The Actress' Daughter Part 54

"Weep not, Georgia," said Richmond, gently removing her hands; "his death was the death of the just. May my last end be like unto his."

But still she wept hot, gus.h.i.+ng tears that would not be stayed--tears that fell, not wildly, but that came from the heart, and were sanctified to the memory of the early dead. At last--

"Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord," she softly murmured, lifting her pale face; "G.o.d be merciful to his soul! Dear Charley!"

"He died like a saint, Georgia; he expired like a child falling asleep in his mother's arms, with a smile on his lips; death had no terror for him."

"Were you with him, Richmond?"

"Yes--thank G.o.d! Oh, Georgia, I had hardened my heart against him, and yet when I would pa.s.s him on the street--I did often pa.s.s him, Georgia--every feeling in my heart would be stirred, and no words can tell how I would yearn for him, my own, my only brother. I saw he was dying day by day, and yet pride--that curse, that bane that has dogged me like an evil spirit from childhood up--would not let me step over the barrier I myself had raised, and sue for forgiveness. At last came the news that he was sick unto death, and then I could hold out no longer. I went, Georgia--went in time to hear him forgive me, and to see him die.

Oh, Georgia, I shall never forget it--never! Oh, Charley, my gay, thoughtless, light-hearted brother! to think you should be lying in that far-off church-yard, cold and dead."

"Grieve not, my husband," said Georgia, earnestly, as she laid her hand on his, "but look forward to a happy meeting in heaven. And now of others--your mother, Richmond?"

"Is dead, too. Oh, Georgia, she wronged you. Can you ever forgive her?"

"Yes, as freely and fully as I hope to be forgiven. May she rest in peace! And your cousin, Richmond."

She smiled slightly, and Richmond met her bright glance with a sort of honest shame.

"I feel like going down on my knees to you, Georgia, when _that_ name is mentioned. She is well--or was when I saw her last--and safely married."

"Indeed! To whom, pray?"

Richmond laughed.

"Do you remember Mr. Lester, of foppish memory, who made one of that party to Richmond House two years ago--'Aw, weally such a boah'"--and Richmond mimicked him to perfection.

"What a shame!" said Georgia, laughing; "of course I remember him. Is it possible she has married that little dandy?"

"That she has, and a precious life she leads him, if all Curtis says be true, for I never go there myself. The gray mare in that stable is decidedly the better horse."

"So I should imagine. But where is Miss Reid? Mr. Lester used to be tender in that quarter, if I remember right."

"Oh, yes: but she married Gleason--Lieutenant Gleason, you know. That gallant officer proposed, and Miss Reid found it too much trouble to refuse, so she became Mrs. Gleason the second."

"Well, I wish them joy, all. How strangely things turn out in this world, don't they, Richmond?"

"Why, yes," said Richmond, laughingly, "rather so--your finding that unexpected brother, for instance. But you don't ask for your old friends in Burnfield--have you forgotten them, Georgia?"

"Forgotten them! Oh, Richmond."

"Well, don't look so reproachfully; you know I didn't mean it. You want to go and see them, I suppose?"

"Oh, indeed I do. Dear Miss Jerusha, and dear little Emily, and----"

"Dear little Betsey Periwinkle," interposed Richmond.

"Yes; just so," said Georgia, resolutely; "a really good friend of mine was Betsey, and very intimate we were. Yes, I want to see them all; when will you take me there, Richmond?"

"In one week from this, Georgia; I cannot get away before; and then, with your brother, we will make a pilgrimage to Burnfield, and you can look once more at the 'auld hoose at hame.' You will have to go down on your knees and intercede for me with Miss Jerusha, or she will never forgive me for the way I behaved to her darling."

"Oh, how I long to go back there again! Now that the time is near, I feel twice as impatient as I did before. A whole week! I wonder if it will ever pa.s.s."

But it did pa.s.s, and another, too, and busy weeks they were with the governor and his lady. The nine days' wonder of her appearance had scarcely yet pa.s.sed away when Mr. and Mrs. Wildair and Mr. Randall left B----, en route for the little "one-horse" town of Burnfield.

A fairer day never came out of the sky than the one that heralded Georgia's return to Burnfield--dear old Burnfield! fairer in her eyes than Florence, the beautiful, brighter than Rome, the imperial, for her home was there. Nothing was changed. There stood Richmond House, the pride and boast of the town still, there was the pleasant home of Emily Murray, there was the old school-house where her stormy girlhood had been spent.

As she gazed, she lay back amid the cus.h.i.+ons of the carriage and put her hand before her face, that they might not see how deeply she was moved.

Her brother looked out with mingled interest and curiosity, and with a dim recollection of the few wretched days and nights he had pa.s.sed here.

