"Oh, break, break heart! poor bankrupt, break at once."
"Oh, break, break heart! poor bankrupt, break at once."
"Oh, break, break heart! poor bankrupt, break at once."
Shakespeare.
"Break, break, break,At the foot of the crags, O sea!But the tender grace of day that is deadWill never come back to me."
"Break, break, break,At the foot of the crags, O sea!But the tender grace of day that is deadWill never come back to me."
"Break, break, break,At the foot of the crags, O sea!But the tender grace of day that is deadWill never come back to me."
Tennyson.
There was an instant death-like pause, and all gazed, white with horror, on the scene before them. Freddy lay perfectly motionless, and Georgia, terrific in her roused wrath, stood over her like some dark priestess of doom. Not a voice dared to break the dreadful silence until Richmond Wildair, with a face from which every trace of color hadfaded, and with a terrible light in his eyes, strode over and caught Georgia by the arm.
here was an instant death-like pause, and all gazed, white with horror, on the scene before them. Freddy lay perfectly motionless, and Georgia, terrific in her roused wrath, stood over her like some dark priestess of doom. Not a voice dared to break the dreadful silence until Richmond Wildair, with a face from which every trace of color hadfaded, and with a terrible light in his eyes, strode over and caught Georgia by the arm.
"Woman! fiend! what have you done?" he said, hoarsely.
She looked up, wrenched her arm free from his grasp, sprang back and dauntlessly confronted him.
"Given her the reward for which she so long has been laboring," she said, in a voice awful from its very depth of calm.
His grasp tightened on her arm, tightened till a black circle discolored the delicate skin; his eyes were fixed on hers with a fearful look; but, with the tempest sweeping through her soul, she felt not his grasp, she heeded not his look.
"Yes," she said, folding her arms and looking down steadily on the senseless figure, "I have taught her what it is to drive me to desperation. A worm will turn when it is crushed, and I—oh! what I have endured in silence! And now let all beware!" she said, raising her voice almost to a shriek, "for if I must go down, I shall drag down with me all who have acted a part in my misery. Stand back, Richmond Wildair! for I shall be your slave no longer!"
No one there but actually quailed before the dark passionate glance bent upon them, save Richmond. Some Roman father about to sacrifice his dearest child on the altar of duty, might have looked as terribly stern, as ominously rigid and calm, as he did then.
Without a word, he strode over and grasped both her wrists in his vise-like hold, and looked full and steadily in her wild, flashing eyes.
"Georgia," he said; "come with me."
She strove again to wrench herself free, but this time she could not; he held her fast, and met her flashing defiant gaze with one of steady, immovable calm.
"You had better come. I do not wish to use force. If you do not come quietly you will be sorry for it."
His glance, far more than his words or voice, was conquering her. He felt the rigid muscles relax, and the fierce glance dying out before his own, and a convulsive shiver pass through her slight frame.
"Come, Georgia," drawing her toward the parlor; "dangerous maniacs should not be allowed to go at large. You will remain here until I come to you."
He opened the door, let her in, then came out, turned the key in the lock, and put it in his pocket.
All this had passed nearly in a moment. The others, spell-bound, had stood rooted to the ground, their eyes fixed on Georgia and Richmond, almost forgetting the very presence of Freddy.
Now he went over and raised her from the floor. Her arms hung lifeless by her side, her head fell over his arm, and a dark stream of blood flowed from a frightful wound in her forehead and trickled over her ghastly face.
A universal shriek from the ladies followed the sight, and some, overcome by seeing blood, swooned on the spot. Unheeding them all, Richmond made his way through the horrified group, entered the drawing-room, laid his burden on one of the sofas, and seizing the bell rope rang a peal that brought half a dozen servants rushing in at once.
"Here, one of you bring me some water and a sponge, instantly; and you, Edwards, be off for Dr. Fairleigh. Run! fly! lose not a moment."
The man darted off. Richmond, wetting the sponge,began carefully to wipe away the blood and bathe her temples, while the others gathered around, not daring to break the deep silence by a single word. There was something startling in Richmond Wildair's face—something no one had ever seen there before, underlying all its outward ominous calm—something in its still, dark sternness that overawed all.
In ten minutes the doctor arrived and proceeded to examine the wound, while all present held their very breath in expectation. Richmond stood with his arms folded over his chest during those moments of suspense, motionless as a figure of granite; but the knotted veins standing out dark and swollen on his brow, his labored breathing, and the convulsive clenching of his hands, bespoke the agony of suspense he was undergoing.
"Well, doctor," he said, huskily, when the physician arose, "will—will shedie?"
"Die! pooh! No, of course she won't! What would she die for?" said the doctor, a jolly little individual, rejoicing in a very bald head and a pair of bandy legs; "it's nothing but a scratch, man alive! nothing more. We'll clap a piece of sticking-plaster on and have her all alive like a bag of grasshoppers in no time. Die, indeed! I think I see her at it."
And so saying, the little man drew the edges of the wound together, applied sundry pieces of court-plaster, and then pronounced the job finished.
"And now to bring her to," said the little doctor, proceeding to give the palms of her hands an energetic slapping; "and meantime, my dear sir, how in the world did she manage to smash herself up in this fashion?"
Richmond did not reply. The sudden reaction fromtorturing fears to perfect safety was too much even for him, and he stood at the window, his forehead bowed on his hand, his hard, stifled breathing distinctly audible in the silent room.
"Hey!" said the little doctor, looking up in surprise at his emotion. "Lord bless my soul! You didn't suppose she was going to die, really, did you! Well! well, well, well! the ignorance of people is wonderful! Howdidit happen, good folks?" said the doctor, making no attempt to hide his curiosity.
"An accident, sir," said Colonel Gleason, stiffly.
"Hum! ha! an accident!" said the doctor, musingly; "well, accidents will happen in the best of families, they say. Don't be alarmed, Squire Wildair; the young woman will be around as lively as a cricket in a day or two. Here, she's coming to already."
