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

CHAPTER XVII.
AT THE END OF THE PLAY

 
"A love like ours was a challenge to fate;
She rang down the curtain and shifted the scene;
Yet sometimes now, when the day grows late,
I can hear you calling for Little Queen.
For a happy home and a busy life
Can never wholly crowd out our past;
In the twilight pauses that come from strife
You will think of me while life shall last."
 

Yes, she had promised to marry Clifford Standish as soon as the last act of the play was over. The act would leave the heroine, Laurel, presumably "happy ever after" but must plunge poor Geraldine into deeper despair.

For though she admired Clifford Standish greatly, was proud of his love, and grateful for his kindness, she did not feel as if she could ever love him as she had loved another. Her poor heart seemed dead and cold in its numb misery of slighted love, and the thought of marriage was repugnant to every instinct of her nature.

But she owed Clifford Standish such a debt of gratitude that there seemed no way of paying it save by yielding to his importunate entreaties for an immediate marriage.

But how she shrank from the moment that would seal her fate, although she had failed in courage to defend herself from it.

It was a bitter pride that was pushing her into this unloving marriage.

She would let Harry Hawthorne, who had flirted with her so cruelly, see that she did not care for him at all; that she could marry a man who was his superior in position, in riches, and in everything that made up true and noble manhood.

Geraldine despised a male flirt. Whenever one of the creatures tried to catch her eyes in public, she always set him down beneath contempt, and one withering glance from her flashing eyes would make him shrink into himself, ashamed for once before the scornful eyes of a true woman.

And the thought that Harry Hawthorne was one of those contemptible wretches was inexpressibly bitter.

She had shed many secret tears over the dread that he had read in her frank brown eyes the tenderness he had awakened in her heart.

She thought when she was married to the actor, and Hawthorne heard of it, he would think she had only been flirting with him at Newburgh, and that she had been engaged to Standish all the while. In this fancy there was a kind of balm for her aching heart.

She could hardly keep the tears back from her eyes as she thought it over and over, wondering if, after all, Harry Hawthorne had not cared for her a wee bit, but had been bound to Daisy Odell beforehand.

She wondered if she should ever meet him again, after she was married, and if it would give him pain to know if she belonged to another man.

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 old
What 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 seem
Lovers again, though all the world may scoff.
 
 
"Let us forget the cold, malicious fate
Who made our loving hearts her idle toys,
And once more revel in the old sweet joys
Of 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 pair
In other's arms breathe out love's tender tale
Beneath 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.