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

To save her life, Geraldine could not help half-believing in the ardent love that had looked at her out of those dark-blue eyes, and if she would but have looked up at the box where he sat, she would have seen that love shining on her still—a love as strong as death, although it was so hopeless.

But Geraldine did not look that way, tutored to proud indifference by the cunning arts of Standish. She seemed cold as ice, but her heart was burning with restless longings for her lost love-dream.

"Perhaps he may repent and love me some day when it is too late—too late!" she sighed, bitterly, thinking of the sweet

SONG OF MARGARET.

"Ay, I saw her; we have met;Married eyes, how sweet they be!Are you happier, Margaret,Than you might have been with me?Silence! make no more ado!Did she think I should forget?Matters nothing, though I knew,Margaret, Margaret!"Once those eyes, full sweet, full shy,Told a certain thing to mine;What they told me I put by,Oh, so careless of the sign.Such an easy thing to take,And I did not want it then;Fool! I wish my heart would break;Scorn is hard on hearts of men!"Scorn of self is bitter work;Each of us has felt it now;Bluest skies she counted mirk,Self-betrayed of eyes and brow.As for me, I went my way.And a better man drew nigh,Fain to earn, with long essay,What the winner's hand threw by."Matters not in deserts oldWhat was born, and waxed, and yearned,Year to year its meaning told,I am come—its deeps are learned.Come! but there is naught to say;Married eyes with mine have met.Silence! Oh, I had my day,Margaret! Margaret!"

Poor Geraldine wished that the hands of time could turn back and delay the moment of her marriage, now so speedily approaching.

But the second act was over, the third and last began.

She was so nervous, it was the greatest wonder in the world that she did not forget her lines, and call down the ridicule of the audience. But she threw herself with abandon into the part. It was so tragic she could feel every word of it.

And so the end came.

It was the moment before the curtain fell, when the whole company were grouped upon the stage in the final tableau, that—a startling interruption occurred.

A deputy sheriff, with his aids, strode upon the stage, and clapped his hand on the shoulder of Clifford Standish.

"You are my prisoner!" he said, sternly; and added: "I have a warrant for your arrest for deserting your wife."

It was like a thunder-clap, so sudden and so startling.

The actor, at that moment, was holding Geraldine's hand in a fervent clasp, and he felt it turn cold as ice as she drew it from him in trembling horror.

He grew lividly pale beneath his stage make-up, but he tried to brazen it out by saying:

"Officer, you have made a mistake. I am not the man."

"Oh, yes, you are, Clifford Standish, and you must come with me to the Tombs at once," returned the deputy sheriff, with a satirical smile.

"I tell you it is a mistake; I have no wife, and this is a base attempt to injure an innocent man. I will prove it in court to-morrow," exclaimed the actor, putting on an air of injured innocence.

The audience was in an uproar, cries of sympathy and jeers of execration blending together. The accusation of the deputy sheriff had been heard by all. Mrs. Stansbury's box party looked and listened with breathless interest, and Cissy whispered to Hawthorne.

"Oh, the grand villain! trying to brazen it out! but I am sure that he is guilty. And poor Geraldine, how white and stricken she looks. I'm going down to her to persuade her to come home with me to-night."

"You must come with me," repeated the deputy sheriff, sternly, to Standish, and he answered, sullenly:

"Very well; but first let me speak to Miss Harding."

And while they guarded him closely, he whispered to the dazed and shrinking girl:

"For God's sake, do not believe the falsehood that has been trumped up against me by some enemy just to injure me in your regards. It is not true, and if you will only believe in me till to-morrow, I will prove it."

"I—I—will try to trust in you," she faltered, gently, but in her heart she knew that she was glad of this interruption to her wedding—knew that she hoped the charge was true.

If he had a wife already, he would be proved a villain, and she—Geraldine—would be free of the promise so rashly made.

"One more promise, my angel! Do not have anything to say to—to—my enemies in the box. They will try to turn your heart against me," he pleaded, feverishly.

"Come, come! I cannot wait any longer," the deputy sheriff said, roughly, and pulled him away before she could reply.

And the next moment Cissy's soft hand clasped hers, and her gentle voice said:

"Let us be friends again, dear Geraldine."

"Oh, Cissy, darling," and the pretty actress, whom all had been praising for her genius, fell into the other's arms, sobbing like a weary child.

"You poor, dear child!" cooed Cissy, patting the golden head. Then—"You'll come home with me for to-night, dear, won't you? I have a cab waiting."

Geraldine was only too glad to go. She hurried her friend to the dressing-room to wait while she got ready.

Cissy chatted incessantly:

"You didn't see us all, so grand in that box to-night, did you? I tried to catch your eye, but you never looked once! And poor Harry Hawthorne, how disappointed he was at your indifference!"

"Cissy!" and the pretty actress stamped her tiny foot angrily.

"Good gracious! What is the matter, my dear?"

"Never mention that man to me again! I hate him!"

"Who—Clifford Standish? I don't blame you! I've hated him ever since he first became known to me."

"No, no; I mean Harry Hawthorne!"

"Why, what has he done to you, Geraldine?"

"Has—hasn't he—gone and married Daisy Odell?" with a stifled sob.

CHAPTER XVIII.

REUNION

"Let us begin, dear love, where we left off;Tie up the broken threads of that old dream;And go on happy as before; and seemLovers again, though all the world may scoff."Let us forget the cold, malicious fateWho made our loving hearts her idle toys,And once more revel in the old sweet joysOf happy love. Nay, it is not too late."

Cissy Carroll made big eyes of surprise at Geraldine's charge.

"Married Daisy Odell? Harry Hawthorne? Why, certainly not! Whatever put such an idea into your dear little noddle?" she demanded, in wonder.

"Mr. Standish told me so before we came back to New York. He said he had an invitation to the wedding. And isn't Daisy married to him, after all? Oh, Cissy, don't try to deceive me, for I saw her—saw her in the box all in white—so bride-like—and Harry Hawthorne leaning over her chair," exclaimed Geraldine, clutching the other's arm with unconscious violence, her beautiful eyes dilated with doubt and entreaty.

"My darling Gerry, don't pinch me black and blue, please, and don't get so excited. Yes, Daisy Odell is certainly married."

"Oh-h-h!" groaned Geraldine, in anguish.

"She is married," pursued Cissy, "and married to one of the dearest fellows in the world, she says—Charlie Butler—but not to Harry Hawthorne. Why, I don't believe he wants to marry any one in the world but you!"

"Me—Cissy!" and Geraldine's face, so lugubrious a moment before, grew radiant with joy, while the girl continued:

"That wretch, Clifford Standish, has told you falsehoods about Mr. Hawthorne, dear, for he never thought of loving any one but you. Didn't you see him with me in the box to-night? I am the only girl he ever goes with, and that is just for your sake, dear, because I was your friend."

"Oh, Cissy!"

Such joy as there was in those two words, for new life came to Geraldine in the assurance that Hawthorne was free, and loved her still.

She put on her dress with trembling fingers, crying:

"Oh, help me, Cissy, I'm so nervous—and—and tired, you know."

"Poor child! no wonder. And troubled, too, perhaps, for maybe you—loved that Standish!"

"Oh, no, no—never, Cissy!"

"Oh, I'm so glad, for that would have broken poor Hawthorne's tender heart, he loves you so much. And you, dear—didn't you care for him a little, too?"

Geraldine was all blushing, blissful confusion.

"I—I—you know how that was, Cissy. I liked him—just a little—at first, but when he did not come that night, or after"—she broke down, sobbing under her breath.

"Oh, Geraldine, he could not—he was hurt you know—and Standish intercepted his letter of explanation. But I mustn't rattle on like this, or I'll leave nothing for Hawthorne to tell you himself."

Geraldine looked at her with a glorified face.

"Oh, Cissy! Shall I see him soon?"

"He's waiting at the cab, dear, so let us hurry."

She fastened the ribbons of Geraldine's cape, and, taking her hand, hurried her through the corridor to the stage door.

And there—oh, joy of joys! stood Harry Hawthorne, waiting, with an eager, expectant look.

How Geraldine's heart bounded at the sight of that handsome face!

She could scarcely restrain herself from springing into his arms.

But, instead, she demurely held out her little hand, and he clasped it closely, saying as he led her to the cab:

"I am so glad to find you again, and we must have a long talk to-night."

CHAPTER XIX.

