THE DAWN OF ANOTHER DAY.
"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.
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 had enough 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 the fact
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.
Next morning, among hundreds of other "wants," this appeared in the
_Herald_, 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 the _Herald_, 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 closely over 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 the awe-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 you _without_ credentials. 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 little Jennie, 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 from her 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 she _could 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 bless _my_ soul!" 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 know _I_ am. 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, pushing up 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 Miss Felice, 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 your
_cicerone_ for 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 your _sanctum 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 generally _will_ persist in such atrocities, on the principle
that what won't keep one, I suppose, will keep two. Don't you ever get
married, Miss Randall. _I_ never 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't so
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, but _I_ know
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.
Georgia _was_ better 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 part it 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, rose as 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 fence in 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?