This golden ring, love, take,And wear it for my sakeWhen I am far away;And nightly we will prayThe dear God's pity on our pain,That we may meet again,Our partings o'er, our sorrows past,You mine, I yours, at last!
This golden ring, love, take,And wear it for my sakeWhen I am far away;And nightly we will prayThe dear God's pity on our pain,That we may meet again,Our partings o'er, our sorrows past,You mine, I yours, at last!
Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
How much the two happy girls had to say to each other, when Hawthorne was gone!
It was long past midnight when they retired, and the joyous Christmas sounds were already filling the air. Even then they could not sleep, they had so many things to tell of all that had happened since they were parted from each other.
"I am quite cured of my passion for the stage. It seems to me that all actors must be deceitful villains!" cried Geraldine, and Cissy agreed with her, glad of her disillusionment.
"Do you think, Cissy," pursued Geraldine, "that I could get back my place at O'Neill's with you? Oh, I would be so glad to get back again!"
"We will try to manage it," replied Cissy. "One of the girls is to be married soon after New Year's, and perhaps you can have her place. I'll see about it as soon as I go back to the store; but we have Christmas holiday to-morrow."
"Yes; what a happy Christmas it will be for me!" cried Geraldine, thinking of what might have been, with a shudder. She laughed, to choke back a sob, and continued: "Let's hang up our stockings to-morrow night, as it's too late now, and fill them for each other as we did last Christmas."
"Agreed, my dear; it will be great fun," laughed Cissy, and added: "I suppose your Christmas gift from Mr. Hawthorne will be—an engagement-ring."
"Oh, Cissy, how nice that would be! Do you think he can afford it? Firemen aren't very rich, are they?" naively.
"I guess not; but of course he will give you a ring, even if it's a plain gold band, that will do also for a marriage-ring when the wedding comes off."
"No matter how simple a ring he gives me, I shall love it, and be proud of it, for his sake—just as proud of it as if it were a splendid diamond!" cried pretty Geraldine, tenderly, and then she laughed and said, further: "I used to be such a silly little goose, thinking I would never love and marry any man who could not give me silks and diamonds; but love has changed my nature, and I prize Harry's love more than anything on earth. Of course, I still admire beautiful, costly things, but I would not give him in exchange for a millionaire."
"You are right, dear. Although it is well to have love and wealth, too, yet love is the best of all, and I would not barter it for anything on earth," answered Cissy, so earnestly that Geraldine put her arm around her neck and whispered, coaxingly:
"Dear, you have always spoken so sweetly of love—and yet you do not seem to care for lovers yourself. Why is it? Have you never loved any one?"
Geraldine felt her companion tremble a little, then she replied, lightly:
"That is a leading question—as the lawyers say—and I don't believe I will answer it just yet. Wait—I will tell you another time."
And her answer only confirmed Geraldine in the belief she had cherished for a long time that there was a romance in Cissy's past—some love-story that had somewhat saddened her life and made her lips and eyes so sweetly pensive. From her own happy heart swelled up a silent prayer that love and joy might come soon to Cissy's life, with the same rich blessings it brought to her own.
"Now cuddle your head on your pillow, dear, and go off to the land of Nod, or you will not look pretty for your sweetheart to-morrow," commanded Cissy; and soon they were both fast asleep and wandering in the land of dreams, from which they did not return until the light of day peeped in at the windows.
"Good gracious! it must be eight o'clock! I've overslept myself this blessed Christmas morning. A good thing Idon't have to go to the store to-day!" Cissy cried, springing out of bed and running to the window, where she thrust aside the curtain and peered out into the street.
A beautiful sight presented itself—a great city clothed in a resplendent mantle of deep snow, that had come between the dark and the dawn, and overhead a clear, blue sky and brilliant sunshine.
"Oh, how grand! how beautiful! and what glorious sleighing there will be to-day! Wake up, Geraldine, and see the beautiful Christmas morn!" cried the young girl, who, although she had so little of this world's goods, and did not expect a single Christmas gift, was unselfishly happy in the prospect of pleasure for others.
But they had scarcely finished their simple breakfast, gayly prepared by both their hands, when there was a knock at the door, and several packages were handed in for both of them—a little feast of fruit and confectioneries, jewel-box, with a dainty pin for Cissy, and another for Geraldine, with a ring. The gifts bore the card of Harry Hawthorne.
