"Come love! Until thy face I see,All things seem valueless to me;Nor singing birds nor blooming flowersCan make less sad the weary hours.Friends cannot cheer, mirth cannot move,While thou art absent, dearest love.Dejection holds my heart in thrallTill thou art here, my all-in-all."
"Come love! Until thy face I see,All things seem valueless to me;Nor singing birds nor blooming flowersCan make less sad the weary hours.Friends cannot cheer, mirth cannot move,While thou art absent, dearest love.Dejection holds my heart in thrallTill thou art here, my all-in-all."
Francis S. Smith.
"How strange, oh, how strange, that Harry does not answer my letter!" cried Geraldine, impatiently.
About ten days had passed since she had posted the letter with her own hands to Hawthorne, and for days she had been waiting in silent anxiety for his reply.
But, as we know that he had left New York suddenly, without leaving directions to forward his mail, we can understand the cause of the silence that was torturing her tender heart. Since the day when Geraldine had impulsively defied her mother to turn her heart from her betrothed, a slight reserve had grown up between them that nothing seemed to bridge. Mrs. Fitzgerald never brought up again the subject of her daughter's lover. She was bitterly and unreasonably offended at the stand the girl had taken.
So she became more chary of showing affection to Geraldine, and lavished caresses on her two younger children, the charming Earl and Claire.
Geraldine, who was as loving as she was proud and willful, suffered sorely from her mother's coldness. She began to feel like an alien in the great, splendid mansion. In secret she pined for Cissy and her old happy life among the girls at O'Neill's before her own mad ambition for the stage had cut her off from those pleasant days forever.
"I have a great mind to run away from my grand home and ambitious mother and go back to Cissy," she sobbed one night to her lonely pillow.
But she did not have the heart to carry out her threat, for Mrs. Fitzgerald was kind in spite of her reserve, lavishing beautiful gowns and jewels upon her, as if to makeup to her for her heart-loneliness. Dressmakers and milliners hadcarte blanche, and Geraldine had an outfit fine enough for a young princess.
These beautiful gowns, these flashing jewels, and the luxury of her home would have made the lovely girl very happy, but for the cruel separation from her lover. Without him there was a blank in everything.
"Where I am the halls are gilded,Stored with pictures bright and rare;Strains of deep, melodious musicFloat upon the perfumed air.Slowly, heavily, and sadlyTime with weary wings must flee,Marked by pain and toil and sorrow,Where I fain must be."
"Where I am the halls are gilded,Stored with pictures bright and rare;Strains of deep, melodious musicFloat upon the perfumed air.Slowly, heavily, and sadlyTime with weary wings must flee,Marked by pain and toil and sorrow,Where I fain must be."
One day a sudden thought came into her mind.
"Why not have Cissy come and make me a visit?"
She spoke to her mother about it the same day, asking timidly for the privilege of inviting Cissy to spend a month with her in Chicago.
Mrs. Fitzgerald readily acquiesced, and gave Geraldine a liberal check for her friend's traveling expenses.
Geraldine flew to her room to write to her friend, and she did not fail to inquire of Cissy what had become of Harry Hawthorne.
"Tell him I have written to him and received no reply," she added, naively, in her keen anxiety.
She felt a little happier when the letter had been dispatched to Cissy. It would be a comfort to have her old friend with her, in spite of the fact that many of her mother's rich, fashionable friends had called and offered their friendship in affectionate terms.
But they were strange and new to Geraldine, and they could not make her happy yet. The transplanted flower had not taken root in this new, rich soil. It pined for its old habitation. It was strange to be a greenhouse exotic instead of a fresh wild-flower nodding to its mates beneath the free blue sky.
"But if I only had those I love with me, I should be supremely happy," she sighed, wistfully.
"There is no friend like an old friend,Whose life-path mates our own,Whose dawn and noon, whose even and endHave known that we have known.It may be when we read her faceWe note a trace of care;'Tis well that friends in life's last graceShare sighs as smiles they share."
"There is no friend like an old friend,Whose life-path mates our own,Whose dawn and noon, whose even and endHave known that we have known.It may be when we read her faceWe note a trace of care;'Tis well that friends in life's last graceShare sighs as smiles they share."
More than a week had passed since Clifford Standish's visit, and they saw and heard no more of him.
Both mother and daughter supposed that he had passed out of their lives forever.
But the handsome governess, Miss Erroll, might have told them a different story had she dared.
She had received several letters from him, and she knew from them that the actor was weaving a spider's web to entrap poor Geraldine.
But she dared not speak, dared not warn the beautiful unconscious victim.
She was in the villain's power, through his knowledge of her past, and her terror for her own safety commanded her silence.
She was a weak woman, who had erred and repented; and now that she had begun to live a better life, she had a terror of losing her situation. She could not betray Clifford Standish, although she would have rejoiced in doing so with safety to herself.
So the days went by, and it was almost a week since Geraldine had written to Miss Carroll. She began to look eagerly for an answer.
Mrs. Fitzgerald proposed a shopping tour the next day.
"You have not made the tour of the Chicago shops yet, but I assure you they compare favorably with those of New York. We will drive to State street, and go through Marshall Field's immense establishment, which is one of the finest here. Then, too, we must visit Stevens & Brothers' magnificent silk store. We may find something to please us there. How sorry I am that I cannot introduce you formally to society yet, because of my mourning. You would be a vision of beauty in an evening dress."
