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

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
"STOP THE CARRIAGE!"

 
"Come love! Until thy face I see,
All things seem valueless to me;
Nor singing birds nor blooming flowers
Can make less sad the weary hours.
Friends cannot cheer, mirth cannot move,
While thou art absent, dearest love.
Dejection holds my heart in thrall
Till thou art here, my all-in-all."
 

Francis S. Smith.

"How strange, oh, how strange, that Harry does not answer my letter!" cried Geraldine, impatiently.

About ten days had passed since she had posted the letter with her own hands to Hawthorne, and for days she had been waiting in silent anxiety for his reply.

But, as we know that he had left New York suddenly, without leaving directions to forward his mail, we can understand the cause of the silence that was torturing her tender heart. Since the day when Geraldine had impulsively defied her mother to turn her heart from her betrothed, a slight reserve had grown up between them that nothing seemed to bridge. Mrs. Fitzgerald never brought up again the subject of her daughter's lover. She was bitterly and unreasonably offended at the stand the girl had taken.

So she became more chary of showing affection to Geraldine, and lavished caresses on her two younger children, the charming Earl and Claire.

Geraldine, who was as loving as she was proud and willful, suffered sorely from her mother's coldness. She began to feel like an alien in the great, splendid mansion. In secret she pined for Cissy and her old happy life among the girls at O'Neill's before her own mad ambition for the stage had cut her off from those pleasant days forever.

"I have a great mind to run away from my grand home and ambitious mother and go back to Cissy," she sobbed one night to her lonely pillow.

But she did not have the heart to carry out her threat, for Mrs. Fitzgerald was kind in spite of her reserve, lavishing beautiful gowns and jewels upon her, as if to make up to her for her heart-loneliness. Dressmakers and milliners had carte blanche, and Geraldine had an outfit fine enough for a young princess.

These beautiful gowns, these flashing jewels, and the luxury of her home would have made the lovely girl very happy, but for the cruel separation from her lover. Without him there was a blank in everything.

 
"Where I am the halls are gilded,
Stored with pictures bright and rare;
Strains of deep, melodious music
Float upon the perfumed air.
Slowly, heavily, and sadly
Time with weary wings must flee,
Marked by pain and toil and sorrow,
Where I fain must be."
 

One day a sudden thought came into her mind.

"Why not have Cissy come and make me a visit?"

She spoke to her mother about it the same day, asking timidly for the privilege of inviting Cissy to spend a month with her in Chicago.

Mrs. Fitzgerald readily acquiesced, and gave Geraldine a liberal check for her friend's traveling expenses.

Geraldine flew to her room to write to her friend, and she did not fail to inquire of Cissy what had become of Harry Hawthorne.

"Tell him I have written to him and received no reply," she added, naively, in her keen anxiety.

She felt a little happier when the letter had been dispatched to Cissy. It would be a comfort to have her old friend with her, in spite of the fact that many of her mother's rich, fashionable friends had called and offered their friendship in affectionate terms.

But they were strange and new to Geraldine, and they could not make her happy yet. The transplanted flower had not taken root in this new, rich soil. It pined for its old habitation. It was strange to be a greenhouse exotic instead of a fresh wild-flower nodding to its mates beneath the free blue sky.

"But if I only had those I love with me, I should be supremely happy," she sighed, wistfully.

 
"There is no friend like an old friend,
Whose life-path mates our own,
Whose dawn and noon, whose even and end
Have known that we have known.
It may be when we read her face
We note a trace of care;
'Tis well that friends in life's last grace
Share sighs as smiles they share."
 

More than a week had passed since Clifford Standish's visit, and they saw and heard no more of him.

Both mother and daughter supposed that he had passed out of their lives forever.

But the handsome governess, Miss Erroll, might have told them a different story had she dared.

She had received several letters from him, and she knew from them that the actor was weaving a spider's web to entrap poor Geraldine.

But she dared not speak, dared not warn the beautiful unconscious victim.

She was in the villain's power, through his knowledge of her past, and her terror for her own safety commanded her silence.

She was a weak woman, who had erred and repented; and now that she had begun to live a better life, she had a terror of losing her situation. She could not betray Clifford Standish, although she would have rejoiced in doing so with safety to herself.

So the days went by, and it was almost a week since Geraldine had written to Miss Carroll. She began to look eagerly for an answer.

Mrs. Fitzgerald proposed a shopping tour the next day.

"You have not made the tour of the Chicago shops yet, but I assure you they compare favorably with those of New York. We will drive to State street, and go through Marshall Field's immense establishment, which is one of the finest here. Then, too, we must visit Stevens & Brothers' magnificent silk store. We may find something to please us there. How sorry I am that I cannot introduce you formally to society yet, because of my mourning. You would be a vision of beauty in an evening dress."

