A STARTLING DECLARATION.
"Eyes that are closed to earthly sight,
Can never wake to weep;
Nor pain, nor woe, nor grief, nor blight,
Can move that slumber deep.
"So hearts of dust all griefs forsake,
They never break nor bleed;
The living hearts that throb and ache
Our tender pity need."
The newly made widow leaned against the berth where the dead man lay
with his face hidden beneath the sheet, her face in her hands, sobbing
in a subdued but heart-broken way. None of the other berths had been
made up yet, and the few men in the car looked solemn and ill at
ease. A gayly dressed mulatto woman, evidently the lady's maid, was
whispering to the smart yellow porter.
Geraldine paused by the weeping woman with a timid glance that took
in every detail of her appearance--the elegant curves of the stately
figure in a fine cloth traveling gown, the glint of golden hair beneath
the dark, close hat, the glittering rings on the hands that held the
handkerchief to her face.
She whispered, shyly, to Standish:
"She is one of those grand aristocrats that I used to see at O'Neill's
store. I'm afraid to speak to her. Some of them are so proud, so
haughty, they can wither you with a look."
"Suppose we go back, then, to our seats," he returned, eagerly.
But something held Geraldine by the mourner's side, in spite of her
terror of proud, rich women; and as a sudden low sob broke on the air,
she started hurriedly forward with a gentle touch on the lady's arm,
bending her face down to whisper, brokenly, out of the wealth of her
sympathy:
"Oh, I am so sorry for you, I am so sorry for you! May God help you to
bear it!"
The mourner lifted up a lovely face framed in golden hair--the face of
a woman somewhere between thirty and forty--and met the glance of those
sweet brown eyes swimming in sympathetic tears, and her heart seemed to
answer the girl's words. With another heart-breaking sob, she dropped
her face against Geraldine's shoulder, and let the girlish arms infold
her like a daughter's clasp.
"Come away to a seat," she whispered, and led her away some distance
from the berth.
Sitting side by side, they mingled their tears together, for it seemed
to Geraldine as if she could feel, by some divine instinct, all the
force of the other woman's grief.
"For what, if I were married to my darling Harry, and Death took
him--oh, it would break my heart!" she thought, wildly.
Standish had followed and taken a seat just behind her, where he could
listen to every word that passed.
Oh, how she hated him for his dastardly espionage, but she dared not
openly revolt. She bided her time.
She felt with a keen thrill of pleasure how the strange lady clung
to her in the abandonment of her grief, nestling her weary head so
confidingly against her shoulder, and letting her arm rest around the
girl's waist.
"Tell me if there is anything I can do for you," she whispered, kindly,
and the mourner hushed her sobs and murmured:
"Tell the conductor to make arrangements to take--take--my poor husband
through to Chicago, our home."
Standish beckoned the conductor back to the seat, and there was a
colloquy for some time over mournful details. When he went away, the
lady who had grown calmer, lifted her tearful face, and looked at
Geraldine, eagerly, tenderly.
"Who are you, child, with that voice and face from the haunting past?
What is your name?"
"I am Geraldine Harding!"
"Geraldine Harding! Oh, Heaven!" springing to her feet in strange
excitement, her blue eyes glittering through their tears.
Geraldine did not know what to make of her strange excitement, so she
waited, mutely, while the lady went on, breathlessly:
"Where did you live?--oh, I mean, tell me all about yourself! Oh, I
am in such trouble that I cannot express myself clearly! I mean no
impertinence, but I am terribly interested in you and in your past."
"There is not much in my past that could interest you, dear
madame--only the simple story of a poor country girl who came to New
York, with another girl, to earn her own living," Geraldine said,
modestly.
"So young, so lovely! Yet thrown on the world to earn her bread!"
murmured the lady, tearfully. She caught the girl's hand, holding it
tightly as she continued: "Your parents, dear? Why did they let you
leave them?"
"I was an orphan, madame."
"An orphan! Where was your home?"
"I lived in the country near New York, with a farmer, to whom my father
took me when I was a delicate child. The farmer's name was Newell,
and his wife, Malinda, had formerly been a servant to my mother. She
gave me tender, motherly care, and raised me from a frail child to a
robust girl. My father sent money for a while, then he died, and left
me dependent on those people. They were poor and had a hard struggle to
get along with their large brood of children, so I--I--wearied of the
life, and ran away to seek my fortune in the great city."
"And your mother, Geraldine?"
"My father said that she was dead," she replied, simply.
"It was false! He, your cruel father, took you from me! I am your own
mother, darling!" cried the lady, extending imploring arms.