THE MYSTERY OF HADDON'S ferry.

By B. D. E. N. SOtrTt-woRTH.

CHAPTER XLni.

THB LADY* AND THE PRIEST. Oh, father, bear with me; my heart 18 sick *nd death-like, and my brain Seems girdled with a fiery chain, Whose scorch! e.g links Will never part. A-d never cool again. J. G. WhittieK. When Geraldine. Fitzgerald fell to the floor Miss Sue Greenleaf .and Mademoiselle Desi" sprang to her assistance. "Bring me some ice-water and a napkin,'' Said Miss Greenleaf, as they sat the uncon ficiotta form "of the young lady in a large

resting-chair.

The French maid ran and brought the water, and Miss Sue began to bathe and cool the hot and throbbing head. Then Geraldine moved her fixed eyes arid spoke. . j "T must burn these letters," she said, repeating the same words that had been upon her lips at the moment she fell. "My dear," said Miss Greenleaf, sooth ingly, as she persevered in bathing the head with the ice-cold water—"my dear, you Hid burn the letters. See ! their ashes lie on the hearth." '. Geraldine sighed deeply, put,her hand to her head for. a few moments, and then answer.d, in a low voice: "Yes, I believe I did." Her hand dropped oil her lap, ahd she suddenly burst forth with :■ " Oh, Miss Greenleaf, what a shame!"

"Now comptose yourself, my dear Ger , aldine. If you have any regard for your own life and health, keep quiet. You have had a rush of blood to the head," murmured Miss Sue, still diligently applying- the ice water.

" I used to be subject to that while I was studying ai school. They—lb is fatal sometimes, is it not ?" "NO • I think not. Why do you ask ?" inquired Miss Sue, uneasily. " I wish it was fatal; that is all." "Hush, Geraldine! Hush ! Keep cool. All will be well yet." " Oh, Miss Greenleaf, you don't know ! ybu don't kncrW !" wailed Geraldine. " Yes ; I do," whispered Miss Sue, bend ing low? "I know all about it. Let me send youi* rh&id a#ay, so that we may talk together." " Yes, send her off," murmured Geral dine;

" child, leave the room. I will ring when Miss Fitzgerald requires your services."

The French girl curtsied and retired. " Now keep yourself quite calm and cool, and tell _he all about it. Something you have already .told me—that you really quarrelled with Gerald so seriously, late last night, as to order him to leave your presence and never to return to it. Is that so?" " Yes; Miss Greenleaf." A this fierce Fitzgerald t-tiiper! But, my dear, this has happened often be fore, and will happen often again, I fear. It differs in no respect from past quarrels, except in the awkwardness of having oc curred so hear your wedding hour. A word from you has always had power to bring your banished lover back. It will have the satne magical effect now. ~ Write to Gerald and call him to your side." *jf Oh, Miss Sue, I' said you did not know, and you do not. I have written to Gerald j and he has sent my letter back. _[_ ; " Sent your letter back FT exclaimed Miss Greenleaf, in astonishment; then, " Ah, well, he is angry, I suppose; but it is «ifely a question of-time*-" he will come *>ack. But mark this, dear Geraldine. Al though, because you banished him, you Were right in-sending-a letter to recall jhim, yet, retunied that letter without complying with its request, it would never "do for you to make another attempt at a reconciliatioh. Maidenly deli cacy and womanly dignity alike preclude the possibility of your making any future advarices to Colonel Fitzgerald," said Mi__ Sus, bridlihg ti.ajfesticalli'. " Most certainly I shall make rid further advances towards a reconciliation," replied Geraldine, with a strangely bitter smile; for her half-uttered confidence- were ef fectually chicked by thie utterances of Miss Greenleaf.

" And, my dear, you ttiust conduct your iiff yrtth a dignified patience. It is but a question of tiniS. He had now placed hims elf in bhe wrong." "Ye-,; iribst decidedly he has," said Geraldine, grimly. "Yes, arid hb will soon feel that he has dbrie-b." , "Irideedhewill."

" And he will repent and throw himself iktyburfeet." "Ah!" v And then, Geraldine, you must forgive Mr..." "Ah!"

