Pretty Geraldine, the New York Salesgirl; or, Wedded to Her Choice

CHAPTER XLV.
"IF I WERE A KING I WOULD RAISE HER TO MY THRONE!"

 
"As shines the moon in cloudless skies,
She in her poor attire was seen,
One praised her ankles, one her eyes,
One her dark hair, and lovesome mien,
So sweet a face, such angel grace,
In all that land had never been;
Cophetua swore a royal oath,
'This beggar maid shall be my queen!'"
 

Tennyson.

But, leaving our interests in the Garden City temporarily, we must journey across the dark-blue sea, to follow the fortunes of our noble hero, Harry Hawthorne.

As the intelligent reader has doubtless surmised already, he was the hero of the newspaper paragraph Mrs. Fitzgerald had read to her daughter, and he had crossed the seas to claim his own.

Young blood is often too hot, and an angry quarrel with his old father had made the heir of a noble name and fine estate a voluntary exile from home under distant skies, where he was not too proud to earn his bread by honest toil.

But all that was changed now.

In the English county of Devonshire, at the grand old castle home of Raneleigh, the old lord lay dead, and my lord, his son, must lay aside his masquerading and come home to wear the honors and the title that were his by ancestral right.

His two Chicago friends were charmed with his romance when he told it to them, one day on the steamer, just before they landed on the bonny shore of England.

"I only borrowed the name of Jack Daly," he laughed. "The one that belongs to me is Harry Leland, and my title will be Lord Putnam."

They congratulated him warmly. It was a romance in real life, they said, and Ralph Washburn declared he should weave it into a novel.

"But you do not know the most romantic part of it yet," said the young man, with a sigh. He debated the question with himself a moment, then decided it could do no harm to confide in his two noble friends.

So, sadly enough, he told them the story of the love affair that had brought him to Chicago, keeping back nothing.

"So now you know how I came by the wound that made you two my stanch friends for life, and you can understand why I let my enemy alone, rather than bring into publicity the name of a woman I loved," he ended.

"But you left the case in the hands of a detective?" said Leroy Hill.

"Yes, he is to find Clifford Standish and shadow him until it is found out whether he lied to me about Miss Harding. He has full instructions to act in my place during my absence."

"And this beautiful girl that you loved when you were simply Harry Hawthorne, the New York fireman, do you mean that if she is found and proved innocent that you will stoop to her now that you have come into your ancestral honors?" inquired the romantic young author, with interest.

"If I were a king I would raise her to my throne!" replied the ardent lover, proudly.

They applauded his faithful love, but they thought that the prospect of his happiness looked very dismal.

The actor's story seemed so plausible that they feared it might be true that he had won the vacillating heart of pretty Geraldine.

They looked at each other significantly, but they did not have the heart to breathe their doubts aloud. They saw that he was already unhappy enough.

But they felt sure in their hearts that if the detective ever traced the movements of the persons in whom Hawthorne was interested, he would report Standish's story as true.

When they had been in England a week, having witnessed the joy of the mother over the truant's return, and had been the recipients of the most charming hospitalities from the family, a letter came from the Chicago detective to Lord Putnam.

But the information it contained was very meagre.

He had traced Clifford Standish through a very clever disguise, but the whereabouts of Miss Harding remained a mystery.

In fact, the detective was inclined to believe that the actor had lost interest in the girl he had brought to Chicago. Perhaps he had wearied of her, and left her to despair. At any rate, he was conducting a correspondence, perhaps a flirtation with a handsome governess, Miss Erroll, employed by Mrs. Fitzgerald, a wealthy widow, on Prairie avenue.

The pride of Geraldine's mother and her repugnance to the name of her first husband had induced her, on bringing the girl to Chicago, to give out to the newspapers the paragraphs for publication stating that her daughter, Miss Fitzgerald, had been called home from school by the death of her father. Even in the household Geraldine bore the same name, and thus the clever detective was baffled by the simple substitution of another name; and while he had traced Clifford Standish up to his very entrance to the Prairie avenue mansion, he had no suspicion that the actor was interested in any one of the family besides the handsome governess.

But the same mail had brought Lady Putnam also a letter from Chicago, and when she had read it she called her son into her boudoir, where she sat alone, saying, in a flutter of excitement:

"I have a letter from America, dear Leland, and as you are so fond of everything American, perhaps you can remember the beautiful little American girl to whom you were betrothed when she was only about two years old?"

CHAPTER XLVI.
"I WILL TEST MY DARLING'S LOVE."

 
"I have heard or dreamt, it may be—
What love is when true;
How to test it—how to try it—
It the gift of few.
Only a true heart can find it
True as it is true;
Only eyes as clear and tender
Look it through and through."
 

