"I WILL TEST MY DARLING'S LOVE."
"I have heard or dreamt, it may be--
What love is when true;
How to test it--how to try it--
It the gift of few.
Only a true heart can find it
True as it is true;
Only eyes as clear and tender
Look it through and through."
The handsome young lord looked at his mother in surprise when she
uttered those words: "Perhaps you remember the beautiful little
American girl to whom you were betrothed when she was barely two years
old?"
That episode of his childish days had almost escaped the young man's
memory, so he said, carelessly:
"Indeed, I have almost forgotten it, dear mother."
"Then I must refresh your memory, Leland, for you are old enough now to
redeem your pledge."
Lord Putnam looked startled, and said, hastily:
"Of course, you would not consider a trifle like that binding on a
grown man."
The stately mother looked somewhat disappointed, and answered, slowly:
"I had hoped it might be, especially as you have no other entanglement."
"Why are you so sure of that, my dear mother?"
She started, and gave him a frightened look.
"Oh, I--I--hope there is none," she said, vaguely.
For a moment it came to him to tell her this love story.
"A mother's sympathy would be very sweet," he thought.
But a sudden impulse of pride restrained him.
"For what if it be proved that Geraldine is unworthy? How could I bear
to be pitied?" he thought, with the sensitive pride of true manhood.
So he answered, evasively:
"I was only teasing you, dear mother. Go on with the story you have to
tell me."
With a quick sigh of relief, she plunged into the subject:
"As I was saying, when you were a manly little lad of seven, a cousin
of mine, from New York, paid me a long visit here, and she had with her
a lovely little daughter of two years. You and the little girl were
almost inseparable, so much so that my cousin Florence and myself began
to look forward to a possible future that might unite your destinies in
one. In brief, we solemnly betrothed you to each other."
"I begin to remember it all now, only the little one's name, which
escapes my memory," smiled the young man, as a vision of a tiny
golden-haired beauty returned to his mind from the past.
"But you were parted soon after that," continued Lady Putnam. "My
cousin returned to her American home, and suffered a series of
misfortunes. Her husband proved unfaithful, and a divorce followed.
She married within two years a splendid gentleman--a Western
millionaire--but the happiness of her second union was destroyed by
a terrible trial. Her first husband stole away her lovely daughter,
little Geraldine, and all these years the most rigid search has failed
to find her, so that----"
"Mother, mother, I beg your pardon for interrupting--but--but--you
said the girl's name was Geraldine," exclaimed the young man, starting
to his feet and betraying for the first time an interest in the subject.
The utterance of that dear and beloved name--Geraldine--had touched
a vibrating chord in his sore heart, and he waited in breathless
eagerness for her reply.
Lady Putnam, not understanding his fiery impatience, replied, placidly:
"Had you, indeed, forgotten the very name of your dainty little
American sweetheart, Leland? Yes, it was Geraldine--Geraldine Harding."
"Oh, Heaven!" and Lord Putnam sank back to his seat the picture of
surprise.
Here was a romance indeed!
It was, it must be, his own loved Geraldine of whom his mother was
telling him.
They had been betrothed from their very childhood, he and pretty
Geraldine. How sweet was the thought!
No wonder their hearts had leaped to greet each other the first moment
of their meeting in New York.
But the thought of the mystery that surrounded her fate now forced a
hollow groan from his lips.
"What is it, my son? You are not ill?" exclaimed Lady Putnam, in alarm.
"No, no; it was only a passing twinge of pain. Do not mind me, but go
on, if you have any more to tell. But perhaps your story is finished."
"No, indeed, for the best part is to come," smiled the lady.
"The best part," he repeated, incredulously.
"Yes, for I have a letter from Florence Fitzgerald, my cousin--the
first letter in several years. I told you, did I not, that since her
second marriage she has lived in Chicago--that great Western city where
they held that wonderful World's Fair, you know, Leland."
"Yes, I know. I was there."
"Well, this letter from Chicago contains both good and bad news.
Florence has lost her good and kind husband, and found her missing
daughter."
"Found her daughter! Found Geraldine Harding!" cried the young man,
springing to his feet, in wild excitement.
"Yes, or Geraldine Fitzgerald, as she calls her now. And, Leland,
she will be a great heiress, for her mother's large private fortune
will be given to her eldest daughter, as her second husband left her
millions of money and a perfect palace of a home on Prairie avenue,
the grandest location in the city."