Geraldine's thoughts flew back to the only time she had ever worn an evening dress—the night of the firemen's ball at Newburgh, when she had been so happy because Harry Hawthorne's eyes had told her over and over of her beauty. Ah, she would never be quite so happy again, she feared.
They entered the elegant liveried carriage and were driven to State street.
It was Geraldine's first shopping tour with her mother,and she found a great deal of zest in it, in spite of the sorrow that ached at her loving heart.
How delightful it was to be buying beautiful fabrics instead of selling them; to have a purse full of money to spend on whatever she liked!
How different from the days of the shabby black serge gown and the waiting on customers from morning till night, with weary feet and oft-times aching back. She looked at the pretty salesgirls of Chicago with kind, pitying eyes, and was careful to give as little trouble as possible when making her purchases. They looked at the rich young beauty in her sealskin cloak enviously, little dreaming that but a short while ago she had been a simple working-girl like themselves, with no prospect of the good fortune that had come to her so suddenly and strangely.
They re-entered the carriage, and Mrs. Fitzgerald gave the address of an artist.
"I must have some picture of you in your carriage suit, and this is such a bright, sunny day, just suited to a sitting," she said.
It pleased her to have her beautiful daughter photographed in several graceful styles, then they left Stevens' and proceeded home.
"You have had fatigue enough for one day, but we will come out again to-morrow and see more of the city," said Mrs. Fitzgerald, kindly.
The carriage drove away, and neither of them noticed three men who had been walking slowly toward them as they entered the carriage, and who had paused to gaze admiringly at Geraldine as she crossed the pavement.
They were Ralph Washburn, Leroy Hill, and Harry Hawthorne. The two former had brought their patient out for the first time for a short walk.
He had convalesced very fast, the wound not being as deep as at first supposed.
But the keen stroke of Standish had only missed a fatal ending because it had been blunted by passing through a cigar case in Hawthorne's breast-pocket.
His high health and vitality had enabled him to pull through fast, and to-day he was out for the first time, looking pale and thin, his restless glances roving from side to side, seeking ever for one beautiful face so deeply loved, so cruelly lost.
And suddenly he encountered it—where least expected—in the garb and the trappings of wealth.
He gave a gasp like one dying, and clutched young Hill's arm in icy fingers.
The latter looked around, exclaiming:
"What is it, Jack, eh? Have we brought you too far in your weak state? Oh, I see, you're looking at the beauty! You're hard hit, aren't you? So am I! She's a stunner!"
At that moment the footman closed the door on Geraldine, and the carriage rolled away.
She did not look out of the window, or she would have seen Hawthorne—the lover over whom her fond heart was yearning—start forward with outstretched arms toward the carriage, crying, wildly:
"It is she! it is she! Stop the carriage, I say! I must speak to her one moment!"
But his friends restrained him on either side. They feared that he had suddenly gone daft.
Weak as he was, he struggled with them, broke their hold, and ran a few paces after the carriage.
Then he dropped, exhausted, to the pavement.
They overtook him and raised him up between them.
He looked at them pleadingly.
"You think I am crazy, I know. But let me explain. I know that girl in the carriage. I came to Chicago to find her, and now, she has escaped me!" he groaned.
"What! you know the beautiful Miss Fitzgerald, of Prairie avenue?" exclaimed Ralph Washburn, in surprise.
"That is not her name!" cried Hawthorne.
"Oh, yes, it is Miss Fitzgerald, certainly. You have made a mistake," returned the young author, who had seen Mrs. Fitzgerald often, and had read in the society newspapers that her lovely daughter, Miss Fitzgerald, who had been educated abroad, had just been called home by her father's death.
But to make assurance doubly sure, he ran up to the photographer's studio to inquire. They assured him that their late sitters were Mrs. and Miss Fitzgerald.
Hawthorne was so unnerved by the discovery of his mistake that a cab had to be called to take him home.
IT IS NOT POSSIBLE FOR TRUE LOVE TO FORGET.
"Have you seen the full moonDrift behind a cloud,Hiding all of natureIn a dusky shroud?"Have you seen the light snowChange to sudden rain,And the virgin streets growBlack as ink again?"Have you seen the ashesWhen the flame is spent,And the cheerless hearth-stoneGrim and eloquent?"Have you seen the ball-roomWhen the dance is done,And its tawdry splendorMeets the morning sun?"Dearest, all these picturesCannot half portrayHow my life has alteredSince you've gone away!"
"Have you seen the full moonDrift behind a cloud,Hiding all of natureIn a dusky shroud?
"Have you seen the light snowChange to sudden rain,And the virgin streets growBlack as ink again?
"Have you seen the ashesWhen the flame is spent,And the cheerless hearth-stoneGrim and eloquent?
"Have you seen the ball-roomWhen the dance is done,And its tawdry splendorMeets the morning sun?
"Dearest, all these picturesCannot half portrayHow my life has alteredSince you've gone away!"
Harry Romaine.
It was impossible for Hawthorne to sleep that night after the sight of the beautiful stranger, Miss Fitzgerald, whose startling likeness to his lost darling had awakened in his heart a fresh agony of love and pain.
He tossed and turned restlessly all night upon his pillow, thinking of Geraldine until his heart was on fire with its agony.
Could it be true what that dastard Standish had told him?
