DREAMING.
"And underneath that face, like summer's ocean,
Its lips as moveless and its cheek as clear,
Slumbers a whirlpool of the heart's emotions--
Love, hatred, pride, hope, sorrow, all save fear."
HALLECK.
"Well, this _is_ pleasant," said Richmond, throwing himself carelessly
on the grass, and sending pebbles skimming over the surface of the
river; "this _is_ pleasant," he repeated, looking up at his companion,
as she sat drawing under the shadow of an old elm down near the shore.
Three months had passed since his return, and the glowing golden
midsummer days had come. All this time he had been a frequent visitor at
the cottage--to see _Miss Jerusha_, of course; and very gracious,
indeed, was that lady's reception of the young lord of the manor.
Georgia was freezing at first, most decidedly below zero, and enough to
strike terror into the heart of any less courageous knight than the one
in question. But Mr. Richmond Wildair was not easily intimidated, and
took all her chilling hauteur coolly enough, quite confident of
triumphing in the end. It was a drawn battle between them, but he knew
he was the better general of the two, so he was perfectly easy as to
the issue. In fact, he rather liked it than otherwise, on the principle
of the "greater the trial, the greater the triumph," and, accustomed to
be flattered and caressed, this novel mode of treatment was something
new and decidedly pleasant. So he kept on "never minding," and visited
the cottage often, and talked gayly with Miss Jerusha, and was
respectful and quiet with Miss Georgia, until, as constant dropping will
wear a stone, so Georgia's unnatural stiffness began to give way, and
she learned to laugh and grow genial again, but remained still on the
alert to resist any attempt at command. No such attempt was made, and at
last Georgia and Richmond grew to be very good friends.
Georgia had a talent for drawing, and Richmond, who was quite an artist,
undertook to teach her, and those lessons did more than anything else to
put them on a sociable footing. Richmond liked to give his lessons out
under the trees, where his pupil might sketch from nature, and Georgia
rather liked it herself, too. It was very pleasant, those lessons;
Georgia liked to hear about great cities, about this rush, and roar, and
turmoil, and constant flow of busy life, and Richmond had the power of
description in a high degree, and used to watch, with a sly, repressed
smile, pencil and crayon drop from her fingers, and her eyes fix
themselves in eager, unconscious interest on his face, as she grew
absorbed in his narrative.
Dangerous work it was, with a pupil and master young and handsome, the
romantic sea-shore and murmuring old trees for their school-room, and
talking not forbidden either. How Miss Jerusha chuckled over it in
confidence to Betsey Periwinkle--she didn't dare to trust Fly--and
indulged in sundry wild visions of a brand-new brown silk dress and
straw bonnet suitable for the giving away a bride in.
Little did Georgia dream of these extravagant peeps into futurity, or
the lessons would have ended then and there, this new-fledged intimacy
been unceremoniously nipped in the bud, and Miss Jerusha's castles in
Spain tumbled to the ground with a crash! But Georgia was in a dream and
said nothing. Richmond _did_, and laughed quietly over it in the shadow
of the old ancestral mansion.
"Yes, this is pleasant," said Richmond, one morning, as he lay idly on
the grass, and Georgia sat on the trunk of a fallen tree near, taking
her drawing lesson.
She lifted her head and laughed.
"What is pleasant?" she said.
"This--this feeling of rest, of peace, of indolence, of idleness. I
never sympathized with Charley's love for the _dolce far niente_ before,
but I begin to appreciate it now. One tires of this hurrying, bustling,
jostling, uproarious life in the city, and then laziness in the country
is considered the greatest of earthly boons. All work and no play makes
Jack a dull boy, you know."
"And do you really like the country better than the city?" asked
Georgia.
