GEORGIE AND JACK.
CHICAGO, _Sept. —, 18—_
Dear Sister:—I write in great haste to tell you of little Annie’s
accident, and that you must come out and see her, if only for a few
days. It happened the week after mother died. Her foot must have
slipped, or hit on something, and she fell from the top of the stairs to
the bottom, and hurt her back or hip; I hardly think the doctor knew
which, or in fact what to do for her. She cannot walk a step, and lies
all day in bed, or sits in her chair, with no other company than old
Aunt Luna, who is faithful and kind. But Annie wants you and talks of
you all the time, and last night, when I got home from the store, she
told me she had written to you, and gave me this bit of paper, which I
inclose.
“And now, Georgie, do come if possible, and come at once. There are so
many things I want to consult you about now that mother is gone. I can
ill afford to lose the time; but if you will start the —th day of
October, I will meet you in Buffalo, so that you will not have far to
travel alone. I shall expect your answer, saying yes.
“Your brother, JACK.”
This letter, or rather the slip of paper it contained, had taken Georgie
Burton to Buffalo, and on to Iona, where the accident occurred. She
might have resisted Jack’s appeal, and thought it one of his scares, and
that Annie was not much hurt, and would do well enough with the old
negress, Luna; but Annie’s letter was a different thing from Jack’s, and
Georgie wept passionately when she read it. It was a little child’s
letter, and some of the words were printed, for Annie was just beginning
to learn to write of Jack, who was her teacher in all things.
“Dear sister Gorgy,” the note began, “mother is dead and I’ve hurted my
back and have to ly all day stil, and it do ake so hard, and I’me so
streemly lonesome, and want to see my sweet, pretty sister so much. I
ask Jack if you will come and he don’t b’leeve you will, and then I
’members my mother say, ask Jesus if you want anything, and I does ask
him and tell him my back akes, and mother’s gone to live with him. And I
want to see you, and won’t he send you to me for Christ’s sake, amen.
And I know he will. Come, Gorgy, pleas, and bring me some choklets.
“ANNIE HEYFORD.”
Georgie could not withstand that appeal, and when Mrs. Burton tried to
dissuade her from going, she paid no heed whatever. Indeed, she scarcely
heard what her mother was saying, for her thoughts were far away with a
little golden-haired child, for whom she stowed away in her trunk the
chocolates asked for, and the waxen doll and the picture book and pretty
puzzle found that day at the shop in the little town near Oakwood.
Jack met her in Buffalo as he had said he would, and took her to the
hotel for the night, and, in the privacy of her room she said things she
never would have said had there been other ears to listen than those of
Jack,—faithful, trusty Jack, who knew that of _her_ which no other
living creature knew. Alone with him she needed no disguise, and her
voice was not as soft and sweet and bird-like as it always was at
Oakwood; but it sounded much like any ordinary voice, as she asked after
Annie, and if it really was necessary to send for her and compel her to
take that long, tiresome journey.
“Perhaps it was not necessary; Aunt Luna and I could take care of her,
of course; but, Georgie, she wanted you so badly, and I thought
maybe”—here Jack’s chin quivered a little, and he walked to the window,
and stood with his back to Georgie—“I thought you might want to see her.
It’s two years almost since you did see her. And mother’s being dead,
and all, we feel so lonely and broken up, and don’t know what to do. A
man’s nothing with a little child like Annie. I say, Georgie,”—and Jack
suddenly faced about—“I thought maybe you’d stay with us a spell. We
want a head; somebody to take the lead. Won’t you, Georgie? It is not
like Oakwood, I know; and you’ll feel the change; but it is a great deal
better than it used to be when you were there; for Annie’s sake, maybe,
you’ll do it, and I’ll work like a horse for you both. I’m getting good
wages now,—better than ever before. I can give you some luxuries, and
all the comforts, I guess. Mother thought you would. She told me to tell
you it was your duty——”
Jack stopped suddenly, arrested by something in the expression of his
sister’s face, which he did not like. She had listened in silence, and
with a good deal of softness in her eyes, until he spoke of her staying
with him. Then there was a sudden lifting of her eyebrows, and she shot
at him a look of surprise that he should presume to propose such a
thing. When he reached his mother’s message touching her duty, her face
flushed with resentment, and she broke out impulsively:
“Don’t go any further, Jack. You can work upon my feelings when you talk
of Annie’s wanting me, but when you try to preach _duty_ to me, you fail
of your object at once. I parted company with duty and principle, and
everything of that sort, years ago; and _you_, who know me so well,
ought to know better than to try and reach me through any such channel.
I am going to see Annie, to do what I can for her, and then return to
Oakwood. The kind of life I have led there, since leaving you, has
unfitted me for—for—”
“For our four rooms on the second floor of a tenement house,” Jack said,
a little bitterly, and then there was silence between them; and Georgie
sat, thinking of Oakwood, with all its luxurious elegance, and Jack’s
presumption in supposing she would voluntarily give it up for those four
rooms on the second floor, with their plain furniture and still plainer
surroundings.
And while she was thus employed, Jack, who had come back from the
window, was leaning upon the mantel and intently looking at the
beautiful woman with marks of culture and high breeding in every turn of
her graceful head, and motion of her body,—the woman whose charms were
enhanced by all the appliances of wealth, and who looked a very queen
born to adorn some home as elegant and beautiful as herself. She _would_
be out of place in the four rooms which constituted his home, he
thought; and yet her natural place was there, and in his heart he felt
for a moment as if he despised her for her selfishness and lack of all
that was womanly and right. But she was his sister. They had called the
same man father; they had been children together, and though he was the
younger of the two, he had always assumed a kind of protecting air
toward the little girl whose beauty he admired so much, and whom he once
thought so sweet and lovely.
As she grew toward womanhood, and her marvellous beauty expanded day by
day until it became the remark of even passers-by, who saw her at the
window, he worshipped her as a being infinitely superior to himself, and
when a great and crushing sorrow came upon her early in life, he stood
bravely by her, shielding her as far as possible from disgrace, and took
her to his own fireside, and, boy though he was in years, told her she
was welcome then and forever, and overtasked his strength and gave up
his hopes of an education, that she might be warmed and fed and clothed,
even in dainty apparel which suited her brilliant beauty so well.
Latterly their lives had lain apart from each other, hers at Oakwood,
where, the petted idol of her indulgent aunt, she had no wish
ungratified; and his in the noisy city of the West, where, at the head
of a family, he toiled for his mother and the little Annie who was like
a sister to him, and whom he loved with a deeper love than he had given
to Georgie, inasmuch as she was more worthy of his love. His mother was
now dead; Annie was a cripple; and in his loneliness and perplexity his
heart went after Georgie as the proper one to help him. She had acceded
to his wishes in part, but refused him where he had the greatest need,
and his heart was very sore as he stood looking at her and thinking of
all that was past in her life, and of the possible future.
She suspected his thoughts, and with her old, witching smile and manner,
arose and stood by him, and parting his hair with her white hand, said
coaxingly:
“Don’t be angry with me, Jack. I cannot bear that, for you are the best,
the truest friend I have in the world, and I love you so much, and will
do anything for you but that; I cannot stay with you. I should neither
be happy myself nor make you so; and then my remaining in Chicago would
seriously interfere with my plans, which may result in bringing us all
together beneath one roof. Trust me, please, and believe I am acting for
the best.”
She was thinking of Roy Leighton, and how her staying in Chicago might
prevent what she so ardently desired. The living together beneath one
roof was a thought of the instant, and nothing she had ever considered
for a moment, or ever would. But it answered her purpose just as well;
and she smoothed Jack’s hair so lovingly, and looked at him with so
soft, beseeching eyes, in which there was a semblance of tears, that
Jack began to forgive her, and feel that she was right after all, and it
was not of any use to make her unhappy by insisting upon her staying
where she did not wish to stay.
This was in Buffalo, where he met her. Then followed the catastrophe,
and Jack uttered no word of remonstrance against staying till Russell
came, although he knew just how the little girl at home was longing for
them. He wrote her a note, telling her to be patient, as sister Georgie
was coming, and then gave himself to the suffering ones around him, with
Georgie as a most valuable aid. He had no thought of her turning back to
Leighton, and the fact that she was intending to do so, came like a
thunderbolt. He could see no reason for it, and when she pleaded Mrs.
Churchill’s grief, which she could quiet better than any one else, he
was guilty of swearing a little about the whole Leighton tribe, Roy not
excepted; and he made Georgie cry, and didn’t care either, and would not
ask her _when_ she was coming, but received the chocolates, and the
doll, and the puzzle in silence, and put them away in his travelling
bag, with a half-muttered oath as he thought of Georgie’s selfishness,
and a choking lump in his throat as he remembered the little one at
home, and her disappointment. Georgie was all sweetness to the last, and
her face wore an injured, but still a forgiving, angelic look, as she
bade Jack good-by and said to him:
“I shall be with you almost before you know it. Tell Annie not to cry,
but be a good girl till sister comes.”
Jack did not reply, and his face was very sad when he went back to Edna,
and asked what he could do for her. He had done for her already
something she would never know, but which, nevertheless, was just as
great a kindness. After hearing from Georgie of Charlie’s entire
dependence upon Roy, it had occurred to him to take charge of the dead
youth’s pocket-book, and see how much it contained. Ten dollars,—that
was all,—and Jack’s heart gave a great throb of pity, as he counted out
the little roll, and thought how much Edna would need.
“Oh, I do so wish I was rich,” he said; and then he drew out his own
purse and counted its contents,—twenty-five dollars, and twenty of that
he had mentally appropriated for the purchase of a coat, to be worn in
the store, as the one he was wearing now was getting shabby and old.
“Maybe Aunt Luna can fix it up,” he said to himself. “It is not
threadbare; it’s only shiny-like in spots. I’ll wear it another quarter,
and here goes for that poor, little frightened thing.”
He put fifteen dollars in Charlie’s purse, and ten back into his own;
then he looked at Charlie’s watch, but when he saw upon it, “Presented
by his mother, Christmas, 18—,” he said this must go back to Leighton,
and the watch was reverently laid aside to be given into Russell’s care,
but the purse he kept for Edna, telling Georgie that he had it, and when
she asked how much was in it, answered, “twenty-five dollars,” but said
nothing of his coat and generous self-denial. He was used to such
things; he would hardly have known himself with no one to care for, and
when Georgie was gone with Charlie’s body, he turned to Charlie’s wife,
and began to plan for her comfort. It never occurred to him that much as
he desired to be at home, he could leave her alone with only a woman to
look after her. If it had, he might have gone that night, but he chose
to wait till the next day, when he hoped Edna would be able to bear the
journey.
She was very weak and feverish when the morrow came, and Jack lifted her
in his arms as if she had been Annie, and carried her into the car,
where by turning two seats together he improvised a very comfortable
bed, with his own and Mrs. Dana’s travelling shawl. Nor did he say good
by until he had carried her into Mrs. Dana’s house, and deposited her
upon a lounge around which four little children gathered wonderingly.
“I shall run in and see how you are to-night or to-morrow. Now I must go
to Annie,” he said; and Edna felt drearier, more desolate than ever, as
the door closed upon him, and she heard his footsteps going from her,
and leaving her there in that strange place alone, with the children
huddling around her, and the baby screaming loudly at the sight of its
mother.