TORTURED TO MADNESS.
"So the truth's out. I'll grasp it like a snake;
It will not slay me. My heart shall not break.
"I was so happy I could not make him blest!
So falsely dreamed I was his first and best!
"He'll keep that other woman from my sight;
I know not if her face be foul or bright;
I only know that it is his delight."
Geraldine was proud, very proud--and she thought she had quite overcome
her hopeless love for Harry Hawthorne.
But the sudden, unexpected news of his marriage, that she never thought
of doubting, struck her with the suddenness of an awful blow, beating
down pride and reserve at one terrible stroke.
She realized all at once that her heart had still kept alive a little
fire of hope burning before the shrine of its unacknowledged love. The
quenching of this spark of hope was almost like the going out of life
itself.
The other members of the party had gone on to the other side of the
bridge and she was alone with Clifford Standish--alone with the agony
of soul that blanched her sweet face to death-like pallor, and made her
clutch at the rails, gasping out that she was ill, dying.
The arch-villain caught her swaying form and held it tenderly in his
arms, while her white, unconscious face rested against his shoulder.
Some country people walking over the bridge at that moment stared in
amazement, and going on to town, reported that, "those actor-folks were
carrying on dreadful on the bridge--hugging right before folks."
But neither of the two participants was troubled over this sensation,
Geraldine being unconscious, and Standish too much absorbed in her to
heed aught else.
In a minute or two she sighed and opened her eyes.
"Oh!" she cried, as she met his eyes gazing deep into hers, and tried
to struggle from his clasp.
"Wait. You cannot stand alone yet," he said, tenderly, then murmured:
"Oh, Geraldine, it breaks my heart to find that you loved him,
that low fireman, so unworthy of you; while I--I--have worshiped
you ever since the hour I first saw you behind the counter, so
bright and beautiful. I have been trying to win you ever since, and
hoped--vainly hoped, as I see now--that I was succeeding. Oh, how did
he succeed--this man you saw but a few hours--in winning your love?"
She struggled from his clasp, her strength returning, her face hot with
blushes of fierce shame.
"It--it--is not true that I love him--no, no, no!" she faltered, wildly.
"But, my dearest girl, you fainted when you heard of his marriage."
"Oh, no, it was not that. I was tired, ill--from traveling, you know,"
cried poor Geraldine, who would have died rather than admit the truth
which her pale, pale cheeks and trembling lips told all too plainly by
their mute despair.
But her denial suited the actor's purpose, and he cried, gladly:
"Oh, I am so happy to hear you say you did not care for him. I
feared--feared--that your kindness to me, your sweet smiles and ready
acceptance of my attentions were only cruel coquetry."
"Oh, no, no," she murmured, helplessly, feeling herself drawn to him by
every word he said.
Had she given him cause, then, to believe she meant to accept him?
He caught her hand, and continued, fondly, eagerly:
"Oh, Geraldine, dare I hope you care for me after all? That you will
let me love you, and you love me a little in return? Will you--be my
wife?"
He saw her shudder as with a mortal chill; then pride came to her aid.
She let him keep the hand he had taken, and she answered, faintly:
"Yes."
And then a great horror of what she had promised rushed over her. How
could she be his wife when she did not love him? Such a marriage would
be sacrilege!
Her head drooped heavily, and her eyes were half-closed as she listened
despairingly to the words of grateful joy he poured out. Not one of
them found an echo in her heart.
Until now she had been grateful to him for his kindness, but a sudden
aversion took root in her heart now, and she felt that she would rather
die than be his wife.
But, to save her life, she could not have opened her lips to take back
her promise.
She knew how angry he would be, how he would accuse her of trifling and
coquetry. She could not bring down on herself the weight of his wrath.
But to the day of her death Geraldine would never forget that hour on
the bridge at Alderson--that hour into whose short compass were crowded
so much pain and regret that she longed for death to end her misery.
Mechanically she heard the whistle of an approaching train coming over
the track at the end of the bridge. The rumble and roar blent with the
rush of the river in her ears as she said, wearily:
"Let us return to the hotel. I--am--so--tired!"
Alas, poor girl! it was a tired heart!
They walked back toward the railroad, and the train came rushing on
with a thunderous roar.
There was not one thought of suicide in her mind--she had always
thought it a weak and cowardly act--but somehow a mad longing for
death--because life was so bitter--seized on unhappy Geraldine.
The train was so close that they must wait for it to pass before they
could cross.
She darted suddenly from the side of Standish and threw herself face
downward across the trembling rails.