CHAPTER XXIII.

AN ENGAGEMENT.

The Burns family had moved into that pretty cottage, and were all assembled in the little dining-room which opened on the flower-garden, and from which it was festooned in by a drapery of vines, which filled the balconies with delicious green shadows. There was nothing very splendid about this new home; but it was, for all that, the prettiest little place you ever set eyes upon—and the scene within that dining-room a picture in itself. There sat the old lady, at the head of the table, with a pretty china tea-set before her, and the whitest of linen cloths falling from beneath the tray toward her lap. Opposite her sat Anna Burns, looking pale and sweetly sad, for the heartache never left her for a moment; but with a smile always ready for little Joseph, when he told her of some episode in his active young life, or boasted, in his bright, childish way, of the papers he had sold. Robert listened to him with a paternal smile on his young lips; and the dear old lady had a gentle word to say with every cup of tea that her little hand served out so daintily.

While they were occupied at the tea-table, Georgiana Halstead came up the garden-walk, treading lightly as an antelope, and smiling to herself only as the happy can smile. She snatched at some of the flowers as she passed, and came up to the window forming them into a bouquet, with which she knocked lightly on the glass.

Anna arose from the table, and went out to meet her friend with a wan smile on her lips, which seemed but the shadow of that which beamed over Georgie’s whole face.

“Come this way, Anna, I have something to tell you. Out here, where this pyramid of white roses can hide us from the window. I would not have them think there was any thing particular for the world.”

The two girls went down the walk, and sheltered themselves behind the rose-bushes as they talked together.

“Anna, I have something to tell you. Don’t look frightened; it’s nothing bad—at least I don’t think it is; but—but things will turn out so. You know about young Mr. Gould, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes! He has been so good to our Robert. I have seen him, too.”

“Don’t you think him very—that is, rather handsome?”

“Indeed, I do—very handsome.”

“I am glad; that is, I thought you would think so.”

Here Georgie began to blush, and pluck at a branch of the rose-bush with great energy. Anna saw that the secret, whatever it was, struggled in her throat; and, with that gentle tact which is the very essence of refinement, went on with the conversation.

“Mr. Gould has been so very considerate about our Robert. It was only yesterday he doubled his weekly pay,” she said.

“Oh! he’s generous as a prince! Look here, Anna.”

Georgie took off her glove, and extended a little hand which blushed to the finger-tips as it exhibited a ring, in which was a single diamond limpid as water, and large as a hazel-nut.

“Why, that is the engagement-finger!” exclaimed Anna, surprised.

“Yes, it is the engagement-finger. He put it on!”

Anna turned white as snow.

“He! Who?—Mr. Savage?”

She spoke with sharp agony, forgetting even that young Gould had been mentioned.

“Mr. Savage? No, indeed! He never cared a fig for me. This ring—a beauty, isn’t it?—was put on my finger last night by Mr. Gould.”

“And are you really engaged?”

“That is exactly what I came to tell you. No one else has been told as yet; but I could not exist without having some one wish me joy—so I came to you. Papa and dear old grandma will give consent this morning.”

“Are you certain of that?” asked Anna, with a sigh.

“Oh, yes; every thing is right there. Asking is only a form.”

“I—I am glad, very glad,” said Anna; but her voice trembled, and she felt ready to burst into tears.

Georgiana looked at her earnestly. She had a vague idea that something had gone wrong between her and Savage, but was all in the dark regarding the particulars.

“But you look so sorrowful, Anna. I thought to give you pleasure.”

“I am not sorrowful—at least not very. About you and Mr. Gould I am glad as glad can be; indeed, indeed I am! Only you know one gets a sorrowful look after—after so much trouble.”

“But your troubles are all over now.”

“Are they? Oh, yes! we are very well off. You don’t know the difference. Sometimes, when I awake in the morning and see such hosts of leaves trembling about my window, it seems unbelievable. There is a taria that has climbed up the balconies to the third story, leaving wreaths of purple blossoms all the way. Sometimes it seems impossible that such things can be for us.”

“But they are, and better things are coming, I feel sure of it; only get that sad look off your face, Anna. I cannot bear to be so happy, and see you going about like a wounded bird. Now kiss me, dear, and then we will go tell grandma.”

Anna kissed the sweet mouth bent to hers, and the two girls went into the house. One smiling like a June morning, the other smiling, too, but with a look of suppressed tears about the eyes. Mrs. Burns had left the breakfast-table, and was waiting for their visitor in the little parlor, framed in by the open window like one of those delicious old German home-pictures, that seem so real that you feel the poetry in them, but cannot for the life of you, tell where it lies. She came forward to meet Georgiana, with her hand held out, ready for the good news so eloquent in that beautiful young face.

