"Her cheek too quickly flushes; o'er her eyeThe lights and shadows come and go too fast,And tears gush forth too soon, and in her voiceAre sounds of tenderness too passionateFor peace on earth."
"Her cheek too quickly flushes; o'er her eyeThe lights and shadows come and go too fast,And tears gush forth too soon, and in her voiceAre sounds of tenderness too passionateFor peace on earth."
"Her cheek too quickly flushes; o'er her eyeThe lights and shadows come and go too fast,And tears gush forth too soon, and in her voiceAre sounds of tenderness too passionateFor peace on earth."
Ibelieve the established and time-honored precedent in writing stories is to bring the chief characters safely through sundry "hair-breadth escapes by flood and field," annihilate the vicious, make virtue triumphant, marry the heroine, andthen, with a grand final flourish of trumpets, the tale ends.
believe the established and time-honored precedent in writing stories is to bring the chief characters safely through sundry "hair-breadth escapes by flood and field," annihilate the vicious, make virtue triumphant, marry the heroine, andthen, with a grand final flourish of trumpets, the tale ends.
Now, I hope none of my readers will be disappointed if in this "o'er true tale" I depart from this established rule. My heroine is married, but the history of her life cannot end here. Perhaps it would be as well if it could, but truth compels me to go on and depict the dark as well as the bright side of a fiery yet generous nature—a nature common enough in this world, subject to error and weakness as we all are, and not in the least like one of those impossible angels oftener read of than seen.
Jane Eyre says a new chapter is like a new scene in a play. When the curtain rises this time, it discloses an elegantly furnished parlor, with pictures and lounges, and easy-chairs, and mirrors, and damask hangings, and all the other paraphernalia of a well-furnished room—time, ten o'clock in the morning. A cheerful fire burns in the polished grate, for it is a clear, cold December day, and diffuses a genial warmth through the cozy apartment.
In the middle of the floor stands a little round table, with a delicate breakfast-service of Sevres china and silver, whereon steams most fragrant Mocha, appetizing, nice waffles, and sundry other tempting edibles. Presiding here is a lady, young and "beautiful exceedingly," robed in a rich white cashmere morning wrapper, confined at the slender waist by a scarlet cord and tassels, and at the ivory throat by a flashing diamond breastpin. Her shining jet-black hair is brushed in smooth bands off her broad, queenly brow, and the damp braid just touches the rounded, flushed cheek. Very handsome and stately indeed she looks, yet with a sort of listless languor pervading her every movement, whether she lounges back in her chair, or slowlystirs her coffee with her small, dark hand, fairly blazing with jewels.
Opposite her sits a young gentleman of commanding presence and graceful bearing, who alternately talks to the lady, sips his coffee, and reads the morning paper.
"Do put away that tiresome paper, Richmond," said the lady, at last, half impatiently. "I don't see what you can possibly find to interest you in those farming details, and receipts for curing spasms in horses, and making hens lay. Of all stupid things those country papers are the stupidest."
"Except those who read them," said the gentleman, laughing. "Well, I bow to your superior wisdom, and obey, like a well-trained husband. And now, what are your ladyship's commands?"
"Talk," said the lady, yawning behind the tips of her fingers.
"Willingly, my dear. On what subject? I am ready to talk to order at a moment's notice."
"Well, I want to know if you have given up that Washington project? Are we to spend the winter in Burnfield?"
"I think so—yes," said Richmond, slowly. "It will be better, all things considered, that we should do so, and early in the spring we will start on our continental tour. Are you disappointed at this arrangement, Georgia?"
"Disappointed? Oh, no, no," said Georgia, with sparkling eyes. "I am so glad, Richmond. It seems so pleasant, and so much like home to be here, with no strange faces around us, and all those dreadful restraints and formalities at an end. I wassotired of them all in New York."
"And yet you used to long so ardently for life in those large cities some time ago, Georgia. New York was a Paradise in your eyes—do you remember?"
"Oh, yes," said Georgia, laughing; "but that was because I knew nothing about it. I was dreadfully tired of Burnfield, and longed so for a change. 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,' you know, and the anticipation was somewhat different from the reality."
"You did not like the reality?"
"No," said Georgia, with her usual truthful promptness.
"And yet I did everything to make you happy—you never expressed a wish that I did not gratify."
Tears sprang to Georgia's eyes at the implied reproach.
"Dear Richmond, I know it. It seems very ungrateful in me to talk so; but you know what I mean. I do not like strangers, and I met so many there; there were so many restraints, and formalities, and wearying ceremonies to be gone through, that I used to grow almost wild sometimes, and feel as if I wanted to rush out and fly, fly back to dear old Burnfield again, and never leave it. And then, those ladies were all so elegant and grand, and could keep on saying graceful nothings for hours, while I sat mute, tongue-tied, unable to utter a word of 'small talk,' and feeling awkward lest I should disgrace you by some dreadfulgaucherie. Oh, Richmond, I was so proud, and fearless, and independent before I was married."
"Toomuch so, Georgia," he interrupted, gravely.
"And now," she went on, unheeding his words, save by the deeper flush of her cheek. "I am almost timid, for your sake. When I was among all those people in NewYork I did not care for myself, but I was so afraid of mortifyingyou. I knew they used to watch Richmond Wildair's country bride to catch her in some outlandish act; and, oh, Richmond, when I would think of it, and find so many curious eyes watching me, as if I were some strange wild animal, I used to grow positively nervous—I, that never knew what nerves were before, and I used to wish—don't be angry, Richmond—that I had never married you at all. You used to call me an eaglet, Richmond, and I felt then like one chained and fettered, and I think I should havediedif you had made me stay there all winter."
