Was It Right to Forgive? Part 32

"Rose, I must save you from yourself. Some day you will thank me for it."

"I wish you would let me alone. I do not want you to save me. I wish I had never seen you. I hate you from morning to night. I wish you would go where I could never see your face or hear your voice again!"

"You are angry now, Rose. But have you not been cross long enough?

Come, sit down, and let us talk, not of the past, but of the future.

Let us try and make it happier."

He was approaching her as he spoke; and she put out her hands and waved him away. "Do not dare to come near me!" she cried. "Not one step further! You shall not put a finger on me. I will not listen to your voice. Let me go away from your presence."

He sat down, covering his face with his hands, and he was still as a stone. But Rose felt that he was on guard, and that resistance or entreaty would be alike useless. So she threw herself on a sofa, shut her eyes, and began to sing.

The whole appearance and atmosphere of the woman were now repellant; and a great indignation burned in Antony's heart. He said to himself that he had done wrong to tolerate so long the evil spirit in his wife and home. He had forgiven practically what he ought to refuse to forgive at all. He had encouraged sin by enduring it. And he had done so because he loved the sinner. "But I shall do what is right in the future!" he said.

Then he rose up, and Rose, who was watching him from beneath her nearly closed eyelids, was startled by the new man she saw. He looked taller, his countenance was stern, and he told the coachman to take away the carriage in a voice that was quite new to her. But she went on humming her song, and watching developments. So all the night the gas burned, and Antony sat guarding his wife, and his wife looked at him, and sang at him, and paraded herself about the room to irritate him. But about three o'clock she was very weary, and she fell into a deep sleep. Then Antony rose and looked at her. Her head was hanging off the pillow, and one of her feet nearly touched the floor. He lifted it gently, placed the dear poppy-crowned head comfortably on the pillow, threw an Afghan over the sleeping form, and with one long farewell look went quietly out of the room.

The dance was then over, and the bitterest night of his life was over. He had watched against Indians; he had watched against death in mines, and camps, and lonely gorges in the mountains; he had watched the life-breaths of his little daughter pa.s.s away, night after night, in weary painfulness; but such a terrible watch as this one, beside his wilfully wicked wife, he had never conceived of as possible. He was weary to death, and her cruel words remained in his heart like arrows.

He went to his room, and after writing for some time he drank a cup of coffee and left the house. At the stables he got a horse and buggy, and drove over to Miss Alida's. He met Harry just outside the gate, and he called him.

"I was trying to catch the early train," explained Harry. "Is anything wrong? Why are you here before seven o'clock?"

"Come with me. I have something to say to you, Harry."

Then Harry sent back his own buggy, and seated himself beside Antony.

"Where are you going?" he asked; "there is no station up this road."

"It is quiet. That is enough. Listen, Harry." Then he gave his friend and brother a brief outline of the life he had led, and of Rose's behavior on the previous night. He made few complaints, he merely stated facts; but Harry understood what was not told.

"She says she hates me. She never wants to see my face again. She never wants to hear me speak to her more. I think my presence irritates her and makes her cross and cruel. I am going to my place in the Harqua Hala Range. I ought to have been there long ago. They are finding gold there. When Rose is sorry, you will let me know?"

He was quietly weeping, and not at all conscious of the circ.u.mstance; and Harry was burning with anger at his wrongs. "It was a bad day for you, Antony, when the Filmers came into your life," he said. "You have flung your love away on Rose, and your gold away on me. I do not know what I shall do without you. You are the greatest soul I ever met. Do not go away, Antony!"

"There is nothing else to be done. I have worn out her patience, and she has worn out mine. Be kind to her; and when you have an opportunity, say a kind word for me."

Far into the morning they talked, and then Antony drove to the station, and went his lonely way, too miserable to think of adieus, too ashamed and heart-broken to bear more, either of advice or consolation. Harry watched his thin, sorrowful face out of sight; and at the last moment lifted his hat to so much departing love and worth.

Then he drove as fast as his horse could take him to the Filmer place.

Rose had awakened from her sleep, and had had her breakfast. She was miserable in all her being. Her head ached; her heart ached. She was humiliated and chagrined, and the thought of Antony haunted her and would not let her rest. Also the house was miserable. Everything was waiting on Antony. Some of the things to be taken to the city were already packed; others were lying on the chairs and tables, and the servants were each and all taking their own ill way about affairs.