“I know it is something pleasant,” she said, smoothing the pretty hand that lay in hers, warm and fluttering; “tell me, dear.”

“Yes, grandma, I come for that; but—but how to begin.”

She laughed sweetly, blushed, and looked appealingly to Anna. The secret was harder to tell than she thought for.

“Grandmother, she is going to be married; only it is a secret with us, remember. It is to young Mr. Gould.”

“Young Mr. Gould!” repeated the old lady. “What, the young gentleman who came here? No, it was to the other house.”

“Yes, grandma,” said Georgie, smiling afresh amid the crimson of her blushes, “I—I am sure you like him.”

“Indeed, I do,” answered the old lady. “Why should any one doubt it?”

She spoke seriously, and with a certain intonation which surprised both the girls.

“And he thinks so much of you,” cried Georgie. “As for Robert, I really believe no brother ever loved a little fellow better.”

“He is very kind,” answered the old lady, and, for the first time in their lives, those two girls saw a shade of sarcasm on that dear old face. It was very faint, but they did not like it.

“I—I am almost afraid that you do not like him,” faltered Georgie.

“It would be unjust if I did not,” answered the old lady, sadly. “He was not to blame.”

“Not to blame, grandma?” repeated Georgie, amazed.

“Did I say that? Well, of course, he is not to blame for any thing, especially for loving our own home-angel!”

“There, that is a dear, blessed, darling old grandma again! Why, you haven’t kissed me yet, or wished me joy, or any thing?”

“But I will—I do. There!”

The soft lips of the old lady were pressed to Georgie’s forehead, those old arms folded her close.

“God bless you, dear! God forever bless both you and him!”

“Thank you, grandma—thank you a thousand times; that was just what I wanted to make my joy complete. Ah! here comes Robert, with his face all in a glow. What! are those flowers for me?”

“I should like to make them prettier; but time is up, and I must be off. Here is some of grandma’s rose-geraniums, and all the blossoms from my own heliotrope. Good-by, Miss Georgie. Young Mr. Gould raised my salary last week. Isn’t he splendid.”

Georgiana caught his face between her two hands and kissed him on the spot. It would be difficult to decide which of those two young faces was the rosiest when those hands were withdrawn. The truth was, if Robert had an earthly divinity it was the young lady who had just kissed him. So he went away with a glow upon his face, and a warmer one in his heart, wondering if there was another boy in all Philadelphia who could have been so honored, and wishing the whole earth were covered with rose-geraniums, heliotrope, cape jasmines, and blush-roses, that he might scatter them under her feet and catch the perfume as she walked over them.

Georgie, rather ashamed of herself, went home, wondering what it was which gave that sad, wistful look to Anna Burns’s eyes; and coming generously out of her own happiness, far enough to wish that every thing had gone right with young Savage, that Anna might have been married on the same day with herself. She wondered if nothing could be done to bring this about. Why was it that Savage had said nothing to her of late? It saddened her to think that Anna was given up to such depression of spirits when she was so happy.

“But it will not last,” she said to herself. “Only think how miserable I was only a little while ago. Why, it was like wrenching at my own heart when young Savage came with his confidence, and wanted me to help him. But there was a difference. He did not love me, and he did love her. I wasn’t to go on adoring him after that, it would have been wrong; and, after all, I wasn’t exactly the girl to degrade myself in that way. Now I really do wonder how it happened that I cared for him so much. Certainly he’s handsome and gentlemanly; but Mr. Gould—— Dear me! it’s fortunate that I’m alone, or people might read what I think of him in my face; but, as Robert says, he is splendid.”

Georgiana went home with such thoughts as these fluttering through her head, like humming-birds among roses. In the hall she met Miss Eliza, who seemed in a great flutter of excitement.

“Come in here,” said the spinster, leading the way into a half-darkened drawing-room. “What do you think has happened? Old Mr. Gould is here closeted with mother. What _could_ it be about? Have you any idea, Georgie? Just feel my hands how they tremble. Isn’t it thrilling when a young girl like me feels that two people are settling a destiny of love for her in a close room? Tell me, dear, which is it do you think? Has the elder gentleman struggled against the passion in his bosom, and resigned me, with the wrench of the heart which will be felt through his whole life, to the intense adoration of his nephew—or has he come to plead for himself? Heavens, how the doubt agitates me!”