While he spoke there was a convulsive twitching around Freddy's mouth, a fluttering of the pulse, and the next moment she opened her eyes and gazed vaguely around.
"Here you are, all alive and kicking, marm," said the little country Galen; "no harm done, you know. Hand us a glass of water, somebody."
The water effectually restored Freddy, who was able to sit up and gaze about her with a bewildered air.
"My dearest Freddy, how do you feel? My darling girl, are you better?" said Mrs. Wildair, folding her in her arms.
"Of course she's better, marm," said the doctor, rubbing his hands gleefully; "right as ever so many trivets. There's a picture for you," he added, appealing to the company generally; "family affection's a splendid thing, and should be encouraged at any price. Let her keep on alow diet, and she'll be as well, if not considerably better than ever, in two or three days. Might have been killed dead as a herring, though, if she had struck her temple, instead of up there."
"What's your fee, doctor?" said Mr. Wildair, in a cold, stern tone, and a face to match, as he abruptly crossed over to where he stood.
"Dollar," said the doctor, rubbing his hands with a joyous little chuckle—"court-plaster—visit—advice"—
"There it is—good-evening, sir. Edward, show Dr. Fairleigh to the door," said Mr. Wildair, frigidly.
"Good-evening,good-evening," said the bustling little man, hurrying out. "Always send for me whenever any of you think proper to knock your heads against anything.Good-evening," repeated the doctor, as he vanished, with an emphasis so great as to pronounce the word not only in italics, but even in small capitals.
Richmond went over and took Freddy's hand.
"My dearest cousin, how do you feel?" he said.
"Oh, dreadfully ill," she said faintly; "my head does ache so."
"Perhaps you had better go to your room and lie down," said Richmond, his lips quivering slightly. "Mother, you will go with her."
"Certainly, my dear boy. Come, Freddy, let me assist you up stairs."
Putting her arm round Miss Richmond's waist, Mrs. Wildair led her from the room. And then every one present took a deep breath, and looked first at one another and then at their host, with a glance that said, "What comes next?"
But if they expected an apology from Mr. Wildair theywere disappointed: for, turning round, he said, as calmly as if nothing had occurred:
"I believe we were to enact some pantomimes this evening—eh, Curtis! It is near time we were beginning, is it not, ladies?"
So completely "taken aback" were they by this cool way of doing business that a dead pause ensued, and amazed glances were again exchanged. Any one else but Richmond Wildair would have been embarrassed; but he stood calm and self-possessed, waiting for their answer.
"Really," said Mrs. Gleason, drawing herself up till her corset-laces snapped, "after the unaccountable scene that—ahem—has just occurred, you will have to excuse me if I decline joining in any amusements whatever this evening. My nerves have been completely unstrung. I never received such a shock in my life, and I must say——"
She paused in some confusion under the clear, piercing gaze of Richmond's dark eagle eye.
"Well, madam?" he said, with unruffled courtesy.
"In a word, Mr. Wildair," said the lady, stiffly, "I must say that I do not consider it safe to stay longer in the same house with a dangerous lunatic, for such I consider your wife must be. You will therefore excuse me if I take my departure for the city to-morrow."
In grave silence, Richmond bowed; and the offended lady, in magnificent displeasure, swept from the room.
"And, Mr. Wildair," said Miss Reid, languidly, "I too feel it absolutely necessary to return; violence is so unpleasant to witness. Good-night." And the young lady floated away.
Once again Richmond bowed, apparently unmoved, butthe slight twitching of the muscles of his mouth showed how keenly he felt this.
"Aw, upon honnaw, Wildaih," lisped Mr. Lester, hastily, "though I regwet it—aw—exceedingly, you know—I weally must go back to New York to-morrow, too. Business, my deah fellow, comes—aw—befoah pleasure, and letters I——"
"I understand; pray, do not feel it necessary to apologize," said Mr. Wildair, with a slight sneer; "allow me to bid you good night, Mr. Lester, and a pleasant journey to New York to-morrow."
Poor Mr. Lester! There was no use in trying to brave it out under the light of those dark, scornful eyes, and he sneaked from the room with much the same feeling as if he had been kicked out.
There was another profound pause when he was gone. Not an eye there was ready to meet the falcon gaze of their host. Mr. Wildair stepped back a pace, folded his arms over his chest, and looked steadily at them.
"Well, ladies and gentlemen," he said calmly, "who next?"
"Wildair, my dear old fellow," said Dick Curtis, with tears in his eyes, "I—I feel—I feel—I'll be hanged if I knowhowI feel. It's too bad—it's too darned bad for them to treat you this way, after all you've tried to do for them. It's abominable, it'sinfernal, it's a shame! I beg your pardon, ladies, for swearing, but its enough to make a saint swear—I'll be shot if it's not!" said Mr. Curtis, looking round with a sort of howl of mingled rage and grief, and then seizing Richmond's hand and shaking it as if it had been a pump-handle.
"And I, too, Curtis," said the honest voice of CaptainArlingford, "am with you there. Mr. Wildair, you must not set us all down for Mr. Lesters."
"The mean little ass!—ought to be kicked from here to sundown!" said Lieutenant Gleason, in a tone of disgust.
"And so ought mother," said Henry, sticking his hands in his pockets and striding up and down in indignation: "and the nasty Lydia Languish Dieaway Reid, a be-scented, be-frizzled, be-flounced stuck-up piece of dry-goods. I wish to gracious the whole of them were kicked to death by hornbugs," said Henry, thrusting his hands to the very bottom of his pockets and glaring defiance round the room.
A low murmur of earnest sympathy came from all present, Miss Harper included; for as Captain Arlingford had joined the opposition party, like certain politicians of the present day, she found it no way difficult to change her tactics and go over to the enemy.