The handsome young lord looked at his mother in surprise when she uttered those words: "Perhaps you remember the beautiful little American girl to whom you were betrothed when she was barely two years old?"

That episode of his childish days had almost escaped the young man's memory, so he said, carelessly:

"Indeed, I have almost forgotten it, dear mother."

"Then I must refresh your memory, Leland, for you are old enough now to redeem your pledge."

Lord Putnam looked startled, and said, hastily:

"Of course, you would not consider a trifle like that binding on a grown man."

The stately mother looked somewhat disappointed, and answered, slowly:

"I had hoped it might be, especially as you have no other entanglement."

"Why are you so sure of that, my dear mother?"

She started, and gave him a frightened look.

"Oh, I—I—hope there is none," she said, vaguely.

For a moment it came to him to tell her this love story.

"A mother's sympathy would be very sweet," he thought.

But a sudden impulse of pride restrained him.

"For what if it be proved that Geraldine is unworthy? How could I bear to be pitied?" he thought, with the sensitive pride of true manhood.

So he answered, evasively:

"I was only teasing you, dear mother. Go on with the story you have to tell me."

With a quick sigh of relief, she plunged into the subject:

"As I was saying, when you were a manly little lad of seven, a cousin of mine, from New York, paid me a long visit here, and she had with her a lovely little daughter of two years. You and the little girl were almost inseparable, so much so that my cousin Florence and myself began to look forward to a possible future that might unite your destinies in one. In brief, we solemnly betrothed you to each other."

"I begin to remember it all now, only the little one's name, which escapes my memory," smiled the young man, as a vision of a tiny golden-haired beauty returned to his mind from the past.

"But you were parted soon after that," continued Lady Putnam. "My cousin returned to her American home, and suffered a series of misfortunes. Her husband proved unfaithful, and a divorce followed. She married within two years a splendid gentleman—a Western millionaire—but the happiness of her second union was destroyed by a terrible trial. Her first husband stole away her lovely daughter, little Geraldine, and all these years the most rigid search has failed to find her, so that–"

"Mother, mother, I beg your pardon for interrupting—but—but—you said the girl's name was Geraldine," exclaimed the young man, starting to his feet and betraying for the first time an interest in the subject.

The utterance of that dear and beloved name—Geraldine—had touched a vibrating chord in his sore heart, and he waited in breathless eagerness for her reply.

Lady Putnam, not understanding his fiery impatience, replied, placidly:

"Had you, indeed, forgotten the very name of your dainty little American sweetheart, Leland? Yes, it was Geraldine—Geraldine Harding."

"Oh, Heaven!" and Lord Putnam sank back to his seat the picture of surprise.

Here was a romance indeed!

It was, it must be, his own loved Geraldine of whom his mother was telling him.

They had been betrothed from their very childhood, he and pretty Geraldine. How sweet was the thought!

No wonder their hearts had leaped to greet each other the first moment of their meeting in New York.

But the thought of the mystery that surrounded her fate now forced a hollow groan from his lips.

"What is it, my son? You are not ill?" exclaimed Lady Putnam, in alarm.

"No, no; it was only a passing twinge of pain. Do not mind me, but go on, if you have any more to tell. But perhaps your story is finished."

"No, indeed, for the best part is to come," smiled the lady.

"The best part," he repeated, incredulously.

"Yes, for I have a letter from Florence Fitzgerald, my cousin—the first letter in several years. I told you, did I not, that since her second marriage she has lived in Chicago—that great Western city where they held that wonderful World's Fair, you know, Leland."

"Yes, I know. I was there."

"Well, this letter from Chicago contains both good and bad news. Florence has lost her good and kind husband, and found her missing daughter."

"Found her daughter! Found Geraldine Harding!" cried the young man, springing to his feet, in wild excitement.

"Yes, or Geraldine Fitzgerald, as she calls her now. And, Leland, she will be a great heiress, for her mother's large private fortune will be given to her eldest daughter, as her second husband left her millions of money and a perfect palace of a home on Prairie avenue, the grandest location in the city."

She paused again in alarm, for this time her son had fallen back in his chair, his face death-white, his eyes half-closed.

Her words had been such a revelation to him that the joy of it all overcame him.

He remembered instantly the day he had seen the beautiful girl getting into the carriage before the artist's studio.

He had cried out that he knew her, but Ralph Washburn had said it was Miss Fitzgerald, a great heiress.

So he supposed himself mistaken, and the cruel disappointment had made him actually ill.

But now he knew that it was no mistake.

It was Geraldine herself that he had seen—dear, beautiful Geraldine, his own betrothed, his heart's darling.

He cared nothing for what his mother had said about her being a great heiress.

