"AFTER TEARS AND WEEPING, HE POURETH IN JOYFULNESS."
"Do not spurn me in my prayer,
For this wand'ring ever longer, evermore,
Hath overworn me,
And I know not on what shore
I may rest from my despair."
BROWNING.
From his pale lips dropped one word:
"Georgia!"
"Dearest Richmond," she said, looking up in his face with her radiant
eyes.
"Oh, Georgia, my wronged wife, can you ever forgive me?" he cried,
passionately.
"I have nothing to forgive, my husband," she said, sweetly. "It is I who
should be forgiven."
"Oh, Georgia, where have you been? Do I really see you, or do I dream?
So often have I dreamed you were restored, and woke to find it a dream.
Is this a delusion like the rest?"
"Shake hands, and see."
She held out hers with a smile, and he took it, and gazed into her face
with a doubtful, troubled look.
"Yes, it is Georgia; it must be she; the same, yet so different. You
never looked like this in the days gone past, Georgia."
"I have been new-born since," she said, with a serene smile. "You shall
learn all soon, Richmond. Do you know I have come to stay now?"
"See here, Mr. Wildair," said Curtis, giving him a poke "don't you keep
looking so; everybody's staring and whispering, and our friend here,
Whiskerando," pointing to the starred foreigner, "looks as if he thought
he had got into a lunatic asylum by mistake. You take Georgia--I mean
Mrs. Wildair--off into that conservatory, for instance, where you can
stare at her to your heart's content, and learn all the particulars
since she cut her lucky--I mean since she ran off and left you in the
lurch. Go; I know it will take you an hour, at least, to settle matters,
and beg each other's pardon, and smoke the pipe of peace, and so on;
and, meantime, as it is necessary the company should know who it is,
I'll whisper it as a great secret into the ear of the first lady I meet,
and get her to promise not to tell. There! vanish!"
Passing his hand across his eyes, as if to dispel a mist, Richmond
offered her his arm and led her toward the conservatory, followed by the
wondering eyes of the guests.
But Mr. Curtis had no need to tell. Miss Harper was there, and
recognized her with a suppressed shriek; and in an instant after, like
wild-fire, it ran through the room that this dark, beautiful stranger
was the mysterious wife of Mr. Wildair.
Dancing was no longer thought of. Everybody flocked around Mr. Curtis,
and such an avalanche of questions as was showered upon him human ears
never listened to before. Had he possessed a thousand tongues he could
hardly have answered one-half. But he did not try to answer them. Mr.
Dick Curtis was a sensible young man, and never attempted
impossibilities; so he only folded his arms and looked around him
complacently, listening with the profoundest attention to all, but
answering never a word; until, at last, when quite tired and
breathless, there was a pause, he lifted up his voice and spoke:
"Ladies and gentlemen: On the present interesting and facetious occasion
allow me to say--(ahem!)--to say----"
[Here a voice in the crowd, that of Mr. Henry Gleason, if you remember
that young gentleman, reader, interrupted with, "You _have_ said it!
Push along, old boy!"]