"My friends, I thank you," said Mr. Wildair, in a suppressed voice, as he abruptly turned and walked to the window; "but—you must excuse me, and allow me to leave you for the present. I feel—" he broke off abruptly, wheeled round, and with a brief "good night," was gone.
He passed up stairs and sank into a chair. His brain seemed on fire, the room for a moment seemed whirling round, and thought was impossible. The shame, the disgrace, the mockery, the laughter, the scenes in Richmond House must cause among his city friends, alone, stood vividly before him. He fancied he could hear their jeering laughs and mocking sneers whenever he appeared, and, half maddened, he rose and began to pace up and down like a maniac. And then came the thought of her who had caused all this—of her who had nearly slain his cousin, and thepallid hue of rage his face wore gave place to a glow of indignation.
He had seen Georgia leave the room that evening, and Freddy with her sweet smile rise to follow her, and his thought, had been, "Dear, kind little Freddy! what a generous, forgiving heart she must have to be so solicitous for Georgia's happiness, in spite of all she has done to her." And when he saw her lying wounded and bleeding, with his infuriated wife standing over her, he fancied she had merely spoken some soothing words, and that the demon within Georgia's fiery heart had prompted to return the kindness thus.
It is strange how blind the most wise of this world are when wisdom is entirely of this earth. Richmond Wildair, with his clear head and profound intellect, was completely deceived by his fawning, silk, silvery-voiced little cousin. In his eyes Georgia alone was at fault. Freddy was immaculate. She it was who had brought him to this—she, whom he had raised from her inferior position to be his wife—she, who, instead of being grateful, had commenced to play the termagant, as he called it, ere the honeymoon was over. And worse than that, she had proved herself that most despicable of human beings—a married flirt. Had she and Captain Arlingford not been together the whole day?—a sure proof that she had never cared much for him. Had she married him for his wealth and social position? Was it possible Georgia had done this? His brain for an instant reeled at the thought, and then he grew strangely calm. She was proud, ambitious, aspiring, fond of wealth and power, andthiswas the only means she had of securing them. Yes, it must be so. And as the conviction came across his mind, a deep, bitter, scornfulanger filled his heart and soul, and drove out every other feeling. With an impulsive bound he sprang up, and with a ringing step he passed down stairs and entered the parlor where he had left her.
And she—poor, stormy, passionate Georgia! what had been her feelings all this time? At first, in the tumultuous tempest sweeping through her soul, a deep, swelling rage against all who were goading her on to desperation, alone filled her thoughts. She had paced up and down wildly, madly, until this passed away, and then came another and more terrible feeling—what if she had killed Freddy? As if she had been stunned by a blow, she tottered to a seat, while a thousand voices seemed shrieking in her ears, "Murderess! murderess!"
Oh! the horror, the agony, the remorse that were hers at that moment. She put her hands to her ears to shut out the dreadful sound of those phantom voices, and crouching down in a strange, distorted position, she struggled alone with all her agonizing remorse. How willingly in that moment would she have given her own life—a thousand lives, had she possessed them—to have recalled her arch enemy back to life once more. So she lay for hours, feeling as though her very reason was tottering on its throne, and so Richmond found her when he opened the door. She sprang to her feet with a wild bound, and flying over, she caught his hand and almost shrieked:
"Oh Richmond! is she dead? Oh, Richmond! in the name of mercy, speak and tell me, is she dead?"
She might have quailed before the look of unutterable scorn bent on her, but she did not. He shook her hand off as if it had been a viper, and folding his arms, looked steadily and silently down upon her.
"Richmond! Richmond! speak and tell me. Oh, I shall go mad!" she cried, in frenzied tones.
She looked as though she were going mad indeed, with her streaming hair, her pallid face, and wildly blazing eyes. Perhaps he feared her reasonwastottering, for he sternly replied:
"Cease this raving, madam; you have been saved from becoming a murderess in act, though you are one in the sight of heaven."
"And she will not die?"
"No."
"Oh, thank heaven!" and, totally overcome, she sank for the first time in her life, almost fainting into her seat.
Richmond looked at her with deep, scornful eyes.
"Youto thank Heaven!—youto take that name on your lips!—you, who this night attempted a murder! Oh, woman do you not fear the vengeance of that Heaven you invoke!"
"Oh, Richmond! spare me not. I deserve all you would say. Oh! in all this world there is not another so lost, so fallen, so guilty as I."
"You are right, there is not; for one who would attempt the life of a young and innocent girl must be steeped in guilt so black that Hades itself must shudder. Had you caused the death of Frederica Richmond, as you tried to, I myself would have gone to the nearest magistrate, had you arrested, and forced you off this very night to the county jail. I would have prosecuted you, though every one else in the world was for you; and I would have gone to behold you perish on the scaffold, and then—and then only—felt that justice was satisfied."
She almost shrieked, as she covered her face with herhands from his terrible gaze, but, unheeding her anguish, he went on in a calm, pitiless voice:
"You, one night not long since, told me you wished you had never married me. That you really ever wished it I do not now believe; for one who could commit a cold-blooded murder would not hesitate at a lie—alie. Do you hear, Georgia? But I tell you now, that I wish I had been dead and in my grave ere I ever met Georgia Darrell!"
"Oh, Richmond! Spare me! spare me!" she cried, in a dying voice.
"No; I am like yourself—I spare not. You have merited this, and a thousand times more from me, and you shall listen now. That you married me for my wealth and for the power it would give you, I know only too well. You were an unnatural child, and I might have known you would be an unnatural woman; but I willfully blinded my eyes, and believed what you told me that accursed night on the sea-shore, and I married you—fool that I was! I braved the scorn of the world, the sneers of my friends, the just anger of my mother, and stooped—are you listening, Georgia?—andstoopedto wed you. And now I have my reward."
"Oh, Richmond! I shall go mad!" she wailed, writhing in her seat, and feeling as if every fiber in her heart were tearing from its place, so intense was her anguish.
