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

CHAPTER XXIX.

A LEAF OUT OF HIS OWN BOOK

"As I came through the valley of Despair,As I came through the valley, on my sight,More awful than the darkness of the night,Shone glimpses of a past that had been fair,And memories of eyes that used to smile,And wafts of perfume from a vanished isle,And, like an arrow in my heart I heardThe last faint notes of Hope's expiring bird,As I came through the valley."

Poor Geraldine! poor Geraldine! What a cruel ending this was to the Christmas Day that had dawned so auspiciously upon her life.

She had had a few hours of exquisite happiness—the pure and perfect happiness of tender mutual love, that brings heaven down to earth for young, ardent hearts.

* * "That passionate love of youth,That comes but once in its perfect bliss—A love that, in spite of its trust and truth,Seems never to thrive in a world like this."

From bliss to despair—that was the story of Geraldine's one day.

But for the shining ring on her little hand she would have believed it all a dream, so swiftly had the brightness fled.

How she loathed and hated the smooth, smiling villain before her, who, while pretending to love her, had actually threatened her with death; who held at that moment, under his hand, a deadly weapon with which to compel her obedience.

The poor girl sat looking at him with angry tears in her large brown eyes, her cheeks alternately red and pale with the blood that rushed to and fro from her wildly throbbing heart. At one moment she would feel ill enough to faint, the next her burning indignation would drive away all weakness.

She did not believe one word of the smooth story he had related to her, hoping that her girlish credulity would accept it for truth.

And she was determined that she would die before she would marry the wretch.

But how was she to escape if he stood guard over her all the way to Chicago, with a deadly weapon in his hand?

If she shrieked out to the conductor for assistance, her abductor would kill her on the spot.

It was a situation to blanch the bravest cheek, and Geraldine was only a poor, weak girl. No wonder that the blood ran cold in her veins with despair.

She could see nothing before her but death—certain death at the hands of the desperate villain by her side.

For he was determined to marry her or kill her; and of the two calamities she resolved to choose the last.

But—and a faint spark of hope came to her—if she could only get him to leave her side a while, she might escape—might jump from the flying train in the darkness.

He was watching her changing face with eager anxiety as to what she was going to say to him now, and suddenly he saw it brighten with a thought he could not fathom.

There had flashed over Geraldine a remembrance of his last words:

"What could I do in my despair but oppose cunning to cunning, and fraud to fraud?"

Her sombre eyes brightened as she thought:

"He has taught me a lesson that I will profit by. Perhaps I can thus throw him off his guard."

Standish exclaimed, eagerly and curiously:

"What have you to say, Geraldine, to my story? Will you accept it for the truth, and renew your faith in my love and honor?"

Duplicity was a stranger to Geraldine's nature, and it was hard indeed to act the part she was planning, but her stage training enabled her to carry it off superbly.

Her lovely face softened inexpressibly, and she looked up at him with a shy yet tender glance that thrilled him with hope.

"Oh, what a strange story you have told me!" she twittered, sweetly, and added: "How can you forgive me for my unfaith?"

Clifford Standish started with blended surprise and joy, for he had not counted on such an easy victory.

He had expected that Geraldine would accuse him of falsehood, scorn him, flout him—do anything else but weaken in this simple way.

But his masculine vanity made the task of gulling him an easy one, for he thought instantly:

"How weak and silly women are! They will believe any garbled story a man chooses to tell them."

Aloud, he said, joyously:

"Then you believe me, Geraldine? They have not turned your heart against me?"

She answered, with seemingly pretty penitence:

"At first they did—for—for it all seemed so real on the stage last night—the arrest and all, you know. And I was wild with pain and humiliation; so I let them persuade me into anything. But, now that you have explained all to me, I see it in a different light, for of course you would not have wished to marry me if you had a wife already."

"Of course not," he echoed, smiling to himself at her innocent ignorance.

"So," continued Geraldine, smiling also, but at his gullibility, "you may put away your pistol, for it makes me very nervous to see it. And you do not need to stand guard over me, and I am ready to keep my promise to marry you."

"Geraldine," he cried, transported with joy at her sweetness, and bent to kiss her, but she repulsed him with shy grace.

