THE CROQUET PARTY.
There was not a finer croquet lawn in the neighborhood than that at
Leighton Place, nor one with which so much pains had been taken. It was
in shape, a long oval, bordered with low box, which prevented the balls
from rolling off the limits, and surrounded entirely with a broad gravel
walk, shaded by tall maples and evergreens, with rustic chairs and seats
beneath, and here and there statuettes, and urns filled with luxuriant
vines, and the shrubs which thrive best in the shade. At a little
distance, the musical waters of a fountain were heard, as they fell into
the basin, where golden fish were playing, while patches of bright
flowers dotting the turf heightened the general effect, and made it one
of the most delightful of resorts. Edna had almost screamed aloud, when,
after breakfast was over, Roy took her there with his mother, who,
though she never played, enjoyed nothing better than sitting in her
favorite chair, and listening to the click of the balls, and the merry
shouts which followed a lucky hit.
“Suppose, Miss Overton, that you and Roy try a game while I rest,” she
said to Edna, while Roy rejoined:
“Yes, do; then I can judge of your skill, and know whether to chose you
first this afternoon. Miss Somerton and I are to be captains, I
believe.”
Edna had frequently played at Rocky Point; sometimes with Maude,
sometimes with Ruth Gardner, and sometimes with Uncle Phil for an
opponent, and except when playing against the latter, was generally
beaten, so she took the mallet Roy brought to her with some hesitation,
declaring her inability to interest a skilful player, much less to beat.
“Let me teach you then,” Roy said. “You can learn a great deal in an
hour.”
To this Edna readily assented, and the game began with Roy as teacher.
But Edna soon found that the uneven ground at Uncle Phil’s, where the
balls hid themselves in all sorts of holes and depressions, was a very
different thing from the closely-shaven lawn which had been rolled and
pounded until it was nearly as smooth as a carpeted floor. She could
play here, and was astonished at her own success, and struck so boldly
and surely, that Roy soon gave up the task of teaching her, and began to
look after his own interests. She was such a little creature, and he so
tall and big, that he almost felt as if playing with his daughter,
though never did a father watch the motions of his child with just the
same feelings with which Roy watched Edna as she moved from point to
point, now showing her dimpled hands, and now poising her little boot
upon her ball preparatory to croqueting it away. She was very lithe,
very graceful, and very modest withal, and she beat Roy twice out of
five games, and when at last they were through, and Roy led her to his
mother, he said to her, laughingly:
“Remember you are engaged to me for the first game.”
He was extremely kind and gentle, and though Edna had known him
personally for only twenty-four hours, she had seen enough to understand
just how thoroughly good and noble he was; how different from Charlie,
who, had he lived, could hardly have satisfied her now. But Charlie was
dead, and she went from the croquet ground to his grave, with his
mother, and laid a cluster of flowers upon the sod which covered him,
and felt like a guilty hypocrite when Mrs. Churchill pressed her hand
and thanked her “for remembering my poor boy.”
“I would like flowers put here every day,” she said; “but my eyesight is
so bad that I cannot see, while Roy’s hands are not skilful in
fashioning bouquets, and we have had no young lady staying here
permanently until now.”
“Charlie shall have flowers so long as they last,” Edna replied with a
trembling voice, while into her face there came a look of pain something
like what it had worn on that dreadful night in Iona.
She had called him “Charlie,” and the old familiar name carried her back
to the Seminary days, when, aside from Aunt Jerry, she had not known
what sorrow was,—and she was uncertain how Mrs. Churchill would take it.
There was something very sad in the tone of her voice as she uttered the
name, Charlie,—_pitiful_, Mrs. Churchill thought; and she deepened her
grasp on Edna’s hand and said, “Call him Charlie always when speaking of
him to me. It makes it seem as if you had known him, and I can talk more
freely to you than to a stranger. He was my baby, my poor boy; full of
faults, but always loving and kind to his mother. Oh! Charlie, my
darling. I wish I had him back. I wish he had not done so.”