“Is old Mr. Gould with grandmamma now?” inquired Georgie, glad that the half light concealed the expression of her face.

“Yes, yes! Hark! he opens the door; his tread is in the upper hall—on the stairs. It comes nearer. Support me, Georgiana.”

Miss Eliza curved downward, and hid her face on Georgie’s shoulder.

“Oh, Georgie! do not let him come in. This emotion—this wild, young heart will betray itself; and he must not know how I adore him.”

“Which?” questioned Georgie.

“Which—which? Why, the one that has proposed. How can you ask such questions? Thank heaven! this heart has strength and breadth, and—and capacities; but what is the use of talking to a child to whom love is, as yet, a mystery folded in the bud—while with me it is a full-blown flower? Ah, Georgie! congratulate me.”

Again Miss Eliza threw herself slantwise on to Georgie’s neck, and heaved a billowy sigh.

“Oh, Aunt Eliza, please! you are so heavy,” pleaded the poor girl.

“Heavy! When my whole being is one bright wave of bliss; when this great love rises, full-fledged, from my heart, like a bird of paradise, with all its golden plumage full of sunlight. Go, child, go! this full soul must seek sympathy elsewhere. I will seek my mother, kneel at her feet, and seek the maternal blessing, while she tells me which it is.”

Away Miss Eliza sailed into her mother’s room, which she entered with clasped hands.

“Oh, mother! have you no news for me?” she cried, falling on her knees before the old lady, who would have been surprised, if any thing about Miss Eliza could surprise her—“spare these blushes, and tell me at once.”

“Well, Eliza, it can make no difference; though, perhaps, it would have been best to have consulted with your brother first.”

“Then it is positively true; he is to be consulted; that point is settled. Oh, my heart! my heart! Forgive me, mother. You said that he was to be consulted; just have pity on a poor young creature, who sees her fondest hopes vibrating in the balance, and tell me all. Come now.”

“There is not much to tell, Eliza; nothing, indeed, which you must not have expected.”

“I did—I did.”

“Mr. Gould came to ask my consent.”

“Yes, yes. Go on.”

“How impatient you are, Eliza! He came to ask my consent to the marriage of his nephew with Georgiana.”

Miss Eliza fell forward, with her face in the old lady’s lap. She shook her head violently, her shoulders heaved, and smothered sobs broke out of all this commotion, like gusts of wind in a storm. All at once she started up and pushed the hair back from her face.

“I see—I see,” she cried, “he has done this to clear the path—to get rid of a dangerous rival. Noble man! Splendid diplomacy! How could I have doubted him? Dear mother, do not look so astonished. I understand all this better than you can. Wait a little—wait a little, and you will know all.”

She arose, after delivering this mysterious speech, and went into her own room, where the pendant cupid was vibrating with sudden spasms of motion, as a current of wind swept over it from an open window.

Down Miss Eliza sat in her cozy chair, and, clasping her hands, looked upward, murmuring—

“Yes, yes; I understand it all. He saw the devotion of this young man, and sought to evade rather than oppose the result. He knew that such feelings as absorbed that young heart would endanger his own domestic peace when we were once married; for how could this young man look on me, the happy and fondly cherished bride of another, and not allow his feelings of disappointment and regret to break forth? Besides, there must have been great dread of his success—not that Mr. Gould, the elder, need have feared. My soul always lifted itself above mere youth and good looks; but he was wise to sweep this young man from his path. Poor Georgiana! compelled to take up with the rejected suitor of another! Of course, it will be a marriage of convenience—the bridegroom will always have his memories; but I will keep out of the way; far be it from me to render him unhappy by forcing the contrast between what he has lost and what he has married upon him. As his uncle’s wife I will be forbearing, generous, and dignified. If he should ever attempt to allude to the hopes that his uncle has just quenched by this masterly stroke of policy, I will assert all the womanly grandeur of my nature, and wither him with a look half of pity, half of indignation.”

Here Miss Eliza leaned back in her chair, folded both hands over her bosom, and, closing her eyes, fell into one of those soft, sweet reveries, which poets have called “Love’s Young Dream;” her feet rested on the ottoman cushion which usually performed a prominent part in these solitary tableaux. The cupid sailed to and fro over her head; the crimson cushions of her chair would have reflected the color on her cheeks but for a counter tint, a little less vivid, but quite as permanent, which baffled what might have been an artistic effect. In this position we leave Miss Eliza rich in expectations, which no disappointment could extinguish.