"I like it--yes--in slices. I shouldn't fancy being buried in the woods
among catamounts, and panthers, and settlers hardly less savage. I
shouldn't fancy sleeping in wigwams and huts, and living on bear's flesh
and Johnny-cake; but I like _this_. I like to lie under the trees, away
out of sight and hearing of the city, yet knowing three or four hours in
the cars will bring me to it whenever I feel like going back. I like the
feeling of languid repose these still, voiceless, midsummer noondays
inspire; I like to have nothing to do; and plenty of time to do it in."
"What an epicure you are," said Georgia, smiling; "now it seems to me
after witnessing the ever-changing, ever-restless life in Washington and
New York, and all those other great cities, you would find our sober
little humdrum Burnfield insupportably dull. I know I should; I would
like above all things to live in a great city, life seems to be so fully
waked up, so earnest there. I _shall_, too, some day," she said, in her
calm, decided way, as she took up another pencil and went on quietly
drawing.
"Indeed!" he said, slowly, watching the pebbles he sent skimming over
the water as intently as if his whole life depended on them. "Indeed!
how is that?"
"Oh! I shall go to seek my fortune," she said, laughingly, yet in
earnest, too. "Do you know I am to be rich and great? 'Once upon a time
there was a king and queen with three sons, and the youngest was called
Jack.' I am Jack, and you know how well he always came out at the end of
the story."
"Georgia, you are a--dreamer."
"I shall be a worker one of these days. My hour has not yet come." And
Georgia hummed:
"I am asleep and don't waken me."
"What will you do when you awake, Georgia?"
"What Heaven and my own genius pleases; found a colony, find a
continent, make war on Canada, run for President, teach a school, set
fire to Cuba, learn dressmaking, or set up a menagerie, with Betsey
Periwinkle for my stock in trade," she said, with one of her malicious,
quizzical laughs.
"Georgia, talk sense."
"Mr. Wildair, I flatter myself I am doing that now."
"Miss Darrell, shall I tell you your future?"
"I defy you to do it, sir."
"Don't be too sure. Now listen. In the first place, you will get
married."
"No, _sir-r_!" exclaimed Georgia, with emphasis: "I scorn the
insinuation! I am going to be an old maid, like Miss Jerusha."
"Don't interrupt, Miss Darrel; it's not polite. You will marry some
sweet youth with nice curling whiskers, and his hair parted in the
middle, and you will mend his old coats, and read him the newspaper, and
trudge with him to market, and administer curtain lectures, and raise
Shanghai roosters, and take a prize every year for the best butter and
the nicest quilts in the county; and finally you will die, and go up to
heaven, where you will belong, and have a wooden tombstone erected to
your memory, with your virtues inscribed on it in letters five inches
long."
"Shall I, indeed! that's all you know about it," said Georgia, half
inclined to be provoked at this picture; "no, sir; I am bound to
astonish the world some of these days--_how_, I haven't quite decided,
but I know I shall do it. As for your delightful picture of conjugal
felicity, _you_ may be a Darby some day, but I will never be a Joan."
"You might be worse."
"And will be, doubtless. I never expect to be anything very good. Emily
Murray will do enough of that for both of us."
"Emily is a good girl. Do you know what she reminds one of?"
"A fragrant little spring rose, I imagine."
"Yes, of that, too; but she is more like the river just now as it flows
on smooth, serene, untroubled and shining, smiling in the sunshine,
unruffled and calm."
"And I am like that same river lashed to a fury in a December storm,"
said Georgia, with a darkening brow.
"Exactly--pre-cisely! though you are quiet enough now; but as those
still waters _must_ be lashed into tempests, just so certain will you--"
"Mr. Wildair, I don't relish your personalities," said Georgia, with a
flushing cheek and kindling eye.
"I beg your pardon--it was an ungallant speech--but I did not know you
cared for compliments. What shall I say you look like?--some gorgeous
tropical flower?"
"No, sir! you shall compare me to nothing! Georgia Darrell looks like
herself alone! There! how do you like my drawing?"
He took it and looked long and earnestly. It was rather a strange one.
