GEORGIE’S SECRET.
Maude Somerton had thrown her hat down in one place, her gloves and
shawl in another, and donning her dressing-gown, stood by the open
window of her room at Oakwood, looking out upon the beauty of the night,
but thinking more of Jack and the words he said to her during their walk
from Leighton, than of the silvery moonlight which lay so calmly upon
the lawn below. They had lingered behind the others, and taken more time
by half an hour to reach Oakwood, than the rest of the party had done.
And Maude had been very quiet and gentle, and walked demurely at Jack’s
side, with her hand resting confidingly upon his arm, while he told her
first the story of his love for Edna Churchill; then of his comparative
poverty, and of the little crippled Annie, who must be his care as long
as she lived. The Heyford name was a good and honorable one, he said,
and never had been tarnished to his knowledge, and still there was in
the family a shadow of disgrace, the nature of which he could not
explain to her; he could only say that _he_ had had no part in it, and
it could by no means affect him or his future. Maude was morally certain
that Georgie was in some way connected with this “shadow of disgrace,”
but she made no comment, and listened while Jack asked her, if, knowing
what she did, she could consent to be his wife, and a sister to little
Annie, who suffered so much for want of other companionship than that of
old Luna, the colored woman, who kept his house for him.
There was a spice of coquetry about Maude Somerton; it was as natural
for her to flirt as it was to breathe, but there was something in honest
Jack Heyford’s manner which warned her that he was not the man to be
trifled with. She could play with silly Ned Bannister and drive him
nearly wild, and make even poor Uncle Phil Overton’s heart beat so fast,
that the old man, who was mortally afraid of heart disease, had applied
a sticking plaster to the region of inquietude, but she must be candid
with Jack. She must tell him yes or no, without qualification of any
kind, and so at last she answered “Yes,” and Jack, as he stooped to kiss
her upturned face, on which the moonlight was shining, felt as if Heaven
had suddenly opened to his sight, and let the glory through.
And thus they were betrothed, and they lingered for a few moments under
the shadow of the piazza at Oakwood, and whispered anew their vows of
love, and when Jack asked it of her, Maude put up her lips and kissed
his handsome face, and let her arm linger about his neck, and then
started back like a guilty thing, as the door came together with a bang,
and she heard the click of the key turning in the lock. It was Georgie
fastening up, but she opened the door again at Jack’s call, and looked
sharply into their faces as they passed her, but said nothing except, “I
supposed everybody was in.”
“Tell her, Maude,” Jack said, as he ran up the stairs to his room; while
Maude walked leisurely to her own chamber, in which there was a door
communicating with Georgie’s apartment.
The two girls never slept together, but frequently, when Maude was in a
very irrepressible mood, or Georgie unusually amiable and patronizing,
they visited each other and talked together while disrobing for the
night. Now, however, Maude felt more like communing with the moonlight
and whispering her happiness to the soft September wind, which just
lifted her bright hair as she leaned from the window, than talking with
her future sister-in-law, and she feigned not to hear the knock upon the
door and Georgie’s voice asking if she might come in. But when the knock
was repeated, and the voice had in it a note of impatience, she opened
the door, and Georgie came in, brush and comb in hand, with her long
black hair rippling over her crimson dressing-gown with its facings of
rich satin. Everything Georgie wore was of the most becoming as well as
expensive kind, and she made a very beautiful picture as she sat combing
and arranging her glossy curls under a silken net. But there was a
strange disquiet about her to-night, a feeling of unrest and vain
longing for the years gone forever, the time when she was as young, and
fresh, and pure as Maude Somerton or the girl at Leighton Place, who had
so disturbed her equanimity, and of whom she had come to speak to Maude.
She found it hard, however, to begin, but at last made the attempt by
saying:
“I say, Maude, what about that young lady at Leighton? Who is she; that
is, what is her real name?”
“Her real name?” and Maude opened her blue eyes wonderingly. “She is
Miss Louise Overton. You have known that all the time. Why do you ask me
so queer a question?”
“Maude, this will never do,” and Georgie’s eyes had a stony look in
them. “You pride yourself on ferreting out things, and you have not been
at Rocky Point with the _soi-disant_ Miss Overton so much for nothing.
_You_ know who she is, and I know too.”