But still the clear, clarion-like voice rang out on the air like a death-bell, cold, calm, and pitiless as the grave:
"Once, in one of your storms of passion, madam, you asked me why I married you. Now I answer you: because I was mad, demented, besotted, crazed, or I most assuredly should never have dreamed of such a thing. Perhaps you wish I had not, for then the gallant sailor you admire somuch might have taken it into his hair-brained head to do what I did in a fit of insanity—for which a life of misery like this is to atone—and married you. That I have deprived you of this happiness, I deeply regret; for, madam, much as you may repent this marriage, you can never,neverrepent it half as much as I do now."
She had fallen at his feet, whether from physical weakness, or whether she had writhed there in her intolerable agony, he did not know, and, at that moment, did not care. He stepped back, looked down upon her as she lay a moment, and went on:
"I fancied I loved you well enough then to brave the whole world for your sake; but that, like all the rest of my short brain-fever, has completely passed away. What feeling can one have for a murderess—for such in heart you are—but one of horror and loathing?"
She sprang to her feet with a moaning cry, and stood before him with one arm half raised; her lips opened as if to speak, but no voice came forth.
"Hear me out, madam," he interposed, waving his hand, "for it is the last time, perhaps, you will ever be troubled by a word from me. You have driven my guests from my house, you have eternally disgraced me, and, lest you should murder the very servants next, must not be allowed to go free. While a friend of mine resides under this roof you shall remain locked a close prisoner in your room, as a lunatic too dangerous to be at large. And if that does not subdue the fiend within you, one thing yet remains for me to do—that I may go free once more."
He paused, and the rage he had subdued by the strength of his mighty will all along, showed now in the death-likewhiteness of his face, white even to his lips, like the white ashes over red-hot coals.
Again her arm was faintly raised, again her trembling lips parted, but the power of speech seemed to have been suddenly taken from her. No sound came forth.
"What I allude to will make me free as air—free as I was before I met you—free to bring another mistress to Richmond House before your very eyes. Money will procure it, and of that I have enough. I allude to adivorce—do you know what that means?"
Yes, she knew. Her arms dropped by her side as if she had been suddenly stricken with death, the light died out in her eyes, the words she would have uttered were frozen on her lips, and, as if the last blow she could ever receive had fallen, she laid her hand on her heart and lifted her eyes, calm as his now, to his face.
Some author has said, "Great shocks kill weak minds, and stir strong ones with a calm resembling death." So it was now with Georgia; she had been stunned into calm—the calm of undying, life-long despair. She had believed and trusted all along—she had thought he loved her until now—andnow!
What was there in her face that awed even him? It was not anger, nor reproach, nor yet sorrow. A thrill of nameless terror shot through his heart, and with the last cruel words all anger passed away. He advanced a step toward her, as if to speak again, but she raised her hand, and lifting her eyes to his face with a look he never forgot, she turned and passed from the room.
And Richard Wildair was alone. He had not meant one-half of what he had said in the white heat of his passion, and the idea of a divorce had no more entered hishead than that of slaying himself on the spot had. He had said it in his rage, none the less deep for being suppressed, and now he would have given uncounted worlds that those fatal words had never been uttered.
He went out to the hall, but she had gone—he caught the last flutter of her dress as she passed the head of the stairs toward her own room.
"I ought not to have said that," he said uneasily to himself as he paced up and down. "I am sorry for it now. To-morrow I will see her again, and then—well, 'sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.' I cannot live this life longer. I will not stay in Burnfield. I cannot stay. I shall go abroad and take her with me. Yes, that is what I will do. Travel will work wonders in Georgia, and who knows what happiness may be in store for us yet."
He walked to the window and looked out. The white snow lay in great drifts on every side, looking cold and white and death-like in the pale luster of a wintry moon. With a shudder he turned away, and threw himself moodily on a couch in the warm parlor, saying, as if to reassure himself:
"Yes, to-morrow I will see her, and all shall be well—to-morrow—to-morrow."
There was a paper lying on the table, and he took it up and looked lightly over it. The first thing that struck his eyes was a poem, headed:
"To-morrow never comes."
Richmond Wildair would have been ashamed to tell it, but he actually started and turned pale with superstitious terror. It seemed so like an answer to his thoughts that startled him more than anything of the kind had ever done before.
To him that night passed in feverish dreams. How passed it with another beneath that roof?
At early morning he was awake. An unaccountable presentment of an impending calamity was upon him and would not be shaken off.
Scarcely knowing what he did, he went up to Georgia's room, and softly turned the handle of the door. He had expected to find it locked, but it was not so; it opened at his touch, and he went in.
Why does he start and clutch it as if about to fall? The room is empty, andthe bed has not been slept in all night.
A note, addressed to him, lies on the table. Dizzily he opens it, and reads:
"My dearest husband: Let me call you so for this once, this last time—you are free! On this earth I will never disgrace you again. May heaven bless you and forgive."Georgia."
"My dearest husband: Let me call you so for this once, this last time—you are free! On this earth I will never disgrace you again. May heaven bless you and forgive.
"Georgia."
She was gone—gone forever! Clutching the note in his hand, he staggered, rather than walked, down stairs, opened the door, and, in a cold gray of coming dawn, passed out.
All around the stainless snow-drifts seemed mocking him with their white blank faces, lying piled as they had been last night when he had driven his young wife from his side. Cold and white they were here still, and Georgia was—where?
"Then she took up her burden of life again,Saying only 'It might have been.'God pity them both, and pity us all,Who vainly the dreams of youth recall;For of all sad words of tongue or pen,The saddest are these, 'It might have been.'"
"Then she took up her burden of life again,Saying only 'It might have been.'God pity them both, and pity us all,Who vainly the dreams of youth recall;For of all sad words of tongue or pen,The saddest are these, 'It might have been.'"
