DEATH AT OAKWOOD.
The August morning was a glorious one, and every shrub, and flower, and
plat of grass at Oakwood seemed fairly to laugh, as, glistening with the
raindrops which had fallen through the night, they lifted their heads to
the beautiful summer sunlight which came up the eastern hills, and
bathed the earth in a sea of mellow light. The air, purified by the
thunder-shower, was cool and sweet, and laden with the perfume of the
many flowers which dotted the handsome lawn, while the birds almost
burst their little throats with gladness as they sang amid the trees,
and flew about the house, from whose door knobs knots of crape were
streaming, and whose shutters were closed to shut out the glorious day
which only mocked the sorrow of those who wept that morning for their
loved and lost one. Georgie was dead. Just as the lightning-flash and
the thunder-roll passed away, and the young moon broke through the rift
of dark storm-clouds, she looked her last good-by to those around her,
and her spirit fled to Him who would deal justly with her, and of whom
she had no fears as she went down the river-bank and launched out into
the stream whose waters never return to lave the shores of time.
It was a very easy death she died; so easy, that Jack, who held her in
his arms, only knew the moment of her departure by the sudden pressure
of her hand on his, and the falling of her head upon his bosom. She had
said good-by to every one, and left for all a friendly word, and tried,
as far as possible, to repair any wrong she might have done. To Edna,
who was often with her, she had said once when they were alone:
“I have something to tell you. I knew you from the first, and but for
Maude and Jack, should have told Roy who you were. I disliked your being
there, and meant to do you harm. I purposely worried and annoyed you by
talking so much of Charlie’s wife, and I exaggerated matters when I told
of Mrs. Churchill’s feelings toward her daughter-in-law, and what Roy
said about her coming in disguise. You remember it, I think. I wanted to
make sure that you would neither remain at Leighton, nor divulge your
real name to them. Forgive me, Edna, won’t you? I have much need of your
forgiveness.”
And Edna had stooped and given her the kiss of pardon, feeling, as she
did so, that a load was lifted from her heart, and that she could now
make herself known to Charlie’s friends.
“Do it at once,” Georgie said. “Don’t put it off, but let Roy know who
you are.”
And Edna promised that she would; and then, with another kiss for the
repentant woman, she went back to Leighton, and when next she looked on
Georgie, she was cold and pale in death, but lay like one asleep upon
her pillow, with white lilies in her hand, and a look of perfect peace
upon her face. The pinched, disturbed look was gone, and in its stead
death gave back to her much of her beauty. The bright color had faded
from her cheeks; there were threads of snow in her black hair, and her
glorious eyes were closed forever; but otherwise she looked the same,
and poor Mrs. Burton wrung her hands distractedly, as she bent over her
beautiful darling, and called upon her to waken and speak to the mother
who loved her so much. They dressed her in her wedding robes, and Roy
kissed his pale, dead bride with a great sob of pain, and forgot for
once when Brownie’s step was near, and did not hear when she spoke to
him. It was a grand funeral,—the largest ever known in Summerville, for
the circumstances attending Georgie’s death had been so strange and sad
that hundreds had gathered from a distance, and came to show their
respect for the mourning family. They carried her to Greenwood, and laid
her by the side of Annie. This was Jack’s thought and wish.
“She was my sister,” he said; “nearer to me by blood than any one else.
I surely may have my wish.”
So Mrs. Burton, who had in her mind a fashionable lot, with a monument,
setting forth her daughter’s virtues, and costing from ten thousand to
twenty thousand dollars, gave way, thinking within herself that the
monument was still available, even for that rather obscure spot, and
wishing that neglected-looking grave, so near to poor, dear Georgie’s,
might be removed to another part of Greenwood.
“Whose grave is it, and who was Richard Le Roy?” she asked, after they
had returned to her house in New York, where she had proposed spending a
few days until Oakwood could be cleansed from the recent atmosphere of
death.
Jack, who knew more of Richard Le Roy than any one present, made no
reply, and so it devolved on Roy to ask if she did not remember an
English family which years ago lived on Fourteenth street, and had so
many handsome daughters.
Mrs. Burton did remember something about them, especially a piece of
_old lace_ which Mrs. Le Roy used to wear, and whose value was immense.
Richard was the only son, Roy explained, a fast young man, though very
genial and companionable. He died quite suddenly, and at the time of his
death was engaged to an elder sister of Miss Agatha Shawe; at least, so
it was said. The Le Roys had returned to England long ago, he said, and
that was all the information he could give concerning the occupant of
the lone grave, which Mrs. Burton felt was in her way. She was
satisfied, however, with what Roy told her, and never suspected the
cause of Jack’s sudden rising, and walking to the window, where he stood
for a time looking out into the summer night, and thinking strange
thoughts of the three graves in Greenwood, where slept, side by side,
Richard Le Roy, Georgie Burton, and the little Annie.