The Actress' Daughter Part 27

"Who are coming?"

"My mother and cousin, the Arlingfords, Mrs. Harper and her two daughters, Colonel and Mrs. Gleason, and their two sons, Miss Reid, and Mr. Lester."

"All I dislike most."

"All you dislike most, Mrs. Wildair?" he said, coolly. "What am I to understand by that?"

"What I say. I have not yet learned to dissimulate," she said, bitterly.

"Really, Mrs. Wildair, this is pleasant. I presume you forget my mother."

Georgia was silent.

"Am I to understand, Mrs. Wildair, that my mother is included in the catalogue of those you dislike?"

Georgia did not speak.

"Mrs. Wildair," he said, calmly, "will it please you to reply? I am accustomed to be answered when I speak."

"Oh, Richmond, don't ask me. How can I help it? I tried to like your mother, but--"

Her voice choked, and she stopped.

He went over, and lifted the face she had covered with her hands, and looked into it with a smile.

"But you failed. You did not understand each other. Well, never mind, Georgia; you will like each other better by and by. You will have to do so, as she is going to live with us altogether."

"_What!_"

"My dear, be calm. How intensely excitable you are! Certainly, she will live here: she is all alone now, you know--she and my cousin; and is it not natural that this should be their home?"

"_Your cousin, too?_"

"Of course. Why, Georgia, you might have known it. They are my only relatives, for he who was once my brother is dead to us all. Georgia, is it possible you hate my mother and cousin?"

He spoke in a tone so surprised and grieved that Georgia was touched.

Forcing a smile, she looked up in his grave face, and said:

"Oh, Richmond, I did not mean to hurt your feelings; forgive me if I have done so. I will try to like all your friends, because they are yours. I will try to tutor this undisciplined heart, and be all you could wish. It startled me at first, that is all. It was so pleasant here, with no one but ourselves, and I was so happy since our return, that I forgot it could not always last. Yes, indeed, Richmond, I _will_ like your mother and cousin, and try to be as urbane and courteous to all our guests as even you are. Am I forgiven _now_, Richmond?"

Half an hour later, Georgia was alone in her own room, lying prostrate on a couch, with her face buried in the cushions, perfectly still, but for the sort of shiver that ran at intervals through her slight frame.

It was their first quarrel, or anything approaching a quarrel, and Georgia had been crushed, wounded, and humiliated, as she had never been before in her life. It may seem a slight thing; but in her pride she was so acutely sensitive, that now she lay in a sort of anguish, with her hands clasped over her heart, as if to still its tumultuous throbbings, looking forward with a dread that was almost horror to the coming of all those strangers, but more than all, to the coming of her husband's mother and cousin.

All that day she was changed, and was as haughty and self-possessed as any of those fine ladies, her husband's friends. The calm, dignified politeness of Mrs. Hamm looked like impudence to her in her present mood, and when that frigid little lady came to ask about dinner, there were two burning spots on Georgia's cheeks, and a high, ringing tone of command in her voice that made Mrs. Hamm open her languid eyes in faint amaze, which was as far as she could ever go in the way of astonishment.

Late that evening, as she sat in the drawing-room, practicing her music lesson,--for she was learning music now,--Emily Murray was announced, and the next moment, bright, breezy, smiling, and sunshiny, she came dancing in, like an embodied sunbeam.

"Mother's been over spending the afternoon with Miss Jerusha," said Emily, "and I felt so lonesome at home that I overcame my awe of Richmond House and its grand inmates, and thought I would run up and see you. Hope, like Paul Pry, I do not intrude?"

Georgia's reply was a kiss. She had been feeling so sad all day that her heart gave a glad bound at sight of Emily.

"Why, what's the matter, Georgie? You look pale and troubled. What has happened?" said Emily, her affectionate eyes discovering the change in her friend's tell-tale face.

"Nothing; at least, not much. I am a little out of spirits to-day; everyone is at times," said Georgia, with a faint smile. "My moods were always changeable, you know."

"Well, I hope you will not acquire that anxious, worried look most housekeepers wear," said Emily, gayly. "You have it exactly now, and it quite spoils your beauty. Come, smile and look pleasant, and tell me all about your journey to New York. Did you have a good time?"

"Yes," said Georgia, coloring slightly; "I enjoyed myself pretty well.

We went to the theater and opera almost every night, and I went to a great many parties of one kind and another. But Burnfield's _home_ after all, and there was no Emily in New York city."

"Flatterer!" said Emily, laughing; "and did you see Mr. Wildair's relatives there, too?"

"Yes," said Georgia, in a changed tone. "He has no relatives but his mother and a certain Miss Richmond, a cousin of his, and an orphan."

"You forget his brother--our old friend Charley?"

"He is not at home now--I have not even heard his name mentioned for many a day."

"Indeed?" said Emily, surprised. "How is that? I feel an interest in him, you know," she added, laughing; "he was so handsome, and droll, and winning--twice as nice, with reverence be it said, as your grave, stately liege lord."

