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

"How fortunate that I brought along a little steamer trunk, expecting to spend several days with my mother in Newburgh. I can lend you an outfit, for we are almost the same size, aren't we? But I'll wager that Harry Hawthorne will not be able to borrow a suit big enough for him, and will have to remain 'in durance vile' until his own clothes are dry."

Her words proved true, and she and Geraldine did not see the handsome fireman again until just before they landed, when he joined them, looking fresh and bright, and none the worse for his ducking, excusing his absence by saying, gayly, that he had been hung over a line to dry.

His eager eyes sought Geraldine's, and he said, tenderly:

"You feel no worse for your wetting, I hope?"

"No, indeed, thanks to the coddling of Mrs. Stansbury and the other ladies, but"—and her low voice broke with grateful emotion—"how can I ever thank you enough?"

"Let my own keen joy in saving your life be my reward," he answered, lightly, but with an undercurrent of joy in his deep, musical voice, for it seemed to him that had she perished beneath the cruel, darkling waves, life would never have seemed the same to him again.

Yet he knew that it might never be possible to win her for his own. His rival, the handsome actor, might already be lord of her girlish heart.

The bustle of landing cut short any further interchange of words between them, and when they stepped on shore, Mrs. Stansbury said, in her cordial way:

"I have claimed Miss Harding for my mother's guest, and she will go with me to the ball to-night, and return to New York with you to-morrow. Now, I see mamma's carriage waiting. Will you come with us to luncheon before we go out to the parade?"

"I thank you, no, for some of the fellows are waiting for me now. But I will see you later. Au revoir!"

He smiled frankly at Geraldine, touched his cap, and hurried away, seeming to take away some of the sunshine with him, for her heart had gone out to him in a great wave of tenderness that blotted out the memory of Clifford Standish as though he had never existed.

She looked at her companion, and asked, naively:

"Why did you say I would go to the ball? I have no dress to wear."

"What does that matter? I have several sisters. One of them can lend you a white silk, I'm sure. Why, you pretty darling, I wouldn't have you miss that ball for the world! Perhaps you will meet your fate there!"

CHAPTER IV.

"TWO SOULS WITH BUT A SINGLE THOUGHT."

"In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed;In war, he mounts the warrior's steed;In halls, in gay attire is seen;In hamlets, dances on the green.Love rules the court, the camp, the grave,And men below, and saints above;For love is heaven and heaven is love."

It seemed like a pretty act in a new play to Geraldine, the crowding events of that delightful day.

To be welcomed so cordially by Mrs. Stansbury's gentle mother, to ride through the crowded and gayly decorated streets, in the private carriage, to the hospitable red brick house full of pretty fun-loving girls, and to be installed as an honored guest in a dainty chamber, was a treat to the little working-girl whose life flowed in such a narrow groove of toil and poverty, and she thought, generously:

"Oh, I am very fortunate to find such kind friends, and I will always love them for their goodness to me. How I wish Cissy had come with me, for she would enjoy this so much."

Mrs. Stansbury entered with a great fluff of silk and lace over her arm, saying, cheerily:

"Here's the ball-gown I promised for to-night—Carrie's gown that she wore when she graduated last year. No, she doesn't need it. She has a blue silk-and-chiffon affair for the ball; so you'll be all right, won't you? And now let's go and have our luncheon, for we must hurry down town, where we have windows engaged to sit in and watch the parade. Oh, dear, I'm so sorry that my hubby, the captain, couldn't get away and come with us!"

They had a delightful luncheon, very enjoyable after their morning on the water, then the party of six—Mrs. Stansbury, her mother, Mrs. Odell, and her three daughters, Carrie, Consuelo, and Daisy, with pretty Geraldine—set out for the centre of attraction, Newburgh's "triangular square" at the junction of Water and Colden streets. Here the party had two large plate-glass windows over a splendid dry-goods store. From this vantage ground the scene presented, as the magnificent parade filed past, was one to be treasured long in memory.

It was a glittering spectacle, with thirty companies in line, and almost as many bands. Newburgh had not seen such a great day as this for years, with its glorious sunshine, brilliant uniforms, dazzling apparatus, splendid music, and throngs of appreciative people.