There was a passionate earnestness in her voice that did not escape him, but he answered lightly:
"Died! Pooh! don't be silly, Georgia. Ididsee that you were painfully anxious at times, so much so that you even mademenervous as well as yourself. You must overcome this; you must learn to be at ease. Remember, those are the people with whom you are to mingle for the rest of your life—not the common folks of Burnfield."
"They are a stiff, artificial set. I don't like them!" said Georgia, impetuously.
Richmond's brow darkened.
"Georgia!" he said, coldly.
"Perhaps it is because I have not become accustomed to my new position. Any one suddenly raised from one sphere of life to another diametrically opposite, must feel strange and out of place. Why, Richmond," she said, smiling, "I am not even accustomed to that grand little housekeeper of yours yet. Her cold, stately magnificence overwhelms me. When she comes to me for orders, I fairly blush, and have to look at my diamonds and silks, and recollect I am Mrs. Wildair, of Richmond House, tokeep my dignity. It is rather uncomfortable, all this; but time, that works wonders, will, I have no doubt, make me as stiff, and solemn, and sublimely grand, as even—Mrs. Hamm."
His face wore no answering smile; he was very grave.
"You are not angry, Richmond?" she said, deprecatingly.
"Not angry, Georgia, but annoyed. I do not like this state of things. My wife must be self-possessed and lady-like as well as handsome. Youmustlose this country girl awkwardness, and learn to move easily and gracefully in your new sphere. Youmustlearn to sit at the head of my table, and do the honors of my house as becomes one whom I have seen fit to raise to the position of my wife."
"Raise!" exclaimed Georgia, with one of her old flashes, and a haughty lift of her head.
"In a worldly point of view, I mean. Physically, mentally, and morally, you are my equal; but in the eyes of the world, I have made amesalliance; and that world whose authority I have spurned is malicious enough to witness with delight your rustic shyness, to call it by no more mortifying name. Georgia, I knew from the moment I first presented you to my mother that this explanation must come; but, knowing your high spirit, I had too much affection for you to speak of it sooner, and if I wound your feelings now, believe me, it is to make you happier afterward. You are too impulsive, and have not dissimulation enough, Georgia; your open and unconcealed dislike for some of those you met in town made you many enemies—did you know it?"
"Yes, I knew it; and this enmity was more acceptable to me than their friendship!" flashed Georgia.
"But not to me. It is better to have a dog fawn on you than bark at you, Georgia. I do not say to you to like them, but you might have concealed yourdislike. A smile and courteous word costs little, and it might have saved you many a bitter sneer."
"Icannotdissimulate; Ineverdissimulated; I never did anything so mean!" said Georgia, passionately.
"There is no meanness about it, Mrs. Wildair, and you might have spared the insinuation that I could urge you to do anything mean. Common politeness requires that you should be courteous to all, and I hope you will not mortify me again by any public display of your likes and dislikes."
Georgia arose impetuously from the table, and, with a burning cheek and flashing eye, walked to the window. What words can tell of the storm raging within her wild, proud heart, as she listened to his authoritative tone and words?
"It is necessary, too, that you should by degrees grow accustomed to what you call your strange position," he calmly went on, "before you enter the fashionable world at Washington, where you will make what you may call yourdebut. For that reason, while in New York, I invited a party of friends here to spend Christmas and New Year's, and you may expect them here now in less than a week."
She faced round as if her feet were furnished with steel springs, every feeling of rebellion roused into life at last.
"You did? And without consulting me?"
"Certainly, my dear. Have I not a right to ask my friends to my house?"
She laid her hand on her breast, as if to keep the storm within from breaking forth; but he saw it in the workings of her face.
"Come, Georgia, be reasonable," he said quietly. "I am sorry this annoys you, but it is absolutely necessary. Why, one would think, by your looks and actions, I was some monstrous tyrant, instead of a husband who loves you so well that he is willing to sacrifice his own fondness for solitude and quiet, that you may acquire the habits of good society."
She did not speak. His words had wounded her pride too deeply to be healed by his gentle tone.
"Well, Georgia?" he said, after a pause.
She turned her face to the window, and asked, huskily:
"Who are coming?"
"My mother and cousin, the Arlinfords, Mrs. Harper and her two daughters, Colonel and Mrs. Gleason, and their two sons, Miss Reid, and Mr. Lester."
"All I dislike most."
"All you dislike most, Mrs. Wildair?" he said, coolly. "What am I to understand by that?"
"What I say. I have not yet learned to dissimulate," she said, bitterly.
"Really, Mrs. Wildair, this is pleasant. I presume you forget my mother."
Georgia was silent.
"Am I to understand, Mrs. Wildair, that my mother is included in the catalogue of those you dislike?"
Georgia did not speak.
"Mrs. Wildair," he said, calmly, "will it please you to reply? I am accustomed to be answered when I speak."
"Oh, Richmond, don't ask me. How can I help it? I tried to like your mother, but—"
Her voice choked, and she stopped.
He went over, and lifted the face she had covered with her hands, and looked into it with a smile.
"But you failed. You did not understand each other. Well, never mind, Georgia; you will like each other better by and by. You will have to do so, as she is going to live with us altogether."
"What!"
"My dear, be calm. How intensely excitable you are! Certainly, she will live here: she is all alone now, you know—she and my cousin; and is it not natural that this should be their home?"
"Your cousin, too?"
"Of course. Why, Georgia, you might have known it. They are my only relatives, for he who was once my brother is dead to us all. Georgia, is it possible you hate my mother and cousin?"
He spoke in a tone so surprised and grieved that Georgia was touched. Forcing a smile, she looked up in his grave face, and said:
"Oh, Richmond, I did not mean to hurt your feelings; forgive me if I have done so. I will try to like all your friends, because they are yours. I will try to tutor this undisciplined heart, and be all you could wish. It startled me at first, that is all. It was so pleasant here, with no one but ourselves, and I was so happy since our return, that I forgot it could not always last. Yes, indeed, Richmond, Iwilllike your mother and cousin, and try to be as urbane and courteous to all our guests as even you are. Am I forgivennow, Richmond?"
Half an hour later, Georgia was alone in her own room, lying prostrate on a couch, with her face buried in the cushions, perfectly still, but for the sort of shiver that ranat intervals through her slight frame. It was their first quarrel, or anything approaching a quarrel, and Georgia had been crushed, wounded, and humiliated, as she had never been before in her life. It may seem a slight thing; but in her pride she was so acutely sensitive, that now she lay in a sort of anguish, with her hands clasped over her heart, as if to still its tumultuous throbbings, looking forward with a dread that was almost horror to the coming of all those strangers, but more than all, to the coming of her husband's mother and cousin.
All that day she was changed, and was as haughty and self-possessed as any of those fine ladies, her husband's friends. The calm, dignified politeness of Mrs. Hamm looked like impudence to her in her present mood, and when that frigid little lady came to ask about dinner, there were two burning spots on Georgia's cheeks, and a high, ringing tone of command in her voice that made Mrs. Hamm open her languid eyes in faint amaze, which was as far as she could ever go in the way of astonishment.
Late that evening, as she sat in the drawing-room, practicing her music lesson,—for she was learning music now,—Emily Murray was announced, and the next moment, bright, breezy, smiling, and sunshiny, she came dancing in, like an embodied sunbeam.
"Mother's been over spending the afternoon with Miss Jerusha," said Emily, "and I felt so lonesome at home that I overcame my awe of Richmond House and its grand inmates, and thought I would run up and see you. Hope, like Paul Pry, I do not intrude?"
Georgia's reply was a kiss. She had been feeling so sad all day that her heart gave a glad bound at sight of Emily.
"Why, what's the matter, Georgie? You look pale andtroubled. What has happened?" said Emily, her affectionate eyes discovering the change in her friend's tell-tale face.
"Nothing; at least, not much. I am a little out of spirits to-day; everyone is at times," said Georgia, with a faint smile. "My moods were always changeable, you know."
"Well, I hope you will not acquire that anxious, worried look most housekeepers wear," said Emily, gayly. "You have it exactly now, and it quite spoils your beauty. Come, smile and look pleasant, and tell me all about your journey to New York. Did you have a good time?"
"Yes," said Georgia, coloring slightly; "I enjoyed myself pretty well. We went to the theater and opera almost every night, and I went to a great many parties of one kind and another. But Burnfield'shomeafter all, and there was no Emily in New York city."
"Flatterer!" said Emily, laughing; "and did you see Mr. Wildair's relatives there, too?"
"Yes," said Georgia, in a changed tone. "He has no relatives but his mother and a certain Miss Richmond, a cousin of his, and an orphan."
"You forget his brother—our old friend Charley?"
"He is not at home now—I have not even heard his name mentioned for many a day."
"Indeed?" said Emily, surprised. "How is that? I feel an interest in him, you know," she added, laughing; "he was so handsome, and droll, and winning—twice as nice, with reverence be it said, as your grave, stately liege lord."
"Well, it appears he did something. I never heard what, but Richmond says he disgraced the family, and theyhave disowned him. What his fault is I do not know, but one of the effects of it is, that he has lost the inheritance Squire Richmond left him. You see the way it was, my husband inherited all the landed property and half the bank stock, and Charley the remaining half. Not a very fair division, you will say; but as Richmond bore the family name, and was more after his uncle's heart than his wilder brother, the old gentleman saw fit to leave him most. As the bank stock was large, however, Charley's fortune was no trifle; but to it certain conditions were annexed, namely: that he should marry this young lady cousin, Miss Richmond, and take the family name before he went abroad. Charley only laughed at it, and declared his perfect willingness to marry 'Freddy'—her name is Fredrica—who would be handy to have about the house, he said, to pull off his boots, sew on buttons, and sing him to sleep of an afternoon. Miss Richmond, on her part, made no objection, and that matter seemed settled; but whatever he has done, it has completely broken up the whole affair, and his share comes to Richmond along with his own. So, my dear little snow-flake, that is all I know of your handsome Charley," concluded Georgia, with her own bright smile.
"It is all very strange," said Emily, musingly; "and I cannot realize that the gay, careless, but ever kind youth that we knew, and whom everybody loved, has become fallen and degraded, as all this would seem to imply. What sort of a person is this Miss Richmond he was to marry?"
Georgia's beautiful lip curled with a scorn too intense for words.
"She is a—But, as I cannot tell my impressions of her without speaking ill of the absent, I will be silent. In afew days you will have a chance to see her for yourself, as she is coming here to live."
"Indeed!" said Emily, slowly, fixing her eyes anxiously on Georgia's face—"indeed! Would you not be happier without her?"