"Why do you keep answering iri that itrdrige tvay, thy dear?" questioned the elder lady. " Because, niy good Miss Sue, I riot think you kttOW ihuOb about it. Neither dpes anyone else in the house but myself. However, Mid_ Greenleaf, it is neOessary to take SOme measures With the household thii morning to prevent gossip. Please go down stairs" arid tell the farhily that the weddittg IS deferred on account of hiy sud_eri indis pb-sitiori. Will you?" " Certaitily, my dear, for it will be the is the Wor_t Of indispositions, i ' arid that was, of course, the first cause of i this ruptuirfe," answered Miss G r eenleaf. Ge.a.dihe siriiied sardbriiijally at the Old . lady's finesse, and she riiurinured to her self: .-_,..' "Most people do.not hesitate to practise little social deception., but Miss Sue's o<*ft_ei_rice' is $6. tender that she finds it absdiuMy ri6ce_safy to, deceive herself be fore she can bring herself to deceive others, Dipldiriatic Miss GreOhii^af." "Well, hiy dpar. is there' anything else lean do fdj" you? .inc;ulred Miss Sue, as she squeezed the dripping ice napkin, ahd hung it over the edge of the basin. "Yes, please. I Want you to ask Father if M Will be so kifid as to dome here ahd lee me." " Certairtiy, my dear; Indeed, I think he is the very inari you ou&ht to see arid talk with," assented Miss Greerilea., as She left the room. _, , As soon as she ,'fdflhd heirself alone, Get aldirie dropped her 'face upon her open hands arid bu. St into t£&i» arid sob. that . shook her wjiole frame as a tempest} even while they relieved her overcharged bosom. "Have'llosfc him for ever?"'she cried, amidst her stormy pantings and streaming tears. "<7«» I lose him at all? My Gerald ! My own—my* own since ever I fiariWftiembbr anything of this earth Hfe-*-' my owri Gerald! Nb, no, nO! Nothing bright to Separate me from him! Nothing that man can do ought to part us! Nothing that man can do shall part us ! I will not #ive hirii rip! t will not! t He shall die , first,! I will die and. see him die before,! will live and let him live to be the husband of another woman!" ~ ■' t These, an,4'.nift.ny mor#, wild M6ma like these,, she uttered, in her madness, before a light, tati at her chariiber door announced , Father Dubarry. ' .. "... -,_"'■ She hastily dried her*eyes, composed her self r her chair around so M *o bring her back to the light arid her face to the shadow} and then in as steady atone as she ; <jduld; cO-imfed Sh6 bide hiiri come ; Th«? dopr opened and the priest entered, i FithetWbiiff was airian s the medium height, slander apd fragile in i form, fair and delicate jm features i and com- I refined and Intelleetaal in mariner J

and exp-essldri. In years he might have been anywhere between thirty and fifty, for though his slim form was slightly bowed, and his thin, fine, red hair was streaked with silver threads, his wan, wasted cheeks were unwrinkled, and his deep blue eyes beamed under a beffectly smooth, domelike fore head. He wore the long, narrow, black coat and carried in his hand the cloth cap of his order. " Bentdicite, my daughter," he said, as he advanced into the room. " Amen and! thanks, my father, for I have great need of blessing," replied Geraldine, rising to receive her visitor, but carefully keeping her back to the light and her face in deep shadow, lest the priest should see her tear-stained, pasßion-beaten face. i

"You sent for me, my child. As I understand from Miss Greenleaf, you want my counsel in a trying crisis," said Father Dubarry, as he offered his hand. " Yes, father. Please take this seat," said Miss Fitzgerald, pointing to one near her recently vacated by Miss Sue. "Thanks, my daughter. Now I am ready to assist you to the best of my poor ability,"-replied the priest, taking the in dicated seat, and placing his little cloth cap on the stand beside him.

" Father, I hope that Miss Sue Greenleaf has in some degree prepared you for what I havo to communicate."

Father Dubarry bowed in silence. " But what has she told you ?" inquired Geraldine.

" She has hinted that a misunderstand ing has arisen between you and Colonel Fitzgerald, who left you in anger last night and has not yet returned." «• And is that all she told yoU, father ?" "No. She told me that you had very properly, and in a very Christian spirit, written to your betrothed this morning to recall him, but that he had sent back your letter without complying with your request. That is alb She told me no more." " She knew no more. No one in this house knows any more. Bub lisben bo me, Father Dubarry. I will tell you now all the wrong that has been done me, all the pain I have suffered, and all I feel and think and plan to right the wrong and ease my pain. If i" am wronjj, you will correct me ;ifl am right* you will assist me. You promise this ?'" " Yes, yes, my child; I promise." "Hearme, then. Oh, father, it is not only that Gerald Fitzgerald—left me in anger last night—and returned my letter in ficorn this morning—lt is not only that— but —he —has —in wrath, revenge, and frenzy—he has—married another woman !" Here Geraldine'avoice, which had faltered throughout this last statement, utterly broke down* and she, forgetting all her native pride and dignity, dropped her head upon her. hands and wept as if her heart would break.