Had he indeed won the girl from the path of truth and honor, to make shipwreck of her life for the sake of a guilty love?
No, no, no! He could not, would not believe it!
She was pure as snow, his lovely Geraldine.
But where was she, what had been her fate since she left New York in company with the arch-villain, Standish?
"I cannot find her by myself. I must put a detective on the case to-morrow," he decided.
The young author, who was burning the midnight oil over a charming poem, was disturbed by his groans, and came in to see about him.
"I fear you are worse. That little outing was too much for you," he exclaimed.
"No, it is not that. I am restless; it is a trouble of the heart," confessed the patient, frankly.
"Ah!" exclaimed Ralph, sympathetically, adding: "Can I help you?"
"No one can help me," sighed Hawthorne, hopelessly.
"Is it a love affair?"
"Yes."
"It is hopeless, I judge, from your expressions. Then why not throw it from your mind? Forget the cruel fair one?"
"Have you ever loved, Ralph?"
"Never," laughed the handsome young author, who only worshiped at the shrine of the muses.
"I thought not, or you would not use that hackneyed word forget. It is impossible to real love—a poet's dream, but an impossibility."
"Have you loved so deeply?"
"With all my heart, with all my soul, and with all my mind!" groaned Hawthorne, adding: "My dear friend, may God keep you from ever knowing such love and pain and grief as fill my heart to bursting."
Ralph was silent. He saw that here was a grief beyond comfort.
He wondered what was the mysterious nature of Hawthorne's sad love-story, but he was too generous to ask such a question.
He could only gaze at him in tender, silent sympathy.
Hawthorne continued, passionately:
"It is not my way to dwell on my own troubles, but to-night my sorrow overwhelms me! To love and to lose—oh, Ralph, that is the bitterest thing of life!"
"Is she dead, your loved one?"
"Ah! no, she is not dead! I could almost wish that she were, in my dread that she is dead to me forever! And if she is, oh, if she is, how can I bear the gloom of my life henceforward?—the blank darkness of a night of storm following on the sunshine of a perfect day. Oh, God!" groaned Hawthorne, tossing his arms above his pillow in anguish.
The young poet gazed at him in deepest sympathy and pity. He had not loved yet, but he could understand andpity, for to the poet's soul all the secrets of life are felt and known through the subtle occultism of genius.
"The poet in a golden clime was born,With golden stars above;Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,The love of love."He saw through life and death, through good and ill,saw through his own soul."
"The poet in a golden clime was born,With golden stars above;Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,The love of love.
"He saw through life and death, through good and ill,saw through his own soul."
As Ralph gazed at the handsome face of the unhappy lover, he felt that here was the material for a novelist's pen to frame a most bewitching love-story, and he hoped that some day Hawthorne would confide in him.
Suddenly the young man looked up at him, saying, abruptly:
"Ralph, I want you to take me to the best detective in Chicago to-morrow morning."
"Very well," replied Ralph, going to a table and mixing a sedative that had been used under Doctor Rowe's orders. He presented it to the patient, saying:
"Drink this, or you won't be able to stir to-morrow morning."
Hawthorne complied readily, for he was, indeed, weary of the tumult of his mind and heart.
He closed his eyes wearily, and Ralph dimmed the light and returned to his study, and the last verse of the pretty poem he was composing.
When he had written the last line he heard Hawthorne breathing gently in a saving sleep, and he, too, retired to his bed.
Both slept late the next morning, and breakfast and the morning papers were brought up together for Hawthorne.
Ralph saw that his charge was comfortable, and went out to a neighboringcafewhere he was wont to meet his friend Mr. Hill at the morning meal.
Hawthorne made a very light meal in bed, dismissed the servant with the tray, and then turned his attention to the newspapers—the ChicagoHeraldfirst.
And as he skimmed over the telegraphic news from abroad, he came across a paragraph that worked a curious change in him.
His face grew pale with emotion, and sinking back on his pillow, he sighed to himself:
"I must go home."
When Ralph returned with Mr. Hill, who always madea morning call on hisprotege, as he humorously termed Hawthorne, they found the patient dressing in feverish haste.
"Boys, I must return to New York to-day," he exclaimed.
While they gazed at him in surprise, he continued:
"Business of a very important nature obliges me to cross the ocean as soon as possible; and—in brief—I owe you both a debt of gratitude that I wish to repay you by asking you to accompany me on my trip to Europe as my guests. Will you come? I am not poor, as you supposed, in the kindness of your hearts, when you took me in, a stranger, and nursed and cared for me, and a cordial welcome will meet you in my English home!"
They were startled and surprised at his generosity, but Hawthorne would not listen to their refusals.
"I love you both like brothers, and I will not be refused. You shall come with me," he declared, and his cordiality won their consent.
Arrangements were speedily made, and after a visit to a detective, the three friends left for New York.
"IT IS LIKE SUICIDE!"
"Round the post-office window are pressingA motley and turbulent throng.All eagerly bent on possessingThe letter they've looked for so long.To some come dark tidings of sorrow,To others come tidings of bliss;Uncertain is every to-morrow,And the world like the post-office is."
"Round the post-office window are pressingA motley and turbulent throng.All eagerly bent on possessingThe letter they've looked for so long.To some come dark tidings of sorrow,To others come tidings of bliss;Uncertain is every to-morrow,And the world like the post-office is."
Francis S. Smith.
