CHAPTER XX.
A BOLD STROKE FOR A HUSBAND.
Georgiana Halstead called on Mrs. Savage as she had promised. She knew nothing of the change that had come over Horace, and went with a heavy heart to perform a painful task. Mrs. Savage received her with more than her usual cordiality. She took off her bonnet with her own hands, smoothed her hair caressingly, and kissed her forehead before she allowed the girl to find a seat.
“And how is my pet of pets?” she said, smiling down upon that lovely face. “It is a long time since you have been here, child.”
“Yes,” said Georgie. “I have been so busy, so—that is, I have not felt like going out.”
“Ah! I understand it all. Miss Eliza has been talking to you; what a mischievous creature she is. But do not believe a word of it, dear. Horace cares no more about that Burns girl than I do.”
“But I thought you liked her so much!” said Georgie faithful to her promise. “Why not, she is a good girl, and _so_ pretty?”
“Why, Georgie, what has come over you? But, perhaps, Eliza has been discreet for once.”
“No, she hasn’t. Aunt Eliza don’t know what discretion is. She told me a hundred cruel things about that poor girl; but not one of them is true.”
“And, among the rest, something about my son. Confess, dear, that she has?”
“Well, yes, I do not deny that. But, so far as relates to him, I think it is the truth.”
“You think it is the truth, Georgie, and speak so quietly about it? How can you?”
“She is a dear, sweet girl, Mrs. Savage; and I think Horace loves her.”
“Horace does no such thing, Georgie, and you know it. His real love has always been for you, my own child.”
“I hope not,” answered Georgie, demurely; “for I can never love him.”
“Georgiana Halstead!”
“It is true, Mrs. Savage. I haven’t had the courage to tell you so before, because your heart was set on it; but, try as hard as we will, Horace and I cannot—that is, I cannot marry Horace.”
Poor child! how she struggled to shield her pride, and yet speak the truth. She was trembling all over, and yet smiled into Mrs. Savage’s astonished face, as if it were the easiest thing in the world that she was doing.
“Georgiana, I cannot think that you are in earnest.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Savage, you must think so.”
“You are angry about the girl, and will not let me know it.”
“Indeed, I am not. In my whole life I never saw a finer girl—she is worth a dozen of me.”
“No human being could ever claim half so much, dear little Georgie. Come, come, tell me the truth; you are very angry with Horace, and no wonder—he tries even my patience.”
“Mrs. Savage, do believe me; I am not in the least angry with any one. It is only that neither Horace nor I wish to marry each other. We have always been good friends; and I would so like to be related to you, but without mutual love it would be wicked.”
“Then you really do not love my son?”
“Don’t, please, make me repeat it over and over! It seems so harsh; but you must not expect any thing of the kind.”
Mrs. Savage threw her arms around Georgie where she sat, and laid her cheek against her hair.
“Oh, Georgie, Georgie! you will not disappoint me so.”
The woman was in earnest; her voice broke, and tears fell upon the girl’s bright hair. Then Georgie began to tremble, and burst into tears.
“Dear child, you are crying, too. I felt sure that you could not persist in this cruel resolution. Come, child, kiss me, and forget all that has been said.”
“No, no, dear friend. I—I am only crying because it is impossible. Hearts are not to be forced.”
“But he loves you. Believe it, for he does!”
“I am very sorry; but that can make no difference.”
“Do you love any one else, Georgiana Halstead?”
A new thought had struck the proud woman; you could tell that from the imperious tone in which she spoke.
“You must not ask me any thing more,” answered Georgie. “I have said all that you will care to hear.”
“I think you have all conspired to drive me frantic’” said Mrs. Savage, throwing herself back in her chair: “I thought every thing was settled so nicely. Now you come to disturb me. But I will not give this match up. It has been in my heart since you were children.”
“We must give it up. But do not love me less for that, dear Mrs. Savage. If we could love according to our own will, I would gladly be your daughter. But from this hour we must never think of it again.”
Georgie flung her arms around Mrs. Savage, and kissed her face, which had an expression upon it half stern, half sorrowful. Then the two women burst into tears, and clung to each other, sobbing.
“It is because I grieve to disappoint you!” said Georgie, sweeping the tears from her eyes. “It breaks my heart, for I do love you as if you were my own mother.”
“Ah! reconsider it, Georgie—I may be that.”
“If I could—if I could!” cried Georgie, hurrying on her things. “Good-by—good-by. It is all my fault; but I cannot help it.”