The priesb was struck dumb with amaze ment. For some moments he was utterly incapable of speaking, so that a deep silence ensued, broken only by the heavy sobs of Geraldine. At length Father Dubarry recovered his voice. " Gerald Fitzgerald married to another woman, on the very morning appointed for his marriage with you 1 Impossible, my child ! This is some wide and wild mis take." " No, father, it is true!" cried Geraldine, between her bursts of grief. "It is true—• though no otte in the house knows it but myself—nor should I know it—nor could I believe it—but thab I had a letter—from himself, this morning, announcing the fact." '' ■ ~ "Do not weep so, my child ! but tell hie as calmly as you can the particulars of this mad, disastrous event," said tho priest, in a voice ribrating with tenderness. " Oh, father ! I told you he had left me in burning anger last night. Ah ! I had myself, in my jealous fury, driven him to distraction ! Oh, father, you know,—my •heritage of woe,' my unhappy, insane violence of temper, which, while it lasts, is as the possession of it fiend? Oh; father, that fiend possessed and controlled me last night and instigated me to heap bitter reproaches and ignominious contumely on my Gerald's head ! to drive him from me, and wibh scorn and hatred dare him ever to approach me again. He went, telling me xnbh awful Caithness that I had sent him from me once too often. This morning, to but it for ever out of his power to retract his words, he married—" Again hervoice broke doWn in tears and sobs j kttd it was some moinonts before she Could recover her com posure. "Yes, yes, my daughter, he married another woman. You told me that before ; but what sort of a woman could she have been who would have taken him at a moment's notice, and in the very hour ap pointed for his marriage with you, his be trothed wife for so many years f exclaimed the priest in wonder. "Yes, what sort of a woman, indeed !" repeated Geraldine, in bitter scorn. "That Gerald Fitzgerald should have married anyone; under such circumstances, is shocking; it ■would seem to matter little who hi. unscrupulous bride might be. Yet, who was she, my daughter?" softly iriquired the priest. , "An ignorant, low-bred ferry-girl! Of course, - you know, father, that no respect able woman of any class would have married a man on the tnorning appointed for his marriage with his rightful, be trothed bride." " Her name, my daughter?" " Gertrude Haddon."

"Gertrude Haddoh !" echoed the priest. " Gertrude Nobody ! for she has no legal right to the old ferryman's name. An" out cast, a foundling, fished out of the river mud after the great flood. Such is the girl he married." "Gertrude Haddon!" reiterated, the priest; " this is much worse than I dreamed of." " Irideed!" exclaimed Geraldine, with a little irony in her torie.' " Have you ever seeri this girl, my daughter? But you could riot have done so, for you have described what you suppose her to be* rather than what she is. She is riSt what yoti think. She Is amere child Of fifteen, pt-tty, iritfelligerit, good," _aid the priest} with morei emotion than he had before betrayed.

i ' ''Arid to wed that woman, iri the face of , his life-long bebrobhal bo me!" said Geraldine, in,a hoarse whisper, addirtg— : " Fatherj if I could have seen my bebrothed husband ten minutes -before he led that reokless girl to the altar, I, his beloved, his affianced bride, could have stopped that madi wicked, fatal marriage.' "T 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 retieht it every day he lives !" The priest nodded, gravely. **Father Dubarry J inane this s- Gerald Fitzgerald-.will grow to sate arid demise that foolish and selfish girl fbrbaving been so quick to take advantage of his brief mad rie_s'to bind him in galling and degrading fetters for life i He will loathe and debesbj the;very sight of her!" fiercely hissed Geraldino through her clenched teeth." " * , i{ That would Ibe" unnatural and most un just. She Is but a child," sadly murmured the priest. ; ■ ' , "Their married life will be a hell bri earth.!" . ( .'. ".'.. u Most prbhably. Ah, yes," sighed the priest. " " Father Dubarry I" " Well, "-my daughter." . " CaJJNOT THIS MAD ItfARRIAOE BE fißOpfiN?" 4 * Miss Fitzgerald i" 'exclaimed the priest, aghast. ;*« I repeat it.. I am hot alraid to repeat itj. lam to speak that which I am riot afraid to think. I ask again—Cab not this tridit insane) &arriage be broken ?

