THE BURGLAR.
It was the 19th; the very day before the bridal. All the city guests had
arrived, and there was a grand dinner at Oakwood, where the three long
tables were set upon the lawn beneath the maples, the bright silver, and
the gay flowers showing well through the surrounding shrubbery, and
seeming to curious passers-by, who stopped a moment to look on, more
like a fairy scene than a reality. And Georgie, in her elegant white
dress, was queen of the banquet, and quite overshadowed Maude in her
simple muslin, with a few flowers in her hair. As some beautiful rose,
which has drooped and pined beneath the fervid heat of a hot summer day,
revives again after a refreshing rain, and seems fairer than ever; so
Georgie, with her mind at ease, blossomed with new grace and beauty,
looking so well and appearing so well that none ever forgot her as she
was on that afternoon, the last she was to know in peace.
Anticipating the festivities of the next night, the guests did not tarry
late, but dispersed soon after dinner was over, each making some
pleasant remark to the brides-elect, and wishing them as bright a
to-morrow as to-day had been. Roy was not feeling well, and he, too,
went early, telling Georgie that he should not come again until he came
to claim her.
There was a moon that night, but occasionally a rift of fleecy clouds
obscured its brightness, and it was just as it had passed into one of
these misty ridges that Roy met in the avenue with two men, one carrying
a bundle, a little in advance of the other, who was walking slowly
toward Oakwood. Without a thought as to who they were, Roy bade them a
civil good-evening, as was his custom with every one, and then went on
his way, while the two men did the same. One was a man sent with some
work which had been done for Georgie in town, the other a stranger, who
eyed the house curiously as he approached it, and who hesitated a moment
when he saw his neighbor go round to a side door and ring the bell.
Standing in the shadow, he waited until the ring was answered, and he
heard the man say: “A bundle for Miss Burton, from Slosson’s, and the
bill.”
Taking them both, the servant bade the young man wait a moment while he
carried them to Miss Burton, who had gone to her room. The bill was
paid, and the messenger from Slosson’s departed, while the stranger
stepped to the door, and asked for “Miss Georgie Burton.”
“Gone to her room,” was the reply, as had been anticipated, while the
stranger added: “Please hand her this—other bill,” and he held out a
sealed envelope, addressed to Miss Georgie Burton, adding, when the
servant asked if an answer was required: “Not to-night; to-morrow will
do as well.”
The next moment the stranger had disappeared under the dense shadow of
the trees; and the servant was on her way to Georgie’s room.
Georgie was very tired, and had signified to Maude her intention of
retiring early. The arrival of the Slosson bill had retarded her
movements somewhat, and she had just locked her door and let down her
long flowing hair, when a second knock interrupted her, and she looked
out a little impatiently to see what was wanted.
“Another bill, which the man said could wait till to-morrow,” was the
girl’s laconic remark, as she handed her mistress the note, and then
walked away.
“Another bill? I did not know there was another,” Georgie thought, as
she relocked her door, and went back beneath the gas to open the
envelope.
But what was it which made her turn so white, and reel like a drunken
creature, while her heart gave such violent bounds that she felt as if
it were forcing itself into her throat. There could be but one
handwriting like that, and she stood for a moment perfectly rigid, with
her eyes glued to the name, “Miss Georgie Burton;” then with fingers
from which all the blood had receded, leaving no feeling in them, she
tore open her letter and read:
“DEAR LU:
“If you wish to avoid exposure, meet me to-night at twelve o’clock in
the woodbine arbor at the foot of the garden. I have no desire to harm
you, or spoil the fun to-morrow, _but money I must have_, so bring
whatever you have about you, or if your purse chances to be empty, bring
jewelry. I saw you with some superb diamonds on one night at the opera
last winter. Don’t go into hysterics. You’ve nothing to fear from me if
you come down generous and do the fair thing. I reckon you are free from
me, as I’ve been gone more than seven years.
“Yours, H. M.”