“And pray who is she?” Maude asked, her cheeks flushing and her temper
beginning to give way.
“She was Edna Browning, and Charlie Churchill’s wife. My memory is not
so short that I have forgotten the girl at Iona, bruised and scratched
as she was then. I recognized her almost immediately, and I wonder at
her temerity in venturing to a place where she knew she would see me
more or less. Why did she come,—that is, why has she taken another name
than her own?”
There was no use for Maude to pretend ignorance any longer, and she
frankly replied:
“Her coming here was my own plan. The change of name was long ago, when
she first went to Rocky Point. Her uncle preferred and insisted that she
bear his name, and so she joined her second to it which made her ‘Louise
Overton.’ I want Roy and his mother to like her, and both, or rather
Mrs. Churchill is more likely to do this if she knows her first as a
stranger. Roy will like her any way; he cannot help it.”
Maude had made her explanation and waited for Georgie’s reply, which
was:
“I think less of the girl now than I did before, and so will Roy and his
mother when I tell them, as I shall.”
“Tell them,” Maude repeated, her blue eyes beginning to blaze with
anger; “tell them, Georgie! You certainly cannot intend anything as mean
as that! If Edna wishes to remain _incog._, can you not, as a woman,
respect her wishes, and keep her secret to yourself?”
“No; neither is it my duty to lend myself to the deception. I do not
pretend to be one of the good ones, as you do, but I am a lover of
truth, and should feel that I was acting a lie every time I addressed
that girl as Miss Overton, or heard her addressed as such. She has some
deep-laid design in what she is doing,—some design, which I shall take
immediate steps to frustrate. I shall go to Mrs. Churchill to-morrow,
and tell her who the girl is she has taken into such favor.”
Georgie paused here and went on brushing her glossy hair, while Maude,
who had been gathering all her forces for a grand onslaught and total
rout of the enemy, said calmly:
“That is your decision, is it?”
“Yes, that is my decision, from which nothing can turn me.”
“Then, Georgie, hear me,” and Maude came close to Georgie, and looking
her fully in the face, began: “You will not respect Edna Churchill’s
secret, and you talk grandly of being a lover of truth and hating to act
a lie. _Georgie, your whole life is a lie, and has been for years!_”
Maude spoke very slowly and kept her eyes fixed upon Georgie, over whose
face there crept a look of terror, and whose hands shook as they shed
back the mass of hair from her forehead, where drops of perspiration
were visible. In her excitement Maude had used rather stronger language
than Jack’s hint could warrant, but Georgie’s manner convinced her that
she could venture still further, and she continued:
“You have a secret, which you are guarding sedulously from the world,
but, Georgie, just so sure as you breathe a word to any one against
Edna, or tell that she is not Miss Overton, or try, in any way, to
prejudice either Roy or his mother, or anybody against her, just so sure
people shall know that little passage in your life which you have
hitherto succeeded in keeping from them. On the other hand, if you
respect Edna’s secret, yours too shall be respected, as it has been
heretofore. Do you acquiesce in this? Is it a bargain between us?”
There was no need for Georgie to answer; her white, terrified face, from
which her old assurance and haughtiness had fled, was a sufficient
reply; and she sat for a moment staring at her companion in utter
bewilderment. Then, with a tremendous effort, she recovered in part her
composure, and said:
“I do not know what right you have thus to threaten me, or what you may
have heard to my disadvantage from my enemies. I am not afraid of _you_,
Maude, or of what you can do to harm me. Don’t think I am, I beg; but if
it’s any favor to _you_ or Jack, for I know he has something to do with
it, I will let the girl remain in peace at Leighton, only devoutly
hoping that the childish face which lured poor Charlie Churchill to his
death will not also be the ruin of my brother, whose _penchant_ in that
direction I very strongly suspect.”
“Spare your suspicions there,” Maude said, and her voice was gentler
now.
She had conquered Georgie wholly, and she began to feel a kind of pity
for the proud woman who had been so terribly humbled, and who hereafter
would inevitably stand somewhat in fear of her.
