Was It Right to Forgive? Part 36

"She is such a foolish, spoiled woman; it is not worth your while remembering her rudeness to you."

"I care nothing about her rudeness to me. It is her treatment of Antony I resent. I shall not countenance her in any way until she confesses her sin to her husband, and he forgives her. If Antony can forgive her, I suppose I may try and endure her."

"Dear cousin----"

"Nonsense, Yanna! You know me well enough to understand that having made up my mind on this subject, I shall not unmake it for any other terms but the ones I have accepted as reasonable and right.

Confession, my dear, and then forgiveness. Everything must be done in its proper order. Do you not find me in a remarkably happy temper? Do you not want to know the reason? Harry has been here this morning, and he has told me a very wonderful story. I don't know when I have been so pleased. I have been saying to myself ever since that there is no change in Our Redeemer. The world outgrows its creeds, but it is still blessedly true that they who 'seek for Him with all their heart find Him.' My dear, I feel to-day that there is a G.o.d. I always know it, but to-day I feel it. That is the reason I am so happy. I like that woman Hannah Young. I am going this day to the Salvation Army Headquarters to find her. The devil gave her the means to make her mother and sisters happy; and I intend to show her that G.o.d can do more, and better, than the devil."

"Have you no pity for Rose?"

"Not for Rose proud and wicked and unrepentant. When Rose is sorry for her sins, when G.o.d forgives her, I shall have no right to be angry.

And what do you ask me to do? The worst possible thing for a woman like Rose--surround her with circ.u.mstances that enable her to forget what she ought not to forget for one moment. I--will--not--do--it!"

This disappointment did not, however, deter Mrs. Filmer from carrying out her plan; and invitations were duly sent to such of Rose's old friends as it was supposed would give prestige and dignity to the occasion of her first dinner. Miss Alida sent a curt refusal; and all of the people whose presence was most desired did likewise, with varying politeness. Some "regretted very much," and others simply "regretted." Some had "previous engagements," others did not lay this flattering excuse to the wound of their declining; but the fine dinner was, after all, prepared for guests who had been asked as "secondaries," and whose absence would not have been regretted. In some way--probably through the kitchen door--the true story of Antony's absence had been blown about by every wind of gossip; and Rose's dinners, however she might regard them, were not important affairs to a cla.s.s of people to whom dinners meant lofty and irreproachable social intercourse.

Mrs. Filmer was greatly humiliated by this failure, but not inclined to abandon her plan; and Rose pretended to be well pleased that she had been "cut by such a dreary crowd of purple and fine linen Pharisees. However," she said, "as I have opened my house, I intend to fill it. Young men and young women who want to dance will go anywhere, if there is a good floor, with good music and plenty of wines and ices. If I cannot be exclusive, I can at least be popular. If you do not like my company, mamma, you need not endorse it. I shall take no offence at your scruples. As for Harry and his excellent wife, I never will pretend to be glad to see them any more as long as I live. When society declines to accept Mrs. Antony Van Hoosen, you cannot make it accept her, mamma."

"I am sure, Rose, there are plenty of people in the best society who have been talked about in far worse fas.h.i.+on than you have."

"That is true enough; but society, now and then, gets very moral and thinks it necessary to have a scapegoat whom it can punish for all the rest. At present it is laying its sins on my head, and driving me out to the wilderness; though it has plenty inside its high fence just as bad as I am, mamma." Then she was suddenly quiet, as if remembering.

"Mamma, when I was in London I saw a picture of myself." Mrs. Filmer looked at her curiously and inquiringly, and she went on, with a kind of desperate indignation:

"It was in a gallery. It was called _The Sacrificial Goat_. The poor tormented creature was plodding with weary feet through the quaking wilderness, under the crimson rocks of Edom, and by the sh.o.r.es of the Dead Sea. I could not keep away from that picture. I felt as if I could do anything to give the fainting animal a drink of cold water.

No one feels that about me"--and she flung herself among the satin cus.h.i.+ons of her sofa and began to sob like a lost child.