"To say," pursued Mr. Curtis, casting a withering glance at the speaker,
"as that very polite youth, whoever he may be, has falsely informed you
I have already said, that Mr. Wildair, his excellency," said Mr. Curtis,
with a dignified wave of his hand, "has commissioned me to say--I beg
your pardon, sir; you're standing on that lady's dress--to say that the
lady you beheld this evening is his wife, who has been indulging in a
little trip to Europe with his--(ahem!)--full approbation, while he was
seeing after the great, glorious, and immortal Union in Washington, and
scattering political oats--to use a figure of speech--before that
tremendous bird, the American eagle; and the lady arriving quite
promiscuously, if I may be allowed so strong an expression, he was
slightly surprised to see her--(ahem!)--as you all perceived, and has
just gone to have a little friendly chat with her over family matters
and kitchen cabinet affairs generally. And so, ladies and gentlemen,"
concluded Mr. Curtis, laying his kid glove on his heart and bowing
gracefully, "I hope his temporary absence will not plunge you into _too_
deep affliction, or cause you to feel too dreadfully cut up, but that
you will set seriously to work and enjoy yourselves, while I represent
his excellency, and during his absence receive your homage. And to
conclude, in the words of Demosthenes, the great Latin poet, who
beautifully observes, '_E Pluribus Unum_,' a remark which I hope none of
you will consider personal, for I solemnly assure you it was not meant
to be, as I haven't the remotest idea of what it means. If any further
particulars are needed," said Mr. Curtis, drawing himself up, and
casting another glance of withering scorn upon Mr. Henry Gleason, "I
must refer you to the young gentleman who was good enough to interrupt
me, and who stands there now, a mark for the finger of scorn to poke fun
at. Ladies and gentleman, I have spoken! Long may it wave."
And with this last "neat and appropriate" quotation, Mr. Curtis bowed
and blushingly retired, leaving his audience in convulsions of laughter,
for his unspeakably droll look and solemn tone no pen can describe. It
had the good effect, however, of diverting their attention from Mr.
Wildair and his wife for the present; and Mr. Curtis the center of a
laughing group, while his own face maintained its expression of most
doleful gravity, became for the time being the lion of the hour. With
edifying meekness did Mr. Curtis stand, "his blushing honors thick upon
him," until getting rather tired of it, he made a signal to the band to
strike up, and selecting Miss Arlingford for his partner, a quadrille
was formed and dancing commenced with real earnestness, and the business
of the evening might be said to have begun.
But when an hour passed and the lady whose _entree_ had created such a
sensation did not appear, impatient glances began to be cast toward the
conservatory, and petulant whispers to circulate, and pouting lips
wondered why they did not come. In vain Mr. Curtis was "funny;" his
popularity was waning as fast as it had risen, and it was all a waste of
ammunition. His jokes were unattended to, his puns were unlaughed at,
his most dolorous looks had no effect on the risibles of any, except
those who had a _very_ keen sense of the ludicrous. At last, in disgust
at the fickleness of public favor, he got dignified and imposing, and
_that_ had the effect of making sundry compressed lips smile right out
loud, but it is uncertain whether even this would have lasted any time
had not, suddenly, Richmond Wildair appeared with his wife leaning on
his arm.
In an instant a profound hush of expectation reigned throughout the
room; the music instantaneously stopped; the dancers one and all paused,
and every eye was bent upon them. A low, respectful murmur of admiration
ran round the room at her queen-like beauty, but it lasted only an
instant, and all was again still.
"My friends," said the clear, powerful voice that a short time before
had dispersed the surging crowd, "this lady, as you are all probably
aware, is my wife. There is not one here who has not heard a thousand
vague, floating rumors why we were separated, and now I feel it
necessary to say a few words of explanation, and silence the tongue of
scandal forever. A misunderstanding, slight and unimportant at first,
such as will arise at times in all families, was the cause. No blame,
not the faintest shadow of blame, attaches to this lady; if blame there
be, it solely belongs to me. A mutual explanation and a perfect
reconciliation have ensued, and if any one for the future shall canvass
the motives which caused us for a brief time to part, I will consider
that person my willful enemy. Ladies and gentlemen, let this pleasant
but unexpected incident not interfere with the amusements of the
evening, and as example is better than precept, I shall join you. Come,
Georgia."
He motioned to the musicians, and the dancers again formed, with Mr. and
Mrs. Wildair at their head. And then, when the quadrille was ended, all
came flocking round to be presented to his beautiful wife, whose
Juno-like beauty and grace was the theme of every tongue. And for the
remainder of the evening "all went merry as a marriage bell." If
anything were wanting to add _eclat_ to the inauguration of the new
governor this supplied it, and every one grew perfectly enthusiastic
about the gifted young statesman and his beautiful wife. So romantic and
mysterious as it all was, "just like something in a play or a novel," as
Mr. Curtis said, that the excitement it created was perfectly unheard
of, and when the ball broke up and the company dispersed, in the "wee
sma' hours ayont the twal," they even forgot they were sleepy and tired,
and talked away of the unexpected _denouement_, and electrified their
friends when they got home with the wonderful news.