MUTUAL LOVE

"Oh, happy love! where love like this is found!Oh, heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!I've paced much this weary mortal round,And sage experience bids me this declare:If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,One cordial in this melancholy vale,'Tis when a youthful, loving modest pairIn other's arms breathe out love's tender taleBeneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale."

It was a long distance from the theatre to Cissy's home, but the distance was short to Geraldine and her lover, as they sat side by side in the cab, almost wishing that the ride would never come to an end, it was so heavenly sweet to be together again.

Both of them were in secret ecstasies at the catastrophe to Clifford Standish that had seemed to remove him from their path forever.

The future seemed to stretch before them roseate, shining, love-crowned, blissful.

Cissy did her best to explain away all the shadows that had come between them all.

"Geraldine, I wrote you five letters. Why didn't you answer them, you cruel girl?"

"Five letters? Oh, Cissy, I never received one of them; and it almost broke my heart that you would not answer all the long ones I wrote to you."

"You wrote to me? How strange that I did not get a line from you, dear. And I was so grieved, so uneasy over you. I thought you were proud and stubborn. But, tell me—did you post them yourself?"

"No; I always gave them to Mr. Standish to send out with the company's mail."

"Ah! that accounts for all. The wretch intercepted our letters to each other, just as he did Mr. Hawthorne's letters to you."

"I do not understand," said Geraldine; so they told her the story of the actor's treachery.

Everything lay bare before her now, and she comprehended that all she had suffered since her parting with Harry Hawthorne had been brought about by a deep-laid plot, involving both her happiness and honor; for what if she had married Standish to-night—he, who already had a wife, whom he had deserted!

Her honor would have been trampled in the dust; her life wrecked, to gratify the base passion of this monster, whom she had mistakenly believed the embodiment of truth and goodness.

Trembling with horror at all that she had so narrowly escaped, Geraldine bowed her head in her hands and sobbed aloud.

And Harry Hawthorne longed to take her in his arms and comfort her, but he did not have the right yet, for only words of friendship had been spoken between them, and he feared and dreaded that she had given her young heart to the wretch who had succeeded so well in his vile plans for parting them in the first flush of their sweet love-dream.

But now they were at home, and, bidding the cabman wait, he went in with the girls, saying:

"I know it is rather late to make a call, but something impels me to have a talk with Miss Harding to-night, if she will permit me."

She gave a glad assent, seconded by Cissy, who said, cordially:

"Yes, indeed, come in and talk to Geraldine. You are very excusable under the circumstances."

And, lighting up the poor, but neat, little room, she left them and retired to the adjoining one, where she busied herself with little preparations for the morrow, so as not to embarrass the lovers by her presence.

As for them, when they were left alone, Hawthorne, still standing, took Geraldine's hand and drew her to him, gazing into her face with tender, questioning blue eyes.

The answering look in her sweet tearful eyes was so satisfactory that he said:

"I think everything is explained between us now, is it not, Geraldine? You must have known before we parted that fatal day that I loved you!"

She could not speak because of the happy sob in her throat, but her burning blushes seemed to answer yes, and he pressed her little hand tighter as he continued:

"Yes, even in the brief time I knew you, dearest, you had become the one love of my life, treasured in my heart as the most rare and radiant thing under heaven. And I—I—fancied I read in your sweet smiles that my love would not be given in vain—that I should win you for my own!"

It was like the sweetest music in her ears to hear him telling his love so ardently, with that eager look in his eyes, and such a quiver of hope and fear in his musical voice. It was so dear, so sweet, so thrilling, Geraldine could have listened unweariedly forever.

Oh, first love! what a glimpse through the open gates of heaven it is to the youthful heart! Nothing that comes after, even in the longest life, can compare with it in bliss.

It clothes the world in new beauty, makes the sky more blue, the flowers more fair, the sunlight more golden.

And, thank Heaven, it can gladden the hearts of the poor and humble as well as the rich and great. None are so poor that beautiful Love refuses to visit them, or abide in their hearts.

So to this pair of lovers, though their lot in life was but lowly, and the roof that sheltered them humble, came as pure and rich a joy as if they had dwelt in palace halls. Is it not a glorious provision of Providence that love is free for all? Not bought like diamonds, although it shines brighter; not purchased like luxuries, although it is sweeter, but free as the pure air of heaven, although the greatest luxury, so that if it had to be bought it would bring the greatest price of all.