The tears were pouring over the poor woman’s face, and Edna’s kept
company with them. She knew what the mother wished he had not done, and
knew that but for her he would not have done it, and she felt for a few
moments as if she were really guilty of Charlie’s death; and could she
then have restored him to his mother by going herself back to the house
by the graveyard, and taking up her lonely life as it had been before
she knew Charlie Churchill, she would have done so. But there was no
going back when once death had entered in; and all she now could do was
to comfort and love the helpless woman who clung to her so confidingly,
and who seemed so much afraid of overtaxing or wearying her out.
“You have always been in school, I hear,” she said, after they had
returned to the house, and Edna had read aloud to her awhile. “Teaching
must be accompanied with more excitement than sitting here and amusing
me, so I shall not tax you much at first, lest you get tired of me. Go,
now, and enjoy yourself where you like. Perhaps Roy will take you to
drive. I’ll ask him; I hear his step now. Roy, come here, please.”
And before Edna, who did not fancy being thrust upon Roy whether he
would have her or not, could interfere, Mrs. Churchill had asked her son
why he did not take Miss Overton for a drive, and he had expressed
himself as delighted to do so. They were not gone long, for Roy had some
matters to attend to before dinner, which was that day to be served at
two, but during a _tête-à-tête_ of an hour a young man and woman can
learn a great deal of each other, and Roy’s verdict with regard to Miss
Overton, as he handed her out of his phaeton, was “A very bright,
fascinating girl, with something about her which interests me
strangely;” while Edna would not allow herself to put into words _what_
she thought of him. He was something, as she had judged him to be from
his letters, though better, she thought, and, as many a person had done
before her, she wondered that he had lived to the age of thirty without
being married. She did not now believe implicitly in his eventually
making Miss Burton his wife. He could not be happy with her, she
thought,—they were so dissimilar; and she unconsciously found herself
extracting comfort from that fact, though she ascribed her motive wholly
to the friendly interest she felt in Roy, and as she dressed herself for
dinner, she warbled a part of an old love tune she had not sung since
the days when Charlie Churchill used to stop by the Seminary gate to
listen to her singing.
“I am nothing but a hired companion, a ‘school marm,’ as that prig of a
Jim Gardner said of me when he first came home from Germany, and of
course these grand people from Oakwood have a similar opinion of me. I
saw it in that Miss Shawe’s eyes, and so it is not much matter how I
dress. Still I want to look as well as I can,” she said, as she stood
before the glass arranging her hair and wondering what she should wear.
“Maude says there is everything in one’s looks when playing croquet,”
she continued, “and perhaps she is right. I’ll wear my white pique, with
the little blue jacket.”
She could not have chosen a more becoming costume, for the jacket was of
that peculiar shade of blue which set off, her fair complexion to the
best advantage, and made her so pretty that Mrs. Churchill, blind as she
was, remarked upon her dress when she came in to dinner, while Roy said
she was like a bit of blue sky in June.
“You remember your engagement to play with me, of course,” he continued;
and when Edna suggested that she might be a detriment rather than a help
to his side, he replied, “I want the best-looking ones at any rate, so
that I can boast of beauty if not of skill. You and Miss Burton will go
nicely together.”
Edna did not relish her dinner quite as well after that speech, which
showed that Roy claimed Miss Burton as something which by right belonged
to him, and much as she despised herself for it, she knew, that,
inwardly, she had a feeling of relief when the party from Oakwood
arrived, and reported Georgie as too sick to come with them. Roy said he
was very sorry, and looked as if he meant it, and asked some questions
about her as he led the way to the lawn where everything was ready.
Maude, who was resplendent in white muslin, scarlet sash, and tall
gaiters, seized at once upon Edna, and, drawing her aside, whispered to
her of her happiness.
“He told me of his love for you, too, and I did not like him one bit the
less. He couldn’t help loving you, of course, when he saw you so
helpless and alone. He is a splendid fellow, isn’t he? Most as
good-looking as Roy, and he is going to quit tobacco, and fit my room
all up with blue, and we are to be married sometime next year if he is
prosperous, and I won’t have to teach the hot, sweating children any
more. Oh, I am so happy. There he comes now. Hasn’t he such a good
face?”
And Maude beamed all over with delight as Jack came up and joined them,
his eyes kindling, and growing very soft and tender, as Edna offered him
her congratulations, and told him how glad she was.
“I knew you would be,” he said. “Knew Maude would suit you better than
any one else; and Edna, please remember that our home is yours also
whenever you choose to make it so. Maude and I agreed upon that this
morning.”
