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The Brussels Post, 1887-6-3, Page 7le JUNE 3, 1887. ACTRESS' DI RHTEH. '1$13 MISTRESS OF 1tIOEJfOND HOUS1!, .g7r,,ixasoF WRONG AND ileEnllolle:'ts. By irles,11LAY AGNES FI,1:,XHIG, oweeei. of •'Loot For a Wou",n,""DYaii Percy'. Secret," Il+.tc. Money will procure it, and of that I have enough. I allude to a divorce—• do you know what that means?" Yes, the knew. Her arms dropped by her side as if she had been suddenly stricken with death, the light died out in her eyes, the words sho would havo uttered were frozen on her lips, and, as if the last blow she could ever receive had fallen, she laid her handon her heart and lifted her eyes, palm' as his now, to his face. Some author has said "Groat shooks kill weak minds, and stir stroug ones with a calm resembling death." So it was with Georgia; she had been stunned into calm—the calm of undying, life. long despair. She had believed and trusted all along—she bad thought be loved her until now—and now ! What was there in her face that awed even him ? It was not anger, nor reproach, nor yet sorrow. A thrill of nameless terror shot through his heart, and with the last cruel words all auger passed away. He advanced a step toward her, as if to speak again, but she raised her hand, and lifting her eyes to hie face with a look he never forgot, she turned and passed from the room. And Richmond Wildair was alone. He had not meant one-half of what he had said in the white heat of his passion, and the idea of a divorce had no more entered his head than that of slaying himself on the spot had. He had said it in his rage, none the less deep for being suppressed, and now he would have given uucounted worlds that those fatal words had never been uttered. Ho went out to the hall, but she had gone—he caught the last flutter of her dress as sho passed the head of the stairs toward her owl room. "I ought not to have said that," ho said uneasily to himself, as he paced up and down. I am sorry for it now. To- morrow I will see her again, and then— well, 'sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.' I cannot live this life longer. I will not stay in Barnfield. I cannot stay. I shall go abroad and take her with me. Ye, that is what I -will do. Travel will work wonders in Georgia, and who knows what happiness may be in store for us yet." He walked to the window and looked out. The white snow lay in great drifts on every side looking cold:, and white and deathlike in the pale lustre of a wintry moon. With a shudder he turned away and threw himself moodily on a couoh in tho warm parlor, saying, as if to reassure himself : "Yes, to -morrow I will see her, and all will be well—to-morrow—to-morrow." There was a paper lying on the table, and he took ib up and looked lightly over it. The first thing that struck his eyes was a poem headed: "To.morrow Never Comes." Richmond Wildair would have been ashamed to toll it, but he actually start- ed and turned pale with superstitious terror. It seemed so like an answer to his thoughts that it startled him more than anything of the kind bad ever done before. To him that night passed in feverish dreams. How passed it with another beneath that roof? At early morning he was awake. An unaccountable presentiment of an im- pending calamity was on him, and would not be shaken off. Scarcely knowing what he did, he went up to Georgia's room and softly turned the handle of the door. He had expected to find it locked, but it was not so; it opened at his touch, and he went in, Why does ho start and clutch it as if about to fall? The room is empty, and the bed has not been slept in all night. A note, addressed to him, lies on the table. Dizzily ho opens it, and reads: "Mx DEAREST HUSBAND :—Let me call you so for this once, this last time—ycln are free 1 On this earth I will never dis- grace yon again. May Heaven bless you and forgive "GEORGIA," She was gone—gone forever! Clutch- ing the note in his hand he . staggered, rather than walked, down stairs, opened the door, and, in the cold gray of coming dawn, passed out. All around the stainless snow -drifts seemed mocking him with thole white blank faces, lying piled up as they had been last night when he had driven hie young wife from his side. Cold and white they were hero still, and Georgia was—where? CHAPTER XVIII. THE DAWN ANOTHER DAY. "Thenshe took up the burden of life again Saying pity them bothlt , mad ityeus ail, ' Whoainl the dreams of youth recall For of all of words of tonsil() or pen. ' TRe Saddest are those, 'It might have been, In the dead of night—of that last, sor- rowful night—a slight, dark figure had flitted from ono of the many -doors of Richmond Rouse, fluttered away in the chill night, round through the eleeping town. A visitor came to Missjeruslia's sea-sidecottage that night, with a face so white and cold that the snow -wreathe dimmed beside it; the white face lay on the cold threshold, the dark figure was prostrate in the snowdrift before the door, and there the last farewell was taken while .Miss Jerusha lay 'sleeping withiu, And pion the dusky form woe THE BRUSSELS POST us..