"That is not the question," said Georgia, in a tone of reserve, for she was too proud to let even Emily know how much she disliked this visit; "it will not do for Richmond and me to make hermits of ourselves altogether, you know, so a large party from the city are coming here to spend Christmas. And, Emily, I wantyouto come too; they are all more or less strangers to me, and it will be such a comfort to look on your dear, familiar face when I grow tired of playing the hostess to all those grand folks. Say, little darling, will you come?"
The dark eyes were raised with such a look of earnest entreaty to her face that Emily stooped down and kissed the pleading lips before she answered.
"Dear Georgia, I cannot; I would not be happy among so many strangers—I should feel like a fish out of water, you know. We can meet often when no strange eyes are looking on; they would not understand us, nor we them, Georgia. And now, good-by; Uncle Edward is coming to tea, so I must hurry home."
She was gone. The airy little form and bright face flashed out of the door, and Georgia felt as if all the sunshine in that grand, cold room had gone with her. Impatiently she rose from the piano, and with a rebellious rising in her heart, walked to the window and looked out with a darkening brow.
"She shrinks from meeting this crowd—so do I. She need not meet them, but I have to—I must. Oh! hatefulword. If there was a single bond of sympathy between me and one of them—but there is not. They come here to criticise and sneer at Richmond Wildair's country bride—to have a good subject to laugh over when they go back to the city. Richmond says I am morbid on this subject, but I am not. And that cousin, too—that smooth silvery-voiced, oily little cheat. Oh! why, why did he invite her here? I hate her—I loathe her. I shrank from her the moment I first saw her, with her snake-like movements and fawning smile. And she is to live here; to spy upon me night and day; to drive me wild with her cringing servility, hiding her mockery and covert sneers. I think I could get along with his mother, with all her open scorn and supercilious contempt; galling as it is, it is at least open, and not mean, prying and treacherous; but this horrid, despicable cousin that I loathe even more than I hate—oh! I dread her coming; I shrink from it; it makes my flesh creep to think of it. Oh, Richmond! if you knew how I detest this earthworm of a cousin, would you ever have invited her here? Yes, I know he would. I feel he would. He would be shocked, horrified, indignant, if he knew how I feel on the subject; so he shall never know. He would think it my duty to overcome this sinful feeling, and insist upon my being doubly kind to her to atone for it. He likes her—so does his mother—so does every one else; they believe in her silky smile, her soft, treacherous voice, and cat-like step, and mean, underhand fawning; but I—I see through her, and she knows it. She dislikes me. I saw that through all her cringing, officious attentions and professions of affection, and only loathed her the more.
"Oh!" cried Georgia, pacing up and down the room, "this is, indeed, awakening from my delusive dream.Perhaps I am too sensitive—Richmond says I am; but I cannot help feeling so. I was so perfectly happy since our return, but now it is at an end. Our delicious solitude is to be invaded by those cold, unsympathizing worldlings, who come here to gratify their curiosity and see how the awkward country girl will do the honors of stately Richmond country-house. Oh! why amInot sufficient? Why need he invite all these people here? But I forget they are his friends; they are to him what Emily Murray is to me. Dear, loving, happy little Emily! with her calm, seraphic eyes, and pure, serene brow.Whatis the secret of her inward happiness? How different she is from me; even in childhood none of those storms of passion agitated her, that distracted my tempestuous youth. Can it be that Christianity, in which she so implicity believes, has anything to do with this perfect peace?Isthere a heaven?" she said, going back to the window and looking gloomily out. "Sometimes I have doubted it; and yet thereoughtto be. Our best happiness in this world is so short, so feverish, so fleeting, and the earthly strife is so long, and wearisome, and sorrowful, that we need perfect rest and peace somewhere. Two short months ago I was so happy—oh,sohappy!—and now, at this first slight trial, my heart lies like lead in my bosom. How false the dazzling glitter of this world is!"
And, as if involuntarily, she murmured the beautiful words of Moore:
"This world is all a fleeting show,For man's illusion given;The smiles of joy, the tears of woeDeceitful shine, deceitful flow,There's nothing true but Heaven."
"This world is all a fleeting show,For man's illusion given;The smiles of joy, the tears of woeDeceitful shine, deceitful flow,There's nothing true but Heaven."
"This world is all a fleeting show,For man's illusion given;The smiles of joy, the tears of woeDeceitful shine, deceitful flow,There's nothing true but Heaven."
There was an unusual shadow on little Emily Murray's face too, that day, as she went home. She was thinking of Georgia. The eyes of affection are not easily blinded, and she saw that under all her proud, reserved exterior, her friend was unhappy.
"I know she dreads the coming of all those people from the city, Uncle Edward," she said that evening to Father Murray, as she sat busily sewing at the table.
"Poor child!" said the kind old clergyman. "I feared from the first this marriage would not contribute much to her happiness. Not that it is Mr. Wildair's fault; he means well, and really does all for the best; but your friend, Emily, is peculiar. She is morbidly proud and intensely sensitive, and has a dread amounting to horror of being ridiculed. People of her nature are rarely, if ever, perfectly happy in this world; they are self-torturers, and their happiness comes in flashes, to be succeeded by deeper gloom than before. Georgia always was in extremes; she was either wildly, madly, unreasonably joyful, or else wrapped in a dark, sullen gloom that nothing could alleviate."
The next three days Emily was not up at the Hall, but on the fourth afternoon she started to see Georgia. The train from the city had just reached Burnfield station, and two large sleighs, filled with ladies and gentlemen, were dashing up amid the jingling of bells and peals of silvery laughter toward Richmond House.
