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  Hearts Afire

  J. D. Rawden

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher.

  Chapters

  IN THE BEGINNING.

  PREARRANGED LOVE.

  TROUBLE WITH FATHER.

  DUELING FOR LOVE.

  A FIGHT TO THE DEATH.

  ROAD TO RECOVERY.

  FOR THE SHAME.

  GIVING OF THANKS.

  GETTING AWAY.

  THE BETRAYAL.

  THE FIRE WITHIN.

  THE TRUE STORY OF THE FIRE.

  IN THE BEGINNING.

  Never, in all its history, was the proud and opulent city of New York more glad and gay than in the bright spring days of Eighteen-Seventy-One. It had put out of sight every trace of the old world, all its homes had been restored and re-furnished, and its sacred places re-consecrated and adorned. Like a young giant ready to run a race, it stood on tiptoe, eager for adventure and discovery— sending ships to the ends of the world, and round the world, on messages of commerce and friendship, and encouraging with applause and rewards that wonderful spirit of scientific invention, which was the Epic of the youthful nation. The skies of Italy were not bluer than the skies above New York; the sunshine of Arcadia not brighter or more genial. It was a city of beautiful, and even splendid, homes; and all the length and breadth of its streets were shaded by trees, in whose green shadows dwelt and walked some of the greatest men of the century.

  These gracious days of Eighteen-Seventy-One were also the early days of the pioneers of political freedom on the aged side of the Atlantic. The merchants on Exchange Street, the Legislators in their Council Chambers, the working men on the wharves and streets, the loveliest women in their homes, and walks, and drives, alike wore the red cockade. The Marseillaise was sung with The Star Spangled Banner; and the notorious Carmagnole could be heard every hour of the day—on stated days, officially, at the Belvedere Club. Love for the new world, hatred for the old, was the spirit of the age; it effected the trend of commerce, it dominated politics, it was the keynote of conversation wherever men and women congregated.

  In these days of wonderful hopes and fears there was, in Brooklyn, a very humble residence—an old house built in the early century as a coach house but converted to residential home. The great linden trees which shaded the garden had been planted by the former owners; so also had the high hedges of cut boxwood, and the wonderful sweet briar, which covered the porch and framed all the windows filling the open rooms in summer time with the airs of Paradise.

  Cornelius Harleigh Daly, the young man of this sketch, was of humble parentage. The elder Daly, fully appreciating the disadvantages of his own position, early determined that his only son should receive a superior education.

  As a consequence, Cornelius—or, as he was more familiarly called, Harleigh—was sent to school at an early age, and on his Eighteenth birthday was in a condition to fairly combat the world and achieve success. He was comely of feature, athletic of frame, and intelligent of mind. He was the pride of his old father and mother, and the admiration of all the friends of the family.

  One day Harleigh returned to his humble home from school to find terror and grief supplanting the usual greeting of joy and pleasure; his father had been brought home in a helpless condition, a victim of the dreaded paralysis. It was evident, now that the head of the family had been incapacitated from further labor, that Harleigh must do something toward their support.

  Throwing to one side all his cherished ambitions and boyish hopes, Harleigh left school and apprenticed himself in a large machine shop located in Brooklyn. His wages at first were small, but being strong of limb and stout of heart, backed by intelligence, he speedily progressed, and in less than two years was promoted to the position of journeyman. His wages sufficed to keep his father and mother in comparative comfort, but even this failed to satisfy him. He yearned for something higher and nobler, and after working a few months as a journeyman, he grew dissatisfied with his position. He loved his old father and mother with all the ardor of his warm generous heart, and he feared lest lack of means should compel him to abridge their enjoyment of little luxuries he deemed necessary for their declining years.

