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

CHAPTER XIII.
TORTURED TO MADNESS

 
"So the truth's out. I'll grasp it like a snake;
It will not slay me. My heart shall not break.
 
 
"I was so happy I could not make him blest!
So falsely dreamed I was his first and best!
 
 
"He'll keep that other woman from my sight;
I know not if her face be foul or bright;
I only know that it is his delight."
 

Geraldine was proud, very proud—and she thought she had quite overcome her hopeless love for Harry Hawthorne.

But the sudden, unexpected news of his marriage, that she never thought of doubting, struck her with the suddenness of an awful blow, beating down pride and reserve at one terrible stroke.

She realized all at once that her heart had still kept alive a little fire of hope burning before the shrine of its unacknowledged love. The quenching of this spark of hope was almost like the going out of life itself.

The other members of the party had gone on to the other side of the bridge and she was alone with Clifford Standish—alone with the agony of soul that blanched her sweet face to death-like pallor, and made her clutch at the rails, gasping out that she was ill, dying.

The arch-villain caught her swaying form and held it tenderly in his arms, while her white, unconscious face rested against his shoulder.

Some country people walking over the bridge at that moment stared in amazement, and going on to town, reported that, "those actor-folks were carrying on dreadful on the bridge—hugging right before folks."

But neither of the two participants was troubled over this sensation, Geraldine being unconscious, and Standish too much absorbed in her to heed aught else.

In a minute or two she sighed and opened her eyes.

"Oh!" she cried, as she met his eyes gazing deep into hers, and tried to struggle from his clasp.

"Wait. You cannot stand alone yet," he said, tenderly, then murmured: "Oh, Geraldine, it breaks my heart to find that you loved him, that low fireman, so unworthy of you; while I—I—have worshiped you ever since the hour I first saw you behind the counter, so bright and beautiful. I have been trying to win you ever since, and hoped—vainly hoped, as I see now—that I was succeeding. Oh, how did he succeed—this man you saw but a few hours—in winning your love?"

She struggled from his clasp, her strength returning, her face hot with blushes of fierce shame.

"It—it—is not true that I love him—no, no, no!" she faltered, wildly.

"But, my dearest girl, you fainted when you heard of his marriage."

"Oh, no, it was not that. I was tired, ill—from traveling, you know," cried poor Geraldine, who would have died rather than admit the truth which her pale, pale cheeks and trembling lips told all too plainly by their mute despair.

But her denial suited the actor's purpose, and he cried, gladly:

"Oh, I am so happy to hear you say you did not care for him. I feared—feared—that your kindness to me, your sweet smiles and ready acceptance of my attentions were only cruel coquetry."

"Oh, no, no," she murmured, helplessly, feeling herself drawn to him by every word he said.

Had she given him cause, then, to believe she meant to accept him?

He caught her hand, and continued, fondly, eagerly:

"Oh, Geraldine, dare I hope you care for me after all? That you will let me love you, and you love me a little in return? Will you—be my wife?"

He saw her shudder as with a mortal chill; then pride came to her aid. She let him keep the hand he had taken, and she answered, faintly:

"Yes."

And then a great horror of what she had promised rushed over her. How could she be his wife when she did not love him? Such a marriage would be sacrilege!

Her head drooped heavily, and her eyes were half-closed as she listened despairingly to the words of grateful joy he poured out. Not one of them found an echo in her heart.

Until now she had been grateful to him for his kindness, but a sudden aversion took root in her heart now, and she felt that she would rather die than be his wife.

But, to save her life, she could not have opened her lips to take back her promise.

She knew how angry he would be, how he would accuse her of trifling and coquetry. She could not bring down on herself the weight of his wrath.

But to the day of her death Geraldine would never forget that hour on the bridge at Alderson—that hour into whose short compass were crowded so much pain and regret that she longed for death to end her misery.

Mechanically she heard the whistle of an approaching train coming over the track at the end of the bridge. The rumble and roar blent with the rush of the river in her ears as she said, wearily:

"Let us return to the hotel. I—am—so—tired!"

Alas, poor girl! it was a tired heart!

They walked back toward the railroad, and the train came rushing on with a thunderous roar.

