ANNIE HEYFORD.
Early in November the Burtons went back to their city home on Madison
Square; and Edna was looking forward to a long, delightful winter alone
with Roy. But Georgie decreed it otherwise. It was of no use to be
engaged, and not have her lover at her disposal when she wanted him; and
so she kept up a continual siege, until Mrs. Churchill signified her
willingness, and even her wish, to spend a portion of the winter in New
York, where she could have the best of medical advice for her eyes, that
being one of Georgie’s strongest arguments. Roy had sold his house in
Fifth avenue the year before; and, as the elegant residence far up-town,
on which Georgie had fixed her mind, was not now available, he had a
suite of rooms in that prince of hotels, the Worth House, where his
mother could have all the luxuries and all the quiet of a private house,
with none of its annoyances.
And thither, in December, he came with his mother, and Miss Overton, and
his mother’s waiting-maid. It was late in the afternoon when they
arrived, and took possession of their handsome rooms looking out on
Madison Square; and, as in duty bound, Roy called at once upon his bride
elect, who lived not far away. She did not know of his arrival in town,
and seemed surprised and a little flurried at seeing him. She had not
expected him for a week or more; and all through the interview she was
confused and absent-minded; and her thoughts were less with her lover
than with little Annie, who up in her room was waiting her return, and
wishing so much that she could see the gentleman whom “sister” was to
marry.
Georgie had never been in the habit of visiting Jersey City often; but
she had gone there immediately after her return to town in November, and
had felt shocked at the great change perceptible in Annie. It was not so
much a wasting of the flesh as a spiritualization of the whole face,
which shone, as the faces of angels are supposed to shine, and which
looked as if its owner were already through with the things pertaining
to earth, and was realizing the joys of heaven.
“Tired all the time,—that’s all,” Annie said, when Georgie bent over her
and asked what ailed her darling.
“Tired,—so tired,” was all the child complained of; but it was evident
to those who knew her that she was rapidly passing away; and Georgie saw
it too, and her tears fell like rain, as she sat by Annie’s couch, and
listened to her childish talk.
“And you are to be married, Georgie?” Annie said; “and Jack will be
married, too; and he has brought Maude to see me; and I loved her so
much right away; and I am glad for Jack. But, Georgie, mayn’t I stay
part of the time with you when you are married to Mr. Leighton? I should
be so ’streemly happy there, seeing you every day.”
There was something very pleading in the tone of the voice; and
Georgie’s lip quivered as she replied: “Yes, darling, you shall. I’ll
have a nice room fitted up next to mine, and I’ll call it Annie’s Room,
and put so many pretty things in it.”
And then, by way of amusing the child, Georgie told how she would
furnish that room which was to be Annie’s, picturing such a fairyland
that Annie’s eyes shone like stars as she exclaimed, “It will be most as
good as heaven, where I am going before long; but not till I’ve lived a
little bit of a while in that splendid room. O Georgie, I don’t want to
die till I’ve been there. And you won’t forget, will you?”
Then she talked of Roy, and asked Georgie to bring him there some day;
and Georgie promised that she would, without meaning at all what she
said. She was very morbid upon the subject of an interview between Annie
and her lover, so long as he was her lover. Once his wife, she should
not care so much, she thought; and she was really in earnest in thinking
that Annie should spend a portion of the time with her. Roy knew there
was such a child; that in some way she was connected with the family,
and that she called Georgie her sister; but he had never evinced any
special interest in her, and Georgie did not mean that he should until
she chose to have him. So when Annie asked if she might go over to New
York at once, and spend a few days at Mrs. Burton’s, Georgie hesitated,
and calculated the chances of Roy’s coming to see her, deciding finally
that she was safe, and promising Annie that she should go if Jack was
willing. He was willing, and was more friendly and cordial with Georgie
than he had been before since her engagement. He always liked her best
when she was interested in Annie, and he assented readily to the visit;
and Georgie appointed the next day to come for the little girl. But one
of the sinking turns to which the child was subject came on to prevent
the visit, which was deferred until December, when it at last occurred;
and Annie had been a week with Georgie, and was intending to stop a few
days longer, when Roy suddenly made his appearance, and the visit was at
an end.