* * * * *
"And now, Georgia," said Richmond, "tell me what has changed you so. I
can scarcely tell how it is, but it seems as if you were the Georgia I
once knew etherealized--the spiritual essence of Georgia Darrell; as if
you had cast off a slough and stepped forth radiant, serene, seraphic."
"Flatterer!" said Georgia, smiling, yet serious, too. "But oh, Richmond!
I fear you will be angry when I tell you."
"Angry at anything that has made you just what _I_ wanted, just what _I_
tried to make you and failed! Not I, Georgia. Tell me what elixir of
happiness and inward joy have you found."
"One without price, and yet one free to all--to the king and to the
beggar alike."
"And yet hitherto it has been beyond my reach. Tell me what it is, sweet
wife, that I may drink and live, too."
"Oh, Richmond, if you would--if you _only_ would!" she said, catching
her breath.
"Why should I not? Name it, Georgia."
"It is called _Faith_, Richmond."
He looked up reverentially, and his face was very grave.
"I think I know; and yet, hitherto it has been only a word to me. I have
seen it personified in two--in your little friend Emily, and in--"
He paused and his face worked.
"In whom, Richmond?"
"In Charley. Oh, Charley! oh, my brother!" he cried, in passionate tones
as he began pacing rapidly up and down.
The irrepressible cry reminded Georgia of that other day long ago when
he had received the letter in which he learned all. At the mention of
that name, Georgia too rose, pale and trembling, from her seat.
"And have you seen him? Oh, Richmond! have you seen him?"
"Yes," he said, hoarsely.
"And where is he? Richmond--oh, Richmond, do not look so! Charley, your
brother--where is he, Richmond?"
"In heaven, Georgia."
She fell back in her seat, and covered her face with her hands.
"Dead! Oh, Charley! and I not there!" she cried, while her tears fell
fast.
"Weep not, Georgia," said Richmond, gently removing her hands; "his
death was the death of the just. May my last end be like unto his."
But still she wept hot, gushing tears that would not be stayed--tears
that fell, not wildly, but that came from the heart, and were sanctified
to the memory of the early dead. At last--
"Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord," she softly murmured, lifting
her pale face; "God be merciful to his soul! Dear Charley!"
"He died like a saint, Georgia; he expired like a child falling asleep
in his mother's arms, with a smile on his lips; death had no terror for
him."
"Were you with him, Richmond?"
"Yes--thank God! Oh, Georgia, I had hardened my heart against him, and
yet when I would pass him on the street--I did often pass him,
Georgia--every feeling in my heart would be stirred, and no words can
tell how I would yearn for him, my own, my only brother. I saw he was
dying day by day, and yet pride--that curse, that bane that has dogged
me like an evil spirit from childhood up--would not let me step over the
barrier I myself had raised, and sue for forgiveness. At last came the
news that he was sick unto death, and then I could hold out no longer. I
went, Georgia--went in time to hear him forgive me, and to see him die.
Oh, Georgia, I shall never forget it--never! Oh, Charley, my gay,
thoughtless, light-hearted brother! to think you should be lying in that
far-off church-yard, cold and dead."
"Grieve not, my husband," said Georgia, earnestly, as she laid her hand
on his, "but look forward to a happy meeting in heaven. And now of
others--your mother, Richmond?"
"Is dead, too. Oh, Georgia, she wronged you. Can you ever forgive her?"
"Yes, as freely and fully as I hope to be forgiven. May she rest in
peace! And your cousin, Richmond."