All unconscious of the fact that she had been so near to the lover for whom she mourned, Geraldine returned home with her mother, and even as they went up the steps the postman followed on his afternoon round and placed two letters in her hand.
She glanced at them, and a cry of joy broke from her lips as she saw that one bore the New York postmark and was in Cissy's familiar hand.
The other one was postmarked Chicago, and was addressed to the governess, Miss Erroll.
And if Geraldine could have guessed how fatally that letter concerned herself, she would have been justified in tearing it to fragments and scattering it in wrath to the four winds of heaven.
If some saving hypnotic power had but impelled her to this course, what suffering she would have been spared. But in her joy over Cissy's letter, she scarcely gave a thought to Miss Erroll.
Going up stairs to her own apartments, she passed the school-room and tapped lightly on the door.
"A letter for you," she said, courteously, to the governess, not noticing how the woman's hand trembled, when she took it.
But the face of Miss Erroll grew ashy pale when, alone with her pupils, she opened and read her letter from Clifford Standish.
"To think that she should have this letter in her hands; that she should have brought it to me, it is a mockery of fate! It is like—suicide!" she muttered, through her writhing lips, and a bitter sigh heaved her breast.
Geraldine hurried to her own rooms and read Cissy's letter before she removed her wraps, so eager was her fond heart for news from New York.
"She will be here to-morrow, to-morrow, the dear girl!" she cried, joyfully, kissing the letter in the exuberance of her gladness.
But the letter contained other news that was very puzzling.
"Harry followed me to Chicago on the next train, the darling boy! But how strange that he has never come to me! Does he know where I am? Is he in the same city with me?" were questions that repeated themselves over and over in her bewildered brain.
She could understand now why he had never answered her letter. Of course, he had never received it, since he was on her trail following her abductor and his victim in their flight from New York.
"But why, oh, why does he not come to me? Is it possible he cannot find me, my dear, dear, love? Ah, I have it now! He is following Clifford Standish up, and of course he can find no trace of me," she decided, and immediately resolved to insert personals in the prominent newspapers of the next day in the hope of reaching him.
When she had exchanged her carriage dress for a lovely house robe, fluttering with lace and ribbons, she sought her mother, with Cissy's letter.
Mrs. Fitzgerald rejoiced with her daughter over the coming of her friend, but she said not a word about Harry Hawthorne.
She was secretly annoyed at learning that he had followed Geraldine to Chicago. She thought, in dismay:
"He may be turning up here at any moment, claiming my daughter, and she is so headstrong, she will never consent to give him up. What shall I do?"
But her woman's wit could suggest no answer to the question.
She was honorable and high-minded, and shrank from using harsh or underhand means to break off Geraldine's engagement.
Geraldine saw the lack of sympathy in her mother's mobile face, and thought, sadly:
"She is still unrelenting. I shall have no sympathy in my sorrow until Cissy comes. Then I can whisper all my grief to her faithful heart."
And she longed all the more anxiously for to-morrow's sun that would shine on the coming of her beloved friend.
And, to lighten her suspense, she spent some time superintending the arrangement of the beautiful room next to her own that was being prepared for Miss Carroll's occupancy. Some of her own favorite books were carried in—Cissy was inordinately fond of reading—flowers were lavished here and there. When it was all ready, the pretty room in pink and silver was dainty enough for a princess.
"Cissy will enjoy it so much. She likes pretty things. And I shall buy her some dainty gowns, and—lots of things! She shall see how I love her!" the girl whispered to herself, with tears of joy in her beautiful brown eyes.
Then she went to her desk and wrote out and sent the personals she had thought of to the newspapers for to-morrow.
"Mamma would not approve, I know, but perhaps she will never find out what I have done. But, at any risk, I would have done it. I cannot give up my own true love! I believe God made us for each other," she thought, tenderly.
She spent a restless night, thinking of Cissy's coming to-morrow, and wondering where her lover was to-night in this great Western city, little dreaming that he was speeding from it in the deepening night.
GERALDINE'S SUSPENSE.
"Half the night I waste in sighs,Half in dreams, I sorrow afterThe delight of early skies;In a wakeful doze I sorrowFor the hand, the lips, the eyes,For the meeting of the morrow,The delight of happy laughter,The delight of low replies."
"Half the night I waste in sighs,Half in dreams, I sorrow afterThe delight of early skies;In a wakeful doze I sorrowFor the hand, the lips, the eyes,For the meeting of the morrow,The delight of happy laughter,The delight of low replies."
Tennyson.
The long winter night was over, and with the morning's sunshine Geraldine's heart began to beat with eager expectancy.
A few hours more and sweet Cissy would be here! Cissy, her old friend, who would sympathize with her in all her trials, and perhaps help her to a way out of them.
After breakfast she hastened to her room, leaving Mrs. Fitzgerald intent on the morning papers.
She did not wish to be present should her mother chance to peruse the personal column.
"Conscience makes cowards of us all," she quoted, nervously to herself, fancying her proud parent's indignation when she should read, staring her in the face:
TO HARRY HAWTHORNE—I am safe and well, and wondering what has become of you. Do you wish to see me? If so, answer this personal to-morrow, giving your address, and I will write to you, with instructions how to find me.Anxiously yours,G. H.
TO HARRY HAWTHORNE—I am safe and well, and wondering what has become of you. Do you wish to see me? If so, answer this personal to-morrow, giving your address, and I will write to you, with instructions how to find me.
