Kitabı oku: «Pretty Geraldine, the New York Salesgirl; or, Wedded to Her Choice», sayfa 10

CHAPTER XXXI.
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."
 

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 had but 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 us wait 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.

CHAPTER XXXII.
"YOU WILL SOON FORGET YOUR POOR LOVER IN THE NEW SPHERE THAT YOU WILL FILL."

 
"She has a suitor rich, and I am poor,
And love 'gainst money has no armor sure;
For it is said when poverty appears,
Love through the window straight his pathway steers.
She's only human; it may be that she
Will barter love for wealth and misery."
 

Francis S. Smith.

How bitter was the disappointment of Harry Hawthorne on reaching the first station on his route in following the fugitives to find that his telegram had not been received until the Pennsylvania Limited had thundered past with the triumphant actor and his helpless victim.

His heart sank at the first moment with a terrible despair, but hope quickly reasserted itself.

"I will follow them!" he exclaimed, determined to leave no effort untried to rescue his heart's darling.

But the train with the fugitives was two hours ahead of the desperate lover, and long ere he reached Chicago the objects of his pursuit were at their destination—Standish in a second-rate lodging-house, Geraldine, with her mother, at her magnificent home on Prairie avenue, which holds to Chicago the rank of Fifth avenue to New York.

To Geraldine it was a wonderful transition, this change from the simple life of a working-girl in New York to this palatial home, where obsequious servants sprang to gratify her slightest wish, and where a devoted mother found time even in the anguish of widowhood to lavish on her the fondest love and care.

And in that home she had found another charming surprise—a dear little half-brother and sister, the children of her mother's second marriage—Earl, a beautiful, manly boy of ten, and Claire, a lovely fairy of seven years.

These two children had been left at home with their governess while their parents made a hurried business trip to New York—the trip that had ended so disastrously to the father, who had been in declining health for several years.

Bitter was the grief of the little ones when called to gaze for the last time on his beloved face, and Geraldine's tears mingled with theirs, for she knew that had he lived he must have proved to her a tenderer parent than the heartless father who had deserted her mother and then stolen her child and left her to grow up in poverty and heart-loneliness.

The second day after their arrival in Chicago the sacred remains of the beloved dead were taken to a crematory, and reduced to ashes, in accordance with the will of the deceased.

But the wife to whom he had been so kind and devoted could not bear to consign his remains to kindred dust.

She had the precious ashes sealed in a beautiful box of wrought silver and gold studded with precious jewels, and kept this box in her own apartments, a sacred treasure, dear to her for its precious memories.

When all these solemn ceremonies were over, the mother was ready to hear the story that Geraldine was waiting to pour into her ears.

A note from Clifford Standish arrived the morning after Mr. Fitzgerald's cremation, asking when he might call on Geraldine.

She went with the note to her mother and begged pardon for intruding on her sacred grief with her own troubles.

"Sit down, my darling, and tell me all," was the gentle reply.

When she had learned the story of Geraldine's persecution by the actor, her indignation was beyond measure.

"He shall be sent to prison for this outrage!" she exclaimed.

"Is that necessary?" Geraldine asked, timidly.

"Is it possible that you wish to spare him, darling?"

"Yes, if we can get rid of his pretensions to my hand without resorting to extreme measures."

"You shrink from notoriety. I understand, and will try to indulge your wishes, although the wretch ought to be punished to the full extent of the law for his villainous conduct," exclaimed the lady, adding, fearfully:

"Only think what might have been your fate, dear, but for the accident that threw us together on the train."

Geraldine shuddered as she recalled the peril from which she had been delivered, then said, with infinite relief:

"But I am out of his power now, and I need not even see him again, I hope."

"No, it will not be necessary; for although you may grant him liberty to call this evening, I will be the one to receive him and settle his pretensions," replied the lady, decidedly.

While she was speaking her eyes fell on the dimpled white hands of Geraldine, and she saw for the first time that the young girl was wearing a superb diamond ring.

"If that is Mr. Standish's property, you had better let me return it to him," she remarked.

She was surprised at the warm blush that overspread the fair young face.