They had reached the lawn by this time, and the ladies from New York
were handling the mallets daintily, and decrying their own skill, and
saying the side which claimed them was sure to lose.
“Then I run no risk,” Roy said, laughingly; “and choose Miss Overton.”
He had been drawing cuts with Maude to see which would have the first
choice, and the lot came to him.
“Miss Overton,” he called again, and Edna came forward, noticing, as she
did so, the glances of surprise and dissatisfaction exchanged between
the city girls, who, though very civil to her, did not attempt to
conceal that they knew her only as a hired companion, whose rightful
place was at Mrs. Churchill’s side, rather than in the ranks with
themselves as Roy Leighton’s first choice.
Maude wanted to choose Jack first, but modesty forbade, and then, too,
he sometimes made awful hits, and had a way of pursuing a ball, no
matter where it was or into what enemy’s quarter it took him. Jack was
out of the question, and so she chose Uncle Burton, and Roy took Jack
himself. Two of the New York girls came next, and the New York beau, and
then the number was complete, and Miss Agatha Shawe and Beatrice Bradley
retired in dignified silence, and taking seats by Mrs. Churchill,
prepared to criticise the game. It was Roy’s first play, and he drove
his ball through the third wicket and in the vicinity of the fourth,
while Maude, who usually struck so surely, started badly, and only made
her second arch.
Miss Agatha, who was reporting to Mrs. Churchill, and whose sympathies
were on Maude’s side, said a little sarcastically:
“She is in no danger from her opponent, I fancy; Miss Overton plays
next.”
Edna heard the remark, and while it sent the blood to her face, it
seemed to lend steadiness to her hand and coolness to her judgment, and
her first stroke was through both of the wickets, while a shout went up
from Roy and Jack, and was echoed by Maude, who, knowing that the city
ladies looked upon Edna and herself as people belonging to the working
class, rejoiced at her friend’s success even though it should tell
against her side. And it did tell sadly, for remembering Roy’s teaching
in the morning, Edna used her opponent’s ball so skilfully as to reach
the stake before stopping at all. But there she missed her stroke, and
came back to her place by Roy, who commended her highly, while Miss
Agatha began to change her tactics, and “guessed Miss Overton had played
before.”
Poor Mr. Burton was awkwardness itself. With the dread of talking to Roy
before him, he hardly saw his ball, and made a “booby” of himself at
once, and said to Maude, as he knocked his unlucky ball back to its
place: “I told you so. I can’t play any more than an elephant.”
But he was good at long shots, as Maude had said, and he did some long
shooting before he was through, for the game was a hotly-contested one.
Maude recovered her skill with her second round, while Edna lost a
little by being so constantly pursued by the city girl, who played the
best, and who shared Miss Agatha’s contempt for the plebeian. But Roy
beat; and then they chose again, and Maude took Edna first, and Edna’s
side was always the winning one, until Miss Agatha suggested that “Miss
Overton should play on both sides, and see what the result would be.”
But Roy said Miss Overton was too tired to do that; besides, it was
nearly time for refreshments; the servants were arranging the tables
now; and he suggested that, for a time, they should rest, and go
wherever they pleased. That broke up the group, which divided up in twos
and threes, Maude walking away with Jack, Edna returning to Mrs.
Churchill’s side, and the city people making a little knot by
themselves, under one of the tall shade-trees.
Mr. Burton was thus left alone; seeing which, Roy asked him to go and
look at a fast horse which he had recently purchased, and which was
accounted by connoisseurs of horse-flesh a very fine animal. And so it
came about that, after the horse had been duly examined and admired, Roy
found himself alone with Mr. Burton in a little rustic arbor, apart from
all the rest of his guests, and where he could not well be seen, as the
arbor was hidden from the greater part of the grounds by the evergreens
which grew so thickly around it.
Now was Mr. Burton’s opportunity. He had planned admirably to get Roy
into this retired situation, and he gave himself considerable credit for
his management. But how to begin was the trouble, and he grew very red
in the face, and felt so warm and uncomfortable that the perspiration
began to show itself in little drops about his forehead and mouth. And
still he could not think of a word to say, until he saw by Roy’s manner
that he was meditating a return to the house. Then, screwing up his
courage to the highest pitch, and holding on to the seat with both his
hands, as if what he was about to do required physical as well as mental
effort, he made a beginning.