There was a gurgling sound in Georgie’s throat, as her first impulse was
to scream, while a prickly sensation ran like lightning all through her
right side, and she felt as if her mouth was twitching and turning
toward her right ear; but she did not stop to question the meaning of
these strange symptoms. She only thought of the fatal letter and its
signature, and how _she_ was ruined forever. The evil she had so much
dreaded, and from which she had thought to escape, had come upon her at
last. _He was not dead_; he still walked the earth; he lived and
breathed not very far away, and had summoned her to meet him, and she
must go. She had no thought of doing otherwise, and with the fearful
agony gnawing at her heart, she consulted her watch to see how long
before twelve. Nearly one hour and a half, and she clasped her hands
together so tightly that the nails broke the skin in more than one
place. But she did not feel it, or know that the blood was trickling
from her nose until she saw the stains upon her white dressing-gown and
on her long black hair. Mechanically she walked to the marble basin and
washed and bathed her face until the flow had ceased; then she took up
the letter again and read it a second time, while every fibre quivered
and throbbed, and her eyes felt as if protruding from their sockets. And
all this time she had uttered no sound; but when by chance she saw upon
her table Roy’s picture, which, since her engagement she had kept in her
room, the magnitude of the calamity which had overtaken her, burst upon
her at once, and with a low moan she fell prostrate upon her face,
whispering to herself, “Roy is lost,—lost,—and so am I.”
She knew that was so; knew there was no help, no escape for her now, and
again that prickly sensation ran through her side, and a keen pain like
a knife cut through her temples, where the veins were swelling and
growing purple with the pressure of blood. Fortunately for her,
unconsciousness came at last to her relief, unconsciousness which lasted
until half-past eleven, and everything and everybody in the house was
still. Then she roused herself, looked at her watch again, and prepared
for action. He had written:
“Bring jewels if you have no money:” and knowing his rapacious
disposition, she took her costly diamonds, necklace and all, her
emeralds and pearls, and placing them in a little box, hunted up her
purse, and laughed a kind of delirious laugh to find there were one
hundred dollars in it.
She had no hope of Roy; it was impossible now that she should be his
wife; there was a bar between them,—a living bar,—raised, as it were,
from the dead; and, though possibly, nay, probably, silence with regard
to the past could easily be bought, and Roy need never know her secret
even now, she was not bad enough at heart to let him take her to his
arms while that man waiting for her outside lived and roamed through the
world.
She had given Roy up when she lay upon her face, with the prickling
sensation in her side, and the terrible pain in her heart; had buried
forever that dream of happiness, and now the worst she would ever endure
was past. No phase of suffering could come to her like what she had
already felt, unless, indeed, Roy should hear the story of her shame,
and that he must never do. She could guard against that; she knew the
nature she had to deal with, and so she took her richest
jewels,—thousands of dollars in value,—and throwing around her the same
water-proof she had worn to Annie’s bedside, went noiselessly out into
the hall, and down the stairs, and on through another hall, the outer
door of which communicated with the garden, and was far removed from the
sleeping apartments of the family.
The night was a glorious one, and the moonlight lay like waves of silver
upon the green-sward, and the shrubs, and the beds of bright June
flowers, while the perfume of the roses filled the air with sweetness.
But Georgie saw nothing of all this, and the night might have been one
of thick darkness, so little she recked of it, or knew of the beauty
around her. The woodbine arbor was all she thought about, and she sped
swiftly down the broad, gravelled path, uttering a low scream as she saw
the figure of a man rising to meet her.
One quick, searching glance she gave him to make sure it was he, then
with a gasp she staggered forward, and would have fallen at his feet,
had he not caught her by the arm and held her firmly up.
“Sit down, Lu,” he said, not unkindly, and he drew a chair for her.
“Don’t take it so hard,” he continued, as he saw how white she was, and
how rapidly her heart was beating. “I do not mean to harm you; upon my
word, I do not; though I’ve no special reason for doing you a favor
except that you are a woman, and I once loved you too.”
Georgie shuddered then, and pushed her chair a little farther from him,
as if afraid he might touch her. But he had no such intention. However
much he might have loved her once, he was well over the feeling now. He
had summoned her to a purely business interview, and seating himself
upon a stool not very far from her, he continued:
“I see I am to do all the talking. You do not even ask me how I chance
to be _alive_ instead of dead.”
“It does not matter. I know you are alive, and that is sufficient,”
Georgie said, her words coming painfully, and her black eyes flashing
upon him a look of bitter scorn.
“It was a mean thing to do, I know,” he continued, without heeding her
indifference; “but it made you happier thinking I was dead,—made you
what you are, a grand lady,—the finest I have ever seen. Had you thought
yourself tied to me, you could hardly have held your head so high as
Miss Georgie Burton. Confess, now, that I have given you some years of
happiness.”