"Oh, Geraldine," cried her lover, "I love you still, I shall love you always, even if my love prove hopeless, and changes from bliss to endless pain! But give me some little hope to feed on, dearest one. Tell me that that base wretch Standish did not win you with his wicked arts, did not turn your heart against me!"

"Oh, no, no, no!" she murmured, faintly, then paused, abashed, remembering how she had listened to and believed all the cruel falsehoods against her true lover.

"You believed in me, in spite of all! Oh, how can I thank you–" he began, but she interrupted.

"Oh, no, I was not so noble as you believe, for I thought he told the truth. But—but—it made me wretched, thinking you were what he said, for—I could not love him, though he begged me. I—I—loved you, in spite of all!"

"Geraldine—my own!" and he caught her to his breast, their lips meeting in Love's first kiss.

Oh, the happiness of that moment; its never-to-be-forgotten bliss! It paid for all they had suffered in the months that they had been so cruelly parted by the machinations of a villain.

At last they thought of sitting down, although Hawthorne said, happily:

"But it must be for only a moment; then I must tear myself away, and not keep you from your needful rest, my beloved one. To-morrow I will come again, and feast my eyes on the sight of you."

"Oh, it is not so late, and—I am not sleepy," she faltered.

"Darling!" and he kissed the sweet lips fondly again; then, holding her hand, and looking deep in her tender eyes, he continued: "I am going to ask you for one pledge of the love you have so sweetly confessed for me, Geraldine. Promise me that you will never go on the stage again."

"Oh, never, never! I hate it now, and I will never tread the boards again!" vowed Geraldine, in eager earnest, shuddering at thought of the pitfalls Clifford Standish had spread for her unwary feet, and thanking Heaven in her secret heart that she had escaped them.

She could not bring herself to confess to her lover that she had actually promised to marry Standish that night, and that only a fortunate accident had prevented the consummation of the horror. Why, even now, instead of this dear hand-clasp, instead of these dear kisses, she might have been trembling in silent disgust at the caresses of a man she could never love! Oh, how good Heaven had been to save her from the consequences of her own folly, and restore her to her love again!

She resolved never to tell Hawthorne of that broken engagement. She felt that she could almost die of shame to have him find it out.

"I must keep that secret from him, and I must never tell him, either, that I tried to throw away my life when I thought him married to another. I should not like him to know quite how fondly I love him!" she thought, with sensitive maiden pride.

Then Hawthorne had to tear himself away.

"To-morrow is Christmas, and I shall try to spend it with you," he said, fondly. "But I may be kept from your side by a fire, for there are always so many on Christmas Day. So, if I fail to come, don't let Standish create any misunderstandings between us again," he laughed, secure in the thought that his enemy was safe in prison.

Geraldine promised very sincerely to trust her love, in spite of a hundred plots against him, and then they called Cissy in, and told her happily of their betrothal.

"I am the happiest man in New York to-night," he said, as he bade them good-night, leaving them to their sweet, girlish confidences.

CHAPTER XX.

"LOVE IS THE BEST OF ALL."

This golden ring, love, take,And wear it for my sakeWhen I am far away;And nightly we will prayThe dear God's pity on our pain,That we may meet again,Our partings o'er, our sorrows past,You mine, I yours, at last!Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.

How much the two happy girls had to say to each other, when Hawthorne was gone!

It was long past midnight when they retired, and the joyous Christmas sounds were already filling the air. Even then they could not sleep, they had so many things to tell of all that had happened since they were parted from each other.

"I am quite cured of my passion for the stage. It seems to me that all actors must be deceitful villains!" cried Geraldine, and Cissy agreed with her, glad of her disillusionment.

"Do you think, Cissy," pursued Geraldine, "that I could get back my place at O'Neill's with you? Oh, I would be so glad to get back again!"

"We will try to manage it," replied Cissy. "One of the girls is to be married soon after New Year's, and perhaps you can have her place. I'll see about it as soon as I go back to the store; but we have Christmas holiday to-morrow."

"Yes; what a happy Christmas it will be for me!" cried Geraldine, thinking of what might have been, with a shudder. She laughed, to choke back a sob, and continued: "Let's hang up our stockings to-morrow night, as it's too late now, and fill them for each other as we did last Christmas."