"No, no—wait till we are married, sir!"

"Very well, darling; but—will you promise me not to speak to any one on the train but myself?" suspiciously.

"I promise you that," she answered, carelessly, hoping that he would leave her, but it seemed that he had no such amiable intention.

He removed the glasses under which he had posed as Jem Rhodes, the better to feast his eyes on her peerless beauty, and remained by her side, talking to her until she was wild with disgust.

Yet she had to wear her brightest smile, and answer him with seeming vivacity, to keep up the impression she had made of satisfaction with her fate.

Meanwhile the train rushed on to the first station and passed it without interruption. Hawthorne's telegram had not overtaken the fugitives. Poor Geraldine's fate was sealed, and Standish was triumphant.

"I wish something would happen," she thought, desperately. "I wish the train would get off the track and hurt him, and nobody else, so that I might escape!"

How strangely our impetuous wishes are answered sometimes.

Something did happen to Geraldine the very next moment.

The conductor came back from the Pullman coach, and, pausing at her seat, said, respectfully:

"I beg your pardon, miss, but there is a lady back in the Pullman whose husband has just died suddenly from a frightful hemorrhage. In her distress there is not a woman to comfort her except an unfeeling negro maid, who is too busy flirting with the porter to attend to her duties. Could you—would you go back in there and speak a word of comfort to the poor soul?"

His gruff voice was very kindly now that his sympathies were awakened, and he gazed almost pleadingly at the girl who looked, in turn, questioningly at Standish.

He hesitated a moment, as if about to refuse, then answered, quietly:

"Yes, go, and I will accompany you," and, like a jailer guarding a prisoner, he followed her to the Pullman coach.

CHAPTER XXX.

A STARTLING DECLARATION

"Eyes that are closed to earthly sight,Can never wake to weep;Nor pain, nor woe, nor grief, nor blight,Can move that slumber deep."So hearts of dust all griefs forsake,They never break nor bleed;The living hearts that throb and acheOur tender pity need."

The newly made widow leaned against the berth where the dead man lay with his face hidden beneath the sheet, her face in her hands, sobbing in a subdued but heart-broken way. None of the other berths had been made up yet, and the few men in the car looked solemn and ill at ease. A gayly dressed mulatto woman, evidently the lady's maid, was whispering to the smart yellow porter.

Geraldine paused by the weeping woman with a timid glance that took in every detail of her appearance—the elegant curves of the stately figure in a fine cloth traveling gown, the glint of golden hair beneath the dark, close hat, the glittering rings on the hands that held the handkerchief to her face.

She whispered, shyly, to Standish:

"She is one of those grand aristocrats that I used to see at O'Neill's store. I'm afraid to speak to her. Some of them are so proud, so haughty, they can wither you with a look."

"Suppose we go back, then, to our seats," he returned, eagerly.

But something held Geraldine by the mourner's side, in spite of her terror of proud, rich women; and as a sudden low sob broke on the air, she started hurriedly forward with a gentle touch on the lady's arm, bending her face down to whisper, brokenly, out of the wealth of her sympathy:

"Oh, I am so sorry for you, I am so sorry for you! May God help you to bear it!"

The mourner lifted up a lovely face framed in golden hair—the face of a woman somewhere between thirty and forty—and met the glance of those sweet brown eyes swimming in sympathetic tears, and her heart seemed to answer the girl's words. With another heart-breaking sob, she dropped her face against Geraldine's shoulder, and let the girlish arms infold her like a daughter's clasp.

"Come away to a seat," she whispered, and led her away some distance from the berth.

Sitting side by side, they mingled their tears together, for it seemed to Geraldine as if she could feel, by some divine instinct, all the force of the other woman's grief.

"For what, if I were married to my darling Harry, and Death took him—oh, it would break my heart!" she thought, wildly.

Standish had followed and taken a seat just behind her, where he could listen to every word that passed.

Oh, how she hated him for his dastardly espionage, but she dared not openly revolt. She bided her time.

She felt with a keen thrill of pleasure how the strange lady clung to her in the abandonment of her grief, nestling her weary head so confidingly against her shoulder, and letting her arm rest around the girl's waist.