=. is whirling away and away again like a leaf ou a blast, another stray waif on the grout ober= of life, Six pealedfrom the townolook of Burn. field. The locomotive shrieked, the bell rang, and the fiery monster wee rushing along with its living freight to the great pity of Now York. In the dusky Bloom of that cold, cheer- less winter morning the tall, dark form, all dragged in black and closely veiled, had glided in like a spirit and taken her seat. Muffled in caps, and cloaks, and comforters, every one had enough to do to mind themselves and keep from freez. ing, and no ono heeded the still form that loaned back among the cushions, giving as little sign of life as though it were a statue in ebony. The sun was high in the Sky and Geor- gia was in Now York. Sho knew where to go; in her former visit she had chanced to relieve the wants of a poor widow living in an obscure tenement. house somewhere near the Bash River, and here, despairing of finding her way through the labyrinth of streets alone, she gave the cabman directions to drive. Strangely calm she was now, but oh, the settled night of anguish in those large, wild, black eyes I The poor are mostly grateful,and warm and hearbfelt was Georgia's weloome to that humble roof. (Questions were asked, but none answered; all Georgia said she wanted was a private room there for two or three days. Alone at last sho sat down to think. There was no time to brood. over the past—her lifework was to be accom- plished now. What next 7 was the question which arose before her, the question that must bo promptly an- swered. How was she to live in this wilderness of human beings? She leaned her head on her hands, forcibly wrenched her thoughts from the past and fixad them on the present. How was she to earn a livelihood ? The plain, practjpal, homely question roused all her sleeping energies and did her good. The stage 1 She thought of that first with an electric bound of the pulse ; she knew, she was certain to win a name and fame there,; but could she, who had become the wife of Richmond Wildair, become an actress ? She know his fas- tidious pride on this point ; she know the fact of her having been an actress in her childhood had never ceased to gall him more than anything else. Georgia Darrell would leave stepped on the boards and won the highest laurels the profession could bestow, but Georgia Wildair had another to think of beside herself. Much as she longed for that exciting life—that life for which nature had so well qualified her, physic- ally and mentally, for which she had so strong, a desire—she put the thought. aside and gave it up. Though she had wrenched asunder the chains that bound her to him, she still parried a clanking fragment with her, and, no longer a free agent, she must think of something else. Another reason there was why that profession could nob be hors—she did not wish to be known or discovered by any one she had ever known before ; her desire was to be as dead to Richmond Wildair as if she had never existed—to leave him free, unfettered as he had been before this fatal marriage. And, to make more sure of this, she bad resolved to drop his name and assume another. She would take her mother's name of Randall; it was her own name, too— Georgia Randall Darrell. But what was she to do ? Females before now had won fame as artists, and Georgia had genius and an artist's soul. But she would have to wait and live on this poor widow's bounty meantime, and that was too abhorrent to her nature to be for a moment thought of. Nothing remained but to become teacher or governess, and even in this sho was doubtful if she could succeed. She knew little or nothing of music, and that seemed absolutely essential in a governess, but still she would try. 11 that failed, something else must be tried. Drawing pen end ink toward her, sho sat down and indited the foilowiug : WANTED.—A situation as governess in a re- spectable private family, by ono capable of teaching French, German and Latin, and 011 the branches of English education. Address G.11., etc. Next morning, among hundreds of other "wants," this appeared in the Herald, and nothing now remained for Georgia but to wait. The excitement of her flight, the necessity of immediate action, and now the fever of suspense, kept her mind from dwelling too much on the past. Had it been otherwise, with her impassioned nature, she might have sunk into an agony of despair, or raved in the delirium of brain fever. As it was, the remained stunned into a sort of calm—white, cold, passionless; but, oh 1 with such a settled night of utter sorrow in the great melancholy dark eyes. Fortunately for her she ,was not doomed to remain long in suspense.. On the third day a note was brought to her in a gentleman's hand, and tearing it eagerly open, she read: "Almon House, Jan, 12,18— "Meeasi,—Seeing your advertisenieut in the Herald, and being in want of a governess, if not already engaged, you would do well to favor me with a call at your earliest leisure. Iwill leave the pity in two days. fours, JOHN LEONARD." As she finished reading this, Georgia started to her feet, hastily donned her hat and cloak, with her thick veil cleanly over her face, and taking one of the little boys with her,as guide, set out for the hotel, Upon reaching it, she enquired for 111r. Leonard, A servant went for him, and in a few moments returned with a benevoleiit•loolcing old gentleman, with white hair, and a kind, friendly face. "You wished to see me, madam," leo said, bowing, and looking inquiringly at the tall, Juno -like form grossed in black. "Yes, sir; I em the governess," said Gdorgia,her heart throbbing so violently that she turned giddy'. "011, indeed 1' suiid the old gentle- man, kindly'; "perhaps we had better stop up to my room, then; this is no place to settle „business." Georgia followed him up two or three flights of stairs, to an elegantly fur. niched apartment, handing her a chair, he seated Himself, and glanced somewhat curiously at her. "You received my answer to your ad- vertisement ?" he said. "Yes, sir," said Georgia, in a stifled voice. "May I ask your name, madam ?" said Mr. Leonard, whose curiosity seemed piqued. Georgia throw back her heavy veil, and the old gentleman gave a start of surprise at sight of the white, cold, .beautiful faro, and dark, sorrowful oyes. "My name 18 Randall—Miss Randall,"' replied Georgia, while a faint red that faded as quickly as it Dame, tinged her cheek at the deception. Mr. Leonard bowed. "I suppose you havo credentials—your certificates from those with whom you have formerly lived?" said Mr. Leonard, hesitatingly, for he felt embarrassed to address this queenly -looking girl, on whose marble -like face the awe-inspiring shadow of somo mighty grief lay, as leo would a common governess. Georgia's eyes dropped, and again that slight tinge of color flashed across ber face, and again faded away. "No, sir ; I have not. I never was a governess before ; sudden reverses—ad- versity—" She broke down, pub her trembling hand before her face, and averted her head. Mr. Leonard was an impulsive, kind- hearted old gentleman, and the sight of settled anguish in that pale young face went right home to his heart, and touched him exceedingly. "Yes, yes, to be sure, poor child! I understand it all. There, don't cry— don't now. You know there is nothing but ups and downs in this world, and re- verses are to be expected. I like you, I like your looks, and I rather guess I'll engage you without credentials. There, don't be cast down, my dear • don't now. You really make me feel bad to see you in trouble." Georgia lifted her head and tried to smile, but it was so faint and sad, so like a cold gleam of moonlight on suow, that it touched that soft heart ofhis more and more. . "Poor thing 1 poor thing 1 poor little thing 1" he said, winking very rapidly with both eyes behind his spectacles; "soon a great deal of trouble, I expect, in her time, must have, to give her that look. Pll engage her : upon my life I will." There may be one objection, sir," said Georgia, sadly, "I can't teach music." "You can't—hum 1" said Mr. Leonard, musingly. "Well, that doesn't make ranch odds, I guess. My daughters have a music -teacher now, and he can teach little Jennie, I reckon, too. Your pupils are two boys and a girl, none over thir• teen ; and as you teach Froneh and Latin, and grammar, and English, and all the other thiugs necessary, music does not make much difference. And as for salary—well, I'll attend to that at the end of the quarter, and I think you will be satisfied. When can you come?" "Now, if necessary, sir—any time you like." "Well, to -morrow morning I start. I live forty miles out of New York, and if you will give me your address,' will call for you in the carriage." "I thank you, :dr, but it is too far out of your way. I will come up Here," said Georgia, who did not wish to bring him to the mean habitation where she stop - pod. "I suppose that is all," elle sant, rising. "All at present, Miss Randall," said 11r. Leonard, rising, and looking s o ab ]ler in g, g ur s ri se as she unusualo started at the name. "To -morrow at ten o'clock I leave. Good -morning." Ho shook hands cordially with her at parting, and then Georgia hurried out, feeling that one faint gleam of sunshine had arisen in her darkened life. In the desolate years of the weary life before her she would at least be a burden to no one, and for a few momentssho.felt as if an intolerable load had been lifted off her heart. But when she was alone again in her chamber, and the reaction past, the awful sense of her desolation came sweeping over her. In all the wide world she had not one friend left. Sun, and moon, and stars, all had faded from her sky, and night—dark, woeful night— had closed, and a night for which there. was no morning. And, oh, worst of all, she felt it was her own fault, her own stormy, unbridled passions had done it all; and with a great cry, wrung from hor tortured heart, she sank down quivering and white in the dusky gloom of that wild winter evening. There was ' nb light in i3oorgia's despair , in ha ppier days 8110 had never prayed, and in the hour of her earthly anguish she could not. In this world she could look for- ward to within but a wretched, de- spairieg life, and to her the nett was a dull, dead blank. One name was in her heart, one name on her lips, one whom she had made her God, her earthly idol, and now he, too, was forever lost. When the widow came to awaken her the next morning, she was startled by the sight of the tall, dark form, wrapped in a shawl, sitting by the window, her forohoed pressed to the cold pane, her face whiter than the snow -wreathe without. She had not laid hor head on a pillow the livelong night. Tho cold, pale sunahihe of the short January day was fading sot of the eery, wnen a sleigh, well supplied with buffalo robes and the merry music of jingling bolls, came flying up toward a large, handsome country villa, through the eon curtainsoh th orira curtained windows waofwbi e ruddy light of many a glowing coal fire shone. As it stopped before the door, a group from within came out, and stood on the veranda in pager expectation and pleasing bustle. Au old gentleman with white hair and a benevolent emilo, answering to the cognomen of M. Leonard, got out and assisted a lady, tall and elegant, dressed in black and closely veiled to alight,, Then, giving a few hasty directions to a servant who was loading off the horses, be gave the lady his arm and led her up to the house. And upon reaching the veranda he was instantly surrounded, and an in- credible amount of kissing, and question- ing, and talking was done in an instant, and the old gentleman was whisked off and borne into a large, handsomely fur- nished parlor, where the brightest of fires was blazing in the brightest at grates, and pushed into a rooking•chae and whirled up before the fire in twinkling. "Lard bless my eon11" said tbo old gentleman, breathlessly, and laying a strong emphasis on the pronoun ; "what a lot of whirlwinds you are, girls ! Where's Miss Randall, eh ? Whore's Miss Randall ?" "Here, sir," answered Georgia, as she entered the room. "And pretty near frozen, I'll bo bound. I know I am. Mrs. Leonard, my dear, this young lady is the governess—Miss Randall.' Georgia bowed to a little fat woman with restless, hazel eyes. "And these are my two eldest daugh- ters, Feline and Maggie," continued Mr. Leonard, pointing to two pretty, grace- ful -looking young girls, who nodded carelessly to the governese; "and these are your pupils," he added, pointing to two little boys, ap. arently between thirteen and ten, andto a little girl. who, from her resemblance to the younger, was evidently his twin sister. Albert, Royal, Jennie, come and shake hands with