The crowd was enormous, the broad pavements packed with a living mass of humanity; the door-ways, balconies, windows, house-tops, a sea of faces. When the dazzling pageant swept by, the effect was kaleidoscopic. The bright gay uniforms of the fine-looking men, the beautiful caparisons of the prancing horses, the heavily plated, imposing engines, the light and graceful carriages, with their paintings and stripings, their images and lamps, their glass-and-gold reel-heads, their silver and gold jackets—all gleamed and glittered in the flashing sunlight like an Arabian Night's dream, and the hearty applause of the gazing crowds made the welkin ring.

Geraldine was charmed with everything, and her lovely, smiling face caught the upraised admiring glance of many a gallant fireman as the long column of thirty companies swept past to the ringing martial music of the accompanying bands. She forgot all her resentment against Cissy in her poignant regret that her chum was missing all this splendor and enjoyment.

But, strange to say, not one regretful thought wandered toward her lost cavalier, Clifford Standish.

She had forgotten him for the time, and her whole soul was thrilled with the present—permeated, enraptured with the thought of Harry Hawthorne, the handsome, dashing fireman who had so nobly saved her life. She loved him already, but she did not know her heart's language yet—her heart that had already elected him its king.

What though his position was an humble one, it was equal to hers, and Geraldine had never reflected that beauty like her own ought to win her a fine rich lover. She was in a whirl of bliss at the all-pervading thought that she had met her fate at last.

"He is mine, and I am his," ran the secret voice of her tender heart.

She watched the firemen eagerly as they paraded past, hoping for a sight of his face among them, so she did not hear the door open behind her until a hand touched her shoulder and she looked up with a start, her voice unconsciously betraying the rapture of her heart as she cried:

"Oh-h-h!—I thought you were in the parade!"

He smiled, radiantly, his heart thrilling with joy.

"No, I am not in the parade. That is, I chose not to be. You see, my company did not come, to take part, only a few of us fellows, so we can do as we like. We were offered seats in the carriages with the visiting firemen, and the others accepted. But I—I thought I would return and remain with you ladies."

His voice said "ladies," but his eyes said "you," and Geraldine thrilled deliciously.

Oh, how gay and happy she felt—happier than she had ever been in her whole life before. The dawn of love made the whole world roseate with sunshine.

And never had she looked more beautiful. The joy in her heart sent the warm blood leaping through her veins and made her eyes brighter, her cheeks redder, until she was dazzlingly lovely.

Harry Hawthorne remained with the party all the rest of the afternoon. Other young men joined them presently, admirers of the pretty Odell girls, and later on they repaired to the County Fair Grounds to witness some of the firemen's games taking place there.

Seated on the grand stand, by the side of Geraldine, Harry Hawthorne felt as proud and happy as a king, for the same sweet wine of Love that thrilled the girl flowed intoxicatingly through his veins.

"For what was it else within me wroughtBut, I fear, the new strong wine of Love,That made my tongue to stammer and tripWhen I saw the treasured splendor, her hand,Come sliding out of her sacred glove,As the sunlight broke from her lip?"

The tournament and games of this afternoon were only a repetition by Newburgh firemen of the ones that had been participated in the previous day by the visiting companies—"consolation races," the chief merrily called them.

But the grand stand was packed and the entertainment was novel and interesting, as evidenced by the frequent applause of the crowd.

The exercises after the pretty tournament consisted mainly of hose-racing contests, in which firemanic skill was displayed at its best.

"You must explain the game to me. You see, I never thought much about firemen before, although I am deeply interested in them now," pretty Geraldine said, naively, to her delighted companion.

He thanked her with a kindling glance of pleasure, and answered:

"It will give me pleasure to explain it all to you, Miss Harding. It is very simple indeed, depending on the skill and dexterity of the men. In the first place, the rules of the game require fifteen men. They must run two hundred yards to the hydrant, with a hose cart, and from that point lay one hundred yards of hose, make a coupling, and screw on the pipe. But these technical terms are Greek to you, of course, so I will try to make it clear to you as they proceed."

He did so, and Geraldine, who was beginning to love all firemen, for the sake of the splendid one by her side, watched the contest with breathless interest.

But now arose a difficulty.

The Newburgh company had only fourteen good runners, and they must have a fifteenth one.

