Was It Right to Forgive? A Domestic Romance

Then she kissed her mother affectionately, and stooped to little Emma’s cot, and with a long, soft pressure of her lips to the lips of the fragile-looking child, she went away, promising to be home certainly before noon. But she was not home at one o’clock; and Mrs. Filmer and Antony ate their lunch together, both of them with a hot, angry heart at Rose’s indifference. At two o’clock Rose was still absent, and a singular feeling of alarm had taken the place of anger.

“What keeps Rose so long, mother?” asked Antony, in an anxious voice.

“I do not know, Antony. She could have been back in an hour. It is four hours since she left.”

“Can you think of anything? Have you not some idea where she is?”

“She was very tired and low-spirited. She may have gone to see her father, and then – being so tired – have taken a glass of wine, and lain down to rest in her own old room. I can think of nothing else.”

“She would not be likely to make calls?”

“Make calls so early! in a shopping costume! and without a carriage! She would not think of such a thing.”

“May she have gone to Yanna’s?”

“I should say not. She does not care for Yanna as she used to do.”

“Will you go home and see if she is in her old room resting? I have a strange, unhappy feeling about her.”

“I will go at once. I shall find her at home, no doubt.”

But though Mrs. Filmer spoke confidently, she was by no means sure of her affirmation. She went home with a trembling, sick heart, and found that Rose had not been there at all. For a moment or two she was unable to think or to act, and she was going blindly to Mr. Filmer’s study when she met Harry.

“Oh, my dear boy!” she cried, “you are just the one person needed. I am almost distracted, Harry. Rose went out this morning at ten o’clock; and she has not come home, and we are wretched about her.”

Harry took out his watch. “It is not quite three, mother. Rose has perhaps gone to see Yanna, or some of her acquaintances; or she may be at her dressmaker’s, or – ”

“Harry, there is something wrong. You cannot reason the certainty out of my heart. I am sick with fear.”

“Dear mother, there is nothing wrong at all. Go 234 and lie down, or talk to father, and I will bring you word that all is well in an hour. Sure.”

“Where are you going?”

“I am going home. Yanna will know something.”

He took a cab at the nearest stand, and drove rapidly to his own house. Adriana started, and stood up quickly, as he entered. “What is the matter, Harry?” she cried.

“Rose seems to have got herself out of the way. She left home at ten o’clock this morning, and has not returned. Mother is quite nervous and ill about her. Has she been here?”

For a minute Adriana stood motionless, as one by one the thoughts flashed across her mind which led her to the truth; and when she spoke, it was in the voice of a woman who had pulled herself together with the tightest rein. “Harry,” she answered, “while I put on my hat and cloak, have the carriage made ready. Do not lose a single moment.”

“Where are you going?”

“To pier sixteen, East River.”

“What in heaven are you going there for?”

“The Cuban steamer.”

“The Cuban steamer?”

“Have you forgotten? Duval is a Cuban. I know now who told Rose of a land all sunshine and flowers – and misery and cruelty,” she added passionately, as she ran to her room with a hurry that sent Harry to the stables with equal haste.

When the carriage came to the door, Adriana was waiting. Harry was stepping, to her side, but she shook her head positively. “You must go for Antony,” she said. “Bring him to the steamer. It is the only way.”

At a very rapid pace the carriage was driven to the foot of Wall Street. It was, however, to Adriana a tedious journey, and often interrupted; and she sat wringing her hands in impotent impatience at every delay. When she reached the pier, she found herself in all the tumult and hurry that attends a departing steamer; but the gangway was clear, and she went straight on board The Orizaba. The first persons she saw were Duval and Rose. They were leaning over the taffrail, with their backs to Adriana, and Duval was talking impetuously, holding Rose’s hand in his own. Her attitude was reluctant and hesitating, and when Adriana said, “Excuse me, Mr. Duval, I have come for Mrs. Van Hoosen,” Rose turned with a sharp cry, and put her hand in Yanna’s.

“Pardon, madame,” answered Duval in a passion, “Mrs. Van Hoosen chooses to remain with me.”

“Rose, dear Rose! think of your little daughter. Turn back, dear one, for God’s sake! turn back! Have you forgotten your mother and father, your brother and your loving husband? Rose, come with me. Fly for your life! Fly for your soul! Come! Come! There is no time to lose.”

Duval was urging the foolish, distracted woman at the same time, pleading his misery, and contrasting her dull, unhappy life in Woodsome village with all the joys he promised her in Cuba. And Rose was weeping bitterly. It was also evident that she had been taking wine, and very likely some drug in it. For her mind was dull, and her conscience was dull, and she seemed too inert to decide so momentous a question herself.

But as they stood thus together, and Rose was weakly clinging to Yanna’s arm, Antony came towards 236 them, swift and stern as Fate. He put his hand on Rose’s shoulder, and turned the dear wretched sinner round till she faced him. He had no need to speak. She looked piteously at Yanna, and said, “Tell Antony why I came – there is nothing wrong.” And then she laughed so foolishly that Adriana thought the laugh far more pitiful than tears.