" My dear daughter; the marriage is per fectly legal, however strange,' replied Father Dubarry. ... " I know that. That is nob what I want to inquire ; but whether, by his rash act, Gerald Fitzgerald is doomed to live in bond age, or whether under the extraordinary circumstances, at this early day of the union, he might not separate himself from the girl, and' afterwards—" Geraldine paused in very shame, unable to speak the words she had upon her lips. " Well, my daughter, afterwards? "Have the mad marriage legally an nulled?" answered Geraldine, in a low, deep voice. • ... "That would be barely possible, my daughter," said the priest, discourag irigly, "Bub it would be possible !" persisted Geraldine. ' . „ _ " Yes ; but—cruel and desperate," said Mr Dubarry. "No matter. It would be possible I -exclaimed Geraldine, with a strange gleam of triumph in her eyes. (" You are not irrevocably lost to me, my Gerald ! my own !" she muttered in the silent depths of her own spirit.) "My daughter," gravely began Father Dubarry, " 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 he may deeply have re pented his rash act by this time; yea, although he has doomed/himself and his bride to life-long bitter misery; and although your own young life is made deso late for ever—yet, Geraldine Fitzgerald, I charge you as a Christian lady—l charge you as a daughter of that noble house, stainless for a thousand years—that you think no more of this man. Think no more of him, either in love or in revenge. Let him absolutely alone. Leave him to the Lord." „" " At least we will talk no more of mm at present* Father Dubarry., Let us change the subject," said Geraldine, with a peculiar smile. The priest gravely bent his head. " You are going to Washington City to morrow morning, I hear, Father Dubarry," said Geraldine. '.'■'.< " Yes ; I have to escort my maiden sister to the Convent of the Visitation in George town, to commence her novitiate." " She ia going to take the veil ?" , " Yes." "At whab time do you start to morrow?" i'"i' . , " We leave Wildeville by the five o'clock stage." " Then, Father Dubarry, I must beg you to take me with you. I cannot stay here.!" exclaimed Geraldine.

"My dear child, in the present un settled state of your mind, home is the best place for you. Leb me entreat you to remain here for the present." "Father Dubarry, I cannot do so. I am of age now, and I must use my free dom. I cannot stay here. If you refuse me your escort, I will take my French maid, and go to 'Washington alone," said Geraldine, firmly. " But, my dear child, what will you do when you get there ?" "Take board with some respectable private family, and—amuse myself. ' " But what will your friends here say to such a movement on your part ?" "I do not know, and Ido not care. I am of age. No one has a right to prevent my going to Washington. If you will kindly afford me your escort and protection I 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 hor. " Well, my daughter, if such be your de termination, -there is nothing for me to do but to protect you on your journey and see yon safely settled in the city," he said. And soon after he took lea.ye, *with the understanding that he was to meet Miss Fitzgerald ab bhe Wildeville stage-office the next morning. . ■~.,_ ~ " And now, my Gerald, my own ! I come to your deliveranoe !" she muttered to her self—"Henceforth, however, I must act without taking Father Dubarry into niy confidence. I will i/.e him, but not trust him. He is too • good' a man. I hate • good' men. They are so pitiably weak !" she added, with a curling lip. That same afternoon she astounded the Greenleaf family announcement of her intended! journey to Washington City, under the escort of Father Dubarry and hia sister.

And the. next moraine: she kept her appointment with her fellow-travellers at Wildeville. And thus it happened that she overtook the newly-married pair at the fnountain post - houso, and journeyed in their company. We must now return to that party in the stage-coach.

CHAPTER XLIV.

DANGEROUS PROXIMITY. , Till now thy soul has been i-erene as May; Bid it awake and look At grief to-day. No shade has come between, Thee and tbe sun; Like dome long, childish dream Thy life has run. But now the stream has reached A dark, deep sea; And Sorrow, dim and crown'd, Is waiting thee. At four o'clock in the afternoon of that second day's journey, the stage-coach stopped, to change horses at "a picturesque "point; called Hemlock Hole, at the foot of a lofty range of mountains. ,

The two young comhiercial travellers got out here to stretch their cramped limbs and take a drink.