"Well, it appears he did something. I never heard what, but Richmond says he disgraced the family, and they have disowned him. What his fault is I do not know, but one of the effects of it is, that he has lost the inheritance Squire Richmond left him. You see the way it was, my husband inherited all the landed property and half the bank stock, and Charley the remaining half. Not a very fair division, you will say; but as Richmond bore the family name, and was more after his uncle's heart than his wilder brother, the old gentleman saw fit to leave him most. As the bank stock was large, however, Charley's fortune was no trifle; but to it certain conditions were annexed, namely: that he should marry this young lady cousin, Miss Richmond, and take the family name before he went abroad. Charley only laughed at it, and declared his perfect willingness to marry 'Freddy'--her name is Fredrica--who would be handy to have about the house, he said, to pull off his boots, sew on b.u.t.tons, and sing him to sleep of an afternoon. Miss Richmond, on her part, made no objection, and that matter seemed settled; but whatever he has done, it has completely broken up the whole affair, and his share comes to Richmond along with his own. So, my dear little snow-flake, that is all I know of your handsome Charley," concluded Georgia, with her own bright smile.

"It is all very strange," said Emily, musingly; "and I cannot realize that the gay, careless, but ever kind youth that we knew, and whom everybody loved, has become fallen and degraded, as all this would seem to imply. What sort of a person is this Miss Richmond he was to marry?"

Georgia's beautiful lip curled with a scorn too intense for words.

"She is a--But, as I cannot tell my impressions of her without speaking ill of the absent, I will be silent. In a few days you will have a chance to see her for yourself, as she is coming here to live."

"Indeed!" said Emily, slowly, fixing her eyes anxiously on Georgia's face--"indeed! Would you not be happier without her?"

"That is not the question," said Georgia, in a tone of reserve, for she was too proud to let even Emily know how much she disliked this visit; "it will not do for Richmond and me to make hermits of ourselves altogether, you know, so a large party from the city are coming here to spend Christmas. And, Emily, I want _you_ to come too; they are all more or less strangers to me, and it will be such a comfort to look on your dear, familiar face when I grow tired of playing the hostess to all those grand folks. Say, little darling, will you come?"

The dark eyes were raised with such a look of earnest entreaty to her face that Emily stooped down and kissed the pleading lips before she answered.

"Dear Georgia, I cannot; I would not be happy among so many strangers--I should feel like a fish out of water, you know. We can meet often when no strange eyes are looking on; they would not understand us, nor we them, Georgia. And now, good-by; Uncle Edward is coming to tea, so I must hurry home."

She was gone. The airy little form and bright face flashed out of the door, and Georgia felt as if all the sunshine in that grand, cold room had gone with her. Impatiently she rose from the piano, and with a rebellious rising in her heart, walked to the window and looked out with a darkening brow.

"She shrinks from meeting this crowd--so do I. She need not meet them, but I have to--I must. Oh! hateful word. If there was a single bond of sympathy between me and one of them--but there is not. They come here to criticise and sneer at Richmond Wildair's country bride--to have a good subject to laugh over when they go back to the city. Richmond says I am morbid on this subject, but I am not. And that cousin, too--that smooth silvery-voiced, oily little cheat. Oh! why, why did he invite her here?

I hate her--I loathe her. I shrank from her the moment I first saw her, with her snake-like movements and fawning smile. And she is to live here; to spy upon me night and day; to drive me wild with her cringing servility, hiding her mockery and covert sneers. I think I could get along with his mother, with all her open scorn and supercilious contempt; galling as it is, it is at least open, and not mean, prying and treacherous; but this horrid, despicable cousin that I loathe even more than I hate--oh! I dread her coming; I shrink from it; it makes my flesh creep to think of it. Oh, Richmond! if you knew how I detest this earthworm of a cousin, would you ever have invited her here? Yes, I know he would. I feel he would. He would be shocked, horrified, indignant, if he knew how I feel on the subject; so he shall never know. He would think it my duty to overcome this sinful feeling, and insist upon my being doubly kind to her to atone for it. He likes her--so does his mother--so does every one else; they believe in her silky smile, her soft, treacherous voice, and cat-like step, and mean, underhand fawning; but I--I see through her, and she knows it. She dislikes me. I saw that through all her cringing, officious attentions and professions of affection, and only loathed her the more.

"Oh!" cried Georgia, pacing up and down the room, "this is, indeed, awakening from my delusive dream. Perhaps I am too sensitive--Richmond says I am; but I cannot help feeling so. I was so perfectly happy since our return, but now it is at an end. Our delicious solitude is to be invaded by those cold, unsympathizing worldlings, who come here to gratify their curiosity and see how the awkward country girl will do the honors of stately Richmond country-house. Oh! why am _I_ not sufficient?

Why need he invite all these people here? But I forget they are his friends; they are to him what Emily Murray is to me. Dear, loving, happy little Emily! with her calm, seraphic eyes, and pure, serene brow.

_What_ is the secret of her inward happiness? How different she is from me; even in childhood none of those storms of pa.s.sion agitated her, that distracted my tempestuous youth. Can it be that Christianity, in which she so implicity believes, has anything to do with this perfect peace?

_Is_ there a heaven?" she said, going back to the window and looking gloomily out. "Sometimes I have doubted it; and yet there _ought_ to be.

Our best happiness in this world is so short, so feverish, so fleeting, and the earthly strife is so long, and wearisome, and sorrowful, that we need perfect rest and peace somewhere. Two short months ago I was so happy--oh, _so_ happy!--and now, at this first slight trial, my heart lies like lead in my bosom. How false the dazzling glitter of this world is!"

And, as if involuntarily, she murmured the beautiful words of Moore: