The Actress' Daughter: A Novel. May Agnes Fleming
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so do I; but then they're so far off, you know, I love flowers better, because they're nearer."
"Well, that's the reason I don't like them – I mean not so much. I don't care for things I can get so easy – that everybody else can get. Anything I like I want to have all to myself. I don't want anybody else in the world to have it. The bright, beautiful stars are away off – nobody can have them. I call them mine, and nobody can take them from me. I like stars better than flowers."
"Oh, Georgia! you are queer. Why, don't you know that's selfish? Now, if I have any pleasure, I don't enjoy it at all unless I have somebody to enjoy it with. I shouldn't like to keep all to myself; it doesn't seem right. What else do you like, Georgia?"
"Well, I like the sea – the great, grand, dreadful sea! I like it when the waves rise and dash their heads against the high rocks, and roar, and shriek, and rage as if something had made them wild with anger. Oh! I love to watch it then, when the great white waves break so fiercely over the high rocks, and dash up the spray in my face. I know it feels then as I do sometimes, just as if it should go mad and dash its brains out on the rocks. Oh, I do love the great, stormy, angry sea!"
And the eyes of the wild girl blazed up, and her whole dark face lighted, kindled, grew radiant as she spoke.
The sweet, innocent little face of Emily was lifted in wonder and a sort of dismay.
"Oh, Georgia, how you talk!" she exclaimed: "love the sea in a storm! What a taste you have! Now I like it, too, but only on a sunny, calm morning like this, when it is smooth and shining. I am dreadfully afraid of it on a stormy day, when the great waves make such a horrid noise. What queer things you like! Now I suppose you had rather have a wet day like last Sunday than one like this?"
"No," said Georgia, "I didn't like last Sunday; it kept on a miserable drizzle, drizzle all day, and wouldn't be fine nor rain right down good and have done with it. But I like a storm, a fierce, high storm, when the wind blows fit to tear the trees up, and dashes the rain like mad against the windows. I go away up to the garret then and listen. And I like it when it thunders and lightens, and frightens everybody into fits. Oh, it's splendid then! I feel as if I would like to fly away and away all over the world, as if I should go wild being caged up in one place, as if – oh, I can't tell you how I feel!" said the hare-brained girl, drawing a long breath and keeping her shining eyes fixed as if on some far-off vision.
"Well, if you ain't the queerest, wildest thing! And you don't like fine days at all?"
"Oh, yes, I do – of course I do; not so much days like this, cold, and clear, and calm, but blazing hot, scorching August noondays, when the whole world looks like one great flood of golden fire —that's the sort I like! Or freezing, wild, frosty winter days, when the great blasts make one fly along as if they had wings —they're splendid, too!"
"Well, I don't know, I don't think so. I like cool, pleasant days like this better, because I have no taste for roasting or freezing," said Emily, laughing. "Oh, I must tell mother about the droll things you like! Let me see what else. Like music?"
"Some sorts. I like the band. Don't care much for any other kind."
"And I like songs and hymns better. And now, which do you prefer – men or women?"
"Men," said Georgia, decidedly.
"You do! Why?"
"Oh, well – because they're stronger and more powerful, and braver and bolder; women are such cowards. Do you know the sort of a man I should like to be?"
"No; what sort?"
"Well, like Napoleon Bonaparte, or Alexander the Great. I should like to conquer the whole world and make every one in the world do just as I told them. Oh, I wish I was a boy!"
"I don't, then," said Emily, stoutly. "I don't like boys, they're so rude and rough. And these two conquerors weren't good men either. I've read about them. Washington was good. I like him."
"So do I. But if I had been him I would have made myself King of America. I wouldn't have done as he did at all. Now, where are you going in such a hurry?"
"Oh, I shall have to go to Mrs. White's. I've been here a good while already. I wish you would come along."
"No," said Georgia decidedly, "I sha'n't go. Good-by."
Emily nodded and smiled a good-by, and tripped off down the road. Georgia stood for a moment longer, looking at the stately mansion, and then was about to go away when a hand was laid on her and arrested her steps.
Close to the wall some benches ran, hidden under a profusion of flowering vines, and Richmond Wildair had been lying on one of these, studying a deeply exciting volume, when the voices of the children fell upon his ear. Very intently did he listen to their conversation, only revealing himself when he found Georgia was about to leave.
"Good-morning, Miss Georgia," he said, smilingly; "I am very glad to see you. Come, jump over the fence and come in; you can do it, I know."
Now, Georgia was neither timid nor bashful, but while he spoke she recollected her not very courteous behavior the previous day, and, for the first time in her life, she hung her head and blushed.
He appeared to have forgotten, or at least forgiven it, but this only made her feel it all the more keenly.
"Come," he said, catching her hands, without appearing to notice her confusion; "one, two, three – jump!"
Georgia laughed, disengaged her hands, and with the old mischievous spirit twinkling in her eyes, with one flying leap vaulted clear over his head far out into the garden.
"Bravo!" cried Richmond; "excellently done! I see you understand gymnastics. Now I would offer you some flowers only I heard you say you did not care for them, and as for the stars I regret they are beyond even my reach."
Georgia looked up with a flush that reminded him of yesterday. "You were listening," she said disdainfully; "that is mean!"
"I beg your pardon, Miss Georgia, I was not listening intentionally; I am not an eavesdropper, allow me to insinuate. I was lying there studying before you came, and did not choose to put myself to the inconvenience of getting up and going away to oblige a couple of small young ladies, more particularly when I found their conversation so intensely interesting. Very odd tastes and fancies you have, my little Lady Georgia."
Georgia was silent – she had scarcely heard him – she was thinking of something else. She wanted to ask about Charley, but – she did not like to.
"Well," he said, with a smile, reading her thoughts like an open book, "and what is little Georgia thinking of so intently?"
"I – I – of nothing," she was going to say, and then she checked herself. It would be a falsehood, and Georgia as proud of never having told a lie in her life.
"And what does 'I – I' mean?"
"I was thinking of your brother Charley," she said, looking up with one of her bright, defiant flashes.
"Yes," he said, quietly, "and what of him?"
"I should like to know how he is."
"He is ill – seriously ill. Charles is delicate, and his ankle is even worse hurt than we supposed. Last night he was feverish and sleepless, and this morning he was not able to get up."
A hot flush passed over Georgia's face, retreating instantaneously, and leaving her very pale, with a wild, uneasy, glitter in her large dark eyes. Oh! If he should die, she thought. It was through her fault he had hurt himself first, and then she had been obstinate, and would not forgive him. Perhaps he would die, she would never be able to tell him how sorry she was for what she had done. She laid her hand on Richmond's arm, and, looking up earnestly in his face, said, in a voice that trembled a little in spite of herself: "Do – do you think he will die?"
"No," he said, gravely, "I hope – I think not; but poor Charley is really ill, and very lonely, up there alone."
"I – I should like to see him."
It was just what Richmond expected; just what he had uttered the last words to hear her say. Her