University of Virginia Library

44. CHAPTER XLIV.
LAST DAYS.

THE wedding had been appointed for the 20th of
June, and it was now the 20th of July; just one
month from the day when so fearful a calamity had
overtaken poor Georgie. Every one, even to Mrs. Burton,
had ceased to hope for her now. They knew she could not
live, and waited anxiously for the final shock which should
terminate her life. All the old restlessness and desire to be
moved continually was gone, and she would lie for hours
just where she was put, with her well hand clasped over the
feeble one, and her eyes closed, though they knew she was
not asleep; for occasionally the pale lips would move, and

those nearest to her caught whispered words of prayer, and
knew that at the last the soul so near to death was seeking
for that peace without which to die is terrible. Her speech
was more natural, and could easily be understood, but it tired
her to talk; and when Roy came to see her, she would only
press his hand and nod her thanks for the flowers or fruit he
always brought her. She was greatly changed in more ways
than one. Her glorious beauty, of which she had been so
proud, was gone; and her long black hair was streaked with
gray.

But Georgie cared for none of these things; her interest
was elsewhere, and the intensity of her anguish and remorse
so great that often when she lay with her eyes shut, Jack
saw the great drops of sweat standing upon her brow and
about her mouth. To Jack as well as to Roy she had said,
“Pray for me,” and Jack did not repel her now with scorn,
but, unworthy as he felt himself to be, tried to pray for his poor
sister, promising to be himself a better man if peace were
given to her. And peace came at last, and brought a
brighter, happier expression to the worn face, and drove
the look of terror from the eyes, and then Georgie talked
freely with her brother.

It was the night of the 20th, and he alone was watching
with her. Again there was a moon, and its silvery light
came in through the open window and shone on Georgie's
face, and made it seem to Jack like the face of an angel, as
she drew his head down to her and kissed him so lovingly,
saying to him, “Dear Jack, let me tell you while I can just
how it was that night a month ago. I told you all a lie;
there was no one in my room. I made it up to screen
myself, for I must have some excuse for Roy, some reason
why I could not marry him. You told me once the dead
might come to life to witness against me. Jack, he did;
Henry is not dead; he was here in the garden; I saw him

and talked with him, and gave him my diamonds to keep
him quiet. But Jack, oh, Jack, don't think that of me,”
she cried, as she saw the look of horror on his face and
guessed of what he was suspecting her.

“I never for an instant thought to marry Roy after I
knew Henry was living. I only did not want him to know
about it. I don't want him to know now. Oh, Jack, can't
I go to Heaven unless I tell Roy everything?”

She was getting greatly excited, and Jack tried to quiet
her, and brought her a glass of wine, and then, when she
was better, listened, while in her slow way she told him
what the reader already knows, of her interview with Henry
Morton; of all he said to her; of her utter despair and
agony, and her planning the story of the robbery to account
for her fearful excitement and the sudden illness she meant
to feign so as to put off her marriage.

“But God planned for me better than I could plan for
myself,” she said; “and sent the paralysis as a sure means
of separating me from Roy. Henry told me it was Roy's
house he robbed in New York, years ago. I never knew
that, or if I heard the name, I forgot it afterward. Did you
know it, Jack?”

“I knew the name was Leighton, but thought it another
family,” Jack said; and Georgie continued:

“Had I known it, I could not have done as I did, it
seems to me, though I was bad enough for anything. But
I hope God has forgiven me. I feel so differently, so sorry
for the past; the fear of death is gone, only I don't know
about telling Roy, and Aunt Burton, too. Must I, Jack?
Do you think I ought?”

Jack did not think so. Telling them now could do no
good, and would only add to their wretchedness, he said,
and much as he liked the truth, he could not see that she
was bound to a confession of what could in no wise benefit

any one, especially as there was no possibility of her secret
ever being known except to himself.

“For, Georgie,” he continued, “I have something to tell
you, which I have withheld, because I was not sure how
much you knew, or how certain you were who it was
that took your diamonds. Henry Morton is dead,—really,
truly dead; for I saw him myself about a week ago, when
I went with Roy to New York for a day. He could not
have sailed as early as he told you he intended doing. Perhaps
he was afraid of detection, and kept quiet awhile in the
city. At all events, he was booked in the Scotia as Tom Anderson,
and in going on board the night before she sailed,
either lost his footing, or made some misstep, and was drowned
before he could be reached. On examining his person, a
handsome set of diamonds was found secreted about him, and
as they answered to the description given of yours, a telegram
was at once forwarded here, and Roy and myself went immediately
to New York, Roy swearing to the jewels, while
I mentally swore to the man, though outwardly I made no
sign. Your diamonds are here with Mrs. Burton, and
Henry is in his grave. You have nothing to dread from
him. You are free to marry Roy, if ever—”

He did not finish the sentence, for Georgie put up her
hand, and said quickly: “Never, Jack; don't, please, speak
of that; never now, even if I should live, which I shall not;
I could not marry Roy without telling him everything, and
death is preferable to that. If I die, he need not know who
or what she was whom he thought to make his wife. Nobody
need know but you and Maude, for I want you to tell
her. Don't let there be a secret between you. But do not
tell her till I am gone; then do it as kindly as you can, and
excuse me all you can. I was young and foolish when I
knew Richard Le Roy, and he flattered and turned my head,
and promised to make me a lady, and I hated to be so

poor, to stay all day in that little school-room, with that set
of tiresome children, and I envied his sisters when I saw
them going out to parties so elegantly dressed, and knew
they had whatever they liked best. There was nobody to
warn me; nobody who knew what he said to me, or how he
lured me on to ruin, and made me believe in him more than
in Heaven, and so I fell, and he died before he could make
me a reparation; for, had he lived, I do believe he would
have saved me from disgrace. He said he loved me; I believe
he did; tell Maude so; tell her not to hate me, for
Annie's sake. Annie was not to blame,—darling Annie.
Shall I meet her, Jack?”

She was very much exhausted, and Jack bade her rest and
not talk any more then; but she was not through with all
she had to say.

“Let me tell you while I can,” she whispered; “tell you
what I want you to do. He told me of a Janet over in
Scotland waiting for him, and a little blind boy whose sight he
hoped to have restored, now he had the means. Find them,
Jack, they live in —, not far over the border. When you
and Maude are married, go there on your bridal trip. I have
money of my own,—ten thousand dollars, which Aunt Burton
gave me. It is all in bonds. I shall give it to you, and
a part of it you must give to her, to Janet and her little ones.
That is something I can do, and it will make me die easier,
knowing somebody will be benefited by me. Promise, Jack,
to find her, or get the money to her in some way, but never
let her know she was not his wife. Tell her his friends sent
you.”

She could talk no longer then, for her speech was failing
her, and her utterance so thick that it was with difficulty Jack
could understand her. He made it out, however, and promising
compliance with all she asked, soothed and quieted her
until she fell into a sleep, which lasted several hours, and

from which she awoke with a fresher, better look upon her
face and in her eyes. But this did not deceive her, nor delude
her with vain hopes. She knew that life was not for
her, neither did she desire it now. Hoping and believing,
though tremblingly, that all would be well with her hereafter;
that the God against whom she had sinned so deeply had, in
His infinite mercy, pardoned even her; she looked forward
calmly, and even longingly, to the death which was to free
her from all the bitter pangs of remorse which, should she
live, would be hers to endure continually. The sight of Roy
and her aunt was a constant pain and reproach, for she knew
how unworthy she was of the fond love manifested for her
by the one, and the extreme kindness and delicate attentions
of the other.

“If I could tell them,—but I cannot, and Jack says I need
not,” she thought often to herself, praying earnestly to be
guided aright, and not to be allowed to leave undone anything
necessary to her own salvation.

Once when Roy was sitting by her, she said to him hesitatingly:

“Roy, you are a good man, one in whom I have confidence;
tell me, please, if a person has done something
very wrong, ought he to confess it to everybody or anybody,
unless by so doing he could do some good, or repair an injury?”

Roy did not think it necessary, he said, though he was not
quite sure that he fully understood the case. There were
great sweat drops on Georgie's face, and her lips twitched
convulsively as she said:

“There was something in my early life which I meant to
keep from you and which I want to keep from you now. It
would distress me greatly to tell it, and pain and shock you
to hear it. Do you think I must? that is, will God love me
more if I tell?”

Instantly there came back to Roy a remembrance of
Georgie's strange conduct at the time of their engagement,
and he felt certain that whatever was now preying on her
mind was then trembling on her lips. What it was he did
not care to know; it could not affect him now. Georgie
was passing away from him to another, and, as he believed,
a better world. He had never loved her as he ought to love
one whom he meant to make his wife; but during the days
he watched beside her and saw how changed she was, and
how earnestly she was striving to find the narrow way, even
at the eleventh hour, he felt that he liked her as he had never
done before, and he did not care to hear anything which
could lower her in his opinion, and so he said to her, “Georgie,
if the something in your past life does not now affect any one,
keep it to yourself. I do not wish to know it. Neither, I
am sure, would Mrs. Burton, if the telling it would trouble
you. Be satisfied with my decision, and let us remember
you as you seemed to us.”

He bent down and kissed her while her pale lips whispered,
“Bless you, Roy; bless you for the comfort you have
given me. Think of me always as kindly as you can, but
as one who has erred and sinned, and hoped she was forgiven,
and who loved you, Roy, so much, for I do, I do,
better than you love me. I have known all along that I was
not to you what you are to me, and in time you will find
another to take my place; find her soon, perhaps, and if
you do, don't wait till I have been dead the prescribed length
of time, but marry her at once, and bring her to your
mother, if she is not already there.”

Georgie said the last slowly, and looking into Roy's eyes,
saw that he understood her, and went on:

“She is a sweet girl, Roy; pure and womanly. Your
mother loves her as a daughter, and I give her my right in
you. If you succeed, don't forget, please, what I say; if

you succeed, remember that I told you I knew all about her.
Don't forget.”

A violent fit of coughing came on, and in his anxiety and
fear, Roy paid little heed to what Georgie had said with
regard to Miss Overton, who soon came into the room, and
signified her readiness to do whatever she could for the
suffering Georgie.