"CALL PRIDE TO YOUR AID, GERALDINE."
"It is a common fate--a woman's lot--
To waste on one the riches of her soul,
Who takes the wealth she gives him, but cannot
Repay the interest, and much less the whole.
"'Tis a sad gift, that much applauded thing,
A constant heart; for fact doth daily prove
That constancy finds oft a cruel sting,
While fickle natures win the deeper love."
We must return to our description of the scene in the theatre when the
curtain rose on the first act, and the eager eyes of the large audience
turned upon the stage.
The heroine of the play, Laurel Vane, a beautiful girl, left penniless
and alone by the death of her only surviving parent, was discovered
weeping in the shabby room from which she would soon be turned out,
because she had no money to pay her rent.
Enter the handsome villain, Ross Powell, who declares his love for
Laurel, and makes wicked proposals.
Repulsed with scorn, he departs, vowing vengeance on the scornful
little beauty.
Desperate with misery, Laurel seeks a beautiful young lady, the noble
daughter of a publisher, for whose magazine her father had written
until his death.
"She is a sister-woman, and will help me in my trouble," thought the
poor girl.
Between this splendid Miss Gordon and her clever maid, a plan was
formed by which the orphan girl (by sailing under false colors) became
the honored guest of wealthy people, and afterward the bride of a proud
aristocrat, who thought he had married the peerless Miss Gordon, and
had never heard of poor little Laurel Vane, who was his worshiped wife.
Upon this conspiracy hung all the plot of the play, and the leading
parts were taken, first by Clifford Standish, leading man, the part of
the hero, St. Leon Le Roy; the part of the heroine, Laurel Vane, by
Geraldine Harding; the villain, Ross Powell, by Cameron Clemens; and
Miss Gordon by Madeline Mills, the usual star of the company, although
she had yielded precedence in this case to Geraldine, who looked so
exactly the part of the _ingenue_ heroine, with her starry brown eyes
and curly golden hair.
But it is not necessary to our story to go into the details of the
play. Although it enthralled the attention of the sympathetic audience,
it held even greater interest for the party in the Stansbury box,
because they knew two of the actors so well.
How it thrilled Harry Hawthorne to see pretty Geraldine again, even
though he deprecated her stage career so bitterly.
As for Cissy, the tears sprang to her eyes when she first saw her lost
friend, looking so familiar in the same simple black serge gown she
had worn behind the counter when she was only a salesgirl at O'Neill's
great store, and which answered excellently well for the mourning gown
of the orphan heroine. Indeed, that floating mass of golden locks was
glory enough to lend beauty to the shabbiest attire.
They watched her with absorbing interest through the changes of the
play, but for a long time Geraldine did not perceive them. She was
absorbed in her work, and did not cast coquettish glances at the boxes,
like the other actresses. It was well she did not, for the sight of
them would have unnerved her cruelly.
But Clifford Standish was on the alert, and while posing as the
magnificent Le Roy, scowled secretly at the occupants of that
particular box.
When the first act was over, he intercepted Geraldine on her way to the
dressing-room, and said:
"I have something very particular to tell you.
"Yes."
"Now call your pride to your aid, dear one, for you will be shocked, I
know. But I thought it best to put you on your guard."
"Yes," she answered, paling suddenly, but with her small head proudly
erect.
"Have you noticed the first box to the right?"
"No, I have not looked at the house at all. I heard it was crowded,"
wearily.
"It is, and we have made a hit. But--that box--there's a theatre party
in it--all people that you know."
"Indeed," listlessly, pretending no interest.
"Yes, and I tell you about them now so you will not notice them when
you go on again in the second part. They are the Stansburys; the bride
and groom, Harry and Mrs. Hawthorne; the two single Odell girls, and
Cissy Carroll, with three young men--their beaus, no doubt."
She clutched his arm with a trembling hand.
"I--I--wish you had not told me," she faltered. "I--shall--be nervous
now--in my part, I fear."
"You do not mean that you can care for that fellow still--you, my
promised bride, and he the husband of Daisy Odell?" reproachfully.
"Oh, no, no; do not accuse me of such weakness," wildly. "But there
is--Cissy, you know--Cissy turned against me, and we were so fond once!"
Her voice was almost a wail.
"Do not think of her, my dearest love--she is not worthy of it, the
jealous, envious creature! Call pride to help you appear indifferent.
Do not even turn your head toward that box, and they need never know
how they have wounded your fond heart," he persisted, anxiously.
"Yes, yes; I will obey you," she answered, faintly.
"And, Geraldine, my darling--my sweet, promised bride--you know how
madly I love you, but you have denied all my prayers for an immediate
marriage! Will you not relent and make me the happiest man on earth?
Oh, let us be married to-night after the play! It can be managed easily
enough. Say yes, dearest?"
A call-boy came through the corridor, chanting:
"Only five minutes till next act--only five minutes."
She broke away from him, panting, breathlessly:
"I cannot answer you now."
She fled to her dressing-room, glad to escape his importunities, yet
feeling as if she did not do him justice by her lack of love.
"He is so patient, so tender, and so eager to spare me pain, that I
ought to love him more than I do," she told herself.
Respect and esteem she could give him, for she believed that he was
good and noble, so well had he acted the traitor's part; but love--oh,
we cannot give love at will!
"Life's perfect June, Love's red, red rose,
Have burned and bloomed for me.
Though still youth's summer sunlight glows;
Though thou art kind, dear friend, I find
I have no heart for thee."
She stole to the wings one moment, to gaze by stealth at the theatre
party, and by the merest accident Harry Hawthorne was leaning over
the bride's chair, talking to her of some trifle, but the sight made
Geraldine draw back all white and quivering, with a cruel pang at her
heart.
"I hate him!" she moaned, to herself, in a passion of jealous despair.
But when she came upon the stage she did not look again at the box, or
she would have seen that Harry Hawthorne sat apart from Daisy, by the
side of Cissy. She acted her part well, for in it there was much of the
tragic pain that suited well with her desperate mood.
At the close of the second act, Standish renewed his pleadings for
a marriage that night, and in her bitter mood, Geraldine, like many
others who exchange one pain for another in mad impatience, ceased to
struggle against his importunities and yielded a passive consent to his
ardent prayer.