Emily paused and watched them until they disappeared up the avenue, and then, as she was about to turn away, she saw Mrs. Hamm, cloaked and hooded, advance toward her.
"Good-afternoon, Miss Murray," said the stately littledame, in a tone of lofty courtesy that would have become a duchess.
"Good-afternoon, Mrs. Hamm," said Emily, pleasantly; "I see you have visitors up at the house."
"Yes, friends of Mr. Wildair's, from New York—his mother, and cousins, and others—quite a large party. Excuse me, this is my way. Good-day, Miss Emily."
What inward feeling was it that made Emily turn and send such a look of pity up at the window of Georgia's room?
"Poor Georgia!" she said, as she turned away, feeling, she hardly knew why, a most uncomfortable sinking of her heart at the thought of her sensitive young friend amid all those unsympathizing strangers. "Poor Georgia! Poor Georgia!"
"I had a dream which was notalla dream."
"I had a dream which was notalla dream."
"I had a dream which was notalla dream."
Byron.
"And we saw Medea burningAt her passion-planted stake."
"And we saw Medea burningAt her passion-planted stake."
"And we saw Medea burningAt her passion-planted stake."
Browning.
Richmond House at last was full of guests; every room was filled; peals of laughter, and silvery voices of ladies, and the deeper tones of gentlemen, made music through the long silent house, and scared the swallows from their homes in the eaves. The idle servants had enough to do now, and were tearing distractedly up stairs and down stairs, and here,and there, and everywhere with a terrible noise and clatter, and all was gay bustle and lively animation.
ichmond House at last was full of guests; every room was filled; peals of laughter, and silvery voices of ladies, and the deeper tones of gentlemen, made music through the long silent house, and scared the swallows from their homes in the eaves. The idle servants had enough to do now, and were tearing distractedly up stairs and down stairs, and here,and there, and everywhere with a terrible noise and clatter, and all was gay bustle and lively animation.
Georgia, superb as a young empress, in purple satin, with a brilliant flush on her cheek, and a streaming light in her eyes, had never looked so handsome as that day when she received and welcomed her husband's guests. And when this ceremony was over, they were shown to their rooms to dress for dinner, and Richmond, with a gratified smile, congratulated her on the elegant manner in which she had performed her part. Georgia listened, and her cheek flushed deeper, and her eye grew brighter as she replied to his smile with one that made her face fairly radiant, and inwardly resolved that to merit his approbation, shewouldtry to dissimulate, and try to be amiable and courteous to all, even to the detestable Miss Richmond.
The great dining-room of Richmond House was all ablaze that evening, and the long table fairly glittered and flashed with its wealth of massive silver and cut-glass; and around it gathered all the gay guests from the city, and not a lady among them all was half so handsome or brilliant as the dark, bright girl, in her rich sheeny dress, who sat at the head of the table and did the honors.
A very select party they were whom Richmond Wildair had invited. There was Colonel Gleason, a tall, pompous-looking gentleman; and Mrs. Gleason, a stiff, frigid lady, not unlike Mrs. Hamm; then there was a Mrs. Harper, a buxom, jolly-looking matron; and her two daughters, dashing, stylish-looking girls, who had never been guilty of a blush in their lives. There, too, was Miss Reid, a silent, languid, delicate-looking young lady, reminding one of a fragile wax japonica; and a Mr. Lester, one of those irresistible bipeds known as "Broadway swells," who neverpronounced the letter R. and had the nicest little bits of feet and hands in the world. There was Lieutenant Gleason, the Colonel's eldest son, remarkable for nothing but a ferocious mustache and a pair of long and slender legs; and there was Mr. Henry Gleason, a youth of eighteen, who stared at the company generally through an eye-glass, and gave it as his opinion that there never was such a rum old house, or such a jolly stupid old place as Burnfield in the world before. There was Miss Arlingford, a pale, dark-eyed, pleasant-looking girl, and her brother, Captain Arlingford, a handsome, dashing young sailor—frank, off-hand, and brave, as all sailors are. And last, but by no means least, there was Mr. Dick Curtis, who on a certain interesting occasion had "stood up" with Richmond, and now, resplendent in a white vest and excruciating neck-tie, was making most anxious inquiries about our friend Emily Murray, about whom he said his private opinion, publicly expressed, was, that she was a "real nice girl—a regular stunner, sir, and no mistake!"
"Aw—should like to see her—weally," lisped Mr. Lester; "this heaw Burnfield seems so good at that sort of thing, you know—waising handsome gals, eh?" And the exquisite glanced with what he fancied to be an unmistakable look at his hostess, whose haughty lip, in spite of every effort, curled while meeting Captain Arlingford's laughing eye; she had to smile, too.
"I say, Lester," called Mr. Henry Gleason from across the table, "that must have been the little beauty we saw standing in the road as we drove up. By Jove! she was ascreamer, a regular out-and-outer, a tip-top, slap-up girl," said the youth, enthusiastically.
"Henry, my dear," said his mother, looking shocked,"howcanyou use such dreadful language? 'Slap-up!' I'm really astonished at you!"
"Well, so shewasslap-up!" reiterated Master Henry, determinedly, "nothing shorter. Ask our Tom, or Lester, or any of the fellows, if you don't believe me."
"A true bill, Harry," replied his brother Tom, the hero of the ferocious moustache. "I say, Wildair, you'll have to present us."
