American fiction -- 19th century; Dime novels; Popular literature
That broke the spell, and brought a shower of kisses upon her face and
lips, while he murmured words of fondness and love, and poured forth
question after question, until Rossie grew bewildered and confused, and
whispered faintly: “I don’t know; I don’t understand; I am very tired;
ask Beatrice, she knows; she did it; let me lie down again.”
He saw how pale and weary she looked, and placed her among the pillows,
but held her hands in his, while he turned to Beatrice, who had been
standing just outside the door, and who now came forward.
“Not here; Rossie is too tired. She cannot bear it,” she said, as he
asked her what it meant, and where she had found his darling.
Then, drawing him into the adjoining room, she told him very rapidly all
the steps which had led to Rossie’s release from the mad-house, which
had been intended as her living tomb. And as he listened to the story,
Everard grew more and more enraged, until he seemed like some wild
animal roused to the highest pitch of fury; and seizing his hat, was
about rushing from the room, when Beatrice detained him; and, locking
the door to prevent his egress, said to him: “I know what is in your
mind. You wish to arrest the doctor at once, but there is no haste at
present. Everything has been attended to for you. Ever since Lawyer
Russell heard from me that Rossie was alive, the Forrest House has been
under close espionage, and escape for the doctor made impossible. Last
night, in all that storm, officers were on guard, so that he could not
get away if he had received a hint of what has been done.”
“Yes, I know; but now,—now,—why not seize him now? Why wait any longer,
when I long to tear him limb from limb?” Everard exclaimed, gnashing his
teeth in his rage, and seeming to Beatrice like a tiger doing battle for
its young.
“Because,” she answered, and she spoke softly now, “we must hold his
sorrow sacred. We must let him bury his dead. Surely you know that
Josephine died last night?”
“Yes, yes, but I’d forgotten it in my excitement,” he gasped, and his
face was whiter, if possible, than before. “You are right; we must not
molest him now, but have a double watch,—yes, treble, if necessary. He
must not escape.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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