"Then she took up her burden of life again,Saying only 'It might have been.'God pity them both, and pity us all,Who vainly the dreams of youth recall;For of all sad words of tongue or pen,The saddest are these, 'It might have been.'"
Whittier.
In the dead of night—of that last, sorrowful night—a slight, dark figure had flitted from one of the many doors of Richmond House, fluttered away in the chill night round through the sleeping town. A visitor came to Miss Jerusha's sea-side cottage that night, with a face so white and cold that the snow-wreaths dimmed beside it; the white face lay on the cold threshold, the dark figure was prostrate in the snow-drift before the door, and there the last farewell was taken while Miss Jerusha lay sleeping within. And then the dusky form was whirling away and away again like a leaf on a blast, another stray waif on the great stream of life.
n the dead of night—of that last, sorrowful night—a slight, dark figure had flitted from one of the many doors of Richmond House, fluttered away in the chill night round through the sleeping town. A visitor came to Miss Jerusha's sea-side cottage that night, with a face so white and cold that the snow-wreaths dimmed beside it; the white face lay on the cold threshold, the dark figure was prostrate in the snow-drift before the door, and there the last farewell was taken while Miss Jerusha lay sleeping within. And then the dusky form was whirling away and away again like a leaf on a blast, another stray waif on the great stream of life.
Six pealed from the town clock of Burnfield. The locomotive shrieked, the bell rang, and the fiery monster was rushing along with its living freight to the great city of New York.
In the dusky gloom of that cold, cheerless winter morning the tall, dark form, all dressed in black and closely vailed had glided in like a spirit and taken her seat. Muffled in caps, and cloaks, and comforters, every one hadenough to do to mind themselves and keep from freezing, and no one heeded the still form that leaned back among the cushions, giving as little sign of life as though it were a statue in ebony.
The sun was high in the sky and Georgia was in New York. She knew where to go; in her former visit she had chanced to relieve the wants of a poor widow living in an obscure tenement-house somewhere near the East River, and here, despairing of finding her way through the labyrinth of streets alone, she gave the cabman directions to drive. Strangely calm she was now, but oh, the settled night of anguish in those large, wild, black eyes!
The poor are mostly grateful, and warm and heartfelt was Georgia's welcome to that humble roof. Questions were asked, but none answered; all Georgia said she wanted was a private room there for two or three days.
Alone at last, she sat down to think. There was no time to brood over the past—her life-work was to be accomplished now. What next? was the question that arose before her, the question that must be promptly answered. How was she to live in this wilderness of human beings?
She leaned her head on her hands, forcibly wrenched her thoughts from the past and fixed them on the present. How was she to earn a livelihood? The plain, practical, homely question roused all her sleeping energies, and did her good.
The stage! She thought of that first with an electric bound of the pulse; she knew, she was certain she could win a name and fame there; but could she, who had become the wife of Richmond Wildair, become an actress? She knew his fastidious pride on this point; she knew thefact of her having been an actress in her childhood had never ceased to gall him more than anything else.
Georgia Darrell would have stepped on the boards and won the highest laurels the profession could bestow, but Georgia Wildair had another to think of beside herself. Much as she longed for that exciting life—that life for which nature had so well qualified her, physically and mentally, for which she had so strong a desire—she put the thought aside and gave it up.
Though she had wrenched asunder the chains that bound her to him, she still carried a clanking fragment with her, and, no longer a free agent, she must think of something else. Another reason there was why that profession could not be hers—she did not wish to be known or discovered by any she had ever known before; her desire was to be as dead to Richmond Wildair as if she had never existed—to leave him free, unfettered as he had been before this fatal marriage. And, to make the more sure of this, she had resolved to drop his name and assume another. She would take her mother's name of Randall; it was her own name, too—Georgia Randall Darrell.
But what was she to do? Females before now had won fame as artists, and Georgia had genius and an artist's soul. But she would have to wait and live on this poor widow's bounty meantime, and that was too abhorrent to her nature to be for a moment thought of. Nothing remained but to become a teacher or governess, and even in this she was doubtful if she could succeed. She knew little or nothing of music, and that seemed absolutely essential in a governess, but still she would try. If that failed, something else must be tried.
Drawing pen and ink toward her, she sat down and indited the following:
WANTED—A situation as governess in a respectable private family, by one capable of teaching French, German, and Latin, and all the branches of English education. Address G. R., etc.
WANTED—A situation as governess in a respectable private family, by one capable of teaching French, German, and Latin, and all the branches of English education. Address G. R., etc.
Next morning, among hundreds of other "wants," this appeared in theHerald, and nothing now remained for Georgia but to wait. The excitement of her flight, the necessity of immediate action, and now the fever of suspense, kept her mind from dwelling too much on the past. Had it been otherwise, with her impassioned nature, she might have sunk into an agony of despair, or raved in the delirium of brain-fever. As it was, she remained stunned into a sort of calm—white, cold, passionless; but, oh! with such a settled night of utter sorrow in the great melancholy dark eyes.
Fortunately for her, she was not doomed to remain long in suspense. On the third day a note was brought to her in a gentleman's hand, and tearing it eagerly open, she read:
"Astor House, Jan. 12, 18—."Madam: Seeing your advertisement in theHerald, and being in want of a governess, if not already engaged, you would do well to favor me with a call at your earliest leisure. I will leave the city in two days. Yours,"John Leonard."
"Astor House, Jan. 12, 18—.
"Madam: Seeing your advertisement in theHerald, and being in want of a governess, if not already engaged, you would do well to favor me with a call at your earliest leisure. I will leave the city in two days. Yours,
"John Leonard."
As she finished reading this, Georgia started to her feet, hastily donned her hat and cloak, with her thick vail closelyover her face, and taking one of the widow's little boys with her, as guide, set out for the hotel.
Upon reaching it she inquired for Mr. Leonard. A servant went for him, and in a few minutes returned with a benevolent-looking old gentleman, with white hair and a kind, friendly face.