"Oh, how lovely in him to remember me like this! I shall fall in love with him myself! This dear brooch! How I adore it! See the dear little enameled violets, with dewy centers like real diamonds! Oh, how generous he is!" Cissy cried, rapturously, while Geraldine paled with emotion as she slipped over her finger a beautiful ring, and held it up for inspection.
Cissy went almost dumb at the sight, for the stone was a pure diamond of good size, and worth more than either girl had any idea of in their ignorance of the value of gems.
"Oh, Cissy, it is a real diamond, is it not? See how it glitters!" cried Geraldine, tremulously, as she turned her hand about, admiring the sparkling rays of light.
She was fairly overwhelmed with joy at this beautiful gift from her lover, and continued, breathlessly:
"Oh, it is so beautiful! I am so proud to have it! But—but—wasn't he rather—extravagant, Cissy? I should not have thought he could afford it, for surely it must have cost a hundred dollars at least—don't you think so?"
"More than that, in my judgment," cried Cissy, finding breath after her rapturous amazement, and continuing: "But it is none too pretty or costly for you, my beautiful darling, if he can afford it; and of course he can, or he would not have sent it. Perhaps he is not as poor as wethought. He looks like a prince in disguise, anyway, he's so stately and handsome!"
She paused, for Geraldine had found a note in the box, and was reading it.
"My Own Darling:—I am disconsolate this morning because I could not get leave of absence to come to you," wrote Hawthorne, fondly, "but I couldn't get a man to take my place at the engine-house to-day, and I daren't desert my post, for there have been two fires already this morning, and I was out with my engine in the driving snow of dawn, while you, I hope, were wrapped in slumber and sweet dreams of your adoring sweetheart!"Isn't the snow fine? I shall try my hardest to get off in time to take you and Cissy for a grand sleigh-ride before the day is ended."I send you both some bon-bons and fruits, with a brooch for Cissy, and a ring for you. You will be asking yourself how can a poor fireman afford to give diamonds to his betrothed and her dear friend! Well, darling, both trinkets were heir-looms from my dead mother, who was richer in worldly goods than her son. So the little mystery is explained."God bless you and keep you, my beloved, until we meet again, which I trust and hope may be this afternoon."Devotedly,Harry."
"My Own Darling:—I am disconsolate this morning because I could not get leave of absence to come to you," wrote Hawthorne, fondly, "but I couldn't get a man to take my place at the engine-house to-day, and I daren't desert my post, for there have been two fires already this morning, and I was out with my engine in the driving snow of dawn, while you, I hope, were wrapped in slumber and sweet dreams of your adoring sweetheart!
"Isn't the snow fine? I shall try my hardest to get off in time to take you and Cissy for a grand sleigh-ride before the day is ended.
"I send you both some bon-bons and fruits, with a brooch for Cissy, and a ring for you. You will be asking yourself how can a poor fireman afford to give diamonds to his betrothed and her dear friend! Well, darling, both trinkets were heir-looms from my dead mother, who was richer in worldly goods than her son. So the little mystery is explained.
"God bless you and keep you, my beloved, until we meet again, which I trust and hope may be this afternoon.
"Devotedly,
Harry."
Geraldine gave her friend the note to read, then they discussed some of the dainties, while Cissy said, regretfully:
"If I had only known yesterday that I should have you with me to-day, I should have prepared a real little feast for our dinner, but I felt so lonely and sad I prepared nothing extra, and now I really must slip out and buy something good. What would you like, dear—a dear little chicken and some oysters? For a turkey would be too big for us two!"
"Oh, some oysters, please; I am so fond of them, and they are not so good out West, where I traveled so long," cried Geraldine, with real girlish delight, it seemed so jolly to be back with Cissy, playing at housekeeping again.
"I'll never leave my darling again until—I marry!" she thought, with kindling blushes, and while Cissy was gone she employed her time writing a very polite note to Mr. Cameron Clemens, the manager of the Clemens Company, resigning her situation, to take effect at once.
When she remembered Mr. Clemens, she felt a little remorseful over her denunciation of all actors last night, for she had found this one very kind and clever during her engagement with the company.
She went down stairs and engaged the landlady's son to take her note at once to the hotel where the manager was staying, and then tried to dismiss the matter from her mind, but she felt a little remorseful, for Laurel Vane was billed to appear again to-night, and she knew it could not go on, now that she and Standish had both withdrawn—that was, of course, unless the latter could get free from prison, which did not seem likely, considering the nature of the charge against him.