Meantime, Georgie ran up to her grandmother’s room, threw herself into those outstretched arms and began to cry, one would think just to be hushed and comforted with those soft words, and soft kisses, which came from the old lady’s lips like dew upon a flower.

“What did he say, grandmamma?”

“Every thing that was sweet and kind, darling!”

“And you told him——”

“That I would ask my grandchild if she loved this young man dearly with all her heart and soul.”

“With all her heart, and her soul of souls, tell him she said that, grandmamma.”

“And that she loves no one else?”

“No one, grandmamma, in this wide, wide world.”

“Shall I say that she has never loved any one else, dear?”

Georgie’s face was crimson when she lifted her head and looked clearly into that rather anxious face.

“He will not ask that, because I told him all about it myself.”

The old lady kissed that beautiful, honest face.

“That is right, my dear.”

“And he did not care in the least; said the first love of a girl was usually half fancy and half nonsense; that a heart was sometimes like fruit, which is never really ripe till the frost gives it a bloom; and a good deal more which I cannot repeat, but love to remember.”

“Then I have nothing to do but ask God to bless you both!”

“But you have told me nothing. Is the old gentleman pleased?”

“Yes, delighted. I never saw him so well satisfied in my life.”

“You! Why, grandmamma, did you ever see him before?”

The old lady smiled, but answered nothing to the purpose. She only said, “Yes, indeed, he is greatly pleased; and says that there is not a girl in Philadelphia that he would have preferred to my little granddaughter.”

“Did he say that? How very kind of him! But, grandmamma, what do you think Aunt Eliza——”

“Ah, yes! I know, my dear. She is so apt to make these mistakes; but I have told her.”

“Oh, I am glad of that! Did she want to kill me?”

“Far from that, Georgie; but we will not talk of her. It makes me sad.”

“But you will not think of any thing which can do that; for I want you to be splendid when, when——”

“When you are married?”

“Yes, grandmamma.”

After the blushes had left Georgie’s face, a shade of sadness stole over it, which the old lady observed.

“What is the matter, darling?”

“Nothing, grandmamma. Only I am so sorry for Anna Burns.”

“Indeed! What about her?”

“She seems so unhappy!”

“Why?”

“Ah! I had forgotten. It is not my place to talk about Anna Burns; perhaps she is not so very unhappy, after all. Only—only I do wish somebody who knows how would comfort her; that is, advise with her.”

“What if I call upon them in their new house, Georgie? How would that do?”

“Splendid! I am sure she would tell you every thing. When will you go?”

“Well, suppose we say to-morrow evening?”

“That is capital! I will go with you and talk with Mrs. Burns, while you take up Anna.”

“That will do, perhaps. I shall invite a few friends to visit them in their new house. What if we give them a surprise party?”

“Oh, how delightful!”

“Invite all their friends, and give them a little feast!”

“Oh, grandmamma! they haven’t but one friend in the world beside us and the Savage family; and I’m afraid it would be unpleasant for them to meet.”

“Still we must invite them. I will send a note to Mrs. Savage, and ask her to bring Horace.”

“It might do; but I should not dare myself.”

“Very likely. So leave that to me. Mistakes in an old woman are soon forgiven!”

“Yes, I will leave it to you. Nobody ever did things so nicely.”

“Now about this other woman, for I suppose it is a woman whom you speak of as their friend?”

“Yes, of course, it is a woman. Such a strange creature, too, I’m sure you would be surprised to see her, knowing how good she is. When Anna and her grandmother were so very poor, she let the rent run on, month after month, never asking for it, but growing kinder and kinder every day. More than that, she seemed to find out by magic when they had nothing to eat in the house, and sent up money and a wholesome meal when they were almost crying with hunger.”

“Georgiana,” said Mrs. Halstead, “that was a good woman. Invite her.”

“But she is rough as a chestnut-bur.”

“No matter.”

“And used to scold them sometimes.”

“No matter.”

“She takes in slop-work.”

“All the better.”

“And fries her own dinner on the little stove in her room. I have heard it simmering twenty times.”

“But when these good people needed it, she divided her dinner with them.”

“Indeed, she did; though the agent was tormenting her about the rent all the time; and she is heavily in debt to him now.”

“Georgiana, invite that woman—I admire her. I respect her, coarse or not, ugly or handsome, I respect her.”

“And so do I, grandmamma. Only I thought it best to tell you. Besides, she dresses so, and has such coarse hair, that anybody but you might not see the good through it all—Mrs. Savage particularly.”

“She would. Mrs. Savage is a noble woman.”

“I am glad to hear you say that for Anna’s sake.”

