CHAPTER XVI.
REAPING THE WHIRLWIND.
"Oh, woman wronged can cherish hate More deep and dark than manhood may."
WHITTIER.
"And in that deep and utter agony-- Though then than ever most unfit to die-- She fell upon her knees and prayed for death."
It was not in human heart, much less in a heart that loved her still, to gaze on that death-like face unmoved; and Richmond"s stern gaze relaxed, and his brow lost its cold severity, as he knelt beside her and said:
"Dearest Georgia, one would think you were dying. Deeply as you have mortified me, I have not the heart to see you thus wretched. Look up--smile--speak to me. What! not a word? Good mercy, how deeply you seem to feel these things!"
"Let me go, Richmond; I am tired and sick, and want to be alone."
"Yes, you are sick; the fiery spirit within you is wearing out your body. Oh, Georgia! when are these storms of pa.s.sion to cease?"
She lifted her melancholy black eyes to his face with a strange, prolonged gaze.
"_When I am dead._"
"Oh, Georgia, sooner than that! Oh, _why_ did you insult my mother, disgrace me, and horrify all these people to-day! Are you going crazy, Georgia?"
"No; I wish I were."
"Georgia!" he said, shocked as much by her slow, strange tone as by her words.
"Perhaps I _will be_ soon; you are all taking a good way to make me so."
"Georgia!"
"It will be better for you, you know--you can marry a lady then."
"_Georgia!_"
"Oh, you can marry your cousin--she will never disgrace you, Richmond,"
she said, with a strange, short laugh.
"GEORGIA!"
"Oh, Richmond, why did you marry me? _Why_ did you ever marry me?" she cried, suddenly changing her tone to one of piercing anguish, and wringing her pale fingers.
"Because," he said, flushing deeply, "I mistook you for a n.o.ble-hearted, generous girl, instead of the vindictive, rebellious one you have turned out to be. Because I made a mistake, as many another has done before me, and will do for all time. Are you satisfied now, my dear?"
She rose from her seat and paced up and down, wringing her hands.
"Oh, I thought I would have been so happy! You said you loved me, and I believed you. I did not know you wanted a wife to bear the brunt of your mother"s sneers and your cousin"s insults--some one to afford a subject of laughter to your friends. Oh, Richmond, I wish--I _wish_ I had died before I ever met you!"
Richmond stood watching her in silence a moment, and the look of marked displeasure again settled on his face.
"Well, really, this is pleasant!" he said, slowly. "You can act the part of the termagant to the life, Mistress Georgia. I expected, and I believe so did all the rest, to see you knock my mother down a little while ago; that, I presume, will be the next exhibition. You have made out a long list of complaints against me during the past; take care that I do not turn the tables and accuse you of something worse than being a virago, my lady."
"Oh, I shall not be surprised. Say and do what you please; nothing will astonish me now. Oh, that it were not a crime to die!" she cried, pa.s.sionately wringing her hands.
"Well, madam, you do not believe in h.e.l.l, you know," he said, with a sneer, "so what does it matter?"
"Two months ago I did not, Richmond; now I _know_ of it."
The frown deepened on his brow.
"What do you mean by that, Mrs. Wildair?" he said, hotly.
"Nothing," she replied, with a cold smile.
"Have a care, my lady; your taunts may be carried too far. It ill becomes you to take the offensive after what has pa.s.sed this afternoon."
"After what has pa.s.sed! By that you mean, I suppose, my preventing your mother from making the servants turn my best, my dearest friend, into the street like a dog," she said, stopping in her walk and facing him.
"My mother mistook her for a beggar. How was she to know she was anything to you?"
Georgia broke into a scornful laugh, and resumed her walk.
"Positively, Mrs. Wildair," said Richmond, flushing crimson with anger, "this insulting conduct is too much. If I cannot command your obedience, I at least insist on your respect. And as we are upon the subject, I beg in your intercourse with _one_ of my guests you will remember you are a wedded wife. You seem to have forgotten it pretty well up to the present, both of you."
She had sunk on a sofa, her face hidden in the cushions, her hands clasped over her heart, as if to still the intolerable pain there. She made no reply to the words that had struck her ear, but conveyed no meaning, and after waiting in vain for an answer, he resumed, with a still deepening frown:
"You will not honor me with an answer, madam. Probably your smiles and answers are all alike reserved for the fascinating Captain Arlingford.
How do you intend to meet my mother, Mrs. Wildair, after what has happened to-day?"
"Oh, Richmond, I do not know! Oh, Richmond, do, _do_ leave me!"
"Madam!"
"I am so tired, and so sick. I _cannot_ talk to-night!" she cried out, lifting her bowed head, and clasping her hands to her throbbing temples.
"Be it so, then, madam. I shall not intrude again," said Richmond, as, with a face dark with anger, he turned and left the room.
Next morning at breakfast Georgia did not appear. There was an embarra.s.sment--a restraint upon all present, which deepened when the unconscious Captain Arlingford, the only one who ventured to p.r.o.nounce her name, inquired for Mrs. Wildair.
A dusky fire, the baleful fire of jealousy, flamed up in Richmond Wildair"s eyes. Freddy and his mother saw it, and exchanged glances, and the old evil smile broke over the former"s face.
"She was indisposed last night," said Mr. Wildair, with freezing coldness, "and I presume has not yet sufficiently recovered to be able to join us at table. You will have the happiness of seeing her at dinner, Captain Arlingford."
There was something in his tone that made Captain Arlingford look up, and Mrs. Wildair, fearing a public disagreement, which did not suit her purpose at all, said hastily in a tone of the most motherly solicitude:
"Poor, dear child. I am afraid that little affair of yesterday has mortified her to death. Freddy, love, do go up to her room, and see how she is."