He loved her for herself alone, and he was rich enough for both.

He would rather have had her remain poor, so that he could have bestowed everything upon her himself.

But, oh, the joy of knowing that she was safe under her mother's roof, safe where he could find her again—it made him dizzy with such a rapture of joy and relief that his face paled with emotion, and his eyes nearly closed, startling Lady Putnam so that she sprang to his side, exclaiming, in alarm:

"You are indeed ill, my dear boy, and I must send for a physician. Please tell me in what way you are affected."

"It is my heart, dear mother!" he groaned, then caught her around the waist, laughing: "Forgive me for alarming you, dearest mother. I am not in the least ill; only overcome with joy at hearing that my darling betrothed is found again."

"Do you really mean it, Leland?" she inquired, dubiously.

"Indeed I do mean it, and I can hardly wait for the time when I shall return to America to claim my bonny bride."

She saw that a curious transformation had come over him.

His cheeks were flushed, and his dark-blue eyes flashed with joy.

She had never seen him look so radiantly happy.

But a sigh heaved her breast as she replied to his words:

"But I fear that I may never see her your bride, Leland, for her mother owns in the letter that the girl has formed an attachment for a poor young man she knew in New York when she was only a poor salesgirl at O'Neill's store. She clings stubbornly to this poor fireman, although she has been told all about her betrothal to you."

"She repudiates my claim, eh?" he laughed, gayly.

"It seems so," she answered.

"Let me see the letter, please, mother."

She gave it to him, and although it covered many pages, he read it with the deepest interest.

And no wonder, for he found there the story of all that had happened to Geraldine since she had boarded the train for Chicago with Clifford Standish. Mrs. Fitzgerald had not failed to relate the discomfiture of the villain who had kidnaped her daughter. Oh, the gladness of his heart when he found how Geraldine had been saved from the villain's power and restored to her mother's arms.

He knew that he could tell all his story to his mother now, for Geraldine was proved pure and faithful; but a moment's reflection decided him not to do so yet a while.

He had a romantic fancy to prove Geraldine's love to the utmost, now that she had come into fortune and position. Not as the Lord of Raneleigh would he woo her, but as Harry Hawthorne, the fireman. Then he would know the true value of her heart.

His first impulse was to return to America at once, his impatience to see her was so great; but he remembered that it would be almost impossible to do so now.

It was not yet two weeks since his father had been buried, and his mother and sister were very sad and lonely. They would be loath to have him leave them so soon. Besides, as the new lord, there were matters to be seen to that could scarcely admit of delay.

He remembered, too, that he had guests for whom he had planned a tour to London and Paris. It would not look well to desert them now. Business and hospitable duties would detain him here at least two weeks longer before he could return to America.

In the meantime, Geraldine was safe with her mother.

Standish, having received such a rebuff from Mrs. Fitzgerald would naturally relinquish his pursuit as hopeless. Indeed, the detective's news that the actor was engaged in a flirtation with the governess had seemed to be proof that he had given over his persecution of Geraldine. He was off with the old love and on with the new.

So our hero, believing that everything was working together for his happiness, permitted himself to indulge in a delightful conviction of security—a very mistaken one, as the sequel will show.

Smiling fondly on his anxious mother, he said:

"Mother, I have a very romantic plan for winning my pretty betrothed from her fireman lover, and I will explain it to you soon. But you must not reply to Mrs. Fitzgerald's letter until I give you leave."

CHAPTER XLVII.
LADY AMY'S LOVERS

 
"Her ruby lips hiding teeth of pearl
That dazzle me when she speaks,
Her nut-brown hair in riotous curl,
Her laugh, which sets all my senses awhirl,
And the damask of her cheeks;
Her Venus form, like a flower arrayed,
In the garb of the blushing May,
All bid me rejoice, and undismayed,
Swear my heart shall ever lie true to this maid."
 

Lady Putnam was delighted to find that her son was not averse to the union with his fair American cousin.

Being an American herself, she had a fondness for her old home and her old friends, especially her kinswoman, Mrs. Fitzgerald.

So she heard with delight her son's avowal that he would cut out the humble fireman in the regard of pretty Geraldine.

She readily acceded to every condition he imposed on her in the furtherance of his plans.

Their conference over, he went to seek his friends, whom he found playing a game of billiards with his pretty sister, Lady Amy.

The young Americans were both charmed with the dainty beauty whose dark, curly tresses and laughing blue eyes were so like those of her brother that they showed their near kinship very plainly indeed.

The young lady herself was delighted with her brother's friends. She could not have decided which one she liked better.

When Leroy Hill, who was of a joyous, rollicking disposition, would entertain her with witty anecdotes of people he had seen, she would almost decide after all he was the more interesting of the two, and perhaps the handsomer, for his hazel eyes, with that twinkle of fun in them, were irresistibly fascinating.

But, then, Ralph Washburn, who was of a more thoughtful turn than his friend, and had large, serious, dark-gray eyes, would read to her selections from favorite poets, or sing to her in his rich, clear tenor, and the words would sink deep into her heart, and she would find herself musing:

"I almost like him better than Mr. Hill; but—I dare say they are both sad flirts."

To-day Ralph had been quoting to her some verses from a favorite poet of his own land, and as they gayly knocked the balls about the table, they seemed to sing themselves over persistently in her memory:

 
"Those dazzling dark-blue eyes!
Laughing under shady lashes,
Dusky fringed, like clouds of night,
And with sudden rainbow flashes,
They can hold your heart in thrall
With one sudden radiant glance;
They can realize all visions
And all dreams of old romance.
 
 
"Those dazzling dark-blue eyes!
How they haunt me in my dreams!
With their glancing and their dancing,
And their shy, coquettish gleams;
They can soften as with love,
They can flash with sudden scorn,
They can droop like purple flowers
Misty with the dews of dawn.
 
 
"Those dazzling dark-blue eyes,
They grow sad at touch of sorrow;
They grow radiant with joy,
From her tender heart they borrow
Every feeling and emotion
That beneath the surface lies,
And her very soul is speaking
In those dazzling dark-blue eyes.
 
 
"Those dazzling dark-blue eyes!
I am captive to their charms!
They are bright as stars at night,
They are like the sun that warms.
They are soft as velvet pansies
Sparkling in the morning dew,
They are all things under heaven,
That are beautiful and true."
 

Since Ralph Washburn had repeated those lines to piquant Lady Amy her eyes had been very shy when they met his glance, hiding their light under the long-fringed lashes, and he smiled when he saw that he had the power to bring that bashful color to her cheek.

It took Lord Putnam but a few minutes to decide that he would not confide to his friends yet the fact that Geraldine was found. He did not want to jeopardize his plans for winning her as simple Harry Hawthorne.

But at heart he was exceedingly anxious to return to America, so he made his plans to begin to-morrow the sight-seeing tour he had planned for Ralph and Leroy. In a few weeks they could see and enjoy a great deal; then he would be free to pursue his courtship of Geraldine. In the meanwhile she would be safe with her mother, and if her heart were disturbed by suspense over his fate, it would only make it grow fonder, so that when they met again it would only be to find a joyous welcome awaiting him.

 
"'Tis said that absence conquers love,
But, oh, believe it not;
I've tried, alas, its power to prove,
But thou art not forgot.
Lady, though fate has bid us part,
Yet still thou art so dear,
As fixed in this devoted heart
As when I clasped thee here.
 
 
"I plunge into the busy crowd
And smile to hear thy name,
And yet as if I thought aloud,
They know me still the same.
And when the wine-cup passes round,
I toast some other fair—
But when I ask my heart the sound,
Thy name is echoed there.
 
 
"E'en as the wounded bird will seek
Its favorite bower to die,
So, lady, I would hear thee speak,
And yield my parting sigh.
'Tis said that absence conquers love,
But, oh, believe it not;
I've tried, alas, its power to prove,
But thou art not forgot."
 

When her brother and his friends had gone up to London it seemed very lonely to Lady Amy at Raneleigh.

"Mamma, I hope you will take me to America some time for a long visit; I like Americans so much!" she cried, artlessly.

"So do I," returned her mother, and then she sighed softly to herself.

Who can tell what memories stirred her heart of days of bellehood in New York, when, for plain ambition's sake, she had put aside a plain, untitled lover to wed Lord Putnam and reign at Castle Raneleigh? They had told her, her maneuvering relatives, that love would be sure to come after marriage.

"But what if I already love another?" the beautiful belle had said, pale with anxiety.

"You will soon forget him on the other side of the ocean, and Lord Putnam will have all your heart," they answered.

They were old in experience, and she was young, so she took their advice, and married her titled lover. Perhaps their assurances proved true, perhaps not. At any rate, she was a faithful wife.

But she was not by any means a disconsolate widow.

And at her daughter's praise of Americans, the proud woman's heart echoed every word, and her thoughts flew across the sea to the old home, and the old days, and the old love.

Perhaps he was dead now. She had not heard of him for many years.

Or if he were not dead, he was probably married to another, to some true-hearted girl who prized love above all else.

There was a sting in the thought, and Lady Putnam sighed and turned away without promising her daughter to take her to America. She had no desire to return to the scene of her old triumphs. She wanted sleeping memories to keep still in the grave where they were buried.