"'What is life?'A battle, child,Where the strongest lance may fail,Where the weariest eye may be beguiled,And the stoutest heart may quail,Where foes are gathered on every hand,And rest not day or nightBut the angels of heaven are on thy side,And God is over all."
"'What is life?'A battle, child,Where the strongest lance may fail,Where the weariest eye may be beguiled,And the stoutest heart may quail,Where foes are gathered on every hand,And rest not day or nightBut the angels of heaven are on thy side,And God is over all."
When Robert returned from the engine-house, he was in doubt whether he ought to follow Hawthorne or not.
"If he has gone to Miss Harding's house, everything must be all right between them. It must be some other lady in the same house that Standish is going to take away. It's a lodging-house, and he may be acquainted with a dozen ladies there, for all I know."
But still, in spite of these thoughts, he kept on driving to the house.
"I'll go past it anyway, and see if the fellow is there yet with his grand sleigh."
He threw himself back with an air of importance, for he was certainly enjoying his little outing. The road was gay with vehicles, and the air musical with the ring of sleigh-bells. New York was enjoying its Christmas.
Almost before he realized it, he found himself on the obscure street, and in front of the shabby house where Geraldine lived, a pure pearl in an uncouth setting.
He reined up in front of the house and cogitated:
"The sleigh isn't here. Mr. Standish must have got hisgirl and gone. Maybe I ought to go, too. I don't see that I have any business going in!"
Smiling to himself at his humorous play on the verb to go, he waited a minute, glancing curiously at the front of the four-story house that looked dark and still as though most of the people had gone out or retired.
He pictured to himself the handsome fireman within that tenement, sitting by the side of his sweet young love, Geraldine, perhaps holding her dainty hand and looking love into eyes that answered love again.
"No, I mustn't go in. I might interrupt a charmingtete-a-tete," he decided, and was about to turn back to the livery stable, when the door before him opened suddenly, and a man appeared, reeling down the steps like one under the influence of liquor or some heart-breaking emotion.
Robert stared at the handsome figure a moment, then called, questioningly:
"Mr. Hawthorne?"
Hawthorne stopped, looked up, and asked, hoarsely:
"Who is that? Oh, Robert, is it you? What are you doing here?"
"I came to see you, Mr. Hawthorne."
"What can I do for you? Speak quickly, for I'm going—oh, God! where—for I know not where to turn!"
The words were a cry of agony, and as he came up to the side of the sleigh, the youth saw that his face was deathly pale, as if from terrible trouble.
His first fear that Hawthorne was intoxicated gave way to the conviction that something was wrong about Geraldine, and he said, quickly:
"You're in trouble, sir, and I think I can help you if you'll tell me all about it. Get in the sleigh, won't you, and let me drive you wherever you want to go."
"Thank you, Robert. I came on a car, and this is very welcome," said Hawthorne, getting in by the youth's side.
"Where to?" asked Robert, taking up the reins.
"Where? Oh, God, where!" groaned Hawthorne, despairingly. "Wait," he added, laying his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Ah, Robert, this is one of the darkest hours of a life that has had many shadows. I came here to see my betrothed bride, my heart full of joy that has turned to keenest pain, for I found her gone from me—lured away by a scheming villain that she hates—and what her terrible fate may be, God only knows, for I have not a single clew to follow."
"Oh, yes, you have—a clew to follow the villain himself. You mean Standish, don't you?" shouted Robert, wildly, in his excitement.
"Yes, he has lured her away by a cunning trick—" began Hawthorne again, but the youth interrupted:
"Yes, yes, I know; he has taken her to the Cortlandt street ferry—going to elope with her, I reckon. But we'll follow and outwit the villain," and chirping to his horse, Robert drove to the ferry as fast as he dared.
On the way he told Hawthorne all that he knew, and received his confidence in turn.
So the actor's plot was laid bare. No doubt existed as to his intentions to abduct Geraldine.
On their way, just half a block from the ferry, Robert exclaimed:
"There's our sleigh going back now to the stables. Hello, Pete!"
The driver drew rein, and he asked, anxiously:
"Where's the lady and gentleman you took down to the ferry?"
And the answer was like the trump of doom to Hawthorne's sore heart.
"The lady and gentleman, sir? Oh, they took the Pennsylvania Limited train to Chicago."
"Are you sure?" cried Robert.
"Oh, yes; I crossed the river with them, and saw them board the train. That is, the man carried her in his arms. She got sick, or fainted, maybe, just beforehand, and he grabbed her up and climbed on with her just as the whistle blew. Oh, they're off, for sure. Is anything wrong?" added the driver, curiously, scenting an elopement.
HAWTHORNE CLUNG TO HOPE, IN SPITE OF HIS TROUBLE.