Poor Georgie. She had gone through her generous task bravely, but she shook with agitation all the way home; and, once there, locked herself into her own little sitting-room, and cried herself into complete exhaustion, huddled up in the easy-chair, in which she had suffered so terribly when Savage first made her his confidant.
That evening young Savage came to see her, looking so miserably wretched that she forgot her own sorrow in pity for him. “What had gone wrong?” she asked, “he looked so ill.”
“Nothing!” For the world he would not have told her, or any one, of the broken hopes that had left him so depressed. To have hinted at this would be a sacrilege to the love that Anna Burns had forfeited. He looked at Georgie earnestly. Sorrow had rendered him sympathetic. Some vague idea of the disappointment which had left the violet shadows, so deep and dark, about her eyes, fell upon him; but he did not guess at the whole truth, but took a misty idea that she, too, had loved some one—young Gould, perhaps—and been disenchanted as he was.
“After all, Georgie,” he said, “it would have been better if you and I could have gotten up a grand passion for each other. It would have pleased our parents, if nothing more.”
Georgiana smiled sadly enough.
“But it was impossible,” she said, in a faint voice. “That was what she had told his mother not three hours before.”
“You told her this? Oh! now I remember! It was I who asked you. But it was selfish. I had no right to wound your delicacy so.”
“But it was best. She had been cherishing a delusion. Very soon you will tell her all.”
Savage did not answer. He longed to make a confidant of Georgiana, but his heart was too freshly wounded, he could not expose its misery to her. Besides, how could he pain that pure heart with the story he had to relate?
“We have found a house for Mrs. Burns,” said Georgie; “such a pretty place, you would almost think yourself in the country.”
“Will they go? Does she accept it?”
“Yes, the old lady is delighted. Anna seems less glad, but she accepts the change, and is grateful for it. But some change has come upon her, more depressing than poverty—that she bore well.”
“You noticed it, then? You saw how sadly she was altered?” said Savage; “but did you guess the cause?”
“No; how could I? Perhaps she has heard some of the unkind things Aunt Eliza is saying of her, though I cannot think how.”
“Did you talk with her? Will she tell you nothing.”
“No; she said very little, but her voice was full of tears. It broke my heart to see her look of suffering.”
“She does suffer, then, poor girl?”
“I should think so—but why? No doubt she is very anxious. You have a little of the same look. Better ask your mother at once; with so much happiness lying beyond her consent, it is a pity to lose a day in doubt.”
“Not yet. I shall not speak to my mother of this yet.”
“Oh! that is what troubles Anna. But why?”
“Do not ask me, Georgie. The other night I could tell you every thing, but now I am full of uncertainty myself.”
“But you love her; there is no doubt on that point?” she asked, eagerly.
“No; unhappily. I wish——But what is the use of wishing. Let us talk of something else—the house, for instance.”
“Oh! it is such a pretty duck of a house, half verandahs, half little rooms, and the rest honeysuckles and roses. Just the place for them.”
“But you will want money to pay for every thing. Pray hand this to your grandmother.”
“She will not take it. I asked her and she said no; she had made all the arrangements about money.”
Savage turned crimson, and held the envelope, which he had extended to her, irresolutely.
“Georgiana, be honest with me. Has Anna Burns refused to accept this kindness? Has any other person preceded me here?”
“No, no! I am sure Anna accepted grandmamma’s help gratefully enough; and the dear old lady would not allow any person to help her if she refused you; that is, any other young person. She is not rich; grandpapa had but little when he died; but she can afford to do this.”
Savage put the envelope in his pocket, sighing heavily. “So it seems I am to be put aside everywhere,” he said.
“Not at all; only grandmamma thinks it best that no young man should help pay for the home she has selected for Anna Burns.”
“She is right. You tell me that she has met Anna?”
“Oh, yes! and liked her so much!”
“Georgie!”
“What is it, Mr. Savage?”
“You will keep my secret? You will not mention any thing that I said to you the other day?”
“How can you think I would?”
“True, how could I?”
“Any thing else? You seem so anxious and strange to-night.”
“Yes, one thing more, Georgie. I have got you into this affair——”
“Affair! Why, how you talk!”
“Well, let me express myself better. It was through my mother you were introduced to Anna Burns. She really knew very little of the family.”
Georgie opened her beautiful eyes wide, and sat upright in her chair, staring at him.