“Georgie,” she continued, “I have no wish to quarrel with you. I loved
Edna Churchill before I knew who she was. You will like her, too, when
you know her better, but she will never be your sister. Don’t fear for
that, though Jack _did_ love her once, and asked her to be his wife, up
at Rocky Point last summer, and she refused him; and now the great,
kind-hearted fellow has come to me to be consoled, and, Georgie, well,—I
may as well tell you, for he said I might,—I am to be your sister some
day, and I do not want to begin by quarrelling with you; I mean to make
Jack a good wife and be a mother to little Annie; he told me about her,
and I almost cried with thinking of the poor creature, sitting all day
in her chair or lying in her crib so lonely, talking sometimes to
herself, he said, and sometimes to you, for company, and again praying
that Jesus will make her patient to bear the pain in her back and hip,
which is dreadful at times. Yes, I mean to be kind to her, even if I
worry Jack’s life out of him. Speak to me, Georgie, and say if you are
glad I am to be your sister?”
Maude had offered her hand to Georgie, over whom a curious change had
passed. The expression of fear was gone, and as Maude talked of Annie,
there came a softer look into her face, and grasping Maude’s offered
hand, she burst into such a passionate fit of weeping and bitter
sobbing, that Maude, forgetting all her anger, knelt down beside her,
trying to soothe and quiet her, and asking what was the matter, and if
she had offended her.
“I did not want you to tell of Edna,” she said, “and I was harsh-with
you about that; but, Georgie, I want to like you, and you must like me,
for Jack’s sake, if nothing else.”
“I do, I will,” Georgie gasped; “but Maude, oh, Maude, why did you open
a grave I had thought closed forever? I am glad you are to be Jack’s
wife,—glad for him, and glad for Annie. She will have a mother in you, I
know, and may God deal with you and yours as you deal with her; oh, my
darling, my darling!”
In her excitement Georgie said more than she would otherwise have done,
and with that passionate cry, “my darling, oh, my darling,” she seemed
suddenly to recollect herself, and, wresting her hand from Maude, she
rose up swiftly and went back to her own room, leaving Maude more
perplexed and confounded, and more kindly disposed toward Georgie withal
than she had ever been in her life.
“I have sealed her lips with regard to Edna,” she thought, “but I have
wounded her cruelly somewhere. How she did cry about that little Annie,
and what can the secret be that just the mention of it affects her so
much?”
But wonder as she would, Maude was very far from the truth, and never
dreamed of the cloud resting upon the woman, who in the next room sat
with her head bowed down under a load of so bitter shame and
humiliation, that it seemed as if she never again could lift it up as
proudly and assuredly as she had done before. The world was very dark to
Georgie then, and more evils than one seemed to be threatening her.
Maude knew her secret, in part, if not in whole,—knew enough, at least,
to blast her good name with Roy, should she dare to breathe a hint
against Miss Overton. Her hands were tied in that direction, and when
she remembered the admiring glances she had seen Roy give to Edna, and
thought of all the opportunities he would have of seeing and knowing,
ay, and of _loving_ her, too, she writhed with pain, feeling an almost
certain presentiment that this young girl, whom from the first she had
to a certain degree felt to be her evil genius, had at last come between
her and that for which she had waited and hoped so long. Purer, better
thoughts, too, were stirring in Georgie’s heart,—thoughts of little
Annie, to whom Maude was to be a mother.
“And I am glad,” she whispered; “for I know she will be kind to Annie,
and, for Jack’s sake, will keep my miserable secret. Oh, that I should
ever have come to this, when a word from a weak girl can turn me from my
purpose! Yet so it is, and Edna Browning is safe; but, heavens! how I
hate her!”
Georgie’s demon was possessing her again, and her black eyes blazed with
passion as she thought of Edna Browning; but she could not do her harm,
and she must pretend to like her, through her great fear of Maude, whom
she felt as if she hated, too, until she remembered Annie; and then
there came a gush of tears, which cooled her feverish passion, and made
her more humble and subdued, as in her velvet slippers she paced the
floor noiselessly, until she heard a distant clock striking the hour of
two.
There was to be a croquet party at Leighton on the morrow, and knowing
how mental agitation and loss of sleep told upon her looks, Georgie
ceased her rapid walking, and bathing her flushed face profusely with
water, crept shivering to bed, and by a strong effort of the will, such
as but few can practise, she succeeded in quieting her nerves, and slept
peacefully at last.