She paused again in alarm, for this time her son had fallen back in his
chair, his face death-white, his eyes half-closed.
Her words had been such a revelation to him that the joy of it all
overcame him.
He remembered instantly the day he had seen the beautiful girl getting
into the carriage before the artist's studio.
He had cried out that he knew her, but Ralph Washburn had said it was
Miss Fitzgerald, a great heiress.
So he supposed himself mistaken, and the cruel disappointment had made
him actually ill.
But now he knew that it was no mistake.
It was Geraldine herself that he had seen--dear, beautiful Geraldine,
his own betrothed, his heart's darling.
He cared nothing for what his mother had said about her being a great
heiress.
He loved her for herself alone, and he was rich enough for both.
He would rather have had her remain poor, so that he could have
bestowed everything upon her himself.
But, oh, the joy of knowing that she was safe under her mother's roof,
safe where he could find her again--it made him dizzy with such a
rapture of joy and relief that his face paled with emotion, and his
eyes nearly closed, startling Lady Putnam so that she sprang to his
side, exclaiming, in alarm:
"You are indeed ill, my dear boy, and I must send for a physician.
Please tell me in what way you are affected."
"It is my heart, dear mother!" he groaned, then caught her around the
waist, laughing: "Forgive me for alarming you, dearest mother. I am not
in the least ill; only overcome with joy at hearing that my darling
betrothed is found again."
"Do you really mean it, Leland?" she inquired, dubiously.
"Indeed I do mean it, and I can hardly wait for the time when I shall
return to America to claim my bonny bride."
She saw that a curious transformation had come over him.
His cheeks were flushed, and his dark-blue eyes flashed with joy.
She had never seen him look so radiantly happy.
But a sigh heaved her breast as she replied to his words:
"But I fear that I may never see her your bride, Leland, for her
mother owns in the letter that the girl has formed an attachment for a
poor young man she knew in New York when she was only a poor salesgirl
at O'Neill's store. She clings stubbornly to this poor fireman,
although she has been told all about her betrothal to you."
"She repudiates my claim, eh?" he laughed, gayly.
"It seems so," she answered.
"Let me see the letter, please, mother."
She gave it to him, and although it covered many pages, he read it with
the deepest interest.
And no wonder, for he found there the story of all that had happened
to Geraldine since she had boarded the train for Chicago with Clifford
Standish. Mrs. Fitzgerald had not failed to relate the discomfiture
of the villain who had kidnaped her daughter. Oh, the gladness of his
heart when he found how Geraldine had been saved from the villain's
power and restored to her mother's arms.
He knew that he could tell all his story to his mother now, for
Geraldine was proved pure and faithful; but a moment's reflection
decided him not to do so yet a while.
He had a romantic fancy to prove Geraldine's love to the utmost,
now that she had come into fortune and position. Not as the Lord of
Raneleigh would he woo her, but as Harry Hawthorne, the fireman. Then
he would know the true value of her heart.
His first impulse was to return to America at once, his impatience
to see her was so great; but he remembered that it would be almost
impossible to do so now.
It was not yet two weeks since his father had been buried, and his
mother and sister were very sad and lonely. They would be loath to have
him leave them so soon. Besides, as the new lord, there were matters to
be seen to that could scarcely admit of delay.
He remembered, too, that he had guests for whom he had planned a
tour to London and Paris. It would not look well to desert them now.
Business and hospitable duties would detain him here at least two weeks
longer before he could return to America.
In the meantime, Geraldine was safe with her mother.
Standish, having received such a rebuff from Mrs. Fitzgerald would
naturally relinquish his pursuit as hopeless. Indeed, the detective's
news that the actor was engaged in a flirtation with the governess had
seemed to be proof that he had given over his persecution of Geraldine.
He was off with the old love and on with the new.
So our hero, believing that everything was working together for his
happiness, permitted himself to indulge in a delightful conviction of
security--a very mistaken one, as the sequel will show.
Smiling fondly on his anxious mother, he said:
"Mother, I have a very romantic plan for winning my pretty betrothed
from her fireman lover, and I will explain it to you soon. But you must
not reply to Mrs. Fitzgerald's letter until I give you leave."