Pretty Geraldine, the New York Salesgirl; or, Wedded to Her Choice

Meanwhile, Hawthorne, as we will continue to call him for a little while, hurried to the office of Norris, the wonderful Western detective.

He found the little man in, and after a hurried greeting, said:

"I have called again about that case of mine."

"Ah, you wish to begin another search for the girl; is that it? I thought it strange you dropped it so suddenly when you got my report. But perhaps you had received news some way of the girl?"

"I had; but, Norris, that was a terrible mistake of mine letting you drop the case when you did. You were on the right track, though you did not know it. I am almost hoping you kept on watching, out of curiosity, after I paid and dismissed you. It will be worth much to you if you did," anxiously.

"But I did not, I'm sorry to say; for directly after I got your check I went off on a chase down South after some gold-brick swindlers. Fact is, I just got back from Richmond yesterday, after a stay of three weeks. But I ran the rascals down, though, after a very exciting chase. Tell you all about it," bustled the little detective, importantly.

"No, I don't care about it now," Hawthorne cried, impatiently. "You must hear my story first, for you must never pause now till that missing girl is found—the girl who was right under your nose all the time while you were watching the governess—Miss Fitzgerald, formerly Geraldine Harding."

"You don't say! Tell me all about it, sir."

Hawthorne went rapidly over all he had to tell, and then Norris said:

"The governess helped him, as sure as you're born, Mr. Daly."

CHAPTER LV.

DETECTED

"If you could go back to the forks of the road,Back the long miles you have carried the load;Back to the place where you had to decideBy this way or that all your life to abide;Back of the sorrow and back of the care,Back to the place where the future was fair—If you were there now, a decision to make,Oh! pilgrim of sorrow, which road would you take?"

It would scarcely be believed that a young girl could be drugged and carried from her own room at midnight by a scoundrel, even in the great, wicked city of Chicago.

But such had been the fate of our pretty Geraldine, although only by the connivance of the governess had Standish been able to accomplish the daring abduction.

Having quieted her uneasy scruples by swearing that he meant to marry the girl—which, indeed, he was most anxious to do—Standish unfolded his nefarious plot, and by his threatenings forced her to consent to aid him.

He told her that the girl had flirted most outrageously with him once, then thrown him over for another, and he was determined to get even with the little jilt by making her his wife. He swore that nothing should turn him from his purpose of revenge, and unless Miss Erroll aided him in this he would send Mrs. Fitzgerald a letter on the following day, acquainting her with the past history of her handsome governess.

It was absolutely fiendish, his threat, but she doubted not that he would keep his word; so, promising all he asked, she hurried away from him, eager to escape the nipping winter blasts and the flecks of snow that kissed her cheeks with icy lips, the forerunner of a snow-storm that wrapped the earth in a snowy mantle long before the dawn.

When the young ladies returned from the theatre, Miss Erroll was bending over her desk, where she had been busy for hours, counterfeiting Geraldine's handwriting from a bit of manuscript she had stolen from her room.

She was an adept at this work, and succeeded in her task so well that the note she pinned on Geraldine's pillow somewhat later, was so cleverly done it might have deceived an expert.

When Geraldine went into her own room that night she found Miss Erroll waiting for her, instead of the neat mulatto girl her mother had employed for her exclusive service.

"Martha was called home by the illness of her mother, and begged me to help you if she did not return in time," she explained, smilingly.

The truth was that Miss Erroll had given the girl some drugged wine that sent her into such a heavy sleep that she was enabled to steal into her place.

Geraldine protested that she could do without assistance, but Miss Erroll insisted on remaining; so at last she was hurried into bed, and then the woman said, solicitously:

"Now a sip of this spiced wine the maid told me to keep warm for you, to prevent a cold after being out such an inclement evening."

Geraldine did not care for the wine, and she was not at all chilly, but she drank a little from the cup, just to escape the woman's importunities.

Then she laid her fair head down to rest, and in a very few moments was soundly asleep; and no wonder, for the wine she had drank had contained enough opium to keep her in a stupor for many hours.

