HOW THE ENGAGEMENT WAS RECEIVED.
Roy’s guests had missed him, and commented upon his absence, and Mrs.
Churchill had wondered if he could not find her shawl, and Edna had
offered to go herself for it. Then Mrs. Burton said that she had left
Georgie in the house, and probably she and Roy were deep in some learned
discussion, as they usually got up an argument when they were together.
She would go herself for Mrs. Churchill’s shawl, as she knew just where
it was.
But Mrs. Churchill would not suffer this. She preferred that Miss
Overton should go; and accordingly Edna went, and in passing through the
hall glanced into the drawing-room, and saw the couple at the farther
end too much absorbed in themselves to know there was a witness to their
love-making. Roy was kissing Georgie as the seal to their betrothal, and
by that token Edna knew they were engaged, and felt for a moment as if
the brightness of her life had suddenly been stricken out, though why
she should care, she could not tell. She only knew that she did care,
and that her heart was throbbing painfully as she fled noiselessly up
the stairs in the direction of Mrs. Churchill’s room. Once there, she
stopped a moment to breathe and think over what she had seen, and ask
herself what it was to her, that the heart-beats should come so fast,
and the world should look so dark.
“Nothing, nothing,” she said, “only he might have done so much better,
and have been so much happier. I don’t like her, and when she comes here
I must go; and I could enjoy so much alone with Roy and his mother;” and
having thus settled the cause of her disquiet, she found Mrs.
Churchill’s shawl, and left the house by another way than the one
leading past the parlor door.
She had been very gay just before, so gay indeed that Miss Agatha, who
did not believe in a plebeian’s daring to be merry and free in the
presence of superiors, had made some sarcastic remarks about “the wild
spirits of that Miss Overton.” But she was not wild when she returned to
the lawn with the shawl, and her face was so pale, that Maude asked if
she had seen a ghost that she looked so white and scared.
“No,” Edna replied; “but I ran quite fast up and down the stairs.”
“And did you see anything of my daughter,” Mrs. Burton asked next, and
Edna answered her evasively:
“I heard voices in the parlor, hers and Mr. Leighton’s, I think.”
“Oh, yes, there they come,” Mrs. Burton rejoined, her face all aglow
with the great delight it afforded her to sit and watch Georgie coming
toward her so graceful and self-possessed, and looking so radiant and
beautiful.
One could see her black eyes sparkle and shine even in the distance, as
she leaned on Roy’s arm, and smiled at something he was saying to her.
Georgie was very happy for a few moments, and not a ripple of disquiet
came to the surface until her glance fell on Edna, sitting upon a camp
stool a little apart from the others, her hat on the grass at her side,
her brown curls somewhat disordered, but falling about her face and neck
in a most bewitching way, her hands folded listlessly together upon her
lap, and her whole attitude and appearance that of some tired, pretty
child. She _was_ pretty, and Georgie knew it; and she looked so young,
and fair, and innocent, that Georgie felt a sudden impulse of fear lest,
after all, this girl, who would see Roy every day, should become her
rival, and with that impulse came a thought that the sooner her
engagement was known the better and safer for her. So clasping her white
hand on Roy’s arm, she whispered to him softly: “Perhaps we may as well
have it off our minds and announce it at once; we shall both feel freer
and easier.”
Roy could not answer for her, but for himself he did not care to be in
haste, especially with Miss Overton sitting there looking so eagerly at
him. She was a restraint upon him, and he unconsciously wished her away
while he made the announcement, for he was going to do it. Georgie was
probably right. She usually was, he reflected, and without a second look
at Edna, walked straight to his mother, and placing Georgie’s hand in
hers, said to her, “Mother I bring to you a daughter: Georgie has
promised to be my wife.”
“Heaven bless my soul!” Mr. Burton exclaimed, springing up from his
chair and bobbing about like a rubber ball.
He had not expected Roy to act upon his hint so soon; in fact he was
more than half afraid that nothing might come of it after all, and then
Mrs. Freeman Burton would never cease to upbraid him with his
awkwardness; but here it was fixed, settled, and announced, and he could
not repress his feelings until a sharp pull at his coat-skirts from his
spouse, and the whispered words, “Are you crazy?” brought him to his
senses, and he sat down just as Georgie finished kissing Mrs. Churchill,
and whispered to her what a good daughter and wife she meant to be.
