“Has it ever occurred to you, Georgie, that possibly the dead might come to life and witness against you? Such accidents have happened.”
“The dead, Jack; the dead?” and Georgie’s face was like the face of a corpse, and her voice was husky and thick. “That cannot be. I saw him in the coffin. I know just where he lies in Greenwood.”
“I was not thinking of him, but of Henry; you did not see him in his coffin. You don’t know where his grave is.”
“No; but Jack, there can be no doubt. You made so sure yourself. You told me he was dead. Was it all a farce? Oh, Jack, do you know anything—”
She was kneeling to him now, with her proud head bent to his very feet, just as once she had crouched years ago when he was but a boy, and she a wretched woman suing for pity and begging him to stand by her in her need. Then her long glossy curls had swept the floor just as they swept it now, and Jack had lifted her up, and comforted her, and sworn to be her friend, and he wanted to do it again, though his heart was harder toward her now than it had been then. He could more readily forgive the sin committed through great temptation when she was young and without a counsellor, than he could forgive the many years during which she had lived a lie. Still he pitied her so much, and loved her so much, for she was his sister, and her great beauty had always exercised a wonderful power over him. He felt it even now as she lifted her white, tear-stained face to his, and as he had done that other time in the darkest hour she had ever met, so he did now; he stooped and raised her up, and tried to comfort her, and said that he “knew nothing and had heard nothing, only such things sometimes did happen, and it would be very awkward for her, as Roy’s wife, to be some day confronted by Henry Morton.”
“Don’t, don’t speak his name,” she almost shrieked, while a shudder like a convulsion shook her frame. “I have been greatly to blame, but my punishment has been terrible. I have suffered untold agony in thinking of the past. I surely have atoned, and now if there is a haven of rest for me, don’t try to keep me from it by harrowing up my fears. I know he is dead. I am sure of it, and I mean to be a good wife to Roy. He never shall repent his choice,—I’ll bring every thought and feeling into conformity with his; and Jack, you must stand by me as a brother. Will you, Jack? As Roy’s wife, I can help you so much, and I will. Annie shall no longer be an expense to you. I will support her entirely.”
“And not let Roy know you are doing it?” Jack answered; and Georgie replied:
“I will tell him that, at least. I will not cheat him there. I’ll arrange it before we are married, that I am to do something for Annie, and perhaps when he sees how I care for her he will propose that she live with us. Oh, if he only would.”
Jack felt that on this point, at least, Georgie was sincere. She did love the little Annie, and his heart softened still more toward her; and when, as she was about to leave him, she said, imploringly, “Kiss me, Jack, once, as you used to do!” he put his arm around her, and kissed her white lips, which quivered with emotion, while the tears fell like rain upon her cheeks.
“You are a good brother, and I will try to be good, too, for your sake and Roy’s,” she said, as she bade him good-night, and left the room.