“I say, Roy,” he began, “I wonder you don’t get married. You’ve
everything with which to make a wife happy, and surely there are scores
of girls who would jump at the chance of coming here to live.”
Roy gave a little tired yawn, and answered indifferently:
“Perhaps so, but you see I don’t exactly know where they are, and I
should not care to be refused,” and as he said it, visions of blue
jackets, and white skirts, and little boots, mixed themselves together
in his brain in a confused kind of way, and as was quite natural, a
thought of Georgie, too, crossed his mind. He always thought of her when
matrimony was suggested to him, but he had no suspicion that his
companion was drifting that way. Poor Mr. Burton, who felt as if every
particle of blood in his veins was rushing to his face and gathering
around the roots of his hair, fidgeted from side to side, got up and
looked behind him, spit several times, then sat down again, and said:
“You are too modest, boy,—too modest. I know of forty, I’ll bet, that
would not say no.”
“Name one, please,” Roy said, shutting his eyes indolently, and leaning
against the trunk of a tree.
Mr. Burton hesitated a moment, and then replied:
“Well, there’s Agatha Shawe for one, and Bell Bradley for another,
and—and—(by Jove, I may as well blurt it out and done with it,) and
Georgie, my wife’s niece. (I’m in for it now, confound it.) She’s a
splendid girl; don’t lack for offers; had one this morning from that
young Bigelow from Boston.”
“Ah, did she? and will she accept?” Roy asked, beginning for the first
time to feel some interest in the conversation.
“Don’t know. You can’t calculate on a woman, but it’s my opinion she
won’t. Roy, old boy, I’ll be cussed if I mayn’t as well say it; I do
believe the girl likes you, and I’d rather have you for a son-in-law
than any chap I know, and I’ll be hanged if I don’t think you’ve given
her cause to suppose you meant something by hangin’ off and on as you
have this last year or two. Anyhow, people think so, and talk about it,
and suppose you to be engaged, and that hurts a girl if it never comes
to anything, and, well,—well,—blast it all,—as Georgie’s father, so
called, and as,—to be sure,—as Mrs. Burton’s husband,—I feel called
upon,—yes,—very much as the head of a family,—to inquire if you are in
earnest, or not,—and if not,—why,—say it out, and let her alone, and not
stand in the way of others. There,—I’ve out with it, and I sweat like
rain.”
The poor man wiped his wet face with his handkerchief, and looked
anywhere but at Roy, who had managed to make out from rather confused
jumble that he had done wrong to Georgie by allowing people to think
there was anything serious between them, and that as Georgie’s father,
Mr. Burton had at last spoken to prevent more mischief in the future.
While acknowledging to himself that Mr. Burton was right, and that
Georgie had some cause for complaint, Roy still found himself in a
quandary, and uncertain how to act. If he owed Georgie any redress, he
ought as an honorable man to pay it, and perhaps he could not do better.
She _was_ a nice girl, he really believed, and would perhaps make him as
happy as any one he could select. He meant to marry some time, and might
as well do it now as to put it off to a later period. And then the
Bigelow offer _did_ trouble him a little, and he began to see that he
had fallen into the habit of looking upon Georgie as something
essentially his own when he chose to make up his mind that she suited
him.
On the whole, she _did_ suit him, and he would at once arrange with her,
and have the matter settled. All this passed through his mind in much
less time than it has taken us to write it, and he was about to put his
thoughts into words, when across the lawn came the sound of a merry,
girlish voice, which he knew to be Miss Overton’s; and again blue
jackets, and brown eyes, and little feet brought a throb of something he
could not define to his heart, and Georgie did not seem quite so
desirable as she had a moment before. But he must say something, and so
he began to explain that he meant no harm to Georgie by his attentions;
that he esteemed her highly, and could not deny having had thoughts of
making her his wife; but that he found himself so comfortable just as he
was, with her always available when he wanted her society, that he had
put the matter off as a something in the future; and so, perhaps, had
wronged her, but he would endeavor—
He did not finish the sentence, for a servant just then appeared around
a clump of evergreens, telling him they were waiting for him upon the
lawn, where the refreshments were ready to be served.