"You wished to see me, madam," he said, bowing, and looking inquiringly at the Juno-like form dressed in black.
"Yes, sir; I am the governess," said Georgia, her heart throbbing so violently that she turned giddy.
"Oh, indeed!" said the old gentleman, kindly; "perhaps we had better step up to my room, then; this is no place to settle business."
Georgia followed him up two or three flights of stairs, to an elegantly furnished apartment. Handing her a chair, he seated himself, and glanced somewhat curiously at her.
"You received my answer to your advertisement?" he said.
"Yes, sir," said Georgia, in a stifled voice.
"May I ask your name madam?" said Mr. Leonard, whose curiosity seemed piqued.
Georgia threw back her heavy vail, and the old gentleman gave a start of surprise at sight of the white, cold, beautiful face, and dark, sorrowful eyes.
"My name is Randall—Miss Randall," replied Georgia, while a faint red, that faded as quickly as it came, tinged her cheek at the deception.
Mr. Leonard bowed.
"I suppose you have credentials—your certificates from those with whom you have formerly lived?" said Mr. Leonard, hesitatingly, for he felt embarrassed to address this queenly looking girl, on whose marble-like face theawe-inspiring shadow of some mighty grief lay, as he would a common governess.
Georgia's eyes dropped, and again that slight tinge of color flashed across her face, and again faded away.
"No, sir; I have not. I never was a governess before; sudden reverses—adversity—"
She broke down, put her trembling hand before her face, and averted her head.
Mr. Leonard was an impulsive, kind-hearted old gentleman, and the sight of settled anguish in that pale young face went right home to his heart, and touched him exceedingly.
"Yes, yes, to be sure, poor child! I understand it all. There, don't cry—don't, now. You know there is nothing but ups and downs in this world, and reverses must be expected. I like you, I like your looks, and I rather guess I'll engage youwithoutcredentials. There, don't be cast down, my dear; don't, now. You really make me feel bad to see you in trouble."
Georgia lifted her head and tried to smile, but it was so faint and sad, so like a cold gleam of moonlight on snow, that it touched that soft heart of his more and more.
"Poor thing! poor thing! poor little thing!" he said, winking very rapidly with both eyes behind his spectacles; "seen a great deal of trouble, I expect, in her time, must have, to give her that look. I'll engage her; upon my life I will!"
"There may be one objection, sir," said Georgia, sadly. "I can't teach music."
"You can't—hum!" said Mr. Leonard, musingly. "Well, that doesn't make much odds, I guess. My daughters have a music-master now, and he can teach littleJennie, I reckon, too. Your pupils are two boys and a girl, none over thirteen; and as you teach French, and Latin, and grammar, and English, and all the other things necessary, music does not make much difference. And as for salary—well, I'll attend to that at the end of the quarter, and I think you will be satisfied. When can you come?"
"Now, if necessary, sir—any time you like."
"Well, to-morrow morning I start. I live forty miles out of New York, and if you will give me your address, I will call for you in the carriage."
"I thank you, sir, but it is too far out of your way. I will come up here," said Georgia, who did not wish to bring him to the mean habitation where she stopped. "I suppose that is all," she said, rising.
"All, at present, Miss Randall," said Mr. Leonard, rising, and looking at her in surprise as she started at the unusual name. "To-morrow at ten o' clock, I leave. Good-morning."
He shook hands cordially with her at parting, and then Georgia hurried out, feeling that one faint gleam of sunshine had arisen in her darkened life. In the desolate years of the weary life before her she would at least be a burden to no one, and for a few moments she felt as if an intolerable load had been lifted off her heart. But when she was alone again in her chamber and the reaction past, the awful sense of her desolation came sweeping over her. In all the wide world she had not one friend left. Sun, and moon, and stars all had faded from her sky, and night—dark, woeful night—had closed, and a night for which there was no morning. And, oh, worst of all, she felt it was her own fault, her own stormy, unbridled passions had done it all; and with a great cry, wrung fromher tortured heart, she sank down quivering and white in the dusky gloom of that wild winter evening. There was no light in Georgia's despair; in happier days she had never prayed, and in the hour of her earthly anguish shecould not. In this world she could look forward to nothing but a wretched, despairing life, and to her the next was a dull, dead blank. One name was in her heart, one name on her lips, one whom she had made her God, her earthly idol, and now he, too, was forever lost.
When the widow came in to awaken her the next morning, she was startled by the sight of the tall, dark form, wrapped in a shawl, sitting by the window, her forehead pressed to the cold pane, her face whiter than the snow-wreaths without. She had not laid her head on a pillow the livelong night.
The cold, pale sunshine of the short January day was fading out of the sky, when a sleigh, well supplied with buffalo robes and the merry music of jingling bells, came flying up toward a large, handsome country villa, through the crimson curtained windows of which the ruddy light of many a glowing coal fire shone. As it stopped before the door, a group from within came running out, and stood on the veranda, in eager expectation and pleasing bustle.
An old gentleman with white hair and a benevolent smile, answering to the cognomen of Mr. Leonard, got out and assisted a lady, tall and elegant, dressed in black, and closely vailed, to alight. Then, giving a few hasty directions to a servant who was leading off the horses, he gave the lady his arm and led her up to the house.
And upon reaching the veranda he was instantly surrounded, and an incredible amount of kissing, and questioning, and laughing, and talking was done in an instant,and the old gentleman was whisked off and borne into a large, handsomely furnished parlor, where the brightest of fires was blazing in the brightest of grates, and pushed into a rocking-chair and whirled up before the fire in a twinkling.
"Lord blessmysoul!" said the old gentleman, breathlessly, and laying a strong emphasis on the pronoun; "what a lot of whirlwinds you are, girls! Where's Miss Randall, eh? Where's Miss Randall?"
