LAST DAYS.
The wedding had been appointed for the 20th of June, and it was now the
20th of July; just one month from the day when so fearful a calamity had
overtaken poor Georgie. Every one, even to Mrs. Burton, had ceased to
hope for her now. They knew she could not live, and waited anxiously for
the final shock which should terminate her life. All the old
restlessness and desire to be moved continually was gone, and she would
lie for hours just where she was put, with her well hand clasped over
the feeble one, and her eyes closed, though they knew she was not
asleep; for occasionally the pale lips would move, and those nearest to
her caught whispered words of prayer, and knew that at the last the soul
so near to death was seeking for that peace without which to die is
terrible. Her speech was more natural, and could easily be understood,
but it tired her to talk; and when Roy came to see her, she would only
press his hand and nod her thanks for the flowers or fruit he always
brought her. She was greatly changed in more ways than one. Her glorious
beauty, of which she had been so proud, was gone; and her long black
hair was streaked with gray.
But Georgie cared for none of these things; her interest was elsewhere,
and the intensity of her anguish and remorse so great that often when
she lay with her eyes shut, Jack saw the great drops of sweat standing
upon her brow and about her mouth. To Jack as well as to Roy she had
said, “Pray for me,” and Jack did not repel her now with scorn, but,
unworthy as he felt himself to be, tried to pray for his poor sister,
promising to be himself a better man if peace were given to her. And
peace came at last, and brought a brighter, happier expression to the
worn face, and drove the look of terror from the eyes, and then Georgie
talked freely with her brother.
It was the night of the 20th, and he alone was watching with her. Again
there was a moon, and its silvery light came in through the open window
and shone on Georgie’s face, and made it seem to Jack like the face of
an angel, as she drew his head down to her and kissed him so lovingly,
saying to him, “Dear Jack, let me tell you while I can just how it was
that night a month ago. I told you all a _lie_; there was no one in my
room. I made it up to screen myself, for I must have some excuse for
Roy, some reason why I could not marry him. You told me once the dead
might come to life to witness against me. Jack, he did; Henry is not
dead; he was here in the garden; I saw him and talked with him, and gave
him my diamonds to keep him quiet. But Jack, oh, Jack, don’t think
_that_ of me,” she cried, as she saw the look of horror on his face and
guessed of what he was suspecting her.
“I never for an instant thought to marry Roy after I knew Henry was
living. I only did not want him to know about it. I don’t want him to
know now. Oh, Jack, can’t I go to Heaven unless I tell Roy everything?”
She was getting greatly excited, and Jack tried to quiet her, and
brought her a glass of wine, and then, when she was better, listened,
while in her slow way she told him what the reader already knows, of her
interview with Henry Morton; of all he said to her; of her utter despair
and agony, and her planning the story of the robbery to account for her
fearful excitement and the sudden illness she meant to feign so as to
put off her marriage.
“But God planned for me better than I could plan for myself,” she said;
“and sent the paralysis as a sure means of separating me from Roy. Henry
told me it was Roy’s house he robbed in New York, years ago. I never
knew that, or if I heard the name, I forgot it afterward. Did you know
it, Jack?”
“I knew the name was Leighton, but thought it another family,” Jack
said; and Georgie continued:
“Had I known it, I could not have done as I did, it seems to me, though
I was bad enough for anything. But I hope God has forgiven me. I feel so
differently, so sorry for the past; the fear of death is gone, only I
don’t know about telling Roy, and Aunt Burton, too. Must I, Jack? Do you
think I ought?”
Jack did _not_ think so. Telling them now could do no good, and would
only add to their wretchedness, he said, and much as he liked the truth,
he could not see that she was bound to a confession of what could in no
wise benefit any one, especially as there was no possibility of her
secret ever being known except to himself.
“For, Georgie,” he continued, “I have something to tell you, which I
have withheld, because I was not sure how much you knew, or how certain
you were who it was that took your diamonds. Henry Morton is
dead,—really, truly dead; for I saw him myself about a week ago, when I
went with Roy to New York for a day. He could not have sailed as early
as he told you he intended doing. Perhaps he was afraid of detection,
and kept quiet awhile in the city. At all events, he was booked in the
Scotia as Tom Anderson, and in going on board the night before she
sailed, either lost his footing, or made some misstep, and was drowned
before he could be reached. On examining his person, a handsome set of
diamonds was found secreted about him, and as they answered to the
description given of yours, a telegram was at once forwarded here, and
Roy and myself went immediately to New York, Roy swearing to the jewels,
while I mentally swore to the man, though outwardly I made no sign. Your
diamonds are here with Mrs. Burton, and Henry is in his grave. You have
nothing to dread from him. You are free to marry Roy, if ever—”
He did not finish the sentence, for Georgie put up her hand, and said
quickly: “Never, Jack; don’t, please, speak of that; never now, even if
I should live, which I shall not; I could not marry Roy without telling
him everything, and death is preferable to that. If I die, he need not
know who or what she was whom he thought to make his wife. Nobody need
know but you and Maude, for I want you to tell her. Don’t let there be a
secret between you. But do not tell her till I am gone; then do it as
kindly as you can, and excuse me all you can. I was young and foolish
when I knew Richard Le Roy, and he flattered and turned my head, and
promised to make me a lady, and I hated to be so poor, to stay all day
in that little school-room, with that set of tiresome children, and I
envied his sisters when I saw them going out to parties so elegantly
dressed, and knew they had whatever they liked best. There was nobody to
warn me; nobody who knew what he said to me, or how he lured me on to
ruin, and made me believe in him more than in Heaven, and so I fell, and
he died before he could make me a reparation; for, had he lived, I do
believe he would have saved me from disgrace. He said he loved me; I
believe he did; tell Maude so; tell her not to hate me, for Annie’s
sake. Annie was not to blame,—darling Annie. Shall I meet her, Jack?”