“Yes, I’ll come at once;” and with a sense of relief, Roy jumped up, and
turning to Mr. Burton, said: “You may be sure I shall do right in the
future, whatever I may have done in the past. But tell me, please,”—and
Roy’s voice dropped to a whisper,—“did she know you were to speak to me?
Did she desire it?”
“Certainly not,” Mr. Burton replied, with some little asperity of
manner, which Roy acknowledged was just, while at the same time he was
glad to be assured that Georgie did not know.
She would have fallen in his estimation, if she had, and he wanted to
think as well of her as he could; for, in his mind, as he walked back to
the lawn, there was a rapidly forming resolution to propose to her
immediately, and thus make amends for any harm done her heretofore.
The tables looked very pretty under the trees, with fruit, and flowers,
and ices, and silver; and the guests were in their gayest moods; but
something was the matter, and Roy felt as if oppressed with a nightmare
as he did the duties of host, seeing nothing distinctly except Miss
Overton’s face, which, flushed with excitement, seemed prettier than
ever. He did not care for Miss Overton that he knew of; certainly he had
never had a thought of loving her, and yet he knew every time she moved,
and what she did, and what she said, and something connected with her
made it harder for him to concentrate his mind on Georgie, as he felt in
duty bound to do.
The lawn tea was over at last, and the little party were talking of a
game of croquet by moonlight, when down one of the gravel walks came
Mrs. Burton, her rich silk rustling about her, and her lace streamers
floating back from her head. She had concluded to drive over in the
carriage, she said, as some of the young people might be glad to ride
home.
She was very affable and gracious, and when questioned with regard to
Georgie, said she was better,—so much better, indeed, that she was up
and dressed, and then, by various little subterfuges, she tried to decoy
Roy into going to the house, and finally succeeded by insisting that his
mother must have a shawl if she persisted in staying out there in the
evening air. Wholly unsuspicious, Roy started for the house, and,
looking into the parlor as he passed through the hall, gave vent to an
exclamation of surprise at seeing Georgie Burton reclining upon a little
divan standing in the bay-window. As Mrs. Burton had said, Georgie was
better; her headache had disappeared, and she had thought often and
regretfully of the party at Leighton, and wished herself with them. As
she felt stronger, and her nerves became more quiet, the terror of the
previous night, when her secret seemed in danger of being discovered,
grew less and less. Maude was to be her sister, and, of course, it was
for her interest to keep to herself whatever might be derogatory to any
member of Jack’s family; and, beside that, in thinking over all that had
been said, Georgie was not quite sure as to how much Maude knew, and in
that doubt was some comfort. Moreover, she meant to keep her part of the
contract religiously, and Edna had nothing to fear from her for the
present. If Roy should show a decided liking for her, while she, in
turn, tried to practise on him the wiles which had lured poor Charlie to
his destruction, she might, in some quiet way, warn him or Mrs.
Churchill as to whom they were harboring. Anonymous letters were always
available, and she should not hesitate a moment when it became necessary
to act. But for the present she should be very gracious and kind to Miss
Overton; and having thus decided upon her _rôle_, she felt extremely
anxious to begin; and when her aunt suggested driving over to Leighton,
she consented readily, and dressed herself with unusual care, thinking
as she did so, that a little less color than she usually had, and a
little heaviness of her eyes, was not unbecoming. And she was right; for
the traces of her headache softened rather than detracted from her
brilliant beauty, and she had seldom looked better than when Roy found
her in the recess of the window, her face a little pale, and indicative
of recent suffering, her eyes very gentle, and even sad in their
expression, and her hands folded together upon her lap in a tired kind
of way, as if she was glad to rest, and did not care to be disturbed
even by Roy himself.
To do Georgie justice, she had no suspicion whatever that her uncle had
been interfering in her behalf, and her face lighted up with a glow
which made her wonderfully beautiful, as she sat with her shawl of
bright cherry thrown around her shoulders, and showing well against her
simple dress of soft black tissue.
Roy liked her in black; he had told her so once at Newport, when her
dress was silken tissue, and her only ornament a spray of golden-rod
twined among her glossy curls. She could not get golden-rod, but she had
placed a white rose in her hair, and another upon the front of her
dress, and Roy thought what a fine picture she made, with the setting
sunbeams falling around her. And this picture might be his for the
asking, he was very sure, and his heart gave a throb of something like
pleasure at finding her alone.