Richmond looked on the familiar objects with mingled gladness and remorse, and recollected, with many strange emotions, that the last time he had entered Burnfield it had been with his bride, as they returned from their brief city tour. Only two years since then, and what changes had taken place! Mr. d.i.c.k Curtis, who had insisted on making one of their party, and positively refused to take no for an answer, was of them all the only one perfectly unmoved, and sat looking at the familiar landmarks as they drove past, with a face of grave approval.

"Fine place, sir--fine place," said Mr. Curtis, with a wave of his hand; "considerable of a town is Burnfield, eh, Randall? Not equal to Paris, you know, or Lapland, or the great St. Bernard, or any of the other tremendous cities, but a pretty tall place considering, and a real, genuine Yankee town. And then the produce--I defy the world to raise such girls, and boys, and pumpkins as they do in Burnfield. I defy 'em to do it, sir! Look at that young lady there, in the pink sun-bonnet and red cheeks, round as a cask of lager beer, and sweet as a cart-load of summer cherries--there's a specimen of American ingenuity for you! Could they surpa.s.s that in Constantinople or the city of Dublin, or any other distant or impossible region? No, sir; they couldn't. I defy 'em to do it, sir! Yes, I repeat it," said Mr. Curtis, striking his knee with his hand, and glaring round ferociously at the company generally, "I defy 'em to do it, sir."

Mr. Curtis was as fierce as an African lion, so everybody immediately settled down and looked serious.

"The notion," said Mr. Curtis, folding his arms and surveying his three companions in haughty disgust, "that they can raise as good-looking people in any other quarter of the world as they can in these here blessed United States. Look at me now," said Mr. Curtis, drawing himself up till his suspenders snapped, "_I'm_ a specimen! Mr. Randall, my young friend, you have traveled, you have crossed that small pond, the Atlantic, and have become personally acquainted with all the great guns of Europe, from the Hottentots of Portugal to the people of 'that beautiful city called Cork,' and now I ask you as an enlightened citizen and fellow sinner, did you ever, in all your wanderings, clap your two eyes on a better-looking young man than the individual now addressing you? Don't answer hastily--take time for reflection. You know you didn't--you know you didn't; the thing's impossible."

"Mr. Curtis must be the best judge of his own surpa.s.sing beauty," said Mr. Randall, politely; "if he will hold me excused, I would rather not give an opinion on the subject."

"Welcome to Richmond House," said Mr. Wildair, as the carriage rolled up the avenue. "And now, gentlemen, I will leave you here for the present, while Mrs. Wildair goes to see her former guardian, Miss Jerusha Skamp."

"Perhaps I had better go alone, Richmond," said Georgia, hesitatingly.

"Our first meeting----"

"Had better be unwitnessed; that is true enough," said Richmond. "Well, John will drive you down. Shall I call for you in person?"

"If Miss Jerusha consents to forgive you, I shall send for you, if Fly is still in the land of the living," said Georgia, smiling. "Good-by, gentlemen;" and kissing her hand, and laughing at Mr. Curtis, who nearly turned a somerset in his profound genuflexion, she was whirled away toward the cottage.

Yes, there it stood still, the same old brown, low-roofed little homestead. How different was this visit to it to what had been her last.

There was her own little room under the roof, and there, in the broad window-sill, basking in the broader suns.h.i.+ne, lay Betsey Periwinkle and one of her numerous family, lazily blinking their sleepy eyes.

Georgia's heart beat fast as she leaped out of the carriage and walked slowly toward the house. Gathering the sweeping folds of her purple satin dress in one hand, she rapped timidly, faltering at the door.

It was opened by Fly--yes, it was Fly, no doubt about it--who opened her eyes and jumped back with a screech when she saw who it was.

"Hush, Fly! How do you do?" said Georgia, tapping her black cheek. "Is Miss Jerusha in?"

But Fly, in her astonishment and consternation, was incapable of speech; and smiling at her stunned look, Georgia swept past and entered the "best room."

There it was, still unchanged, and there, in her rocking-chair in the chimney-corner, knitting away, sat Miss Jerusha, unchanged, too. Old Father Time seemed to have no power over her iron frame. She did not hear Georgia's noiseless entrance, and it was only when a bright vision in glittering robes of silk and velvet, with dark tearful eyes and sadly smiling lips, knelt at her feet, and two white youthful arms, with gold bracelets flas.h.i.+ng thereon, encircled her waist, and a sweet, vibrating voice softly murmured, "Dear, dear, Miss Jerusha," that she looked up.

Looked up, with a wild cry, and half arose, then fell back in her seat, and flinging her arms round her neck, fell on her shoulder with one loud pa.s.sionate cry of "Georgia! Georgia!"