  It chanced one day that the proprietor’s beautiful daughter, Charlotte, visited her father’s establishment, and not finding him in the business office sought him among the workmen. Mr. Morgan was in the act of giving Harleigh some instructions in reference to a piece of work when the rich young beauty approached him, and with girlish impetuousness began questioning about the to her wonderful mysteries of the tools and machinery about her. The indulgent father, after mildly chiding her for thus venturing among the oil-begrimed machinery, turned to Harleigh, who had stood awe-stricken before the beautiful young girl, and said:

  “Harleigh, this is my daughter, Miss Charlotte. She desires to learn something of the uses to which the machinery is applied. Show her around the shop.”

  At the sound of his employer’s voice Harleigh recovered a portion of his senses, and, blushing and bowing toward the radiant beauty, who flashed the brilliancy of her brown eyes full upon him, muttered some incoherent response, and waited for the young lady’s commands.

  Mr. Morgan walked away toward his office, and Miss Charlotte’s manner toward the young mechanic was so kind that his first confusion melted away like snow before the summer sun, and in five minutes the beautiful heiress and the hard-handed mechanic were chatting together with the familiarity of old acquaintances.

  Miss Morgan seemed determined to learn all the details of the business, and Harleigh was only too pleased to instruct her in the use and appliance of the tools and machinery.

  All pleasant things must some time have an ending, and the tour of the shop was at last completed. It had taken them nearly two hours to go through, however, and Harleigh would have been the happiest of mortals if he could have had the privilege of being Miss Charlotte’s conductor and instructor forever.

  “Good-by, Harleigh,” murmured Miss Charlotte, extending her aristocratic hand, white as alabaster, toward our young man, when the inspection of the machinery was at last completed. “Good-by. I am ever so much obliged to you.”

  It was, undoubtedly, very foolish and very improper, but when those dainty fingers touched his palm, Harleigh caught them up and, bending over, kissed the little hand with the courtly grace of a cavalier. Miss Charlotte blushed, but did not seek to prevent this delicate homage, and with another “Good-by,” tripped away, while poor Harleigh’s head whirled around more rapidly than did the fly-wheel of the great engine.

  Harleigh lingered in the shop, because he had suddenly, and as yet unconsciously, entered into that tender mystery, so common and so sovereign, which we call Love. In Charlotte's presence he had been suffused with a bewildering, profound emotion, which had fallen on him as the gentle showers fall, to make the flowers of spring. A shy happiness, a trembling delightful feeling never known before, filled his heart. This beautiful youth, whom he had only seen once, and in the most informal manner, affected him as no other mortal had ever done. He was a little afraid; something, he knew not what, of mystery and danger and delight, was between them; and he did not feel that he could speak of it. It seemed, indeed, as if he would need a special language to do so.

  This was the beginning, and all the remainder of that day and the next and the next Harleigh saw nothing, could think
of nothing but Miss Charlotte Morgan. He lost his appetite, grew moody, shunned companionship with his fellow-workmen, and it is positively asserted that on more than one occasion he secreted himself in the vicinity of the Morgan mansion to feast his eyes, if possible, on the person of his lady love.

  Seldom is Love ushered into any life with any pomp of circumstance or ceremony; there is no overture to our opera, no prologue to our play, and the most momentous meetings occur as if by mere accident. A friend delayed Miss Charlotte Morgan a while on the Brooklyn street; and turning, she met Harleigh face to face; a moment more, or less, and the meeting had not been. Ah, but some Power had set that moment for their meeting, and the delay had been intended, and the consequences foreseen!

  In a dim kind of way Harleigh realized this fact as he sat the next day with an open book before him. He was not reading it; he was thinking of Charlotte—of her pure, fresh beauty; and of that adorable air of reserve, which enhanced, even while it veiled her charms. “For her love I could resign all adventures in life and prison myself in a book of love,” he said, “I could forget all other beauties; in a word, I could marry, and live in the country. Oh how exquisite she is! I lose my speech when I think of her!”