Mrs. Churchill was glad, as it was something she had long desired, but
now that Miss Overton had come she did not so much need a daughter.
Still she was sufficiently demonstrative, and laid her hand in blessing
on Georgie’s head, while Mrs. Burton shed a few tears over the touching
scene, and called Roy a naughty boy for stealing away her treasure, and
said a deal more about the engagement generally, and Georgie in
particular.
Maude came next with the New York girls, but there was a blank look of
disappointment in her face as she kissed Georgie and offered her
congratulations. She had not looked for this so suddenly. Once she had
been constantly expecting it, but they had waited so long, and latterly
Roy had seemed so indifferent, that she had hopes for him in another
direction, and felt disturbed and sorry, and wondered how Jack would
take it.
Jack was at some distance from the group of which Georgie was the
centre, but he heard what Roy had said, and saw the demonstrations which
followed, but did not join in them. Knowing what he knew, he could not
congratulate Roy, who was being so deceived; and his breath came hard,
and something like an oath escaped his lips, as he purposely drove a
ball to the farthest extremity of the croquet lawn, and then kept on
idly knocking it about. He meant to keep away as long as possible, and
Georgie knew he did, and her cheek paled a little when at last he came
near enough for her to see the troubled look upon his face, as he sat
down by Edna and fanned himself with his hat.
The evening air was cool, but he seemed to be very warm, and constantly
wiped the drops of sweat from his brow, as he sat talking with Edna. The
announcement of the engagement had not been made to _her_; there was no
need for her to do or say anything, and so she feigned indifference, and
kept on talking to Jack until Georgie came that way. Jack saw her first,
and, suddenly remembering that he had not put his mallet in the box,
darted away just as his sister came up.
She was thus left alone with Edna, to whom she was excessively gracious
and affable. Taking the seat Jack had vacated, she began to talk as
kindly and familiarly as if all her life she had known Miss Overton as
her equal. There was something wonderfully winning in Georgie when she
chose to be agreeable, and it had its effect upon Edna, who began to
like her better and to wonder at the change. It was a part of Georgie’s
_rôle_ to treat Edna well,—part of her bargain with Maude; and she was
resolved to fulfil her contract, and she sat chatting with her until Roy
came up and said that Mrs. Burton thought it was time for her to go in
from the night air. He did not say that _he_ thought so, or evince any
undue anxiety about her health, but he did say to Edna:
“Miss Overton, I am sure the damp air must be bad for you also; take my
arm, please, and come with us to the house.”
And so, with Georgie upon one side and Edna on the other, he led the way
to the house, followed by Mr. Burton, who had his mother in charge, and
by Mrs. Burton, who was lauding Georgie to Miss Shawe, and telling what
an angel of perfection she was, how hard it would be to part with her,
and how glad she was that she was to go no farther away than Leighton.
There was some music in the drawing-room, and afterward ice-cream and
cake; and then, at about half-past ten, the little party broke up.
Georgie was still in a gushing mood, and kissed Mrs. Churchill three
times at parting, and even kissed Edna in the exuberance of her joy, and
said she hoped to know her better in the future, and bade her take good
care of dear Mrs. Churchill; and then she looked around for Roy, who led
her to the carriage, and pressed her hand a little at parting, and said
he should see her to-morrow.
Mr. and Mrs. Burton, Georgie, and Miss Shawe, occupied the carriage,
while the other people walked; Maude and Jack lingering behind the
others, so that it was nearer one than twelve when they at last reached
Oakwood. But late as it was, Georgie was waiting for them. She _must_
see Jack before she slept. He was to return to Jersey City on the
morrow, and she might not have another chance.
So she sat by her window until she heard him coming up the walk, and
then waited until the whispered interview on the piazza was at an end,
and Maude was in her room. Then she passed noiselessly out into the
hall, and on through a narrow corridor, until Jack’s chamber was
reached.
“Come in!” was answered rather sternly to her timid knock, and by the
tone of his voice, she knew that Jack guessed who his visitor was, and
she trembled as she advanced toward him, and laid her hand on his arm.
He did not smile, nor allow his face to relax a muscle, even when she
looked up at him in her most beseeching way, and began by calling him
“dear Jack.” But he _would_ soften after a time, she was sure. He never
had withstood her long at a time, and so she mustered all her courage,
and began:
“Dear Jack, I’ve had no chance to congratulate you on your engagement,
and I came to do so now, and to tell you how glad I am. I would rather
have Maude for my sister than any one I know. You have chosen well, my
boy.”
“I am glad you think so,” Jack answered stiffly; and then there was a
painful silence, which Georgie broke by saying:
“Jack, have you no word of congratulation for me in my new happiness?”
The tears were swimming in her great, bright eyes, and she seemed the
very embodiment of innocence and goodness; but Jack looked away from
her, straight down at some slippers which Annie had embroidered for him,
and asked:
“_Are_ you happy, Georgie?”
“Yes, oh, yes; so happy that I feel as if I never could be thankful
enough to the good Father who has been so kind to me.”
“Pshaw!” and Jack spoke impatiently. “Don’t, for gracious sake, try to
come your _pious_ strains on me, for I tell you they won’t go down till
you have done one thing. Have you told Roy?”
He looked at her now, and her eyes fell before his searching gaze, while
her heart beat so fast that he could hear and count the throbs as her
bosom rose and fell.
“No, Jack; I have not. I tried at first,—I meant to,—I really did; but I
could not say the words, they choked me so. I couldn’t tell him, Jack!”
and her voice was very mournful in its tone. “Think, if it were
yourself, and you felt sure that to tell would be to lose Maude’s love,
would you do it?—could you?”
She had made her strongest argument, and Jack hesitated ere he replied:
“It would be hard; but better so, it seems to me, than to live with a
lie on my conscience, and a constant, haunting fear lest she should find
it out.”
“But he can’t, Jack,—he never can,—unless _you_ tell him, or Maude. How
much does _she_ know? Oh, Jack, have you broken your oath, sworn so
solemnly to me.”
There was a flash in her black eyes as they fastened themselves upon
Jack, who replied to her, truthfully:
“Maude knows nothing, except that there is something you would hide from
Roy, and from the world. I hinted so much to her, as a weapon of defence
for Edna. Whether she or any one else ever knows more from me, depends
upon yourself, and your treatment of Edna.”
“I knew you would not betray me, Jack,” Georgie rejoined, a heavy weight
lifted from her mind. “I shall not harm Mrs. Charlie Churchill,—I shall
try to like her, for your sake and Maude’s. And, now, why need I tell
Roy, when he never can, by any possibility, find it out, and to tell him
would only distress him, and ruin me?”
“Perhaps not. If he loves you truly, as I love Maude, he can forgive a
great deal. I should try it and see,—I should go to him clean and
open-hearted, or not at all,” Jack said; but Georgie shook her head.
Confessing her fault would involve too much, for more people than Roy
would have to know, if full confession was made; Aunt Burton, who
thought her so perfect, and her Uncle Burton, too, and, possibly, little
Annie; and from that last ordeal Georgie shrank more nervously, if
possible, than from telling Roy himself. She could _not_ do it. She
would rather die than attempt it, and she said so to Jack, who was
silent for a moment, and then regarding her intently, asked:
“Has it ever occurred to you, Georgie, that possibly the dead might come
to life and witness against you? Such accidents have happened.”
“The dead, Jack; the dead?” and Georgie’s face was like the face of a
corpse, and her voice was husky and thick. “That cannot be. I saw him in
the coffin. I know just where he lies in Greenwood.”
“I was not thinking of him, but of Henry; you did not see him in his
coffin. You don’t know where his grave is.”
“No; but Jack, there can be no doubt. You made so sure yourself. You
told me he was dead. Was it all a farce? Oh, Jack, do you know
anything—”
She was kneeling to him now, with her proud head bent to his very feet,
just as once she had crouched years ago when he was but a boy, and she a
wretched woman suing for pity and begging him to stand by her in her
need. Then her long glossy curls had swept the floor just as they swept
it now, and Jack had lifted her up, and comforted her, and sworn to be
her friend, and he wanted to do it again, though his heart was harder
toward her now than it had been then. He could more readily forgive the
sin committed through great temptation when she was young and without a
counsellor, than he could forgive the many years during which she had
lived a lie. Still he pitied her so much, and loved her so much, for she
was his sister, and her great beauty had always exercised a wonderful
power over him. He felt it even now as she lifted her white,
tear-stained face to his, and as he had done that other time in the
darkest hour she had ever met, so he did now; he stooped and raised her
up, and tried to comfort her, and said that he “knew nothing and had
heard nothing, only such things sometimes did happen, and it would be
very awkward for her, as Roy’s wife, to be some day confronted by Henry
Morton.”
“Don’t, don’t speak his name,” she almost shrieked, while a shudder like
a convulsion shook her frame. “I have been greatly to blame, but my
punishment has been terrible. I have suffered untold agony in thinking
of the past. I surely have atoned, and now if there is a haven of rest
for me, don’t try to keep me from it by harrowing up my fears. I _know_
he is dead. I am sure of it, and I mean to be a good wife to Roy. He
never shall repent his choice,—I’ll bring every thought and feeling into
conformity with his; and Jack, you must stand by me as a brother. Will
you, Jack? As Roy’s wife, I can help you so much, and I will. Annie
shall no longer be an expense to you. I will support her entirely.”
“And not let Roy know you are doing it?” Jack answered; and Georgie
replied:
“I will tell him that, at least. I will not cheat him there. I’ll
arrange it before we are married, that I am to do something for Annie,
and perhaps when he sees how I care for her he will propose that she
live with us. Oh, if he only would.”
Jack felt that on this point, at least, Georgie was sincere. She _did_
love the little Annie, and his heart softened still more toward her; and
when, as she was about to leave him, she said, imploringly, “Kiss me,
Jack, once, as you used to do!” he put his arm around her, and kissed
her white lips, which quivered with emotion, while the tears fell like
rain upon her cheeks.
“You are a good brother, and I will try to be good, too, for your sake
and Roy’s,” she said, as she bade him good-night, and left the room.
He had not congratulated her, but she knew he would keep silent; knew,
too, that she had comparatively nothing to fear from Maude; and but for
one harrowing fear, which yet was not exactly a fear, she would have
felt tolerably composed and happy, as she sought her own chamber.
Jack’s words, “What if the dead should come back to witness against
you?” rang in her ears, and when, as she stood by the window, looking
out into the moonlight, a shadow flitted across the grass, she trembled
from head to foot, and turned sick with nervous dread. But it was only
the watch-dog, Bruno, and as he bounded out into the light, she grew
quiet, and even smiled at her own weakness.
“That cannot be,” she said; and then, as if to make assurance doubly
sure, she opened a trunk which always stood in her closet, and taking
from it a box, touched a secret spring, and soon held in her hand three
documents,—one, a newspaper, soiled and yellow with time, and containing
a paragraph which said that a certain Henry Morton, who had managed to
escape from justice, had recently died in a little out-of-the-way
village among the Alleghanies, and that his friends, if he had any,
could learn the particulars of his death, by inquiring at the place
where he died. The other two were letters, one from the dying man
himself, who wrote that, from the very nature of his disease, he had but
a day or two to live; and one from Jack, who had gone to that
out-of-the-way place, among the Pennsylvania hills, and learned that
Henry Morton had died there at such a time, and then had written the
same to his anxious sister at home. She had kept these papers carefully,
and guarded them from every eye but her own, and occasionally she read
them over to assure herself of the truth. But now she would keep them no
longer, lest in some way they should come to light; and so, holding them
to the gas, and then throwing them upon the hearth, she watched them as
they crisped and blackened, and turned to a pile of ashes.
There was nothing now in her way, and, as was her constant habit, the
woman who had sinned so greatly, but who was going to do better, knelt
down and said her prayers, and thanked God for Roy, and asked, first,
that he might never know what she had been; and, second, that she might
be to him all that a good, true wife should be, and that he might be
willing for Annie to live with her. This done, she felt as if she really
were a very good woman, and that but for Jack, who had such
straight-laced notions, she would be confirmed, by way of helping her to
keep her resolution!