Part 30 (1/2)
”I was speaking of Mr. Duval.”
”Harry has also been speaking of Mr. Duval this morning. I told Harry to mind his own affairs. I say the same to you, Yanna. It is too much, when a married woman cannot speak to an old friend, cannot walk three or four blocks with him, without having her whole family suspect her immediately of breaking--or at least cracking--the ten commandments.”
”You know how Antony feels about that Duval.”
”I know Antony is an idiot about him. I know his behavior has been shameful to 'that Duval.' Poor d.i.c.k! What has the man done but dare admire me? A cat may look at a king. Many women would give Antony a lesson on that subject--they would not be accused for nothing.”
”But not you, Rose! Not you, dear Rose! Do not be impatient. Baby will soon be well, and Antony does love you so----”
”Do hush, Yanna! Antony loves nothing about me. But I must go now, or else I shall get another scolding for leaving baby so long; or a look worse than words; or silence, and Antony ostentatiously walking Emma up and down the floor; and mamma sighing; and the doctor solemnly standing by; and the nurse tip-toeing about the room; and the room so dark, and smelling of drugs, and full of suffering--it is all so dreadful! For I want to be out in the fresh spring air, and wind, and suns.h.i.+ne. I want to dance and run in it. My blood goes racing through my veins like quicksilver, and it is a kind of torture to sit still, and talk in whispers, and see baby's white waxy face, and smell nothing but drugs. When I went to show myself to Antony yesterday in my new suit, and held the lovely roses to his face, he turned away as if I were a fright, and put the flowers from him, as if they hurt.
Such ways I cannot understand!”
This conversation rather quieted than increased Yanna's misgivings.
She thought she understood the restless woman. Beautiful, and longing to exhibit her beauty, full of the pulse and pride of youth, excited by dreams of all sensuous delights, romantic, sentimental, and vain, she was resentful at the circ.u.mstances which bound her to the stillness and shadow of the sick room, because she was incredulous of any necessity for such devotion. For the latter feeling Mrs. Filmer was much to blame. She had not the keen intuitions regarding life and death which Antony possessed; she had dim remembrances of her own children's trials, she had the experiences of her friends on the same subject, and she did not honestly believe little Emma was in any special danger. Consequently, she had supported Rose in her claim to regard her own health, and go out a little every day. And if Antony had been asked for the reason of his great anxiety, he would not have cared to explain it to his wife or his mother-in-law. Both these women would have smiled at what he had learned through the second sight of dreams, in that mysterious travail of sleep, by which the man that feareth G.o.d is instructed and prepared for ”the sorrow that is approaching”; because, if apprehension of the supernatural is not in the human soul, neither miracle nor revelation can authenticate it to them.
So Antony bore his fear in silence, and told no one _the Word_ that had come to him; strengthening his heart with the brave resolve of the wise Esdras: ”Now, therefore, keep thy sorrow to thyself; and bear with a good courage that which hath befallen thee.”
About ten days after this event, Rose left her home early one morning to complete the shopping necessary for their removal to Woodsome on the following day. Mrs. Filmer promised to remain with the sick child until her return; but she urged Rose to make all haste possible, as there were various matters in the Filmer household to attend to ere Mr. Filmer and herself could comfortably leave for Europe on the Sat.u.r.day's steamer. With these considerations in view, she was annoyed at Rose for positively refusing the carriage. ”I want to walk, mamma,”
she said crossly; ”and if I get tired, I will take the street cars.”
”But you may be delayed by them, and time is precious now.”
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 gla.s.s 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.