University of Virginia Library

37. CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE NIGHT OF THE PARTY.

ROY was not at home when Georgie came with the
news of Edna's intended absence, and, when he
heard it from his mother, he evinced more dissatisfaction
even than she had done, and finally after lunch
drove over to Jersey City, determined to bring Edna back.

She was surprised and glad to see him, and there was a
flush on her cheek, and a soft light in her brown eyes, which
in spite of her worn, tired look, made her very beautiful as
she stood, with her hand in his, in the reception-room, listening
to his anxious inquiries as to how she had passed the
night, and his intention of taking her home with him.”

“Oh, I cannot do that,” she said. “I cannot leave Annie
now. You don't know how sick she is, or you would not
ask it.”

“But surely there are others whose duty it is more than
yours to forego their pleasure,” Roy rejoined, and Edna
answered:

“She has no relatives except Mr. Heyford and Miss Burton,
and she, you know, cannot be here; and, as I will not
leave Maude alone, I must stay. I am sorry, for I did
anticipate the party a little, but I think I am doing right.”

Roy thought so too, and involuntarily pressed the hand
which Edna had all the time been quietly trying to withdraw
from his grasp. He did not urge her further, nor ask to see
Annie. He was not specially interested in the latter, save
as he would be in any sick person: and just at that particular
time he felt her to be rather a bother, and wondered why
she need have been sick when he wanted Miss Overton at
home.

“Don't say anything to alarm Miss Burton, please,” Edna
said to him as he was about to leave. “We know she cannot
come now, but to-morrow morning we shall expect her
sure.”

Rapidly the day passed to the inmates of No. — Madison
Square, where all was bustle and excitement, and eager anticipation;
and rapidly, too, passed the day at No. — in Jersey
City, where Jack, and Maude, and Edna watched the
death-sign creeping slowly upon the face of the dying child.

All the afternoon she lay in a kind of stupor, never moving
or speaking, except occasionally to utter Georgie's name;
but about dark there came a change,—a great restlessness,
with a continual asking for sister and mother.

“Oh! where and who was she? How shall I know her
in heaven if I never saw her here? How did she look?
Tell me, Jack, was my mother beautiful?” she asked, and
Jack replied:

“Yes, damnably beautiful.”

The last was under his breath, and Annie only heard the
first word, and asked again:

“Beautiful as Georgie, Jack?”

A suppressed groan was Jack's only reply as he paced up
and down the room, whispering to himself:

“Oh! why am I thus punished for her sin? It has been
so always. I have suffered, and she has escaped. Is that
just or right?”

He was questioning Heaven's dealings with himself, when
suddenly there flashed into his mind the words, “Vengeance
is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord,” and he paused quickly
in his walk, with a half shudder, as he thought how far from
him was the wish for vengeance to overtake the woman who
had sinned, and for whom he had borne so much,—ay, and
for whom he was ready and willing to bear more, if need be.

He would not harm a hair of that beautiful head, and, with a
softer look upon his face, he went to Annie's side, and
soothed and quieted her until she fell asleep, resting this
time for half an hour or more. Then the restlessness returned,
accompanied with moments of delirium, in which she
called piteously for Georgie to hold her aching head.

“Her hands are so soft and cool, and rest me so, and I
love her so much. Go to her, Jack; tell her to come; tell
her Annie is dying, and wants to see her again. She said I
should have the nice room when she was married to Mr.
Leighton, and I wanted to live so bad, and asked Jesus
would He let me; but I'm willing now, only I must see
Georgie first.”

Thus she talked on until the clock was striking seven, and
the attending physician came in. He saw at once that she
was dying, and as he listened to her plaintive pleadings for
Georgie, he said to Jack:

“If this Georgie can be reached, my advice is to reach
her.”

Jack hesitated a moment, glanced at the white, wasted
form upon the bed, and then thought of the house on Madison
Square, ablaze with light by that time, and of the brilliant
woman who was undoubtedly decking herself in her
fairest garb for the occasion, and whose black eyes would
flash so angrily, perhaps, should he go for her then.

“I can't, I can't,” he thought; but when the voice, fainter
now than when it spoke before, said again, “Has Jack gone
for Georgie?” he went to her and whispered: “Darling, I
am going.”

“And you won't come back without her? Promise,
Jack.”

“No, I won't come back without her; I swear it to you,
Annie. I'll bring her, or not come myself.”

One kiss he pressed upon the white face, feeling that it

might be the last, and then rushing swiftly down the stairs,
and out into the street, he hailed the first car which passed,
and was on his way to Madison Square.