There was not one thought of suicide in her mind—she had always thought it a weak and cowardly act—but somehow a mad longing for death—because life was so bitter—seized on unhappy Geraldine.

The train was so close that they must wait for it to pass before they could cross.

She darted suddenly from the side of Standish and threw herself face downward across the trembling rails.

CHAPTER XIV.
A THEATRE PARTY

 
"Time flies. The swift hours hurry by
And speed us on to untried ways;
New seasons ripen, perish, die,
And yet love stays!
 
 
The old, old love—like sweet at first,
At last like bitter wine—
I know not if it blest or curst
Thy life and mine."
 

Harry Hawthorne called on Miss Carroll several times, but she always had the same discouraging story to tell—no answer from Geraldine to the letters she had written.

He gave up going at last, and tried to resign himself to his cruel disappointment.

"If she ever cared for me in the least, that villain Standish with his infernal arts, has turned her against me forever. But let him look out for himself if he ever returns to New York. We shall have a reckoning then, over my letter to Geraldine that he intercepted," he said to himself, bitterly and often.

Those were dreary days to the young fireman after he came out of the hospital and found Geraldine gone. People had always called him cold and unsocial somehow, and he became more reticent than ever now, going nowhere at all except when Captain Stansbury fairly dragged him to the house.

Mrs. Stansbury, as soon as she returned from Newburgh, had been anxious to renew her acquaintance with Geraldine, but meeting Standish on the street one day and asking after her, she was told that the young girl had lost her position at O'Neill's because of her trip to Newburgh and had gone back to her country home in consequence.

"Oh, I am so sorry, for I wished to cultivate her acquaintance, she was such a lovely girl!" the good-natured young woman said, regretfully:

"Yes, very pretty, but a shocking flirt! I got acquainted with her on the street by a handkerchief flirtation," laughed the actor, and he saw that the leaven worked. Mrs. Stansbury did not approve of forward girls, and her eagerness to see more of pretty Geraldine was at once abated.

She knew no better until weeks later, when her husband brought Hawthorne home for dinner, and discussing the pleasant times they had had at Newburgh, he told her of Geraldine's going on the stage with Standish.

Little by little all came out, and she exclaimed:

"Mr. Standish must have lied to me in saying that she had lost her place and gone home to the country, and that he made her acquaintance by a street flirtation."

"It was cruelly false," answered Hawthorne, who had heard from Cissy the whole story of the beginning of the acquaintance of the wily actor and the pretty shop-girl. He continued:

"He wished to prevent your further association with Geraldine, so as to keep her away from me."

"And he really intercepted your letter to her? I did not dream he was such a villain."

"He shall answer to me for that injury when we meet again," he said, so sternly that she saw that he was in bitter earnest.

She admired him for his manly resentment, and said, cordially:

"I do not blame you for wishing to punish him. Any manly man would do likewise. As for Geraldine, when she learns of his perfidy, she will turn from him in disgust."

"Unless she has learned to love the villain. Women are so faithful in their love even when the object is unworthy," he sighed.

Changing the subject, she continued:

"Do you know that Sister Daisy is to be married the week before Christmas?"

"Your husband told me."

"Yes? Well, the bridal party are to spend Christmas with me. The other girls—Carrie and Consuelo—are coming, too. I intend to have a theatre party on Christmas Eve—a box to ourselves—and I want you to join us, won't you? And bring some pretty girl with you, for my sisters will have their beaus."

"I don't know any girl," he began, then suddenly remembered pretty Cissy Carroll.

"Oh, yes, I'll join the party if I can get leave. And there's a girl I know—Miss Carroll—the very intimate friend of pretty Geraldine. I'll bring her, if she will accept an invitation."

"Very well, and you may take me to call on her in the meanwhile, and then I can ask her to the dance I'm going to give the girls," replied amiable Mrs. Stansbury.

And so it was arranged that Cissy made the acquaintance of the Stansbury clique, and fell in love with them as deeply as Geraldine had done.

And on Christmas Eve they all filled a box at the theatre—and a merry party they were, for even Harry Hawthorne unbent from the grave reserve that was habitual to him of late, and tried to make himself entertaining to gentle Cissy while the orchestra played and they waited for the first act.