Geraldine's thoughts flew back to the only time she had ever worn an evening dress—the night of the firemen's ball at Newburgh, when she had been so happy because Harry Hawthorne's eyes had told her over and over of her beauty. Ah, she would never be quite so happy again, she feared.

They entered the elegant liveried carriage and were driven to State street.

It was Geraldine's first shopping tour with her mother, and she found a great deal of zest in it, in spite of the sorrow that ached at her loving heart.

How delightful it was to be buying beautiful fabrics instead of selling them; to have a purse full of money to spend on whatever she liked!

How different from the days of the shabby black serge gown and the waiting on customers from morning till night, with weary feet and oft-times aching back. She looked at the pretty salesgirls of Chicago with kind, pitying eyes, and was careful to give as little trouble as possible when making her purchases. They looked at the rich young beauty in her sealskin cloak enviously, little dreaming that but a short while ago she had been a simple working-girl like themselves, with no prospect of the good fortune that had come to her so suddenly and strangely.

They re-entered the carriage, and Mrs. Fitzgerald gave the address of an artist.

"I must have some picture of you in your carriage suit, and this is such a bright, sunny day, just suited to a sitting," she said.

It pleased her to have her beautiful daughter photographed in several graceful styles, then they left Stevens' and proceeded home.

"You have had fatigue enough for one day, but we will come out again to-morrow and see more of the city," said Mrs. Fitzgerald, kindly.

The carriage drove away, and neither of them noticed three men who had been walking slowly toward them as they entered the carriage, and who had paused to gaze admiringly at Geraldine as she crossed the pavement.

They were Ralph Washburn, Leroy Hill, and Harry Hawthorne. The two former had brought their patient out for the first time for a short walk.

He had convalesced very fast, the wound not being as deep as at first supposed.

But the keen stroke of Standish had only missed a fatal ending because it had been blunted by passing through a cigar case in Hawthorne's breast-pocket.

His high health and vitality had enabled him to pull through fast, and to-day he was out for the first time, looking pale and thin, his restless glances roving from side to side, seeking ever for one beautiful face so deeply loved, so cruelly lost.

And suddenly he encountered it—where least expected—in the garb and the trappings of wealth.

He gave a gasp like one dying, and clutched young Hill's arm in icy fingers.

The latter looked around, exclaiming:

"What is it, Jack, eh? Have we brought you too far in your weak state? Oh, I see, you're looking at the beauty! You're hard hit, aren't you? So am I! She's a stunner!"

At that moment the footman closed the door on Geraldine, and the carriage rolled away.

She did not look out of the window, or she would have seen Hawthorne—the lover over whom her fond heart was yearning—start forward with outstretched arms toward the carriage, crying, wildly:

"It is she! it is she! Stop the carriage, I say! I must speak to her one moment!"

But his friends restrained him on either side. They feared that he had suddenly gone daft.

Weak as he was, he struggled with them, broke their hold, and ran a few paces after the carriage.

Then he dropped, exhausted, to the pavement.

They overtook him and raised him up between them.

He looked at them pleadingly.

"You think I am crazy, I know. But let me explain. I know that girl in the carriage. I came to Chicago to find her, and now, she has escaped me!" he groaned.

"What! you know the beautiful Miss Fitzgerald, of Prairie avenue?" exclaimed Ralph Washburn, in surprise.

"That is not her name!" cried Hawthorne.

"Oh, yes, it is Miss Fitzgerald, certainly. You have made a mistake," returned the young author, who had seen Mrs. Fitzgerald often, and had read in the society newspapers that her lovely daughter, Miss Fitzgerald, who had been educated abroad, had just been called home by her father's death.

But to make assurance doubly sure, he ran up to the photographer's studio to inquire. They assured him that their late sitters were Mrs. and Miss Fitzgerald.

Hawthorne was so unnerved by the discovery of his mistake that a cab had to be called to take him home.

CHAPTER XXXIX.
IT IS NOT POSSIBLE FOR TRUE LOVE TO FORGET

 
"Have you seen the full moon
Drift behind a cloud,
Hiding all of nature
In a dusky shroud?
 
 
"Have you seen the light snow
Change to sudden rain,
And the virgin streets grow
Black as ink again?
 
 
"Have you seen the ashes
When the flame is spent,
And the cheerless hearth-stone
Grim and eloquent?
 
 
"Have you seen the ball-room
When the dance is done,
And its tawdry splendor
Meets the morning sun?
 
 
"Dearest, all these pictures
Cannot half portray
How my life has altered
Since you've gone away!"
 

Harry Romaine.

