Georginas Reasons | Page 8

surprise you--that I 'm
married."
"Married, Georgina Grossie!" Mrs. Portico repeated in her most
resonant tones.
Georgina got up, walked with her majestic step across the room, and
closed the door. Then she stood there, her back pressed against the
mahogany panels, indicating only by the distance she had placed
between herself and her hostess the consciousness of an irregular
position. "I am not Georgina Gressie! I am Georgina Benyon,--and it
has become plain, within a short time, that the natural consequence will
take place."

Mrs. Portico was altogether bewildered. "The natural consequence?"
she exclaimed, staring.
"Of one's being married, of course,--I suppose you know what that is.
No one must know anything about it. I want you to take me to Europe."
Mrs. Portico now slowly rose from her place, and approached her
visitor, looking at her from head to foot as she did so, as if to challenge
the truth of her remarkable announcement. She rested her hands on
Georgina's shoulders a moment, gazing into her blooming face, and
then she drew her closer and kissed her. In this way the girl was
conducted back to the sofa, where, in a conversation of extreme
intimacy, she opened Mrs. Portico's eyes wider than they had ever been
opened before. She was Raymond Benyon's wife; they had been
married a year, but no one knew anything about it. She had kept it from
every one, and she meant to go on keeping it. The ceremony had taken
place in a little Episcopal church at Harlem, one Sunday afternoon,
after the service. There was no one in that dusty suburb who knew them;
the clergyman, vexed at being detained, and wanting to go home to tea,
had made no trouble; he tied the knot before they could turn round. It
was ridiculous how easy it had been. Raymond had told him frankly
that it must all be under the rose, as the young lady's family
disapproved of what she was doing. But she was of legal age, and
perfectly free; he could see that for himself. The parson had given a
grunt as he looked at her over his spectacles. It was not very
complimentary; it seemed to say that she was indeed no chicken. Of
course she looked old for a girl; but she was not a girl now, was she?
Raymond had certified his own identity as an officer in the United
States Navy (he had papers, besides his uniform, which he wore), and
introduced the clergyman to a friend he had brought with him, who was
also in the navy, a venerable paymaster. It was he who gave Georgina
away, as it were; he was an old, old man, a regular grandmother, and
perfectly safe. He had been married three times himself. After the
ceremony she went back to her father's; but she saw Mr. Benyon the
next day. After that, she saw him--for a little while--pretty often. He
was always begging her to come to him altogether; she must do him
that justice. But she wouldn't--she wouldn't now--perhaps she would n't

ever. She had her reasons, which seemed to her very good, but were
very difficult to explain. She would tell Mrs. Portico in plenty of time
what they were. But that was not the question now, whether they were
good or bad; the question was for her to get away from the country for
several months,--far away from any one who had ever known her. She
would like to go to some little place in Spain or Italy, where she should
be out of the world until everything was over.
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