She smiled slightly, and Richmond met her bright glance with a sort of
honest shame.
"I feel like going down on my knees to you, Georgia, when _that_ name is
mentioned. She is well--or was when I saw her last--and safely married."
"Indeed! To whom, pray?"
Richmond laughed.
"Do you remember Mr. Lester, of foppish memory, who made one of that
party to Richmond House two years ago--'Aw, weally such a boah'"--and
Richmond mimicked him to perfection.
"What a shame!" said Georgia, laughing; "of course I remember him. Is it
possible she has married that little dandy?"
"That she has, and a precious life she leads him, if all Curtis says be
true, for I never go there myself. The gray mare in that stable is
decidedly the better horse."
"So I should imagine. But where is Miss Reid? Mr. Lester used to be
tender in that quarter, if I remember right."
"Oh, yes: but she married Gleason--Lieutenant Gleason, you know. That
gallant officer proposed, and Miss Reid found it too much trouble to
refuse, so she became Mrs. Gleason the second."
"Well, I wish them joy, all. How strangely things turn out in this
world, don't they, Richmond?"
"Why, yes," said Richmond, laughingly, "rather so--your finding that
unexpected brother, for instance. But you don't ask for your old friends
in Burnfield--have you forgotten them, Georgia?"
"Forgotten them! Oh, Richmond."
"Well, don't look so reproachfully; you know I didn't mean it. You want
to go and see them, I suppose?"
"Oh, indeed I do. Dear Miss Jerusha, and dear little Emily, and----"
"Dear little Betsey Periwinkle," interposed Richmond.
"Yes; just so," said Georgia, resolutely; "a really good friend of mine
was Betsey, and very intimate we were. Yes, I want to see them all; when
will you take me there, Richmond?"
"In one week from this, Georgia; I cannot get away before; and then,
with your brother, we will make a pilgrimage to Burnfield, and you can
look once more at the 'auld hoose at hame.' You will have to go down on
your knees and intercede for me with Miss Jerusha, or she will never
forgive me for the way I behaved to her darling."
"Oh, how I long to go back there again! Now that the time is near, I
feel twice as impatient as I did before. A whole week! I wonder if it
will ever pass."
But it did pass, and another, too, and busy weeks they were with the
governor and his lady. The nine days' wonder of her appearance had
scarcely yet passed away when Mr. and Mrs. Wildair and Mr. Randall left
B----, en route for the little "one-horse" town of Burnfield.
A fairer day never came out of the sky than the one that heralded
Georgia's return to Burnfield--dear old Burnfield! fairer in her eyes
than Florence, the beautiful, brighter than Rome, the imperial, for her
home was there. Nothing was changed. There stood Richmond House, the
pride and boast of the town still, there was the pleasant home of Emily
Murray, there was the old school-house where her stormy girlhood had
been spent.
As she gazed, she lay back amid the cushions of the carriage and put her
hand before her face, that they might not see how deeply she was moved.
Her brother looked out with mingled interest and curiosity, and with a
dim recollection of the few wretched days and nights he had passed here.
Richmond looked on the familiar objects with mingled gladness and
remorse, and recollected, with many strange emotions, that the last time
he had entered Burnfield it had been with his bride, as they returned
from their brief city tour. Only two years since then, and what changes
had taken place! Mr. Dick Curtis, who had insisted on making one of
their party, and positively refused to take no for an answer, was of
them all the only one perfectly unmoved, and sat looking at the familiar
landmarks as they drove past, with a face of grave approval.
