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Mrs. Portico’s heart gave a jump as this serene, handsome, familiar girl, sitting there with a hand in hers, and pouring forth this extraordinary tale, spoke of everything being over. There was a glossy coldness in it, an unnatural lightness, which suggested–poor Mrs. Portico scarcely knew what. If Georgina was to become a mother, it was to be supposed she was to remain a mother. She said there was a beautiful place in Italy–Genoa–of which Raymond had often spoken–and where he had been more than once,–he admired it so much; could n’t they go there and be quiet for a little while? She was asking a great favor,–that she knew very well; but if Mrs. Portico would n’t take her, she would find some one who would. They had talked of such a journey so often; and, certainly, if Mrs. Portico had been willing before, she ought to be much more willing now. The girl declared that she must do something,–go somewhere,–keep, in one way or another, her situation unperceived. There was no use talking to her about telling,–she would rather die than tell. No doubt it seemed strange, but she knew what she was about. No one had guessed anything yet,–she had succeeded perfectly in doing what she wished,–and her father and mother believed–as Mrs. Portico had believed,–had n’t she?–that, any time the last year, Raymond Beuyon was less to her than he had been before. Well, so he was; yes, he was. He had gone away–he was off, Heaven knew where–in the Pacific; she was alone, and now she would remain alone. The family believed it was all over,–with his going back to his ship, and other things, and they were right: for it was over, or it would be soon.

Mrs. Portico, by this time, had grown almost afraid of her young friend; she had so little fear, she had even, as it were, so little shame. If the good lady had been accustomed to analyzing things a little more, she would have said she had so little conscience. She looked at Georgina with dilated eyes,–her visitor was so much the calmer of the two,–and exclaimed, and murmured, and sunk back, and sprung forward, and wiped her forehead with her pocket-handkerchief! There were things she didn’t understand; that they should all have been so deceived, that they should have thought Georgina was giving her lover up (they flattered themselves she was discouraged, or had grown tired of him), when she was really only making it impossible she should belong to any one else. And with this, her inconsequence, her capriciousness, her absence of motive, the way she contradicted herself, her apparent belief that she could hush up such a situation forever! There was nothing shameful in having married poor Mr. Benyon, even in a little church at Harlem, and being given away by a paymaster. It was much more shameful to be in such a state without being prepared to make the proper explanations. And she must have seen very little of her husband; she must have given him up–so far as meeting him went–almost as soon as she had taken him. Had not Mrs. Gressie herself told Mrs. Portico (in the preceding October, it must have been) that there now would be no need of sending Georgina away, inasmuch as the affair with the little navy man–a project in every way so unsuitable–had quite blown over?

“After our marriage I saw him less, I saw him a great deal less,” Georgina explained; but her explanation only appeared to make the mystery more dense.

“I don’t see, in that case, what on earth you married him for!”

“We had to be more careful; I wished to appear to have given him up. Of course we were really more intimate,–I saw him differently,” Georgina said, smiling.

“I should think so! I can’t for the life of me see why you were n’t discovered.”