CHAPTER XXXVIII.

"STOP THE CARRIAGE!"

"Come love! Until thy face I see, All things seem valueless to me; Nor singing birds nor blooming flowers Can make less sad the weary hours. Friends cannot cheer, mirth cannot move, While thou art absent, dearest love. Dejection holds my heart in thrall Till 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 make up to her for her heart-loneliness. Dressmakers and milliners had _carte 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 music Float upon the perfumed air. Slowly, heavily, and sadly Time 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 end Have known that we have known. It may be when we read her face We note a trace of care; 'Tis well that friends in life's last grace Share 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.