She would not answer him save by a moan of pain, and he went on:
“When I wrote that letter to you, Will, my cousin, was sick, and going
to die, and I was taking care of him among the mountains of
Pennsylvania. By some chance, we had changed names; he was Henry Morton,
I was Will Delong; and it occurred to me that here was a chance for my
life. I’d throw the hounds off my track, and breathe again a free man;
so I wrote that I was dying, and after Will was dead I caused to be
published in several papers the notice that Henry Morton, the man who
was arrested for burglary, and tried as _John Sand_, and broke from his
prison, had recently died. I saw the notice copied into other papers,
and felt that I was safe so long as I staid away from those who knew me,
and would recognize my blind eye. To remedy this defect, I took to
wearing glasses, which answered very well. I travelled West and South,
and crossed finally to England, then to Scotland, where I got me a
little home among the heather hills, and tried to be a decent man.”
“Why didn’t you stay there?” Georgie asked; and he replied:
“I wanted to know if you were living or dead.”
“Me!” she exclaimed, and for the first time since she had been there
alone with him, a fear of him crossed her mind.
“Did you think me dead?” she asked; and he replied:
“I dreamed so; dreamed it three times in succession, and so I came to
see, and found you surrounded with every luxury that money can procure.
Young still and beautiful, a belle and an heiress, your old name of
Louise Heyford changed for Georgie Burton, your old self all put out of
sight, and you engaged to marry Mr. Leighton. Do you know it was his
house I robbed in New York that night?”
“No, no; oh, heaven, no! I never dreamed of that; and I must have heard
the name too, but forgot it again, everything was so horrible. _Roy’s_
house, and I was to be his wife to-morrow!”
She rocked to and fro in her anguish, while the man confronting her
began at last to pity her; to wish vaguely that he had staid among the
heather hills of Scotland, or at least had not shown himself to her. But
anon, another woman’s face arose before his mind, the woman for whom he
had risked this interview, and he ceased to care so much for wounding
Georgie, though his manner was conciliatory, and he spoke kindly and
respectfully as he went on:
“I wondered at the engagement if you _did_ know; and wondered too if he
had ever heard of me as connected with you.”
“Never, never! and Henry, oh Henry!” she stretched her hands toward him
now, and the expression of her white face was pitiful in the extreme;
“whatever you do or make me suffer, don’t subject me to that; don’t let
him know. I have lost him, but I cannot lose his esteem. Roy must not
despise me. I wronged you once; I know I wronged you in the tenderest
point where a woman can wrong a man, but I meant to be a good wife, and
would have been if you had forgiven and tried me. You would not do that;
you thrust me from you, and though I have seen much of prosperity, there
has been a skeleton in every joy. I have been fearfully punished every
way. Annie is dead, did you know that?”
She said the last humbly, beseechingly, and a flush of red crept into
her white face.
“I supposed she was. I saw the name of Annie Heyford on a stone in
Greenwood, close by Le Roy’s grave. And Mr. Leighton never knew of her
either, I suppose?”
“Not what she was to me. Nobody knows but Jack and you,” she answered
mournfully, while a sudden flame of passion leaped into the one sound
eye of the man beside her, as he said:
“Up to your old tricks again, I see; marrying with a lie on your soul,
just as you came to me.”
She did not resent the taunt at all. She was too thoroughly crushed for
that, and she answered gently, “Yes, I was going to do the same thing
again. I am everything that is bad, I confess; but, oh, how could I
tell, when all these years nobody has known, and I was so different, and
the old life lay far behind, and I did love Roy. Oh, if I’ve sinned
deeply, I am cruelly punished at the last. Think, Henry, to-morrow, ay,
to-day, for it is to-morrow now, I was to have been his wife; everything
is in readiness, the guests are here, and now it cannot be, and I,—oh,
what reason can I give to Roy for holding back at the very altar?”
“What reason? No reason. Why should you hold back? Marry him just the
same. I shall not interfere. I did not come for that. I came for money,
and took this time in order to get what I want. I thought I hated you,
but upon my soul, I don’t. I am sorry for you, to see you feel so bad,
but there’s no cause for it. Swallow your conscience a little lower
down. Act a bigger lie, and all will be right; for I tell you I am not
here to claim any right I may have had in you. I dreamed you were dead.