Colonel Fitzgerald followed their , ex ample, but after he had left the coach he turned, stopped at the open door, and for the first time iri several hours spoke to his , young wife. - . .-*' ■.' ~..„".''■ £;':*' " Would you like to come out and walk for a while ? he inquired; somewhat Ooldly. "No, 1 thank you}» Colonel Fit-ferald;" she answered, with a pathetic humility in her tone which was quite involuntary. She had not intended to call him " Cblbn.l Fitzgerald " either ; only since the, advent of Geraldine a distance had arisen arid widened between them that made it im possible for her, to address him familiarly. " You will not have another opportunity to leave the ' coach until we shall- have crossed this range of mountains and reached White Plains on. the other side, you must lindersband," he said, in constrained tones, as he lingered at the door. •_ "I would rather not move, thank yp\i> sir," she repeated. "Shall I send-you anything from the house?" he next inquired. . . "Nothing, I am friudh obliged to you,

sir." "Very well, thsn; do as you please, "he answered, as he .left the coach door and walked toward the house., • ■ - But before he had gone many ? yards he turned and hurried back, put his head iv at the window,, and signed to Gertruder to bend her ear.' * . ' She obeyed him, and be whispered; " Do not leave the coach during my ab: sericO, as ybu did once before."' " I will not, sir," she murmured in reply. " And—mark this-do not enter into conversation with anyorie in the cOach." : " I will not, Colonel Fitzgerald." " Very well," he said, and hurried away. The little dog, Nelly, jumped,off her mis tress's lap and trotted away after her mast er * >. ' ' ■"■■• - ' Geftrude'impulsively'Sbretched out her arms. . " Never mind that. Twill look after the little dog," said Gerald Fitzgerald, flinging the words over his shoulder as he hurried otti followed by _S.«lly. .* , ' ■~ \■