"Agreed, my dear; it will be great fun," laughed Cissy, and added: "I suppose your Christmas gift from Mr. Hawthorne will be—an engagement-ring."

"Oh, Cissy, how nice that would be! Do you think he can afford it? Firemen aren't very rich, are they?" naively.

"I guess not; but of course he will give you a ring, even if it's a plain gold band, that will do also for a marriage-ring when the wedding comes off."

"No matter how simple a ring he gives me, I shall love it, and be proud of it, for his sake—just as proud of it as if it were a splendid diamond!" cried pretty Geraldine, tenderly, and then she laughed and said, further: "I used to be such a silly little goose, thinking I would never love and marry any man who could not give me silks and diamonds; but love has changed my nature, and I prize Harry's love more than anything on earth. Of course, I still admire beautiful, costly things, but I would not give him in exchange for a millionaire."

"You are right, dear. Although it is well to have love and wealth, too, yet love is the best of all, and I would not barter it for anything on earth," answered Cissy, so earnestly that Geraldine put her arm around her neck and whispered, coaxingly:

"Dear, you have always spoken so sweetly of love—and yet you do not seem to care for lovers yourself. Why is it? Have you never loved any one?"

Geraldine felt her companion tremble a little, then she replied, lightly:

"That is a leading question—as the lawyers say—and I don't believe I will answer it just yet. Wait—I will tell you another time."

And her answer only confirmed Geraldine in the belief she had cherished for a long time that there was a romance in Cissy's past—some love-story that had somewhat saddened her life and made her lips and eyes so sweetly pensive. From her own happy heart swelled up a silent prayer that love and joy might come soon to Cissy's life, with the same rich blessings it brought to her own.

"Now cuddle your head on your pillow, dear, and go off to the land of Nod, or you will not look pretty for your sweetheart to-morrow," commanded Cissy; and soon they were both fast asleep and wandering in the land of dreams, from which they did not return until the light of day peeped in at the windows.

"Good gracious! it must be eight o'clock! I've overslept myself this blessed Christmas morning. A good thing I don't have to go to the store to-day!" Cissy cried, springing out of bed and running to the window, where she thrust aside the curtain and peered out into the street.

A beautiful sight presented itself—a great city clothed in a resplendent mantle of deep snow, that had come between the dark and the dawn, and overhead a clear, blue sky and brilliant sunshine.

"Oh, how grand! how beautiful! and what glorious sleighing there will be to-day! Wake up, Geraldine, and see the beautiful Christmas morn!" cried the young girl, who, although she had so little of this world's goods, and did not expect a single Christmas gift, was unselfishly happy in the prospect of pleasure for others.

But they had scarcely finished their simple breakfast, gayly prepared by both their hands, when there was a knock at the door, and several packages were handed in for both of them—a little feast of fruit and confectioneries, jewel-box, with a dainty pin for Cissy, and another for Geraldine, with a ring. The gifts bore the card of Harry Hawthorne.

"Oh, how lovely in him to remember me like this! I shall fall in love with him myself! This dear brooch! How I adore it! See the dear little enameled violets, with dewy centers like real diamonds! Oh, how generous he is!" Cissy cried, rapturously, while Geraldine paled with emotion as she slipped over her finger a beautiful ring, and held it up for inspection.

Cissy went almost dumb at the sight, for the stone was a pure diamond of good size, and worth more than either girl had any idea of in their ignorance of the value of gems.

"Oh, Cissy, it is a real diamond, is it not? See how it glitters!" cried Geraldine, tremulously, as she turned her hand about, admiring the sparkling rays of light.

She was fairly overwhelmed with joy at this beautiful gift from her lover, and continued, breathlessly:

"Oh, it is so beautiful! I am so proud to have it! But—but—wasn't he rather—extravagant, Cissy? I should not have thought he could afford it, for surely it must have cost a hundred dollars at least—don't you think so?"

"More than that, in my judgment," cried Cissy, finding breath after her rapturous amazement, and continuing: "But it is none too pretty or costly for you, my beautiful darling, if he can afford it; and of course he can, or he would not have sent it. Perhaps he is not as poor as we thought. He looks like a prince in disguise, anyway, he's so stately and handsome!"