But the rules of the race required that no company should make use of the services of a member of another company.

It was finally decided that as the race was not for a prize, but simply for practice and amusement, the rule might be waived for one in favor of a visiting fireman.

Then a murmur arose among the firemen that suddenly swelled to a clamorous shout:

"Hawthorne! Hawthorne!"

Mrs. Stansbury, who sat on the other side of Geraldine, looked round, and exclaimed, gayly:

"They are calling you, Mr. Hawthorne. Why don't you go?"

"I prefer remaining here," he smiled back, though a slight flush rose to his brow as the calls continued more clamorously:

"Hawthorne! Hawthorne! Hawthorne!"

All eyes turned on him as he sat unmoved, and a delegation of firemen came to insist on his joining the race.

"Oh, do go, Mr. Hawthorne. I think it will be grand to join the race!" exclaimed Geraldine, enthusiastically, and he rose at once like a gallant knight who has no other wish than to do the behest of his lady-love.

Mrs. Stansbury whispered as he went away:

"He will win the race for them. He is a magnificent athlete, my husband says. And as for horses—well, you should see him control them! They love and obey him like a master, and he has a passion for them. He is a splendid fellow, though there is something rather mysterious about him. He has been driver for No. 17 two years, yet no one knows where he came from or aught about his family. But he is educated above his position, and has betrayed that he has lived abroad. We think he is English or Irish—perhaps a mixture of both. But, anyway, he is just magnificent, and the men and the horses both worship him alike. He has been a hero at dozens of fires, and has several medals of honor, but he will not accept promotion. He says he loves the horses, and will not give up driving. But look! the team is about to start!"

Every word she uttered only made Geraldine love Hawthorne more dearly, for what woman does not love a hero?

Geraldine watched the contest with flashing eyes; but, needless to say, she saw but one man, and she soon realized that the most thunderous applause was given to him.

"He is the swiftest runner of them all!" cried Carrie Odell. "Look how the men are dropping off! They cannot stand it. Seven, eight, nine, ten, have given up. Oh-h-h!"

"Another! And another!" cried her sister, Consuelo, and so it kept on till when they reached the finish they had only two men to open the hydrant, and screw on the pipe—a simple operation it would seem to a novice, but it is just here that the race is won or lost. Under the moment's excitement the couplers will likely find their nerves unsteady after the long run. But these two men made no false moves. They put on the pipe with indescribable speed, then ran on the remaining hundred yards to the judge's stand, Harry Hawthorne coming out ahead amid the deafening cheers of his admirers.

The judges took the time at the very instant that the pipe touched the ground, and after examining the coupling they found it all right, and announced the time as forty-six and one-fourth seconds.

The victors retired amid tumultuous applause, and another team prepared to run, Hawthorne returning very soon to Geraldine's side to sun himself in her admiring eyes.

"You were splendid, and I was proud of you!" she cried, innocently, unconscious of the tenderness her words implied.

"Thank you. I am proud that I pleased you; but I was sorry they made me run. I was trying to keep rested and fresh to dance with you at the ball to-night," he answered, lightly.

"And now you will be too tired—I am sorry for that."

How frankly she could talk to him, and yet they had been strangers only this morning; yet it seemed as if they had known each other years and years.

"No, I shall not be too weary to dance with you," he answered, tenderly.

Then others of the party claimed his attention, and Geraldine sat in a happy dream, thinking how heavenly it would be dancing with him to-night.

Presently the games were over, and the weary, happy throng departed—the Odells and their guests to make ready for the grand fireman's ball they were going to attend that night.

"Oh, I wonder what Cissy will say when I don't come back to-night? She will be uneasy about me; perhaps angry. But she will forgive me when I tell her how it happened, and what a lovely time I had," thought Geraldine.

But again she did not even think of Clifford Standish, or even wonder what had become of him. She was full of the dear, delightful present.

How delightful it was to be dressing for a grand ball, in white slippers and a fairy-like gown of white silk, and with white roses for her breast and hair. Geraldine felt like a Cinderella going to the ball with a prince, for Harry Hawthorne was coming to be her escort, and to her he was the handsomest man on earth, a veritable Prince Charming.

