The Actress' Daughter Part 26

AWAKENING.

"Her cheek too quickly flushes; o'er her eye The lights and shadows come and go too fast, And tears gush forth too soon, and in her voice Are sounds of tenderness too pa.s.sionate For peace on earth."

I believe the established and time-honored precedent in writing stories is to bring the chief characters safely through sundry "hair-breadth escapes by flood and field," annihilate the vicious, make virtue triumphant, marry the heroine, and then, with a grand final flourish of trumpets, the tale ends.

Now, I hope none of my readers will be disappointed if in this "o'er true tale" I depart from this established rule. My heroine is married, but the history of her life cannot end here. Perhaps it would be as well if it could, but truth compels me to go on and depict the dark as well as the bright side of a fiery yet generous nature--a nature common enough in this world, subject to error and weakness as we all are, and not in the least like one of those impossible angels oftener read of than seen.

Jane Eyre says a new chapter is like a new scene in a play. When the curtain rises this time, it discloses an elegantly furnished parlor, with pictures and lounges, and easy-chairs, and mirrors, and damask hangings, and all the other paraphernalia of a well-furnished room--time, ten o'clock in the morning. A cheerful fire burns in the polished grate, for it is a clear, cold December day, and diffuses a genial warmth through the cozy apartment.

In the middle of the floor stands a little round table, with a delicate breakfast-service of Sevres china and silver, whereon steams most fragrant Mocha, appetizing, nice waffles, and sundry other tempting edibles. Presiding here is a lady, young and "beautiful exceedingly,"

robed in a rich white cashmere morning wrapper, confined at the slender waist by a scarlet cord and ta.s.sels, and at the ivory throat by a flashing diamond breastpin. Her shining jet-black hair is brushed in smooth bands off her broad, queenly brow, and the damp braid just touches the rounded, flushed cheek. Very handsome and stately indeed she looks, yet with a sort of listless languor pervading her every movement, whether she lounges back in her chair, or slowly stirs her coffee with her small, dark hand, fairly blazing with jewels.

Opposite her sits a young gentleman of commanding presence and graceful bearing, who alternately talks to the lady, sips his coffee, and reads the morning paper.

"Do put away that tiresome paper, Richmond," said the lady, at last, half impatiently. "I don't see what you can possibly find to interest you in those farming details, and receipts for curing spasms in horses, and making hens lay. Of all stupid things those country papers are the stupidest."

"Except those who read them," said the gentleman, laughing. "Well, I bow to your superior wisdom, and obey, like a well-trained husband. And now, what are your ladyship's commands?"

"Talk," said the lady, yawning behind the tips of her fingers.

"Willingly, my dear. On what subject? I am ready to talk to order at a moment's notice."

"Well, I want to know if you have given up that Washington project? Are we to spend the winter in Burnfield?"

"I think so--yes," said Richmond, slowly. "It will be better, all things considered, that we should do so, and early in the spring we will start on our continental tour. Are you disappointed at this arrangement, Georgia?"

"Disappointed? Oh, no, no," said Georgia, with sparkling eyes. "I am so glad, Richmond. It seems so pleasant, and so much like home to be here, with no strange faces around us, and all those dreadful restraints and formalities at an end. I was _so_ tired of them all in New York."

"And yet you used to long so ardently for life in those large cities some time ago, Georgia. New York was a Paradise in your eyes--do you remember?"

"Oh, yes," said Georgia, laughing; "but that was because I knew nothing about it. I was dreadfully tired of Burnfield, and longed so for a change. 'Tis distance lends enchantment to the view,' you know, and the antic.i.p.ation was somewhat different from the reality."

"You did not like the reality?"

"No," said Georgia, with her usual truthful promptness.

"And yet I did everything to make you happy--you never expressed a wish that I did not gratify."

Tears sprang to Georgia's eyes at the implied reproach.

"Dear Richmond, I know it. It seems very ungrateful in me to talk so; but you know what I mean. I do not like strangers, and I met so many there; there were so many restraints, and formalities, and wearying ceremonies to be gone through, that I used to grow almost wild sometimes, and feel as if I wanted to rush out and fly, fly back to dear old Burnfield again, and never leave it. And then, those ladies were all so elegant and grand, and could keep on saying graceful nothings for hours, while I sat mute, tongue-tied, unable to utter a word of 'small talk,' and feeling awkward lest I should disgrace you by some dreadful _gaucherie_. Oh, Richmond, I was so proud, and fearless, and independent before I was married."

"_Too_ much so, Georgia," he interrupted, gravely.