It was impossible for Hawthorne to sleep that night after the sight of the beautiful stranger, Miss Fitzgerald, whose startling likeness to his lost darling had awakened in his heart a fresh agony of love and pain.

He tossed and turned restlessly all night upon his pillow, thinking of Geraldine until his heart was on fire with its agony.

Could it be true what that dastard Standish had told him?

Had he indeed won the girl from the path of truth and honor, to make shipwreck of her life for the sake of a guilty love?

No, no, no! He could not, would not believe it!

She was pure as snow, his lovely Geraldine.

But where was she, what had been her fate since she left New York in company with the arch-villain, Standish?

"I cannot find her by myself. I must put a detective on the case to-morrow," he decided.

The young author, who was burning the midnight oil over a charming poem, was disturbed by his groans, and came in to see about him.

"I fear you are worse. That little outing was too much for you," he exclaimed.

"No, it is not that. I am restless; it is a trouble of the heart," confessed the patient, frankly.

"Ah!" exclaimed Ralph, sympathetically, adding: "Can I help you?"

"No one can help me," sighed Hawthorne, hopelessly.

"Is it a love affair?"

"Yes."

"It is hopeless, I judge, from your expressions. Then why not throw it from your mind? Forget the cruel fair one?"

"Have you ever loved, Ralph?"

"Never," laughed the handsome young author, who only worshiped at the shrine of the muses.

"I thought not, or you would not use that hackneyed word forget. It is impossible to real love—a poet's dream, but an impossibility."

"Have you loved so deeply?"

"With all my heart, with all my soul, and with all my mind!" groaned Hawthorne, adding: "My dear friend, may God keep you from ever knowing such love and pain and grief as fill my heart to bursting."

Ralph was silent. He saw that here was a grief beyond comfort.

He wondered what was the mysterious nature of Hawthorne's sad love-story, but he was too generous to ask such a question.

He could only gaze at him in tender, silent sympathy.

Hawthorne continued, passionately:

"It is not my way to dwell on my own troubles, but to-night my sorrow overwhelms me! To love and to lose—oh, Ralph, that is the bitterest thing of life!"

"Is she dead, your loved one?"

"Ah! no, she is not dead! I could almost wish that she were, in my dread that she is dead to me forever! And if she is, oh, if she is, how can I bear the gloom of my life henceforward?—the blank darkness of a night of storm following on the sunshine of a perfect day. Oh, God!" groaned Hawthorne, tossing his arms above his pillow in anguish.

The young poet gazed at him in deepest sympathy and pity. He had not loved yet, but he could understand and pity, for to the poet's soul all the secrets of life are felt and known through the subtle occultism of genius.

 
"The poet in a golden clime was born,
With golden stars above;
Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,
The love of love.
 
 
"He saw through life and death, through good and ill,
saw through his own soul."
 

As Ralph gazed at the handsome face of the unhappy lover, he felt that here was the material for a novelist's pen to frame a most bewitching love-story, and he hoped that some day Hawthorne would confide in him.

Suddenly the young man looked up at him, saying, abruptly:

"Ralph, I want you to take me to the best detective in Chicago to-morrow morning."

"Very well," replied Ralph, going to a table and mixing a sedative that had been used under Doctor Rowe's orders. He presented it to the patient, saying:

"Drink this, or you won't be able to stir to-morrow morning."

Hawthorne complied readily, for he was, indeed, weary of the tumult of his mind and heart.

He closed his eyes wearily, and Ralph dimmed the light and returned to his study, and the last verse of the pretty poem he was composing.

When he had written the last line he heard Hawthorne breathing gently in a saving sleep, and he, too, retired to his bed.

Both slept late the next morning, and breakfast and the morning papers were brought up together for Hawthorne.

Ralph saw that his charge was comfortable, and went out to a neighboring cafe where he was wont to meet his friend Mr. Hill at the morning meal.

Hawthorne made a very light meal in bed, dismissed the servant with the tray, and then turned his attention to the newspapers—the Chicago Herald first.

And as he skimmed over the telegraphic news from abroad, he came across a paragraph that worked a curious change in him.

His face grew pale with emotion, and sinking back on his pillow, he sighed to himself:

"I must go home."

When Ralph returned with Mr. Hill, who always made a morning call on his protege, as he humorously termed Hawthorne, they found the patient dressing in feverish haste.

"Boys, I must return to New York to-day," he exclaimed.

While they gazed at him in surprise, he continued:

"Business of a very important nature obliges me to cross the ocean as soon as possible; and—in brief—I owe you both a debt of gratitude that I wish to repay you by asking you to accompany me on my trip to Europe as my guests. Will you come? I am not poor, as you supposed, in the kindness of your hearts, when you took me in, a stranger, and nursed and cared for me, and a cordial welcome will meet you in my English home!"

