They are whirling away, and away. She takes her hands from her face and looks up. They are flying through Burnfield now, and she catches a glimpse of the stately arches and carved gables of Richmond House, her future home, and then that, too, disappears. They are at the station, in the cars, with a crowd of others, but she neither sees nor cares for their curious scrutiny now. The locomotive shrieks, the bell rings, and away and away they fly. She falls back in her seat, and Georgia has left the home of her childhood forever.
CHAPTER XIII.
AWAKENING.
"Her cheek too quickly flushes; o'er her eye
The lights and shadows come and go too fast,
And tears gush forth too soon, and in her voice
Are sounds of tenderness too passionate
For peace on earth."
believe the established and time-honored precedent in writing stories is to bring the chief characters safely through sundry "hair-breadth escapes by flood and field," annihilate the vicious, make virtue triumphant, marry the heroine, and then, with a grand final flourish of trumpets, the tale ends.
Now, I hope none of my readers will be disappointed if in this "o'er true tale" I depart from this established rule. My heroine is married, but the history of her life cannot end here. Perhaps it would be as well if it could, but truth compels me to go on and depict the dark as well as the bright side of a fiery yet generous nature—a nature common enough in this world, subject to error and weakness as we all are, and not in the least like one of those impossible angels oftener read of than seen.
Jane Eyre says a new chapter is like a new scene in a play. When the curtain rises this time, it discloses an elegantly furnished parlor, with pictures and lounges, and easy-chairs, and mirrors, and damask hangings, and all the other paraphernalia of a well-furnished room—time, ten o'clock in the morning. A cheerful fire burns in the polished grate, for it is a clear, cold December day, and diffuses a genial warmth through the cozy apartment.
In the middle of the floor stands a little round table, with a delicate breakfast-service of Sevres china and silver, whereon steams most fragrant Mocha, appetizing, nice waffles, and sundry other tempting edibles. Presiding here is a lady, young and "beautiful exceedingly," robed in a rich white cashmere morning wrapper, confined at the slender waist by a scarlet cord and tassels, and at the ivory throat by a flashing diamond breastpin. Her shining jet-black hair is brushed in smooth bands off her broad, queenly brow, and the damp braid just touches the rounded, flushed cheek. Very handsome and stately indeed she looks, yet with a sort of listless languor pervading her every movement, whether she lounges back in her chair, or slowly stirs her coffee with her small, dark hand, fairly blazing with jewels.