Rose could think of nothing but an order to let the packing alone until Mr. Van Hoosen returned; but there was a most unsettled feeling through the house, and she was quite aware nothing was being done that ought to be done.

She was greatly relieved to see Harry coming. Harry was the one member of her family whom she regarded. He had not offended in the Duval matter, and so it was generally through Harry she was influenced to do what was required of her. But this morning Harry gave her back no smile; he did not answer her greeting, and when she offered her hand, he put it crossly away.

"Rose," he said, "you have managed to behave abominably for a long time. But your conduct last night is unpardonable. If you were my wife I would shut you up in a madhouse until you put your senses above your temper."

"Thanks! I am not your wife, I am happy to say. No one but the divine Adriana could----"

"Stop your foolish chatter! You have driven your husband from you, at last. Now I hope you are satisfied."

"So he has gone, has he? And pray, where has my lord gone?"

"To Arizona."

"I am glad he has gone so far."

"Now, madam, you will have to fight the world without him. There is not a decent woman who will notice you."

"What have I done wrong? And I do not believe Antony has gone. He will come trailing home to-night."

"He will not. And as to what you have done wrong, if there were nothing against you but that Duval affair it shuts you out of society."

Then she rose in a pa.s.sion, and snapped her fingers in his face.

"You!" she cried, "you dare to come here and reproach me with Duval!

Pray, what about Cora Mitchin? It is the devil correcting sin for you to talk virtuously. And the divine Yanna is just as bad to live with you. I would not. I would have respected Antony if he had turned on his heel when he saw me with Duval on the steamer; if he had turned on his heel and left me forever, I would have respected him! As it is, I despise him. Arizona is the best place for him."

"There is no use, and no sense, in putting your fault and mine on the same level, Rose. Society will teach you who is the worst next winter."

"What do I care for society? Society is not Jehovah; and being a _man_ will not help you, sir, at the Day of Judgment. You are a great deal worse than I am. You are not fit for any woman's company; and the sooner you leave mine, the better I shall like it."

And Harry went. He had nothing further to say. He was convicted by his own conscience, and by the swift pa.s.sage through his mind of certain words that came from the Blameless One--"He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her."

CHAPTER X

It was near Christmas, and New York had the sense of its festivity in all her streets and avenues. The store windows were green and gay, and the sidewalks crowded with buyers. The crisp, frosty air and bright suns.h.i.+ne--full of promise and exhilaration--touched even Rose Van Hoosen, and made her consciously subject to the pervading influence.

She had been to see her father and mother, who had just returned from Europe, and she was going to the loneliness of her own handsome home.

No letter had come to her from her husband; but his lawyer brought her every month the liberal income which had been left in his charge for the maintenance of the Van Hoosen household.

As yet she had lived in seclusion, but her mother had advised a different course. "You must give some small but extremely fine dinners and entertainments, Rose," she said. "Nothing stops gossip like hospitality. People will want to come to your little parties, and they will pooh-pooh all ill-natured reports, for their own sake.

To-morrow we will talk over this plan, and arrange the most suitable functions."

"But they will wonder at Antony's absence, mamma."

"They will hardly take it into account. His indifference and his refusal to dance were always cold water on your social efforts. As far as they are concerned, he is better away. And what more promising excuse can you have than that gold has been found on his place. It has a rich sound, and, of course, he has to look after it. No one will think further than that. How are Harry and his wife getting on?"

"I think Yanna has quite spoiled Harry. Will you believe that I used to meet him driving with the baby last summer; and he trotted to meeting every Sunday with Yanna. I can tell you, mother, that your day is over. Yanna has Harry quite under her thumb now, or I am much mistaken."

"And the Cora Mitchin affair?"

"I should say it is dead and buried. I do not see the girl's name at any theatre, and her picture is not staring you in the face from every window this season. She has been retired evidently."

"We shall see. Now, Rose, throw aside this nonsensical air of seclusion and sorrow. Get some pretty costumes, and prepare gradually to open your house. A woman with your income aping the recluse is ridiculous."

"You do me so much good, mamma."

"Well, my dear, there is nothing for wrong but to try and put it right. I think you have been to blame, but there is no use going about the world to accuse yourself. You must try and make your peace with your husband. It is such bad form, this quarreling. Send for Yanna and Miss Alida, and ask their advice--just to flatter them. You _must_ have the support of your family."