When Cissy came in, Geraldine said, happily:
"I feel as free as a bird, for I have sent in my resignation in the Clemens Company, and now I shall not have to leave you any more."
"Until Mr. Hawthorne steals you away from me," amended Cissy, kissing her rosy cheek before she hurried into the adjoining room to prepare her little Christmas dinner.
"Let me help you!" pleaded Geraldine.
"Oh, no, you shall be company come to dine to-day. And, besides, you must stay dressed up, to receive callers."
"But there's no one to call."
"Oh, yes, there is," and her words proved true, for before the day ended there came Mrs. Stansbury, with her three sisters, Carrie, Consuelo, and Mrs. Charles Butler, the lovely bride of whom Geraldine had been so horribly jealous.
How glad they all were to see her again; how they petted and made much of her, denouncing Clifford Standish for a real villain.
"And you're engaged to that splendid Hawthorne—how charming! Oh, you needn't blush! He told my husband this morning, and we all hurried off to wish you joy," cried volatile Mrs. Stansbury.
"OH, GERALDINE, I'LL HAVE TO TELL YOU MY GUARDED SECRET!"
"I have a secret sorrow here—A grief I'll ne'er impart;It heaves no sigh, it sheds no tear,But it consumes my heart."
"I have a secret sorrow here—A grief I'll ne'er impart;It heaves no sigh, it sheds no tear,But it consumes my heart."
At last the Stansburys were gone, but then some of the girls from O'Neill's dropped in. It was a merry, happy day to Geraldine, with but one shadow on its brightness—the absence of Hawthorne.
At every knock she started up, all blissful, blushing confusion, thinking that surely this time it was he, but each time she was doomed to a sad disappointment.
But from the constant ringing of fire alarms through the day she easily guessed what kept him from her side.
But when the afternoon was far spent, and the sunlight grew pale and cold, there was a masculine step at the door that made her heart throb quickly again with eager hope as she sprang to open it, thinking:
"I cannot be mistaken. He is come at last!"
But the next moment she stood face to face with the handsome manager, Cameron Clemens.
And as he entered there was a soft little swish of skirts as Cissy fled to the next room.
"How she hates anybody connected with the stage!" thought Geraldine, amusedly.
The manager had come to entreat her to reconsider her resignation.
He could get some one else to take the place of Standish in the play, if she would only go on, he said.
But Geraldine was obdurate. She told the manager frankly that she was engaged, and her betrothed objected to her return to the stage.
"I am very sorry for your disappointment," she said; "I like you, and you have been very kind to me, but my betrothed objects, you see, and that settles the case with me."
Mr. Clemens did not fly into a rage, as many another would have done in his place. He wished Geraldine joy, told her that the stage had lost an ornament in her withdrawalfrom it, presented her with the amount of salary still due her, and took a courteous leave.
He knew that he could put on another play, in which the remainder of the company could do very well that night, but he sorely regretted the loss of Geraldine, who had certainly proved a drawing card.
But he could not help the turn of events, so he went his way, bitterly disappointed, while Geraldine called into the other room:
"You can come back now, Cissy, for Mr. Clemens is gone. But, you silly girl, why did you run away? I wished you to know him, he is so nice and handsome!"
There was no answer from her friend, and she went back into the room.
There was Cissy, on a low seat in the darkest corner, and presently there came a low, stifled sob.
Geraldine flung herself on her knees by her friend, in great surprise and alarm.
"Oh, my darling girl! what ails you? Are you sick? Did the bonbons disagree with you?"
"No-o-o!" sighed Cissy.
"Then what is it, dear? Are you in trouble? Or were you angry because the manager came here? But this shall be the last of any stage visitors, I assure you! Or do you want me to go away, Cissy?" plaintively.
"Oh, Gerry, you will drive me mad with your questions! I'll have to tell you my guarded secret!"
"THAT WOMAN SHALL PAY DEARLY FOR THIS!"
From my hand I tore in angerThat dear pledge, the wedding ring—Swore that I would learn to hate him,But it is so weak a thing,This poor woman's heart, that, beatingHeavily within my breast,Aches with jealous grief and anger,Tortured with a fierce unrest.