Georgie was dressed at last; every fold and flower, and
curl, and jewel was in its place, and she stood before her
mirror, flushed with pride and excitement, and thinking
within herself that few that night could compete with her
in beauty, even if the first freshness of youth was gone, and
her face did show signs of maturity. Had Miss Overton
been there, Georgie felt that she might have had a rival, for
there was a wonderful power about the fair young girl to
charm and fascinate. But she was away, across the river,
doing what Georgie should have done; and when Georgie
remembered that, she felt a pang of remorse, and wondered
how Annie was, and said to herself, with a shudder,

“What if she should die to-night! I never could get
over it.”

There was a knock at the door, and the maid, who had
left her a few moments before, handed her Jack's card. The
bright color faded in an instant from Georgie's cheeks, as
she felt what Jack's presence there at that time portended,
and she leaned against her dressing-table heavily, as she said:

“Tell him I will see him here.”

The girl departed with the message, and Georgie had time
in which to recover herself a little before Jack entered the
room. She could not go then, whatever might be the import
of his errand, she had decided before he came in; but she
moved rapidly toward him, and asked:

“What is it, Jack? is Annie dead? Tell me quick,—the
suspense is horrible!”

“No, not dead, but dying, and keeps asking for you. So
I came, though sorely against my will, and I have sworn not
to return without you. Will you go!”

There was a sharp ring in his voice which exasperated
Georgie, but she put the feeling aside, and answered him:

“How can I go? You know it is impossible.” Then,
as the realities of her position began to impress themselves
more and more upon her, she wrung her hands in genuine
distress, and cried: “Oh, why am I tortured so; I wish I
had died years ago. What made you come here now, when
you know I cannot go?”

She turned almost fiercely upon him, as if he had been in
fault, but he met her eyes unflinchingly, and replied:

“I told you Annie was dying; that is why I came. I
shall not go back without you.”

“Then you must wait,” she rejoined. “It is almost time
for the guests to come; I must be here to receive them.
Maybe she will revive. Doctors do not always judge aright.
She may yet recover, or, at least, live for days.”

“I tell you she was dying when I left her, else I had not
come, knowing you as I do,” Jack replied vehemently, and
Georgie answered with a gush of tears:

“I cannot go until the party is over. Come for me then;
come at two o'clock, and I will be ready.”

He bowed in acquiescence and left the house, meeting,
as he went out, a group of ladies, whose gay dresses brushed
against him on the steps, and whose light laughter sounded
like mockery in his ears. It was a glorious night, and the
élite of New York turned out en masse to honor Mrs. Burton's
invitation, until the rooms were full, and the light jest
and merry repartee were heard on every side, and the gay
dance began to the sound of sweet music. And amid it all
moved Georgie, a deep flush on her cheek, and a glittering
light in her eye, which attracted general attention, and was
the subject of much comment among the guests. It was
an insane, delirious kind of look, and Georgie was nearly
mad, as with a heart full of bitter pain she tried to be natural,

and smile upon those around her as sweetly and pleasantly
as if there was no skeleton of death walking at her side, and
pointing, with its bony fingers, across the distant river to
where Annie lay dying and begging for her. She could hear
the little voice even above the din of the gay throng, and
when Roy asked what was the matter that she seemed so absent-minded,
she felt for a moment as if she must shriek out
her miserable secret before them all, and tell them of that
little child in Jersey. She had spoken of her to many of the
guests, and explained the cause of Maude's absence, but none
of those who heard her guessed of the mental agony endured
by the beautiful woman who was envied by so many, as the
bride-elect of Roy Leighton, and the possessor of everything
which can make one happy.

The party was over at last; every guest had said good-night,
and only one carriage stood before the door. That
had waited there an hour, and while it waited the lights
flashed out into the darkness, the soft music sounded on the
night air, and the merry feet kept time in the dance; the
driver nodded on his box, and the tall figure of a man walked
up and down; up and down,—always to the same lamp-post
and back,—a worn, anxious look upon his face, and an impatient,
resentful expression in his eyes whenever he glanced
up at the blazing windows, and then consulted his watch.

Jack had broken his vow not to return home without his
sister. He had tried waiting at the hotel; had sat an hour
and could have sworn it was ten; then with a feeling that
he must know how it fared with Annie, had re-crossed the
ferry and gone to his home.

“Still alive, but failing fast, and asking for Georgie,”
Maude had said to him, and then he waited another hour and
a half until the clock struck twelve.

Georgie had said “come at two,” and so he went, and

waited until the last carriage drove away, and then his hand
was on the door before the tired servant could lock and bolt
it.

“Did you leave anything, sir?” the man asked, thinking
Jack one of the recent guests.

“No; I came for Miss Burton. Say her brother is here,”
Jack replied; but before the message could be delivered
Georgie was standing by him and had heard the message:
“Alive, but dying very fast. You have no time to lose.”

And Georgie lost none. Speeding upstairs to her room
she caught up a long water-proof, and wrapping it around
her, said to her astonished maid:

“Tell mamma that Annie Heyford is dying; that my
brother Jack came for me before the party, and I promised
to go as soon as it was over. She must not be troubled
about me. I shall come back or send some word in the
morning.”