“Why, Georgie!” he exclaimed, coming forward, and offering her his hand;
“this is a surprise; I did not expect to find you here.”
“Which does not mean, I hope, that I am not welcome?” Georgie said, with
one of her rare smiles.
“Certainly not; you are always welcome. How is that poor head? better, I
hope,” Roy replied, still holding her hand and looking down upon her,
while she blushed coyly, and affected to draw her hand away from his.
“What makes you have such dreadful headaches, I wonder?” Roy said next,
as he took a seat beside her, forgetful entirely of his mother’s shawl,
for which he had been sent.
Georgie did not know why she was so afflicted, unless it was from having
too much time to think; she believed she would be better if she had some
aim in life, some interest beside just living for her own gratification.
She wanted something to do; something which would be of real benefit to
mankind, and she had had serious thoughts of offering herself to the
Freedman’s Bureau as a teacher of negroes. That would rouse her up, and
she should feel as if she were of use to somebody; now she was not, and
she was getting tired of eternally thinking of fashion and one’s self.
Georgie talked right along, clothing her sentiments in very appropriate
language, and appearing as much in earnest as if she really had been
meditating a trial of life among the negroes, whereas she knew in her
heart that she would die sooner than sacrifice herself in that way, and
that the idea had birth in her brain that very instant when she gave it
expression. Accustomed to Roy as she was, she saw at a glance the change
in his manner toward her, and always on the lookout for opportunities
where he was concerned, she seized the present one and made the most of
it.
Roy had highly eulogized some young ladies from Albany who had left
luxurious homes, and given themselves to the wearisome task of teaching
the freedmen; and knowing this, Georgie proposed to martyr herself just
for effect, and her ruse worked well, for the true honest man at her
side, who had never deceived a person in his life, had no conception of
the depths of art and hypocrisy which she was capable of practising. He
believed she did want something to occupy her mind, that she was tired
of the idle, aimless life fashionable ladies led, and he felt himself
drawn towards her as he never had before. She certainly could make him
happy, and perhaps he might as well speak now, and have it settled. But
before he had a chance to do so, Georgie suddenly assumed a troubled,
perplexed look, and, after a little hesitancy said:
“Roy, you seem about as much like a brother to me as Jack does himself,
and I want to ask you something in strict confidence. Do you know
anything against Charlie Bigelow, of Boston, the one we met at Saratoga?
He has proposed to a friend of mine, and my opinion is wanted in the
matter. I rather liked him, but men sometimes know each other better
than women know them, and as I am interested in my friend’s happiness, I
wish you to tell me honestly if you would advise her to accept him.”
Georgie looked innocently at him, but her eyes drooped beneath something
which she saw in his, and her cheeks burned painfully, while the better
side of her nature asserted itself for an instant, and cried out against
suffering Roy Leighton to take the step she felt sure he was meditating.
It was true that every word she had uttered since he had joined her had
been spoken with a direct reference to this end; but she trembled now
that she saw the end approaching, and half raised her hand as if to ward
it off. The thought of losing Georgie made her more valuable to Roy, and
he could not let her go without an effort to keep her. The blue jacket
and the brown eyes and tiny boots were forgotten, and bending over the
beautiful woman, he said:
“Georgie, something tells me that the young friend of whom you have
spoken is yourself. Do you love Charlie Bigelow, Georgie?”
He spoke so kindly that the hot tears came with a swift rush to
Georgie’s eyes, which were very lustrous and beseeching, when for an
instant they looked up at Roy, who continued:
“I don’t believe you do; and if not, don’t marry him for the sake of an
aim in life. Better carry out your other Quixotic idea, and teach the
Southern negroes. But why do either? Why not come here and live with me?
I have always had an idea that you would come some time. Will you,
Georgie?”
For a moment Georgie sat perfectly silent, looking at him with an
expression of perfect happiness beaming in her eyes, and showing itself
in every feature of her face; then gradually the expression changed, and
was succeeded by one of terror and remorse, and the dark eyes turned
away from Roy, and seemed to be looking far away at something which made
them terrible while that fixed, stony gaze lasted. Wondering greatly at
her manner, Roy said, “Georgie, won’t you answer me?”
