OLD FRIENDS MEET.
"It was not thus in other days we met;
Hath time and absence taught thee to forget?"
And three years passed away.
Elsewhere these three years might have wrought strange changes, but they
made few in good old Burnfield. The old, never-ending, but ever new
routine of births, and deaths, and marriages went on; children were
growing up to be men and women--there were no young _ladies_ and
_gentlemen_ in Burnfield--and other children were taking their place.
The only marked change was the introduction of a railway, that brought
city people to the quiet sea-coast town every summer, and gave a sort of
impetus to the stagnating business of the place. Very dazzling and
bewildering to the eyes of the sober-going Burnfieldians were those
dashing city folks, who condescended to patronize them with a lofty
superiority quite overwhelming.
One other change these three years had wrought--the girl Georgia was a
woman in looks and stature, the handsome, haughty, capricious belle of
Burnfield. Time had passed unmarked by any incident worth mentioning.
Life was rather monotonous in that little sea-shore cottage, and Georgia
might have stagnated with the rest but for the fiery life in her heart
that would never be at rest long enough to suffer her to fall into a
lethargy.
Georgia's physical and mental education had been rapidly progressing
during these three years. She could manage a boat with the best oarsman
in Burnfield; and often, when the winds were highest and the sea
roughest, her light skiff--a gift from an admirer--might be seen dancing
on the waters like a sea-gull, with the tall, slight form of a young
girl guiding it through the foam, her wild black eyes lit up with the
excitement of the moment, looking like some ocean goddess, or the queen
of the storm riding the tempest she had herself raised.
Georgia braved all dangers because they brought her excitement, and she
would have lived in a constant fever if she could; danger sent the hot
blood bounding through her veins like quicksilver, and fear was a
feeling unknown to her high and daring temperament. So when the typhus
fever once, a year previously, raged through the town, carrying off
hundreds, and every one fled in terror, she braved it all, entered every
house where it appeared in its most malignant form, braved storm, and
night, and danger to nurse the pest-stricken, and became the
guardian-angel of the town. And this--not, reader, from any high and
holy motive, not from that heavenly charity, that inspires the heroic
Sister of Charity to do likewise--but simply because there was
excitement in it, because she was fearless for herself and exulted in
her power at that moment, and perhaps, to do Georgia justice, she was
urged by a humane feeling of pity for the neglected sufferers. She
watched by the dead and dying, she boldly entered lazar houses where no
one else would tread, and she did not take the disease. Her high,
perfect bodily health, her fine organization and utter fearlessness,
were her safeguards. Georgia had already obtained a sort of mastery over
the townfolks; that deference was paid to her that simple minds always
pay to lofty ones; but now her power was complete. She reigned among
them a crowned queen; the dark-eyed, handsome girl had obtained a
mastery over them she could never lose; she had only to raise her finger
to have them come at her beck; she was beginning to realize her childish
dream of power, and she triumphed in it. And so, free, wild, glad, and
untamed, the young conqueress reigned, queen of the forest and river,
and a thousand human hearts; looked up to, as comets are--something to
admire and wonder at, at a respectful distance.
Under the auspices of Father Murray her education had progressed
rapidly. As his congregation was not very numerous, his labors were not
very arduous, and he found a good deal of spare time for himself. Being
a profound scholar, he determined to devote himself to the education of
his little niece Emily, and at her solicitation Georgia also became his
pupil. Poor, simple, happy little Emily was speedily outstripped and
left far behind by her gifted companion, who mastered every science with
a rapidity and ease really wonderful. By nature she was a decided
linguist, and learned French, and German, and Latin with a quickness
that delighted the heart of good Father Murray. All the religious
training the wild girl had ever received in her life was imbibed now,
but even yet it was only superficial; it just touched the surface of her
sparkling nature, nothing sunk in. She professed no particular faith;
she believed in no formal creed; she worshiped the Lord of the mighty
sea and the beautiful earth, the ruler of the storm and king of the
universe, in a wild, strange, exultant way of her own, but she looked
upon all professed creeds as so many trammels that no one with an
independent will could ever submit to. Ah! it was Georgia's hour of
highest earthly happiness then; she did not know how the heart of all
atheists, infidels, and heretics cry out involuntarily to that merciful
All Father in their hour of sorrow. Georgia was as one who "having eyes
saw not, having ears heard not." In the summer time of youth, and
health, and happiness she _would not_ believe, and it was only like many
others when the fierce wintry tempest beat on her unsheltered head, when
the dark night of utter anguish closed around her, she fell at the feet
of Him who "doeth all things well," offering not a fresh, unworldly
heart, but one crushed, and rent, and consumed to calcined ashes in the
red heat of her own fiery passions.