They were startled and surprised at his generosity, but Hawthorne would not listen to their refusals.

"I love you both like brothers, and I will not be refused. You shall come with me," he declared, and his cordiality won their consent.

Arrangements were speedily made, and after a visit to a detective, the three friends left for New York.

CHAPTER XL.
"IT IS LIKE SUICIDE!"

 
"Round the post-office window are pressing
A motley and turbulent throng.
All eagerly bent on possessing
The letter they've looked for so long.
To some come dark tidings of sorrow,
To others come tidings of bliss;
Uncertain is every to-morrow,
And the world like the post-office is."
 

Francis S. Smith.

All unconscious of the fact that she had been so near to the lover for whom she mourned, Geraldine returned home with her mother, and even as they went up the steps the postman followed on his afternoon round and placed two letters in her hand.

She glanced at them, and a cry of joy broke from her lips as she saw that one bore the New York postmark and was in Cissy's familiar hand.

The other one was postmarked Chicago, and was addressed to the governess, Miss Erroll.

And if Geraldine could have guessed how fatally that letter concerned herself, she would have been justified in tearing it to fragments and scattering it in wrath to the four winds of heaven.

If some saving hypnotic power had but impelled her to this course, what suffering she would have been spared. But in her joy over Cissy's letter, she scarcely gave a thought to Miss Erroll.

Going up stairs to her own apartments, she passed the school-room and tapped lightly on the door.

"A letter for you," she said, courteously, to the governess, not noticing how the woman's hand trembled, when she took it.

But the face of Miss Erroll grew ashy pale when, alone with her pupils, she opened and read her letter from Clifford Standish.

"To think that she should have this letter in her hands; that she should have brought it to me, it is a mockery of fate! It is like—suicide!" she muttered, through her writhing lips, and a bitter sigh heaved her breast.

Geraldine hurried to her own rooms and read Cissy's letter before she removed her wraps, so eager was her fond heart for news from New York.

"She will be here to-morrow, to-morrow, the dear girl!" she cried, joyfully, kissing the letter in the exuberance of her gladness.

But the letter contained other news that was very puzzling.

"Harry followed me to Chicago on the next train, the darling boy! But how strange that he has never come to me! Does he know where I am? Is he in the same city with me?" were questions that repeated themselves over and over in her bewildered brain.

She could understand now why he had never answered her letter. Of course, he had never received it, since he was on her trail following her abductor and his victim in their flight from New York.

"But why, oh, why does he not come to me? Is it possible he cannot find me, my dear, dear, love? Ah, I have it now! He is following Clifford Standish up, and of course he can find no trace of me," she decided, and immediately resolved to insert personals in the prominent newspapers of the next day in the hope of reaching him.

When she had exchanged her carriage dress for a lovely house robe, fluttering with lace and ribbons, she sought her mother, with Cissy's letter.

Mrs. Fitzgerald rejoiced with her daughter over the coming of her friend, but she said not a word about Harry Hawthorne.

She was secretly annoyed at learning that he had followed Geraldine to Chicago. She thought, in dismay:

"He may be turning up here at any moment, claiming my daughter, and she is so headstrong, she will never consent to give him up. What shall I do?"

But her woman's wit could suggest no answer to the question.

She was honorable and high-minded, and shrank from using harsh or underhand means to break off Geraldine's engagement.

Geraldine saw the lack of sympathy in her mother's mobile face, and thought, sadly:

"She is still unrelenting. I shall have no sympathy in my sorrow until Cissy comes. Then I can whisper all my grief to her faithful heart."

And she longed all the more anxiously for to-morrow's sun that would shine on the coming of her beloved friend.

And, to lighten her suspense, she spent some time superintending the arrangement of the beautiful room next to her own that was being prepared for Miss Carroll's occupancy. Some of her own favorite books were carried in—Cissy was inordinately fond of reading—flowers were lavished here and there. When it was all ready, the pretty room in pink and silver was dainty enough for a princess.

"Cissy will enjoy it so much. She likes pretty things. And I shall buy her some dainty gowns, and—lots of things! She shall see how I love her!" the girl whispered to herself, with tears of joy in her beautiful brown eyes.

Then she went to her desk and wrote out and sent the personals she had thought of to the newspapers for to-morrow.

"Mamma would not approve, I know, but perhaps she will never find out what I have done. But, at any risk, I would have done it. I cannot give up my own true love! I believe God made us for each other," she thought, tenderly.

She spent a restless night, thinking of Cissy's coming to-morrow, and wondering where her lover was to-night in this great Western city, little dreaming that he was speeding from it in the deepening night.