ROY.
He had not slept much the previous night. Indeed, but for the dream
which came to him in the early morning, he would have sworn he had not
slept at all since parting from Miss Overton, just as the clock struck
twelve. He had left Georgie at an early hour, and tried, as he kissed
her cheek, to believe himself happy in the possession of so much grace
and beauty, and he wondered, as he rode slowly home, at the strange
disquietude which possessed him, the feeling of something lost, or
losing very fast from his life; something which could have made him
happier far than he was now, for he was _not_ happy, and as he went
through his beautiful grounds up to his handsome house, he would have
given all his fair heritage to have been free again, and as he was one
year ago; ay, less than a year ago, on that September day when his
mother’s hired companion first greeted his sight as he came up the
avenue, and saw her standing upon the vine-wreathed piazza. As she had
been there then, so she was now, with this exception: his mother had
retired, and Edna sat alone, enjoying, or thinking she was enjoying, the
glorious summer night, and trying to make believe that she was happy;
that there was no hidden pain in her heart; no lingering regret for what
could never be; no _love_,—to put it in plain words,—for the man riding
toward her, and whose wedding-day was on the morrow. He saw her, and his
heart gave a bound such as it never gave at sight of Georgie, and then
his quick eye noted next that she was alone, and he was conscious of a
glad kind of feeling that he had left Oakwood so early. It was the very
last interview he would ever have with Miss Overton, and he meant to
improve it, never stopping to reflect that there was in his heart
disloyalty to Georgie, who might with reason have complained, could she
have seen how his face lighted up, and how eagerly, after disposing of
his horse, he bounded up the steps of the piazza, and drew a chair near
to Edna’s.
It was a long, long talk they had together, and though there was not,
perhaps, a word spoken which might not with safety have been repeated to
Georgie, there were certain tones of voice, and glances, which would not
have borne strict inspection; and Roy carried to his room that night a
heavier heart than men usually carry on the very eve of their marriage.
Had he made a mistake after all? The question kept insinuating itself
into his mind in spite of his efforts to drive it out. Had he, at the
last, been too precipitate, and pledged himself to one who could never
be to him what another might have been? And then he went over all the
particulars attending his engagement with Georgie, remembering how
sudden it was; how but for Mr. Burton it would probably not have been at
all, and how strangely Georgie had conducted at first, and how soon she
had recovered herself and taken things for granted. Then he looked on
the other side, and thought of Georgie’s beauty, and goodness, and
amiability, and her love for him, which he could not doubt, and in so
doing, drew a little comfort to himself, and felt that it was his own
fault if he were not happy with her. He could not think of Miss Overton;
that is, he dared not dwell upon what she was, and think how fully she
satisfied him in the very points where Georgie failed. It would be
folly, yes, a sin to do that now; and he resolutely put all such
tormenting reflections aside, and then, sorry for any doubts and
misgivings which had tortured him, he prayed earnestly that the thing
which looked so dark to him now, might be made clear as the day; that
wherever he had wronged Georgie, even in his thoughts, he might be
forgiven, and be to her all that a kind, true husband should be.
“I can make her happy, and I will,” he said to himself at last, as he
fell into a troubled sleep, and dreamed, not of Georgie, but of
“Brownie,” who seemed to be with him, and in some trouble, too.
With a start he awoke, trying to make out where he was, and who was
calling him so anxiously, with so much terror in the tone. It was
Brownie’s voice, sure; that was no dream. Brownie was at his door
speaking to him, and what she said was this:
“Mr. Leighton, Mr. Leighton, wake up, please, and come as quickly as you
can. Something dreadful has happened.”
Swift as lightning his thoughts turned to his mother; something had
happened to her, and dear as she was to him, and much as he would do to
ward evil from her, he was half-conscious of a pleasurable sensation, a
feeling of hope that the something which had happened might give him a
little longer respite. He was soon dressed, and out in the hall with
Edna, whose face was very white, and whose voice trembled as she said to
him:
“I have bad news for you, and I am so sorry that I should be the one to
tell it, but your mother is sleeping quietly and I would not rouse her.
