CHARLEY'S CRIME.
"By the strong spirit's discipline,
By the fierce wrong forgiven,
By all that wrings the heart of sin,
Is woman won to heaven."
With every nerve strained, every feeling wrought to the highest pitch of
excitement, Georgia had listened; but at this last moment the overstrung
tension gave way, and, for the first time in her life, she fainted.
On the wet grass where she had fallen she still lay when life and memory
came back. She raised herself on her elbow and looked wildly around,
passed her hand across her forehead, and tried to think. Gradually
recollection returned; one by one the broken chains of memory were
reunited, and all she had heard came back, flooding her soul with
ecstatic joy. Beloved still, no longer a cast-off wife, and her
long-lost brother Warren restored!
She remembered him now; she wondered she had not done so at first, for
every tone of his voice was familiar. It was the name that had deceived
her, and yet he had his mother's name, too--Warren Randall Darrell. She
rose up, to find herself stiff and cold, lying on the wet ground, and
her dress soaked with the heavy dew. The garden was deserted, the house
all dark, and with an overpowering sense of loneliness she found herself
locked out.
It would not do to disturb the family; she must wait till morning where
she was, so she resumed her seat and crouched down shivering with cold.
The new-born joy in her heart could not keep her from being chilled
through and through; and as the long hours dragged on, it seemed to her
that never was night so long as that. Benumbed with cold, sick, and
shivering, she sank into an uneasy slumber at last, with her head on the
hard, wooden bench.
It was morning when she awoke. With difficulty she arose to her feet,
and saw a servant with lazy step and lack luster eyes come out and
approach the stables. As she arose, she found herself hardly able to
walk from cold and exposure, but she managed to stagger to the door and
enter unobserved. It was well for her she met no one, as they might have
taken her for one newly risen from the dead--for never did eye rest on
such a deathly face as she wore that morning. How she reeled to her room
she did not know; how she managed to take off her saturated garments and
fling herself on her bed she could not tell; but there she was lying,
weak, prostrate, helpless, and chilled to the very heart.
As the morning passed and she did not appear, a servant was sent to see
what was the matter. Georgia tried to lift her head, but such a feeling
of deadly sickness came over her that, weak and blinded, she fell back
on her pillow. Every care was taken of her, but before night a raging
fever had set in, and with burning brow and parched lips Georgia lay
tossing and raving wildly in delirium. Alarmed now, the family physician
was sent for, who pronounced it a dangerous attack of brain fever, from
which he was extremely doubtful she could ever recover.
For days and days after that Georgia lay helpless as a child, with
liquid flame burning in every vein. Sometimes she raved and shrieked
madly of Freddy Richmond, calling herself a murderess, and trying to
spring from those who held her. Sometimes she would plead pitifully with
Richmond and implore him to forgive her, and she would never, never
offend him again; and now she would forget all the past, and fancy
herself talking to the children in the school-room, seemingly with no
memory of anything but the present.
It was a golden, sunshiny June morning when consciousness returned, and
she opened her eyes to find herself lying in her own room, with a
strange woman sitting beside her. Youth, and a naturally strong
constitution, had finally triumphed over the disease, but she lay there
weak and helpless as an infant. She had a vague, confused memory of the
past few weeks, and she turned with a helpless, bewildered look to the
nurse.
"What is it? What is the matter? Have I been ill?" she asked, feebly.
"Yes, very ill; but you are better now," said the nurse, coming over and
softly adjusting the pillow.
"How--how long have I been sick?" she said, passing her wasted hand
across her forehead as if to dispel a mist.
"Three weeks," was the reply.
"So long!" said Georgia, drearily, and still struggling to recall
something that had escaped her memory. "Who are you? I don't know you."
"I am your nurse," said the woman, smiling. "Mrs. Leonard hired me to
take care of you, and look after things generally until she came back."
"Came back! Has she gone away, then?"
"Oh, dear, yes! the whole family, children and all; they were afraid of
the fever, although the doctor said there was no danger."
"Where have they gone?" said Georgia, faintly.
"To New York. It's my opinion the young ladies were glad of any chance
of getting back to town, and it was they, particularly Miss Felice, who
insisted on leaving. Don't disturb yourself about them, my dear; you
will soon be as well as any of them."
"Tell me," said Georgia, catching the woman's wrists in her thin,
transparent hands, and looking earnestly in her face with the great
black eyes so sunken and melancholy now--"tell me if you know whether a
certain Mr. Randall who used to come here went with them? Perhaps you
have heard?"
The woman shook her head.
"No, my dear, I have not. I have heard of him, though, often; they say
he is very clever and going to be married to Miss Felice, but I don't
know myself. Don't talk so much, Miss Randall; it is not good for you."
"One thing more," said Georgia. "I--I raved when I was out of my mind;
will you tell me what it was I said?"
"That would be pretty hard to do," said the nurse, smiling; but then,
seeing the look of desperate earnestness on her patient's face, she
added: "Why, you know, my dear, you talked a great deal of
nonsense--fever patients always do--about some one you called Richmond,
and Freddy Richmond--some gentlemen, I expect," said the woman, with a
meaning glance; "and you called yourself a murderess, and then you kept
begging some one not to be angry with you, and you would never do so any
more; and sometimes you would talk to the children, and fancy yourself
in the school-room with them. In short, you know, you said all sorts of
queer things; but that was to be expected."
From that day Georgia rapidly recovered, and in less than a fortnight
was able to get up and sit for a few hours each day in an easy chair by
the window, inhaling the fragrant summer air. Her first request was to
call for the latest papers; but for some time the doctor said she was
not equal to the exertion of reading them, and, in spite of her
passionate eagerness, she had to wait.
To ask about Richmond she did not dare; but how eagerly she scanned the
first paper she got, in search of his name! And there she learned that
he had gone South on a summer ramble, wandering about from place to
place with the strange restlessness that characterized him.
It was a blow to her at first, but when she came to think it over, she
was almost glad of it. Somehow, she scarcely could tell why she did not
wish to meet him yet; if ever she returned to him, it must be in a way
different from what she had left. She wanted to find her brother first;
she had a vehement desire to win wealth and fame, and return to Richmond
Wildair as his equal in every way. During the long weary hours of her
convalescence she had made up her mind to go to the city.
The monotonous life of the last six months here grew unendurable to her
now; she would not have taken uncounted wealth and consented to spend
six more like them. Life at least was not stagnant in the uproar and
turmoil of the city, and solitude is not always a panacea for all sorts
of people in trouble.
She had money--her half-year's salary had been untouched, and it was no
inconsiderable sum, for Mr. Leonard had been as generous as he was rich.
She had a vague idea of winning fame as an artist. She felt an inward
conviction that her "Hagar in the Wilderness" would create a sensation
if seen. She took it out from its canvas screen, and gazed long and
earnestly upon it.
It was a wild, weird, unearthly thing, but strangely beautiful withal,
and possessing a sort of fascination that would have chained you before
it for hours. Never did eye look on a more gloriously beautiful face
than that of the pictured Egyptian in its dark splendor and unutterable
anguish. The posture, as she half-lay, half-writhed in her inward
torture, spoke of the darkest depth of anguish and despair; the long,
wild, purplish black tresses streamed unbound in the breeze, and the
face that startled you from the canvas was white with woman's utmost
woe. And the eyes that caught and transfixed yours, sending a thrill of
awe and terror to most stoical heart--those unfathomable eyes of
midnight blackness, where despairing love, fiercest anguish, and maddest
desperation seem struggling for mastery. Oh! never could any, but one in
the utmost depths of despair herself, have painted eyes like these.
Lucifer hurled from heaven might have cast back one last look like that,
so full of conflicting passion, but the superhuman agony shining and
surmounting them all--eyes that would have haunted you like a frightful
nightmare, long after you had first beheld them, eyes that would have
made you shudder, and yet held you spell-bound, breathless, riveted to
the spot.
All unknown to herself she had painted her own portrait; those flowing,
lustrous tresses, that dark, oriental face, those appalling eyes, that
posture of utter woe and unspeakable desolation, all were hers. The face
was almost the fac-simile of the one that had once so startled Richmond
Wildair that morning on the sea-shore, only the passionate, tortured
form was wanting.
At a little distance lay the boy Ishmael, with all his mother's dark
beauty in his face, but so serenely calm and childishly peaceful that
the contrast was all the more startling.
It was a wonderful picture, and no wonder that Georgia's eyes fired up,
and her color came and went and her countenance glowed with power, and
triumph and inspiration as she gazed.