"What is the play?" asked Hawthorne, for Captain Stansbury had secured the tickets, and reserved the name of the piece as a surprise to the party.

"It's 'Laurel Vane'—a society play, by a well-known author—and it is to be presented for the first time to-night," replied Captain Stansbury.

"I hope it is a good company," said his wife.

"Oh, yes—excellent. The Clemens Company. I know the manager well."

There was a start from all, and Mrs. Stansbury said, nervously:

"But I thought that company was on the road."

"They returned to New York yesterday, with this new play," replied the captain, who was not in the secret of Clifford Standish's villainy.

The orchestra stopped playing, and the curtain rose.

CHAPTER XV.
GERALDINE WOULD NEVER FORGET ALDERSON

 
It thrills one like a draught of rarest wine,
The fine, pure air, the sunshine, and the scene,
The mountains, and the river where it glides,
A silver chain between its banks of green;
And yonder, where the town lies white and low,
On flowery banks so fair beneath the sun,
Oh, Alderson sweet village I may go
Full many a mile, nor find a fairer one!
 

Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.

Poor, pretty Geraldine, if she had ever thought of death at all, she had never dreamed of ending her life like this beneath the wheels of this great panting, shrieking iron monster, rushing down upon her as her beautiful form lay across the bright steel rails where she had thrown herself in the extremity of despair!

But, frantic with hopeless love and terror at the promise she had just given—the reckless promise of her hand without the heart—reason had momentarily deserted its throne, and, conscious only of a mad desire to escape from life's tragedies of woe, she rushed forward in front of the train, and laid her golden head down upon the pillow of death, like one lying down to pleasant dreams.

And although her suicidal act was seen by fifty pairs of eyes, it was too late for even the most heroic hand to snatch her from her impending doom.

The locomotive was so close upon her the moment she fell before it that the immense cow-catcher touched her, and—even as the horrified shriek of Standish rang upon the wintry air—it seemed to draw her beneath the horrible grinding machine!

Did Heaven, in pity and mercy, intervene to save the rash girl from the consequences of her mad attempt at self-destruction?

Not once in a hundred cases is a human life saved by being caught and thrown upward by the projecting cow-catcher in front of the monster locomotive.

Yet once in a while such a fortunate intervention occurs, and a fatal disaster is prevented.

To poor, reckless Geraldine, who had placed herself beyond the reach of human aid, this accident happened, or our story must have ended here with the tragic close of her short life.

It almost seemed as if invisible angels must have caught up her doomed form from the track and placed it on the great shovel-like projection in safety, so miraculous seemed the saving of her life.

And a moment later the train, which had been slowing up as it entered the town, came to a full stop at the station, and the horrified engineer, who had been utterly unable to prevent what had seemed to happen, saw Geraldine's form lying on the platform of the cow-catcher, where it had rebounded at the first touch, and a cry of thanksgiving rose from his throat, echoed by a hundred other voices of those who had seen it all, and who now rushed to the spot in wild haste.

Quiet little Alderson had a sensation that day never to be forgotten in after years, when the express train rushed into the station bearing on its very front that form of a beautiful girl driven wild by sorrow, until she had tried to end her life in this terrible fashion.

What kind and eager hands drew her from her perilous position; what sympathetic eyes gazed on her beautiful white face as they laid her down on the platform, quite unconscious, for she had swooned when she threw herself on the track.

Every doctor in town was speedily on the scene. They vied with each other in their efforts to restore her to consciousness.

And in a few minutes Geraldine opened her heavy-lidded eyes with a blank gaze, and saw herself surrounded by a sympathetic, though curious crowd, and, as in a dream, heard Clifford Standish eagerly explaining to the people:

"Oh, no, indeed; you are mistaken. It was not an attempt at suicide; it was only a fool-hardy attempt to cross the track before the engine. She declared that she could do it safely, and dared me to follow her, darting from my side before I could restrain her, for I would not have permitted the rash venture otherwise. Still, I believe she would have accomplished the feat and cleared the track by a hair's breadth, only that her foot slipped and threw her down at that fatal moment."

Bending down to Geraldine's ear, he whispered, warningly:

"Do not contradict what I have told them, or they may put you in prison for attempted suicide, as they do in New York."