"Has Fate o'erwhelmed thee with some sudden blow?Let thy tears flow.But know when storms are past the heavens appearMore pure, more clear;And hope, when farthest from their shining rays,For brighter days!"
"Has Fate o'erwhelmed thee with some sudden blow?Let thy tears flow.But know when storms are past the heavens appearMore pure, more clear;And hope, when farthest from their shining rays,For brighter days!"
The curious sleigh-driver got no answer to his question.
Robert touched up his horse, and it bounded toward the ferry.
"What now?" queried Hawthorne, in a dazed way, so crushed by the shock he had received that he was for the moment incapable of coherent thought.
The quick-witted youth answered, readily:
"Aren't we going to telegraph ahead to arrest Standish at the first station?"
"Yes—oh, yes, of course we are; but I was so dazed by this shock that it seemed impossible for the moment for me to think clearly. Thank you for suggesting something, Robert. Perhaps, after all, we may foil the villain!" exclaimed Hawthorne, gladly and gratefully.
The youth smiled, well pleased at this praise from Hawthorne, and they proceeded on their way.
The telegram to arrest Standish having been sent, the pair next drove to Police Headquarters, where they lodged information of the whereabouts of Standish, who was wanted now, not only on the warrant of wife desertion, but for knocking over the policemen in his escape that morning.
"What next?" queried Robert, when they were once more seated in the sleigh.
"My good fellow, are you not weary of my troubles yet?" cried the grateful Hawthorne.
"I want to help you in every way I can, Mr. Hawthorne, not only because I like you, sir, but because I'm interested in that sweet young girl, and I also have a grudge against that wretch, Standish, for the trick he played all of us once. So now there's three motives urging me on, and you may command my services just as long as you have need of them," returned the intelligent youth, so earnestly that Hawthorne wrung his hand gratefully, exclaiming:
"Believe me, I'll never, never, forget this kindness."
"Thank you, sir," returned the gratified youth, and added:
"But what can we do next?"
"You can drive me back to the ferry, Robert, for I shall follow Geraldine on the first train. Think how lonely and terrified she will be with that wretch, who has told her, God only knows what artful story, to get her aboard the train with him. I must go to her assistance as fast as I can."
"You are right, sir, for she must be frightened almost to death. By Jove, but I'd like to go with you and see thatfellow's face when he meets you, but I must go back with the sleigh."
"And, besides, I have another task for you, my faithful Robert. It is to return to the engine-house when I am gone, and tell Captain Stansbury all that we have discovered. From the engine-house back to Geraldine's home, and tell the young lady, Miss Carroll, the same story," continued Hawthorne, mindful of Cissy's cruel anxiety, and anxious to relieve it by some certainty of what had really happened.
"Tell Miss Carroll to keep up her spirits—that I will certainly bring Miss Harding back by to-morrow," he added, hopefully.
It was a sad ending for the Christmas Day that had dawned so pleasantly for the just reunited lovers, but Hawthorne would not permit himself to dwell despairingly on it. He told himself that by this time to-morrow he would be sure to have Geraldine back again.
THAT WORD WAS LIKE A DAGGER IN HER HEART.
"Words are mighty, words are living;Serpents with their venomous stings,Or bright angels crowding round us,With heaven's light upon their wings."Every word has its own spirit,True or false, that never dies;Every word man's lips have utteredEchoes in God's skies."
"Words are mighty, words are living;Serpents with their venomous stings,Or bright angels crowding round us,With heaven's light upon their wings.
"Every word has its own spirit,True or false, that never dies;Every word man's lips have utteredEchoes in God's skies."
Pete, the driver of the sleigh in which Clifford Standish had so successfully accomplished the abduction of Geraldine, had told the truth about the affair.
Geraldine had indeed fainted at some words he had said to her, and while in this condition he had lifted her in his arms and carried her aboard the train.
Ere she recovered from her long spell of unconsciousness, the train was flying across the country in the gloom of the falling night, that, dark as it was, could not equal the blackness of the fate to which Clifford Standish had destined his hapless victim.
On reaching the station he had said, abruptly, to Geraldine:
"Kindly wait here for me while I go and find Hawthorne."
In reality he secured tickets for Chicago, and, returning to her, he said, still in that strange, muffled voice of his:
"The time has come for me to explain why Hawthorne trusted you to my care to bring you here."
"Did you not find him?" exclaimed Geraldine, uneasily.
"Yes."
"Is he not coming to me? This looks strange!" she said, with rising resentment.
"Be patient, Miss Harding, and let me explain," he said, wheedlingly.
They were standing at an obscure place on the platform, and very few people were about except the depot officials. No one noticed the tall, bearded man and his beautiful companion, with her great starry brown eyes and masses of sunshiny hair.