"It must succeed--it will succeed--it _shall_ succeed," she vehemently
exclaimed. "There has been a prize offered by the Academy of Art for the
best painting from a native artist, and mine shall go with the rest. And
if it succeeds--"
She caught her breath, and her whole face for an instant grew radiant
with the picture she conjured up of the glory and fame that would be
hers.
"Mr. Leonard shall take it for me; he has always been my friend, and the
artist's name shall be unknown until the decision is announced. Yes, it
shall be so; the paper says that all pictures for the prize must be
delivered in three days from this, as the decision shall be given and
the prize awarded in a fortnight. Yes, I will go at once."
And with her characteristic impulsive rapidity, Georgia made her
preparations, and that very afternoon bade farewell to the house where
the last six wretched months had been spent, and took the cars for New
York.
Arrived there, her first destination was the widow's, where she had
stopped before, and early next morning she set out for the hotel where
the Leonards were stopping.
Mr. Leonard and his family were still there, and seemed quite overjoyed
to see her. It was fortunate, Mrs. Leonard said, she had come when she
did, for early in the next month she, and Mr. Leonard, and the girls
were off for Cape May for a little tossing about in the surf, and would
not return until quite late in the season, as, having been cooped up so
long, they were determined to make the most of their holiday now. The
children were to go back, and she, Miss Randall, was expected to go back
with them, and oversee the household generally in their absence.
Great was the worthy lady's surprise when Georgia quietly and firmly
declined. At first she was disposed to stand upon her dignity and be
offended, but when Mr. Leonard declared emphatically Miss Randall was
right, that she was by no means strong enough to resume the labor of
teaching, that she needed rest and relaxation and amusement, and that
the city, among her friends, was for the present decidedly the best
place for her, she cooled down, and consented to listen to reason.
"And now, how are all your friends, Miss Leonard?" said Georgia, with a
smile, yet with a sudden throbbing at her heart at the hope of hearing
something of her brother.
"All well enough when we saw them last," said Miss Felice, in a dreary
tone; "everybody's going away out of the city, but papa will insist on
staying after every one else."
"Whom do you call everybody else, my dear?" said Mr. Leonard, looking
over his paper good-humoredly. "If I don't mistake, you may see some
thousands of people in New York every day still."
"Oh, yes, the nobodies stay, of course. I don't mean them," said Miss
Felice, pettishly. "I hate people. Anybody that pretends to be anybody
is going away."
"You're a nice republican--you are!" said Master Royal, who in one
corner of the room was making frantic efforts to stand on his head, as
he had seen them do in the circus the night before.
"Has your friend Mr. Randall gone, too?" said Georgia, still trying to
smile, though there was a slight agitation in her voice in spite of all.
"Yes, of course he has. I wonder you didn't hear of it," said Miss
Felice, looking dissatisfied.
"Hear of it! how could she?" broke in Maggie. "You see, Miss Randall,
the queerest thing occurred while you were sick--just like a thing in a
play, where everybody turns out to be somebody else. Mr. Randall had a
sister once upon a time, and lost her somehow, and she grew up and
married Mr. Richmond Wildair, and he lost her somehow, the lady
evidently having a fancy for getting lost, and it was all found out
through Dick Curtis. So Mr. Randall and Mr. Wildair had a great time
about it, and now they have both gone to look for her again--one North
and the other South, so if they don't find her it will be a wonder. Is
it not romantic? I would give the world to see her--the wife and sister
of two such famous men. Oh, Miss Randall! Mr. Curtis says she was quite
splendid--so beautiful, you know, and,"--here Maggie lowered her voice
to a mysterious whisper--"he thinks she has gone and killed herself."
"Oh, ma, look how pale Miss Randall is; she's going to faint if you
don't look sharp," cried out Master Royal.
"No, it is nothing; pray do not mind," said Georgia faintly, motioning
them away. "I am not very strong yet; allow me to wish you good-morning.
Mr. Leonard, can I see you in private for a few minutes?"
"Certainly, certainly," responded Mr. Leonard, while the rest looked up,
rather surprised, as they left the room.
In as few words as possible Georgia made known her request, and obtained
from him a promise of secrecy. Mr. Leonard was not in the least
surprised; he was perfectly confident about her taking the prize, and,
having obtained her address, told her he would call for it on the
morrow.