“And this person you speak of is a noble woman; such people always get together somehow.”

“I hope so. Of course, if you say it.”

“There now, dear, go to this woman and give our invitation. Here is money for the entertainment. Let it be perfect. She will help you, I dare say. If any thing is left, she must keep it, understand. Now good-morning. Go at once.”

Georgie ran up stairs for her bonnet, and was soon in the old tenement-house talking with the landlady, whom she found hard at work, with a clothes-basket half full of unfinished work by her side, and a heap of sailor’s jackets piled up on the table close at hand. She had a well-worn press-board lying across her lap, and was pressing a stubborn seam upon it with a heavy flat-iron, upon which she leaned resolutely with one elbow, while she held the seam open with two fingers of her other hand. This was hot work, and the perspiration was pouring off her face as she worked.

“Yes,” she said, with curt good humor, “hard at work as ever; hot though, and dragging on the strength; especially when one sets at it steady from daylight till eleven o’clock at night.”

“But why do you work so hard, there is only yourself to support?”

“That’s what every lady says; but, law, what do they know about it? Debt cries louder than children; they do give up sometimes, but agents never do, especially them as let tenement-houses for men who are too refined to crush out the poor with their own hands, but take the money without asking how it has been wrung out of our hard earnings, piling the extra per centage—which pays the agent for oppressing his tenants—on us. Then they talk about heavy taxes, as if we did not pay them and all the rest with our hard work. When the Common Council, and the State, or Congress, put taxes on them, they sit still in their comfortable parlors, and meet it all by raising the rents, which we pay like this.”

The woman swept the perspiration from her forehead with one hand, which she held out, all moist and trembling from the pressure it had given to the iron. The front finger was honey-combed by the point of her coarse needle; the palm was coarse and hard from constant toil.

“These are tax-marks,” she said, bitterly; “some of our people don’t understand it—but I do; for, poor or not, I will take the newspaper. It’s oppression—that’s what it is. If the agent would have been a little easy with me, I might have done a world of good in this identical house; but it wasn’t in me to turn a family out of doors when they couldn’t pay up to the minute; and so, in trying to save them, I got in debt. If he turns me out—and he threatened that this very morning—who will stand between him and the poor families in my rooms? I tell you what, Miss, it wasn’t to make money I took the house, but to keep it respectable and help my poor fellow-creturs along. There never was any profit in it; and now I’m likely to be turned out myself. It’s hard, miss—it is hard!”

“Indeed, it does seem very cruel; but I suppose the man who has money can be a tyrant if he likes, in spite of the law. I’ll talk with grandmamma about this; perhaps she can help you. Just now I come to ask, that is, to invite you, to join us in a little party we are going to give the Burns family.”

“What! they give a party?”

“No—we; that is, grandmamma and a friend or two are going to surprise them.”

“Big-bugs—that is, gentlemen and ladies?”

“Yes, I—I believe so,” said Georgie, with great humility.

“Then I can’t go—I shouldn’t feel at home.”

“But I want your help in getting things ready. Grandmamma has left every thing for you and I to arrange. Here is plenty of money, but I have no idea how to go about spending it.”

“Oh! if that’s what you want of me, I’m on hand. Haven’t had a play spell these ten years. It’ll do me good.”

“I own it will—can you spare the time now?”

“I’ll put on my things right off,” cried the landlady, standing her press-board in a corner, and planting the hot iron in a safe place. “Just wait a minute while I comb out my hair and put on another dress.”

With this, the good woman let down a hank of coarse hair, and hatcheled it vigorously with a coarse horn-comb; then she gathered it up in a hard twist, and proceeded to change her dress, for which she substituted a gorgeous delaine, and a blanket-shawl warmed up with stripes of scarlet.

“Now,” she said, tying the strings of an immense straw bonnet, that stood up from her face like a horse-shoe, “I’m ready for any thing you want of me.”

Georgie arose, took up her parasol of silk point-lace and carved ivory, of which she felt a little ashamed, and followed the landlady out.

“There is one thing,” she said, when they reached the side-walk, “which you must help me arrange; while we are making preparations in the house, they must be got away.”

“Oh! I’ll mange that easy enough,” answered the woman. “I’ll tell them that I am obliged to go out, and can’t spare the time from my work. They’ll both offer to come round and help me through. It wont be the first time—just leave that to me. I think they’ll like to sit in the old room; some of their things are there yet.”

This being decided on, Georgie and her companion entered upon the business in hand with great energy; and the young girl went home at dusk perfectly satisfied with the progress of things, as regarded the surprise party.