A servant has just come from Oakwood, and says that Miss Burton,—oh,
forgive me that I must tell you,—Miss Burton has had a stroke of
paralysis, and can neither move nor speak.”
He was not glad, and it was not a sense of freedom which made him clutch
Edna’s shoulder so firmly, as if he saw already a path which led toward
her. He was shocked, frightened, and filled with remorse as he
remembered all the past, and how he had wished to escape.
“Paralysis, and she seemed so well when I left her! When was it? How was
it?” he asked, and Edna told him of the burglar, and what she had heard
from the Oakwood servant.
“You will go at once,” she said as he made no movement, and that roused
him to action.
“Yes, certainly,” he answered, and then hurried down stairs, and out
into the yard, where his horse was already saddled and waiting for him.
Edna had given orders to that effect before she called him, and she
stood watching him as he galloped down the avenue and turned toward
Oakwood.
Georgie seemed better; had spoken once, and moved her fingers just a
little, they told Roy, in answer to his inquiries; but when he asked if
he could see her, he was put off with the excuse that a sight of him
might excite her too much at present, and then he asked for Mrs. Burton,
and was going to her room, when Mr. Burton exclaimed:
“Don’t for thunder’s sake go there. She’s in the awfulest hysterics, I
reckon, you ever run against, and the old boy generally is to pay.”
But Mrs. Burton _would_ see Roy, and so he went to her, and at sight of
him she went off into another cramp, and clutched him round the neck,
and cried and sobbed over him, and called him her poor, dear boy, and
spoke so touchingly of Georgie, that Roy, always sympathetic, felt the
tears rush to his own eyes as he tried to comfort her. The house was
full of guests, some of whom were huddled together in groups, talking
over the terrible calamity, while others were packing their trunks
preparatory to leaving on the first train for New York. There would be
no wedding that day, of course, so all the morning the baggage wagon
came and went, as guest after guest departed, both from Oakwood and the
hotel, until Summerville generally was emptied of its strangers, and an
air of gloom settled down upon it, as the citizens thought of the sad
change a few hours had wrought.
They had told Georgie of Roy’s presence in the house, and how he cried
in Mrs. Burton’s room. Then every muscle of Georgie’s face was
convulsed, and Jack, who was with her constantly, never forgot the look
of anguish which came into her eyes, or the quivering motion of her lips
as she tried in vain to speak again. What she thought no one could
guess, and she was powerless to tell, as she lay there all the day
listening so eagerly to all they said about the hunt for the burglar,
which was still going on.
“They will be pretty sure to find him; he cannot escape,” Jack said, and
then Georgie gave forth a cry which curdled his very blood, and made him
turn quickly towards her, trying to read what she wanted in her eyes.
But he could not, though he thought he understood that talking of the
burglar distressed her, and he forbade the mention of the subject in her
presence again. Even that did not satisfy her. There was the same
strange look in her eyes when they rested on his face, the same evident
desire to say something to him, and after a time she succeeded. They
were alone, he and she, for he would not leave her, and she would not
suffer it if he would. She had seemed to be sleeping, and all had left
the room but Jack, who sat rubbing her hand, and marvelling at the great
change in her face within so short a time.
“Ja—ack,” she said, and after a pause added, “Don’t—”
Then she waited again, and Jack asked: “Don’t what, sister! Don’t leave
you? Is that it?”
She shook her head and managed to say “Catch.”
Still Jack had no idea of what she meant, but he put the two words
together and asked: “Don’t catch what?”
“Ma—an,” she gasped with a tremendous effort, and there came a horrible
suspicion across Jack’s mind.
It could not be possible either, he thought, though if it were true it
would account for the terrible shock to Georgie.
“Did you think you knew the man?” he asked; and Georgie nodded her head,
while the tears gathered in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.
Jack asked her no more questions then. He hoped and believed she was
mistaken; but when later in the day the men who had gone in pursuit came
back reporting their ill success, he managed adroitly to cool their
ardor a little, and threw what obstacles he could in the way of their
continuing the search. He was to write a notice for the papers, but he
conveniently forgot it, and put it off until the following day, and
Georgie’s face looked brighter when he told her what he was doing. She
had not seen Roy yet, though he had been in the house all the time, now
sitting with Mrs. Burton, who had taken to her bed, and was more
troublesome than Georgie, and now walking slowly up and down the piazza,
with his head bent forward and his hands clasped together behind his
back. Of what he was thinking, all guessed, but none knew how full of
remorse he was when he remembered the previous night when he had shrunk
so from his fate, and half wished that something might arise to save him
from it. Something had arisen, a terrible something, and to himself he
said, as he walked up and down, “I did not want this to happen; did not
want Georgie harmed, and if I could, how gladly I would save her.”
His heart was very full of pity and tenderness, and almost love, for the
poor girl, who never forgot him for a moment, and who felt comforted in
knowing that it was his step she heard so constantly passing beneath her
window. She had intervals when speech was easier, and in one of these,
which came toward the sun-setting, she beckoned to Jack, who was at her
side in an instant, trying to comprehend her meaning.
“Roy,” she said, then paused a moment, and added, “Free—free;—tell
him—now.”
Jack understood her, but did not go at once.
“Wait awhile before doing that,” he said. “You may get entirely well;
the doctor says so.”
“Ne-e-ver,” and Georgie shook her head and touched her helpless hand.
“Ne-e-ver,—de-ad,” touching again her hand and arm; then pointing to her
face and heart she continued, “Shall—die—soon;—tell—Roy—f-ree—n-ow.”
She was growing excited, and Jack left her with Maude, and went out to
Roy, who stopped in his walk and asked how Georgie was, and when he
might see her.
“Not yet,” Jack said. “She seems morbid on that subject; perhaps because
her face is not quite natural, and she thinks it might distress you to
see her beauty so marred. And, Roy, she sent me to tell you that you are
free. She insisted that I should come,” he added, as he met Roy’s look
of surprise. “She was growing excited, and to quiet her I came to tell
you that you are free from your engagement.”
For an instant Roy experienced a feeling of relief, a lifting of his
spirits, but he quickly put it aside, and said to Jack:
“Tell your sister that only her death or mine can sever the tie between
us. She was to have been my wife to-night, and as such I look upon her,
no matter how maimed and stricken she may be. Tell her I am waiting to
see her, to help you take care of her, that I think I have a right
superior to yours. Ask if I may come.”
This was his answer, which Jack carried to Georgie, who, with a frantic
effort, tried to raise her helpless hand to clasp within the other,
while her lips quivered and the tears rolled in torrents down her
cheeks.
“Don’t—de-serve—it,” she managed to articulate, and Jack, who knew her
so well, felt that she spoke truly, but pitied her just the same, and
tried to quiet and comfort her, and asked her if she would see Roy then.
She shook her head; but when Jack said, “Is it a comfort to you to know
that he is here?” she nodded twice; and so, though he could not see her,
Roy staid all night at Oakwood, and for hours walked slowly up and down
the piazza, always in the same attitude, with head bent forward and his
hands locked behind him. They had told him that Georgie was quieter when
she heard his step, and that when it ceased she seemed to listen for it;
and so, unmindful of his own fatigue, he kept up the same weary round,
until the moon, which should have lighted him to the altar, was past the
zenith, and down toward the west. Then Jack came out and told him
Georgie was asleep. So he paused in his walking, and sinking into a
chair began to feel how worn and tired he was.
Edna had come over late in the afternoon, and with Maude and Jack was
watching by Georgie’s bedside. She had not seen Roy since the morning
when she had broken the tidings to him; but when Jack came in and told
how exhausted he was, she poured a glass of wine from a decanter on the
sideboard, and placing it with some crackers on a little silver tray,
carried it out to him.
“You are tired, Mr. Leighton,” she said, “and I have brought you this;
try and take some of it.”
He had not heard her step, but at the sound of her voice he started, and
the weary look upon his face disappeared at once. He drank the wine and
took one of the crackers, and thanked her for her thoughtfulness, and
asked if she too were not very tired.
“Sit down and rest,” he said, offering her his chair, and bringing
another for himself. “Jack told me she was sleeping. You are not needed
there now. Stay with me awhile.”
So she sat down beside him, but neither talked much to the other, and
when they spoke it was of Georgie and the fearful thing which had come
upon her. Roy was very tired, and after sitting awhile in silence, Edna
knew by his breathing that he had fallen asleep. “If he only had a
pillow, or something at the back of that chair for his head, he would
rest so much better,” she thought, and going into the hall, she brought
out her own shawl and adjusted it so carefully, that he did not awake,
though he stirred a little and said something which sounded like “my
darling.” Of course he meant Georgie, and Edna left him there to dream
of the poor girl who was sleeping also, and who was better in the
morning when she woke.
The twisted look about the mouth was nearly gone, and her right eye was
much like the other in its expression. Still she could not use her hand
at all, or speak except with difficulty, and she persisted in refusing
to see Roy, who went home to breakfast with his mother, and then
returned to Oakwood, where for several days he spent most of his time,
until at last Georgie signified her willingness to see him. She was
looking quite bright and natural, and Maude had made her neat and tidy
in one of her prettiest white wrappers, while Edna, who was there also,
had combed and curled her long black hair and put a white rosebud in it,
and had said to her encouragingly, “You look very sweetly, Miss Burton,
and I am sure Mr. Leighton will think so too. Shall I hold the glass for
you to see yourself?”
Georgie shook her head; she was satisfied with the verdict of her young
nurse, and nodded her readiness for Roy. Both Maude and Edna left the
room as he came in, and so no one witnessed that first interview between
them, when, far more lover-like than he had ever been before toward her,
Roy kissed her pallid lips, and called her dear Georgie, and told her
she was better, and would soon be well.
Then she spoke slowly, painfully: “Ne-ver, Roy, ne-ver—well;
nev-er—your—wife; be-lieve—it—can-not—be, even—if I—should—live. I
shall—die. Am—afraid—to die; pray, Roy;—pray—for—me.”
And Roy did pray beside her bed, and with her hand in his, he asked in a
choking voice that God would spare her life. But Georgie stopped him
short, and gasped:
“Not that, Roy; pray—I may be—ready; pray Him to—forgive; and
there’s—more to—forgive—than—you know; pray for _me_,—for that.”
Roy’s voice was very low, and sad, and earnest now, as he asked
forgiveness for the stricken woman before him; that, whether living or
dying she might be God’s child, and find the peace she sought.
“Can you say ‘Our Father,’ with me?” he asked; and Georgie tried to
follow him, her lips making a queer sound, and repeating twice, “forgive
our trespasses,—my trespasses; my sin.”
“My sin,” was her burden; and Roy, who did not understand, prayed for
her generally until she seemed quiet, though the great tears kept
dropping from her eyelids and she tried to disengage her hand from his,
and shrank so evidently from his caresses, that he ceased at last, and
only sat by her as a stranger would have done.
After a while Jack, who had been resting, came up, and then Roy went
away to Leighton with Georgie’s farewell words ringing in his ears:
“Pray, Roy; pray for _me_.”
She did not again refuse to see him, and he visited her every day, and
sent her fruit and flowers, and tried sometimes to think she was
improving, but Jack knew better. There was no life in her right side
now, nor ever would be again. Her speech had come back to her, so that
she talked less painfully, but she was fast wasting away, consumed, the
doctor said, by a slow fever which he could not understand. Indeed, he
did not understand her case at all, and puzzled his brain over it, while
she grew weaker, more helpless, and more restless, too, begging to be
moved so often, that even Jack’s strong arms grew tired at last, but
never for that relaxed one whit in their efforts to do for her. Tender
and faithful as a mother to her sick and only child, he gave up his
whole time to her, feeling repaid for all he did when he saw how she
clung to him, and how much better she seemed when he was with her. No
one could fill his place, not even Roy, who spent a great deal of his
time at Oakwood, where everything was overshadowed in gloom, and where
the inmates just lived on from day to day, waiting for, and wondering
what to-morrow would bring.