She looked at her reflection in the long mirror, with artless delight at her own beauty.

"How pretty I look! I hope he will think so, too, but perhaps he knows some one more beautiful," she murmured, uneasily.

CHAPTER V.

RIVALS AND FOES

"We meet where harp and violinWere singing songs of mirth,Where creatures floated in the spaceAlmost too fair for earth.He moved amid the surging crowd,And by one single glanceMy heart was lost, forever lost,While swinging in the dance."

Oh, how Geraldine enjoyed the first two hours of the ball!

It was one of the most brilliant affairs ever given in Newburgh.

The dazzling lights shone on an animated scene, adorned with rich floral garnitures, and brightened by the rich uniforms of the firemen, mixed with the sober black of the ordinary citizen, and the gay gowns of the beautiful women.

Geraldine, with her golden fluff of hair, bright brown eyes, and shining white attire, was the cynosure of all eyes, and many a gallant fireman envied Harry Hawthorne, who was her partner so often in the joyous dance.

True, she would dance with any of them to whom he introduced her, but each one saw by the wandering glances of her brown eyes that Hawthorne was first in her heart and thoughts.

So the first two hours passed by like a dream of bliss.

Geraldine loved music and dancing and gayety, with all her heart. She loved, too, the congenial new friends she had made, and lost in the delightful present, she forgot for a time her feverish ambition to become an actress and shine upon the stage.

What exquisite rapture may be crowded into two hours—rapture that will linger in the memory till death blots out all. So it was with Geraldine.

When Hawthorne pressed her hand in the dance, and looked into her eyes, drinking in deep draughts the intoxication of her beauty and sweetness, the girl thrilled with a rapture akin to pain, and those moments of dizzy, subtle bliss so dazzling in their brightness, returned to Geraldine through all her life as her happiest hours—that hour in a woman's life when First Love "is a shy, sweet new-comer, and Hope leads it by the hand."

"New hopes may bloom, and days may come,Of milder, calmer beam;But there's nothing half so sweet in lifeAs love's young dream."

How sad that a shadow should fall so suddenly over Geraldine's happiness!

But as she stood at a window, panting from the dance, rosy and smiling, as she talked to Harry Hawthorne, a shadow suddenly came between her and the light, pausing by her side till she looked up and saw—Clifford Standish!

Alas! that his shadow should ever come between her and the dawning happiness of her life!

Alas! that she had ever met him, the handsome, unscrupulous actor, who stood there scowling at his splendid rival!

"Mr. Standish!" she exclaimed, with a violent start, and a strange feeling of annoyance, and he answered, impressively:

"How glad I am that I have found you at last!"

"Have you been looking for me?" she asked, coldly.

"Everywhere! And I beg ten thousand pardons for my seeming desertion of you. It was wholly an accident, and the fault of my friend, who detained me talking one minute too long. I followed you on the next steamer, but it was several hours late, and all the time my mind was distracted over what would become of you. Of course I knew you would find friends—a beautiful girl alone in a crowd will always find a protector; but," sneeringly, "not always a safe one!"

"I beg your pardon. It was I who protected Miss Harding," began Harry Hawthorne, wrathfully, and the girl started, and exclaimed:

"Mr. Standish, this is Mr. Hawthorne, a very kind gentleman who paid my fare on the boat after you left me without a ticket, and afterward jumped into the river and saved my life when I fell overboard. I owe him a debt of gratitude that I can never repay."

They bowed coldly, trying not to glare, each seeing in the other a dangerous rival.

Clifford Standish was not pleasant to look at with that steely glare in his large, light-blue eyes, and that angry compression of his shaven lips as he said, coldly:

"I thank you, sir, for your care of my friend during my enforced absence from her side. I will repay you the boat fare, and remain deeply indebted to you for saving her life. Of course it goes without saying that I shall now be honored with her company again, thus relieving you of her care."

Harry Hawthorne, with a dangerous flash in his dark-blue eyes, retorted, calmly:

"I beg your pardon. Her engagement with me for this evening gives me a right that I shall not relinquish unless at her desire."