From my hand I tore in angerThat dear pledge, the wedding ring—Swore that I would learn to hate him,But it is so weak a thing,This poor woman's heart, that, beatingHeavily within my breast,Aches with jealous grief and anger,Tortured with a fierce unrest.
Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
Most bitter were the reflections of the elegant villain, Clifford Standish, during the long night in his prison-cell.
He knew too well that the charge against him was perfectlytrue, and that his boast to Geraldine that he would clear himself at court was absolutely false.
Two years before, he had secretly married a piquant variety actress, of whom he had soon wearied, but from whose fetters he could not get free.
Her life was absolutely irreproachable, and he could find no flaw in it on which to base an application for divorce.
And all of his flagrant violations of faith, although known too well to his wife, did not goad her to seek release from him.
She loved him, poor creature, with that dog-like devotion seen in some women of average intellect, who love the hand that smites them. She was romantic, and called it constancy; other women called it lack of spirit.
She could not and did not comprehend the baseness of the man she loved.
The end and aim of her poor, wrecked life was to win him back to the allegiance of which he had wearied so soon.
Although she dared not disregard his injunction not to reveal their marriage, she followed him about as often as her engagements would permit, trying to keep track of his movements.
When he was away from the city, she wrote him long love-letters, over which he laughed in heartless amusement.
It was one of these letters that he had pretended to read to Geraldine on the bridge at Alderson, claiming that it contained news of Hawthorne's marriage.
It was this woman who had prevented him from accompanying Geraldine to Newburgh, by threatening to reveal his fatal secret.
At length, driven almost mad by his fiendish conduct, she had thrown caution to the winds, and caused his arrest on the stage that night for desertion.
But she would have trembled with fear could she have heard his threats against her that night as he raged up and down his prison-cell, execrating her as the cause of his losing pretty Geraldine forever.
"A few more hours and my peerless girl would have been mine, all mine! Oh, to miss happiness by so slight a chance, it is horrible, and dearly shall that woman pay for this!" he swore.
But he knew that his wrath was futile, for she wouldhave all the proofs of his conduct ready to cover him with shame in the morning.
The morning found him sullen, bitter, desperate. The policemen said afterward that his eyes looked actually fiendish when he was placed in the Black Maria to be conveyed to the court-house in Chambers street.
That fiendish look was still in his eyes when they started to transfer him from the vehicle to the court-house, and—how it exactly happened they never could tell—but the seemingly quiet prisoner whom they had not thought it necessary to handcuff, suddenly struck out with two athletic fists, landing one startled policeman on the snowy pavement, and the other one flat in the gutter. Then he fled like a professional sprinter, and nobody tried to stop him, perhaps because they pitied the poor devil, and wished him his liberty this glorious Christmas morning.
CISSY'S SECRET.
Ay, but, darling, speak his name;Give to sorrow words and tears;This strange silence, proud and cold,Fills my heart with anxious fears.Curse him, bairnie, or forgive him,For I know Love's subtle art;The grief that's never spokenMay sometimes break the heart.
Ay, but, darling, speak his name;Give to sorrow words and tears;This strange silence, proud and cold,Fills my heart with anxious fears.Curse him, bairnie, or forgive him,For I know Love's subtle art;The grief that's never spokenMay sometimes break the heart.
Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller.
"I must tell you my guarded secret," sobbed Cissy, to Geraldine, and the latter put a loving arm around her, whispering, tenderly:
"Yes, tell me all, dear; for maybe it will ease your sore heart. You know the poet says:
"'Give sorrow words—the grief that does not speakWhispers the o'erfraught heart and bids it break.'"
"'Give sorrow words—the grief that does not speakWhispers the o'erfraught heart and bids it break.'"
The last rays of the setting sun stole in and rested like a blessing on the dark and golden heads close together, then faded out, and left the little room in gloom as Cissy sighed:
"Oh, I thought I was getting over it; I thought I was contented again until his voice and face brought back the cruel past!"
"Whose voice and face, dear Cissy? Oh, do you mean Mr. Clemens? Did he have anything to do with your secret sorrow?"
"Everything!"
"Oh, dear, and was that why you rushed away when he entered the room?"
"Ye-es," sobbed Cissy.
"Why, this grows very interesting," exclaimed Geraldine, who dearly loved a romance. "Why, I never even dreamed of your knowing Cameron Clemens! Why didn't you tell me?"