Georgia rarely went to church; her place of worship was the dark solemn,
old primeval forest, where, lying under the trees, listening to the
drowsy twittering of the birds for her choir, she would dream her wild,
rainbow-tinted visions of a future more glorious than this earth ever
realized. Ah! the dreams of eighteen!
* * * * *
It was a wild, blusterous afternoon in early spring, a dark, dry, windy
day. Miss Jerusha, the same old cast-iron vestal as of yore, sat in the
best room, knitting away, just as you and I, reader, first saw her on
Christmas Eve five years ago, just looking as if five minutes instead of
years had passed since then, so little change is there in her own proper
person or in that awe-inspiring apartment, the best room. The asthmatic
rocking-chair seems to have been attacked with rheumatism since, for its
limbs are decidedly of a shaky character, and its consumptive wheeze, as
it saws back or forward, betokens that its end is approaching. Curled up
at her feet lies that intelligent quadruped, Betsey Periwinkle, gazing
with blinking eyes in the fire, and deeply absorbed in her own
reflections. A facetious little gray-and-white kitten (Betsey's
youngest), is amusing itself running round and round in a frantic effort
to catch its own little shaving-brush of a tail, varying the recreation
by making desperate dives at Miss Jerusha's ball of stocking yarn, and
invariably receives a kick in return that sends it flying across the
room, but which doesn't seem to disturb its equanimity much. Out in the
kitchen that small "cullud pusson," Fly, is making biscuits for supper,
and diffusing around her a most delightful odor of good things. Miss
Jerusha sits silently knitting for a long time with pursed-up lips, only
glancing up now and then when an unusually high blast makes the little
homestead shake, but at last the spirit moves her, and she speaks:
"It's abominable! it's disgraceful! the neglect of parents nowadays!
letting their young 'uns run into all sorts of danger, and without no
insurance on 'em neither. If that there little chap was mine, I'd switch
him within an inch of his life afore I'd let him carry on with such
capers. He'll be drowned just as sure as shootin', and sarve him right,
too, a venturesome, fool-hardy little limb! You, Fly!"
Miss Jerusha's voice has lost none of its shrillness and sharpness under
the mollifying influence of Old Father Time.
"Yes, Mist," sings out Fly, in a shrill treble.
"Ken you see that little viper yet, or has he got drownded?"
"He's a-driftin' out'n de riber, ole Mist; shill I run and tell his
folks when I puts der biscuits in de oben?" says Fly, straining her eyes
looking out of the kitchen window.
"No, you sha'n't do no sich thing! if his folks don't think he's worth
a-lookin' arter thimselves, I ain't a-goin' to put myself out noways
'bout it. _Let_ him drown, ef he's a mind to, and perhaps they'll look
closer arter the rest. A young 'un more or less ain't no great loss.
Don't let them ere biscuits burn, you Fly! or it'll be wuss for you! I
wish Georgia was here; it's time she was to hum."
"_Quand un parle du diable on en voit le vue!_" says a clear, musical
voice, and the present Georgia, a tall, superbly formed girl, with the
shining eyes, and glossy hair of her childhood, but with a higher bloom
and brighter smile than that tempestuous childhood ever knew, enters and
stands before her, her dark hair blown out by the wind that has sent a
deeper glow to her dark crimson cheeks, and a more vivid light to her
splendid eyes.
"Oh, you've come, hev you?" says Miss Jerusha, rather crossly, "and a
talkin' of Hebrew and Greek, and sich other ungodly lingo, again. It's
suthin' bad, I know, or you wouldn't be a sayin' of it in thim
onchristian langergers. I allurs said nothin' good would come of your
heavin' away of your time and larning thim. I know it ain't right; don't
sound as if it war. I feel it in my bones that it ain't. Where hev you
bin?"
"Over to Emily's," Georgia said, laughingly, as she snatched up Betsey
Periwinkle, junior, and stroked her soft fur. "What did you want me for
when I came in?"
"Oh," said Miss Jerusha, "it's all along of that little imp, Johnny
Smith, as has been and gone and went out in a boat, and I expect is
upsot and gone to the bottom afore this."
Georgia sprang to her feet in consternation.
"What! gone out in a boat! to-day! that child! Miss Jerusha, what do you
mean?"