"Oh, Rose! Rose! How can you say so? What would I not do to make you happy?"

"Leave me alone, dear mamma. Do not be miserable about me. I am not worth worrying over; and I do not care the snap of my fingers for your society! Only, do not tell papa anything against his little Rose. He will never find out I am sorrowful and despised unless you say it in his very ears."

"Rose, go and speak to your father. He is a wise man; and he has a heart, my child."

"Yes, as good a heart as can possibly be made out of brains. But I do not want to trouble papa; and I do want him to believe I am all that is lovely and admirable. You never told him about Duval, did you?"

"No. Why should I?"

"And what have you said about Antony?"

"What you told me to say--that gold had been found on his place, and he had to look after things. It quite pleased him."

"Will Harry say anything--wrong?"

"Nothing at all. I have spoken to Harry."

"Poor dear papa!"

"Oh, Rose! My Rose!"

"And poor dear mamma, too!"

"If you would only write one word to Antony."

"I will not."

This conversation indicated the way Rose was going to take, and she made haste to carry out her determination. There is always a brilliant riffraff of good society who are eager for pleasure--so called--and ambitious to achieve the trumpery distinction of 'smartness'--dissipated, devilish men, and rapid, realistic women; and with this cla.s.s Rose found it easy to fill her fine rooms. It was to outward appearance a highly desirable set, gorgeously dressed, and having all the insignia of the uppermost cla.s.s. There was no sign of anything but the most exact virtue at the dinner-table, and the earlier dances were beautiful and proper; but as the evenings wore on, and the wines and ices began to influence conduct, the tone fell lower; men and women talked louder, and danced more recklessly; and at the last hour it was necessary to be a little blind and a little deaf.

But it is the eternal law, that where sin is, sorrow shall answer it; and in all this tumult and riot of feasting and dancing, Rose was sad and disconsolate. It was not alone that she was aware of her distinct loss of social estimation--aware that old friends s.h.i.+rked speaking to her if they could; and that even her mother lost patience with her vagaries and imprudences--it was not even the total silence of her husband, and the appalling sense of loneliness that chilled her whole life--there was a want greater than these, for it is not by bread alone we live; there is a certain approval of conscience necessary even to our physical existence, and without its all-pervading cement, this wondrous union of self is not held healthily together. Rose had not this blessed approval; and the flatteries of the crowd she feasted did not make up for the sweet content that follows duty accomplished and love fulfilled.

She had taken into her confidence a young girl called Ida Stirling.

She was exceedingly pretty and witty and sympathetic, and quite inclined to share in all the mitigations of Rose's private hours. They had luxurious little meals together, and they told each other their secrets as they ate and drank. In this way Rose betrayed herself; she gave to a stranger a confidence she had not given as fully to her mother, and put her heart into her hands, either to comfort or to despise. For a little while, the two women were inseparable; and on Rose's side, at least, there was nothing hidden from her companion.

All January and February pa.s.sed in this constant succession of public and private entertaining; and the "affairs" began to pall, even upon those who had nothing to do but enjoy them. The Van Hoosen household grew notorious for its extravagance and its disorder, and an indefinable _aura_ of contempt and indifference began to pervade those who came together in Rose's fine reception rooms. They no longer respected their hostess, they were often barely civil to her; and yet they were only fulfilling that condition Rose herself had antic.i.p.ated--allowing her to find them a good floor, good music, and wines and ices for their refreshment.

During February she suspected this feeling, but Ida Stirling, with many a.s.surances, had pacified her doubts. A little later, however, she realized her position thoroughly; and she smarted under the sense of the contemptuous acceptance of her hospitality.

"I shall put a stop to the whole thing," she said to herself, one morning in March. "I shall not stay in New York until Easter. I shall ask Ida to go with me to Europe, and we will travel quietly with a maid and a courier." She permitted this idea to take possession of her until she suddenly remembered that even Ida had not appeared to be as fond of her society as she used to be. With a profusion of apologies and regrets, she had refused several invitations to shop and drive, and stay all night with her friend. Perhaps she would not go to Europe. In such case, Rose resolved to travel with her maid only.