“Why, Horace Savage, are you turning against that poor girl?”
“No, no! God forbid!”
“Then what is it you are trying to say and cannot?”
“Nothing, only this; I shall never marry Anna Burns.”
“Why, Mr. Savage, why?”
“She does not love me.”
For one instant Georgie’s face was radiant, then it slowly settled back to its former gentle sadness, and she said, with firmness,
“That is terrible, for she loves you!”
“No!”
“I tell you she does.”
“Still it can never be. All I ask is, Georgie, that you will let this good grandmother care for this family without—without interference on your part.”
“That is, you don’t wish me to have much intimacy with Anna Burns.”
“It would pain me to put it in that form.”
“But that is what you mean. Well, Mr. Savage, I cannot consent to it. I have promised these people to befriend them. They are no common objects of charity, but refined, and gently bred as I am. You may forsake them, but I never will.”
Savage gazed on the young girl with more admiration than he had ever felt for her in his life before. How was he to act? In what way could he warn the girl, and keep her safe from evil associations, and yet protect his knowledge of Anna Burns’ unworthiness?
“Poor Anna! Poor, dear girl! I know how to pity her!” murmured Georgie, with tears in her eyes.
“God bless you, Georgie! What a good heart you have!”
Savage sat down by her, and taking her hand, kissed it.
“Miss Georgiana Halstead, is this the way you answer my messages?” The door of Georgie’s sitting-room had been softly opened, and Miss Eliza stood on the threshold in a dress of blue silk, and with natural roses in her hair.
“I—I did not receive any message,” answered Georgiana, shivering.
“But I sent one, asking Mr. Savage to my room.”
“I will see you presently, Miss Eliza,” said Savage, coming to Georgiana’s aid. “The servant gave me your message in the hall; Miss Halstead knew nothing about it. I had a little special business with her.”
“Indeed! Then I will retire.”
Miss Eliza gave him an imperial courtesy, and gave them both a fine view of her sweeping train as she passed up the stairs.
“Do go,” said Georgiana, smiling in spite of all her trouble; “she will give me no peace for a week to come if you keep her waiting. Besides, she saw you kissing my hand, and it would be an awkward subject at the breakfast table before papa.”
“Rather!” answered Savage. “But, tell me, Georgiana, what shall I do if she proposes to me outright? She looked capable of it, on my word she did.”
“Do?” answered Georgie, brightening under the idea. “Why, marry her; it will serve you right for asking me to give up Anna Burns. I won’t do it, make sure of that.”
“What a thing it is to fear no evil. God bless the girl! What if her answers were wiser than all my worldly wisdom?”
Miss Eliza was kneeling by her cozy chair, half prostrated on the floor, over which the broad circumference of her crinoline, and waves on waves of blue silk swept in rustling waves. She was crying, partly from pure vexation, and partly because tears would be extremely convenient just at that moment.
A light knock came to the door. She started, turned over one shoulder, shook out the folds of her dress, and bent to her grief again.
Another knock; a third, somewhat louder, and the door opened.
“Did you tell me to come in?”
Miss Eliza started from her knees, with a splendid sweep of her draperies, and turning away her head, wiped the tears from her eyes with ostentatious privacy.
“Oh, Mr. Savage! I—I did not hear you. Pray be seated; in a few moments I shall be more composed.”
“What has happened to trouble you, Miss Halstead?” inquired Savage, looking innocent as a lamb.
“Oh! can you ask? That scene! That terrible enlightenment! Horace! dear Horace——What am I about! Has my sensitive nature lost its pride; all the lofty feeling which hedges in the love of a woman’s heart like—like——
“Like the bur around a half-ripe chestnut,” suggested Savage. It was very impudent, truly; but the young fellow could not have helped saying it to save his life—it came into his mind and out on his lips so suddenly.
“Do you mock my anguish? Load my desolate heart with ridicule?” cried the lady, dashing back the skirt of her dress like a tragedy queen in high agony. “Has it come to this?”
“I beg ten thousand pardons, Miss Halstead!” said Savage, blushing for himself; “but you seemed at a loss for some comparison, and that came into my mind—not a bad one, either, when you reflect how those ten thousand little thorns keep rude hands from the fruit, guarding it sacredly till the burs open of themselves, and let the nuts drop out.”
“Mr. Savage,” said Eliza, “I beg your pardon; it was a beautiful idea; my heart feels all its poetry. The thorns you speak of are piercing it, oh, how cruelly! The bur has opened, the fruit has dropped out, and you are treading it under your feet.”