But when the old gentleman saw it he fairly started back, and gazed on
it in a sort of terror and consternation that amused Georgia, breaking
out at intervals with ejaculations of extreme astonishment.
"Eh? what? Lord bless my soul! Why, it's quite frightful--upon my life
it is! Good gracious! what a pair of eyes that young woman has got!
'Hagar in the Wilderness.' Je-ru-sa-lem! I wouldn't be Abraham for a
trifle, with such a desperate-looking wild-cat as that about the house.
She's the born image of yourself, too; one would think you and Hagar
were twin sisters. Well, Lord bless me! if it isn't enough to give a man
fits to look at it! It's well I'm not nervous, or I'd never get over the
shock of looking at it. Upon my honor, Miss Randall, I don't know what
to make of you. You're the eighth wonder of the world--that's what you
are!"
The painting was accordingly sent in, and three days after, the whole
Leonard family departed--the children for home, and the elders of the
house for Cape May--and now Georgia was left to solitude and suspense
once more, until, as day after day was passed, and _the_ day approached,
she began her old fashion of working herself up into one of her fevers
of impatience and excitement. Her usual antidote of a long, rapid walk
was followed in the city as well as in the country, and often did people
pause and look in wonder after the tall, dark-robed figure that flitted
so rapidly by them, whose vailed face no one ever saw.
One night, as darkness was falling over the city, Georgia found herself
suddenly among a crowd of people who were passing rapidly into a church.
Borne along by the throng, she was carried in, too, and half-bewildered
by the crowd, and by the crash of a grand organ, and the glitter of many
lights, she found herself in a pew, among thousands of others, before
she quite realized where she was. She looked, and, with a half-startled
air, saw she was in one of the largest churches of the city, and that it
was already filled to suffocation.
She heard some persons in a seat before her whisper that an eloquent
young divine (she could not catch the name) was going to address them.
While they yet spoke, a tall, slight figure, robed in black, came out of
the vestry, passed up the stairs, and ascended the pulpit. A silence so
profound that you could have heard a pin drop in that vast multitude
reigned, broken at last by a clear, thrilling voice that rang out in
deep tones with the awful words from Holy Writ:
"You shall seek Me and you shall not find Me, and you shall die in your
sins."
A death-like pause ensued, and every heart seemed to stand still to
catch the next words. But why does Georgia start as if she had received
a spear thrust? Why do her lips spring white and quivering apart? Why
are her eyes fixed so wildly, so strangely on the preacher? In that
moment the mystery was solved, the secret revealed--the brother of her
husband stands before her. The gay, the careless, the elegant, the
thoughtless Charley Wildair is a clergyman. For awhile she sat stunned
by the shock, conscious that he was speaking, yet hearing not a word.
Then her clouded faculties cleared, and her ears were greeted by such
bursts of resistless eloquence as she had never dreamed of before. In
that moment rose before her, with terrific vividness, the despairing
death-bed of the sinner and the awful doom that must follow. Shuddering
and terrified, she sank back, shading her face with her hands, appalled
by the awful fate that might have been hers. What--what was all earthly
trouble compared with that dread eternity of misery she had
deserved--that awful doom that might yet be hers? Still it arose before
her in all its frightful horrors, exhibited by the clarion voice of the
speaker, until, wrought up to the pitch of frenzy, her trembling lips
strove to form the word "Mercy." And still, as if in answer, rang out
that thrilling voice with that terrific sentence of eternal doom:
"You shall seek Me and you shall not find Me, and you shall die in your
sins."
The sermon was over, the people were crowding out, and she found herself
half senseless kneeling in the pew, with her face hidden in her hands.
An uncontrollable desire to see, to speak to him she had just heard
seized her, and she sprang up, and grasping some one who stood near her,
said, incoherently:
"Where is he? I must see him! Where is he gone?"
"Who?" said the startled personage she addressed.
"He who has just preached."
"In there," said the man, pointing to the vestry. "Go in that way and
you will see him."
Forcing her way through the throng, Georgia hurried on, passed into the
sanctuary, and from thence to the vestry.
There she paused--restored to herself. Nearly a dozen clergymen were
there, standing in groups, conversing with several ladies and gentlemen,
who had come too late to get into the church, and had been forced to
remain there to listen. All eyes were turned on the new-comer, whose
pale, wild beauty made her an object of deep interest, as she stood
startled and hesitating in the door-way. A little boy, standing near,
looked up and said, curiously:
"Did you want anybody, ma'am?"
