GEORGIE AND JACK.
Georgie staid in Chicago nearly two months, and for that sacrifice
mentally arrogated to herself the right to a martyr’s crown, if not to
be canonized as a saint. She had found Annie better than she expected,
and that of itself was in some sort a grievance, as it implied undue
anxiety, if not actual deception, on Jack’s part. In order to get her
there, he had represented Annie as worse than she was, Georgie thought;
and at first she was inclined to resent it, and made herself generally
disagreeable, to Jack and Aunt Luna, but not to Annie, whose arms closed
convulsively around her neck, and whose whole body quivered with emotion
when she first saw her sister, and knew she had really come. For two
days Georgie sat by her, continually gazing at her, and listening to her
prattle, until there came a softer look into her face, and her eyes lost
somewhat of their cold, haughty expression. Annie told her everything
she could think of about Mrs. Churchill, who had gone, no one knew
where, and about herself and her little joys, and griefs, and faults.
Everything bad which she had done was confessed, her impatience and
fretfulness, and the falsehoods she had told, and then with a faltering
voice Annie said:
“I have asked Jesus to forgive, and I most know He has, for I don’t feel
afraid of the dark any more, and I love to think He is here with me when
my back aches, and I lies awake nights and can’t sleep a bit. And will
you forgive me too, sister Georgie; and did you ever tells a lie, though
in course you never. You’s always so good. I wonder what makes me bad?
Do you know, sister Georgie?”
Oh, how abased and sinful Georgie felt while listening to this innocent
little child, whose garment she was not worthy to touch, but who had
exalted her so highly, and held her as something perfect. Perhaps she
might have solved the mystery which troubled Annie so much as to what
made her so given to the bad, when she wanted to be good. She might have
told of blood, so tainted with deceit that a single drop of it in one’s
veins would make the fountain impure. But she did not; she kissed and
comforted the child, and folding her arms about her said, with a gush of
real, womanly feeling:
“Oh, Annie, my darling, what would I give to be as innocent as you;
continue what you are; shun a lie or deceit of any kind as you would
shun the plague, and pray for me that I may be half as good as you.”
She lifted herself up, panting with emotion, while Annie looked
wonderingly at her.
“Why, sister Georgie,” she said. “You can’t be bad. You are the goodest
woman I know. I does pray for you that Jesus will take care of you, but
never that He’d make you good, because I thought you were.”
“No, child, I am not,—” and the proud Georgie sobbed aloud. “I’m not
good, but I love you. I want you to remember that, Annie, whatever may
happen; remember that I _do_ love you, oh my darling, my darling.”
There was some terrible pain tugging at Georgie’s heart,—some fierce
struggle going on, and for a few moments she cried aloud while Annie
looked wonderingly on and tried to comfort her. After that she never
gave way again, but was her old, assured self. Of the influences warring
within her the wrong one had prevailed, and she had chosen to return to
her formal life of ease rather than remain where her duty clearly lay,
and where the touch of a little child’s hand might have availed to lead
her away from the ruinous path she was treading.
Between herself and Jack there was a stormy interview one night after
Annie was asleep, and the brother and sister sat together before the
grate, talking first of the past and then of the future. Jack had
received, as he thought, an advantageous offer to go to Jersey City and
enter an insurance office. There was a house there for sale on very
reasonable terms, and Jack’s friend urged him to buy it, and have a home
of his own. How Jack’s heart beat at the thought of a home of his own,
with no constantly recurring rent-bill to pay, and no troublesome
landlord spying about for damages! A home of his own, which he could
improve and beautify as he pleased, with a sense of security and
ownership, and where, perhaps, Georgie might be induced to stay a
portion of the time. In Annie’s present helpless condition it was
desirable that she should not often be left alone, and as old Luna must
at times be out, it seemed necessary that a third person should form a
part of Jack’s household, and who more fitting and proper than Georgie,
provided she could be made to think so. Jack did not expect her to give
up Aunt Burton’s home, with its luxuries, altogether; only for a time he
wanted her, and he was revolving in his mind how to tell her so, when
she surprised him with the announcement that “she was going back to New
York in a few days; that she had already stayed longer than she intended
doing, especially after she found how well Annie was, and how little she
needed her except for company.”