“But your dress, Miss Burton! Surely, you will change
that?” the girl said, thinking her young mistress demented.

It was the first thought Georgie had given to her dress,
and with a shudder, as she drew up the folds of her elegant
costume, she answered:

“I have not time to change it now. I told you she was
dying.”

And so with the diamonds glittering on her neck and arms
and shining in her hair, Georgie went out to the carriage,
where Jack put her in, his impatience and resentment beginning
to subside when he saw the deep pallor of her face and
the look of anguish in her eyes. Her head was uncovered,
and the flowers she had worn were there still, but Jack drew
the hood of her water-proof up over her hair, and adjusted it
under her chin with a carefulness and gentleness which
brought a gush of tears from Georgie, who had laid her head
upon his shoulder, and said sobbingly:

“You are kind, Jack; I don't deserve that you should
think of my comfort.”

He did not reply, and the silence between them was not
broken again until Jersey City was reached. There had
been a delay at the ferry, and it was nearer four than three
when Georgie stood at last by Annie's bedside.

She had thrown off her water-proof as she entered the
house, or rather handed it to Maude, who met her in the
hall, and who stared in surprise at the gay party dress,
which seemed so out of place in that house of death. But
for once Georgie never thought of her dress, nor minded in
the least when her flowing lace caught on some projection
and had a long rent torn in it. And so, in all the splendor
of diamonds, and satins, and flowers, she floated into the sick
room where Annie lay, breathing heavily, but with a look of
peace upon her face, which told that for her all pain had
ceased, except as it might return when the final struggle
came. She had not asked for Georgie for more than an
hour, but the instant the rustle of her sweeping garments, and
the sound of her step was heard, she opened her eyes and exclaimed
joyfully:

“Georgie, sister, come at last.”

“Yes, darling; here at last, never to leave you again,”
Georgie said, as, stooping down, she gathered the little
wasted form to her bosom and held it there, while she cried
over and kissed it passionately, murmuring words of fond endearment
such as made Edna, who was in the room, look up
in surprise. She had not imagined Georgie to be capable of
the deep feeling she was manifesting, and she felt a thrill of
friendly liking for the woman who could so love a little child.

“I wanted you so much,” Annie said, faintly, as she put
her hand on Georgie's cheeks, “I am going to die,—Jack
told you, maybe,—and I'll never be in that pretty room you
said you'd fix for me; but I want you to fix it all the same,

and call it Annie's room, and, if I can, I'll come sometimes
to see you. You won't hear me, or know it, perhaps, but I
guess it will be when the sun is the brightest, and the flowers
are blooming, and you are thinking of Annie; then I'll be
there with you.”

A cold shudder ran from the crown of Georgie's head to
her finger tips as she listened to Annie's plan of re-visiting
her in the spirit, but she only replied with a closer embrace
and a rain of tears, which Annie brushed away as she continued:

“I ain't a bit afraid to die now, Georgie. I was at first,
but I asked Jesus so many times to take the fear away, and
He has, and forgave me all the naughty things I ever did,—
the lies I used to tell, and the exaggerations, which Jack said
were bad as lies; and I'm going to Heaven, where you'll
come some time, sister, won't you?”

“Oh, Annie, my darling, my darling, I don't know; I am
afraid not. Heaven is not for such as I am,” Georgie cried,
piteously, while Annie continued:

“Why, sister? yes it is; and you are real good, and you'll
come some day, and find me waiting for you right by the
door; but, Georgie,”—and Annie's lip began to quiver as
there suddenly recurred to her mind the perplexing question
which had troubled her so a few hours before, and which Jack
had said Georgie might answer,—“but, Georgie, lay me down,
please; on the pillow, so,—that's nice; and now tell me
where is my mother,—if Jack's and your mother was not
mine.”

The great blue eyes of the child were fixed intently upon
Georgie, who started and staggered backward as if smitten
with a heavy blow. Edna had stolen from the room, and
only Jack was there, sitting in a distant corner. To him
Georgie turned quickly, and asked, under her breath:

“What does this mean? Who has been disturbing her?”

“It was the merest accident,” Jack said, coming forward
at once. “A chance remark I made about her not being
mother's own child. Your secret is safe, if that is what you
fear.”

He said the last in a low tone, and then walked back to
his seat upon the sofa. For a few moments Annie lay quiet,
and Georgie hoped she might have forgotten that her question
was unanswered, but she soon roused up and returned to
the subject so painful to Georgie.

“How will I know my mother if I never saw her here,
and don't know how she looks nor who she was?” she said,
and her eyes held as by a spell poor remorseful Georgie's,
who faltered out:

“Your mother is not in Heaven, Annie.”