Anxiously yours,
G. H.
Oh, how happy it would have made her lover's heart if he had chanced on that message in the papers he read that morning.
But, by one of the terrible blunders of fate, he had read, as always, the telegraphic news first, and then thrown the papers from him, in that wild excitement that had determined him to return to New York at once.
Soon the broad, illimitable ocean would roll between their yearning hearts.
Suddenly she heard her mother's step at the door, and sprang up in nervous alarm.
"She has discovered it already, and is coming to reproachme," thought the hapless girl, bracing herself to meet the storm.
Mrs. Fitzgerald came in excitedly, clutching the newspaper in her hand.
"Mamma!" cried Geraldine, tremulously, entreatingly, as if to pray for mercy in advance.
"Geraldine, I have found a startling paragraph in this paper," cried the lady, without noticing her daughter's agitation.
"Yes, mamma," Geraldine answered, forlornly, pushing forward a seat.
Mrs. Fitzgerald sat down, the paper rustling nervously in her hand. She cleared her throat and began.
"You remember the story I told you about my cousin, Lady Putnam, and her son?"
"Yes, mamma," Geraldine replied, again, meekly, and the lady continued:
"I have not heard from my cousin for several years, and I have just read in the telegraphic news from abroad that her husband, Lord Randolph Putnam, is dead."
"I am very sorry," Geraldine answered, gravely.
"Oh, as to him, it doesn't matter much. He was an old man, gouty and disagreeable," replied Mrs. Fitzgerald, frankly, adding: "The interest of the matter centres in his son and heir—Leland, now Lord Putnam—your betrothed! I was surprised to read here that several years ago the old lord and his son had a bitter quarrel—so bitter that the heir was driven from home, and vowed that he would never return while his father lived. He went to America, and all trace of him was lost. Now there is a great hue and cry for him everywhere, for he is wanted to return and assume his rank and estate. But, of course, he will be found, as missing people always come back when they inherit money."
"YOU DON'T KNOW HOW I HATE TO RAKE UP THE ASHES OF THE PAST."
"Vast the empire Love rules over—Held in bonds his subjects are—Firmly shackled is each loverBy the boy-god everywhere.Yet we could not live without him,So, young tyrant, let him rove,Though by turns we doubt and fear him,Still we cling to Love, sweet Love."
"Vast the empire Love rules over—Held in bonds his subjects are—Firmly shackled is each loverBy the boy-god everywhere.Yet we could not live without him,So, young tyrant, let him rove,Though by turns we doubt and fear him,Still we cling to Love, sweet Love."
Francis S. Smith.
Geraldine was so relieved that her mother had not come to upbraid her about the personals to Hawthorne that she affected a great interest in what she had just heard.
"Do let me read it myself, mamma," she exclaimed, eager to get possession of the newspaper before the lady should find any more startling paragraphs in it.
Mrs. Fitzgerald readily gave up the paper, her excitement over the news she had just read having destroyed all interest in anything else.
"I shall write to my cousin at once, to condole with her on her bereavement," she said, rising to go, and adding: "It is quite a coincidence that both of us should be widowed almost at the same time."
When she was gone, Geraldine glanced over the personal, and hastily destroyed the paper, though she sighed:
"I feel mean over keeping this from my dear mother, but what can I do? I must not forsake my true-hearted lover for the sake of a mere prejudice."
And believing that she would be sure to hear from the personal very soon, her heart grew light with joy.
Soon it was time to go and meet Cissy.
Mrs. Fitzgerald accompanied her daughter to the station to meet her friend, and when she saw Miss Carroll, she liked her at once.
She had been dreading to see a very ordinary girl indeed; but Cissy's beauty and style, above all her lady-like manners, won their way at once to her proud heart.
And she was so glad, too, over Geraldine's happy looksthat she felt almost grateful to Cissy for accepting her invitation.
What a happy day the girls spent together!
They had so much to tell each other that the hours passed like minutes.
Cissy was rejoiced when she heard of the discomfiture of Clifford Standish, whom she had always disliked and distrusted.
"You know I warned you against him, but you would not listen," she said.
"I was a silly, stage-struck little goose, that was the reason; but I have been well punished for my ambition," Geraldine replied, frankly.
"Then you have no further desire for a stage career?"
"No, indeed, dear. My experience on the road quite cured me of that. Why, I was never so hard worked and unhappy in my life. Besides, after all, I don't think I had any great talent for acting. I had some triumphs, it is true, but I believe it was only because I was rather pretty," Geraldine owned, candidly, and then the conversation drifted to other subjects.
"You have not seen my little half-brother and sister yet. They are beautiful and charming little children, and love me dearly already," she said. "Their governess, Miss Erroll, is one of the handsomest women I ever saw—fair and stately, and with that look in her face, somehow, as of one who has an interesting story in her past."
"And do you know the story?"
"Oh, no; she came to mamma from New York, I believe, with very good recommendations. That is all we know; but the children get on well with her, and she seems to study to please every one."
They were alone in Cissy's dainty room, lounging at ease in their pretty dressing-gowns. It was bedtime and past, but Geraldine could not tear herself away.
"Are you tired of me? Do you want me to go?" she queried.
"I could talk to you all night, darling!" cried Cissy, brightly, without guessing to what the confession would lead.