“Mr. Duval is going to Cuba,” said Adriana to her brother. “We will now say ‘farewell’ to him.”

“Mrs. Van Hoosen is going to Cuba also,” said Duval, with a mocking air. “Come, Rose, my love!”

Then in his throat Antony gave him the lie, and with one back-handed blow, struck him in the mouth and sent him reeling backward like a drunken man.

Ere he could recover himself, Rose and Antony, followed by Adriana, were going down the gangway, and a sailor was ringing a bell, and bidding all not for the voyage to make for the shore. Duval did not make for the shore. He waited until Antony was putting Rose and Adriana in the carriage ere he shouted after Antony scandalous epithets, which he did not deign to notice. But they went like fire into his ears; and he looked into Rose’s apathetic face, sullen and angry, with a sense of such shame and misery as he had never before experienced.

Silently they drove to Adriana’s house, and then Antony kissed her, and said with some difficulty, “I can never thank you enough, Yanna,” and Yanna, smiling sadly in reply, turned to Rose and said, “Good-bye, Rose. I shall see you at Woodsome, I hope, soon.”

Rose did not respond in any way. Her eyes were cast down, she seemed to be lost to sense and feeling, except for a perceptible drawing away from her 237 husband when he took the seat which Yanna had vacated. Furtively she glanced into his face, and she was aware of, though she was not sorry for, its utter wretchedness. Indeed, in no way did she evince the slightest contrition for her offence. Antony, however, doubted whether she was in a condition to fully realize it. With soulless eyes, she gazed on the panorama of the streets, and if she had any just knowledge of sin committed, it lay in some corner of her conscience, far below the threshold of her present intelligence.

It seemed a never-ending ride to Antony. The familiar streets were strange to him, and his own house was like a house in a dream. He fancied the coachman looked curious and evilly intelligent. It was not that his body burned, his very soul burned with shame and pity and just anger. He gave Rose his arm, however, up the flight of steps, but she withdrew herself with a motion of impatience as soon as they entered the hall, and she was not at all aware of a feeling, an atmosphere, a sense of something sorrowful and unusual, which struck Antony as quickly as he passed the threshold. The next moment a door opened, and the family physician came forward.

Antony looked at him and divined what he was going to say. “She is worse, doctor?” he whispered.

“She is well, sir. Well, forever!”

Then, with such a cry as could only come from a wounded soul, Antony fled upstairs. Rose sank into the nearest chair. She had not yet any clear conception of her misery. But in a moment or two, Antony returned with his little dead daughter in his arms. He was weeping like a woman; nay, he was sobbing as men sob who have lost hope.

“Oh, my darling!” he cried. “My little comforter! 238 My lost angel!” and with every exclamation he kissed the lovely image of Death. Straight to the trembling, dazed mother he took the clay-cold form, which had already been dressed for its burial. And when Rose understood the fact, she was like one awakening from a dream – there was a moment’s stupor, a moment’s recollection, a moment’s passionate realization of her loss; and then shriek after shriek, from a mind that suddenly lost its balance and fell from earth to hell.

Fortunately, the physician was at hand, and for once Antony left Rose to his care. His sympathy seemed dead. He had borne until his capacity for suffering was exhausted. He lay down on the nursery couch, close to his dead child, and God sent him the sleep He gives to His beloved when the sorrow is too great for them. On awakening he found Mrs. Filmer at his side. She was weeping, and her tears made Antony blind also. He drew his hands across his eyes, and stood up, feeling weak and shattered, and ill from head to feet.

“Antony,” said Mrs. Filmer, “you have behaved nobly this day. I cannot thank you as I would like to.”

“Emma is dead!” he answered. “Dear mother, that is all I can bear to-night. Such a sad, little, suffering life! If I could only have suffered for her! If I could only have been with her at the hour. I watched for that favor. I grudged to leave her, even to eat or sleep – and I missed it after all! For I hoped at the moment of parting to have some vision or assurance that her tender little soul would not have to pass alone through the great outer space and darkness. Where is she now? Who is her Helper? Will Christ indeed carry her in his bosom until her small feet reach the fields of Paradise? Mother! mother! I am 239 broken-hearted this night. Who was with her when she died?”

“It seems that she died alone. The nurse thought she was asleep, and she went downstairs to make herself a cup of tea. When she came back Emma was dead. The doctor says she had a fit and died in it.”

“No one to help her! No one to kiss her! It is too cruel! My dear one would open her eyes at last and find no father – no mother – no one at all to say ‘good-bye’ to her!”

“Come, come, Antony! The doctor thinks she never recovered consciousness. He says she did not suffer. You have saved Rose. Go and say a word to her. She is in despair.”