“I—I, Miss Eliza?”
“Yes, you; the betrothed of my soul! But it is all over; never in this world can we be to each other what we have been.”
“Why, Miss Halstead?”
“There it is; Miss Halstead—cold, cruel, Miss Halstead?”
“But I do not understand.”
“And never, never will!” cried Miss Eliza, spreading one hand over her bosom. “No common mind can ever comprehend the anguish buried here.”
“But what is this all about? I am quite unconscious of having offended you.”
“Offended! Does love take offence? Does despair reveal itself in anger? Oh, Mr. Savage! it was not three days ago that I received the most touching proposal—money, position, manly beauty, every thing that could tempt the heart from its allegiance to a beloved object, or kindle the ambition. But I refused it, gently, kindly—but I refused it.”
“And why, Miss Halstead?”
“Why? Great heavens! He asks me, why?”
She turned her eyes upon him; she clasped her hands, and sunk upon her knees, burying her face in the cushions of that most convenient chair.
“He asks me, why! He asks me, why!”
Her shoulders began to heave under the thin lace that covered them; her head swayed to and fro in spasms of grief. She crushed a little web of fine linen and lace up to her eyes with both hands, and wet it with her tears.
“I tear you from my heart! I give you up!” she cried. “Cold, hard man! you see me at your feet without pity! With my own eyes I have witnessed your faithlessness; but you make no effort at consolation; explain nothing!”
“What can I explain, madam?”
“Madam!”
She arose slowly to her full height, and, pointing her finger at his astonished face, said, with solemn emphasis,
“Mr. Savage, did I not see you kissing Georgiana Halstead’s hand?”
Savage laughed, a little nervously, it must be confessed.
“It is possible. Yes, I dare say you did.”
“He owns it! He glories in his unfaithfulness!” she cried out, wringing her hands. “Was ever treason like this?”
“Really, Miss Halstead, this scene is getting tedious,” said Savage, losing all patience. “I am not aware of ever having given you a right to address me in this way.”
“Sir,” answered the lady, “I am aware of my rights, and will maintain them. To-morrow my brother shall call upon you to decide between his sister and his child.”
“Miss Halstead, are you insane?”
“If I am, Horace, who drove me to it? Oh! this will break your mother’s heart.”
“Miss Halstead, sit down, and let me talk with you reasonably. You know as well as I that this idea of an engagement is an impossibility—that it never existed.”
She had seated herself, and held that morsel of a handkerchief to her eyes.
“If you have any thing to say in excuse for this cruel treachery, I will listen,” she said, with broken-hearted resignation. “Heaven knows my heart pleads for you.”
“I have nothing to say, madam,” answered Savage, completely out of patience, “except that this farce is fortunate in having no other witnesses. The wisest thing that you or I can do, is to forget it as soon as possible.”
Miss Eliza saw the quiet resolution in his face, and went gradually out of the little drama that she had acted so well. Her sobs were subdued; the morsel of a handkerchief fluttered less frequently to her eyes. She sat down, crest-fallen, with her two hands lying loosely in her lap. Her grand _coup d’etat_ had signally failed. Savage neither soothed, promised, or admitted any thing. All that was left to her was the most graceful retreat she could make.
“Mr. Savage,” she said, holding out her hand, “let us be friends. If this artful girl has won you from me, let us be friends, eternal friends. This proud heart shall break in silence, if it must break. But there may be a future for us yet—something that the angels can look upon with pleasure.
“‘Is there no other tie to bind The constant heart, the willing mind? Is love the only chain? Ah, yes! there is a tie as strong, That hinds as firm, and lasts as long— True friendship is its name.’
Mr. Savage, let us work out this beautiful idea. My soul turns toward it for consolation. Mr. Savage, are we friends?”
Savage took the hand she held out, bowed over it, and went away.
“Ah!” said Miss Eliza, leaning back in her chair—for high tragedy is exhausting—“Ah! how fortunate it is that Mr. Gould presented himself in time. He wishes to renew his acquaintance. With him a sure foundation of a family compact exist—that interview with the old gentleman was a masterpiece. If—if the young man should prove treacherous, like the heart traitor who has just left me, there is still this elderly person, rich as Vanderbilt, almost, and not so very old. He admired me greatly; I could see it in the twinkle of his eyes, in the smile that flitted across his lips. But only as a last resort—only as a last resort.”