"Oh, I did not wish to do so. I did not mean to resurrect my sorrow from the grave where it has rested for years. Oh, why have I promised to tell it now?" began Cissy, suddenly repenting her weakness.
"Oh, darling, I'll never, never breathe it to a living soul, poor dear. Now go on, that's a sweet girl! Was Mr. Clemens your lover?"
But as the last word left her lips there came a loud, impatient double knock upon the door, making both spring up in surprise and alarm.
"Oh-h!" cried Geraldine.
"Oh-h!" echoed Cissy.
Then they smiled at each other in the deepening gloom, and Geraldine exclaimed:
"How that knock startled me! But, of course, it's Harry at last."
He was Harry to her now, her darling, and how sweet the name sounded from her rosy lips.
"Of course it is Harry. Run to the door, dear," returned Cissy, secretly glad of an interruption to the story she had promised to relate to her friend.
All in a moment she had repented it, and wished to keep the secret still.
So she was glad of the opportune interruption.
"Run to the door, dear. Do not keep him waiting," she urged, and Geraldine flew blithely to open the door for her lover, as she had done a dozen times before that day, meeting each time, as she did now—blank disappointment.
A man stood before her, to be sure, but he was an utter stranger—good-looking and well-dressed, with a bearded face and a hat pulled low over his eyebrows.
"Are you Miss Harding?" he asked, in a low, muffled voice.
"Yes."
He handed a note to her; and forgetting, in her wonder, to ask him in, she took it, and leaving him at the open door, crossed over to the window to read it by the dim and failing light of the waning day.
It ran simply:
"My darling, there have been so many fires to-day I've been on a dead run, and am almost tired out; but I didn't forget my promise to take you for a sleigh-ride, and the thought of you has been singing in my fond heart all day. It's late, I know—past five now, and I can't get off duty at the engine-house until six o'clock; but I thought I would take time by the forelock and be ready to take you for a little spin, if you don't mind the hour. So my friend, Jem Rhodes volunteered to go to the livery stable and get a sleigh for me, and bring you down to the engine-house by six o'clock, so I could take the reins the minute I'm free."Will you come with my good friend, Rhodes, dear? A clever fellow to do us this good turn, is he not?"Hastily and fondly,H. H."
"My darling, there have been so many fires to-day I've been on a dead run, and am almost tired out; but I didn't forget my promise to take you for a sleigh-ride, and the thought of you has been singing in my fond heart all day. It's late, I know—past five now, and I can't get off duty at the engine-house until six o'clock; but I thought I would take time by the forelock and be ready to take you for a little spin, if you don't mind the hour. So my friend, Jem Rhodes volunteered to go to the livery stable and get a sleigh for me, and bring you down to the engine-house by six o'clock, so I could take the reins the minute I'm free.
"Will you come with my good friend, Rhodes, dear? A clever fellow to do us this good turn, is he not?
"Hastily and fondly,
H. H."
In the dim light the writing looked the same as that she had received that morning from her lover. Not a doubt crossed her mind.
She hastily explained the case to her friend.
Cissy could see no objection to the plan, and she was rather relieved that Geraldine was going, so that she could not tease her for the love-story she was now reluctant to tell.
"It seems all right," she said, encouragingly.
Geraldine flew to get on her warmest wraps, and Cissy invited Mr. Rhodes to come in to the fire.
"I will light the gas," she said, hospitably, but he shrank back into the shadowy hall.
"No, thank you, I must go down and look after the horses. Please tell the young lady to hurry," he said, in that strange, muffled voice, retreating down the stair-way as he spoke.
Geraldine was ready in a minute, and Cissy went down with her to the sleigh, an elegant turn-out, with two horses.
"Don't stay too late, dear, or you may take cold," cautioned Cissy, tenderly; and then they kissed each other good-by, little dreaming how long it would be, poor dears, before they met and kissed again.
IN THE POWER OF A FIEND.
"The bard has sung: God never formed a soulWithout its own peculiar mate, to meetIts wandering half, when ripe to crown the wholeBright plan of bliss, most heavenly, most complete."But thousand evil things there are that hateTo look on happiness. These hurt, impede,And, leagued with time, space, circumstance, and fate,Keep kindred heart from heart, to pine and bleed."
"The bard has sung: God never formed a soulWithout its own peculiar mate, to meetIts wandering half, when ripe to crown the wholeBright plan of bliss, most heavenly, most complete.
"But thousand evil things there are that hateTo look on happiness. These hurt, impede,And, leagued with time, space, circumstance, and fate,Keep kindred heart from heart, to pine and bleed."
Cissy went back to her lonely rooms, stirred up the fire to a brighter blaze in the tiny stove, then sat down to a dreary retrospection of past days, her small hands folded idly in her lap, her dark head bowed in sadness.
The sight of the handsome actor-manager, Cameron Clemens, had brought her memories from the past sweet and bitter in a breath, kindling old love and renewing old pain.
"How dared he come? He must have known that Geraldine was with me! Did he think I would ever willingly meet him again?" she murmured, bitterly; then started to her feet, for there was another masculine rap upon the door.
"Who is it this time?" she wondered, as she opened the door.
A cry of surprise came from her lips for there stood Harry Hawthorne, handsome as a picture, in citizen's dress, his fireman's uniform laid aside, his stately figure looking its best in a long fur-lined overcoat.
"Good-evening, Miss Carroll. May I come in?" he asked, gayly, with that ring of happiness in his musical voice one hears from a recently accepted lover.
"Come in," Cissy answered, mechanically, in her amazement, letting him enter and close the door ere she asked, uneasily:
"Where's Geraldine? Didn't she come back with you?"
"With me? I don't understand you. I've just got away from my duties at the engine-house, and I thought if you and Geraldine didn't mind going out at night, we could have our sleigh-ride yet. There will be moonlight after a while."
Cissy grasped the back of a chair to steady herself. Her face was pale, her dove-eyes dilated.
"But—didn't you send a sleigh here just now for Geraldine?" she gasped.
It was his turn now to look startled, and his eyes went from her face to the next room as he exclaimed:
"Isn't Geraldine here now?"
"No, no—of course not. Didn't I just tell you that she went away just now in a sleigh that you sent to bring her to the engine-house?" answered Cissy, turning up the light in a mechanical way, as women will attend to trifles even in trouble.
She saw that he was deadly pale and excited, and he said, in a strained voice:
"But I did not send any sleigh. There must be some mistake."
"There is treachery somewhere. Oh, why did I let her go, poor child?" cried Cissy, with a sudden awful presentiment of evil.
He sank into a chair, trembling with dread.
"Tell me quickly what you mean—give me every clew you can—for I must go in search of her," he exclaimed, anxiously.
And Cissy told him about the man, Jem Rhodes, and the note, and the elegant sleigh in which Geraldine had gone away so blithely, her rosy face radiant with joy, thinking to meet her lover.
"Why, there is the note now," she said, taking it up from the table where Geraldine had left it, and handing it to Hawthorne.
He ran over it hastily, his blue eyes flashing with anger and apprehension.
"I never wrote this note—it is not in my writing! How did Geraldine ever make such a mistake?" he cried, hoarsely.
"She read it hastily by a dim light," said Cissy.
"And there is just enough likeness to my hand to have deceived her that way," he cried, in anguish, for the conviction of something dreadful had come to him. "Oh, my darling, you are the victim of some cruel plot," he groaned, his handsome face blanching to a deathly hue.
Poor Cissy breathed, faintly:
"Oh, who could have planned this outrage? Clifford Standish is the only man I know likely to be guilty of it. But he is in prison."
"Have you not heard? The villain escaped from the officersat the door of the Chambers street court-house this morning, and is still at large. No doubt he wrote this fraudulent note; no doubt it was he who carried Geraldine off. Tell me what the wretch looked like."
Then Cissy remembered that the man Rhodes had refused to enter the lighted room, and had been strangely taciturn, speaking only when necessity required, and then in a low, muffled voice.
"Oh, I ought to have suspected him then. I was culpably careless and thoughtless, letting that poor child go with him," she thought, in an agony of distress.
When she had described the man to Hawthorne, he declared his belief that Standish himself, with but slight disguise, had personated the mythical Jem Rhodes.
"She is in the power of that fiend at this moment!" he exclaimed, starting up in a passion of grief and anguish that made poor Cissy burst out into hysterical weeping.
He was rushing to the door, and he looked back at the sound of her sobs, and said, gently:
"Don't take it so hard, Miss Carroll, for Heaven's sake. You are not to blame, neither was she, for that note was plausible enough to deceive any one. But I'll find her and bring her back to you, or I'll have that villain's cursed life!"
