Pretty Geraldine, the New York Salesgirl; or, Wedded to Her Choice

Though he may be fast and witty,
Rapid streams are seldom deep."

    Francis S. Smith.
Geraldine hastened to her room and scrawled a hasty line to Clifford Standish:

"You may call at eight o'clock this evening."

When she had dispatched the note by a servant, she threw herself, weeping, on a sofa.

Her fond heart was almost broken by her mother's command to give up her lover.

"I will not obey her, for she has no right to demand such a sacrifice from me!" she sobbed, resentfully.

It was true that she had already written to Hawthorne, telling him all that had happened to her since she had seen him last, and adding that no change of fortune could turn her heart from its love. She had begged him to answer her letter as soon as received, and added a postscript to ask him to go and tell Cissy Carroll what she had written.

But an adverse fate seemed always to come between Geraldine and her heart's choice.

Hawthorne, who was in Chicago by this time, vainly seeking his lost love, was fated not to receive the letter.

But Clifford Standish, writhing with impatience over the uncertainty that attended his love affair, was elated at the reception of Geraldine's note permitting him to call.

When the time approached, he laid aside the clumsy disguise he had assumed, and clothed himself in "purple and fine linen," as the saying goes, hoping to make some impression on the girl's proud mother by his handsome person and stately manners. He remembered how contemptuously she had called him "that person," and flattered himself that she could not deny him the title of a gentleman now.

Promptly at the time appointed he presented himself at the splendid Fitzgerald mansion, and was ushered into a luxurious little reception-room, where he waited in solitude some time after sending his card to the ladies.

He smiled to himself, as he thought:

"Geraldine is probably adorning herself in all the splendors of her newly acquired wealth to startle me with her beauty. She will burst upon me presently in gorgeous array, rustling in silk, and loaded with jewels, with all the purse-proud vulgarity of the nouveaux riche."

And he did not reflect that he himself, following the "loud" taste of many actors, was almost too stunningly dressed for gentlemanly effect.

But just as he began to grow decidedly impatient at the long delay, a handsome young woman came softly through the draped door, and, advancing toward him, said, courteously:

"Mrs. Fitzgerald desires that you will excuse her delay in coming in. She has been detained by an unexpected caller, but will be with you in a few minutes now."

He sprang excitedly to his feet.

"Azuba!" burst from his lips.

The handsome young woman, who had scarcely looked at him before, turned her eyes toward him at that cry, and recoiled with a stifled shriek of unutterable dismay.

Clifford Standish came close up to her, muttering:

"Azuba, what are you doing here?"

The woman's face became death-white with sudden fear, and lifting her hand warningly, she almost, hissed:

"Hush! breathe not that name beneath this roof! It is not my name now!"

"Another alias, then," he muttered. "What is it now?"

Her reply came with a groan:

"What does that matter to you? I am done with you and the past forever—I am trying to lead an honest life and earn an honest, respectable living. For Heaven's sake, do not betray me to these people!"

"What are you doing here?"

"I am governess to Mrs. Fitzgerald's children. I am trusted and liked by the whole family, and I try to deserve it. Will you go away, and leave me in peace to my new life?" she prayed, with clasped hands, her large blue eyes swimming in frightened, beseeching tears.

"I have no wish to trouble you, Azuba– Oh, pardon, that name was a slip of the tongue! What do you call yourself now?"

"Simply Kate Erroll—Miss Erroll to all. I have a right to that name. It was my mother's before she was married. But I cannot stay to talk to you now. I must go; but keep my secret, will you, Clifford Standish?"

"What if I refuse?" he demanded, and she answered, quickly:

"You could not injure me without bringing down harm upon yourself;" and with that vague threat the handsome governess fled by another door just as Mrs. Fitzgerald entered, a sombre object in the long, trailing black robes of widowhood.

She bowed to him with a sort of cold expectancy. Calling all his native effrontery to his aid, he rose, and said, theatrically:

"Mrs. Fitzgerald, I have come to plead with you to sanction my engagement to your daughter, Geraldine. We love each other devotedly, and it would break our loving hearts to be separated. You may think, perhaps, that I am no mate for your daughter, because you are rich; but that is a great mistake. I am an actor, I own, but I am paid a magnificent salary. My mother is very rich, and makes me a handsome allowance. At her death—and she cannot live much longer, being quite old and frail—I shall inherit her large fortune and can support my wife in grand style."

CHAPTER XXXIV.

ENEMIES AT BAY

"Punishment o'ertakes the transgression,
In time;
Fate compels a full confession,
In time.
None can safely sin forever—
Conscience leaves the bosom never—
It will crush guilt's best endeavor,
In time."

    Francis S. Smith.
Clifford Standish paused to note the effect of his boasting on Mrs. Fitzgerald.

Every statement he had made was a falsehood, but he knew that she could not disprove a single one.

The magnificent salary of which he boasted was only fifty dollars a week, and as for his rich mother who made him such a handsome allowance, and would leave him a fortune when she died, the old woman was as poor as poverty itself, and took in washing. But as she lived away off in Colorado, he was not afraid that she would ever appear to contradict his statement. In fact, he had told the same story to every new acquaintance, until he had almost come to believe it himself.

He judged that Mrs. Fitzgerald was proud and arrogant, and would prefer her daughter to marry rich; so, after telling his boastful story, he waited with some confidence for her reply.

She drew herself erect to her stateliest height, and if scorn could have killed, the lightnings of her dark eyes would have stretched him dead at her aristocratic feet.

"You contemptible villain!" she exclaimed, angrily.

"Madame!"