"Why, just what I say," said Miss Jerusha, testily; "that there little
cuss has a taste for drowndin', for he's never out of a boat when he can
get into one, and I do b'lieve it's more'n half your fault, too,
abringing of him out with you every day in your derned little egg-shell
of a skiff. Ef he hain't got to the bottom before this it's a wonder."
"Oh, that child! that child! he will be drowned! Good Heaven, Miss
Jerusha, why did you not send and tell his parents?"
"Well, 'taint my place to look arter other folks' young 'uns, is it?"
said Miss Jerusha, shifting uneasily under the stern, indignant gaze
bent upon her. "Let every tub stand on its own bottom, _I_ say."
"Oh, Miss Georgia! Miss Georgia!" cried Fly, excitedly, "dar he is! run
right into dat ar rock out'n de riber, an' now he can't get off, an' de
tide is a risin' so fast he'll be swep' off pooty soon."
Georgia sprang to the window and looked out. The river, swollen and
turbid by the spring freshets, and lashed into fury by the high winds,
was one sheet of white foam, like the land in a December snow-storm. The
boat had struck a high rock, or rather small island, out in the river,
and there stood a lad of about ten years old with outstretched arms,
evidently shrieking for help; but his cries were drowned in the uproar
of the winds and waves. In ten minutes it was evident the sea would
sweep over the rock, and then----
Georgia with a wild, frenzied gesture, turned and fled from the house,
seized two light oars that lay outside the door, threw them over her
shoulder, and sped with the lightness and fleetness of a mountain deer
down the rocks to the beach.
"Oh, Miss Jerry! Miss Jerry! she's a-goin' arter him," shrieked Fly.
"Oh, laudy! dey'll bof be drowned _dead_! Oh! Oh! Oh!" And shrieking,
Fly rushed out and darted off toward the nearest house to tell the news.
New settlers had lately come to Burnfield, and Miss Jerusha's nearest
neighbors, the parents of the venturesome little Smith, lived within a
quarter of a mile of her. Mercury himself was not a fleeter messenger
than Fly, and soon the Smiths and other people around were alarmed and
hurrying in crowds to the beach. As Fly, still screaming out the news,
was darting hither and thither, a hand was laid on her arm, and looking
up, she saw a gentleman, young and handsome, muffled in a Spanish cloak,
and with his hat pulled down over his eyes.
"What's all this uproar about, my good girl? Where are all these people
hurrying to?" he asked, arresting her.
"Oh, to der beach! Miss Georgia will be drowned," cried Fly, breaking
from him, and darting off among the crowd.
The stranger hurried on with the rest, and a very few minutes brought
him to the beach, already thronged with the alarmed neighbors. On a high
rock stood Miss Jerusha, wringing her hands and gesticulating wildly,
and more wildly urging the men to go to Georgia's assistance, going
through all the phrases of the potential mood, "exhorting, commanding,
entreating," in something after the following fashion:
"Oh, she'll be drownded! she'll be drownded! I know she will, and sarve
her right, too--a ventursome, undutiful young hussy! Oh, my gracious!
what are you all a-standing here for, a-doing nothing, and Georgey
drownding? Go right off this minit and git a boat and go after her.
There! there! she's down now! No, she's up again, but she's sartin to be
drownded, the infernally young fool! Oh, Pete Jinking! you derned lazy
old coward! get out your boat and go arter her! Oh, Pete! you're a nice
old man! do go arter her! There! now she's upsot! No, she's right end up
agin, but the next time she sure to go! Oh, my conscience! won't none en
ye go arter her, you miserable set of sneakin' cowards you! Oh, my stars
and garters! what a life I lead long o' that there derned young gal!"
"There's no boat to be had," said "Pete Jinking," "and if there was,
Miss Georgia's skiff would live where a larger one would go down. If
_she_ can't manage it, no one can."
"Oh, yes! talk, talk, talk! git it off your own shoulders, you cowardly
old porpoise, you! afraid to venture where a delikay young gal does. Oh,
Georgey, you blamed young pepper-pod, wait till I catch hold of you!"
said Miss Jerusha, wringing her hands in the extremity of her distress.
"She has reached him! she has reached him! There, she has him in the
boat!" cried the stranger, excitedly.
"And she has got him! she has got him! Hurra! hurra! hurra!" shouted the
crowd on the shore, as they breathlessly shaded their eyes to gaze
across the foaming waters.
Steering her light craft with a master hand, Georgia reached the rock
barely in time, for scarcely had the lad leaped into the boat when a
huge wave swept over the rocks, and not one there but shuddered at the
death he had so narrowly escaped.
But the occupants of the skiff were far from safe, and a dead silence
fell on all as they hushed the very beating of their hearts to watch.
She had turned its head towards the shore, and bending her slight form
to the oars, she pulled vigorously against the dashing waves. Now poised
and quivering on the topmost crest of some large wave, now sinking down,
down, far down out of sight until they feared it would never rise, yet,
still re-appearing, she toiled bravely. Her long, wild, black hair,
unbound by the wind, streamed in the breeze, drenched and dripping with
sea-brine. On and on toiled the brave girl, nearer and nearer to the
shore she came, until at last, with a mighty shout, that burst
involuntarily from their relieved hearts, a dozen strong hands were
extended, caught the boat, and pulled it far up on the shore. And then
"Hurrah! hurrah! Hurrah for Georgia! hurrah for Georgia Darrell!" burst
from every lip, and hats were waved, and the cheer arose again and
again, until the welkin rang, and the crowd pressed around her, shaking
hands, and congratulating her, and hemming her in, until, half laughing,
half impatient, she broke from them, exclaiming:
"There, there, good folks, that will do--please let me pass. Mrs. Smith,
here is your naughty little boy; you will have to take better care of
him for the future. Uncle Pete, will you just look after my skiff, and
bring those oars up to the house? My clothes are so heavy with the wet
that they are as much as I can carry. Now, Miss Jerusha, don't begin to
scold; I am not drowned, you see, so it will be all a waste of
ammunition. Come along; I want to get out of this crowd."
Fatigued with her exertions, pale and wet, she toiled wearily up the
bank, very unlike herself. The stranger, muffled in his black
brigandish-looking cloak and slouched hat, stood motionless watching
her, and Georgia glanced carelessly at him and passed on. Strangers were
not much of a novelty in Burnfield now, so this young, distinguished
looking gentleman awoke no surprise until she saw him advance toward her
with outstretched hand. And Georgia stepped back and glanced at him in
haughty amaze.
"Miss Darrell, you are a second Grace Darling. Allow me to congratulate
you on what you have done to-day."
"Sir!"
"You will not shake hands, Miss Darrell? And yet we are not strangers."
"You labor under a mistake, sir! I do not know you! Will you allow me to
pass?"
He stood straight before her, a smile curling his mustached lip at her
regal hauteur.
"And has five years, five short years, completely obliterated even the
memory of Richmond Wildair?"
"Richmond Wildair! _Who was he?_" she said, lifting her eyes with cool
indolence, and looking up straight into the bronzed, manly face, from
which the hat was now raised. "Oh, I recollect! How do you do, sir?
Come, Miss Jerusha; let me help you up the bank."
He stood for a moment transfixed. Had he expected to meet the impulsive
little girl he had left? Had he expected this scornful young empress,
with her chilling "_who was he?_"
She did not notice his extended hand--_that_ reminded him of the child
Georgia--but, taking Miss Jerusha's arm, walked with her up the path,
the proud head erect, but the springing step slow and labored.
He watched her a moment, and smiled. That smile would have reminded
Georgia of other days had she seen it--a smile that said as plainly as
words could speak, "You shall pay for this, my lady! You shall find my
power has not passed away."
It was a surprise to Georgia, this meeting, and not a pleasant one. She
recollected how he had mastered and commanded her in her masterless
childhood--a recollection that filled her with angry indignation; a
recollection that made her compress her lips, set her foot down hard,
and involuntarily clinch the small hand; a recollection that sent a
bright, angry light to her black, flashing eyes, and a hot, irritated
spot burning on either cheek; and the dark brows knit as he had often
seen them do before as he came resolutely up and stood on the other side
of Miss Jerusha.
"And will _you_, too, disown me, Miss Jerusha?" he said, with a look of
reproach. "Is Richmond Wildair totally forgotten by all his old friends
in Burnfield?"
Miss Jerusha, who had not overheard his conversation with Georgia, faced
abruptly round, and looked at him in the utmost surprise.
"Why, bless my heart if it ain't! Wall, railly now! Why, I never!
Georgey, don't you remember the young gent as you used to be so thick
'long of? Wal, now! how do you do? Why, I'm rail glad to see you. I
railly am, now!" And Miss Jerusha shook his hand with an _empressement_
quite unusual with her in her surprise.
"Thank you, Miss Jerusha. I am glad _all_ my friends have not forgotten
me," said Richmond.
Georgia's lip curled slightly, and facing round, she said:
"Miss Jerusha, if you'll excuse me, I'll go on. I want to change this
wet dress;" and without waiting for a reply, Georgia hurried on.
"What brings him here?" she said to herself, as she walked quickly
toward the cottage. "I suppose he thinks he is to be my lord and master
as of yore, that I am still a slave to come at his beck, and because he
is rich and I am poor he can command me as much as he pleases. He shall
not do it! he shall _not_! I will _never_ forgive him for conquering
me," flashed Georgia, clenching her hand involuntarily as she walked.
"And so you've come back! Wall, now, who'd a thought it? Is the square
got well and come back, too?"
"My uncle is dead," said the young man, gravely.
"Do tell! Dead, is he? Wall, we've all got to go, some time or another,
so there's no good making a fuss. What's going to come of the old place
up there?"
"I am going to have it fitted up and improved, and use it for a
country-seat."
"Oh--I see! it's your'n, is it? Nice place it is, and worth a good many
thousands, I'll be bound! S'pose you'll be getting married shortly, and
bringing a wife there to oversee the sarvints, and poultry, and things,
eh?" and Miss Jerusha peered at him sharply with her small eyes.
"Really, Miss Jerusha, I don't know," he said, laughingly, taking off
his hat and running his fingers through his waving dark hair. "If I
could get any one to have me, I might. Do you think I could succeed in
that sort of speculation here in Burnfield? The young ladies here know
more about looking after poultry than they do in the city."
"Ah! they ain't properly brought up there," said Miss Jerusha, shaking
her head; "it's nothin' but boardin' schools, and beaus, and theaters,
and other wickednesses there; 'tain't ekil to the country noways. You'll
get a wife though, easy enough; young men with lots of money don't find
much trouble doing that, either in town or country. How's that nice
brother o' your'n?" said Miss Jerusha, suddenly recollecting the youth
who had by force possessed himself of so large a share of her
affections.
"He is very well, or was when I heard from him last. He has gone abroad
to make the grand tour."
"Oh--has he?" said Miss Jerusha, rather mystified, and not quite certain
what new patent invention the grand tour was. "Why couldn't he make it
at home?" Then, without waiting for an answer, "Won't you come in? do
come in; tea's just ready, and you hain't had a chance to speak to
Georgey yet, hey? You're most happy. Very well, walk right in and take a
cheer. You, Fly!"
"Yes'm, here I is," cried Fly, rushing in breathlessly, and diving
frantically at the oven.
"Where's your young mistress?"
"Up stairs."
"Well, you hurry up and get tea; fly round now, will you? Oh, here comes
Georgey. Why, Georgey! don't you know who this is?"
Georgia gave a start of surprise, and her face darkened as she entered
and saw him sitting there so much at home.
Passing him with a distant courtesy she said, with marked coldness:
"I have that pleasure. Fly, attend to your baking; I'll set the table."
Miss Jerusha was too well accustomed to the varying moods of her ward
to be much surprised at this capricious conduct; so she entered into
conversation with Richmond, or rather began a racking cross examination
as to what he had been doing, where he had been, what he was going to
do, and how the last five years had been spent generally.
To all her questions Mr. Wildair replied with the utmost politeness,
but--he told her just as much as he chose and no more. From this she
learned that he had been studying for the bar, and had been admitted,
that his career hitherto had been eminently successful, that his uncle's
death had rendered him independent of his profession, but that having a
passion for that pursuit he was still determined to continue it; that
his brother's health remaining delicate, change of scene had been
recommended, and that therefore he had gone abroad and was not expected
home for a year yet; that a desire to fit up and refurnish the "House,"
as it was called, _par excellence_, in Burnfield, was the sole cause of
his leaving Washington--where for the past five years he had mostly
resided--and finally, that his stay in this flourishing township
"depended on circumstances."
It was late that evening when he went away. Georgia had listened, and,
except to Fly, had not spoken half a dozen words, still wrapped in her
mantel of proud reserve. She stood at the window when he was gone,
looking out at the dark, flowing waves.
"Nice young man," said Miss Jerusha, approvingly, referring to her
guest.
There was no answer.
"Good-lookin', too," pursued Miss Jerusha, looking reflectively at
Betsey Periwinkle, "and rich. Hem! I say, Georgia--you're fond of
money--wouldn't it be pleasant if you was to be mistress bime-by of the
big house--hey?"
She looked up for an answer, but Georgia was gone.