Georgie could scarcely define to herself why she dreaded so much to have
Roy see her sister; and when she received his card, and knew he was
waiting for her in the parlor below, her first impulse was to bring him
up at once to her room, and have the interview over; but with that
impulse there came a feeling that she could not stand by Roy and see him
talking so kindly to Annie as he would, without suffering such pangs of
remorse and anguish as she was not willing voluntarily to incur. And so
she merely said to him, when he remarked that she looked pale and tired,
“I am a little worn, I guess. I have had Annie, my adopted sister, you
know, here for a week or more, and, as she is a great invalid, it has
kept me closer in my room than was altogether for my health. How is your
mother? And are you comfortable at the Worth House? Though of course you
are. I went through the rooms the other day, and almost envied you. Such
elegance, with so much of home-comfort, is not to be found elsewhere in
New York, or, one may almost say, in the world,—such a gentlemanly host
as the man in charge, and then the proprietor himself. I went down into
the bookstore, to get some note-paper I did not want, for the sake of
seeing him. One of his authors has styled him the ‘Royal George,’ and he
is fully entitled to the name. I wish I knew him intimately. I must
manage it somehow, if I have to write a book.”
She was talking very fast, for the sake of driving all remembrance of
Annie from Roy’s mind; but the ruse did not succeed, for, as soon as she
ceased, Roy proposed taking herself and Annie for a drive to the park.
“It will do you good,” he said, “and the little sick girl too. I’ve
never seen her, you know; and I would like to make the acquaintance of
all my relatives.”
He spoke playfully; and Georgie’s face flushed for a moment with
pleasure at his allusion to their projected marriage, then grew pale
again and troubled, as she declined the invitation both for herself and
Annie. The latter was not well enough to bear the ride, she said,
(forgetting that she had promised to take her there that very
afternoon,) while _she_ felt it her duty to stay and amuse the child,
who was so fond of her. And so, Roy, thinking how self-sacrificing she
was, and liking her the better for it, bade her a more affectionate
adieu than usual, and drove his mother and Edna to the park that
afternoon, never dreaming of the bitter disappointment which filled poor
Annie’s heart, when told in Georgie’s most honeyed tones that it would
be impossible for her to fulfil the promise of a ride, as her head was
aching so hard, and she felt too sick to go out.
The largest, handsomest doll on Broadway was bought next morning as a
peace offering to Annie; and then, as Georgie found that she owed a call
in Jersey City, and would pass directly by Jack’s house, she suggested
that Annie should go with her and see Aunt Luna, while she was making
her call.
“You can come back with me if you like,” she said, smoothing the silken
hair, and thinking how she would manage to prevent the coming back, in
case Annie took a fancy to do so.
But Annie did not; her own home and easy chair looked so pleasant to
her, and Luna was so glad to have her back again, that she at once
expressed a wish to stay, and Georgie bade her a loving good-by, and
drove directly to the ferry, leaving the call which had existed only in
her imagination unmade!
That night Georgie went to the opera with Roy and Miss Overton, and
occupied the most conspicuous seat in the box, and was more admired and
commented upon than any lady in the audience, as she sat flushed, and
brilliant, and beautiful, with diamonds on her neck and arms, and in her
flowing hair. Roy was sufficiently attentive, and, proud of her position
as his betrothed, she carried herself regally, and felt a very queen,
as, leaning on Roy’s arm, she made her way through the crowd after the
play was over.
Close behind her, as she emerged into the open air, came another
figure,—the figure of a man, who, all through the play, had watched the
glowing beauty, with a look upon his bad face, which, had Georgie seen
it, would have driven her to the verge of insanity. But Georgie did not
see it, or dream of the shadow following her so fast, just when her sky
was brightest, and her triumph seemingly sure. She _did_ think of Annie,
however, when she reached her room, and saw the little bed where the
child had lain, and the thinking of her kept her from praying, as was
her nightly custom.
She could not pray with Annie’s face before her, as it looked when told
that the Park must be given up, and she lay awake a long time trying to
quiet her conscience by thinking how much she would do for Annie when
once she was Mrs. Roy Leighton, with no fear of anything either in the
past or future. She did not go to see Annie as she had promised to do.
Her time was _so_ occupied with Mrs. Churchill and Roy, and all her
fashionable duties, besides which Mrs. Burton was about to give a party,
which, for costliness and elegance, was to surpass anything which had
been or would be seen in New York that winter.
Maude, on whose taste and skill in many matters both Mrs. Burton and
Georgie relied, had obtained a vacation of a few days, and was busy with
Georgie’s dress, which was made in the house, where the ladies could
give it their hourly inspection if they chose. Edna, who was to be
included in the invitations sent to the Worth House, was also eager, and
expectant, and supremely happy in the beautiful gauzy fabric which Mrs.
Churchill had presented to her, and which was made by a fashionable
_modiste_. It would be her first introduction to New York society, as
seen at a brilliant party, and though she dreaded it somewhat, she was
looking forward to it with eager anticipations, and was frequently in
earnest consultation with Maude, who, like herself, was flushed, and
excited, and happy.
The cards were already issued, and but two days intervened before the
appointed night, when Georgie suddenly appeared at the Worth House, and
asked to see Miss Overton. She was very pale, and there were traces of
great mental agitation and distress in her manner, as she proceeded at
once to her errand. A note had just come from Jack, who wrote that Annie
was dangerously ill, and desired to see Georgie as soon as possible,
while he too joined in the sick child’s request, and wished his sister
to bring several little delicacies which he named, and which he could
not well find in Jersey City.
“It is impossible for me to go, with my dress and everything in its
present condition, and the party to-morrow night,” Georgie said,
“neither can I spare Maude, and as it does seem necessary that Jack
should have some woman there besides Aunt Luna, I came to see if you
would be kind enough to go over just for to-day. You can, of course,
return to-morrow, when Annie will, I am sure, be better. Jack is easily
frightened, and has, no doubt, exaggerated the case. Will you go, Miss
Overton, if Mrs. Churchill can spare you?”
She was holding Edna’s hand, and squeezing it affectionately; in fact,
she had held and squeezed it ever since she commenced talking, and she
was so urgent and anxious, that Edna consented, feeling a genuine
pleasure in the prospect of seeing the little girl who had been her
pupil for a short time, and in whom she had been so much interested.
“Thank you so much. You don’t know how you have relieved me, for I know
you will do everything that is necessary, and Mrs. Churchill says you
are a capital nurse,” Georgie said, kissing Edna twice, and promising to
send the carriage round at once with the articles Jack had ordered.
Edna had never seen Annie since she left Chicago, and she got herself in
readiness immediately, and in less than an hour was standing in Jack
Heyford’s house, and explaining to him why she had come instead of
Georgie.
“Not coming! Sent you in her place?” he repeated, appearing more angry
and excited than Edna had ever before seen him. “She is a hard,
unnatural woman, and if Heaven lets her prosper, I shall lose my faith
in everything I have been taught to respect,” he said, grinding his
teeth together as he uttered the words, which seemed almost like a curse
upon the proud girl, who at that very moment was trying on her party
dress, and calculating the effect upon her guests when she appeared
before them in her costly and becoming robes.
Still she did not forget Annie, and all the day long there was a dull,
heavy pain in her heart, and a foreboding of evil, which at last
prompted her to tell Maude of the note from Jack, and to ask her as a
favor to go herself to Jersey City, and bring news of the sick girl. It
was the first Maude had heard of Annie’s danger, and she opened her eyes
wide with wonder and surprise, as she asked:
“Why not go yourself, Georgie? Not that I am unwilling, but Annie wants
_you_. Neither Miss Overton nor myself will answer the purpose.”
“I can’t,” Georgie replied. “I might ride over this evening, if I was
sure of coming back, but once there, Annie and Jack both would insist
upon my staying through the night, and you know just how loss of sleep
affects my nerves and spirits.”
“And looks,” Maude added, sarcastically, knowing that this was the real
key to the whole matter.
Georgie must be fresh and bright for the next evening’s party; Georgie
could not afford to peril her beauty by nursing a sick child who wanted
her, and so she made herself believe that there was no immediate danger
threatening the little girl, and she staid at home, and sent Maude in
her stead, with injunctions to pass the night, if necessary, but to send
back a correct account of Annie’s condition, and excuse her to Jack as
far as practicable.
“More comfortable, but very sorry not to see you. I shall stay all
night, as will Miss Overton, also. Please get word to Mrs. Churchill.”
This was Maude’s message, which Georgie read aloud to Roy, whose
interest in Annie’s illness arose more from the fact that it had taken
and was keeping Miss Overton away; and, handsome and elegant as were his
rooms at the Worth House, they were not quite the same without the hired
companion.
“I hope Miss Overton will not think of sitting up to-night. She does not
seem very strong, and I want her to be as fresh as possible for the
party,” he said, and his manner betrayed even more annoyance than his
words.
There was a threatening look in Georgie’s eyes, and a very little
impatience in her voice, as she said:
“I suppose I ought to have gone myself, and so spared Miss Overton.”
“Certainly not,” Roy said, earnestly. “It is more to me that you should
look your best, and watching is not conducive to that. I trust, however,
that nothing will keep Miss Overton to-morrow.”
He would persist in bringing in Miss Overton, and Georgie fumed with
inward rage and hate of the girl at that very moment bending over
Annie’s couch, and wiping the moisture from the pale, damp forehead.
Annie was very sick; so sick indeed, that although she expressed
pleasure at seeing Edna, she manifested no surprise and did not ask
where she came from. Neither did she say much when told that Georgie had
not come, but with a low, moaning cry she turned her face to the wall,
while her body trembled with the sobs she tried to suppress. When Maude
came she seemed better, and nestling close to her, laid her head upon
her arm and appeared to sleep quietly.
And while she slept, or seemed to, Jack freed his mind with regard to
Georgie’s selfishness. It had always been so, he said. She had left to
others what she ought to have done herself.
“Why, my mother, who was in no ways connected to Annie, did far more for
her than Georgie, even when she lived at home,” he said, and then the
great blue eyes opened wonderingly, and fixed themselves upon Jack’s
face, while Annie said faintly:
“Your mother—not mine too,—Jack? Did you say that?”
Jack was in a hard, desperate mood, and reckless of consequences, he
replied:
“I did say it. Your mother was a far different woman from mine.”
“Oh, Jack,” and Annie put both her hands beseechingly toward him. “Oh
Jack, who was mother, then, and where is she now, tell me?” she cried,
while Maude and Edna both looked up reprovingly, and the former said:
“How could you be so imprudent, Jack, and she so sick and weak?”
“Because I’m a brute, I suppose, and feel sometimes like blurting out
things I must not say,” Jack replied, as he tried to quiet Annie, who
insisted upon knowing “who and where her mother was.”
“Ask Georgie, she may tell you, but I cannot,” Jack answered her at
last, and with that reply Annie had to be satisfied.
Both Maude and Edna staid by her during the night, forgetful of their
own fatigue, and scarcely giving a thought to the brilliant party of the
next evening, or the worn, tired faces they would carry to it, provided
they went at all, which seemed very doubtful, as the daylight came
creeping into the room, and showed them the change in their patient. She
was not dying; she might linger for two or three days longer, the
physician said, when at sunrise he came, but there was the sign of death
upon her face, and she lay perfectly motionless, only speaking
occasionally to ask what time it was; if it was to-night the party was
to take place, and if Georgie would surely come after it was over. Her
absorbing thought was to see Georgie once more, or “sister,” as she
still called her, for the idea did not seem to have entered her mind
that Georgie was not her sister, even though the kind woman whom she
remembered well had not been her mother.
Once, as Maude started to leave the bedside for a moment, Annie grasped
her hand and said to her:
“You won’t go too and leave me; nor you?” turning an appealing glance at
Edna, then quickly adding: “Yes, you must, you may; you want to see the
party, and you’ll tell how Georgie looked, and bring her back with you.”
But neither Maude nor Edna had any heart for gay festivities then; that
white face with the stamp of death upon it would be ever present in
their minds, and each came simultaneously to the same conclusion. They
could not leave Annie, and so a hasty note was written by Maude and
dispatched to Madison Square, saying that though Annie was not in
immediate danger, neither Miss Overton nor herself could think of
leaving her unless their services were absolutely required in New York.
Would Georgie see Mrs. Churchill for Miss Overton, and if possible send
word to Jersey if she was comfortable, and was willing to be left alone
another day.
Georgie read this note in her own room, and when she saw that Annie was
no worse, an involuntary, “Thank God!” dropped from her lips, while her
next remark was, “I knew Jack was more alarmed than he need be,—he
always is;” and then she was conscious of a mean feeling of relief that
Edna was to be absent that evening. The girl was too beautiful and
attractive not to be noticed and admired, while Roy was altogether too
much interested in her; and Georgie ground her teeth together as she
recalled certain looks she had seen him give to “that hypocrite.”
Mrs. Burton was greatly disappointed that Maude was not coming back; she
depended so much upon her, she said, to fill up the gaps and amuse all
the dull, prosy people. But Georgie quieted her down, and promised to do
her own part and Maude’s too, then went herself to see Mrs. Churchill,
who, in a different way, was quite as sorry about Edna as Mrs. Burton
had been about Maude.
“She is anticipating so much, and her dress is so pretty, and she is so
sure to be appreciated and admired, that I cannot bear to have her lose
it all,” she said, smoothing fondly the gauzy folds of the party dress,
which had been sent home, and was spread out upon her bed.
Georgie was _so_ sorry, too, and felt almost as if she must go herself
to Jersey, and take Dotty’s place, only Aunt Burton would not hear of
it; and it _was_ a great relief to know that Annie was being cared for
by nurses as efficient and kind as Maude and dear Miss Overton; neither
of whom should lose anything by their unselfish kindness.
This was what Georgie said, and her voice was sweet, and low, and sad,
and she kissed Mrs. Churchill tenderly, and bade her come over early,
and then tripped back to the house on Madison Square, where the
preparations for the coming night were going rapidly forward.