GERALDINE'S DEFIANCE.
"There are some sweet affections
That wealth cannot buy,
That cling but still closer
When sorrow draws nigh;
As the mistletoe clings
To the oak, not in part,
But with leaves closely round it,
The root in its heart."
CHARLES SWAIN.
Mrs. Fitzgerald sighed, and continued:
"I must touch briefly now on a subject painful to us both--your
father's faithlessness."
"Oh, mamma, how could he be false to one like you--so noble, so
beautiful?" cried Geraldine, in wonder.
"He was weak and easily flattered by a designing woman--that is all
I will say, Geraldine, for how can I disparage an erring father to
his child? Well, while I remained at my cousin's in Devonshire, my
husband kept running back and forth to Paris, seeming infatuated by
its charms. At length a rumor reached me that he was lavishing money
and attention on a notorious woman who had caught his fancy. I wrote
to him, begging that he would deny it, but he treated my letter with
disdain, plunging more recklessly into dissipation, and even appearing
in public by the side of the woman who had lured him from me, seated
in a magnificent vehicle he had purchased for her use. To be brief,
Geraldine, his vile conduct killed every spark of love I ever had for
him. I returned to my home in New York and secured a divorce as soon as
possible, encouraged by my father, who was then living. But he died in
a few months, and afterward I was very lonely, having no near relatives
to cheer me except you, my pet and darling. At a watering-place I met
Mr. Fitzgerald, and a mutual fascination for each other was followed
by an early marriage. Soon after our return from our bridal tour, your
father--enraged, perhaps that I could find happiness with another--came
to Chicago and stole you away. A cruel fate foiled all my efforts to
trace you, until that day when chance brought us face to face."
"Do not call it chance, mamma; it was Providence, surely, that saved me
from that wretch!" cried pretty Geraldine, fervently.
"We will call it Providence, then," agreed her mother, and continued:
"Until the last few years, when my heart and thoughts were all
occupied by your step-father's failing health, I kept up a regular
correspondence with my cousin, Lady Putnam, and her letters were filled
with praises of her noble son, Leland. She had a sweet little daughter
also, called Amy, but her pride seemed to centre in the boy who would
inherit his father's rank and wealth."
She paused, sighed, then added:
"Now, Geraldine, you see how I had planned your future before you were
so cruelly stolen from me. And now that you have been restored to my
heart, all my old ambitions for you have revived. Can you wonder that
I prefer for you to marry noble Leland Putnam, whom I have known and
loved ever since his childhood, rather than a stranger, who, however
worthy, is poor and obscure, and could not elevate you to the position
your beauty merits?"
Geraldine had listened silently and earnestly. The romantic story of
her childish betrothal pleased her, but it could not turn her true
heart from its firm allegiance.
She said, gently:
"You have told me a deeply touching story, dear mamma. I grieve that
my own father proved so false and unworthy, and I rejoice that I did
not inherit his fickleness, for my heart is true as steel to the first
object of its choice. I can never cease to love Harry Hawthorne, and
as for the betrothal you speak of, it was simply a childish affair,
forgotten, no doubt by all but yourself."
"You are mistaken, my dear; for my cousin often mentioned it in her
letters after you were lost to us, as we feared, forever. I shall write
to her this very day, and tell her you are found again."
"But not one word of that childish engagement, please, mamma! I will
not be offered to any man!" remonstrated Geraldine, in alarm.
"Certainly not, Geraldine. Of course, I know what is due to you. But if
Leland revives it of himself, if he still claims you, you cannot refuse
to marry him!"
Geraldine felt as if she were choking.
A cruel fate seemed to destine her to a loveless marriage.
Oh, how could her mother be so cruel, so heartless, wrapped up in
sordid ambition, reckless of a young heart's misery!
Filled with fear and anger at her threatening fate, she sprang to her
feet, crying, passionately:
"Mamma, I do not wish to offend you, but--but--I will not be forced
into a loveless marriage. I will be true to Harry, though the whole
world oppose me! Why, I would rather have remained a poor salesgirl
forever than have lost him, my own true love, by finding myself an
heiress!"
The passionate defiance was out, and the mother knew that all her
ambitions were likely to be defeated by a girl's perversity.
She called it perversity in her mind. She would not own that it was
love--constant, faithful love, that has been the theme of poets since
first they struck the sounding lyre.
She did not want to excite the girl any further now, though she
determined that in the end she should yield to her mother's will.
Rising from her seat, she quitted the room like a skillful general,
though casting one single glance backward that rankled reproachfully in
Geraldine's heart.