"It—it—is my engagement-ring, mamma," she said, shyly.

"Given to you by that wretch! Then of course you do not wish to keep it. You shall have all the diamonds you wish now, my dear one."

"Thank you, my precious mamma, for your generous promise. I adore diamonds, and shall enjoy possessing plenty of them, but with this one I would not part for a queen's ransom!" exclaimed pretty Geraldine, pressing her lips fondly to the shining ring on her fair hand.

Mrs. Fitzgerald could not repress her rising displeasure.

"Indeed, my dear, I am surprised at you. I shall have to insist on your returning that person's ring," she said, gravely.

Geraldine looked up with a lovely smile.

"Oh, mamma, you cannot think this ring was given to me by Clifford Standish? Oh, no; it was the gift of a lover I left behind me in New York—my promised husband, the noblest lover any girl ever had!" she breathed, enthusiastically.

"Geraldine!"

Surprise and disapproval breathed in the lady's voice.

"May I tell you all about him, mamma?"

"Yes; I'm anxious to hear. And, by the way, are these two the only ones to whom you have promised your hand, or have you any more disclosures to make in that line?"

"Oh, mamma, are you offended with me?" exclaimed Geraldine, alarmed at the sarcastic coldness of her mother's voice.

"I am only surprised, my dear. Go on with your story," Mrs. Fitzgerald returned, quietly.

And, curbing her impatience and disapproval under a mask of calmness, she listened eagerly to Geraldine's story of her love for Harry Hawthorne.

And she thought she had never realized how radiantly lovely her daughter was until now, when her praises of her handsome betrothed brought the bright blushes to her cheeks, and the softened brightness to her starry brown eyes.

She did not interrupt her story by a word, but she listened in the deepest gravity until Geraldine had finished; then she kissed her tenderly and said:

"My dear, I can never consent to your marriage with Mr. Hawthorne."

"Mamma!" in alarm.

"It was well enough, my child, for the poor shop-girl of New York to be engaged to the brave young fireman, of course. But circumstances alter cases. Do you not understand that, Geraldine?"

Geraldine was terribly alarmed and frightened by the words and looks of her proud, rich mother.

She faltered, imploringly:

"Mamma, I am afraid to try to understand you, for—it would kill me to give up my love, Harry."

"Oh, no, it would not, dear, for you will soon forget your poor lover in the new sphere of life you will now fill. He is no longer a proper mate for you. Let him marry your sweet friend, Cissy, who is more suited to him in social station than my daughter an heiress."

"Mamma, you are surely jesting with me! You do not really believe that I would throw over my noble lover! Why, it would break my heart to lose him, and if he married Cissy I should hate her till my dying day!"

"Nonsense, my dear! you will soon forget him, and the match must surely be broken off, for I may as well tell you now that almost in your cradle you were betrothed to another—the son of a very dear friend of mine. So now that I have found you, dear, you will belong to that other one."

"Mamma, you are cruel, heartless! I cannot yield to you in this, fondly as I love you."

"You would not surely defy my authority, Geraldine, when I command you to write to Mr. Hawthorne, returning his ring, and breaking the engagement!"

They gazed fixedly at each other, and Geraldine said, imploringly:

"Mamma, I wrote to Harry yesterday, telling him all that had happened to me, and promising to be true to him through everything."

"You were a rash girl to act without consulting me in the matter. But we will not discuss the subject any further at present. Go now, and send the note to Standish, giving him permission to call this evening," Mrs. Fitzgerald answered, with an air of bitter displeasure.

CHAPTER XXXIII.
CLIFFORD STANDISH TRIES TO CREATE A GRAND IMPRESSION

 
"When you see a vain pretender
Rushing aimlessly along,
Boasting of his wealth and splendor
To the giddy, thoughtless throng,
Pity him, and while you pity
In your mind this adage keep:
Though he may be fast and witty,
Rapid streams are seldom deep."
 

Francis S. Smith.

Geraldine hastened to her room and scrawled a hasty line to Clifford Standish:

"You may call at eight o'clock this evening."