UNDER SUSPICION.
"Through the blue and frosty heavensChristmas stars were shining bright;Glistening lamps throughout the cityAlmost matched their gleaming light;While the winter snow was lying,And the winter winds were sighing,Long ago one Christmas night."
"Through the blue and frosty heavensChristmas stars were shining bright;Glistening lamps throughout the cityAlmost matched their gleaming light;While the winter snow was lying,And the winter winds were sighing,Long ago one Christmas night."
We must follow Clifford Standish on his successful flight from justice that Christmas morning, when the spirit of the day was so much in every heart that no one who witnessed his escape cared to give chase to the fugitive. Perhaps, indeed, they thought that one who could outwit two stalwart policemen deserved his liberty.
Be that as it may, the actor made good his escape to a place of refuge, where he lay a whileperdu, concocting new plans for retrieving last night's disaster.
The thought that he had lost pretty Geraldine forever was bitterness to his heart.
But he felt just as certain of it as if he had witnessed all that had transpired last night.
He knew well that when he was not by to guard Geraldine, that her friends in the box would swoop down upon her and carry her off in triumph.
There would be fond meetings, eager explanations, and all his treachery to her would be painted in its blackest colors. His only hold on her esteem, her touching belief in his truth and goodness, would be destroyed.
He would stand forth in his true colors before her horrified eyes—a black-hearted wretch, the husband of another woman, who had sought by the blackest lies and foulest arts to lure her—pretty Geraldine—to irrevocable ruin.
She would thank God that He had interfered in time to save her from him at almost the very last moment.
Standish gnashed his teeth as he thought of her joy over her escape, for he knew well how she had secretly shrunk from him, though out of her wounded pride she had promised him her hand.
He guessed well that all was explained between her and Hawthorne now, and that they were already betrothed lovers.
If hate could have killed this pair in their exquisite happiness, then Clifford Standish would have sent a bolt of it to strike both of them dead.
In his jealous fury he raged and swore almost constantly. The little room he occupied became stifling with the fumes of wine and tobacco that he used to solace him in his terrible defeat.
But he was careful not to drink too much. He did not wish to stupefy his brain.
He wished to keep it clear that he might plot new deviltry.
Almost any man in his place would have given up the game after being so signally worsted by fate.
Not so with Clifford Standish. The stroke of adversity only roused in him a devilish obstinacy, a determination to rule or ruin.
Hate for Harry Hawthorne, and a mad passion for Geraldine Harding, drove him on to new wickedness.
He spent a good part of the day in seclusion, laying his wicked plans, like a crafty spider weaving his web; then, disguising himself with a wig, beard, glasses, and cosmetics, dressed himself in a cheap new suit, and salliedforth to victory. No look of Clifford Standish remained except the stately walk, and even this he could change at will.
So, later on, he imposed on Geraldine and Cissy as Jem Rhodes, the trusty friend of the fireman.
But, before coming on his fatal mission, he had informed himself as to everything that was necessary to make the daring abduction he had planned an absolute success.
He knew that Harry Hawthorne had become engaged to Geraldine through eavesdropping at the door when the Stansburys called on her. He had also heard her tell them that she and Cissy were to have a grand sleigh-ride with Harry, although it might be late in the day when he got off duty.
The unsuspected listener smiled grimly to himself as he muttered:
"You shall certainly have your sleigh-ride, my little beauty, but not with your Harry and Cissy—no, indeed!"
Between the hours of five and six he sought a livery stable, and asked for a driver and sleigh to take himself and a lady to the Cortlandt street ferry.
As the stable keeper was a stranger to him, he did not think it necessary to disguise his voice; but spoke in his natural tone, and a youth who was lounging about the office started and gave him a keen, curious glance.
Standish did not notice the young man, or he would have perhaps recognized him as the messenger-boy from the hospital where Harry Hawthorne had been taken after the accident—the youth from whom he had taken the letter to Geraldine.
Robert had promised Hawthorne that he would at some time pay Standish for his treachery, but fate had been unkind to him so far in the continued absence of Standish from the city, and the youth had almost forgotten the incident until the clear, ringing voice of Standish, familiar to his ears from hearing it on the stage, broke on him, awakening remembrance like a flash of light.
He started and gave him a keen glance that quickly penetrated the actor's disguise, especially as he was off guard for the moment, and his square shoulders and erect bearing betrayed him to those suspicious eyes.
Robert shrank back into the shadow, thinking:
"So he's got back to town, that scamp! Now I wonder what he's up to in that disguise? But he can't fool me! I know his voice and his square shoulders too well. I wishI could do him up, the grand villain, for playing me that low trick!"
On the alert for something on which to base a plan of retaliation, he followed every word and movement, and, to his amazement, when Standish got into the elegant sleigh, he heard him give the address of Geraldine, where he had carried Hawthorne's note.
Now, Robert had left the hospital, and obtained a place with his cousin, the keeper of the livery stable, and a wild thought came into his mind.
"That fellow's up to some mischief, or he wouldn't be in that rig—whiskers and spectacles! Wonder if that girl's got back, anyway? S'pose I go and tell the fireman about it, and see if he can make anything out of this strange lark?"
Turning to his cousin, who was very fond of the quick-witted youth, he said, roguishly:
"Seems like that fellow's going to take his best girl for a jolly sleigh-ride. Puts me in mind to take mine, too. Can't I get off for an hour and have a little one-horse sleigh?"
"Who's to pay for it, Impudence?"
"I am, of course! You can keep my week's salary for it. Who minds a little extravagance like that for his best girl, I'd like to know?" and ten minutes later he was driving in style to the Ludlow street engine-house.
"Mr. Hawthorne in the house?" he hallooed to a fireman in front.
"Too late, sonny. He left fifteen minutes ago."
"Where to?"
"Don't know, really."
"Can't you form some idea, please?" the boy cried, dropping the jaunty air in some anxiety.
The blue-shirted fireman stuck his hands in his pocket, whistled, and answered:
"Oh, he's gone to see his best girl, I reckon."
"What's her name?" queried Robert, wondering if Hawthorne was off with the old love, and on with a new one.
"I don't know," and Robert was about to turn off in disgust at the good-natured levity of the other when Captain Stansbury, who was inside, overheard him, and came to the rescue.
"You want Hawthorne?" he said. "Well, he isn't here."
"I know, but I want him very particular. Can't you tell me where to find him?"
The genial captain laughed, and answered:
"I can tell you, but I can also tell you, young man, that he doesn't like to be bothered when he goes a-courting!"
"Has he gone to see Miss Harding?"
"Yes."
"At the old address?"
"Yes."
"Thank you," and Robert whirled his keen little cutter about, and was soon out of sight.
"A likely lad," laughed the fireman, and then he and the captain went indoors.
Five minutes later a double sleigh whirled around the nearest corner, and came to a sudden stop in front of the engine-house. A man got out in the snow, and waded over to the door, followed by the yearning eyes of a girl whose fair face glowed like a rose, it was so beautiful in its eager tenderness.
"Oh, my love, how long the day has been without you, but I shall see you at last!" she whispered to herself, fondly.
The man went inside the double-doors and looked at the splendid horses neighing in their stalls. No one was in sight. The men were back in the office amusing themselves with a game of cards. He could hear them laughing and bantering each other.
He remained there a moment out of sight of Geraldine, then, with a sigh of relief, hurried back to the sleigh.
"It's very strange, but Mr. Hawthorne has gone," he said, in that thick, muffled voice. "He left word for me to bring you to Cortlandt street ferry."
"That is so far. I think he might have waited for us," the girl said, half to herself, and pettishly.
"Oh, maybe there was a fire down that way," Jem Rhodes returned, plausibly. "Go on, driver."
As they started, Captain Stansbury, who fancied he had heard something stopping outside, came and looked out and Geraldine saw his portly figure framed there a moment in the glare of an electric light.
She looked back, but he did not recognize her as the sleigh whirled past. Alas! why did not some subtle voice in her heart warn her that she was in deadly peril, and make her cry out to him to follow and save her from the snare into which she had fallen?
The call at the engine-house was only a part of the actor's plan for lulling Geraldine's suspicions to rest.
It had succeeded splendidly, and, with an exultant heart, he resumed his place by her side, burning with thedesire to take her fair form in his arms and crush it against his breast.
But the time for this was not yet. He must first carry out one of the most daring plans ever conceived by man to elope with an unwilling beauty and make her his by sheer force of fraud and impudence.
And the worst of it all lay before him.
He was succeeding well in his plan for getting her to the ferry, but after that, how was he to manage?
TOO LATE! TOO LATE.