"Couldn't, my dear fellow," said Mr. Wildair, laughing; "little Emily would fly in terror at sight of your gold lace and sword-knot. No chance of getting up a flirtation withher."
"Aw—couldn't expect anything bettah from a wustic; they ah not wuth the time spent in flirting, you know," drawled Mr. Lester, sipping his wine.
Georgia gave a sudden start, and, had looks the power to kill, poor obtuse Mr. Lester would never have murdered the king's English again. Glances were exchanged, and one or two malicious smiles curled sundry female lips. The gentleman looked down at their plates, and Richmond's mouth grew stern. Not one present but felt the words, save the noodle who had spoken, and that fast youth, Master Henry Gleason.
"Curtis is a goner, anyhow," said Master Henry, breaking the awkward silence; "he turned as red as a boiled lobster the moment he clapped his eyes on her. Eh, Curtis, you're a gone case, ain't you?"
"It's no use though, my dear fellow," said Richmond, recovering his bland look; "my little friend, Emily, wouldn't have you if you were President of the United States. Isn't that so, Georgia?" he said, gayly, appealing to his wife, who was conversing with Miss Arlingford andher brother, the only two whom she did not positively dislike.
"I really do not know," she said, gravely, for she did not exactly relish this free use of Emily's name.
"And why, Wildair?" said Curtis, so earnestly that all laughed.
"Simply, my dear fellow, because you and she have antagonistic views on many subjects."
A change of theme was soon after effected by the ladies rising and seeking the drawing-room. There they dispersed themselves in various directions. The eldest Miss Harper sat down at the piano, in the hope of attracting the attention of Miss Arlingford, whom she professed a strong attachment for, on the principle of "let me kiss her for her brother," to change the song a little. But Miss Arlingford, who had taken a deep interest in the proud young lady of the house, sat down beside her and began to converse. The rest gathered in groups to chat or listen to the music, or turn over prints, until the entrance of the gentlemen—for which they had not to wait long, as that fast young scion of the house of Gleason had moved a speedy adjournment to the drawing-room, pronouncing the talk over the "walnuts and the wine" awfully slow without the girls. And immediately upon their entrance Master Henry crossed over to where Georgia and Miss Arlingford sat, and drawing up an ottoman, deposited himself at their feet, and began opening a conversation with his young hostess, whom, he had informed Captain Arlingford, he considered the greatest "stunner" he had ever seen in his life, and that, in spite of all people said about it, his opinion was that Rich Wildair had showed his good taste and good sense by marrying her.
"Where's the other Mrs. Wildair—the dowager duchess, you know?" he said, by way of commencing.
"In her room," replied Georgia, with a smile. "She was rather fatigued after her journey, and would not come down to dinner. She will grace the drawing-room by her presence by and by."
"Horridly easily fatigued she must be," said Henry, who was one of those favored individuals who can say and do anything they like without giving offense. "Freddy Richmond's with her, I suppose?"
"Yes; she would not leave her aunt. Both will be here very shortly," replied Georgia.
Even as she spoke the drawing-room door opened, and a tall, hard-featured, haughty-looking, elderly lady entered, leaning on the arm of a small, wiry girl with little keen gray eyes, and hair which her friendscalledauburn, but whichwasred, and very white teeth, displayed by a constant, unvarying smile. A smiling face ought to be a pleasant one, but this freckled one was not. There was a cringing, fawning, servility about her which made most people, except those fond of flattery and adulation, distrust her, and which fairlysickenedGeorgia.
"Speak of the—," began Henry, sinking his voicepianissimo, and concluding the sentence to himself.
Georgia arose, and almost timidly approached them, and inquired of the elder lady if she felt better. Mrs. Wildair opened her eyes and favored her with a stare that was downright insolent; and then, before her slow reply was formed, Miss Freddy Richmond took it upon herself to answer, with a fawning smile:
"Thank you, yes—quite recovered. A night's rest will perfectly restore her."
Georgia turned her flashing eyes down on the smiling owner of the ferret optics and red hair, and a hot "I did not address myself to you—speak when you are spoken to," leaped to her tongue; but Georgia was learning to restrain herself since her marriage, and so she only bit her lip till the blood started, at the open slight.
"Can we not get on, Fredrica?" said Mrs. Wildair, impatiently.
Georgia was standing before them, and now Miss Freddy, with her silkiest smile, put out her hand—a limp, moist, sallow little member—and gave her a slight push saying:
"Will you be kind enough, Georgia" (she had called her by her Christian name from the first, as if she had been a maid-of-all-work), "and let us pass. I see Mrs. Colonel Gleason over there, and Mrs. Wildair wants to join her."
Richmond, standing over Miss Harper, who was deafening the company with one of those dreadful overtures from "Il Trovatore," had not witnessed this little scene. Indeed, had he, it is probable he would have observed nothing wrong about it; but the gesture, the tone, and the insolent look—half supercilious, half contemptuous—that accompanied it, sent a shock through Miss Arlingford, brought a flush to her brother's cheek, and even made Master Henry mutter that it was a "regular jolly shame."
They brushed past Georgia as if she had been the housemaid, and she was left standing there before those who had witnessed the direct insult. Her head was throbbing, her face crimson, and her breath came so quick and stifled that she laid her hand on her chest, feeling as though she should suffocate. She forgot the curious eyes bent upon her—some in compassion, some in gratified malice—she forgot everything but the insult offered her by the worm she despised. With one hand resting on the table to steady herself, for her brain was whirling, and with the other pressed hard on her bosom, she stood where they had left her, until Miss Arlingford arose, and taking her arm, said, kindly:
"The heat has made you ill, Mrs. Wildair; allow me to lead you to a seat."
