer addressed to the fictitious name which she had given. There had been a clergyman in town by that name, the postmaster wrote, but he had been dismissed for various misdemeanors. However, a marriage performed by him, with the knowledge and consent of the parties, would undoubtedly be binding on such parties. Latterly he had taken to the study of medicine, and assumed the title of “Doctor.”
There could be no mistake, and the harrowing doubt which had so weighed on Josephine’s spirits gave way as she read this answer to her letter. She was Mrs. James Everard Forrest, and she wrote the name many times on slips of paper which she tore up and threw upon the floor. Then, summoning Agnes from the kitchen, she bade her arrange her hair, for there was a concert in the Hall that night, and she was going. Always meek and submissive, Agnes obeyed, and brushed and curled the beautiful golden hair, and helped array her sister in the pretty blue muslin, and clasped about her neck and arms the heavy bracelets and chain which had been so criticised and condemned at the Forrest House. They were not quite as bright now as when the young lady first bought them in Pittsfield. Their luster was somewhat tarnished, and Josephine knew it, and felt a qualm of disgust every time she looked at them. She knew the difference between the real and the sham quite as well as Beatrice herself, and by and by, when she was established in her rightful position as Mrs. Everard Forrest, she meant to indulge to the full her fondness for dress, and make amends for the straits to which she had all her life been subjected.
“She would make old Forrest’s money fly, only let her have a chance,” she said to Agnes, to whom she was repeating the contents of the letter just received from Clarence.
“Then it’s true, and you are his wife?” Agnes said, her voice indicative of anything but pleasure.
This Josephine was quick to detect, and she answered, sharply:
“His wife? yes. Have you any objection? One would suppose by your manner that you were sorry for Everard.”
“And so I am,” Agnes answered, boldly. “I don’t believe he knew what he was doing. It’s a pity for him, he is so young, and we so different.”
“So different, Agnes? I wish you wouldn’t forever harp on that string. As if I were not quite as good as a Forrest or any other aristocrat. Can’t you ever forget your Irish blood? It does not follow because the poor people in Ireland and England lie down and let the nobility walk over them, that we do it in America, where it does sometimes happen that the daughter of a butcher and a cook may marry into a family above her level.”
“Yes, I know all that,” Agnes said. “Praised be Heaven for America, where everybody who has it in him can rise if he will; and yet, there’s a difference here, just as much and more, I sometimes think, for to be somebody you must have it in you. I can’t explain, but I know what I mean, and so do you.”