Jack was astonished. He had fully expected Georgie to remain with him
until spring, and he told her so, and told her further of his plans for
the future, and his hope that she would be interested in his new home,
if he had one, and stay there a portion of the time. Georgie heard him
through, but there was an expression in her black eyes which boded ill
to the success of Jack’s plan, and her voice, when she spoke, had in it
a cold, metallic ring, which made Jack shiver, and involuntarily draw
nearer to the fire.
“_I_ bury myself in Jersey City! You must be crazy to propose such a
thing. Why, I’d rather emigrate to Lapland, out and out. I can’t endure
the place, and I don’t see why you want to go there. You are doing well
here, and these rooms are very comfortable.”
The fact was Georgie did not care to have Jack and Annie quite so near
to herself as they would be in Jersey City, and she quietly opposed the
plan, without however changing Jack’s opinion in the least.
“Are you not afraid that your return to New York will bring up old
times? There are those there still who have not forgotten,” she said,
and in her eyes there was a kind of scared look, as if they were gazing
on some horrid picture of the past.
“And suppose they do remember,” Jack said, a little hotly. “There’s
nothing in the past for which I need to blush; and surely no one could
possibly recognize in the heiress Georgie Burton, the——”
“Hush, Jack, I won’t hear what I was, even from your lips,” Georgie
said, fiercely. “Perhaps there _is_ no danger for myself; but I never
walk the streets even now, as the daughter of Ralph Burton, without a
fear of meeting some one who remembers. Still I know that as Miss
Burton, of Madison Square, I am safe, but as your sister, in Jersey
City, I should not be; and I will run no risks.”
“Not for Annie’s sake?” Jack asked; and Georgie answered:
“No, not for Annie’s sake,” though her chin quivered a little as she
glanced at the sleeping child.
Then they talked on and on, Jack trying to persuade his sister to stay
with him a little longer, and she as persistently refusing, saying she
must be home, that she had already lost too much time there in Chicago.
“Georgie,” and Jack began to get in earnest, “by losing time, I suppose
you mean losing your chance with Roy Leighton. I’ve never said much to
you upon that subject, but now I may as well free my mind. If Roy
Leighton really cares for you he has had chances enough to make it
known; and that he has not done so is pretty good proof that he does
_not_ care. But supposing he does, and asks you to be his wife, will you
marry him without telling him all?”
“Most certainly I will;” and Georgie’s eyes flashed defiantly. “I need
have no concealments from you, who know me so well, and I tell you
plainly there’s scarcely anything I would not do to secure Roy Leighton;
and do you imagine I would tell him a story which would so surely thrust
him from me? A story, too, which only you know; and you remember your
oath, do you not?”
She said the last words slowly, and her eyes fastened themselves upon
Jack, as a snake’s might rest upon a bird.
“Yes, I remember my oath;” and Jack returned her gaze unflinchingly.
Something in his manner made Georgie wince a little, and resolve to
change her tactics. Sweetness and gentleness had always prevailed with
Jack, when nothing else could move him, and so she tried them now, and
her voice grew very soft, and reverent, and beseeching, as, laying her
hand on his shoulder, she said:
“Don’t let us quarrel, brother. I do want to do right, even if I cannot
tell that dreadful thing to Roy. I am not going home either so much to
see him as for another reason, of which I ought perhaps to have told you
before. Jack, I am trying to be a better woman, and have made up my mind
to be confirmed when our bishop comes to the little church near Oakwood,
which will possibly be week after next. Aunt Burton is anxious for it,
and is going to arrange to be there; and so you see I must go. You do
not blame me now, I am sure. You respect religion, even if you do not
profess it.”
Her hand pressed more lovingly on Jack’s arm, but he shook it off, and,
starting to his feet, confronted her with a look which made her shiver,
and turn pale.
“Blame you?” he began. “Respect religion? Yes, I do; and respect it so
much that sooner than see you take those solemn vows upon you, knowing
what I do, I would break my oath a hundred times, and feel I was doing
right.”
Georgie’s breath came pantingly, and the great drops of sweat stood
around her lips, as she asked:
“What do you propose to do?”
He did not answer her question directly, but went on to say:
“I do not profess to be good myself, or to have the first principles of
goodness, but my mother, who died there in that bed”—and he pointed to
where Annie lay—“knew what religion was, and lived it every day; and
when she died, there was a peace and a glory around her death-bed, which
would not be around yours or mine, were we to die to-night. I am not
judging harshly. By their fruits ye shall know them. He said so,—the man
Jesus, whom mother loved and leaned upon, just as really as she ever
leaned on me, and whom she taught Annie to love and pray to, until He is
as much her companion when she is alone, as you are when you are with
her. Georgie, there is something needed before one kneels at that altar,
as you propose doing,—something which _you_ do not possess. You do _not_
care for the thing in and of itself. You have some selfish object in
view, and I will not be a party to the deception.”
“Will you drag me from the altar, or tear the bishop’s hands from my
head?” Georgie asked, beginning to grow both alarmed and angry at her
brother, who replied:
“No; but this I will do: If you go to confirmation, and if before or
after it Roy Leighton asks you to be his wife, and you do not tell him
the whole truth, I will do it for you. He shall not be deceived.”
“And your oath?” Georgie asked, in a choking voice.
“I break my oath, and do God service in breaking it,” Jack answered.
And then there was silence between them for ten minutes or more, and no
sound was heard except the occasional dropping of a dead coal into the
pan, and the low, regular breathing of the little child, so terribly in
the way of the woman who had so unexpectedly been brought to bay.
She gave up the confirmation then and there, and after a few moments
arose and went to Jack, and putting her arms around his neck, cried
aloud upon his shoulder, and called him the best brother in the world,
and wished she was half as good as he, and a great deal more, which Jack
took at its fair valuation. He was used to her moods, and knew about how
to prize them. Still, in this instance, he had been a little hard on
her, he thought, and he kissed her back at last, and said he was not
angry with her, and bade her go to bed lest she should be sick on the
morrow.
She staid a week after that, and when at last she went away, her diamond
pin, ear-rings, bracelets, and two finger-rings, lay in the show window
of a jeweller’s shop where they bought such articles; and Annie held in
her hand a paper, which contained the sum of one thousand five hundred
dollars, and on which was written, “To help make the first payment on
the new house.”
Annie thought her an angel of goodness and generosity, while Jack, who
understood now why he had seen his sister coming from Jachery’s shop,
said to himself: “There are noble traits in Georgie, after all;” and
felt that the house in Jersey was a sure thing.
The bishop came to the little church near Oakwood at the appointed time,
but Georgie Burton’s proud head was not one on which his hands were
laid. Aunt Burton, who had gone for a week or so up to her country house
and taken Georgie with her, had urged her to it, and so too had the
rector; and when Georgie gave as a reason for holding back, that she was
“not good enough,” the rector said she had set her standard far too
high, while Aunt Burton wondered where the good were to be found if
Georgie was not of the number, and cried softly during the ceremony,
because of her darling’s humility. What Georgie felt no one knew. She
sat very quietly through the service, with her veil dropped over her
face, and only turned her head a little when Maude, who was among the
candidates, went up to the altar. But when Roy Leighton too arose, and
with a calm, peaceful expression upon his manly face, joined the group
gathering in the aisle, she gave a start, and the long lashes which
dropped upon her burning cheeks were moist with tears. She had not
expected this of Roy. He was not one to talk much of his deeper
feelings, and so only his God, and his mother, and the rector, knew of
the determination to lead a new and better life, which had been growing
within him ever since Charlie’s sudden death. “Be ye also prepared, for
in such an hour as ye think not the Son of Man cometh,” had sounded in
his ears until he could no longer resist the Spirit’s gentle wooings,
but gave himself to God without reserve of any kind. There was a slight
stir perceptible all through the congregation as Roy went up and stood
by Maude. “He was a member worth getting; he, at least, was sincere,”
even the cavillers at the holy rite thought within themselves; and when
it was over, and he came down the aisle, all noted the expression of his
face as of one who was in earnest, and honest in what he had done.