"And now," she went on, unheeding his words, save by the deeper flush of her cheek. "I am almost timid, for your sake. When I was among all those people in New York I did not care for myself, but I was so afraid of mortifying _you_. I knew they used to watch Richmond Wildair's country bride to catch her in some outlandish act; and, oh, Richmond, when I would think of it, and find so many curious eyes watching me, as if I were some strange wild animal, I used to grow positively nervous--I, that never knew what nerves were before, and I used to wish--don't be angry, Richmond--that I had never married you at all. You used to call me an eaglet, Richmond, and I felt then like one chained and fettered, and I think I should have _died_ if you had made me stay there all winter."

There was a pa.s.sionate earnestness in her voice that did not escape him, but he answered lightly:

"Died! Pooh! don't be silly, Georgia. I _did_ see that you were painfully anxious at times, so much so that you even made _me_ nervous as well as yourself. You must overcome this; you must learn to be at ease. Remember, those are the people with whom you are to mingle for the rest of your life--not the common folks of Burnfield."

"They are a stiff, artificial set. I don't like them!" said Georgia, impetuously.

Richmond's brow darkened.

"Georgia!" he said, coldly.

"Perhaps it is because I have not become accustomed to my new position.

Any one suddenly raised from one sphere of life to another diametrically opposite, must feel strange and out of place. Why, Richmond," she said, smiling, "I am not even accustomed to that grand little housekeeper of yours yet. Her cold, stately magnificence overwhelms me. When she comes to me for orders, I fairly blush, and have to look at my diamonds and silks, and recollect I am Mrs. Wildair, of Richmond House, to keep my dignity. It is rather uncomfortable, all this; but time, that works wonders, will, I have no doubt, make me as stiff, and solemn, and sublimely grand, as even--Mrs. Hamm."

His face wore no answering smile; he was very grave.

"You are not angry, Richmond?" she said, deprecatingly.

"Not angry, Georgia, but annoyed. I do not like this state of things. My wife must be self-possessed and lady-like as well as handsome. You _must_ lose this country girl awkwardness, and learn to move easily and gracefully in your new sphere. You _must_ learn to sit at the head of my table, and do the honors of my house as becomes one whom I have seen fit to raise to the position of my wife."

"Raise!" exclaimed Georgia, with one of her old flashes, and a haughty lift of her head.

"In a worldly point of view, I mean. Physically, mentally, and morally, you are my equal; but in the eyes of the world, I have made a _mesalliance_; and that world whose authority I have spurned is malicious enough to witness with delight your rustic shyness, to call it by no more mortifying name. Georgia, I knew from the moment I first presented you to my mother that this explanation must come; but, knowing your high spirit, I had too much affection for you to speak of it sooner, and if I wound your feelings now, believe me, it is to make you happier afterward. You are too impulsive, and have not dissimulation enough, Georgia; your open and unconcealed dislike for some of those you met in town made you many enemies--did you know it?"

"Yes, I knew it; and this enmity was more acceptable to me than their friendship!" flashed Georgia.

"But not to me. It is better to have a dog fawn on you than bark at you, Georgia. I do not say to you to like them, but you might have concealed your _dis_like. A smile and courteous word costs little, and it might have saved you many a bitter sneer."

"I _cannot_ dissimulate; I _never_ dissimulated; I never did anything so mean!" said Georgia, pa.s.sionately.

"There is no meanness about it, Mrs. Wildair, and you might have spared the insinuation that I could urge you to do anything mean. Common politeness requires that you should be courteous to all, and I hope you will not mortify me again by any public display of your likes and dislikes."

Georgia arose impetuously from the table, and, with a burning cheek and flashing eye, walked to the window. What words can tell of the storm raging within her wild, proud heart, as she listened to his authoritative tone and words?

"It is necessary, too, that you should by degrees grow accustomed to what you call your strange position," he calmly went on, "before you enter the fashionable world at Washington, where you will make what you may call your _debut_. For that reason, while in New York, I invited a party of friends here to spend Christmas and New Year's, and you may expect them here now in less than a week."

She faced round as if her feet were furnished with steel springs, every feeling of rebellion roused into life at last.

"You did? And without consulting me?"

"Certainly, my dear. Have I not a right to ask my friends to my house?"

She laid her hand on her breast, as if to keep the storm within from breaking forth; but he saw it in the workings of her face.

"Come, Georgia, be reasonable," he said quietly. "I am sorry this annoys you, but it is absolutely necessary. Why, one would think, by your looks and actions, I was some monstrous tyrant, instead of a husband who loves you so well that he is willing to sacrifice his own fondness for solitude and quiet, that you may acquire the habits of good society."

She did not speak. His words had wounded her pride too deeply to be healed by his gentle tone.

"Well, Georgia?" he said, after a pause.

She turned her face to the window, and asked, huskily: