HE had not slept much the previous night. Indeed,
but for the dream which came to him in the early
morning, he would have sworn he had not slept at
all since parting from Miss Overton, just as the clock struck
twelve. He had left Georgie at an early hour, and tried, as
he kissed her cheek, to believe himself happy in the possession
of so much grace and beauty, and he wondered, as he
rode slowly home, at the strange disquietude which possessed
him, the feeling of something lost, or losing very fast from his
life; something which could have made him happier far than
he was now, for he was not happy, and as he went through
his beautiful grounds up to his handsome house, he would
have given all his fair heritage to have been free again, and
as he was one year ago; ay, less than a year ago, on that
September day when his mother's hired companion first
greeted his sight as he came up the avenue, and saw her
standing upon the vine-wreathed piazza. As she had been
there then, so she was now, with this exception: his mother
had retired, and Edna sat alone, enjoying, or thinking she
was enjoying, the glorious summer night, and trying to make
believe that she was happy; that there was no hidden pain
in her heart; no lingering regret for what could never be; no
love,—to put it in plain words,—for the man riding toward
her, and whose wedding-day was on the morrow. He saw

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her, and his heart gave a bound such as it never gave at sight
of Georgie, and then his quick eye noted next that she was
alone, and he was conscious of a glad kind of feeling that he
had left Oakwood so early. It was the very last interview
he would ever have with Miss Overton, and he meant to improve
it, never stopping to reflect that there was in his heart
disloyalty to Georgie, who might with reason have complained,
could she have seen how his face lighted up, and
how eagerly, after disposing of his horse, he bounded up the
steps of the piazza, and drew a chair near to Edna's.

It was a long, long talk they had together, and though
there was not, perhaps, a word spoken which might not with
safety have been repeated to Georgie, there were certain
tones of voice, and glances, which would not have borne
strict inspection; and Roy carried to his room that night a
heavier heart than men usually carry on the very eve of
their marriage. Had he made a mistake after all? The question
kept insinuating itself into his mind in spite of his efforts
to drive it out. Had he, at the last, been too precipitate,
and pledged himself to one who could never be to him what
another might have been? And then he went over all the
particulars attending his engagement with Georgie, remembering
how sudden it was; how but for Mr. Burton it would
probably not have been at all, and how strangely Georgie had
conducted at first, and how soon she had recovered herself
and taken things for granted. Then he looked on the other
side, and thought of Georgie's beauty, and goodness, and
amiability, and her love for him, which he could not doubt,
and in so doing, drew a little comfort to himself, and felt
that it was his own fault if he were not happy with her. He
could not think of Miss Overton; that is, he dared not dwell
upon what she was, and think how fully she satisfied him in
the very points where Georgie failed. It would be folly,
yes, a sin to do that now; and he resolutely put all such

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tormenting reflections aside, and then, sorry for any doubts
and misgivings which had tortured him, he prayed earnestly
that the thing which looked so dark to him now, might be
made clear as the day; that wherever he had wronged
Georgie, even in his thoughts, he might be forgiven, and be
to her all that a kind, true husband should be.

“I can make her happy, and I will,” he said to himself at
last, as he fell into a troubled sleep, and dreamed, not of
Georgie, but of “Brownie,” who seemed to be with him, and
in some trouble, too.

With a start he awoke, trying to make out where he was,
and who was calling him so anxiously, with so much terror
in the tone. It was Brownie's voice, sure; that was no
dream. Brownie was at his door speaking to him, and what
she said was this:

“Mr. Leighton, Mr. Leighton, wake up, please, and come
as quickly as you can. Something dreadful has happened.”

Swift as lightning his thoughts turned to his mother;
something had happened to her, and dear as she was to him,
and much as he would do to ward evil from her, he was
half-conscious of a pleasurable sensation, a feeling of hope
that the something which had happened might give him a
little longer respite. He was soon dressed, and out in the
hall with Edna, whose face was very white, and whose voice
trembled as she said to him:

“I have bad news for you, and I am so sorry that I should
be the one to tell it, but your mother is sleeping quietly and
I would not rouse her. A servant has just come from Oakwood,
and says that Miss Burton,—oh, forgive me that I
must tell you,—Miss Burton has had a stroke of paralysis,
and can neither move nor speak.”

He was not glad, and it was not a sense of freedom which
made him clutch Edna's shoulder so firmly, as if he saw already
a path which led toward her. He was shocked,

[figure description] Page 364.[end figure description]

frightened, and filled with remorse as he remembered all the
past, and how he had wished to escape.

“Paralysis, and she seemed so well when I left her!
When was it? How was it?” he asked, and Edna told him
of the burglar, and what she had heard from the Oakwood
servant.

“You will go at once,” she said as he made no movement,
and that roused him to action.

“Yes, certainly,” he answered, and then hurried down
stairs, and out into the yard, where his horse was already
saddled and waiting for him.

Edna had given orders to that effect before she called him,
and she stood watching him as he galloped down the avenue
and turned toward Oakwood.

Georgie seemed better; had spoken once, and moved her
fingers just a little, they told Roy, in answer to his inquiries;
but when he asked if he could see her, he was put off with
the excuse that a sight of him might excite her too much at
present, and then he asked for Mrs. Burton, and was going
to her room, when Mr. Burton exclaimed:

“Don't for thunder's sake go there. She's in the awfulest
hysterics, I reckon, you ever run against, and the old boy
generally is to pay.”

But Mrs. Burton would see Roy, and so he went to her,
and at sight of him she went off into another cramp, and
clutched him round the neck, and cried and sobbed over
him, and called him her poor, dear boy, and spoke so touchingly
of Georgie, that Roy, always sympathetic, felt the tears
rush to his own eyes as he tried to comfort her. The house
was full of guests, some of whom were huddled together in
groups, talking over the terrible calamity, while others were
packing their trunks preparatory to leaving on the first train
for New York. There would be no wedding that day, of
course, so all the morning the baggage wagon came and

[figure description] Page 365.[end figure description]

went, as guest after guest departed, both from Oakwood and
the hotel, until Summerville generally was emptied of its
strangers, and an air of gloom settled down upon it, as the
citizens thought of the sad change a few hours had wrought.

They had told Georgie of Roy's presence in the house,
and how he cried in Mrs. Burton's room. Then every
muscle of Georgie's face was convulsed, and Jack, who was
with her constantly, never forgot the look of anguish which
came into her eyes, or the quivering motion of her lips as
she tried in vain to speak again. What she thought no one
could guess, and she was powerless to tell, as she lay there
all the day listening so eagerly to all they said about the
hunt for the burglar, which was still going on.

“They will be pretty sure to find him; he cannot escape,”
Jack said, and then Georgie gave forth a cry which curdled
his very blood, and made him turn quickly towards her, trying
to read what she wanted in her eyes.

But he could not, though he thought he understood that
talking of the burglar distressed her, and he forbade the mention
of the subject in her presence again. Even that did not
satisfy her. There was the same strange look in her eyes
when they rested on his face, the same evident desire to say
something to him, and after a time she succeeded. They
were alone, he and she, for he would not leave her, and she
would not suffer it if he would. She had seemed to be
sleeping, and all had left the room but Jack, who sat rubbing
her hand, and marvelling at the great change in her
face within so short a time.

“Ja—ack,” she said, and after a pause added, “Don't—”

Then she waited again, and Jack asked: “Don't what,
sister! Don't leave you? Is that it?”

She shook her head and managed to say “Catch.”

Still Jack had no idea of what she meant, but he put the
two words together and asked: “Don't catch what?”

[figure description] Page 366.[end figure description]

“Ma—an,” she gasped with a tremendous effort, and
there came a horrible suspicion across Jack's mind.

It could not be possible either, he thought, though if it
were true it would account for the terrible shock to Georgie.

“Did you think you knew the man?” he asked; and
Georgie nodded her head, while the tears gathered in her
eyes and rolled down her cheeks.