Georgie saw it, too, and for a moment the justice of what Jack had said
asserted itself in her mind, and in her heart she cried out: “Roy ought
not to be deceived, and yet how could I tell him, even supposing—”
She did not finish the sentence, but she meant, “Supposing he does ask
me to be his wife.”
And Georgie had again strong hopes that he would. He had seemed very
glad to see her when she came to Oakwood; had called on her every day,
and shown in various ways how much he was interested in her. There was
about her now a certain air of softness and humility very attractive to
Roy, and he had half hoped that when he knelt at the altar, Georgie
might be with him, and he felt a little disappointed that she was not,
and he told her so that night after the confirmation, when, as usual, he
called at Oakwood, and they were alone in the parlor. Georgie had borne
a great deal that day, and lived a great deal in the dreadful past which
she would so much like to have blotted out. Her nerves were unstrung,
and when Roy said to her so gently, and still in a sorry kind of way,
“Why were you not confirmed, Georgie?” she broke down entirely, and
laying her head upon the table, cried for a moment like a child.
“Oh, Roy,” she said, at last, looking up at him with her eyes full of
tears, “I did want to; but I am not good enough, and I dared not. But
I’m so glad you did, so glad”,—and she clasped her pretty hands in a
kind of tragic way,—“for now you will teach me, won’t you?”
Roy was a man, and knew nothing of that scene in Chicago, and Georgie
was very beautiful to look upon, and seemed so softened and subdued,
that he felt a strange feeling throbbing in his heart, and would without
doubt have proposed taking the fair penitent as his pupil for life, if
Maude had not just then come suddenly upon them and spoiled their
_tête-à-tête_.
Georgie’s eyes were a little stormy now, but Maude pretended not to
notice it, and seated herself very unconcernedly before the fire, with
her crocheting, thus putting to an end any plan Roy might have had in
his mind with reference to Miss Georgie Burton.
Maude had scarcely seen Roy since her visit to Rocky Point, and she told
him all about Uncle Phil, who was his agent there, and of his niece,
Miss Overton, the prettiest little creature, to whom she had given the
pet name of “Dot,” she was such a wee bit of a thing. And then the
conversation turned upon Charlie and Charlie’s wife; and Maude asked if
anything had yet been heard from her, or if Roy knew where she was. Roy
did not, except that she was teaching, and would not let him know of her
whereabouts.
“How do you know she is teaching then?” Georgie asked; and Roy replied:
“I know through an aunt of hers, to whom I wrote last Christmas, asking
her to forward a box of jet to Edna.”
“Oh-h!” and Maude jumped as if she had been shot; then quickly
recovering herself, she exclaimed: “That dreadful pin,” and put her hand
to her collar as if the cause of her agitation were there.
Maude had received an impression, which made her quiver all over with
excitement, and sent her at last to her own room, where she bounded
about like a rubber ball.
“I knew there was something queer about her all the time, but I never
suspected that. Poor little Dot; how I must have hurt her feelings with
my foolish talk of Charlie, if she really is his widow, and I know she
is, for I remember now how interested she was in the Leightons, and how
many questions she asked me about Roy and his mother; and then that box
of jet. I’m sure of it,—perfectly sure; but, Dotty, if I can ferret out
a secret, I can keep one too: and if you don’t want Roy to know where
you are, he never shall from me.”