It represented a wintry sea and coast, with the dark, sluggish waves
tossing like a strong heart in strong agony, and only lit by the fitful,
watery, glimmer of a pale wintry moon breaking through the dark,
lowering clouds above. Down on the shore knelt a young girl, her long
hair and thin garments streaming behind her in the wind, her hands
clasped, her face blanched, her eyes strained in horror far over the
troubled face of the sea on a drowning form. Far out a female face rose
above the devouring waves--_such_ a face, so full of a terrible,
nameless horror, despair and utter woe as no fancy less vivid than that
of Georgia could ever have conceived. One arm was thrown up far over her
head in the death struggle, and the eyes in that strange face were
appalling to look on.
Richmond Wildair held his breath as he gazed, and looked up in Georgia's
dark face in a sort of fear.
"Georgia! Georgia!" he said, "what in Mercy's name were you thinking of
when you drew that?"
She laughed.
"Don't you like it, Mr. Wildair?" she said.
"Like it! You're a goblin! a kelpie! a witch! an unearthly changeling!
or you would never have conjured up that blood-chilling face. Why, you
have been painting portraits! Did you know it?"
"I did not when I commenced--I found I had when they were done."
"And life-like portraits they are, too. That kneeling girl is Emily
Murray, though her sweet face never wore that look of wild horror you
have pictured there. And that other ghastly, agonized countenance, that
seems rent by a thousand fiends, is--"
"Myself."
"Oh, Georgia! what spirit possessed you to paint that awful face?"
"How do I know? The spirit of prophecy, perhaps," she said, in a tone of
dark gloom.
"Georgia Darrell, do you know what you deserve?"
"No, sir."
"Then I shall tell you. You ought to be locked in an attic, and fed on
bread and water for a month, to cool the fever in your blood."
"Thank you; I would rather be excused. And now I come to think of it, it
_couldn't_ have been the spirit of prophecy either that inspired me, for
your brother Charles once told me that I would never be drowned."
"No? How did he know it?"
"He said a more elevated destiny awaited me--hanging."
"What if he turns out a true prophet?"
"I shall not be surprised."
"You will not?"
"Most certainly not. They hang people for murder, don't they?"
"Well?"
"Well!" she repeated, mimicking his tone, "I expect to be the death of
somebody one of these days."
He knew she spoke lightly, yet suddenly there rushed to his mind the
recollection of the conversation he had once held with his brother, in
which he compared her to Lady Macbeth, and declared his belief in her
capability of committing that far-famed lady's crime. Strange that it
should come back to him so vividly and painfully then.
"Well, signor," said the clear, musical voice of Georgia, breaking in
upon his reverie, "of what is your serene highness thinking so intently?
Do you fear you are to be the future victim?"
"Georgia!"
"I listen, mynheer."
"Suppose you loved somebody very much--"
"A mighty absurd supposition to begin with. I never intend to do any
such thing."
"Now, Georgia, be serious. Suppose you loved some one with all your
heart, if you possess such an article, you flinty female anaconda, and
they professed to love you, and afterward deceived you, what would you
do?"
"Do!" her face darkened, her eyes blazed, her lips sprung quivering
apart, her hands clenched; "do! I should BLAST them with my vengeance; I
would live for revenge, I would _die_ for revenge! I would track them
over the world like a sleuth-hound. I would defy even death by the power
of my own will until I had wreaked this doom on their devoted head.
Deceive me! Safer would it be to tamper with the lightning's chain than
with the heart that beats here."
She struck her breast and rose to her feet _transformed_! The terrific
look that had started him in the pictured face, flamed up in her living
one now, and she stood like a young Medusa, ready to blight all on whom
her dark, scorching glance might rest.
He stood appalled before her. Was she acting, or was this storm of
passion real? It was a relief to him to see one of his own servants
approaching at that moment with a letter in his hand. The presence of a
third person restored Georgia to herself, and, leaning against a tree,
she looked darkly over the smiling, shining waters.
"From Charley!" was Richmond's joyful exclamation, as he glanced at the
superscription of the letter and dismissed the man who brought it. "It
is nearly six months since he wrote last, and we were all getting
seriously uneasy about him. Will you excuse me while I read it,
Georgia?"
Georgia bent her head in token of acquiescence, and taking up another
piece of paper, began carelessly drawing a scaffold, with herself
hanging, to horrify her companion. So absorbed did she become in her
task, that she did not observe the long silence of her companion, until
suddenly lifting her eyes, she beheld a startling sight.
With the letter clutched with a death-grip in his hand, his face livid,
his brow corrugated, his eyes fixed, his whole form rigid and
motionless, he sat with his eyes riveted on that fatal letter.
In all her life Georgia had never seen the calm, self-sustained Richmond
Wildair moved, and now--oh, this was awful! She sprang to his side and
caught his arm, crying out:
"Richmond! Richmond! oh, Richmond! what is the matter?"
He lifted his eyes with a hollow groan.
"Oh, Georgia!"
"Richmond! oh, Richmond! is Charley dead?"
"Dead? No! Would he were!" he said, with passionate bitterness.
"Oh, Richmond, this is terrible! What has your brother--"
"Brother! it is false!" he exclaimed, fiercely, springing to his feet;
"he is no brother of mine!"
"Good gracious! Richmond, what has he done?"
"Done!" he repeated, furiously: "he has disgraced himself, disgraced us
all--done what I will never forgive."
It was the first time Georgia had ever heard him utter such language. As
a gentleman, he was not in the habit of staining his lips with
expletives, and now even _her_ strong nature shrank, and she shuddered.
"Oh, what has Charley done? What _can_ he have done? He so frank, so
kind, so warm-hearted? Oh he cannot have committed a crime! It is
impossible," cried Georgia, vehemently.
"It is _not_ impossible!--lost, fallen, degraded wretch! Oh, mercy! that
I should have lived to see this day! Oh, who--who shall tell my mother
this?"
"Richmond, be calm--I implore you. Tell me what he has done?"
"What you shall never know--what I shall never tell you!" he cried,
passionately.
The color retreated from Georgia's very lips, leaving her white as
marble.
"If it is murder--"
"Murder! _That_ might be forgiven! A man may kill another in the heat of
passion and be forgiven. Murder, robbery, arson, _all_ might be
forgiven; but this! Oh, Georgia, ask me not! I feel as if I should go
mad."
What had he done, what awful crime was this that had no name, before
which, in Richmond's eyes, even murder sank into insignificance?
Georgia stood appalled, while Richmond, with the fatal letter crushed in
his hand, strode up and down as if he were indeed mad. Then, as his eye
fell on the familiar hand-writing, his mood changed, and he passionately
exclaimed:
"Oh, Charles! Oh, my brother! Would you had died ere you had come to
this! Oh, Georgia! I loved him so! every one loved him so! and now--and
_now_!"
He turned away and shaded his eyes with his hands, while his strong
chest heaved with irrepressible emotion.
Every tender, womanly feeling in Georgia's heart was stirred, and she
went over and took his hand in hers, and said, gently:
"Mr. Wildair, things may not be so bad as you suppose. I am sure they
are not. I could stake my soul on the innocence of Charles Wildair. Oh,
it is impossible, absurd, he can be guilty of any crime. The Charley
Wildair I once knew can never have fallen so low. Oh, Richmond, I feel
he is innocent. I _know_ he is."
"Georgia, I thank you for your sympathy; it is my best consolation now;
but I am not deceived; _he is guilty_; he has confessed all. And now,
Georgia, I never want to hear his name mentioned again; never speak of
him to me more. I must go home now: I must be alone, for this shock has
quite unmanned me. Do not speak of this to any one. Farewell!"
He pressed her hand, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and started off
in the direction of Burnfield.