"Tell me if there is anything I can do for you," she whispered, kindly, and the mourner hushed her sobs and murmured:

"Tell the conductor to make arrangements to take—take—my poor husband through to Chicago, our home."

Standish beckoned the conductor back to the seat, and there was a colloquy for some time over mournful details. When he went away, the lady who had grown calmer, lifted her tearful face, and looked at Geraldine, eagerly, tenderly.

"Who are you, child, with that voice and face from the haunting past? What is your name?"

"I am Geraldine Harding!"

"Geraldine Harding! Oh, Heaven!" springing to her feet in strange excitement, her blue eyes glittering through their tears.

Geraldine did not know what to make of her strange excitement, so she waited, mutely, while the lady went on, breathlessly:

"Where did you live?—oh, I mean, tell me all about yourself! Oh, I am in such trouble that I cannot express myself clearly! I mean no impertinence, but I am terribly interested in you and in your past."

"There is not much in my past that could interest you, dear madame—only the simple story of a poor country girl who came to New York, with another girl, to earn her own living," Geraldine said, modestly.

"So young, so lovely! Yet thrown on the world to earn her bread!" murmured the lady, tearfully. She caught the girl's hand, holding it tightly as she continued: "Your parents, dear? Why did they let you leave them?"

"I was an orphan, madame."

"An orphan! Where was your home?"

"I lived in the country near New York, with a farmer, to whom my father took me when I was a delicate child. The farmer's name was Newell, and his wife, Malinda, had formerly been a servant to my mother. She gave me tender, motherly care, and raised me from a frail child to a robust girl. My father sent money for a while, then he died, and left me dependent on those people. They were poor and had a hard struggle to get along with their large brood of children, so I—I—wearied of the life, and ran away to seek my fortune in the great city."

"And your mother, Geraldine?"

"My father said that she was dead," she replied, simply.

"It was false! He, your cruel father, took you from me! I am your own mother, darling!" cried the lady, extending imploring arms.

CHAPTER XXXI.

FROM WANT TO WEALTH

"At sea—we're all at sea upon life's ocean,And none can boast a never-failing chart;Sail as we may, we'll meet with dread commotion,And hidden shoals to terrify the heart.We're all at sea; some favored ones, enchanted,Float peacefully upon the placid tide,While others with sad doubts and fears are haunted,And ever on the roughest billows ride."Francis S. Smith.

Clifford Standish watched the scene before him with eager interest.

It was like the plot of a play, this touching union of a long parted mother and child.

In watching the interesting scene he forgot for a moment how it might affect his own interests.

The beautiful, sorrowful widow, with tears streaming down her pale cheeks, extended her arms to Geraldine, exclaiming:

"I am your own mother, my darling!"

Startling and surprising as this statement was to Geraldine, not a doubt of its truth entered the girl's mind.

On the contrary, her heart leaped with joy, for she had already felt herself drawn with inexplicable tenderness to the speaker.

And the moment that she held out her arms to Geraldine the girl sprang into them gladly, and the next moment they were embracing each other with ineffable tenderness, the grief of the widow comforted in a measure by the restoration of her daughter.

Clifford Standish looking on, suddenly felt a touch of uneasiness, and muttered, under his breath:

"Confound the luck! I wish she had not met this woman until after we were married."

And thinking it was time for him to assert his claim, he waited until the mother and daughter withdrew from each other's arms, and said, respectfully:

"Accept my congratulations, madame, on the finding of your beautiful daughter, my promised wife!"

The lady, with a quick start of surprise, as if she had but that moment become aware of his presence, turned and looked at the speaker.

His words had fallen like hail-stones on her heart.

She was one of the proudest women on earth, and her large dark eyes scanned Clifford Standish with cold inquiry.

He had just announced himself as the betrothed of her daughter, and the cold glance of her eyes asked distinctly if he were worthy of that honor.

There was a moment of breathless silence, and the actor looked at Geraldine with eyes whose veiled menace defied her to deny his claim. She, remembering his deadly threats, paled and shuddered.

She could not afford to anger him yet. She realized that fully.

The lady, after transfixing the daring actor with one steely glance, looked at her daughter.