Standish proceeded, in an oily voice:
"Something shocking happened to my friend Hawthorne this afternoon, and he is compelled to flee the city on this train that you see them making up now. He is watched for at every station in the city, so he dare not come to you now, for his arrest is certain. His sending for you was a desperate expedient to see you once more and bid you farewell forever, or—to take you with him in his flight from justice."
With every word he uttered he saw her face grow paler and paler, her large eyes widening with nameless fear; but, without pausing for her to speak, he continued, rapidly:
"He is mad with remorse over the awful deed he has done, and wild with grief at the thought of leaving you. He says that you have promised to marry him, and why not now as well as later? He prays you to go with him now on his exile, and to become his bride as soon as his destination is reached."
Her pale lips parted, and she interrupted.
"Oh, let me see him, let me speak to him! This is so horrible, so sudden!"
"You will have to board the train to see him. He is in the rear car, having slipped on almost under the eyes of an officer watching for him. Come," and he attempted to take her hand and draw her forward.
But she shrank back in nameless terror, moaning:
"Oh, I—can't—go! I am afraid. Oh, tell me what it is that he has done!"
He bent closer, muttering one terrible word:
"Murder!"
The word struck her like a blow in the face, then pierced like a dagger to her heart.
"Oh-h-h!" she gasped, throwing out her white, agonized hands as if to ward off a stroke of fate.
The next moment her senses gave way before the shock.
She reeled blindly forward and fell like a log at the dastard's feet.
This was what Jem Rhodes had hoped and expected.
With a laugh of demoniac satisfaction he lifted Geraldine in his arms, and bore her to a second-class coach, having bought tickets for this with a distinct purpose.
To his joy he found that he and Geraldine would be the only passengers on this coach.
"The foul fiend helps me! I'll have a fair field for my love-making," he thought, exultantly, as the train steamed out from the station.
Presently Geraldine, whom he had lain back on her seat, stirred and opened her eyes with a dazed look.
"Oh, what does this mean? Where am I?" she gasped.
Standish bent over her, and said, soothingly:
"Don't you remember, Miss Harding? I brought you here to see Hawthorne. He will be here in a moment."
"But—but—the train is moving," she cried, in a frightened voice.
"Hush!" he hissed, and suddenly Geraldine felt the cold muzzle of a pistol pressed against her warm, white temple, and a hoarse voice continued:
"You are at the mercy of a desperate man! Do not move or speak, or I will blow your brains out and then leap from the train in the darkness. I swear it. I have much to say to you, and I shall say it with my finger on the trigger of this pistol, ready to kill you if you utter one word without my permission. Now the conductor is coming in to take up our tickets. Do not dare to speak to him or show one sign of excitement."
Life is sweet to the young and loving, and Geraldine dared not disobey that hoarse command. She crouched, trembling in her seat while the gruff conductor took up the tickets and passed on to the next car.
They were again alone, and in a whirlwind of conflicting emotions Geraldine waited for the next words of her companion.
In his hoarse voice, vibrant with passion, she had suddenly recognized Clifford Standish.
She comprehended that he had set a trap for her, and that she had fallen into it. The horror of her thoughts no pen could tell!
He bent toward her as he sat on the opposite seat, and though her heart swelled with a terrible hate, she dared not utter a word of remonstrance, for she saw that, half-hidden by his coat-sleeve, he carried his deadly weapon ready to wreak vengeance on her for the least disobedience.
But though she dared not speak, Geraldine could not restrain the indignation that flashed upon him from her contemptuous eyes, and surely that glance was enough to wither him with its burning scorn.
But, unmoved by her wrath, Clifford Standish asked, calmly:
"Have you recognized me yet, Geraldine?"
She nodded in silent, ineffable scorn, and he went on:
"I have much to tell you, and when I am done you will not despise me as you do now, for I have been cruelly wronged and defamed, just to gratify the spite of envious people."
The dark, scornful eyes looked at him in silent amazement as he went on:
"Geraldine, that arrest on the stage last night was simply for the purpose of turning your heart against me. Another man envied me, and concocted that villainous plot to make you believe I was married, that he might win you himself. I have no wife, nor ever shall have, unless you will keep your promise to be mine."
His voice sank to the low, tremulous cadence that he had found so effective on the stage, but the unchanging scorn of the bright eyes assured him that she was not moved by his ranting.