Lost in amaze, Georgia stood watching him until he was out of sight, and
then resumed her seat on the grass, to think over this strange scene,
and wonder what possible crime Charley Wildair had committed. It was
hard to associate with _any_ crime the memory of the handsome, happy,
generous boy she remembered; but it must be so. He confessed it himself;
his brother, who passionately loved him, branded him with it; therefore
it must be so. While she sat thinking, two soft hands were placed over
her eyes, and a silky curl touched her cheek.
"Emily," said Georgia, quietly, without moving.
"Yes, that same small individual," said a sweet voice; and our fair
Emily came from behind her, and threw herself down on the grass by her
side.
"Where did you drop from?" asked Georgia, not exactly delighted at the
interruption.
"Not from the clouds, Lady Georgia. I went to the cottage, and learned
from Miss Jerusha that teacher and pupil had gone off sky-gazing and
'makin' pictures. At the risk of being _de trop_, I followed, and here I
am. Where's Monsieur le Tutor?"
"Gone home," said Georgia, listlessly.
"And left you here all by yourself! How shockingly ungallant! Now, I
thought better things of the lord of Richmond Hall. What do you think of
him, Georgia?"
"Of whom?"
"Of whom! You know well enough. Of Mr. Wildair."
"I have formed no opinion on the subject."
"Well, that's odd. _I_ have, and I think him a splendid fellow--so
gentlemanly, and all that. I wonder what he thinks of us?"
"He thinks you are a good girl, and I am a dreamer."
"A good girl! Well, that's very moderate praise, blank and cool, but
just as much as I want. And you are a dreamer--I knew _that_ before.
Will you ever awaken, Georgia?"
"I shall have to; I never wish it, though."
"Then the awakening will not be pleasant?"
"No; I feel a presentiment that it will not. Oh, Emily! I am tired of my
present stagnant life; and yet, sometimes I wish I might never be
anything but a 'dreamer of dreams,' without even realizing how _real_
life is. I wish I were now like you, my little Princess Frostina."
"You and I can never be alike--never, Georgia; every element in our
nature is as essentially different as our looks. You are a blaze of red
sky-rockets, and I am a little insignificant whiff of down."
"No indeed; you are a good, lovable girl, with a warm heart, a clear
head, and a cool temper, who will lead a happy life, and die a happy
death. But I--oh, Emily, Emily! what is to be my fate?"
She spoke with a sort of cry, and Emily started and gazed on her with a
troubled, anxious face.
"Oh, Georgia, what is the matter? _Dear_ Georgia! what is the matter?
You look so dark, and strange, and troubled."
"I am out of spirits--a bad fit of the blues, Em," said Georgia, trying
to smile. "I am a sort of monomaniac, I think; I do not know what is the
matter with me. I wish I were away from here; I grow fairly wild at
times. Emily, I shall _die_ if I stay here much longer."
All that day something lay on her heart like lead. Perhaps it was the
memory of that mysterious letter, and Charley's guilt, and his brother's
anguish, that weighed it down. Miss Jerusha had long ago given up
wondering at anything her eccentric _protegee_ might see fit to do; but
when all day long she saw her sit, dark and silent, with folded hands,
at the window, gazing at the ever-restless, flowing river, she _did_
wonder what strange thoughts were passing through her young heart, or,
to use her own expression, what had "come to her." Fly gave it as her
opinion, it was only a "new streak," in the already sufficiently
"streaked" character of her young mistress. And Betsey Periwinkle,
wondering too, but maintaining a discreet silence on the subject, came
purring round her, while her more demonstrative offspring leaped into
her lap and held up her head for her customary caress.
Unheeding them all, Georgia went early to her room, and leaning her head
on her hand, gazed languidly out. The soft evening breeze lifted the
damp, shining braids of her dark hair, and kissed softly her grave,
beautiful face, and the evening star rose up in solemn beauty, and shone
down into the dark eyes fixed so earnestly on the far-off horizon that
seemed her prison wall. And Georgia looked up, and felt a holy calm
steal into her heart, and forgot all her somber fancies, and her high
heart-beating grew still in gazing on the trembling beauty of that
solitary star.