"Is this true?" she asked, in displeased surprise.

"It is true," faltered Geraldine, without daring to look up; and again Standish, encouraged by success, interposed:

"Let me explain the case to you, madame. We have been engaged to marry for some time, and we are now on our wedding journey—that is, we are to be married as soon as we reach Chicago."

The lady, still icily ignoring her daughter's suitor, exclaimed:

"Can this be true, Geraldine?"

The young girl answered again, dejectedly.

"It is true."

Standish beamed upon her gratefully, joyously, hoping from her acquiescence that he had indeed made some impression on her heart.

But the mother was wearing her most frigid air as she remarked:

"This is a rather unusual proceeding. Should not the marriage have preceded instead of following the wedding journey?"

Standish answered, quickly:

"That is the usual way, certainly, but this was an elopement."

"An elopement?" cried the lady, with rising indignation; but Geraldine laid a pleading hand upon her arm, crying:

"Mother, dear mother, let us discuss this question later. At present let me present Mr. Standish to you."

The mother bowed with cold courtesy. She evidently did not approve of her daughter's suitor.

Standish read her mind like an open book.

He comprehended that she was proud and rich, and would scout the idea of her daughter's marriage with one beneath her in social position.

Yet he was all the more determined to make her his own.

Bending down to Geraldine, he whispered, hoarsely:

"Let me speak to you alone."

She withdrew with him to a little distance, and he whispered, sternly:

"Do not forgot that I have sworn that you shall marry me, or become the bride of Death."

"I will remember," she faltered, and he added:

"The discovery of your mother makes no difference in your promise to me. She must not refuse your hand to me."

Geraldine saw that he was in a desperate mood, and she did not care to offend him; but her heart was throbbing joyfully in her breast, for she knew that heaven itself would come to her aid, and that she would surely outwit him at last.

But she said, with quiet dignity:

"Mr. Standish, it would seem as if common decency required the postponement of this subject until after my mother has buried her dead."

"You are trying to escape me!" he exclaimed, warningly; but he saw by her indignant look that he was presuming too far, for she said, quickly:

"This harshness will not further your cause with me, sir. You cannot marry me by brute force."

"That is true; but I have your promise."

"Extorted from me under menace of death!" she returned, indignation getting the better of her calmness.

"Oh, Geraldine, cannot you forgive the madness of a love like mine that dares anything rather than lose you?" he implored, with theatrical fervor.

"Geraldine, dear," called her mother, softly, and she darted back to her side.

The lady said, quickly:

"My dear daughter, I can never give my consent to your marriage with that person."

Geraldine threw her arms about the lady, and whispered, thrillingly:

"Dear mother, I do not wish to marry him; but—let us wait until after we reach Chicago before we repudiate my promise. I fear his anger, for he is a desperate man. Let us temporize with him until we are out of his power."

By that time Standish had returned to his seat, and seeing that the proud mother of Geraldine was determined to ignore him, his anger made him say, sullenly:

"Madame, you have asserted a claim to Miss Harding, as your daughter, but you have presented no proofs to substantiate your claim. As her present guardian and her betrothed husband, I must request the production of those proofs."

She gazed at him in cold astonishment at this audacity, but answered, frigidly:

"Your solicitude does you credit, but I can satisfy all your doubts."

Beckoning the conductor, who was passing through the car, she said, quietly:

"Kindly tell this person my name and standing."

Standish winced under the contemptuous epithet, "person," and glared at the conductor, who turned to him and said:

"Mrs. A. T. Fitzgerald, formerly of New York, now of Chicago, was the wife, now the widow, of A. T. Fitzgerald, the foremost banker and capitalist of Chicago."

Standish bowed without a word. He saw the impassable gulf of wealth and social position yawning between him and pretty Geraldine, but he swore to himself that he would not give her up.

Mrs. Fitzgerald thanked the conductor, and added:

"No doubt you are familiar with the circumstances of my first marriage, and—divorce. Kindly tell him these also."

The conductor looked embarrassed, but she smiled at him encouragingly, and said:

"Do as I ask you, please. It is indeed a favor."