She did not resist, and Miss Arlingford conducted her to a remote seat somewhat in the shadow, if such a thing as shade it could be called in that brilliantly lighted room. And then the young lady began talking carelessly about the music, without looking at her, until Georgia's emotion had time to subside and, outwardly at least, she grew calm. Outwardly—but, oh! the bitterness that swelled and throbbed in that proud heart until it seemed ready to burst, that left her white even to the very lips, that sent such a dreadful fire into her dusky eyes as if all the life in her heart had fled and concentrated there.
She did not hear a word Miss Arlingford was saying, she scarcely knew she was beside her; she did not know what was going on around her for a moment, until, with one grand crash that might have smashed a more firm instrument, Miss Harper arose from the piano and sailed over to where the young captain and Henry Gleason were talking, and made herself quite at home with them at once. And then Georgia, whose eyes were fixed in a sort of terrible fascination on Miss Richmond, saw her led to the piano by her husband, and heard her singing, or ratherscreechingsome terrific Italian song, and all the time she was combating a fierce, mad impulse to spring upon her and do—she did not know what—strangle her, perhaps.And then her song was ended—the final unearthly shriek was given, like to nothing earthly but the squeal of a steamboat, and she saw her approach, and, with her small, glittering, snaky eyes fixed upon her, in a voice audible to all, ask her—their hostess—to favor them next. Now she, as well as most there, knew Georgia could not play; but, wishing to have a little pleasure quizzing the "country girl," they came crowding around, and it was:
"Oh,praydo, Mrs. Wildair."
"Don'trefuse us now."
"Dofavor us, Mrs. Wildair; I am sure you sing beautifully."
"Of course Georgia will play; she knows it's not polite to refuse her guests," said Miss Richmond, winding up the chant and smiling insolently up in her face as she laid her hand on her arm.
Georgia started as if a viper had stung her, and, striking off the hand, arose white with concentrated passion.
Richmond, coming up at the moment, had just heard his cousin's silvery-toned request, and the startling way in which it had been received.
Miss Richmond and Miss Harper started back with two simultaneous little shrieks, and looked at Georgia as they would at a Shawnee savage, had one suddenly appeared before them, and a profound silence fell on all around.
Richmond's brow for one moment grew dark as night, and he caught and transfixed Georgia with a look that made her start as if she had received a galvanic shock. The next, with his strong self-command, his brow cleared, and, making his way through the startled group, he said, smiling:
"My wife does not play, Freddy. You forgot musicteachers are not so easily obtained in Burnfield as in New York city. Why, Georgia, you are looking quite pale. Are you ill?"
She did not speak; she only lifted her eyes to his face with a look of such utter anguish that his anger gave way to a mingled feeling of compassion and annoyance.
"I am afraid Mrs. Wildairisindisposed," said Miss Arlingford. "We will leave her to your care, Mr. Wildair, while, if my poor efforts will be accepted, I will endeavor to take her place at the instrument."
As Miss Arlingford was known to be a beautiful singer, the offer was instantly accepted, and the kind-hearted young lady was followed to the piano by all present, who seated themselves near, while Richmond, Freddy, and Mrs. Wildair, who, with a frown on her brow, had just come up, gathered round Georgia.
"Really, Richmond, your wife has made a most extraordinary exhibition of herself this evening," said his mother, in a tone of withering contempt. "Are you quite sure she is perfectly sane? I do not ask from curiosity, but because Mrs. Gleason has been quite terrified."
Georgia started as if she would have sprung from the sofa, but Richmond held her down, while he said, coldly:
"You can tell Mrs. Gleason she need not alarm herself on the subject; the unusual excitement has been too much for her, that is all."
"Theunusual excitement! Oh, I perceive," said Mrs. Wildair, with a smile more cutting than any words could have been. "Perhaps she had better retire to her room altogether, and I will endeavor to play the hostess to your guests."
"My dear Georgia," said Freddy, laying her hatefulhand on Georgia's, and looking up in her face with a hateful smile, "I am afraid my request offended you. I am sure I quite forgot you could not play, and never thought you would have resented being asked; it is so common for people to play nowadays that one cannot realize another is ignorant of what every child understands. I really cannot leave you until you say you forgive me."
Georgia shuddered at the hateful touch, and her hands clinched as she listened, but Richmond's eye was upon her, and she only shook off the hand, and was silent.
"Do say you forgive me, Georgia,do, please, I amsosorry," fawned Freddy, with one arm around her neck.
"Oh, Richmond, take her away! Oh, Richmond,do!" she cried out, shrinking in loathing from her.
Freddy, with the sigh of deeply injured but forgiving spirit, got up and stood meekly before her.
"Really," began Mrs. Wildair, with haughty anger; but her son, with a darkened brow, said, hastily:
"Mother, leave her to me. Freddy, go; she does not know what she is saying; she will regret this by and by, and be the first to apologize. She is excited now; to-morrow you will see her in a very different frame of mind."
"I hope so, I am sure; it is very much needed, I must say," observed Mrs. Wildair, coldly, as, with a frown on her face, she drew Freddy's arm within hers and led her away.
"Oh, Richmond!" began Georgia, passionately lifting her eyes to his face.