But Geraldine came over and put a coaxing arm around her neck.
"I'm so glad you aren't tired, for, Cissy, I'm just dying to take up our conversation where we left it off, you know, that Christmas evening when we were parted so suddenly."
"Oh!" cried Cissy, remembrance rushing over her in a burning wave.
"You were about to tell me a delightful love-story, and I was all impatience to hear it. It was about Cameron Clemens, you know. You owned that he was once your lover. Now please go on with the story, that's a dear!"
"Oh, Geraldine, how you like to listen to love-stories!" sighed Miss Carroll, with a far-away look in her soft gray eyes.
"Of course. All girls are fond of love-stories!" laughed Geraldine, and she added: "You know all about my love affairs, Cissy; now you must tell me about yours."
And she kept up her entreaties until Cissy sighed and yielded, saying:
"You don't know how I hate to rake up the ashes of the past, dear, and go over all my trouble again, but I will do it for your sake, although I dare say you will not find it very interesting."
"Were you ever engaged to Mr. Clemens, Cissy?" exclaimed Geraldine, plunging at once into the subject.
"Yes," acknowledged Cissy.
"Tell me how it came about, dear?"
"Oh, in the usual way—we fell in love."
"But how?—where?—when?" persisted Geraldine, with charming eagerness.
CISSY'S PATHETIC LOVE STORY.
"Oh, would I knew thy heart! Thine eye seems truthful!Thy smile is bright, thy voice is low and sweet;Thou seemst the very counterpart of honorWhen thou art kneeling suppliant at my feet.But eyes we may not trust with truth implicit,And smiles are oft but false lights to allure;A man may smile, and smile, and be a villain;Fair fruit is often rotten at the core."
"Oh, would I knew thy heart! Thine eye seems truthful!Thy smile is bright, thy voice is low and sweet;Thou seemst the very counterpart of honorWhen thou art kneeling suppliant at my feet.But eyes we may not trust with truth implicit,And smiles are oft but false lights to allure;A man may smile, and smile, and be a villain;Fair fruit is often rotten at the core."
Francis S. Smith.
Miss Carroll saw that there was no escaping the importunities of the charming little tease, so she answered, with pretending carelessness:
"Taking your last question first, I met him five years ago. As to where, it was at the sea-shore. We used to go there every summer before dear grandpa failed in business,and had to move out to the country, to the only home left him, the little farm where I first knew you."
"Yes, go on," breathed Geraldine, eagerly, and with a pensive little sigh, Miss Carroll continued:
"We met at the sea-shore, as I have told you—at that gay resort, Atlantic City. We danced together in the evenings, flirted on the sands and in the water, rode, boated, watched the sea by moonlight, and he taught me how to swim and to row. I was very happy."
"I know just how it was," sighed Geraldine.
"We became engaged," continued Cissy. "My grandfather was opposed to actors, and was not pleased with my engagement, but he relented, and gave his consent when he saw how my heart was set on it. Cameron pleaded for an early marriage, and before I returned to New York the wedding-day was set for the first of December. My trousseau was bought and in the hands of the dressmakers."
Cissy's voice faltered, and she brushed away some pearly tears that had brimmed over on her cheeks.
"Poor darling," murmured Geraldine, caressingly.
"Don't pity me, dear. I—I—can't bear it. Let me finish," cried Cissy, and she hurried on:
"Just a few weeks before the wedding-day, an actress in his company came to see me. She was a great beauty, and she told me that Mr. Clemens had been her lover, betrothed to her before he ever saw me. She declared that if I did not give him up it would kill her, and raved so wildly that I sent for Cameron. He came, and was very angry when he saw her, but she raged like a tigress, and claimed him passionately. He admitted that he had promised to marry her, but after seeing me, repented his engagement, and tried to get free, but she would not release him, so he was going to marry me anyway. Geraldine, you can fancy my feelings, perhaps. Although I knew it would break my heart, I dismissed my lover, bidding him return to his old love, who had cruelly wounded me by hinting that it was grandpa's money he wanted, not me."
"Well?" breathed Geraldine, eagerly.
"Well, I declined all his overtures toward reconciliation, and a few months after he married Azuba Aylesford, the actress. The marriage was not a happy one, and within two years she deserted him, going off with some Western actor, whose name I never heard. Cameron secured a divorce—but that is all, really. Grandpa died in the meantime, and when the mortgage was paid off on the farm, there was so little left that I came to New York to earnmy bread. So, there, it was not so much of a love story after all," sadly.
"Oh, yes, it was very interesting, and it may have a happy ending yet. I rather pity poor Mr. Clemens."
"You should not, for he does not deserve it—false to two women, as he was!" flashed Cissy. Then she kissed Geraldine, saying: "Good-night, dear one, and don't let us refer to this painful subject again."
"HOW CAN I REPAY THEIR BOUNTY WITH SUCH TREACHERY?"
"Last night I was weeping, dear mother,Last night I was weeping alone;The world was so dark and so drearyMy heart it grew heavy as stone;I thought of the lonely and loveless—All lonely and loveless was I;I scarce could tell how it was, mother,But, oh, I was wishing to die."
"Last night I was weeping, dear mother,Last night I was weeping alone;The world was so dark and so drearyMy heart it grew heavy as stone;I thought of the lonely and loveless—All lonely and loveless was I;I scarce could tell how it was, mother,But, oh, I was wishing to die."
