CHAPTER XLIII.

Te Aroha News, Volume V, Issue 227, 5 November 1887, Page 6

CHAPTER XLIII.

Till: LADY AND TIIK PRIEST. 'Oh, father, bear Avith me ; my heart Is sick and death-like, and my brain Soeios girdled with a fiery chain "Whose seoivhi tr links will never part. And never cool again. J. G. Wihitiku. When (ieraldinc Fitzgerald fell to tho floor Miss Sue Greenlcaf and Mademoiselle Dcoilee sprang to her assistance. "Ciing me some ico-wateranda napkin," ?aul ZNlirfs Greenleof, as they sal tho unconscious form of the young lady in a largo refeting-chau 1 . The French maid ran and brought the water, and Mi-» Sue began to bathe and cool the hot and throbbing head. Tlion Geraldino mo\ed her fixed eyeb an ] spoke. "I must burn the-c lottery," she said, legating the N'tniu word-, that had been u{ on her lips at tho moment .-he fell. "My dear," said Mi.-s Grccnleaf, ooothin^lv, Ji^ q he pci&cveied in lathing the heal with the iee -coif I water — •" my dear, you did burn the letter. See ! their ashes lie on the heai th."' herald me sighed deeply, put her hand to her head for a few moment-, and then answeivd, in a low voice : " Ye-, 1 believe 1 did." Her hand diopped on her lap, and -be suddenly bnr-t foi th with: "Oh, Mi-s Gieenleaf, w hat a bhamc- !" " Now compose yom\-elf, my dear Oeraldine. Ir \ou Imo any regard for your own life and health, keep quiet. You ha\c h \<\ a ra-h of blood to the head,'' muimuied Mi-- Sue, •-till diligently applying tho ice "watei. " 1 u-ed to be subject to that while I was studwng at school. They — It is fatal sometime.*, i? it not?" '• No ; 1 think not. Why do you n-k ?" inq'iiied Mi--. Sue, uneasily. " I v. i.-h it wa.- fatal : that is all." "Pfn^h, Heialdinc ! Ilu-h ! Keep cool. All will 1 Jewell \et." "Oh, Mi-- (ireenleaf, you don't know ! )o>\ don'r know 1" wailed Ceialdine. '■ Ye-., I do," whimpered Mi--> Sue, bending low. "I know all about it. Let me hend >our maid away, oO that we may talk together." '• Ytb. s?nd her oft," nun mured Geialdine. '• JJ^-h i'c, child, lea\erhe room. I w ill ling when Mi-& Tit/gei ild lequire? \onr ■sci . ice- " I m> ]'"icnch girleuu-ied and ictiied. •■ Vow keep \o\v, self quite calm and cool, and lell me all aliout it. Something you Im\o ahoady told me- -that }on leally (\v ii idled \>-il\\ (iemld -o -eiiou-ly, late la-, i.iglit, ;\-> to oidtr him tok\ne your jne-Mice and ncci to letiun to it, Is that ?o •■ Yes Mi^Oveenleuf." '*Oh. Lhis fL-tee Fit/gei ild temper! Bu:, my dear, this has happened often betoie. an 1 \. ill happen often again, I fcir. It diii'ei •> in no ie-j)ect fiom past quan el^, except in the a\\ k'widne-^ of having occur, id .-o mar \our weilding hour. A Avoid fiom ha- always had powei to biii,^ >oui banished lo\er back. It will \vi\l the .-ame magical crtect now. YViite to C-ieial' 5 and call him to youi " Oh, IJi-s Sue, I said you did not know, and you do not. I have written to CJeiald, uv • ho has f-cnt mj letter back." " your lei tor back!" exclaimed Mi-- Uioenleaf, in astonishment; then, " Ah, well, he i-angr,), 1 -uppo^e : but it is only a question of time — he will come 1 »ac !.. Bui maik Un?, dear (rcaldme. Alt''iou^h, because yon bani-lied him, j'ou wilt light in c endin£; a letter to ccall him, yd, now that he hao leturned that lettu without comjilying with it- requcat, it would ne-ser'lofm you to make another attcniit at a reconciliation. Maidenly delicac\ and w or.ianU dignity alike pirclude chc j^u-^iljilitv of your making any future advance^ to Colonel Fit/^eudd," >aid Ml--, Sue l)i idling maie-ticalh . •• Mo-t eeiiainlv f .-hall make no further acUance-. towaid-> a leconciliation," replied Cler.-l'line, with a -rrangely bitter smile: tor per holf-ulteied eoni'idence-, were effectually tliecked by the utterances of Mi.-s < h. enleaf. '•>nd, my d'\'ir, \on mu-l conduct yourself w ith a dignified patience. It i- but a quo-tion oi time JTo ha- now placed himself in tho wron^'. " '■Yr Q , most decidedly lie ha-," said Gei aldine, grimlj . " Ye-s, and he w ill soon feel that he has done .-o. '• Indeed he w ill." " And he will repent and throw himself at vj.ir ieeL" •"• Ah !" " And then, (ieruHine, you mu 4 foigive him. "Ah '" ••Why do \ou keep hiimvoi ing; in thit .-t range way, my dear" que-tioned the eldci lady. v> Beciu-o, my good Mis^ Sue, T do not think voii know much about it. Neither doe>3 anyone el-o in the hou-,e but myself. llowx\e', Mis- (iieenleaf, it i- nocess-iry to take some measme.-, with the household this in^i ning io prevent gossip. Please go down-istaii-;>r.'l tell th.' tamih that the wedding i- dcfei red on account of my sudden indi-j-|io~i' ion. Will ym V " Cerfcainlj, my dear, for it will lie the truth — anger i- the wor.-t of iTidispo.-itiong, and that wa-i, of. cour->e. the first cause of thi- luptine," jnsweied Mis-) (iieonleaf. (iv v aldine smiled sardonically at the old ladvs iinc-^-e, and .she murmured to her*,olf ; •' Most |)eople do not hesitate to practise little social deceptions, but Miss Sue's conscience i> sq tender that she finds it ab-ulutely noce-sary to deceive herself before -he can hi ing heinclf to decehe others. Diplomatic JS3i?s (Jieenleaf. " " Well, my dear, i^ there anything el.~e i can do for you ?" inquired Miss Sue, as she ftijuee/cd the dripping ice napkin, and hung it over the edge of the basin. ' Sl Vet-, please. I w r anb you to ask Father Dubarn if he \v,ill bo so kind as to come here and see me." " Certainly, my dear. Indeed, I think he is the very man you ought to see and talk with," assented Missb Gieenleaf, as she left the loom. A- so mas .she found herself alone, Geraldlne dropped licl- face upon her open hands and burst into tear,- and sob^ that shook her whole Irame as a tempest, even whil" they leliev^d her overcharged bosom. "ITa\eTloot him forever?" she cried, amidol her stormy panting& and streaming tears. "Can I lose him at all? My Gerald ! My own — my own since ever I can remember anything of tliid earth life — my own Gerald ! No, no, no ! Nothing ought to separate mo from him ! Nothing that man can do onghb to part us ! Nothing that man can do shall pait u.s ! I will not give him up ! I will not ! lie shall dU 1 first ! I will die and see him die before I will live and let him livo to be the husband of another woman !" These, and many more wild words like fche&e, she uttered, in her madness, before a

light tap at hor chamber door announced Father Bubarry. She hastily dried her eyes, composed herself, wheeled her chair around so as to brings her back to the light and her face to the shadow, and then in as steady a tone as sho could command sho bado him come in. The door opened and the priest entered. Father Dubarry was a man rather below the medium height, slender and fragile in form, fair and delicate in features and complexion, refined and intellectual in manner and cxpiession. In years he mighthn vo been anywhere between thirty and iifty, for though his slim form was slightly bowed, and his thin, tine, red hair was streaked with silver threads, his wan, wasted cheeks wore unwrinkled, and his deep blue eyes beamed under a perfectly smooth, dome like forehead. He wore the long, narrow, black coat and carried in his hand the cloth cap of his order. " Bcnedicitc, my daughter, ' he said, as he advanced into the room. " Amui and thanks, my father, for I have great need of blowing," replied Geialdine, rising to receive her visitor, but carefully keeping her back to the light and her face in deep .shadow, lest the priest should ftce her tear-stained, passion-beaten face. " You sent for me, my child. As I understand from Mi-- Grcenleaf, you want my counsel in a trying crisis," said Father Dubarry, as he otlered his hand. " Yes, father, l'lea^c take this sent," said Mist. Fitzgerald, pointing to one near her recently vacated by INI is.-? Sue. " Thanks, my daughter. Now I am ready to assist you to the best of my poor ability," replied the priest, taking the indicated seat, and placing his little cloth cap on the stand betide him. ' % Father, I hope that Miss Sue Orcenloaf has in some dog ice prepared you for what I ha\o to communicate." Father Dubarry bowed in silence. " But \vhat has she told you T inquired Co raid inc. "She ha* hinted that a mi-mndeistand-ing has arisen between you and Colonel Fitzgerald, who loft you in anger last night and has not yet returned." '• And i.s that all sho told you, father ?" "No. She told mo that you had a cry pioperly, and in a very Christian spirit, wntten'to youf betrothed this morning to recall him, but that ho had sent back your letter w ithout complying w ith your leque.st. That is all. She told me no moie." " She knew no more. No ono in this house knows any moie. But listen to me, Father Dubarry. 1 will tell you now all the wrong that has been done me, all the pain I have suffered, and all 1 feel and think and plan to right the wiong and case my pain. If / am -,\ rong, you will conect me ;ifl am right, you w ill assist me. You piomise this V" " Ye?, ye-, my child ; I p>omi=e." "Hear me, then. Oh, father, it is not only that (Joiald Fitzgerald— left me in anger last night— and leturned my letter in scorn this morning — It is not only that— but - he — has —in wrath, rc\cngc, and fien/y — helms— maurii r> vMrmi-nwoMw!" Here Geraldine'e voice, which had faltered tluoughout this last statement, utterly broke down, and sho, forgetting all her native piide and dignity, dropped her head upon her hands and wept as if her heart would break. The priest was shuck dumb with amaze ment. For some moments he was utterly incapable of speaking, so that a dee]) silence ensued, broken only by the hea\y sobs or Geialdinc. At length Father Dubarry recovered his voice. "Gerald Fitzgeiald married to another woman, on the \ciy morning appointed for hi> maruago with you ! Impossible, my child ! This is some w ide and wild mistake." " No, father, it is true !" cried Gcraldine, between her bmsts of giief. "It is true — though no one in the house knows it but myself— nor should I know it — nor could I behcAe it -but that I had a letter — from himself, this morning, announcing the fact." "Do not weep so, my child ! but toll mo as calmly a& you can the particulars of this mad, disastrous event, 1 " said the piie-t, in a voice vibrating with tenderness. " Oil, father ! 1 told >ou he had left me in burning anger last, night. Ah ! 1 had myself, in my jealous fury, drhen him to diUiaction ! * Oh, fattier, you know,— my ' heritage of woe,' my unhappy, insane violence of temper, w Inch, while it lasts, is as the pod^es-sion of a fiend ? Oh, lather, that fiend possessed and contv oiled me last night and instigated me to heap bitter leproaches and ignominious contumely on my Gerald's head ! to drive him from me, and with scorn and hatred dare him ever to approach me again. lie went, telling me with awful calmness that I had sent him from me once too often. This morning, to put it for ever out of his power to retract his words, he married— " Again her voice broke dow n in tears and sobs ; and it was some moments before .she could recover her composure. "Ye, yes, my daughter,, he nmnied another woman. You told me that bofoic ; but what sorb of a woman could she have been who would have taken him at a moment's notice, and in the-.ery hour appointed for his marriage with you, his beUothed w ife for so many years ?" exclaimed the priest in wonder. "Yes, what sort of a woman, indeed!"' repeated Geraldinc, in bittci scorn. "That Gerald Fitzgerald should have married anyone, under such circumstances, is shocking : it would seem to matter little who his unscrupulous bride might bo, Yet, who was she, my daughter?" softly inquiied the priest. "An ignorant, low-bred ferry-girl! Of course, you know, father, that, no respectable woman of any class would have man zed a man on the morning appointed for his marriage with his rightful, betrothed bride." " Her name, my daughter?'' " Gertrude Haddon." " Gektkudi; Haddon !" echoed the priest. " Gertrude Nobody ! for she has no legal right to the old ferryman's name. An outcast, a foundling, fished out of the river mud after the great flood. Such is tlic girl he married." "Gertrude Haddon!" reiterated the priest ; " this is much worse than [ dreamed of." " Indeed !" exclaimed Goraldine, with a littlo irony in her tone. " Have you ever seen this girl, my daughter? But you could not have done so, for you have described what you suppose her to be, rather than what she is. She is not what you think. She is a more child of fifteen, pretty, intelligent, good," said the priest, with more emotion than he had before betrayed. " And to wed that woman, in the face of his sacred, life-long betiothal to me !" said Geraldinc, in a hoarse whisper, adding — " Father, if I could have seen my betrothed husband ten minutes before he led that reckless girl to the altar, I, hia beloved, his affianced bride, could have stopped that mad, wicked, fatal marriage, 1 ' " I perfectly believe you could." " And, oh ! how bitterly he has repented it by this time !" The priest silently assented. " And how much more bitterly he will repent it every day he lives !"