  Then he closed his book with impatience, and went to the Brooklyn floral shop and bought a little rush basket filled with sweet violets. Into their midst he slipped his calling card, and saw the boy on his way with the flowers to Charlotte ere he was satisfied they would reach her quickly enough. This finished, he began to consider what he should do with his day. Reading was impossible; and he could think of nothing that was possible. “It is the most miserable thing,” he muttered, “to be in love, unless you can go to the adored one, every hour, and tell her so,”—then turning aimlessly into Adams Street, he saw Charlotte.

  She was dressed only in a little morning gown of Indian chintz, but in such simple toilet had still more distinctively that air of youthful modesty which he had found so charmingly tantalizing. He hasted to her side. He thanked his good fortune for sending him such an enchanting surprise. He said the most extravagant things, in the most truthful manner, as he watched the blushes of pleasure come and go on her lovely face, and saw by glimpses, under the veiling eyelids, that tender light that never was on sea or land, but only on a woman's face when her soul is awakening to Love.

  Charlotte was going to the “Universal Store” of Lady Denham, and Harleigh begged to go with her. He said he was used to shopping; that he always went with his mother, and many others; that he had good taste, and could tell the value of laces, and knew how to choose a piece of silk, or match the crewels for her embroidery; and, indeed, pleaded his case so merrily, that there was no refusing his offer. And how it happened lovers can tell, but after the shopping was finished they found themselves walking towards her home with the fresh wind, and the bright sunshine and the joy of each other's presence all around them.

  “Now, Harleigh, confess you've been vastly standoffish this morning. Twice have I spoken to you and you've not troubled to answer me—nay, let me finish! And once you looked at me like I had a raccoon on my head! Yes sir, you did!”

  “Did I now, Charlotte? ’Tis a surly brute you're after thinking me, then?”

  Charlotte walked up and sidled round to him.

  “You truly are a brute, Harleigh?”

  He flung an arm about her and drew her on to his side.

  “Sure, yes, Charlotte.”

  “Well then, Harleigh, had you not better tell me what it is that silences you?” she coaxed, laying a persuasive hand around his shoulder.

  He smiled up at her.

  “Tis just an inquisitive cuss you are!”

  Charlotte then gave Harleigh the pout that melts all mens hearts.

  “And ye should not pout your pretty lips at me if ye are not wanting me to kiss them!” he added, suiting the action to the word.

  “But of course I do!” cried Charlotte, returning the kiss with fervour. “Nay, Harleigh, tell me.”

  “I see ye mean to have the whole tale out of me, so—”

  “To be sure I do!” Charlotte nodded.

  He laid a warning finger on her lips and summoned up a mighty frown.

  “Now will ye be done interrupting, me my lady?”

  Not a whit abashed, she bit the finger, pushed it away, and folding her hands in her chest, cast her eyes meekly heavenwards.

  With a twinkle in his own eyes the young man continued:

  “Well, Charlotte, ye must know that yesterday I was at the machine shop with your father—and he treated me roughly, and I had very uneasy feelings about the matter—”

  On a sudden Charlotte's demure air changed.

  “Is that so, Harleigh? I make no doubt your feelings were true? Realize, how much father loves me?”

  “Whisht, darlin', is a mere thrifle, I assure you.... things will play out—”

  My lady's eyes widened in comfortableness, and two little hands clutched at his coat.

  “Oh, Harleigh!”

  His arm tightened round her waist.

  “Such a miraculous piece of happiness!” the young fellow ejaculated; and his joy was so evident that Charlotte could not bear to spoil it with any reluctances, or with half-way graciousness. She fell into his joyous mood, and as star to star vibrates light, so his soul touched her soul, through some finer element than ordinary life is conscious of. A delightsome gladness was between them, and their words had such heart gaiety, that they seemed to dance as they spoke; while the wind blowing Charlotte's hair, and scarf, and drapery, was like a merry playfellow.