“Not in Heaven?” and the paroxysm of terror was something
fearful to witness as Annie writhed upon her pillow.
“Where is she then? Not in the bad place? Not there?
My mother! Oh Georgie, oh Georgie.”

Every word was a moan as the frightened child clutched
Georgie's hand and demanded of her whether her mother
was lost forever. She did not seem to remember that she
must have had a father, too; it was all “my mother, my
mother,” until Georgie could bear it no longer, and said to
her in a whisper:

“Your mother is not dead. She is living somewhere.”

“Then why don't she come to see me? Mothers always
take care of their sick little girls, don't they?” Annie asked,
and Jack, who could see the anguish written on his sister's
face, pitied her as he had never done but once before in his
life.

“Oh, Annie, you break my heart; don't ask me about
your mother. I cannot, cannot tell. Oh, Father in Heaven,
this is worse than death,” Georgie moaned, as she knelt upon
the floor by Annie's bed and covered her face with her hands.

But amid her pain she did not forget to be cautious, and
said to Jack, “Please shut the door. I cannot have witnesses
to my degradation.”

He did as she bade him, and then said to her: “Had you
been open, Georgie, from the first, this would have been
spared to you.”

Perhaps he was wrong to chide her then when her cup of
wretchedness was full. She thought so at least, and replied
to him:

“Don't taunt me now; don't try to make my agony greater
than it is. I could not bear another jot. And, Jack, let
me tell you, that truly as I live, there's nothing I would
not do to save Annie's life.”

“Nothing?” Jack said, questioningly.

His tone roused Georgie to such an unnatural state that
she replied to him: “No, nothing; and here I swear that if
Heaven will spare Annie's life and give her back to me, I'll
tell Roy everything. Yes, everything. I mean it. Father
in Heaven, hear me, hear the vow I make. Give me Annie's
life and I'll tell everything. Try me and see.”

She was praying now, while Annie, bewildered by what
she had heard, looked first at her and then at Jack, saying
imploringly:

“Tell what, Georgie? What does it mean? It makes
me so dizzy and faint. Is it about my mother, and why she
don't come when I am dying?”

There was no response to this, and Annie pleaded again:

“Where is she, Jack? Don't she love me any? Oh
if I could see her once and hear her voice, and put my head
in her lap, and call her mother, I'd pray to Jesus to make her
good and let her come to Heaven if she was ever so bad.
Was she bad, Georgie? Was my mother naughty?”

It was a strange spectacle, that white-faced, dying child,
stretching her trembling hands toward that gayly-decked, but

crushed, stricken woman, and demanding some knowledge
of her mother, and Georgie shrunk back from the touch of
the little hands, and wiped the sweat-drops from her own
pallid face, and turned toward Jack as if for help in her distress.
But Jack was powerless then; it was her hour of agony
and she must meet it alone.

Suddenly there broke over her countenance a light as of
some newly-formed resolution, and with a gasp she said to
her brother:

“Go out, Jack, please, and leave us here alone. Keep
them all away till I call to you to come. Annie is mine,
now; mine; all mine.”

She seemed more like a crazed creature, when, after Jack
was gone, she bolted the door, and even looked out into the
wintry night, as if fearing listeners there. But she grew
calm again, and her voice, though low and sad, was tolerably
steady in its tone as she sat down by Annie and said:

“Ask me anything you please, and I will answer you.”

Half an hour passed away, and the three waiting below
heard the low murmur of voices,—one of surprise and eager
inquiry, the other, mournful, heartbroken, and, as Jack knew,
full of bitter shame. Then there was a sound of sobbing,
with broken sentences of love, and then another silence, followed
by a hasty call for Jack to come quickly.

They were in the room in a moment, and each one was
struck with the expression of Annie's face, where wonder and
surprise, sorrow and compassion, with love unutterable, were
blended together. Tender and pitiful as is a mother towards
her suffering child, she seemed toward Georgie, and though
she could not speak, her eyes were fastened upon the head
bowed down at her side, and her hands kept caressing the
tangled curls which lay upon the bedclothes.

“Annie, you are almost home,” Maude said, bending over
her and kissing her white brow.

Annie nodded and raised her eyes once upon them all,
as if in a farewell; then her head drooped lower and lower
upon her breat, while her hand still smoothed and fondled
Georgie's hair. A moment went by which seemed an hour,
then over the dying child there passed a shudder of pain;
the hand ceased its caressing motion, and buried itself in the
mass of hair; the eyes glanced upward, and the quivering
lips said, brokenly, “Thank you, Jesus, I have seen my
mother,” and then Annie was dead.

Old Luna, who was present, responded, “Yes, blessed
lamb, no doubt her mother did come to meet her. It's apt
to be the case.”

This was Luna's solution of Annie's last words, while
Maude had a different one; and when they were alone and
Edna said to her, “Do you believe Annie's mother was with
her when she died?” She answered, “I know she was!”