Gertrude Sink biek in her _ ■ . < He had looked at heir, Spoken to her, shown her some attention, but there was something missing from "his look and toi.o and manner that had been presenb in them until bhe entrance of Geraldine- Gerbrude was now alone in the coach, but for the presence of the people on the back seat—the priest, the lady, and the elderly female. - They were still conversing in the same low, heretofore inaudible tone. But owing to the stillness of the coach, there were some detached phrases of their conversation which reached Gertrude's ears, whether she would or no. " • • • Repent as soon as done. _ * * • Ashamed of himself and his bargain al ready " ,' ' and before long he ' '. These broken phrases were from Geraldine. Evidently • ' \ and she such a low-born, ill-bred girl! * " „' Forward piece • ■ ■ rue it day she lives," from the elderly whose position it seemed difficult to define between that of a chaperon and that of a servant. ■ - Gertrude heard enough to know thab Colonel Fitzgerald and herself were the subjects of their animadversions. Every word that reached her ears stabbed her to the heart. And this continued until the noise of the hostlers leading away the tired horses arid bringing up the fresh ones drowned the words ofthe conversation. The coaohman climbed up onbis box and blew his horn. The passengers came hurrying back and climbed into their Coionel Fitzgerald entered, -followed by little Nelly, who squatted herself on the vacant seat between her master and mis tress. '''• The stage-coach crept along through the rugged and tortuous pass until they had crossed the last ridge of mountains west of the great valley, and a good road through a beautiful country lay before them — a country diversified by hill and dale, woods and waters, meadows green, now even late in Sepbember, and forests just tinged with the glorious colouring of autumn. They had not long to enjoy the beauty of the prospect. The sun was sinking low on the horizon behind them ; but they seemed to make the most of the time. Even the two practical shopkeepers from Wildeville were enthusiastic in commenting on the landscape. And Gerald. Fitzgerald never withdrew bis eyes from the Window rintil the sun went down and twilight faded into night; and hid the scene from sight. At nine o'clock they reached White Pines, in the valley, where the stage-coach stopped for supper. - There was the usual hurry and bustle, flashing of lights and jostling of servants, before the passengers could alight arid go into the little hotel All got out—first the two storekeepers, then Gerald and Gertrude, last the priest and his party. " I think we will bake supper in a private room. Ido not like the public table and the company of strangers," said Colonel Fitzgerald, as he* hurried his young wife into the house. ■ ■ "Yes, sir," answered Gertrude, scarcely above her breath. As they entered the house, Colonel Fitz gerald gave ari Order in a low voice to a negro waiter, at the same time slipping a piece of money in his hand. - "Yes, ear,' exclaimed the man, and im mediately opened a door on the right and ushered the gentleman and lady into a small sitting-room, clean and bare, warmed by an open wood fire, and lighted by a pair of tallow candles 'that stood in brass candle-sticks, on the mantelpiece, and furnished with a small pine table and six chip-bottomed chairs. Gertrude sat down on One of these stiff backed chairs, and Gerald walked to the fireplace, and stood with his back to the fire. ' Tho waiter came in and hastily set the table, then ran out, and hurriedly brought, in tho supper, he arranged it on the board .;„ ,„ . " Only fifteen minutes till de stage start, marster." . . . > , "Very well; you may go," said Colonel Fitzgerald. The waiter went. "Sit down, Gertrude," he added, as he dropped into a chair ab the table. She placed herself before the tea-tray, filled a cup, and passed it to him. He took it, set it down beside bis plate; and passed bread, ham, chicken, and other edibles up to her; but all in perfect silence, and with.a mechanical and abstracted air. Gertrude drank her own tea, but noticed that Gerald neither ate nor drank. He sat with his elbow resting on the arm of hia chair, and his head leaning down on his hand, The mist of unshed tears again dimmed the young wife's eyes, as she inquired, softly and timidly: "Please, why do you not take any thing?" " 1 am neither hungry riof thirsty,'' ho answered. "0! Do you nob well ?" she next asked; almost afraid how of the sound of her own voice. " Yes; quite Well. Do not disturb your self about mO, Gertrude.' ; . "Sir," she whispered, in a faint voice, " have I done anything to displease you ?" "No, Gertrude. Why should you ask ?" ---" Because—you seem so different." " A man cannot always be the same, 1 ' he said, as he arose from the table and opened the door to speak to the waiter in the hall, for bells did not abound;in that hotel. He paid his bill as soon as the man came up, and then he turned to Gertrude and "said: ' , " "Come, to return to our seats." • They went back to the stage-coach, where they found Geraldine and her party already seated. • .'.;"- The night's journey was a smooth one as j to the valley road, arid a. silept one as to the travellers. * The passengers on the back-seat appar ently slept; two of,them, the priest and the old lady, certainly did,. for they both snored sonorously. - Gerald Fitzgerald was So silent and motionless it was impossible to tell in the darkness whether he slept or not. Gertrude waked and jifeptin her corner —thankful for the cover *c-f night that hid her tears—Gertrude waked and wept, Jfor now she feared that she hhd spoiled the life of hini tor whose life she wbuld willingly have laid down her own. . At'lengbh'she prayed for light to see her duty, and strength to do #. >.'-, The two merchants now climbed into their places and settled themselves for a nap. And once niore the stage started. Twice before morning the stage-ooach stopped to change horses; where lights flashed in and out and'men ran to and fro, until the work was done and the coach werit oh. Butnohe bftlietiredjaud sleepy left ib. Towards morning it,wala known by the slow and tiresome motion of the coach that they had crossed the .whole width of the. great vil|ey climbing the precipices Of the Blue Ridge that separated the valley from the plains' of the shore. At sunrise they stopped at Frostberg, on the topof the mountain, for breakfast. Here all the passengers, got out and paused for a moment to view the sublime picture of the sunrise from the top of the riiouritain. But Wbe breakfast bell called them in. Here again Colonel Fitzgerald ordered a private room and a tete-a-tete table for hiniself and his wife. • , Here again he sat silently, eating very little. '/ On this oc.(?asioh Gertrude forebore to ask-him-any q;ue_._ioj__. .She did not need todospV She knew'too well the Of use of his abstraction. She could. pot eat, Jut shedrarik her coffee arid Jed %r little dog <_omhe*9Wnflng«.fc' v '*'

Ottljr fifteen minutes wfcre iUow# for breakfast, and then the stage-horn sounded, calling all the passengers to take their Seats. "" ' " ';'", ," ' ';./.,, : . Twide between srihMS© and noon the coach stopped to change horses and mail bags, and went on again. At noon they stopped at Brainavilla to dinner. _ _ Em -gain the same aeensj was repeated. Gerald and Gertrude had a private table, and ate their dinner with scarcely the ex change of a word. With the decline of that day their strango journey drew to an end. By sunset they had reached Alexandria, and at dark they entered Washington. ' At that day thab line of coach -was a really accommodating one. Each coach on its arrival used to deposit its travellers wherever they wished to De set down, within the limits of the city. Our coach pulled up at its office behind a hotel, which was then called " Fuller's.'' The guard oame to the door and inquired of the passengers: " Any gentleman orladyfor this house? " We will stop here."- said Colonel Fitz ferald, immediately alighting and reaching is hand for Gertrude, who soon gob out and stood by his side. The little dog sprang after them. " Take that light luggage out and send it into the house," said Colonel Fitzgerald. And he drew Gertrude's hand over his arm, and led her into the office of the hotel, and pointed to a chair. She drew her vail over her face, and sat there waiting, whil§ Gerald went up to the counter to engage rooms. There were but a few loiterers in the office, for this was the dull season for Wash tou hotels. Gertrude watched uneasily to see whether any of their late fellow-travellers intended to come in and stop at this house. Apparently they did not,, for no one entered the office. Presently Colonel Fitzgerald turned to ward her, and said; - "Come!" She aroteand followed hfca, attended by a porter, who carried their luggage, and preceded by a waiter with a key, who led them up along well-lighted passage to a door leading to a suite of three rooms, con sisting Of parlour, chamber a,nd bath. " Have supper served here in aa hour," said Colonel Fit-geraid. , The than touched his brow and went out. 1 .Try io njake yourself comfortable here Gertrude., I must go down to the reading room and look it the he added, in explanation, as he went out, closing the door behind him, and leaving his young Wife alone in her new apartment. Gertrude dropped into an easy-chair, covered her face with her hands and wept, under such a sense of loneliness arid desola tion as she had never before known in all her young life. But presently sho dried her tears and took herself to task as being foolish and exacting. He is very kind to mer-very, very kind — notwithstanding that — that he scarcely has spoken a word to me in the last twenty-four hours—thirty-six hoars* indeed — and that he cannot love me. Well, he never said - that he v coiiW; he _ever deceived me; hut, oh j there M something here" she murmured-' )to herself,; placing her two hands * over > her /heart—J '■something here that assures me he will somo day love me." The waiter knocked, asked permission and then eritered to lay the cloth for supper. j , * f Gertrude arose and looked around npon her new rooms. . . She then went into the adjoining chamber to take off her wraps and bathe her face.. - < She -hade her toilet quickly! only bath ing her face arid hands, dressing her hair, and putting on a clean collar and pair of cuffs. Then she hurried into the parlour, fear , ing she might have kept Gerald waiting. Hut he was not there. She went to the window and looked; out upon Pennsylvania -Avenue, but could see nothing distinctly except the rows of lighted lamps on each side.; The waiter re-entered the room, placed the supper on the table, and then bowed, and said respectfully : "All ready, madam." - " Please go to the reading-room and let Colonel Fitzgerald know." J The man touohed his forehead and went out. Gertrude took the coffee-pot off the table and placed it on the hob of the grate, to keep hot. . In a few moments the man returned, and said: ..■■".',,. '' The gentleman has gone out, ma'am." " Very well; when he comes in let him know that supper is waiting." "Yes, ma'am." The waiter wen* out, arid Gertrude threw herself in the easy-chair to rest, saying, -patiently: "1 suppose he has stepped out'to make , some little purchase, and will return in a few moments," ahd she lay back in the , chair and clos.d her tired eyes. ; Now. whether it came aborit _-_«_ the* perfect stillness and silence after two days and nights of noise and motion in the jolt ing and rattling itag&coach, or from her loss of sleep, or her intense fatigue, or the heat of the room, or—as is most probable, from all these causes put together, I do not know, but Gertriide fell last asleep, arid slept soundly like a weary child as she was, for several hours. .; . She awoke at last quite refreshed, but unconscious of the length of time through which she had slept. „ The room was still brilliantly lighted arid warmed. The elegant little dupper stood On the marble-top table. She had no idea what time it was. She werit ahd rang the bell, and .raited, but no one answered it. Sh© rang again loudly and longer, and (then the summons was answered by a . stranger.' s '-;. , . ' " Where is, the waiter who attends this room ?" inquired "Gertrude. "He is not up yet, ma'am," answered the new one, who could evidently scarcely sup press'ayawn. v Not up yet ?" What do you mean ? Not, up where V inquired Gertrude,., in per plexity. - ; "' M :':.'■' ' ■ "Not out of bed yet, ma'am. iEtie don't get up till six. It aint much after five yet," answered the sleepy man. ' ; " Do you mean five in the morning ?" " Yes, ma'am, surely," answered the man, glancing around the room to see if he could discern empty bottles and glasses, as signs of a night's revelry; for he saw that the lady had not been in bed, an& that she was not in her senses. But Gertrude, in utter perplexity and amazement, hurried across the. rpoJn,' : raised the heavy cur tains, ahd 'looked out.. , * '*" s --'. • .-•* Y<&, it was tnortting:! Day had already dawned, and the eastern horizon was flpoded with the approach of the sun, She threW herself down in the easy-chair, covered her face with her hands, and tried to collect her thoughts. " Yob ! Overcome with heat arid fatigue; I must have fallen asleep in my soft chair and slept all night I Slept until I had slept my sleep out 1 But is hb ? Could he have returned to the room, and finding me asleep, left it again ? Or could he hive gone to rest ?" With that thought, she arose hastily and hurried into the adjoining chamber, arid looked around. ' ' > She found the place as vacant as she had left it. She hurried back into the parlour, and said to the man in attendance : "When my walitSr risls, jbleaSe ask hina to come here as soon as possiole." . The man bowed and retreated. Gertrude sat down and tried to reflect." And here her unsuspicious and confiding nature «av«d h« much suffering, , ~.