And this time he passed his arm around her, but she writhed herself from
his embrace, and putting out both hands, said impetuously.
“Don’t, Roy; don’t touch me; don’t say the words again to me; take them
back, please, lest it prove a greater temptation than I can bear, for,
Roy, oh, Roy, I do—I do love you, and if I could I would so gladly live
with you always; but—but—I can’t,—I can’t. I am—I was—oh, Roy, take the
words back before I go quite mad.”
He almost thought her mad now, and came a little nearer to her, asking
what she meant, and why, if she loved him as she had said, his asking
her to marry him should affect her so. And while he said this to her she
began to recover her composure, and to be more like herself. The good
impulse which had counselled her not to deceive Roy Leighton, and impose
herself upon him without a confession of the past, was subsiding; and
though there still were bitter pangs of remorse and terrible regrets for
the past, she began to feel that she could not lose what she had desired
so long, and to Roy’s questionings, she answered: “I am not so good as
you think me. I am not worthy of you. I am—you don’t know how bad I am.
You would hate me if you did.”
She was growing excited again. All the good there was in the woman was
asserting itself in Roy’s behalf, and she continued:
“Everybody would hate me as I hate myself always.”
He took a step backward as if she really were the creature she professed
to be; but _now_ it was her hand which was reached out to _him_. She
could not let him go, and she gasped,—
“But Roy, with you, who are so noble and good, I could learn to be
better, and I will. I swear it here, that if you make me your wife, I
will be true and faithful, and do my best to make you happy. Try me and
see if I don’t.”
Perplexed and bewildered with what he had seen and heard, and half
inclined already to be sorry, Roy was still too honorable to draw back,
and when she said so piteously, “Try me, Roy, and see if I don’t,” he
took her offered hand and pressed it between his own, and answered her:
“I know you will, Georgie. We all have faults, and you must make
allowances for mine, as I will for yours, which, I am sure you overrate,
or else I have strangely misjudged you. Why, Georgie, you would almost
make one believe you had been guilty of some dreadful thing, you accuse
yourself so unmercifully.”
Roy laughed lightly as he said this, while Georgie felt for a moment as
if her heart were in her throat, and it was only by the most powerful
efforts of the will that she forced it back, and recovered her powers of
speech sufficiently to say: “Don’t imagine, pray, that I’ve murdered or
stolen, or done anything that makes me amenable to the law. It is
general badness;” and her old smile broke for the first time over her
face, to which the color was coming back.
“You are so good, that nothing less than perfection should ever hope to
win you, and I am so far from that; but I am going to be better, and the
world shall yet say that Roy Leighton chose wisely and well.”
She had settled it, and Roy was an engaged man; and as he looked down
upon the beautiful face of his _fiancée_, he felt that the world would
even now say he had done well without waiting for any improvement in his
betrothed, who looked up at him in such a loving, confiding way, that he
naturally enough stooped and kissed her lips, and called her his
darling, and felt sure that he loved her, and was happy in doing so.
Georgie possessed the rare gift of going rapidly from one extreme mood
to another. She had been very low down in the depths of humiliation, and
in her excitement had almost told Roy secrets she guarded as she did her
life; and from that depth she had risen to the heights of bliss,
trembling a little as she remembered how near she had come to being
stranded by her own act, and mentally chiding herself for her weakness
in allowing herself to be so excited about something Roy never _could_
know unless Jack or Maude betrayed her, as she was sure they would not.
She had detected the wavering for a moment on Roy’s part, and lest it
should occur again, and work detriment to her cause, she said to him:
“I do not believe in secret engagements, and shall tell Aunt Burton at
once, as you, of course, will tell your mother.”
Then Roy _did_ wince a little, and thought of Miss Overton, and wished
Georgie was not in such a hurry to have it known that they were engaged,
and told her she was right, and he would tell his mother that night, and
asked if they should not join his guests upon the lawn. Georgie’s
languor was all gone, and, taking Roy’s arm, she went with him through
the house and out into the beautiful grounds, feeling as she went a
sense of ownership in them all, which made her walk like a queen as she
approached the group upon the lawn, and received their words of
greeting.