Both looked at the beautiful, flushed face of the girl. She comprehended the sudden hate between them, and said, tremblingly, but with the sweet tones of the peacemaker:

"I think Mr. Hawthorne is right. My engagement with you was for to-day, and we were to have returned to-night, you know. But after you left me alone on the boat, I made new friends, and a very sweet, kind lady, well-known to Mr. Hawthorne, took charge of me and invited me to be her guest while I staid in Newburgh. It was under her chaperonage I came to the ball, and, with her consent, I accepted the escort of Mr. Hawthorne. I cannot break my engagement with him, and I have promised, also, to go back to New York in his care to-morrow."

Every word she uttered maddened him with secret fury. His face was livid as he almost hissed:

"I should like to see this lady who chaperoned you here. How do I know that she is a proper person!" he began, insolently, but at that moment a lady tapped him smartly on the arm with her fan, exclaiming:

"Ha, ha, ha! I like that, Mr. Standish! A proper person indeed. Well, I'm the person, and if you have any fault to find with me, my husband, Captain Stansbury, will settle it with you."

"Miss Odell!" he exclaimed, recoiling in surprise from the sight of the face of an old acquaintance.

"Mrs. Stansbury, please," she corrected him, then went on, gayly: "Do you remember our flirtation at Asbury Park three years ago? I haven't seen you since, have I? Well, I've been married two years now to the finest man in New York. But my sisters are single yet. Come with me and pay your respects to them before the german begins."

She dragged him reluctantly away, and then Hawthorne said, angrily:

"That fellow was inclined to be insolent, and I could scarcely refrain from pitching him neck and heels through this window!"

"Oh, please, please, do not get into any trouble with him on my account!" pleaded Geraldine. "He has been very kind to me, really, and I should not wish to offend him!"

"Do not tell me he is your lover—that you care for him!" exclaimed the young man, jealously.

"N-n-o, he is only a friend!" she faltered, and was glad when her partner for the next dance came to claim her hand.

She knew in her heart that Clifford Standish regarded her with more than a friendly liking, but she was not prepared to own it to impetuous Harry Hawthorne, so she was glad to get away from his inquisitive looks and words.

But the joy of the evening was ended now for pretty Geraldine.

Clifford Standish soon escaped from the Odell girls, and haunted Geraldine the rest of the time, not offensively, but with the assurance of a favored lover, torturing the poor girl who could not bear to wound his feelings, but whose reserved and distrait manner did not discourage his persistent gallantry, for he stood his ground, debarring the lovers from any pleasure in each other's society.

Once Hawthorne whispered to her, fiercely:

"There comes that cad back. He is annoying you. I see it by your altered looks. Will you not allow me to pitch him out of the window?"

"No—oh, no, you must not make a scene!" she shuddered, apprehensively.

"Then tell him yourself that you are weary of his persistent following," he urged.

"Oh, no, I cannot wound him so. He has been kind to me, and means no harm," she said, trying to make excuses that she felt he did not deserve.

But she escaped from the ball as soon as she could, glad to be rid of him, and spent a restless night, repenting the encouragement she had given Standish before she met Hawthorne.

"They both love me, and I can see that they will be bitter foes," she thought, in terror of some unknown evil.

The next morning Standish came at an early hour to call. He was acquainted with the girls, and they tried by merry banter to drive the threatening gloom from his brow; but all their efforts were dismal failures. He had eyes only for Geraldine, who was pale and perturbed under his reproachful glances, that seemed to say, bitterly:

"You are a cruel little coquette. You encouraged me to love you until you met that other fellow, and now you wish to throw me over."

CHAPTER VI.

FORTUNE, THAT FICKLE GODDESS, FAVORS STANDISH

"Her winsome, witching eyesFlash like bits of summer skiesO'er her fan,As if to say, 'We've met;You may go now and forget—If you can.'"Samuel M. Peck.

It was a great relief to Geraldine when Harry Hawthorne arrived with a cab to take her to the boat. Now at last she could escape her angry lover.

He rose, indeed, to take leave of the family, but he said to her:

"I shall see you again, Miss Harding. I go back to New York on the same boat."

He did so, but he did not judge it prudent to incur the wrath of Hawthorne by too persistent attentions. He preserved a coolly courteous demeanor toward both, devoting himself to some other friends whom he met on the boat.

But, toward the last, he approached Geraldine again, murmuring, pleadingly: