"Time flies. The swift hours hurry byAnd speed us on to untried ways;New seasons ripen, perish, die,And yetlove stays!The old, old love—like sweet at first,At last like bitter wine—I know not if it blest or curstThy life and mine."
"Time flies. The swift hours hurry byAnd speed us on to untried ways;New seasons ripen, perish, die,And yetlove stays!
The old, old love—like sweet at first,At last like bitter wine—I know not if it blest or curstThy 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.
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 goFull many a mile, nor find a fairer one!
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 goFull 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 therash 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 permittedthe 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 thesound 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.
"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 cannotRepay the interest, and much less the whole."'Tis a sad gift, that much applauded thing,A constant heart; for fact doth daily proveThat constancy finds oft a cruel sting,While fickle natures win the deeper love."
"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 cannotRepay the interest, and much less the whole.
"'Tis a sad gift, that much applauded thing,A constant heart; for fact doth daily proveThat 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 younglady, 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 theingenueheroine, 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 findI have no heart for thee."
"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 findI 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.
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 lifeCan never wholly crowd out our past;In the twilight pauses that come from strifeYou will think of me while life shall last."
"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 lifeCan never wholly crowd out our past;In the twilight pauses that come from strifeYou 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 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!"
"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 lookedonce! 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.
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."
"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—butnot 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."
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."
"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 heartas 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 monthsthat 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.
"LOVE IS THE BEST OF ALL."