Not till she was sound asleep did the woman go out, and then she stole like a shadow of evil omen through the darkened house, where she undid all the door fastenings, that Clifford Standish might have no difficulty in entering.

Returning to Geraldine's room, she cautiously dressed the sleeping girl in warm, thick shoes and stockings, and a thick blanket-wrapper, placing close at hand a heavy cloak and hood, evidently making her ready for a mysterious journey.

In the dressing-room beyond, she had already packed a hand-bag with clothing, which she now brought in and placed near the door.

While she was dressing her, Geraldine had stirred and moaned several times, but the influence of the drug held her senses bound too fast for her to awake; so Miss Erroll had everything ready, and was crouched in a chair waiting, when there came a low, soft scratching at the door, the signal agreed on between them.

She started, growing pale as ashes, her heart sinking in her breast. She had been hoping and praying that he would not come.

Stealing to the door, she admitted Standish, who was not a very pleasant object to see in his black crape mask.

Not a word passed between them, but she silently wrapped Geraldine in the cloak and hood ready for her journey.

The daring actor lifted the girl as though she had been a little child, and taking the hand-bag also, stole from the house undetected, and made his way to a sleigh that was in waiting around the nearest corner.

Then Miss Erroll, shivering like one in an ague fit, proceeded to finish her work.

She locked the door, and re-made the dainty bed, so that it had the appearance of not having been slept in that night.

Upon the pillow she pinned the note that she had written in Geraldine's hand, and to which she had signed Geraldine's name.

And, lastly, and just before leaving the room, she sank on her knees, and prayed with dramatic fervor:

"Oh, God, if Thou wilt hear the prayer of a wretch like me, I implore that Thou wilt watch over and protect from harm the poor girl whom I have betrayed into that wretch's hands!"

When the hue and cry arose the next morning over Geraldine's disappearance, she was as much excited as any, and her grief was as noisy as that of the others.

She was indeed grieved and remorseful over her evil deed, and she had only one comfort to offer herself:

"Self-preservation is the first law of nature."

She had saved herself, and, as the days dragged by, her first terror of discovery gave place to a conviction of safety. Not the least suspicion had pointed her out as the wretch she was. The children still remained devoted to her, Mrs. Fitzgerald was kind, Miss Carroll courteous, the servants respectful. She began to breathe freely again, saying, to herself:

"Why should I fret? Of course Standish has married the girl, and she ought to be glad to get such a handsome husband!"

She could not banish a little bitter jealousy of Geraldine, for once she had hoped to marry Standish herself, and the old passion still ached in her heart, though she had fled from him in horror when she learned that he had a living wife.

Now that two weeks had passed, she supposed they were married and happy, and some day there might be a reconciliation between the mother and daughter and the son-in-law who had so cleverly stolen his bride. Standish had promised that no matter what happened, his confederate's agency in the affair should never be known.

But she would not have begun to feel so confident of her position if she could have heard what the detective, Norris, was saying that day to Hawthorne.

"That governess helped him, as sure as you're born, Mr. Daly."

Hawthorne said, hurriedly:

"You may call me by another name henceforward—that of Hawthorne. I confess that Daly was an assumed one. And now, about this governess?"

"Yes, there's no time to lose, Mr. Hawthorne, in beating about the bush. That poor girl has been missing for two weeks, and God only knows what has come to her ere now. We must see this Erroll woman at once, and surprise her into confession by taxing her with the crime."

"A clever idea. Let us confront her at once," cried Hawthorne, with burning impatience.

"I'm with you to the death!" laughed the jovial little detective, springing to his feet, and within the hour they arrived at the mansion, and sent their cards to Miss Errol.

They had chosen Cissy Carroll to bear them, and the governess looked at her, pale with affright.

"I do not know these men, Hawthorne and Norris. I cannot see them," she declared at first.

But Cissy was firm.

"You must go down. They said their business was important, and they would not leave without seeing you," she said.

"I dare not see them! I am afraid!" faltered the guilty woman.

"Why should you be afraid? Have you done anything wrong?" demanded Cissy, sternly, for a terrible suspicion was troubling her mind.

The woman shot her a keen glance, and asked:

"Have you betrayed me?"

"No."