Miss Randall." "Miss Randall 1 why, Licie, that's the name of that nice gentleman who brought you the roses last night, ain't it ?" said little Jennie, looking up cun- ningly at her elder sister. Miss Felice glanced at Miss Maggie and smiled and blushed, and began twisting one of her ringlets over her taper fingers, looking very conscious in- deed. "May I ask you if you are any rela- tion to young Mr. Randall, the poet, of New York 1" said Mrs. Leonard, push- ing uglier spectacles and trying to see Georgia through the thick veil: that still covered her face. "Why, mamma, what a question 1 Of course she's not," said Miss Felice, rather pettishly ; "he has no relatives, you know. There's plenty of that name." Georgia threw back her veil at this moment, and stooped to kiss little Jennie, who came up and held her rosy mouth puckered for that purpose, as if she was quite accustomed to bo treated to that sort of coin. "Oh, Felice, what a beautiful face 1" exclaimed Miss Maggie, in an impulsive whisper. "Ye -es, she's not bad.looking—for a governess," drawled out Miss Felice. "They are generally so frightfully ugly. She's a creat deal too pale, though, and too solemn -looking; it gives mo the dis- mals to look at her ; and slip's over so much too tall" (Miss Felice, be it known, was rather on the dumpy pattern than otherwise), "and too slight for her size, and her forehead's boo high, and her—" "Oh, Felice, stop ! You'll tryto make out she's as ugly as sin directly. Did you ever see suoh splendid eyes ?" "I don't like black eyes," said Miss Felice, in a dissatisfied tone; "they are too sharp and fiery. They do well enough for men, but l don't approve of them at all for women." "Dear mo, what a pity!" said Miss Maggie, sarcastically ; "but you con't call piers fiery—they're dreadfully me l ancholY> I'm sure. Now, ain't theY , mamma ?" "What, dear. ?" said Mrs. Leonard, not catching the whispered question. "Hasn't Miss Randall got lovely mel. ancholy black eyes. "Oh, bother her melancholy black eyes 1" said Miss Felice, impatiently. "What a time you do make about people, Mag. And she only a governess, too. I should thick you would be ashamed." "W011Iaiu'tasham0d—uotthelea least," said Mags Maggie "and no matter whether she's a governess or not, she looks like a lady. I'm sure she's very clever, too. I wonder who she's in black for." "Ask her," said Miss Felice, shortly, as she pinked up a French novel, and, placing her feet on the fonder, sat down to road Miss Felice was blessed with a temper much shorter than sweet, and Miss Maggie, who was rather good-natured, took her cart replies as a matter of course, and going over to Georgia, said, pleasantly : "Miss Randall, if you wish to go up to your room, I will be your cicerone for the occasion. Parbaps you would like to brush your hair before tea." "Thank you," said Georgia, rising languidly, and following Miss 1Vlaggie from the room. "This is to be your sanction saareforittir, Miss Randall," said Maggie, opening the door of a small and plainly but neatly furnished bedroom, rendered cheerful by red drapery ado, redder fire. "It's, not very gorgeous, you perceive; but it's the 000 the governess always uses here, Our last one—Miss Fitzgerald, an Irish young lady event and pasted herself into the awful gulf of—" "What?" said Georgia, with a slight start, paused by Miss Maggie's awe- "What struck manner. "Matrimony 1" said Miss Maggie, in a thrilling whisper. "Ain't it 'dreadful! en's ers d curates, Ggvornosses, and m i t , au a , and all sorts of poor people generally, will persist in such atroehtios, on the principle that what won't keep one, 1 suppose, will keep two. Don't you ever get married, Miss Randall. 1 never mean to— Why, ley goodness, what's ' the matter now ?"' Georgia bad given such a violent start, and a spasm of such intense anguish bad passed oyer her face, that Miss Maggie jumped back, and stood regard- ing her with wide-open and startled eyes, the picture of astonishment. "Nothing—nothing 1" said Georgia, leaning her elbow on the table, and dropping her forehead on it; "a sudden pain—gone now. Pray do nob be fright- ened.' "Oh, I ain't frightened," said Miss Maggie, composedly. "Do you think you will like to live out here 2 It's aw. ful lonesome, I can tell you ; a quarter of a mile almost to the nearestliouee.. Lioie and I want papa to stop in New York in the winter, but he won't—he doesn't mind a word we say, Papas aro always the dreadfulest, most obstinate sort of people in the world—now, ain't they ?