The Actress' Daughter Part 22

"What you shall never know--what I shall never tell you!" he cried, pa.s.sionately.

The color retreated from Georgia's very lips, leaving her white as marble.

"If it is murder--"

"Murder! _That_ might be forgiven! A man may kill another in the heat of pa.s.sion and be forgiven. Murder, robbery, arson, _all_ might be forgiven; but this! Oh, Georgia, ask me not! I feel as if I should go mad."

What had he done, what awful crime was this that had no name, before which, in Richmond's eyes, even murder sank into insignificance?

Georgia stood appalled, while Richmond, with the fatal letter crushed in his hand, strode up and down as if he were indeed mad. Then, as his eye fell on the familiar hand-writing, his mood changed, and he pa.s.sionately exclaimed:

"Oh, Charles! Oh, my brother! Would you had died ere you had come to this! Oh, Georgia! I loved him so! every one loved him so! and now--and _now_!"

He turned away and shaded his eyes with his hands, while his strong chest heaved with irrepressible emotion.

Every tender, womanly feeling in Georgia's heart was stirred, and she went over and took his hand in hers, and said, gently:

"Mr. Wildair, things may not be so bad as you suppose. I am sure they are not. I could stake my soul on the innocence of Charles Wildair. Oh, it is impossible, absurd, he can be guilty of any crime. The Charley Wildair I once knew can never have fallen so low. Oh, Richmond, I feel he is innocent. I _know_ he is."

"Georgia, I thank you for your sympathy; it is my best consolation now; but I am not deceived; _he is guilty_; he has confessed all. And now, Georgia, I never want to hear his name mentioned again; never speak of him to me more. I must go home now: I must be alone, for this shock has quite unmanned me. Do not speak of this to any one. Farewell!"

He pressed her hand, pulled his hat down over his eyes, and started off in the direction of Burnfield.

Lost in amaze, Georgia stood watching him until he was out of sight, and then resumed her seat on the gra.s.s, to think over this strange scene, and wonder what possible crime Charley Wildair had committed. It was hard to a.s.sociate with _any_ crime the memory of the handsome, happy, generous boy she remembered; but it must be so. He confessed it himself; his brother, who pa.s.sionately loved him, branded him with it; therefore it must be so. While she sat thinking, two soft hands were placed over her eyes, and a silky curl touched her cheek.

"Emily," said Georgia, quietly, without moving.

"Yes, that same small individual," said a sweet voice; and our fair Emily came from behind her, and threw herself down on the gra.s.s by her side.

"Where did you drop from?" asked Georgia, not exactly delighted at the interruption.

"Not from the clouds, Lady Georgia. I went to the cottage, and learned from Miss Jerusha that teacher and pupil had gone off sky-gazing and 'makin' pictures. At the risk of being _de trop_, I followed, and here I am. Where's Monsieur le Tutor?"

"Gone home," said Georgia, listlessly.

"And left you here all by yourself! How shockingly ungallant! Now, I thought better things of the lord of Richmond Hall. What do you think of him, Georgia?"

"Of whom?"

"Of whom! You know well enough. Of Mr. Wildair."

"I have formed no opinion on the subject."

"Well, that's odd. _I_ have, and I think him a splendid fellow--so gentlemanly, and all that. I wonder what he thinks of us?"

"He thinks you are a good girl, and I am a dreamer."

"A good girl! Well, that's very moderate praise, blank and cool, but just as much as I want. And you are a dreamer--I knew _that_ before.

Will you ever awaken, Georgia?"

"I shall have to; I never wish it, though."

"Then the awakening will not be pleasant?"

"No; I feel a presentiment that it will not. Oh, Emily! I am tired of my present stagnant life; and yet, sometimes I wish I might never be anything but a 'dreamer of dreams,' without even realizing how _real_ life is. I wish I were now like you, my little Princess Frostina."

"You and I can never be alike--never, Georgia; every element in our nature is as essentially different as our looks. You are a blaze of red sky-rockets, and I am a little insignificant whiff of down."

"No indeed; you are a good, lovable girl, with a warm heart, a clear head, and a cool temper, who will lead a happy life, and die a happy death. But I--oh, Emily, Emily! what is to be my fate?"

She spoke with a sort of cry, and Emily started and gazed on her with a troubled, anxious face.

"Oh, Georgia, what is the matter? _Dear_ Georgia! what is the matter?

You look so dark, and strange, and troubled."

"I am out of spirits--a bad fit of the blues, Em," said Georgia, trying to smile. "I am a sort of monomaniac, I think; I do not know what is the matter with me. I wish I were away from here; I grow fairly wild at times. Emily, I shall _die_ if I stay here much longer."

All that day something lay on her heart like lead. Perhaps it was the memory of that mysterious letter, and Charley's guilt, and his brother's anguish, that weighed it down. Miss Jerusha had long ago given up wondering at anything her eccentric _protegee_ might see fit to do; but when all day long she saw her sit, dark and silent, with folded hands, at the window, gazing at the ever-restless, flowing river, she _did_ wonder what strange thoughts were pa.s.sing through her young heart, or, to use her own expression, what had "come to her." Fly gave it as her opinion, it was only a "new streak," in the already sufficiently "streaked" character of her young mistress. And Betsey Periwinkle, wondering too, but maintaining a discreet silence on the subject, came purring round her, while her more demonstrative offspring leaped into her lap and held up her head for her customary caress.