"Here, sir," answered Georgia, as she entered the room.
"And pretty near frozen, I'll be bound! I knowIam. Mrs. Leonard, my dear, this young lady is the governess—Miss Randall."
Georgia bowed to a little fat woman with restless, hazel eyes.
"And these are my two eldest daughters, Felice and Maggie," continued Mr. Leonard, pointing to two pretty, graceful-looking young girls, who nodded carelessly to the governess; "and these are your pupils," he added, pointing to two little boys, apparently between thirteen and ten, and to a little girl, who, from her resemblance to the younger, was evidently his twin sister. "Albert, Royal, Jennie, come up and shake hands with Miss Randall."
"Miss Randall! why, Licie, that's the name of that nice gentleman who brought you the roses last night, ain't it?" said little Jennie, looking up cunningly at her elder sister.
Miss Felice glanced at Miss Maggie and smiled and blushed, and began twisting one of her ringlets over her taper fingers, looking very conscious indeed.
"May I ask if you are any relation to young Mr. Randall, the poet, of New York?" said Mrs. Leonard, pushingup her spectacles and trying to see Georgia through the thick vail which still covered her face.
"Why, mamma, what a question! Of course she's not," said Miss Felice, rather pettishly; "he has no relatives, you know. There's plenty of the name."
Georgia threw back her vail at this moment, and stooped to kiss little Jennie, who came up and held her rosy mouth puckered for that purpose, as if she was quite accustomed to be treated to that sort of small coin.
"Oh, Felice, what a beautiful face!" exclaimed Miss Maggie, in an impulsive whisper.
"Ye-es, she's not bad-looking—for a governess," drawled Miss Felice. "They are generally so frightfully ugly. She's a great deal too pale though, and too solemn looking; it gives me the dismals to look at her; and she's ever so much too tall" (Miss Felice, be it known, was rather on the dumpy pattern than otherwise), "and too slight for her size, and her forehead's too high, and her—"
"Oh, Felice, stop! You'll try to make out she's as ugly as sin directly. Did you ever see such splendid eyes?"
"I don't like black eyes," said Miss Felice, in a dissatisfied tone; "they are too sharp and fiery. They do well enough for men, but I don't approve of them at all for women."
"Dear me, what a pity!" said Miss Maggie, sarcastically; "but you can't call hers fiery—they're dreadfully melancholy, I'm sure. Now ain't they, mamma?"
"What dear?" said Mrs. Leonard, not catching the whispered question.
"Hasn't Miss Randall got lovely melancholy black eyes?"
"Oh, bother her melancholy black eyes!" said MissFelice, impatiently. "What a time you do make about people, Mag. And she only a governess, too. I should think you would be ashamed."
"Well, I ain't ashamed—not the least," said Maggie; "and no matter whether she's a governess or not, she looks like a lady. I'm sure she's very clever, too. I wonder who she's in black for."
"Ask her," said Miss Felice, shortly, as she picked up a French novel, and, placing her feet on the fender, sat down to read.
Miss Felice was blessed with a temper much shorter than sweet, and Miss Maggie, who was rather good-natured, took her curt replies as a matter of course, and, going over to Georgia, said pleasantly:
"Miss Randall, if you wish to go up to your room, I will be yourciceronefor the occasion. Perhaps you would like to brush your hair before tea."
"Thank you," said Georgia, rising languidly, and following Miss Maggie from the room.
"This is to be yoursanctum sanctorum, Miss Randall," said Maggie, opening the door of a small and plainly but neatly furnished bedroom, rendered cheerful by red drapery and a redder fire. "It's not very gorgeous, you perceive; but it's the one the governess always uses here. Our last one—Miss Fitzgerald, an Irish young lady—went and precipitated herself into the awful gulf of——"
"What?" said Georgia, with a slight start, caused by Miss Maggie's awe-struck manner.
"Matrimony!" said Miss Maggie, in a thrilling whisper. "Ain't it dreadful? Governesses, and ministers, and curates, and all sorts of poor people generallywillpersist in such atrocities, on the principle that what won't keepone, I suppose, will keep two. Don't you ever get married, Miss Randall.Inever mean to—— Why, my goodness, what's the matter now?"
Georgia had given such a violent start, and a spasm of such intense anguish had passed over her face, that Miss Maggie jumped back, and stood regarding her with wide-open and startled eyes, the picture of astonishment.
"Nothing—nothing," said Georgia, leaning her elbow on the table, and dropping her forehead on it: "a sudden pain—gone now. Pray do not be alarmed."
"Oh, I ain't alarmed," said Miss Maggie composedly. "Do you think you will like to live out here? It's awful lonesome, I can tell you; a quarter of a mile almost to the nearest house. Licie and I want papa to stop in New York in the winter, but he won't—he doesn't mind a word we say. Papas are always the dreadfulest, most obstinate sort of people in the world—now, ain't they?—always thinking they know best, you know, and always dreadfully provoking. Oh, dear me!" said Miss Maggie, with a deep sigh, as she fell back in her chair, and held up and glanced admiringly at one pretty little foot and distracting ankle, "I don't know what we should ever do only papa comes from the city to see us, and that nice Signor Popkins, who was a count or a legion of honor, or some funny thing in France, and got exiled by that nasty Louis Napoleon, comes and gives Licie and me two music lessons every week. Oh! Miss Randall, he's got just the sweetest hair you ever saw; and mustaches—oh, my goodness! such mustaches—that stick out like two shaving-brushes; and splendid long whiskers, like a cow's tail. Felice don't care much for him, because she thinks she's caught that nice, clever Mr. Randall, your namesake, you know; but I guess she ain'tso sure of him as she thinks. Oh! he does write the most divine poetry ever was—down right splendid, you know; and every lady is raving about him. He's travelled all over Europe, and Asia, and Africa, and the North Pole, and California, and lots of other nice places, and knows—oh, dear me, he knows a dreadful sight of things, and is a splendid talker. He only came from England two weeks ago, and everybody is making such a time about him. Felice met him at a party, and he came here last night with the divinest bouquet, and she thinks she has him, butIknow better. Then some more gentlemen come here. Lem Turner, and Ike Brown, and Dick Curtis, but he's gone away somewhere to the country, to where some friend of his lives—— Hey? What now? Another pain, Miss Randall?"