The people thought he was her lover, whispering to her of his joy at her safety, and in a moment he confirmed the belief by saying aloud:

"She would be distressed if any one accused her of trying to kill herself, for she is one of the happiest girls in the world. In fact, while we were standing on the bridge she had promised to marry me."

"Yes, I say him hugging her on the bridge, myself," said the old countryman who had passed them, and a smile went around, and then a cheer for the fair young life saved for a happy wedded future.

They carried her to the hotel that was but a few yards away, and it was found that she had sustained some bruises on her side, that was all. She would be able to go on with the company.

And a great revulsion of feeling took place in her mind—joy that her life was spared, horror at the momentary insanity that had driven her to that awful deed. Life grew sweet again, in spite of her great sorrow.

When the sympathetic women left her alone that evening in her room, she knelt down in a passion of repentance, and prayed God to forgive her for her great sin in trying to throw away the life He had given.

And she prayed Heaven to help her to forget Harry Hawthorne, and to love Clifford Standish, the man she had promised to marry.

"Surely he is good and true, and deserves my love," she thought, in an impulse of gratitude to him for the way he had shielded her when the people talked of suicide. She was ashamed of the truth now—glad for them to think it had been an accident.

"I will never be so foolish and so wicked again," she thought, in her keen remorse for her sin.

She spent a wakeful, restless night in spite of the sedatives the kind Doctor Spicer had administered before he went away. The hotel was so close to the railroad that she could hear the trains thundering by all night long, and the sound made her shudder with terror at thought of the heavy iron wheels that had come so near to crushing out her fair young life.

She was glad when morning came, and they boarded the train for New York.

She was eager to get away from this place, yet she would never forget Alderson, with its beautiful mountains, its romantic, winding river, and the bridge where she had stood with Standish, listening to the cruel words that had extinguished the last spark of hope in her breast and driven her mad with despair.

No, she would never forget beautiful Alderson, on the rippling, winding, singing Greenbrier River, set like an emerald chain between its romantic banks, overshadowed by wooded mountains, but she would remember it always with a horror it did not deserve, poor Geraldine, because of its tragic associations.

CHAPTER XVI.
"CALL PRIDE TO YOUR AID, GERALDINE."

 
"It is a common fate—a woman's lot—
To waste on one the riches of her soul,
Who takes the wealth she gives him, but cannot
Repay the interest, and much less the whole.
 
 
"'Tis a sad gift, that much applauded thing,
A constant heart; for fact doth daily prove
That constancy finds oft a cruel sting,
While fickle natures win the deeper love."
 

We must return to our description of the scene in the theatre when the curtain rose on the first act, and the eager eyes of the large audience turned upon the stage.

The heroine of the play, Laurel Vane, a beautiful girl, left penniless and alone by the death of her only surviving parent, was discovered weeping in the shabby room from which she would soon be turned out, because she had no money to pay her rent.

Enter the handsome villain, Ross Powell, who declares his love for Laurel, and makes wicked proposals.

Repulsed with scorn, he departs, vowing vengeance on the scornful little beauty.

Desperate with misery, Laurel seeks a beautiful young lady, the noble daughter of a publisher, for whose magazine her father had written until his death.

"She is a sister-woman, and will help me in my trouble," thought the poor girl.

Between this splendid Miss Gordon and her clever maid, a plan was formed by which the orphan girl (by sailing under false colors) became the honored guest of wealthy people, and afterward the bride of a proud aristocrat, who thought he had married the peerless Miss Gordon, and had never heard of poor little Laurel Vane, who was his worshiped wife.

Upon this conspiracy hung all the plot of the play, and the leading parts were taken, first by Clifford Standish, leading man, the part of the hero, St. Leon Le Roy; the part of the heroine, Laurel Vane, by Geraldine Harding; the villain, Ross Powell, by Cameron Clemens; and Miss Gordon by Madeline Mills, the usual star of the company, although she had yielded precedence in this case to Geraldine, who looked so exactly the part of the ingenue heroine, with her starry brown eyes and curly golden hair.

But it is not necessary to our story to go into the details of the play. Although it enthralled the attention of the sympathetic audience, it held even greater interest for the party in the Stansbury box, because they knew two of the actors so well.

How it thrilled Harry Hawthorne to see pretty Geraldine again, even though he deprecated her stage career so bitterly.

As for Cissy, the tears sprang to her eyes when she first saw her lost friend, looking so familiar in the same simple black serge gown she had worn behind the counter when she was only a salesgirl at O'Neill's great store, and which answered excellently well for the mourning gown of the orphan heroine. Indeed, that floating mass of golden locks was glory enough to lend beauty to the shabbiest attire.

They watched her with absorbing interest through the changes of the play, but for a long time Geraldine did not perceive them. She was absorbed in her work, and did not cast coquettish glances at the boxes, like the other actresses. It was well she did not, for the sight of them would have unnerved her cruelly.

But Clifford Standish was on the alert, and while posing as the magnificent Le Roy, scowled secretly at the occupants of that particular box.

When the first act was over, he intercepted Geraldine on her way to the dressing-room, and said:

"I have something very particular to tell you.

"Yes."

"Now call your pride to your aid, dear one, for you will be shocked, I know. But I thought it best to put you on your guard."

"Yes," she answered, paling suddenly, but with her small head proudly erect.

"Have you noticed the first box to the right?"

"No, I have not looked at the house at all. I heard it was crowded," wearily.

"It is, and we have made a hit. But—that box—there's a theatre party in it—all people that you know."

"Indeed," listlessly, pretending no interest.

"Yes, and I tell you about them now so you will not notice them when you go on again in the second part. They are the Stansburys; the bride and groom, Harry and Mrs. Hawthorne; the two single Odell girls, and Cissy Carroll, with three young men—their beaus, no doubt."

She clutched his arm with a trembling hand.

"I—I—wish you had not told me," she faltered. "I—shall—be nervous now—in my part, I fear."

"You do not mean that you can care for that fellow still—you, my promised bride, and he the husband of Daisy Odell?" reproachfully.

"Oh, no, no; do not accuse me of such weakness," wildly. "But there is—Cissy, you know—Cissy turned against me, and we were so fond once!"

Her voice was almost a wail.

"Do not think of her, my dearest love—she is not worthy of it, the jealous, envious creature! Call pride to help you appear indifferent. Do not even turn your head toward that box, and they need never know how they have wounded your fond heart," he persisted, anxiously.

"Yes, yes; I will obey you," she answered, faintly.

"And, Geraldine, my darling—my sweet, promised bride—you know how madly I love you, but you have denied all my prayers for an immediate marriage! Will you not relent and make me the happiest man on earth? Oh, let us be married to-night after the play! It can be managed easily enough. Say yes, dearest?"

A call-boy came through the corridor, chanting:

"Only five minutes till next act—only five minutes."

She broke away from him, panting, breathlessly:

"I cannot answer you now."

She fled to her dressing-room, glad to escape his importunities, yet feeling as if she did not do him justice by her lack of love.

"He is so patient, so tender, and so eager to spare me pain, that I ought to love him more than I do," she told herself.

Respect and esteem she could give him, for she believed that he was good and noble, so well had he acted the traitor's part; but love—oh, we cannot give love at will!

 
"Life's perfect June, Love's red, red rose,
Have burned and bloomed for me.
Though still youth's summer sunlight glows;
Though thou art kind, dear friend, I find
I have no heart for thee."
 

She stole to the wings one moment, to gaze by stealth at the theatre party, and by the merest accident Harry Hawthorne was leaning over the bride's chair, talking to her of some trifle, but the sight made Geraldine draw back all white and quivering, with a cruel pang at her heart.

"I hate him!" she moaned, to herself, in a passion of jealous despair.

But when she came upon the stage she did not look again at the box, or she would have seen that Harry Hawthorne sat apart from Daisy, by the side of Cissy. She acted her part well, for in it there was much of the tragic pain that suited well with her desperate mood.

At the close of the second act, Standish renewed his pleadings for a marriage that night, and in her bitter mood, Geraldine, like many others who exchange one pain for another in mad impatience, ceased to struggle against his importunities and yielded a passive consent to his ardent prayer.