THE BARRIERS BETWEEN.

Taranaki Daily News, Volume XXXXII, Issue 98, 25 May 1900, Page 4

THE BARRIERS BETWEEN.

(Continued.) Ine spring deepens, and strangers begin to flee; the Eternal City will soon grow tmpty, and so get back a little of the blessed quiet that ones was its normal state, which, to many tired souls, seemed pleasanter than its active new life and energy. There is to be a break in this knot ot paradisiacal weeks; Miss Upton is going northwards. Ford cannot accompany her. She and Mrs. Rodney are called to Paris, to stay with an invalid relative. It is agreed that, when summer comes, they are to meet at a quiet little Breton watering-place, and there spend two months. Geraldine has promised that, during this sojourn, the day shall be fixed which will unite them for ever.

At the last moment, Ford finds that he must not even allow himself the bliss of accompanying her as far as Florence, as has been arranged. His faithful servant has fallen ill with Roman fever, and neither rora, nor ms Detromea, lor one instant think the sick man can be left, any more than if he were an equal, as well as a friend. "In three days, the doctor says, Henry may be able to travel; but yon can't wait, because you are behind your time," Ford observes disconsolately. •' If I waited, I should reach Brittany so much the later," she half-whispered. And that settled it.

The morning of her departure arrives. Ford has taken her to the station, put her into the railway carriage, seen her gloved hand wave a last adieu from the window, then he turns slowly away, as the train disappears. " Good mornin' 1 We hit against each other every now and then," says a voice in his ear. Ford turns, and sees a man whom he has often met in Rome—a man first met in California ; who since then has acquired a fortune, and seen fit to rejuvenate himself by a Continental tour. " Still here, Mr. Long ?" says Ford. " Ya'as; but we're off to-morrow. And 1 ain't sorry either. Arter all, these furrir. places are petty much of a muchness," he answered. " I say—that gal you were bidding good-bye to is jest about the harnsomest I've seen; a body would know she was American." " Yes," rejoins Ford, coldly, as he bows and moves on. But Mr. Long walks beside him, and continues : " I knowed her the minute I set my eyes an her: but I never said nothing. Afore I went to Californy, I lived in New Hampshire, and so she did —a little gal; her name was Enmore, tlien." " Enmore ?" Ford gasps." " Ya'as, siree I" said Mr. Long. "I see you remember about ' Black George,' as they used to call him. Wal, sir, he was her brother 1 Arter he'dspsnt all their mother's money, he went off to Californy. Don't you recollect hearing he got killed in a drunken fight ?" Ford, striving to repress a groan, is supposed to be uttering an affimative response, and Mr. Long goes on: "Of course, nobody could doubt it. Wal, just about that time—l mean when ' Black George* went—an uncle on the mother's side hunted the gal up, made her his heiress, if she'd take his name, and she did. But that's atween you and me. I ain't no talker, and 'tain'tmybusiness—l just mentionedit to you 'cause we knowed each other in 'Frisco. I only wanted to pin't out how queer things go in this world She looks a right tip-top-per—looks good, tool But, laws I in them old days in Hampshire, I 'low she never expected to be a-queenin' of it round this benighted old Europe." Ford breaks away from his tormentor, and when reason comes back he is alone in his own apartment. Oh, the days that follow —the awful, awful days—concentrating the agony of a century into their round. They end at length. Ford is out of Rome ; up north on the plains of Lombardy, then in Vienna; then he appears, like an unquiet gnost, in i yroi, ana is regaraeu as a maniac by the hotel-keepers, because the season has not yet opened. But July comes at last, and Ford reaches La Tournelles, the quaint lit'Je Breton watering-place. His mind is made up, and he believes himself at rest—he has decided to ktfup liiis secret locked in his ovu bosom for r.vtjr,

Her brothfir's Wood flows between; but that shall net part them ; no law, human or divine, ought 'o demand the sacrifice on his part— he ft ill not make it! His strong sense of honour impels him from the first to tell her; but he cannot. She would feel that the accident put an impassable barrier between them, as much as a deliberate crime could have done.

Ford knows that such would have been his opinion once ; that it would be the judgment of the world; but he cannot lose her, and he will not. *

The days float on—the charmed days; for, in spite of his secret, he has a week's happiness; he puts by thought, and Geraldine is as happy as he. The sphinx-like smile has given place to a tender expression which perfects her stately beauty; the glorious eyes are so full of love that the mysterious shadow seems to have been chased away for »ver.

A week, and last evening the end 1 j They have found agreeable acquaintances ' at La Tournelles, and have had quiet fes ; tiyities, which have not greatly interfered '' with the lovers' Paradise—merely height ened it by contrast. :

And on the previous evening Ford ha«; heard Geraldine speak the words which shui the portals of Heaven against him. At a little gathering on the sands, in the

moonlight, he approaches just as she says to a friend seated by her: "Yes; I had a brother whom I adored. His death v#s very terrible—that is why , never speak of him. Please forget that I have said even so much."

Ford gets away unseen. It is half-an-hour before he comes back. He is calm enough, but he holds fast to his determina tion—even yet he will not reveal his secret

He accounls for his pallor on the plea of headache, which is a truthful plea enough ■ >.nd Geraldine, in her great delicacy, is too tearful of annoying him to give more than passing sign of her solicitude. He will keep his secret I He repeats this to himself scores of times, as he paces the sand in soli:qde. He goes home, holding fast to his resolve during many sleepless hours; but before the dawn breaks, he has made his decision—he will tell her ! The terrible linr which F.luabeth Browning once wrote I'in,';' j t'i in his ear : " 1 c 2V lH , ha 7, e walked through hell ihat day, and never flinched! :.iiu Lc, v. ,dl, nig sti;u: tit through a heli blacker than any poet's lancv could create hoitls fast to his resolve-she shall hear the ruth ! 'iht new morning dawns. H e S(!l , ds aD excuse to Geraldine for not joining a fishingparty which is to start early, a/id not return till late He has urgent letters to write; he will"see her when she comes back; he has an inif-otuuit (.GinHiU'lic.'i'.ion toumkc to Ijcr And the day lias gone—the evening gone —midnight ! One o'clock strikes, then two, and heie he sits in his chamber, and the secret not yet told ! He stalls up again, when the fresh chime of the clock warns hint that he has been anew yielding himself a passive prey to memory. He cannot bear the confinement

31 tne nouse—ne must go out—get i; . i» lir. He seizes his hat, and passes downstairs, opens the house door, and finds himself on the wide stretch of white beach. His lodgings are at the extremity of the village; beyond, is a long sweep of glittering shore; then comes a sort of promontory, jutting out so far as to leave only a narrow path at its foot. On this elevation stands the quaint chalet where Miss Upton and her relatives are residing. He finds himself in sight of the little dwelling before he is aware; his intention has been to walk in the opposite direction; but here he is just at the base oi the gardes wall.

The moon's radiance is so clear that every object is as distinctly visible as if it were noonday, only transformed into a super natural beauty which day can never give. Ford stops, and looks up—hears his name called : " Leonard—Leonard!"

He sees Geraldine sitting on the parapet. Without stopping to think, he pushes open the crazy old gate, rushes up the steps, and meets her as she is hurrying forward. He stops short, and cries, he cannot tell whether actuated by his own volition or a force superior to his will: " I vowed I would not tell you, but I must —Geraldine! That brother of whom you spoke last night—l killed him. At least, I was the cause—l knocked aside his arm, and the pistol went off. You undsrstand —all's said—try to forgive me—l am gone," He turns as quickly as he had come; dashes down the steps, out on the sands, then he hears her voice again : " Leonard—Leonard !"

He stops, looks back; he sees her hastening towards him, white of vesture and face as a spirit. Before he can move her arms ire about his neck, and she is clinging to him with all her strength. " Let me go !" he moans. " Let me go! Vou didn't understand —or you think I'm mad "

" No," she breaks in "Wait—you must hear. I have known the truth ever since we were in Vermont. One night, in your ieliriu.n, you told the whole—even to the man's name! I went away—l knew you did not dream that I was his sister."

" As Heaven is my witness !" " Hush !" she says. " When you found me in Rome a year later I had learned to love you so well that at last I told myself no barrier —not even the dead—ought tc separate us! George tortured me as a child—his svil conduct killed my mother—the result of his violence caused the illness and death of i brother I worshipped "

She stops, choked by tearle3S sobs. " Geraldine!" murmurs Ford, but she lays her hand on his lips. " If there is any sin call it mice," she hurries on, " but I cannot believe there is! Human judgment might bid us part—l can't bear Heaven's voice say it—LeonardLeonard !"

And, an hour after, they are still there, sitting side by side on the garden steps. " I think George knows, and is glad,'j| Geraldine says, softly. "Dear love, seethe dawn is breaking—the new day 1"