"Yes--Mr. Wildair. Is he here?" said Georgia, hurriedly.
"Yes'm, there he is," said the boy, pointing to where stood the man she
was in search of, standing by himself, his forehead leaning on his hand,
and a look of utter fatigue and weariness on his face.
All Georgia's eagerness returned at the sight. Passing rapidly through
the wondering spectators she approached him, and, with an irrepressible
cry of "Charley!" she stood before him.
Looking very much surprised, as well he might, the young clergyman
lifted up his head and fixed his eyes full on her face; but there was no
recognition in that look, nothing but the utmost wonder.
"Oh, Charley! don't you know me?--don't you know Georgia?" she cried
out, passionately.
Instantly he started up.
"What! Georgia Darrell--little Georgia, my brother's wife!" he cried,
eagerly.
Her eyes answered him.
"Is it possible? Why, Georgia, how little I expected to meet _you_
here!" he said, holding out his hand, with a smile of mingled remorse
and pleasure. "How came you here?"
"I do not know. Chance--Providence--something sent me here to-night."
"I would never have known you, it is so long since we met."
"Not so long as you think," she said, with one of her old rare smiles.
"No! How is that?"
"Do you remember the person you met on a country road, one night about a
month ago, and asked the way to Widow O'Neil's?"
"Yes."
"I was that person."
"Indeed! And did you know me?"
"Certainly I did."
"Well, I never for an instant dreamed it was you; but no wonder--I never
saw any one so changed," he said, looking in the pale wasted face, and
contrasting it with the blooming happy one he had last seen.
"Trouble seldom changes people for the better, I believe," she said,
with a sigh.
"Ah, I heard what you allude to; Curtis told me. I am very, very sorry
indeed, Georgia; but do you know they imagine you dead?"
"Yes, I know it," she said, averting her face.
"And that Richmond has searched for tidings of you everywhere?"
"Yes."
"Well, Georgia," he said, anxiously, "what do you intend to do? You
should return to your husband."
"I intend to," she said, looking up with a sudden bright smile, "but
not just yet. And you--how little I ever expected to see you a
clergyman--you, who, if your reverence will excuse my saying it, used to
be such a rattlepate."
He laughed, the happy, careless laugh that reminded her of the Charley
of other days, and shook back, with the old familiar motion, his thick,
clustering, chestnut hair.
"Time works wonders, Georgia. Thank God for what it has done for me," he
said, reverentially. "Did you know I was a clergyman?"
"Not until to-night. They never would tell me what became of you. They
said you disgraced the family, committed some awful crime, but what it
was I never could learn. Surely they did not mean that by becoming a
clergyman you had disgraced your family?"
"They meant that, and nothing else," he said, emphatically.
"Ah, how much you gave up for the dictates of conscience--friends and
family, wealth and worldly honors, and all that makes life dear; and yet
you look happy," said Georgia, in a sort of wonder.
He laid his hand on hers and pointed up, while he said, in a low voice:
"'Amen, I say to you, there is no man that hath left home, or parents,
or brethren, or wife, or children, for the kingdom of God's sake, who
shall not receive much more in this present time, and in the world to
come life everlasting.'"
She lifted her eyes in a sort of awe at the inspired tones. And his face
was as the face of an angel.
A silence fell on them both, broken first by him.
"You must come to see me again, Georgia. I have a good deal to say to
you that I have no time to say now. Here is my address while I remain in
the city, which will not be long. You have suffered wrong, Georgia, but
'forgive that you be likewise forgiven.' I must go now. Good-night, and
Heaven bless you!"
In her unworthiness she felt as if she could have sunk at his feet and
kissed the hem of his garment. She bowed her once haughty head to
receive his parting benediction, and hurried out.
Sitting in her room that night, she sank down to pray for the first time
in years--almost for the first time in her life. Fervently, earnestly
was that prayer offered; and a calmness, a peace hitherto unknown, stole
into her heart. In the sighing of the wind she seemed to hear an angel
voice softly saying, "Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy
laden, and I will give you rest;" and dropping her forehead in her
clasped hands, she sank down in the calm light of high, bright, solemn
stars, and meekly murmured:
"Hear me, oh, Lord!"