Heaving a deep sigh, he went on, passionately:
"It was a deep-laid scheme of that contemptible fireman, that low fellow, to turn you against me. And you know I had no time to explain anything to you. I was simply dragged away like a dog! Well, when my case came up in court this morning, the woman who had been hired to testify against me broke down in the witness chair, and owned that she did not even know me. Hawthorne had bribed her, she said, to claim me for her husband. I was discharged, as I told you last night that I would be to-day. Had you not heard, Geraldine, of my discharge, cleared of the foul imputation on my honor?" he demanded, anxiously,wondering if her knowledge of the truth would enable her to cast back the falsehood in his teeth.
But Geraldine had heard nothing, so, when he said again, "Speak Geraldine, did you not know I was free?" she answered, simply:
"No, I did not know it."
He breathed a sigh of relief at her ignorance of his escape, and resumed his falsehoods with more self-confidence:
"I was free, but half broken-hearted over the thought of the ignominy to which I had been subjected and the cruel impression it had made on my betrothed bride."
He saw her shudder at the last two words, but he was pitiless in his resolve to sacrifice her to his mad passion.
"Ah, Geraldine, was it not a fiendish act to turn your heart against me like that?" he cried. "I left the court-house and went to the hotel to see you. All the members of the company received me joyfully, but they had cruel news for me. They told me you had left them for Hawthorne—that you were betrothed to him, and he had demanded your retirement from the stage. Was this true, Geraldine?"
She bowed a cold, affirmative answer.
"It was true! I knew it, and I was in despair," ranted Standish. "Oh, how easily a woman's heart can turn against a man! You might have waited a day, Geraldine, and given me a chance to clear myself from that false charge. But, no! in your wounded pride you turned against me, and pledged yourself to the traitor who had plotted that vile outrage—my arrest on the stage—to further his own base ends."
She sat listening dumbly while the train rushed on and on, bearing her farther and farther away from New York and her own true lover—for she knew in her heart that he was true, and that the actor was telling her vile falsehoods—and her poor heart sank like a stone in her breast.
Oh, what would be her fate now, she wondered in anguish, hating herself because she had fallen so easily into this fatal trap.
Standish continued, in a pleading tone:
"What could I do in my despair, darling, but oppose cunning to cunning, and fraud to fraud? I knew that if I came to you in my own person, I should not even be allowed to see you. My enemies would separate us, keep us apart so that you should never know how cruelly I had been wronged. So I planned to get you away from themand into my power. I determined to have my promised bride if I had to steal her away from our enemies. I knew," eagerly, "that when you heard the truth, sweet Geraldine, you would forgive me for this bold move, and love me again. So—we are on our way now to Chicago, and there you shall become my bride!"
A LEAF OUT OF HIS OWN BOOK.
"As I came through the valley of Despair,As I came through the valley, on my sight,More awful than the darkness of the night,Shone glimpses of a past that had been fair,And memories of eyes that used to smile,And wafts of perfume from a vanished isle,And, like an arrow in my heart I heardThe last faint notes of Hope's expiring bird,As I came through the valley."
"As I came through the valley of Despair,As I came through the valley, on my sight,More awful than the darkness of the night,Shone glimpses of a past that had been fair,And memories of eyes that used to smile,And wafts of perfume from a vanished isle,And, like an arrow in my heart I heardThe last faint notes of Hope's expiring bird,As I came through the valley."
Poor Geraldine! poor Geraldine! What a cruel ending this was to the Christmas Day that had dawned so auspiciously upon her life.
She had had a few hours of exquisite happiness—the pure and perfect happiness of tender mutual love, that brings heaven down to earth for young, ardent hearts.
* * "That passionate love of youth,That comes but once in its perfect bliss—A love that, in spite of its trust and truth,Seems never to thrive in a world like this."
* * "That passionate love of youth,That comes but once in its perfect bliss—A love that, in spite of its trust and truth,Seems never to thrive in a world like this."
From bliss to despair—that was the story of Geraldine's one day.
But for the shining ring on her little hand she would have believed it all a dream, so swiftly had the brightness fled.
How she loathed and hated the smooth, smiling villain before her, who, while pretending to love her, had actually threatened her with death; who held at that moment, under his hand, a deadly weapon with which to compel her obedience.
The poor girl sat looking at him with angry tears in her large brown eyes, her cheeks alternately red and pale with the blood that rushed to and fro from her wildlythrobbing heart. At one moment she would feel ill enough to faint, the next her burning indignation would drive away all weakness.
She did not believe one word of the smooth story he had related to her, hoping that her girlish credulity would accept it for truth.
And she was determined that she would die before she would marry the wretch.
But how was she to escape if he stood guard over her all the way to Chicago, with a deadly weapon in his hand?
If she shrieked out to the conductor for assistance, her abductor would kill her on the spot.
It was a situation to blanch the bravest cheek, and Geraldine was only a poor, weak girl. No wonder that the blood ran cold in her veins with despair.
She could see nothing before her but death—certain death at the hands of the desperate villain by her side.
For he was determined to marry her or kill her; and of the two calamities she resolved to choose the last.
But—and a faint spark of hope came to her—if she could only get him to leave her side a while, she might escape—might jump from the flying train in the darkness.
He was watching her changing face with eager anxiety as to what she was going to say to him now, and suddenly he saw it brighten with a thought he could not fathom.
There had flashed over Geraldine a remembrance of his last words:
"What could I do in my despair but oppose cunning to cunning, and fraud to fraud?"
Her sombre eyes brightened as she thought:
"He has taught me a lesson that I will profit by. Perhaps I can thus throw him off his guard."
Standish exclaimed, eagerly and curiously:
"What have you to say, Geraldine, to my story? Will you accept it for the truth, and renew your faith in my love and honor?"
Duplicity was a stranger to Geraldine's nature, and it was hard indeed to act the part she was planning, but her stage training enabled her to carry it off superbly.
Her lovely face softened inexpressibly, and she looked up at him with a shy yet tender glance that thrilled him with hope.
"Oh, what a strange story you have told me!" she twittered, sweetly, and added: "How can you forgive me for my unfaith?"
Clifford Standish started with blended surprise and joy, for he had not counted on such an easy victory.
He had expected that Geraldine would accuse him of falsehood, scorn him, flout him—do anything else but weaken in this simple way.
But his masculine vanity made the task of gulling him an easy one, for he thought instantly:
"How weak and silly women are! They will believe any garbled story a man chooses to tell them."
Aloud, he said, joyously:
"Then you believe me, Geraldine? They have not turned your heart against me?"
She answered, with seemingly pretty penitence:
"At first they did—for—for it all seemed so real on the stage last night—the arrest and all, you know. And I was wild with pain and humiliation; so I let them persuade me into anything. But, now that you have explained all to me, I see it in a different light, for of course you would not have wished to marry me if you had a wife already."
"Of course not," he echoed, smiling to himself at her innocent ignorance.
"So," continued Geraldine, smiling also, but at his gullibility, "you may put away your pistol, for it makes me very nervous to see it. And you do not need to stand guard over me, and I am ready to keep my promise to marry you."
"Geraldine," he cried, transported with joy at her sweetness, and bent to kiss her, but she repulsed him with shy grace.
"No, no—wait till we are married, sir!"
"Very well, darling; but—will you promise me not to speak to any one on the train but myself?" suspiciously.
"I promise you that," she answered, carelessly, hoping that he would leave her, but it seemed that he had no such amiable intention.
He removed the glasses under which he had posed as Jem Rhodes, the better to feast his eyes on her peerless beauty, and remained by her side, talking to her until she was wild with disgust.
Yet she had to wear her brightest smile, and answer him with seeming vivacity, to keep up the impression she had made of satisfaction with her fate.
Meanwhile the train rushed on to the first station and passed it without interruption. Hawthorne's telegram had not overtaken the fugitives. Poor Geraldine's fate was sealed, and Standish was triumphant.
"I wish something would happen," she thought, desperately. "I wish the train would get off the track and hurt him, and nobody else, so that I might escape!"
How strangely our impetuous wishes are answered sometimes.
Something did happen to Geraldine the very next moment.
The conductor came back from the Pullman coach, and, pausing at her seat, said, respectfully:
"I beg your pardon, miss, but there is a lady back in the Pullman whose husband has just died suddenly from a frightful hemorrhage. In her distress there is not a woman to comfort her except an unfeeling negro maid, who is too busy flirting with the porter to attend to her duties. Could you—would you go back in there and speak a word of comfort to the poor soul?"
His gruff voice was very kindly now that his sympathies were awakened, and he gazed almost pleadingly at the girl who looked, in turn, questioningly at Standish.
He hesitated a moment, as if about to refuse, then answered, quietly:
"Yes, go, and I will accompany you," and, like a jailer guarding a prisoner, he followed her to the Pullman coach.
A STARTLING DECLARATION.
"Eyes that are closed to earthly sight,Can never wake to weep;Nor pain, nor woe, nor grief, nor blight,Can move that slumber deep."So hearts of dust all griefs forsake,They never break nor bleed;The living hearts that throb and acheOur tender pity need."
"Eyes that are closed to earthly sight,Can never wake to weep;Nor pain, nor woe, nor grief, nor blight,Can move that slumber deep.
"So hearts of dust all griefs forsake,They never break nor bleed;The living hearts that throb and acheOur tender pity need."
The newly made widow leaned against the berth where the dead man lay with his face hidden beneath the sheet, her face in her hands, sobbing in a subdued but heart-broken way. None of the other berths had been made up yet, and the few men in the car looked solemn and ill at ease. A gayly dressed mulatto woman, evidently the lady's maid, was whispering to the smart yellow porter.
Geraldine paused by the weeping woman with a timidglance that took in every detail of her appearance—the elegant curves of the stately figure in a fine cloth traveling gown, the glint of golden hair beneath the dark, close hat, the glittering rings on the hands that held the handkerchief to her face.
She whispered, shyly, to Standish:
"She is one of those grand aristocrats that I used to see at O'Neill's store. I'm afraid to speak to her. Some of them are so proud, so haughty, they can wither you with a look."
"Suppose we go back, then, to our seats," he returned, eagerly.
But something held Geraldine by the mourner's side, in spite of her terror of proud, rich women; and as a sudden low sob broke on the air, she started hurriedly forward with a gentle touch on the lady's arm, bending her face down to whisper, brokenly, out of the wealth of her sympathy:
"Oh, I am so sorry for you, I am so sorry for you! May God help you to bear it!"
The mourner lifted up a lovely face framed in golden hair—the face of a woman somewhere between thirty and forty—and met the glance of those sweet brown eyes swimming in sympathetic tears, and her heart seemed to answer the girl's words. With another heart-breaking sob, she dropped her face against Geraldine's shoulder, and let the girlish arms infold her like a daughter's clasp.
"Come away to a seat," she whispered, and led her away some distance from the berth.
Sitting side by side, they mingled their tears together, for it seemed to Geraldine as if she could feel, by some divine instinct, all the force of the other woman's grief.
"For what, if I were married to my darling Harry, and Death took him—oh, it would break my heart!" she thought, wildly.
Standish had followed and taken a seat just behind her, where he could listen to every word that passed.
Oh, how she hated him for his dastardly espionage, but she dared not openly revolt. She bided her time.
She felt with a keen thrill of pleasure how the strange lady clung to her in the abandonment of her grief, nestling her weary head so confidingly against her shoulder, and letting her arm rest around the girl's waist.
"Tell me if there is anything I can do for you," she whispered, kindly, and the mourner hushed her sobs and murmured:
"Tell the conductor to make arrangements to take—take—my poor husband through to Chicago, our home."
Standish beckoned the conductor back to the seat, and there was a colloquy for some time over mournful details. When he went away, the lady who had grown calmer, lifted her tearful face, and looked at Geraldine, eagerly, tenderly.
"Who are you, child, with that voice and face from the haunting past? What is your name?"
"I am Geraldine Harding!"
"Geraldine Harding! Oh, Heaven!" springing to her feet in strange excitement, her blue eyes glittering through their tears.
Geraldine did not know what to make of her strange excitement, so she waited, mutely, while the lady went on, breathlessly:
"Where did you live?—oh, I mean, tell me all about yourself! Oh, I am in such trouble that I cannot express myself clearly! I mean no impertinence, but I am terribly interested in you and in your past."
"There is not much in my past that could interest you, dear madame—only the simple story of a poor country girl who came to New York, with another girl, to earn her own living," Geraldine said, modestly.
"So young, so lovely! Yet thrown on the world to earn her bread!" murmured the lady, tearfully. She caught the girl's hand, holding it tightly as she continued: "Your parents, dear? Why did they let you leave them?"
"I was an orphan, madame."
"An orphan! Where was your home?"
"I lived in the country near New York, with a farmer, to whom my father took me when I was a delicate child. The farmer's name was Newell, and his wife, Malinda, had formerly been a servant to my mother. She gave me tender, motherly care, and raised me from a frail child to a robust girl. My father sent money for a while, then he died, and left me dependent on those people. They were poor and had a hard struggle to get along with their large brood of children, so I—I—wearied of the life, and ran away to seek my fortune in the great city."
"And your mother, Geraldine?"
"My father said that she was dead," she replied, simply.
"It was false! He, your cruel father, took you from me! I am your own mother, darling!" cried the lady, extending imploring arms.
FROM WANT TO WEALTH.
"At sea—we're all at sea upon life's ocean,And none can boast a never-failing chart;Sail as we may, we'll meet with dread commotion,And hidden shoals to terrify the heart.We're all at sea; some favored ones, enchanted,Float peacefully upon the placid tide,While others with sad doubts and fears are haunted,And ever on the roughest billows ride."
"At sea—we're all at sea upon life's ocean,And none can boast a never-failing chart;Sail as we may, we'll meet with dread commotion,And hidden shoals to terrify the heart.We're all at sea; some favored ones, enchanted,Float peacefully upon the placid tide,While others with sad doubts and fears are haunted,And ever on the roughest billows ride."
Francis S. Smith.
Clifford Standish watched the scene before him with eager interest.
It was like the plot of a play, this touching union of a long parted mother and child.