Maude wrote to Edna that night, and told her everything about the
Leightons which she thought would interest her, and then with feverish
impatience waited for her summer’s vacation, when she meant to go again
to Rocky Point, and satisfy herself.
Roy did not renew the conversation Maude had interrupted, but when in
the spring he decided upon his trip to Europe, he half made up his mind
to take Georgie Burton with him. He knew it would please his mother, and
from all that had passed between himself and the lady he felt that he
was in some sort bound to make her his wife; and why wait any longer?
She was at Oakwood now. City air did not agree with her as formerly; she
felt tired all the time, she told her aunt, who was ever ready to
gratify her darling’s slightest whim, consented to leave New York at
least a month earlier than usual, but never dreamed that the real cause
of Georgie’s pretended weariness was to be found in the pleasant little
house in Jersey City, where Jack Heyford was settling himself. Although
constantly assuring herself that her fears were groundless, Georgie
could not shake off the nervous dread that, by Jack’s presence in New
York, the black page of her life might somehow come to light. She went
over to Jersey several times, for she could not keep away; but she took
the Hoboken Ferry, and then came in the street car to the corner near
which Jack lived, thinking thus to avoid meeting any one who knew her,
and would wonder what she was doing in Jersey City. Still it was not so
much through herself as through Jack that she dreaded recognition; and
until he was fairly settled and at work, and swallowed up in the great
Babel, it was better for her to be away; and so she went to Oakwood, and
saw Roy every day, and was so soft, and sweet, and pious, and
interesting in her new _rôle_ of half-invalid, that Roy made up his
mind, and started one morning to settle the important question.
His route lay past the post-office, and there he found the letter Edna
had written in answer to his own, acknowledging the receipt of the
money. He read it in the shadow of an old elm-tree, which grew by the
roadside, and under which he dismounted for a moment. There was nothing
remarkable in it, but it turned Roy’s thoughts from Georgie for a time,
and sent them after the frolicsome little girl whom he had once seen in
the car, and who was now his sister. She wrote a very pretty hand, and
seemed so grateful for the few crumbs of interest he had given her, that
he wished so much he knew where she was. If he did, he believed he would
take _her_ to Europe, instead of Georgie; but not as his wife,—he never
thought of such a thing in connection with Edna,—but as his sister, for
such she was. And so, with her letter in his hand, he sat thinking of
her, while his pony fed upon the fresh grass by the fence, and feeling
no check from bit or bridle, kept going farther and farther away, until,
when Roy’s reverie was ended, and he looked about for his horse, he saw
him far down the road, in the direction of Leighton Place, instead of
Oakwood. Roy started after him at once; but the pony did not care to be
caught, and seeing his master coming, he pricked up his ears and started
for home, where Roy found him at last, standing quietly by the stable
door, as if nothing had happened. That circumstance kept Roy from
Georgie’s side that day, and when on the morrow he saw her at his own
house, he was guilty of a feeling of relief that he had not committed
himself, and would have no one’s luggage but his mother’s and his own to
look after in Europe.
He sailed early in June, and Georgie stood upon the wharf, and watched
the vessel as it went down the bay, and felt such bitter pain in her
heart as paled the roses on her cheek, and quenched some of the
brightness of her eyes.
“Roy is lost to me forever,” she said to herself, as she re-entered her
aunt’s carriage, and was driven back to Madison Square.
Still, as long as he remained unmarried, there was hope; and though her
youth was rapidly slipping away, she would rather wait on the slightest
chance of winning Roy Leighton, than give herself to another. And so,
that summer,—at Saratoga, where she reigned a belle,—she refused two
very eligible offers; one from the young heir of a proud Boston family;
the other from a widower of sixty, with a million and a half of gold,
and seven grown-up daughters.