"Then I will see them, but they must have made a mistake. I am not the person they want."

Putting on an expression of bravado, she followed Cissy to the presence of the two men, who both rose and bowed profoundly, though they read the signs of guilt in her ghastly face. Then the detective said:

"Miss Erroll, will you kindly favor us with the address of your lover, Mr. Clifford Standish?"

CHAPTER LVI.

A REPENTANT SINNER

"How can the patient stars look downOn all their light discovers—The traitor's smile, the murderer's frown,The lips of lying lovers?"

When that startling question fell on Miss Erroll's ears she gave a convulsive gasp, and sank limply into the nearest chair.

The skilled detective saw quickly that the woman was a coward at heart, and would not be able to sustain the air of bravado with which she had entered.

Advancing quickly to her side, he threw back the lapel of his overcoat, revealing to her frightened eyes his detective badge, and continuing:

"I am in search of Clifford Standish, and you must tell me where to find him."

She trembled like a leaf in a storm, and muttered, with weak defiance:

"How should I know?"

Norris answered, boldly:

"Because you have been in secret correspondence with the man for weeks. Because you were his confederate in the kidnaping of Miss Geraldine Harding."

The cry of a beaten animal burst from the cowering woman's lips, and her form shook with fear.

"You cannot deny it," added Norris, following up his advantage, while Cissy and Hawthorne looked on in breathless interest.

She lifted her pallid face and groaned:

"Who is my accuser?"

"I am, and this gentleman here, Miss Harding's betrothed, the Harry Hawthorne whom it was pretended in that forged note the young lady had eloped with. I have been watching you and Standish for several weeks, Miss Erroll, and had I not been called away by other business, you had never succeeded in that nefarious abduction. But I have facts enough to warrant me in threatening you with arrest unless you make a full confession!"

"Arrest me?"

Almost hissing the words, she sprang to her feet, glaring fiercely at him, but the flash of bravado did not intimidate the fearless little detective.

"Yes, you," he answered, coolly. "But, after all, I do not like to war upon a woman, even a bad one; so tell me the truth now if you want to escape a prison-cell."

Quaking with fear, she dropped back into her chair, covering her writhing features with her trembling white hands.

After waiting a moment vainly for her to answer, he asked:

"Where is Clifford Standish now?"

"I do not know."

"How long since you saw him?"

"Two weeks ago to-night."

"At the time of the kidnaping of Miss Harding?"

"Yes."

Her answers were given as if dragged from her under stress of fear, but it was plain that she meant to make the confession he demanded.

He flashed Cissy and Hawthorne a triumphant look, then said, briskly:

"Tell us all about that night and your share in it, as quickly as you can, for our time is very precious."

So, with her head drooped in bitter shame, and eyes downcast, lest she should meet their glances of scorn and execration, the beautiful woman whose sins had followed her so relentlessly, poured out the story of that night's wrong-doing, her heart sinking in despair the while, for before her she saw the dark future opening like Hades, so awful in its gloom.

And in all the bitterness of that moment the cruelest thought of all was that Cissy was listening to her confession of sin, and would hate and despise her now for her ingratitude after all the kindness she had showered on her worthless head.

Somehow, she had coveted Cissy's respect and good-will, and to lose them was most bitter to her pride.

The cup of her humiliation was full, but she had to drink it to the bitter dregs.

When she drew breath in silence at last, after telling of the note she had pinned on the pillow, Harry Hawthorne cried, indignantly:

"Why did you lend yourself to this terrible deed?"

Miss Erroll looked at Cissy and faltered:

"You can tell him why."

Cissy answered:

"I think he knew some dark secret in her past that she was anxious to hide, now that she is leading a better life, and he threatened her with betrayal unless she helped him to carry out his plot. Is it not so?"

"It is the truth. I tried to keep from doing it, but I could not get out of his power. Oh, how hard it is for a woman who has once done wrong to lead a good life again! The avenging fates pursue her to death or madness!" groaned the detected governess.

"But, now," cried Norris, impatiently, "now tell us where that fiend was to take Miss Harding after he placed her in the sleigh that you say he had waiting at the corner."