"Fine place, sir--fine place," said Mr. Curtis, with a wave of his hand;
"considerable of a town is Burnfield, eh, Randall? Not equal to Paris,
you know, or Lapland, or the great St. Bernard, or any of the other
tremendous cities, but a pretty tall place considering, and a real,
genuine Yankee town. And then the produce--I defy the world to raise
such girls, and boys, and pumpkins as they do in Burnfield. I defy 'em
to do it, sir! Look at that young lady there, in the pink sun-bonnet and
red cheeks, round as a cask of lager beer, and sweet as a cart-load of
summer cherries--there's a specimen of American ingenuity for you! Could
they surpass that in Constantinople or the city of Dublin, or any other
distant or impossible region? No, sir; they couldn't. I defy 'em to do
it, sir! Yes, I repeat it," said Mr. Curtis, striking his knee with his
hand, and glaring round ferociously at the company generally, "I defy
'em to do it, sir."
Mr. Curtis was as fierce as an African lion, so everybody immediately
settled down and looked serious.
"The notion," said Mr. Curtis, folding his arms and surveying his three
companions in haughty disgust, "that they can raise as good-looking
people in any other quarter of the world as they can in these here
blessed United States. Look at me now," said Mr. Curtis, drawing himself
up till his suspenders snapped, "_I'm_ a specimen! Mr. Randall, my young
friend, you have traveled, you have crossed that small pond, the
Atlantic, and have become personally acquainted with all the great guns
of Europe, from the Hottentots of Portugal to the people of 'that
beautiful city called Cork,' and now I ask you as an enlightened citizen
and fellow sinner, did you ever, in all your wanderings, clap your two
eyes on a better-looking young man than the individual now addressing
you? Don't answer hastily--take time for reflection. You know you
didn't--you know you didn't; the thing's impossible."
"Mr. Curtis must be the best judge of his own surpassing beauty," said
Mr. Randall, politely; "if he will hold me excused, I would rather not
give an opinion on the subject."
"Welcome to Richmond House," said Mr. Wildair, as the carriage rolled up
the avenue. "And now, gentlemen, I will leave you here for the present,
while Mrs. Wildair goes to see her former guardian, Miss Jerusha Skamp."
"Perhaps I had better go alone, Richmond," said Georgia, hesitatingly.
"Our first meeting----"
"Had better be unwitnessed; that is true enough," said Richmond. "Well,
John will drive you down. Shall I call for you in person?"
"If Miss Jerusha consents to forgive you, I shall send for you, if Fly
is still in the land of the living," said Georgia, smiling. "Good-by,
gentlemen;" and kissing her hand, and laughing at Mr. Curtis, who nearly
turned a somerset in his profound genuflexion, she was whirled away
toward the cottage.
Yes, there it stood still, the same old brown, low-roofed little
homestead. How different was this visit to it to what had been her last.
There was her own little room under the roof, and there, in the broad
window-sill, basking in the broader sunshine, lay Betsey Periwinkle and
one of her numerous family, lazily blinking their sleepy eyes.
Georgia's heart beat fast as she leaped out of the carriage and walked
slowly toward the house. Gathering the sweeping folds of her purple
satin dress in one hand, she rapped timidly, faltering at the door.
It was opened by Fly--yes, it was Fly, no doubt about it--who opened her
eyes and jumped back with a screech when she saw who it was.
"Hush, Fly! How do you do?" said Georgia, tapping her black cheek. "Is
Miss Jerusha in?"
But Fly, in her astonishment and consternation, was incapable of speech;
and smiling at her stunned look, Georgia swept past and entered the
"best room."
There it was, still unchanged, and there, in her rocking-chair in the
chimney-corner, knitting away, sat Miss Jerusha, unchanged, too. Old
Father Time seemed to have no power over her iron frame. She did not
hear Georgia's noiseless entrance, and it was only when a bright vision
in glittering robes of silk and velvet, with dark tearful eyes and sadly
smiling lips, knelt at her feet, and two white youthful arms, with gold
bracelets flashing thereon, encircled her waist, and a sweet, vibrating
voice softly murmured, "Dear, dear, Miss Jerusha," that she looked up.
Looked up, with a wild cry, and half arose, then fell back in her seat,
and flinging her arms round her neck, fell on her shoulder with one loud
passionate cry of "Georgia! Georgia!"