  Time went swiftly, and suddenly Charlotte remembered that she was subject to hours and minutes, A little fear came into her heart, and closed it, and she said, with a troubled air, “My mother will be anxious. I had forgotten. I must go home.” So they walked with much determination, and Charlotte was silent, and the ardour of her lover was a little chilled; but yet never before had Charlotte heard simple conversation which seemed so eloquent, and so full of meanings— only, now and then, a few brief words; but oh! What long, long thoughts, they carried with them!

  At the gates of her home they stood a moment, and there Harleigh touched her hand, and said, “I have never, in all my life, been so happy. It has been a walk beyond hope, and beyond expression!” And she lifted her face, and the smile on her lips and the light in her eyes answered him. Then the great white door shut her from his sight, and he walked rapidly away, saying to his impetuous steps—

  “An enchanting creature! An adorable girl! I have given her my heart; and lost, is lost; and gone, is gone forever. That I am sure of. But, by George! Every man has his fate, and I rejoice that mine is so sweet and fair! So sweet! So sweet! So fair!”

  Charlotte trembled as she opened the parlor door, she feared to look into her mother's face, but it was as serene as usual, and she met her daughter's glance with one of infinite affection and some little expectancy. This was a critical moment, and Charlotte hesitated slightly. Some little false sprite put a ready excuse into her heart, but she banished it at once, and with the courage of one who fears lest they are not truthful enough, she said with a blunt directness which put all subterfuge out of the question—

  “Mother, I have been a long time, but I met Harleigh, and we walked down to the Universal Store; and I think I have stayed beyond the hour I ought to have stayed—but the weather was so delightful.”

  “The weather is very delightful, and Harleigh is very polite.”

  “I suppose he is.”

  “The young man is very extravagant, I think. Do you know that it is quite noon, and your father will be home in a little while?”

  And there was such kind intent, such a divining sympathy in the simple words, so that Charlotte's heart grew warm with pleasure; and she felt that her mother understood, and did not much blame her. At the same time she was glad to escape all questioning, and with the violets pressed to her heart, and her shining eyes dropped to them, she went with some haste to her
room. There she kissed the flowers, one by one, as she put them in the refreshing water; and then, forgetting all else, sat down and permitted herself to enter the delicious land of Reverie. She let the thought of Harleigh repossess her; and present again and again to her imagination his form, his face, his voice, and those long caressing looks she had seen and felt, without seeming to be aware of them.

  A short time after Charlotte came home, Mr. Morgan returned from his shop. As he entered the room, his wife looked at him with a curious interest. In the first place, the tenor of her thoughts led her to this observation. She wished to assure herself again that the man for whom she had given up everything previously dear to her was worthy of such sacrifice. A momentary glance satisfied her. Nature had left the impress of her nobility on his finely-formed forehead; nothing but truth and kindness looked from his candid eyes; and his manner, if a little dogmatic, had also an unmistakable air of that distinction which comes from long and honorable ancestry and a recognized position. He had also this morning an air of unusual solemnity, and on entering the room, he drew his wife close to his heart and kissed her affectionately, a token of love he was not apt to give without thought, or under every circumstance.

  “You are a little earlier today,” she said. “I am glad of it.”

  “I have had a morning full of back orders from the shop, and had to get away from all.”

  “And have you met with the rigorous demand this morning?”

  “Indeed, yes, and where is Charlotte?”

  “In her room, she went to the Universal Store this morning for me, and

  Harleigh met her, and they took a walk together to the store.

  It was near the noon hour when she returned.”

  “She told you about it?”

  “Oh yes, and without inquiry.”

  “Very good. I must look after that young fellow.” But he said the words without much care, Mrs. Morgan was not satisfied.

  “Then you do not disapprove the meeting?” she asked.

  “Yes, I do. I disapprove of any young man in my employment meeting my daughter. Charlotte is too young for lovers, and it is not desirable that she should have attentions from young men who have no intentions. I do not want her to be what is called a belle. Certainly not.”