When she had dispatched the note by a servant, she threw herself, weeping, on a sofa.

Her fond heart was almost broken by her mother's command to give up her lover.

"I will not obey her, for she has no right to demand such a sacrifice from me!" she sobbed, resentfully.

It was true that she had already written to Hawthorne, telling him all that had happened to her since she had seen him last, and adding that no change of fortune could turn her heart from its love. She had begged him to answer her letter as soon as received, and added a postscript to ask him to go and tell Cissy Carroll what she had written.

But an adverse fate seemed always to come between Geraldine and her heart's choice.

Hawthorne, who was in Chicago by this time, vainly seeking his lost love, was fated not to receive the letter.

But Clifford Standish, writhing with impatience over the uncertainty that attended his love affair, was elated at the reception of Geraldine's note permitting him to call.

When the time approached, he laid aside the clumsy disguise he had assumed, and clothed himself in "purple and fine linen," as the saying goes, hoping to make some impression on the girl's proud mother by his handsome person and stately manners. He remembered how contemptuously she had called him "that person," and flattered himself that she could not deny him the title of a gentleman now.

Promptly at the time appointed he presented himself at the splendid Fitzgerald mansion, and was ushered into a luxurious little reception-room, where he waited in solitude some time after sending his card to the ladies.

He smiled to himself, as he thought:

"Geraldine is probably adorning herself in all the splendors of her newly acquired wealth to startle me with her beauty. She will burst upon me presently in gorgeous array, rustling in silk, and loaded with jewels, with all the purse-proud vulgarity of the nouveaux riche."

And he did not reflect that he himself, following the "loud" taste of many actors, was almost too stunningly dressed for gentlemanly effect.

But just as he began to grow decidedly impatient at the long delay, a handsome young woman came softly through the draped door, and, advancing toward him, said, courteously:

"Mrs. Fitzgerald desires that you will excuse her delay in coming in. She has been detained by an unexpected caller, but will be with you in a few minutes now."

He sprang excitedly to his feet.

"Azuba!" burst from his lips.

The handsome young woman, who had scarcely looked at him before, turned her eyes toward him at that cry, and recoiled with a stifled shriek of unutterable dismay.

Clifford Standish came close up to her, muttering:

"Azuba, what are you doing here?"

The woman's face became death-white with sudden fear, and lifting her hand warningly, she almost, hissed:

"Hush! breathe not that name beneath this roof! It is not my name now!"

"Another alias, then," he muttered. "What is it now?"

Her reply came with a groan:

"What does that matter to you? I am done with you and the past forever—I am trying to lead an honest life and earn an honest, respectable living. For Heaven's sake, do not betray me to these people!"

"What are you doing here?"

"I am governess to Mrs. Fitzgerald's children. I am trusted and liked by the whole family, and I try to deserve it. Will you go away, and leave me in peace to my new life?" she prayed, with clasped hands, her large blue eyes swimming in frightened, beseeching tears.

"I have no wish to trouble you, Azuba– Oh, pardon, that name was a slip of the tongue! What do you call yourself now?"

"Simply Kate Erroll—Miss Erroll to all. I have a right to that name. It was my mother's before she was married. But I cannot stay to talk to you now. I must go; but keep my secret, will you, Clifford Standish?"

"What if I refuse?" he demanded, and she answered, quickly:

"You could not injure me without bringing down harm upon yourself;" and with that vague threat the handsome governess fled by another door just as Mrs. Fitzgerald entered, a sombre object in the long, trailing black robes of widowhood.

She bowed to him with a sort of cold expectancy. Calling all his native effrontery to his aid, he rose, and said, theatrically:

"Mrs. Fitzgerald, I have come to plead with you to sanction my engagement to your daughter, Geraldine. We love each other devotedly, and it would break our loving hearts to be separated. You may think, perhaps, that I am no mate for your daughter, because you are rich; but that is a great mistake. I am an actor, I own, but I am paid a magnificent salary. My mother is very rich, and makes me a handsome allowance. At her death—and she cannot live much longer, being quite old and frail—I shall inherit her large fortune and can support my wife in grand style."