Jack asked her no more questions then. He hoped and
believed she was mistaken; but when later in the day the
men who had gone in pursuit came back reporting their
ill success, he managed adroitly to cool their ardor a little,
and threw what obstacles he could in the way of their continuing
the search. He was to write a notice for the papers,
but he conveniently forgot it, and put it off until the following
day, and Georgie's face looked brighter when he told her
what he was doing. She had not seen Roy yet, though he
had been in the house all the time, now sitting with Mrs.
Burton, who had taken to her bed, and was more troublesome
than Georgie, and now walking slowly up and down
the piazza, with his head bent forward and his hands clasped
together behind his back. Of what he was thinking, all
guessed, but none knew how full of remorse he was when he
remembered the previous night when he had shrunk so from
his fate, and half wished that something might arise to save
him from it. Something had arisen, a terrible something,
and to himself he said, as he walked up and down, “I did
not want this to happen; did not want Georgie harmed, and
if I could, how gladly I would save her.”

His heart was very full of pity and tenderness, and almost
love, for the poor girl, who never forgot him for a moment,
and who felt comforted in knowing that it was his step she
heard so constantly passing beneath her window. She had
intervals when speech was easier, and in one of these, which
came toward the sun-setting, she beckoned to Jack, who was

[figure description] Page 367.[end figure description]

at her side in an instant, trying to comprehend her meaning.

“Roy,” she said, then paused a moment, and added,
“Free—free;—tell him—now.”

Jack understood her, but did not go at once.

“Wait awhile before doing that,” he said. “You may
get entirely well; the doctor says so.”

“Ne-e-ver,” and Georgie shook her head and touched her
helpless hand. “Ne-e-ver,”—de-ad,” touching again her
hand and arm; then pointing to her face and heart she continued,
“Shall—die—soon;—tell—Roy—f-ree—n-ow.”

She was growing excited, and Jack left her with Maude,
and went out to Roy, who stopped in his walk and asked
how Georgie was, and when he might see her.

“Not yet,” Jack said. “She seems morbid on that subject;
perhaps because her face is not quite natural, and she
thinks it might distress you to see her beauty so marred.
And, Roy, she sent me to tell you that you are free. She
insisted that I should come,” he added, as he met Roy's look
of surprise. “She was growing excited, and to quiet her I
came to tell you that you are free from your engagement.”

For an instant Roy experienced a feeling of relief, a lifting
of his spirits, but he quickly put it aside, and said to
Jack:

“Tell your sister that only her death or mine can sever
the tie between us. She was to have been my wife to-night,
and as such I look upon her, no matter how maimed and
stricken she may be. Tell her I am waiting to see her, to
help you take care of her, that I think I have a right superior
to yours. Ask if I may come.”

This was his answer, which Jack carried to Georgie, who,
with a frantic effort, tried to raise her helpless hand to clasp
within the other, while her lips quivered and the tears rolled
in torrents down her cheeks.

[figure description] Page 368.[end figure description]

“Don't—de-serve—it,” she managed to articulate, and
Jack, who knew her so well, felt that she spoke truly, but
pitied her just the same, and tried to quiet and comfort her,
and asked her if she would see Roy then.

She shook her head; but when Jack said, “Is it a comfort
to you to know that he is here?” she nodded twice;
and so, though he could not see her, Roy staid all night at
Oakwood, and for hours walked slowly up and down the
piazza, always in the same attitude, with head bent forward
and his hands locked behind him. They had told him that
Georgie was quieter when she heard his step, and that when
it ceased she seemed to listen for it; and so, unmindful of
his own fatigue, he kept up the same weary round, until the
moon, which should have lighted him to the altar, was past
the zenith, and down toward the west. Then Jack came
out and told him Georgie was asleep. So he paused in
his walking, and sinking into a chair began to feel how
worn and tired he was.

Edna had come over late in the afternoon, and with
Maude and Jack was watching by Georgie's bedside. She
had not seen Roy since the morning when she had broken
the tidings to him; but when Jack came in and told how
exhausted he was, she poured a glass of wine from a decanter
on the sideboard, and placing it with some crackers on a
little silver tray, carried it out to him.

“You are tired, Mr. Leighton,” she said, “and I have
brought you this; try and take some of it.”

He had not heard her step, but at the sound of her voice
he started, and the weary look upon his face disappeared at
once. He drank the wine and took one of the crackers, and
thanked her for her thoughtfulness, and asked if she too were
not very tired.