In watching the interesting scene he forgot for a moment how it might affect his own interests.
The beautiful, sorrowful widow, with tears streaming down her pale cheeks, extended her arms to Geraldine, exclaiming:
"I am your own mother, my darling!"
Startling and surprising as this statement was to Geraldine, not a doubt of its truth entered the girl's mind.
On the contrary, her heart leaped with joy, for she had already felt herself drawn with inexplicable tenderness to the speaker.
And the moment that she held out her arms to Geraldine the girl sprang into them gladly, and the next moment they were embracing each other with ineffable tenderness, the grief of the widow comforted in a measure by the restoration of her daughter.
Clifford Standish looking on, suddenly felt a touch of uneasiness, and muttered, under his breath:
"Confound the luck! I wish she had not met this woman until after we were married."
And thinking it was time for him to assert his claim, he waited until the mother and daughter withdrew from each other's arms, and said, respectfully:
"Accept my congratulations, madame, on the finding of your beautiful daughter, my promised wife!"
The lady, with a quick start of surprise, as if she hadbut that moment become aware of his presence, turned and looked at the speaker.
His words had fallen like hail-stones on her heart.
She was one of the proudest women on earth, and her large dark eyes scanned Clifford Standish with cold inquiry.
He had just announced himself as the betrothed of her daughter, and the cold glance of her eyes asked distinctly if he were worthy of that honor.
There was a moment of breathless silence, and the actor looked at Geraldine with eyes whose veiled menace defied her to deny his claim. She, remembering his deadly threats, paled and shuddered.
She could not afford to anger him yet. She realized that fully.
The lady, after transfixing the daring actor with one steely glance, looked at her daughter.
"Is this true?" she asked, in displeased surprise.
"It is true," faltered Geraldine, without daring to look up; and again Standish, encouraged by success, interposed:
"Let me explain the case to you, madame. We have been engaged to marry for some time, and we are now on our wedding journey—that is, we are to be married as soon as we reach Chicago."
The lady, still icily ignoring her daughter's suitor, exclaimed:
"Can this be true, Geraldine?"
The young girl answered again, dejectedly.
"It is true."
Standish beamed upon her gratefully, joyously, hoping from her acquiescence that he had indeed made some impression on her heart.
But the mother was wearing her most frigid air as she remarked:
"This is a rather unusual proceeding. Should not the marriage have preceded instead of following the wedding journey?"
Standish answered, quickly:
"That is the usual way, certainly, but this was an elopement."
"An elopement?" cried the lady, with rising indignation; but Geraldine laid a pleading hand upon her arm, crying:
"Mother, dear mother, let us discuss this question later. At present let me present Mr. Standish to you."
The mother bowed with cold courtesy. She evidently did not approve of her daughter's suitor.
Standish read her mind like an open book.
He comprehended that she was proud and rich, and would scout the idea of her daughter's marriage with one beneath her in social position.
Yet he was all the more determined to make her his own.
Bending down to Geraldine, he whispered, hoarsely:
"Let me speak to you alone."
She withdrew with him to a little distance, and he whispered, sternly:
"Do not forgot that I have sworn that you shall marry me, or become the bride of Death."
"I will remember," she faltered, and he added:
"The discovery of your mother makes no difference in your promise to me. She must not refuse your hand to me."
Geraldine saw that he was in a desperate mood, and she did not care to offend him; but her heart was throbbing joyfully in her breast, for she knew that heaven itself would come to her aid, and that she would surely outwit him at last.
But she said, with quiet dignity:
"Mr. Standish, it would seem as if common decency required the postponement of this subject until after my mother has buried her dead."
"You are trying to escape me!" he exclaimed, warningly; but he saw by her indignant look that he was presuming too far, for she said, quickly:
"This harshness will not further your cause with me, sir. You cannot marry me by brute force."
"That is true; but I have your promise."
"Extorted from me under menace of death!" she returned, indignation getting the better of her calmness.
"Oh, Geraldine, cannot you forgive the madness of a love like mine that dares anything rather than lose you?" he implored, with theatrical fervor.
"Geraldine, dear," called her mother, softly, and she darted back to her side.
The lady said, quickly:
"My dear daughter, I can never give my consent to your marriage with that person."
Geraldine threw her arms about the lady, and whispered, thrillingly:
"Dear mother, I do not wish to marry him; but—let uswait until after we reach Chicago before we repudiate my promise. I fear his anger, for he is a desperate man. Let us temporize with him until we are out of his power."
By that time Standish had returned to his seat, and seeing that the proud mother of Geraldine was determined to ignore him, his anger made him say, sullenly:
"Madame, you have asserted a claim to Miss Harding, as your daughter, but you have presented no proofs to substantiate your claim. As her present guardian and her betrothed husband, I must request the production of those proofs."