Unheeding them all, Georgia went early to her room, and leaning her head on her hand, gazed languidly out. The soft evening breeze lifted the damp, shining braids of her dark hair, and kissed softly her grave, beautiful face, and the evening star rose up in solemn beauty, and shone down into the dark eyes fixed so earnestly on the far-off horizon that seemed her prison wall. And Georgia looked up, and felt a holy calm steal into her heart, and forgot all her somber fancies, and her high heart-beating grew still in gazing on the trembling beauty of that solitary star.

CHAPTER XI.

SOMETHING NEW.

The faltering speech, and look estranged, Voice, step, and life, and beauty changed; She might have marked all this and known Such change is wrought by love alone.--MOORE.

There were great doings going on up at the "house." All Burnfield was in a state of unprecedented excitement about it. The last Presidential election, the debut of the new school-marm, or even the first arrival of the locomotive at the Burnfield Railway depot, had not created half such a sensation. Marvelous tales ran like wild-fire through the town, of carpets, of fine velvets, as Mrs. Tolduso, the gossip-in-chief, called it; of mirrors reaching from floor to ceiling in dazzling gilt frames; of sofas, and couches, and lounging-chairs, and marble-topped tables, and no end of pictures, and statues, and upholstery, and "heaps, and heaps of other things--oh! most splendid," said Mrs. Tolduso; "sich as must have cost an awful sight of money."

Then workmen came from the city, and the stately old mansion underwent a course of painting and varnishing, until it fairly glittered; and the grounds were altered, and fountains erected, and statues of Hebes, and Waterbearers, and Venuses rising from the sea-foam, and lions, with fountains spouting from their mouths and nostrils, and lots of other devices scattered everywhere. And then a prim little matron of a housekeeper, and an accomplished cook, and an aristocratic butler, and coquettish chambermaids in shaking gold ear-drops and pink bows, and a dignified coachman, and two fascinating young footmen, and a delightful old gardener, with beautiful white hair and whiskers, made his appearance, electrifying the neighborhood, and looking down with contempt on their open-mouthed, homespun neighbors.

The people stood a great deal more in awe of the aristocratic butler, and footman, and the rest of them, than they did of their young master, who was never stiff and pompous, but was given to pat the children on the head as he pa.s.sed and throw them coppers, and touch his hat to the blooming, blushing, smiling country belles, and nod with careless condescension to their fathers and brothers. And then wild, mysterious rumors began to fly about that the young "squire" was going to marry some great city heiress, and bring her here to live, and those who were so fortunate as to be graciously noticed by any of the aristocratic flunkeys aforesaid, endeavored to "pump" them, but knowing nothing themselves they could only shake their heads and look mysterious unspeakable things, that said as plainly as words: "Of course we know all, but we have too great an esteem for the young gentleman in whose house we reside to betray his confidence;" so Mrs. Tolduso, and the rest of her set, had to coin their own news, and were still left to their own surmises.

Miss Jerusha, albeit not given to gossiping, could not help hearing these rumors, and the worthy spinster began to grow alarmed. She had never realized until now the immense distance between the rich young gentleman, Mr. Wildair, and the poor daughter of the poor actress, Georgia Darrell, who wore her poverty as a d.u.c.h.ess might her coronet.

Why, the very servants of the house, in their arrogance, would look down on the village girl; the fascinating young footmen would have considered her honored by a smile; and the chambermaids would lift their rustling silken robes and sweep past her mouseline de laine in lofty disdain.

Georgia, the cottage girl, mistress of the great house and all those awe-inspiring young ladies and gentlemen who did Mr. Wildair's work for a "consideration!" Oh, Miss Jerusha, no wonder your chin drops as you think of it, and a sigh comes whistling through your pursed-up lips like a sough of wind in a mainsail.

Then there is that rumor of that haughty young city heiress he is to marry. Miss Jerusha groans in spirit when she thinks of it, and wishes Georgia was not so careless about it, for the only time that young lady had been "short" with Miss Jerusha, for ever so long, was on the occasion of asking her opinion about the same heiress, when Georgia told her curtly "she neither knew nor cared--Mr. Wildair and his heiresses were nothing to her." Yes, Miss Jerusha's brilliant visions of a brown silk dress and new straw bonnet were fast going the way of many another brilliant vision, and she sighed again over the evanishment of human hopes, and then consoled herself with her everlasting stocking and the society of the Betsey Periwinkles, mother and daughter. It was true Mr.

Wildair was a daily visitor still at the cottage, but his walks with Georgia were altogether discontinued, and the drawing lessons completely given up.

Miss Jerusha did not know that this was by the cold, peremptory command of Georgia herself, and much to the dissatisfaction of the young gentleman; but she _did_ know that the vivid crimson was paling in Georgia's cheek, the light dying out of her brilliant eyes, and the quick, elastic spring leaving her slow footsteps; knew it and marveled thereat. She saw, too, with suppressed indignation (for it doesn't pay to be angry with rich people) that Richmond saw it too, and seemed rather pleased than otherwise thereat, while Georgia was relapsing into her first mood, and invariably froze into a living iceberg the moment his light, firm step sounded on the threshold.

All this was very puzzling to Miss Jerusha, who soon after had the pleasure of hearing he was going to be married to somebody else--a report which he never even contradicted. And so matters were getting into a "pretty mess," as Miss Jerusha said; and things generally were in a very unsatisfactory state indeed, when one day Mr. Richmond Wildair transfixed Miss Jerusha by the polite request that she would do him the honor of coming and looking at his house. It was all finished now, he said, and he wanted her opinion of it.

"Lor', Mr. Wildair? what do you 'spose I know 'bout your fine houses, and your fol-de-rols and gimcracks that you've got into it. There ain't no good in my going," said Miss Jerusha knitting away, and looking as grim as old Father Time in the primer.