“Sit down and rest,” he said, offering her his chair, and
bringing another for himself. “Jack told me she was

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sleeping. You are not needed there now. Stay with me
awhile.”

So she sat down beside him, but neither talked much to the
other, and when they spoke it was of Georgie and the fearful
thing which had come upon her. Roy was very tired,
and after sitting awhile in silence, Edna knew by his breathing
that he had fallen asleep. “If he only had a pillow, or
something at the back of that chair for his head, he would
rest so much better,” she thought, and going into the hall,
she brought out her own shawl and adjusted it so carefully,
that he did not awake, though he stirred a little and said
something which sounded like “my darling.” Of course he
meant Georgie, and Edna left him there to dream of the
poor girl who was sleeping also, and who was better in the
morning when she woke.

The twisted look about the mouth was nearly gone, and
her right eye was much like the other in its expression.
Still she could not use her hand at all, or speak except with
difficulty, and she persisted in refusing to see Roy, who went
home to breakfast with his mother, and then returned to Oakwood,
where for several days he spent most of his time, until
at last Georgie signified her willingness to see him. She was
looking quite bright and natural, and Maude had made her
neat and tidy in one of her prettiest white wrappers, while
Edna, who was there also, had combed and curled her long
black hair and put a white rosebud in it, and had said to
her encouragingly, “You look very sweetly, Miss Burton,
and I am sure Mr. Leighton will think so too. Shall I hold
the glass for you to see yourself?”

Georgie shook her head; she was satisfied with the verdict
of her young nurse, and nodded her readiness for Roy.
Both Maude and Edna left the room as he came in, and so
no one witnessed that first interview between them, when,
far more lover-like than he had ever been before toward her,

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Roy kissed her pallid lips, and called her dear Georgie, and
told her she was better, and would soon be well.

Then she spoke slowly, painfully: “Ne-ver, Roy, ne-ver—
well; nev-er—your—wife; be-lieve—it—can-not—be,
even—if I—should—live. I shall—die. Am—afraid—to
die; pray, Roy;—pray—for—me.”

And Roy did pray beside her bed, and with her hand in
his, he asked in a choking voice that God would spare her
life. But Georgie stopped him short, and gasped:

“Not that, Roy; pray—I may be—ready; pray Him to—
forgive; and there's—more to—forgive—than—you know;
pray for me,—for that.”

Roy's voice was very low, and sad, and earnest now, as
he asked forgiveness for the stricken woman before him;
that, whether living or dying she might be God's child, and
find the peace she sought.

“Can you say `Our Father,' with me?” he asked; and
Georgie tried to follow him, her lips making a queer sound,
and repeating twice, “forgive our trespasses,—my trespasses;
my sin.”

“My sin,” was her burden; and Roy, who did not understand,
prayed for her generally until she seemed quiet,
though the great tears kept dropping from her eyelids and
she tried to disengage her hand from his, and shrank so evidently
from his caresses, that he ceased at last, and only sat
by her as a stranger would have done.

After a while Jack, who had been resting, came up, and
then Roy went away to Leighton with Georgie's farewell
words ringing in his ears: “Pray, Roy; pray for me.”

She did not again refuse to see him, and he visited her every
day, and sent her fruit and flowers, and tried sometimes to
think she was improving, but Jack knew better. There was
no life in her right side now, nor ever would be again. Her
speech had come back to her, so that she talked less

p595-376 [figure description] Page 371.[end figure description]

painfully, but she was fast wasting away, consumed, the doctor
said, by a slow fever which he could not understand.
Indeed, he did not understand her case at all, and puzzled
his brain over it, while she grew weaker, more helpless, and
more restless, too, begging to be moved so often, that even
Jack's strong arms grew tired at last, but never for that relaxed
one whit in their efforts to do for her. Tender and
faithful as a mother to her sick and only child, he gave up
his whole time to her, feeling repaid for all he did when he
saw how she clung to him, and how much better she seemed
when he was with her. No one could fill his place, not
even Roy, who spent a great deal of his time at Oakwood,
where everything was overshadowed in gloom, and where
the inmates just lived on from day to day, waiting for, and
wondering what to-morrow would bring.