She gazed at him in cold astonishment at this audacity, but answered, frigidly:
"Your solicitude does you credit, but I can satisfy all your doubts."
Beckoning the conductor, who was passing through the car, she said, quietly:
"Kindly tell this person my name and standing."
Standish winced under the contemptuous epithet, "person," and glared at the conductor, who turned to him and said:
"Mrs. A. T. Fitzgerald, formerly of New York, now of Chicago, was the wife, now the widow, of A. T. Fitzgerald, the foremost banker and capitalist of Chicago."
Standish bowed without a word. He saw the impassable gulf of wealth and social position yawning between him and pretty Geraldine, but he swore to himself that he would not give her up.
Mrs. Fitzgerald thanked the conductor, and added:
"No doubt you are familiar with the circumstances of my first marriage, and—divorce. Kindly tell him these also."
The conductor looked embarrassed, but she smiled at him encouragingly, and said:
"Do as I ask you, please. It is indeed a favor."
"Mrs. Fitzgerald's first husband was Howard Harding, of New York, from whom she obtained a divorce ten or eleven years ago."
"State the cause," broke in Mrs. Fitzgerald's clear voice, and the conductor, who was fully conversant with this scandal in high life, added:
"Howard Harding led a gay life, and deserted Mrs. Harding for a notorious Parisian of the demi-monde. His wife secured a divorce, and in about two years married Mr. Fitzgerald, of Chicago."
"And the custody of their only child, little Geraldine, was given——" she began.
"To the mother, of course," ended the conductor.
"Yes, and within a year she was stolen from her by the guilty father and hidden from her so securely that she never found her again until to-night," cried the lady, her eyes resting tenderly on the face of her lovely child.
"Is it so indeed? Let me congratulate you most heartily, madame," exclaimed the conductor, his eyes resting admiringly on Geraldine, while he added: "The likeness between you is most startling."
"And, oh, mother, dear mother, it was this kind gentleman who came to me in another coach and begged me to come and comfort you in your sorrow. But for him we might never have found each other," cried Geraldine, in boundless gratitude, for she felt that not only had he restored her to her mother's arms, but he had also delivered her from the power of her desperate lover.
Mrs. Fitzgerald, who had been so frigid to Standish, unbent from her haughty mien and wept tears of gratitude as she wrung the hand of the conductor.
"Oh, Captain Stevens, as kind as you have always been to me on my journeys on your train, I never knew your true worth till now, but ere long you shall receive ample evidence of my gratitude," she assured him.
The conductor was very proud and happy over his agency in restoring Geraldine to her mother's arms, but while he was declining her promised reward, he was called away, and then Mrs. Fitzgerald turned again to her daughter's suitor.
"Are you satisfied with my proofs?" she demanded, icily.
"Perfectly, madame, and I hope you will permit me to express my joy at your reunion with your daughter."
"I thank you, and I have a request to make of you. I wish to be left alone with my daughter at present. Will you kindly respect this desire, and call on me later in Chicago, where I will consider your claims for my Geraldine's hand?" said Mrs. Fitzgerald, presenting him with a card on which was engraved her address on Prairie avenue.
Thus coolly dismissed, and not daring to protest against the authority of the haughty lady, Standish bowed and withdrew to another seat in the same coach, where he covertly watched them without daring to intrude his hated presence on them.
"Ah my darling, how strangely all this has happened!" cried the lady.
"How strangely and how fortunately!" echoed Geraldine, gladly.
"But, oh, how sad that it did not happen sooner—before my darling husband died! Oh, how he would have loved you for my sake, Geraldine; for he was so good to me, he made me so happy, that no grief remained in my heart for that false one who deserted me for a wicked woman, and then stole you away from me!" cried her mother, her mournful thoughts reverting to that loved lost one whose pulseless form had now been conveyed to another coach to be made ready for its last long sleep.
"Oh, my mother, how can I comfort you for your sad loss?" cried Geraldine, tenderly.
"You can love me, darling, and try to fill the void left by his loss. Oh, I hope that his kind spirit hovers near and knows that I have found you, my dear, for we have wished for this so often, and he has spent many thousands of dollars trying to trace you for me, but all in vain. For all our efforts were made abroad, in the belief that your father had taken you away with him. I could not conceive of his taking you away and then deserting you so heartlessly. But doubtless that wicked woman induced him to do it. Such women have great influence over weak-minded men. But let us try to forgive him the wrongs we suffered at his hands now that he is dead," ended Mrs. Fitzgerald.
"YOU WILL SOON FORGET YOUR POOR LOVER IN THE NEW SPHERE THAT YOU WILL FILL."