The priest nodded gravely. "Father Dubai-ry ! mark this: Gerald Fitzgerald will grow to hate and despise that foolish and selfish girl for having beon so quick to take advantage of his briet madness to bind him in galling and degrading fotter-3 for life ! He will loath o and detest* the very sight of her !" fiercely hiss&d Geraldine through hor clenched teeth. " That would we unnatural and most unjust. She is but a child," sadly murmured the priest. "Their married life will be a holl on earth !" "Most probably. Ah, yes," sighed the priest. "Father Dubarry !" "Well, my daughter." " Cannot this mad matwiagk be JJROKKN ?'" " MifjS Fitzgerald !" exclaimed the priest, aghast. " I repeat it. I am not afraid to repeat il. lam not afraid to wak that which I am not afraid to think. I ask again — Cannot this most insane marriage be broken ?"j| " My dear daughter, the marriage is perfectly legal, however strange,' 1 replied Father Dubarry. " [ know that. That Is not what I want to inquire ; but whether, by his rash act, Gerald Fitzgerald i-s doomed to live in bondage, or whether under the extraordinary circumstances, at this early clay of the union, ho might not separate himself from the gill, and afterwards—" Geraldine paused in very shame, unable to speak the words she had upon her lips. " \\'ell, my (laughter, afterwards?'' "Havo tlie mad marriage legally annulled?" answered Goraldine, in a low, deep voice. "That would be barely possible, my daughter," said the priest;, dif-eourag-ingly. " But it wou'd be possible !v! v persisted Ceraldine. " Yes ; but— cruel and desperate," sai«l Mr Dubarry. "No matter. It would be possible !" exclaimed Ceraldine, with a strange gleam of triumph in her eyes. (" Yoir are not irrevocably lost to me, my Clerald ! my own !" she mirttercd in the bilent depths of her own spirit. ) " My daughter/ gravely began Father Dubany, "although this man was long your betrothed husband, and although he contracted this fatal marriage in hot anger against you, rather than in love to the girl he took ; although ho may deeply have repented his rash act by this time ; yea, although he lias doomed himself and Ins bride to life-long bitter misery; and although your own young life is made desolate forever — yet, Geraldino Fit/gerald, I charge you as a Christian lady — I charge you as a daughter of that noble house, stainless for a thousand years — that you think no more of tbib man. Think no more of him, either in lo\e or in revenge. Let him absolutely alone. Leave him to the Lord." " Afc least we will talk no more of him ab present, Father Dnbarry. Let us change the subject," said Ceruldino, w ith a peculiar i smile. The pric«t gravely bent his head. 1% You arc going to Washington City tomonow morning, I hear, Father Dubarry," j said Geraldine. " Yes ; I have to' escort my maiden sister to the Convent of the Variation in Georgetown, to commence her novitiate." "She is going to take the veil V" " Yes." "At what time do you start tomorrow ?'' " We leave Wildeville by the five o'clock stage." " Then, Father Dubarry, I must beg I you to take me with you. I cannot slay here !" exclaimed Geraldine. "My dear child, in the present unsettled state of your mind, home is the best place for you. Let me entreat you to remain here for the present." "Father Dubarry, I cannot do so. I am of ago now, and I must use my freedom. 1 cannot stay here. If you refuse me your escort, I will take my French maici, and go to Y\ ashington alone," said Geraldine, firmly. " But, my dear child, what will you do when you get theie?" "Take boEml with some respectable piivatc family, and — amuse myself." " But what w ill your friends here say to such a movement on your part?" "I do trot know, and Ido not care. I am of age. No one has a right to prevent my going to Wa-hington. If you will kindly aflord me your escort and protection T will go with you. If not. I must go alone," said Geraldine, so firmly that the priest saw at once that argument and entreaty would alike bo lost upon her. " Well, my daughter, if such bo your determination, there is nothing for me to do bub to protect } r ou on your journey arrd seeyon safely settled in the city," he said. And soon after he took lea\e, with the understanding that he was to meet Mis<« Fitzgerald at' the Wilde \ rile btagc-ofiico tiro next inoi ning. " And now, my Gfrald, my own ! T come to your deliverance !%>! %> she muttered to herself — "Henceforth, l^v^er, I must act without taking Father Dubarry into my confidence. 1 will use him, but not fruit him. He is too 'good* a man. I hate ' good ' men. They are so pitiably weak !" she added, with a cm ling lip. That same afternoon she astounded the Grcenleaf family with'the announcement of her intended journey to Washington City, ] under the escort of Father Dubarry and his sister. And the next morning sho kept her appointment with her fellow-travellers at Wildcville. And thus it happened that she overtook tho nowly-mavried pair ab the mountain post • house, and journeyed in their company. We must rrow return to that party in tiro stage-coach.