And there she stopped, the words frozen on her lips. He did not speak, but catching her wrists in a steady grasp, he looked sternly and steadily in her eyes, until she satshivering and trembling before him. And then he dropped her hands, and without a word drew her arm within his and led her down to where the rest were, and seated her on a sofa between Colonel Gleason and himself.
The song was finished, and amid a murmur of applause Miss Arlingford rose from the piano and came over to where Georgia sat, to inquire if she felt better. And then Captain Arlingford and Henry Gleason came, too, and Georgia was soon the center of a gay, laughing group, who strove to dissipate her gloom and restore the disturbed harmony of the evening. And Georgia, now that her evil genius was gone, remembering her husband's look, tried to smile and talk cheerfully with the rest, but, as she said herself, she had not yet learned to dissimulate. And the wild glitter of her eye and her marble-like face told a far different story, and her efforts to be at ease were so evident and so painful, that all felt it a relief when the hour came for retiring and they could seek their own rooms.
Mr. and Mrs. Wildair bade their last guest good-night, and then they were alone in the drawing-room.
Georgia sank down on a sofa, dreading even to look at him; and Richmond, his courteous smile totally gone and his face grave and stern, stood with his elbow leaning on the marble mantel, looking down on her with a stern, steady gaze.
"Mrs. Wildair!" he said, coldly.
"Oh, Richmond!" she cried, passionately.
"Well, this a delightful beginning, I must say," he observed, calmly. "Are you aware, madam, that you made both yourself and me ridiculous to-night?"
"Oh, Richmond, I could not help it! Oh, Richmond, I felt as if I should go mad!"
"It would not take much to convince our friends that you are that already, my dear. May I ask if it was Fredrica's simple and natural request that you would play for the company, that came so near driving you mad? I saw you drop her hand as if there were contamination in the touch."
"Oh, so there is! so there is!" she cried, in frenzied tones.
"Really, madam," said Mr. Wildair, in a tone of marked displeasure, "this is carrying your absurdity too far. Take care thatIdo not begin to believe you mad, as well as the rest. Are you aware that you grossly insulted my cousin before my guests this evening?"
"She insulted me!—the low, fawning hypocrite! Oh, that I should be obliged to live under the same roof with thatthing!" exclaimed Georgia, wildly, wringing her hands.
There was a dead pause. It had more effect on Georgia than any words he could have uttered. She looked up, and saw him standing calm, stern, and deeply displeased, with his large, strong eyes fixed upon her in sorrow, surprise, and grave anger.
"Oh, Richmond! what shall I do? I am going crazy, I think. Oh, Richmond! I tried to do well, and not displease you, but she—— Oh! everything that is bad in my nature she rouses when she comes near me! Richmond! Richmond! I cannotbearto have you angry with me. Tell me—dotell me—what I shall do?"
"It is very plain what you must do, my love. You must apologize to Miss Richmond."
As if she had received a spear-thrust, Georgia bounded to her feet, her eyes blazing, her lips blanched.
"What!"
"Nay, my dear; it is folly to excite yourself in this way. Be calm. Of course, you must apologize—there is no other way in which you can atone for your unparalleled madness."
"Never!"
"Youwill not? Georgia, do I understand you right? You mean youwillapologize?"
"Never!"
"Georgia, youwill!"
"I willNOT!"
There was another dead pause. Still he stood calm and coldly stern, while she stood with her full form drawn up to its full height, her eyes flashing sparks of fire, her brow corrugated, her lips white with passion and defiance.
"Georgia," he said, coldly, and his words fell like ice on the fire raging in her stormy breast, "once your boast was that you never told a lie; now you haveswornone. You vowed before God's minister to obey me, and yet the firstcommandI have given you since, you passionately refuse to obey. I am no tyrant, Georgia, and I shallneverrequest you to do anything for me again; but remember, madam, I shall not forget this."
He was turning away, but with a great cry she sprang after him and caught his arm.
"Oh, Richmond, unsay your words! Oh, I will do anything, anything,anythingsooner than part with you in anger! Oh, Richmond, my heart feels as if it were breaking. I shall die if you do not say you forgive me!"
"Will you go to my cousin to-morrow, and beg her pardon for your insane conduct to-night?"
She shivered as one in an ague fit, while from her white lips dropped the hollow word:
"Yes."
"That is my own brave Georgia. The insult was publicly given, and should be publicly atoned for; but I will spare youthathumiliation. And now I feel that this lesson, severe as it is, will do you good. You will be more careful for the future, Georgia."
She lifted her head, and looked up in his face with a smile that startled him.
"It has come true, Richmond," she said.
"What has, my love?" he asked, uneasily.
"My dream. Do you not remember the dream I told you and Charley, long ago, when I first knew you?"
"Yes, I remember it. You told it so impressively I could not forget it. What of that dream, my dear?"
She laughed—such a mockery of laughter as it was!
"It wasyouI saw in that dream, Richmond; it wasyouwho drove me, all wounded and bleeding, through the fiery furnace. You are doing itnow, Richmond. But I did not tell youallmy dream then. I did not tell you then that at last I turned, sprang upon my torturer, andSTRANGLEDhim in my own death throes!"
Again she laughed, and looked up in his face with her gleaming eyes.
"My dear, you are hysterical," he said in alarm. "Be calm; do not excite yourself so. I always knew you were wild; but positively this is the very superlative of wildest. To-morrow you will feel better, Georgia."
"Oh, yes—to-morrow, when I shall have beggedherpardon! Listen, 233Richmond, do you know what I wished to-night?"
"No, dear Georgia; what was it?"
"It was, Richmond,that I had never married you!"