—always thinking they know best, you know, and always dreadful provok. ing. Oh, dear me I" said Miss Maggio, with a deep sigh, as she full back in her chair, and held up and glanced admir- ingly at one pretty little foot and dis- tracting ankle, "I don't know what we should ever do only papa comes from the city to see us, and that nice Signor Popkins, who was a count, or a legion of honor, or some funny thing in I ranee, and gob exiled by that nasty Louis Na- poleon, comes and gives Licie and me two music lessons every week. Oh I Miss Randall, he's got just the sweetest hair you ever saw; Bind mustaches—oh, my goodness I such mustaches—that stink out like two shaving brushes ; and splendid long whiskers, like a cow's tail. Felice don't care much for him, because she thinks she's caught that nice, clever Mr. Randall, your namesake, you know, but I guess she ain't so sure of him as she thinks. Ohl he does write the most divine poetry that ever was—downright splendid, you know; and every lady is raving about him. He's travelled all over Europe, and Asia, and Africa, and the North Pole, and California, and. lots of other nice places ; and knows—ob, dear me, he knows a dreadful sight of things, and is a splendid talker. He only came from England two weeks ago, and everybody is making such a time about hint. Felice met him at a party, and he came here last night with the divineat bouquet, and she thinks she has him, lint I know better. Then some more gentlemen come here. Lem Turner, and Ike Brown, and Dick Curtis, but he's gone away somewhere to the country, to where some friend of his lives— Hey 1 What now ? Another pain, Miss Randall 2" "No—yes. Ex;use me, Miss Leonard, I am very tired, and will lie down now. You will please to tell them I do not feel well enough to go down to tea." "Well, there 1 I might have known you were tired, and not kept on talking so, but I am such a dreadful chatterbox. I'll tell Susan to bring up your tea. Good by, Miss Randall ; I hope you'll be quite well tomorrow, I'm sure." And the loquacious damsel bowed a smiling adieu, and retired. Georgia was butter next morning, and able to join the family at broadest, which meat was enlivened by e. steady flow of talk from Miss Maggie, and a series of snappish contradictions and marginal notes from Miss Felice, who never got her temper on till near noon. Mr. and lifrs. Leonard took both daugh- ters as matters of course, and seemed quite used to this sort of thing. On Georgia's part it passed almost in sil- ence, as she sat like some cold, marble statue, with scarcely more signs of life. After breakfast, Miss Felice sat down to practice some unearthly exercises on the grand piano that adorned the draw. ing room, and Miss Maggie Leonard bore off Georgia and the three juvenile in Leonards to a large, high, severe -look. ing room, adorned with a dismal looking blackboard, sundry maps, with real, green, yellow splashes, supposed to re. present this terrestrial globe. Four solemn looking black desks were in the four corners, and one in the middle for the teacher. Books, and ink bottles,. and slates, without end, were scattered about, ani, this, Mrs. Leonard informed Georgia, was the school -room, and after administering a smalilecture to Messrs. Albert and Royal and Miss Jennie, the purport of which was that the world in general expected them to be good child- ren and learn fast, and mind Miss Ran- dall, she floated out, bearing off the unwilling Miss Maggio, and Georgia began her now life as teacher. That day seemed 'endless to Georgia. Accustomed to uncontrolled freedom and wild liberty, she was fitted less for le teacher than for. anything else iu the world. That love of children which it is necessary every teacher should pos- sess, Georgia had not, and before the wearisome day was done every feeling that had not been stunned into numb. nose rose in rebellion against the intcl- arable servitude. At four o'clock the day's labor was over, and the children, glad to be re. leased, scampered off. Seating herself at the desk, Georgia ,lropped her throbbing head upon it, Itill 0 o giddy and blind with one of her deadly headaches, which, until the last month or bwo, she had never known. r� Snddonly the door was flung open, Vg and Miss Maggie's ringing voice was M� heard.' "Well, Miss Randall; hew did you get on? Mamma wouldn't tat me comeupl and it was real mean of her. 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