Was It Right to Forgive? A Domestic Romance

“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, 276 realistic women; and with this class 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 class. 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 shirked 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 277 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 passed 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 anticipated – 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 assurances, 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 278 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 sunshine, and a soft, fresh breeze. The windows were gay with spring fashions 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 279 little laugh which saluted her in the passing. 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 280 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 passed 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.”

“What took you to the steamer then?”

“Mr. Duval had some letters – foolish, imprudent letters – and I was miserable about them; because whenever I did not meet him, or send him money, he threatened to show them to Antony. He promised, as he was going to Cuba, to give them to me for $500. I had only three days to procure the money, and I did 281 not succeed in getting it until noon of the last day. Then I went to the Astor House, where Mr. Duval was waiting for me, and because I wanted to keep him in a good temper, I took lunch with him. He said he would give me the letters after lunch. I did not take but two glasses of wine, yet they made me feel strange, and when I was told that his luggage had all gone to the steamer, and that I must go there for the letters, I could not help crying. When Adriana spoke to me, I was begging for my letters, and he was urging me to go to Cuba with him. He wanted my money, mamma, and I knew it. He was cruel to me, and I had become afraid of him. While he was talking, I was listening for the bell to warn people ashore, and I should have fled at the first sound.”

“He might have prevented you, Rose. My dear, what danger you were in!”

“I thought of that. There were several passengers on deck, and the captain was not far away. I would have thrown myself into the water rather than have gone to Cuba with Mr. Duval.”

“Did you get the letters?”

“No. Yanna came interfering, and then Antony. I let them think what they liked. Duval said I intended to go with him. It was a lie, and he knew it; but Yanna and Antony seemed to enjoy believing it, and so I let them think me as wicked and cruel as they desired. Not one of you took the trouble to ask me a question.”

“We feared to wound your feelings, Rose, by alluding to what could not be undone. And you were fretting so about your child.”

“Not one of you noticed that I had taken no clothing, none of my jewelry, not a single article necessary 282 for comfort. Was it likely I would leave all my dresses and jewels behind me? If Mr. Duval thought I was going with him, was it likely he would have suffered me to forget them?”

“Why did you not tell me all this before, Rose?”

“I do not know ‘why,’ mamma. I enjoyed seeing Antony miserable. I enjoyed humbling Yanna’s pride. I used to laugh at the thought of Harry and her talking over my misconduct. A spirit I could not control took possession of me. I did not want to do wrong, but I liked people to think I did wrong. I suppose you cannot understand me, mamma?”

“Yes, I understand, Rose.”

“When I was quite alone, I used to cry bitterly about the sin of it; but all the same, as soon as Antony, or you, or Yanna, or any one that knew about Duval, came into my sight, I tried to shock them again.”

“You will do so no more, Rose?”

“The desire has gone from me. I do not even fear Mr. Duval now. He can send all the letters he has to Antony, if he wishes. I am naturally a coward, and cowardice made me sin many a time. If I had only been brave enough to tell Antony what the villain made me suffer, I need not have endured it. Antony is generosity. Duval is cruelty.”