"Mrs. Fitzgerald's first husband was Howard Harding, of New York, from whom she obtained a divorce ten or eleven years ago."

"State the cause," broke in Mrs. Fitzgerald's clear voice, and the conductor, who was fully conversant with this scandal in high life, added:

"Howard Harding led a gay life, and deserted Mrs. Harding for a notorious Parisian of the demi-monde. His wife secured a divorce, and in about two years married Mr. Fitzgerald, of Chicago."

"And the custody of their only child, little Geraldine, was given–" she began.

"To the mother, of course," ended the conductor.

"Yes, and within a year she was stolen from her by the guilty father and hidden from her so securely that she never found her again until to-night," cried the lady, her eyes resting tenderly on the face of her lovely child.

"Is it so indeed? Let me congratulate you most heartily, madame," exclaimed the conductor, his eyes resting admiringly on Geraldine, while he added: "The likeness between you is most startling."

"And, oh, mother, dear mother, it was this kind gentleman who came to me in another coach and begged me to come and comfort you in your sorrow. But for him we might never have found each other," cried Geraldine, in boundless gratitude, for she felt that not only had he restored her to her mother's arms, but he had also delivered her from the power of her desperate lover.

Mrs. Fitzgerald, who had been so frigid to Standish, unbent from her haughty mien and wept tears of gratitude as she wrung the hand of the conductor.

"Oh, Captain Stevens, as kind as you have always been to me on my journeys on your train, I never knew your true worth till now, but ere long you shall receive ample evidence of my gratitude," she assured him.

The conductor was very proud and happy over his agency in restoring Geraldine to her mother's arms, but while he was declining her promised reward, he was called away, and then Mrs. Fitzgerald turned again to her daughter's suitor.

"Are you satisfied with my proofs?" she demanded, icily.

"Perfectly, madame, and I hope you will permit me to express my joy at your reunion with your daughter."

"I thank you, and I have a request to make of you. I wish to be left alone with my daughter at present. Will you kindly respect this desire, and call on me later in Chicago, where I will consider your claims for my Geraldine's hand?" said Mrs. Fitzgerald, presenting him with a card on which was engraved her address on Prairie avenue.

Thus coolly dismissed, and not daring to protest against the authority of the haughty lady, Standish bowed and withdrew to another seat in the same coach, where he covertly watched them without daring to intrude his hated presence on them.

"Ah my darling, how strangely all this has happened!" cried the lady.

"How strangely and how fortunately!" echoed Geraldine, gladly.

"But, oh, how sad that it did not happen sooner—before my darling husband died! Oh, how he would have loved you for my sake, Geraldine; for he was so good to me, he made me so happy, that no grief remained in my heart for that false one who deserted me for a wicked woman, and then stole you away from me!" cried her mother, her mournful thoughts reverting to that loved lost one whose pulseless form had now been conveyed to another coach to be made ready for its last long sleep.

"Oh, my mother, how can I comfort you for your sad loss?" cried Geraldine, tenderly.

"You can love me, darling, and try to fill the void left by his loss. Oh, I hope that his kind spirit hovers near and knows that I have found you, my dear, for we have wished for this so often, and he has spent many thousands of dollars trying to trace you for me, but all in vain. For all our efforts were made abroad, in the belief that your father had taken you away with him. I could not conceive of his taking you away and then deserting you so heartlessly. But doubtless that wicked woman induced him to do it. Such women have great influence over weak-minded men. But let us try to forgive him the wrongs we suffered at his hands now that he is dead," ended Mrs. Fitzgerald.

CHAPTER XXXII.

"YOU WILL SOON FORGET YOUR POOR LOVER IN THE NEW SPHERE THAT YOU WILL FILL."

"She has a suitor rich, and I am poor,And love 'gainst money has no armor sure;For it is said when poverty appears,Love through the window straight his pathway steers.She's only human; it may be that sheWill barter love for wealth and misery."Francis S. Smith.

How bitter was the disappointment of Harry Hawthorne on reaching the first station on his route in following the fugitives to find that his telegram had not been received until the Pennsylvania Limited had thundered past with the triumphant actor and his helpless victim.

His heart sank at the first moment with a terrible despair, but hope quickly reasserted itself.