I’ll be honest and say I hoped it was true, for over the sea among the
heather hills is a little blue-eyed, brown-haired Scotch lassie whom I
call Janet, and who thinks she is my wife. There are also two children
in the home-nest; _mine_, too, as well as _hers_,” he added, and again
that red flush of shame crept into Georgie’s face, while the stranger
continued; “I tried to reform over there for her sake. She is pure and
good, and she loves me, and the fraud I practise upon her cuts me
sometimes to the quick, and when I dreamed you were dead so many times I
got to hoping you were, for then I’d do _her_ justice. So I came to see,
and tracked you out, and found you on the topmost pinnacle, and felt
angry when I saw your silks and satins and jewels and remembered Janet’s
two dresses, one for every day and one for Sunday, and thought of my
little boy Johnnie, who might be cured if I had the money. We are poor,
very poor, and Janet thinks I am making my fortune here in America, for
I told her it was for her sake and the bairns’ I came, and she is
waiting for me so anxiously, and I am going to her soon; within a week
at the farthest, but cannot go empty-handed. I did not enter that house
on the mountain-road, as you probably think I did. I know nothing of the
robbers. I quit such things after my escape from prison, and since I
have known Janet I have tried to be honest and decent. I have been
hanging about in this neighborhood for two weeks or more, trying to make
up my mind whether to seek an interview with you and risk detection or
not. I saved your life and Mr. Leighton’s too, but did not know when I
seized the horses who was in the carriage. If I had, I should have done
the same, though your death would make Janet an honest woman, for by
finding some flaw in our first marriage ceremony I should coax her to go
through with it again over the border in England.”
“Oh, if you had let me die then,” Georgie moaned faintly, and her
companion rejoined, “Nonsense; you are making too much of the matter.
There’s no reason in the world why you should not marry just the same. I
shall not trouble you, provided you do the fair thing by me. I want
money. You want silence. It is a fair bargain. Did you bring anything
with you?”
“Ye-es,” Georgie said slowly, clasping her hands to her head. “I brought
my diamonds and emeralds, worth thousands of dollars, but—don’t—don’t
think they are to cover my marriage. I am not so bad as that. I have
given Roy up, but I must keep his respect at any cost. Oh Henry, by the
love you bear this Janet and the little ones, I beseech of you, leave
the country at once, and never let my name be on your lips again. I’ve
brought the jewels, enough to make you rich. Look at this—and this—and
this!”
She opened the box, and held up one by one her diamond pin, and
ear-rings, and necklace; and the man’s eyes sparkled with eagerness as
he saw them flash in the moonlight, and thought how valuable they must
be. He had not expected so great a price, and he was generous enough to
say so, and gave her back her pearls and emerald pin.
“The diamonds will do,” he said, “and the hundred dollars will take me
home. Thank you, Lu; there is something good about you after all; but
how are you to get out of the scrape if you refuse _in toto_ to take the
man, and how will you account for the loss of your diamonds?”
“Leave that to me,” she said. “Only I warn you, that _you_ must not be
found near here, or anywhere, when the alarm is given.”
“Yes, I see; a _burglar_ got into your room,” and he nodded knowingly.
“I shall cross the river in a little skiff which is anchored just below
here. Once on the other side I fear no one. I know your room; its
windows look out on the river; watch for the boat, and when it is fairly
across, do what to you seems best! only screen me, as I will screen you,
now and forever.”
“You swear it,” Georgie asked, and he replied, “Yes, I swear by the love
I bear Janet, and the little ones, and the hope I have of seeing them
again, never to breathe a word to any living being, that I ever heard of
you save as the belle and heiress.”
He offered her his hand, and loath as she was, she took it, and the
compact between them was sealed.
“One o’clock, and I must be off,” he said. “Good-by, Lu. Take my advice;
marry Roy, and be as happy as you can.”
She did not reply, and he walked rapidly down the garden across the
road, and out into the field-path, which led to the river. Slowly, as if
all the life had gone from her body, Georgie dragged herself back to her
room, leaving the outer door unfastened and open, the better to answer
the end she had in view. Her own door too was left ajar, and then
drawing a chair by the window overlooking the river, she watched until a
boat shot out into the stream, and by the moonlight she recognized the
form of her late visitor as he bent to his oars and rowed the skiff
swiftly across the water.
An hour went by; it was nearly half-past two, and before very long the
early summer morning would be breaking in the east. What she did must be
done quickly, and with a calmness born of utter despair she made her
preparations. The box in which her diamonds were kept was laid empty in
her drawer, which stood open, its contents tossed up promiscuously, and
her empty purse lying upon the table. The emeralds and pearls were put
carefully away unharmed, as were some smaller articles of jewelry. Then
with trembling, ice-cold hands she made herself ready for bed, and laid
her throbbing head upon her pillow just as the clock struck three. She
had taken from a shelf, and looked at a bottle of laudanum, and thought
how easy it would be to end it all, but she dared not do it when she
thought seriously about it. She believed in a hereafter; in the Heaven
where Annie had gone, and she could not deliberately throw away all
chance of ever entering there.
“I may repent; the thief did at the last hour,” she said, as she drew
the bedclothes about her, and felt that she was ready for the first
scene in the strange drama about to be acted.