"He told me he had engaged an old woman to take charge of her till she consented to marry him. He said she was a terrible old woman, who lived alone on a farm about five miles from the city, and kept a savage bull-dog on the place."

"By Heaven! I know the place, and the woman!" almost shouted the detective. Then, calming himself, he added:

"She is Jane Crabtree, an old woman as big as a giant, who has been in the criminal courts twice, once for beating almost to death a child she had taken from the poor-house and secondly for the murder of her husband. He died of arsenical poison, and the woman was accused of administering it, but they could not prove it and she got off by swearing he committed suicide. But I always felt sure that she did the deed, for it was proved they led a cat-and-dog life. Since this happened, three months ago, it is said that she never permits any person on the premises, and keeps a large bull-dog unchained all the time; so, if Miss Harding is in the clutches of that old wretch, it is time we were moving toward her delivery. Come," and he motioned Hawthorne away.

In their haste to be gone they paid no more attention to the governess, and with a hasty adieu to Cissy, left the room.

The two women were left alone, and Miss Erroll crouched wretchedly in her chair, not daring to look up and meet Cissy's glance of scorn.

She started when the girl's voice fell on her ear—clear, cold, disdainful.

"What shall you do now?"

The woman lifted her face, deadly pale, but grown suddenly calm with a great despair.

"I must go away—at once!" she answered.

Then she fell at Cissy's feet.

"You, who have been so good already—grant my last prayer," she faltered.

Cissy looked down in silent inquiry at the haggard face.

"Do not tell Mrs. Fitzgerald of this story until I am gone out of her house forever. I love her and the darling children; they have been good to me, and I could not bear their reproaches. I will go now and pack my trunk, and send for it later. Let me steal out of the house, like the wretched outcast I am, before you tell them my miserable story."

"Your wish is granted," answered Cissy, huskily.

She went away then to her own room and sat a while in earnest thought.

Then she went to Miss Erroll's door and tapped softly.

It was opened by the governess, who had made such speed that her hat and cloak were already on and her trunk strapped.

"You are going now?" asked Cissy.

"Yes."

"Where?"

"To seek some humble lodging-house, and begin again the horrible struggle of a lonely woman for an honest living," the poor wretch answered, bitterly.

"Have you any money?"

"Fifty dollars that I have saved in the few months that I have been here—enough to starve on perhaps until I find another situation."

"Take this to help you," Cissy said, pressing a hundred-dollar bill into her hand.

"Oh, Miss Carroll, I cannot. You, too, are poor. It may be your little all."

"No, I have more. In fact, I received two hundred dollars yesterday from a lawyer in New York, who has been managing some lawsuits for me against a villain who brought a false claim against my grandfather's estate, and thus threw me penniless on the world. My lawyer has won the suit, and I shall have several thousand dollars of my own very soon."

"I congratulate you, Miss Carroll. You deserve all the good fortune that can fall to a noble woman. Heaven forever bless you. I accept your gift gratefully, because—because it—may save me, poor tempted wretch, from a life of sin."

"That was why I gave it to you. I hoped it might keep you in the right path."

"It shall! It shall! Oh, Miss Carroll, I am a repentant sinner, and since I am spared this time, I will never be tempted to do wrong again! I swear—I swear to you, in return for your angelic goodness—that I will repent my sins, seek God's forgiveness, try to lead a good life, and meet you—angel that you are—in heaven!"

She snatched Cissy's hand, pressed her burning lips upon it, and rushed from the house out into the blinding snow storm that darkened the air.

Then Cissy went to Mrs. Fitzgerald to tell her of all that had transpired, and to help her to bear the terrible suspense over Geraldine's fate.

CHAPTER LVII.

A NIGHTMARE DREAM

"Once all was sunshine and brightness,Life had no sorrow or care;Love filled my soul with its brightness,As flowers perfume the air.Where now is Pleasure, the beauty?Where now is Hope's cheering beam?Where are those friends once all duty?All vanished, all gone, like a dream!"

We must follow the fortunes of Geraldine after being placed in the sleigh by her cowardly abductor.

Tucking the sleeping girl warmly under the heavy robes, he took the reins from the man he had employed to hold them, and drove off at a spanking pace for his destination, the old country-house of which Miss Erroll had told the detective.

As the night was propitious to his purpose, and the road remarkably fine, he reached the place in a short while, and without any misadventure.

The old woman, Jane Crabtree, in expectation of his coming, had muzzled the savage bull-dog, and came down the lane to the gate to meet him, as they had agreed upon.

The woman was a giant in stature, as the detective had said, and looked strong enough to floor John L. Sullivan with one hand.

In the light of the bull's-eye lantern that Standish flared into her eyes, her coarse face, with its straggling black locks blown about by the swirling snow, looked capable of committing any evil deed.

He dropped some twenty-dollar gold pieces into her hand, gave her some instructions, and drove his team toward the city. A few hours later he boarded a train for Cincinnati at daylight, and remained away five days, in order to throw the searchers for Geraldine off guard.

But as we have seen, the forged note, representing that she had gone of her own free will to marry her betrothed, had effectually prevented any hue and cry over Geraldine's disappearance.

So the villainous abductor had it all his own way, and for two long weeks, until Hawthorne's return, he was free to come and go as he chose in the prosecution of his designs against the poor girl.

As for the poor victim, who can judge of her surprise and terror on awaking the next morning from her drugged sleep, in a strange room, and guarded by an old giant of a woman, with the most villainous face she had ever beheld.

The night before she had fallen asleep in her own lovely, luxurious room, and the last sight her eyes had rested on was the handsome, smiling face of Miss Erroll, the governess.

But her sleep had been haunted by terrible nightmare dreams, and when she waked at last in that shabby room in the presence of her horrible old jailer, she thought that she was dreaming still.

Recoiling from the woman, she threw out her arms, groaning helplessly:

"Oh, those dreadful nightmare dreams! How they haunt me! Will not some one wake me, please? Martha, where are you? Come to me at once. Oh, Cissy! oh, mamma!"

Old Jane Crabtree came and stood over her scowlingly, snapping out:

"You an't dreamin', gal; you is wide awake!"

But it took her some little time to assure her captive that this was not a continuation of her terrible nightmare dreams.

When she at last convinced her that this was an awful reality, and boldly told her that Clifford Standish had brought her here in a drugged sleep, the terrible truth rushed over her mind.

"That wine Miss Erroll gave me was drugged! She was in the plot!" she cried, wildly.

The hag nodded sullenly, and Geraldine continued, passionately:

"He will never get my consent to marry him, never!"

And then she fell to pleading with the old woman for her liberty, promising to make her rich if she would only restore her to her friends.

But Jane Crabtree laughed her to scorn, sneering at the idea of Geraldine being able to reward her for her liberty.

Standish had cleverly prepared her for all that the girl might threaten or promise, by telling her not to listen to anything, as the girl was only a poor salesgirl from Siegel & Cooper's, on a salary of three dollars a week.

So the old witch grunted scornfully at her pleadings, threats, and promises, and presently went out, locking the door after her until she returned with a coarse breakfast of badly served food, from which the girl turned with loathing.

While she was absent, Geraldine rose and looked from the window to see if there was any chance of escape.

What she saw made her turn shudderingly back to the bright coal-fire, the only cheerful object in the poor room.

The window was very small, and the grimy panes were guarded by heavy iron bars.

Beyond these bars Geraldine saw a level stretch of country covered with a mantle of snow. A wild snow-storm was raging, and the wind drove against the shutters with terrible violence, banging them to and fro until the old house shook in the terrible gale.

She realized that she was in a farm-house, far removed from any other habitation, and that if she could have walked out of the house at that moment she must have perished in the deep drifts of snow while struggling to escape.

That terrible first day passed in alternate weeping and praying. Standish did not make his appearance, and Jane Crabtree remained down stairs, attending to her household tasks, except when she came up to replenish the fire and minister to the wants of her captive.

That first day Geraldine ate nothing. At night she sobbed herself to sleep.

The next day hunger drove her to partake of a little of the coarse food.

For three days the monotonous blizzard raged, and the snow grew deeper and deeper. Geraldine felt as if she should go mad.