She was very much exhausted, and Jack bade her rest and not talk any
more then; but she was not through with all she had to say.
“Let me tell you while I can,” she whispered; “tell you what I want you
to do. He told me of a _Janet_ over in Scotland waiting for him, and a
little blind boy whose sight he hoped to have restored, now he had the
means. Find them, Jack, they live in ——, not far over the border. When
you and Maude are married, go there on your bridal trip. I have money of
my own,—ten thousand dollars, which Aunt Burton gave me. It is all in
bonds. I shall give it to you, and a part of it you must give to her, to
Janet and her little ones. That is something I can do, and it will make
me die easier, knowing somebody will be benefited by me. Promise, Jack,
to find her, or get the money to her in some way, but never let her know
she was _not_ his wife. Tell her his friends sent you.”
She could talk no longer then, for her speech was failing her, and her
utterance so thick that it was with difficulty Jack could understand
her. He made it out, however, and promising compliance with all she
asked, soothed and quieted her until she fell into a sleep, which lasted
several hours, and from which she awoke with a fresher, better look upon
her face and in her eyes. But this did not deceive her, nor delude her
with vain hopes. She knew that life was not for her, neither did she
desire it now. Hoping and believing, though tremblingly, that all would
be well with her hereafter; that the God against whom she had sinned so
deeply had, in His infinite mercy, pardoned even her; she looked forward
calmly, and even longingly, to the death which was to free her from all
the bitter pangs of remorse which, should she live, would be hers to
endure continually. The sight of Roy and her aunt was a constant pain
and reproach, for she knew how unworthy she was of the fond love
manifested for her by the one, and the extreme kindness and delicate
attentions of the other.
“If I could tell them,—but I cannot, and Jack says I need not,” she
thought often to herself, praying earnestly to be guided aright, and not
to be allowed to leave undone anything necessary to her own salvation.
Once when Roy was sitting by her, she said to him hesitatingly:
“Roy, you are a good man, one in whom I have confidence; tell me,
please, if a person has done something very wrong, ought he to confess
it to everybody or anybody, unless by so doing he could do some good, or
repair an injury?”
Roy did not think it necessary, he said, though he was not quite sure
that he fully understood the case. There were great sweat-drops on
Georgie’s face, and her lips twitched convulsively as she said:
“There was something in my early life which I meant to keep from you and
which I want to keep from you now. It would distress me greatly to tell
it, and pain and shock you to hear it. Do you think I must? that is,
will God love me more if I tell?”
Instantly there came back to Roy a remembrance of Georgie’s strange
conduct at the time of their engagement, and he felt certain that
whatever was now preying on her mind was then trembling on her lips.
What it was he did not care to know; it could not affect him now.
Georgie was passing away from him to another, and, as he believed, a
better world. He had never loved her as he ought to love one whom he
meant to make his wife; but during the days he watched beside her and
saw how changed she was, and how earnestly she was striving to find the
narrow way, even at the eleventh hour, he felt that he liked her as he
had never done before, and he did not care to hear anything which could
lower her in his opinion, and so he said to her, “Georgie, if the
something in your past life does not now affect any one, keep it to
yourself. I do not wish to know it. Neither, I am sure, would Mrs.
Burton, if the telling it would trouble you. Be satisfied with my
decision, and let us remember you as you seemed to us.”
He bent down and kissed her while her pale lips whispered, “Bless you,
Roy; bless you for the comfort you have given me. Think of me always as
kindly as you can, but as one who has erred and sinned, and hoped she
was forgiven, and who loved you, Roy, so much, for I do, I do, better
than you love me. I have known all along that I was not to you what you
are to me, and in time you will find another to take my place; find her
soon, perhaps, and if you do, don’t wait till I have been dead the
prescribed length of time, but marry her at once, and bring her to your
mother, if she is not already there.”
Georgie said the last slowly, and looking into Roy’s eyes, saw that he
understood her, and went on:
“She is a sweet girl, Roy; pure and womanly. Your mother loves her as a
daughter, and I give her my right in you. If you succeed, don’t forget,
please, what I say; if you succeed, remember that I told you _I knew all
about her_. Don’t forget.”
A violent fit of coughing came on, and in his anxiety and fear, Roy paid
little heed to what Georgie had said with regard to Miss Overton, who
soon came into the room, and signified her readiness to do whatever she
could for the suffering Georgie.