"No—yes. Excuse me, Miss Leonard, I am very tired, and will lie down now. You will please to tell them I do not feel well enough to go down to tea."
"Well, there! I might have known you were tired, and not kept on talking so, but I am such a dreadful chatterbox. I'll tell Susan to bring up your tea. Good-by, Miss Randall; I hope you'll be quite well to-morrow, I'm sure." And the loquacious damsel bowed a smiling adieu, and retired.
Georgiawasbetter the next morning, and able to join the family at breakfast, which meal was enlivened by a steady flow of talk from Miss Maggie, and a series of snappish contradictions and marginal notes from Miss Felice, who never got her temper on till near noon. Mr. and Mrs. Leonard took both daughters as matters of course, and seemed quite used to this sort of thing. On Georgia's partit passed almost in silence, as she sat like some cold, marble statue, with scarcely more signs of life.
After breakfast Miss Felice sat down to practice some unearthly exercises on the grand piano that adorned the drawing-room, and Miss Maggie Leonard bore off Georgia and the three juvenile Leonards to a large, high, severe-looking room, adorned with a dismal looking blackboard, sundry maps, with red, green, yellow splashes, supposed to represent this terrestrial globe. Four solemn-looking black desks were in the four corners, and one in the middle for the teacher. Books, and ink bottles, and slates, without end, were scattered about, and this, Mrs. Leonard informed Georgia, was the school-room, and after administering a small lecture to Messrs. Albert and Royal and Miss Jennie, the purport of which was that the world in general expected them to be good children and learn fast, and mind Miss Randall, she floated out, bearing off the unwilling Miss Maggie, and Georgia began her new life as teacher.
That day seemed endless to Georgia. Accustomed to uncontrolled freedom and wild liberty, she was fitted less for a teacher than for anything else in the world. That love of children which it is necessary every teacher should possess, Georgia had not, and before the wearisome day was done every feeling that had not been stunned into numbness rose in rebellion against the intolerable servitude.
At four o'clock the day's labor was over, and the children, glad to be released, scampered off.
Seating herself at the desk, Georgia dropped her throbbing head upon it, giddy and blind with one of her deadly headaches, which until the last month or two, she had never known.
Suddenly the door was flung open, and Miss Maggie's ringing voice was heard.
"Well, Miss Randall, how did you get on? Mamma wouldn't let me come up, and it was real mean of her. Why, what's the matter? Oh, my goodness! you look dreadful!"
"I have got a headache," said Georgia, pressing her hands to her throbbing temples dizzily.
"Oh, you have! Being in this hot room all day has caused it. Do let me bring you your things, and come out for a walk. It is a beautiful evening, though cold, and the air will do you good. Come. I'll go with you, Miss Randall: Shall I go and get your things?"
"You are very good," said Georgia, faintly; "I think I will; I feel almost suffocated."
Maggie bounded away, and the next moment came flying back, rolled up in a huge shawl, and her pretty face eclipsed in an immense quilted hood. She held another shawl and hood in her hands, and before Georgia knew where she was, she found herself all muffled up and ready for the road.
"Now, then!" said Miss Maggie, briskly; "come along! See if the wind won't blow roses into those white cheeks of yours!"
Passing her arm around Georgia's waist, Maggie drew her with her out of the house.
The day was cold, and clear, and bright, and windless; a frosty, sunshiny, cold afternoon. The sun, sinking in the west, shed a red glow over the snow-covered fields, and gave a golden brightness to the windows of the house.
Some of the old wild spirit, that nothing but death could ever entirely crush out of Georgia's gipsy heart, roseas the cold, keen frosty air cooled her fevered brow. The languid eyes lit up, and she started at a rapid walk that kept Maggie breathless, and laughing, and running, and quite unable to talk.
"Oh, my stars!" said Maggie, at last, as she stopped, panting, and leaned against a fence. "If you haven't got the seven-league boots on, Miss Randall, then I should like to know who has? You ought to go into training for a female pedestrian, and you would make your fortune in twenty-five-cent pieces. I declare I'm just about tired to death."
"Why, how thoughtless I am!" said Georgia, whose excited pace had scarcely kept time with her excited thoughts; "I forgot you could not walk as fast as I can. Suppose you sit down and rest, and I will wait."
"All right, then," said Maggie, as she clambered with great agility to the top of the fence and sat down on the top rail; "but 'Hold, Macduff! who comes here?'"
A sleigh came dashing along the road, drawn by a small, spirited horse that seemed fairly to fly. It was occupied by a gentleman wearing a large black cloak, and a fur cap drawn down over his brow.
As he reached them he turned round and glanced carelessly toward the two girls. For one instant his face was turned fully toward them, the next he was whirling away out of sight.
"Oh, how handsome! oh, isn't he beautiful?" exclaimed Maggie, clasping her hands enthusiastically; "such splendid eyes, and such a pale, handsome face, and such a glorious driver. My! how I would like to be in that sleigh with him. I would—wouldn't you, Miss Randall?"
She turned to Georgia, and fairly leaped off the fencein amazement to see her standing rigid and motionless, with wildly distended eyes and white, startled face, gazing after the object of Maggie's admiration.
"Why, Miss Randall! Miss Randall!" said Maggie, catching her arms, "what's the matter? Do you know him?"
"Let us go back, Miss Leonard," said Georgia, passing her hand over her eyes as if to dispel some wild vision.
Know him! Yes, as if they had parted but yesterday. Could Georgia forget Charley Wildair?