Hearts Afire

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.

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.