While Geraldine and Cissy were exchanging confidences, Miss Erroll, the governess, was keeping an unhappy vigil in her own room.
In her hand she held the letter that Geraldine had brought to her the day before, and as often as she read it she groaned in anguish.
The letter was from Clifford Standish, the actor. It ran, curtly:
"You have begged me not to betray you, to let you keep the position you hold in Mrs. Fitzgerald's family unmolested. Of course, you expect to pay a price for my charitable silence."Very well. Here are my conditions:"I love Geraldine Harding, and her scorn has made me reckless, desperate."I am determined to get her into my power, and humble her towering pride."You must help me to carry out my designs."In brief, I am determined to kidnap her and conceal her in a safe place, where she cannot escape my attentions.She came very near to loving me once, and I think if I am given a good opportunity, I may win her heart again."I am arranging a place for her, and by to-morrow I shall have everything ready for my pretty bird."Some plan must be perfected then by which to get possession of the girl."As you are in the same house with her, and know all her comings and goings, your woman's wit ought to be able to suggest some plan of procedure without drawing suspicion on yourself."Set your wits to work, and write to me to-morrow what you can do to help me."And remember that the penalty of refusal will be exposure of your past to the girl's mother, and expulsion in disgrace from your comfortable situation.C. S."
"You have begged me not to betray you, to let you keep the position you hold in Mrs. Fitzgerald's family unmolested. Of course, you expect to pay a price for my charitable silence.
"Very well. Here are my conditions:
"I love Geraldine Harding, and her scorn has made me reckless, desperate.
"I am determined to get her into my power, and humble her towering pride.
"You must help me to carry out my designs.
"In brief, I am determined to kidnap her and conceal her in a safe place, where she cannot escape my attentions.She came very near to loving me once, and I think if I am given a good opportunity, I may win her heart again.
"I am arranging a place for her, and by to-morrow I shall have everything ready for my pretty bird.
"Some plan must be perfected then by which to get possession of the girl.
"As you are in the same house with her, and know all her comings and goings, your woman's wit ought to be able to suggest some plan of procedure without drawing suspicion on yourself.
"Set your wits to work, and write to me to-morrow what you can do to help me.
"And remember that the penalty of refusal will be exposure of your past to the girl's mother, and expulsion in disgrace from your comfortable situation.
C. S."
"The man is a fiend!" groaned Miss Erroll, rising from her seat, and pacing up and down the luxurious apartment, her crimson dressing-gown trailing far behind her on the soundless velvet carpet.
She loved luxury, this woman, and she had sinned to attain it, but everything seemed to go wrong in her life. Punishment for her sins seemed to follow on her footsteps.
So she had put the past behind her, and tried to reform her life.
But ghosts from the dead past would rise up and haunt her, troubling her repose.
"The man is a fiend!" she groaned again. "Why cannot he leave that beautiful, innocent girl in peace? I have done wrong in my life, I know, but nothing so bad as what he asks of me, to lend myself to a vile plot against the peace of a girl who has never harmed me, a girl who has won my liking by her high-bred courtesy, as freely given to me as if I were her equal, instead of a paid dependent. How kind and good they all are to me, and how can I repay their bounty by such treachery?"
All the good in her nature rose to the surface, and did battle against the wrong she was asked to do.
And yet she dared not refuse; dared not risk what her tempter threatened.
Cruel had been her battle with poverty before she obtained this situation.
And if she lost it the dire struggle would begin again.
She might not be able to get honest work; she might be tossed into the terrible maelstrom of women who had to sin for bread.
Yet how could she, who was trying to redeem her own life from a hideous stain, how could she vilely plan to wreck another's life?
It was a terrible struggle that was going on in her breast as she kept her lonely vigil there.
She had not answered the letter yet, although he had commanded her to send a reply to-day. She waited in terror, silent, yet hoping that something would interpose to save her—praying that ere the morrow dawned her persecutor would fall down dead.
"It is no harm, no sin, to wish him dead, that fiend who only lives to plan ruin for the innocent," she cried, in anguish, crumpling the fatal letter in her writhing hands.
Then she gave a violent start, and looked toward the door, her hair seeming to rise on her head with terror.
Did she really hear a low rat-tat upon her door there in the dead waste and middle of the night?
She stood motionless, with her handsome head turned toward the door in an attitude of startled expectancy.
The low knocking came again, and then a low, sweet voice called, softly:
"Are you asleep? It's only me! Please let me in, dear?"
The voice sounded like that of Claire, her sweet little girl pupil.
With a sigh of relief she moved to the door and cautiously opened it.
The next moment she started back with a shuddering cry of fear that was echoed by the figure on the threshold.
The intruder was Cissy Carroll, with her long, dark hair flying loose over her white dressing gown.
With startled outcries, they gazed at each other, and then Miss Carroll demanded, shrilly:
"Do my eyes deceive me? What are you doing here, Azuba Aylesford?"
The woman in the scarlet robe darted forward, and dragged the white-clad girl into the room, whispering, in terrified tones:
"Hush-h! for sweet pity's sake! Do not breathe that name beneath this roof!"
She closed the door softly, and they stood looking at each other in wonder and dismay, while Cissy, recovering her wits, retorted, sharply:
"By what name shall I call you, then, since your divorce from Mr. Clemens?"