Absorbed in this new idea, she went out one day to attend to some shopping necessary for her plan. It was a lovely afternoon, full of suns.h.i.+ne, and a soft, fresh breeze. The windows were gay with spring fas.h.i.+ons and preparations for Easter, and Broadway was crowded with well-dressed men and women, happy in the airs of spring, and in the sense of their own beauty or elegance. When she came out of Tiffany's, the temptation to join in this pleasant promenade was so great that she sent her carriage forward to Vantine's, and resolved to walk the intermediate distance. The sense of resurrection and restoration was so uplifting, the cheerfulness, the smiles, the noise of traffic and the murmur of humanity were altogether so restorative to her jaded heart that Rose felt a thrill of genuine natural happiness. She thought of the fresh sea and the queer, splendid old towns beyond it, and she hoped Ida would be willing to start by the first possible steamer.

To such thoughts she stepped brightly forward, her garments fluttering in the wind, and a large bunch of daffodils in her hands. As she approached Seventeenth Street, she felt a sudden impulse to answer an unknown gaze; and she let her eyes wander among the advancing crowd.

In an instant they fell upon Ida Stirling and Mr. Duval. They were walking together, and their air was that of lovers; and Rose felt that they were talking about her. For a moment she was stunned; her soul was really knocked down, and her body felt unable to lift it. The next moment she stumbled on, with flaming cheeks, and ears so painfully alert that they heard every tone of the mocking little laugh which saluted her in the pa.s.sing. Ida was looking into Duval's face, and affected not to see Rose; but Duval stared insolently at her, without a token of recognition. She had herself, in the momentary pause, made a faint inquisitive smile, a slight movement that she could not restrain, but which she instantly felt to be the most shameful wrong to herself. It was answered--if at all--by that mockery of a laugh which entered her ears like the point of a sword and reached her heart through them.

Blindly, breathing in short gasps, she reached her carriage; and with a great effort gave the order "home." She was distracted. Her anger burned inward, set her blood on fire, and shook her like an earthquake. Her lover and her friend, both false! All her confidences betrayed! Her poor heart laid bare for their scorn and mirth! It was impossible to endure so abominable a wrong. She was struck dumb with it. She knew no words to express her distress. She could not rest a moment, sleep fled from her; her inner self was in a chaos of indescribable suffering.

In the morning she was physically ill; a great nausea, a burning fever, and a pain in every limb subdued her. All night her soul had seemed a substance made of fire; in the morning, it was dulled and numbed by her bodily agony; for pain is indeed perfect misery, and the very worst of mortal evils. Mrs. Filmer and a doctor were sent for; and Rose lay nearly two weeks, stunned and suffering from the soul-blow she had received. Much of the time she was hardly conscious of the present, moaning and fretful when awake, and when asleep lost in the unutterable desolation of dreams, full of portentous shapes and awful suggestions. Her life had lost its balance, and she had lost her foothold on it in consequence.

"Am I very ill, mamma?" she asked mournfully, one midnight.

"Not very, my dear Rose. You are beginning to get better. The doctor thinks you have had a severe mental shock. What was it? Antony?"

"No; not Antony. Antony is not brutal. Am I strong enough to talk, mamma?"

"It may do you good to talk--to tell me what made you ill."

"I met Ida Stirling and Mr. Duval walking together. They laughed in my face as they pa.s.sed me. And I had told Ida everything--everything!"

"Do you mean about Antony?"

"Yes; and about that dreadful day when you all thought I intended to go to Cuba."

"Rose, I never have understood that affair."

"And yet, without understanding it, every one, even you, thought the very worst of me."

"Then why did you not explain?"

"I don't know. I was too angry. I felt wicked enough to let you all think whatever you chose. And then baby was dead, and Antony treated me as if I were her murderer."

"You did not intend, however, to go to Cuba?"

"No more than you intended to go."