"Call me Miss Erroll. Azuba Aylesford and Mrs.Clemens are both dead. From her ashes rises Kate Erroll, governess."
"Ah-h!" and Cissy remembered what Geraldine had told her about the governess with a history in her face. She understood it now.
Light was also dawning on the other, and she asked:
"Is it possible that you, Miss Carroll, are the guest who arrived to-day from New York?"
"Yes, but I did not dream of finding you here, Miss—Erroll. When I knocked at the door, I supposed this was Miss Harding's room. My head ached, and I wished to ask for some camphor."
"You were mistaken. Her room is on one side of yours, mine on the other, hence the mistake."
"I am sorry I disturbed you. I will withdraw now," said Cissy, in her coldest tone, moving toward the door.
But suddenly she was prevented from going by Miss Erroll falling madly at her feet.
"You shall not go yet—not till—not till—you promise not to betray me to your friends, not to tell them of my wicked past!" she exclaimed.
Cissy Carroll drew back her robe from contact with the kneeling suppliant. Her face was very pale, and her eyes flashed with scorn.
"Why should I spare you, woman? You did not spare me—nor him!" she answered, bitterly.
"That is true—oh, how true! But I have been bitterly punished for my sins—so bitterly that even those I have wronged might pity me. I sinned, but I have suffered!" moaned the kneeling woman, lifting despairing eyes to her accuser.
"The way of the transgressor is hard," answered Cissy, with the harshness of woman to woman.
"Do I not know it! Alas! alas!" moaned Kate Erroll, and she continued: "Now that I have repented my sins, and am trying to be good, my past rises up to menace me on every hand with danger!"
Cissy Carroll did not answer, and she could not pity, for had not this woman robbed her life of happiness?
Suddenly Kate Erroll asked, eagerly:
"Have you never forgiven Cameron Clemens yet?"
"He has never asked me," Cissy returned, evasively.
"He would not dare after the scorn with which you dismissed him when I put in my claim to him. Ah, Miss Carroll, you did wrong, and you made my victory an easyone. If you had clung to him he would never have turned to me."
Cissy did not answer, save by the curl of a disdainful lip.
"Oh, I wronged you both most bitterly," Kate Erroll added, with keen, though late remorse. "Listen: I never loved Cameron Clemens—never; I only angled for him because he was a good catch, and I, a poor actress, loved luxury, and wanted to make a good marriage. He was not in love with me, but I pushed the flirtation so far that he could not avoid the proposal. I am sure he scarcely regarded our flirtation seriously. Before it was a week old he went away for his summer outing. He met you, and fell in love in earnest. He wrote to me, and asked release. I was furious, and would not reply. I waited—waited until just before the marriage. Then I swooped down on you, enraged you with hints that he was after your grandfather's money. You dismissed him with furious scorn—just what I wanted; and I—oh, shame to my womanhood, for I did not love him!—I pursued him till he made me his wife!"
"You did not love him? Oh, Heaven! yet you wrecked both our lives for selfish gain!" groaned Cissy, appalled at the woman's confession.
"It was cruel, oh, I know it now, but I did not then, for I had never loved, and could not realize the anguish of your loss. But I have been punished for my sins, I tell you. Of course, we led a wretched life, hating each other after a short time most bitterly. Then the tempter came in the person of a handsome young actor who taught me the meaning of love. He begged me to elope with him, promising to marry me as soon as my husband secured a divorce. Well, I fled with him, and Mr. Clemens lost no time in applying to the courts for a dissolution of his marriage bonds. Soon I was free; but did my betrayer keep his promise to me? Ah, no; he laughed me to scorn, and told me he already had a wife. All my love turned to hate, and I fled from him as from the presence of a leper. All my life since has been a struggle for honest bread. I could not return to the stage, for I could not live down the awful notoriety of my sin. Fortunately, I had a good education, and after months of wretchedness, during which I buried a nameless child, I secured this situation with these noble people. Will you let me keep it, or will you take your just revenge?"
Her tremulous voice wavered and broke; then silence fell.
She remained kneeling in a suppliant position at the feet of the woman she had wronged so bitterly, her large blue eyes upraised in passionate appeal.
Cissy Carroll stood like a statue in front of the kneeling woman, her face death-white, her eyes sombre, with painful thought.
It was her hour of triumph.
Her enemy was delivered into her hand.
Her vengeance was assured, if she chose to take it.
Why should she not? she thought, in the first bitterness of the meeting with the woman who had wronged her so deeply.
Then something else came to her mind.
"'Vengeance is mine; I will repay,' saith the Lord."
Looking at the humble suppliant there, she felt that punishment had already been meted out to her in fullest measure.
She could almost pity now instead of spurning the wretched creature who, having dashed love's brimming cup from the thirsty lips of another, had been forced to drink its bitter lees herself.
She moved back a pace, and said, quietly:
"Rise. You are safe from vengeance of mine."
"You will forgive me?" faltered the governess, gratefully.
Cissy answered, coldly:
"I did not say I would forgive you, for I do not think I ever can. But I will not betray your secret. To-morrow we may meet as strangers, who have no interest in each other."
She moved toward the door, followed by protestations of undying gratitude to which she made no reply.
It seemed to her that she could not breathe freely in the presence of this woman, to whom she owed all her misery. She fled to her own room to weep in solitude.
"IF I WERE A KING I WOULD RAISE HER TO MY THRONE!"