"I am Very igndrapt and inexjiesHenced in the ways'of cities and of men that Ido not even know whether there is anything unusual in rciy husband's absence or nob, and I mui|t be careful nob to compromise him by show ing any anxiety or asking any questions. He may have been called away by some friend, and left a note of explanation for me with the waiter. Of course he will be in very soon now," she said bo herself. Presently there came a knock at the dhei. " Come in," she said, eagerly looking up! The waiter ot the night before entered. She looked at him anxiously, breath lessly. The man only stood and bowed, as wait ing orders. She forbore to ask him whether he had any note or message for her, or to make any other inquiry that might betray her anxiety or seem to implicate her husband. Besides, she said to herself.: '*The tnari had no riote or message for me. If he had, he would deliver it. He knows nothing, or, at least, he has nothing to say. I must be patient." "Arty orders, madam?" at length in quired the waiter. "Yes. Clear off this supper if you please, and set the table for breakfast," said Gertrude. - * " Shall I serve breakfast immediately, madam?" , , , "No, not until Colonel Fitzgerald comes in." '. . ;..-' '.:'.■;...'. While the waiter busied himself in piling up plates arid dishes to carry them away; Gertrude went into herbedroOiri; closed the door, and began to make her' morning toilet.. '"V; : '" '' : ". ; "Yes, I must be patient and self-con trolling," Bhe said,-as she unwound the twists of her dark hair and set it flowing over her shoulders. But even while she said this, a strange oppression and foreboding weighed upon her heart arid darkened her mind. When she had finished dressing she re turned to the parlour. The table was arranged for breakfast and the waiter had left the room. Gertrude seated herself at one of the front windows to watch the scene on tHe avenue—not a very lively scene at this season of the .year, but to the mountain girl, fresh from the Wilderness of West Virginia, a wonderful panorama of busy life. Yet, though she gazed upon it, she could not interest herself in it. •■ "Where was Gerald? What kept him away? When would he return ?" These were the questions that continually reiterated themselves, to her deep disturb ance. While she sat the door opened. She sprang up eagerly, expecting to see her husband, for who else would dare to enter her room without knocking ? She sprang to meet her husband, and con fronted— , G-BRA-DINE:!;... .... ■,; ,-■*..-; There she stood, her tall, commanding form still dressed in deep mourning—her beautiful pale face wearing a look of irony. "Miss Fitzgerald !" exclaimed Gertrude, in surprise. .. " Yes, Mrs Fitzgerald ! for I presume you have or think you have a right to that name," sneered Geraldine. " I do not understand yduj Miss Fitz gerald. But will yoij,;be seated,?" said Ger trude, controlling herself, and offering a chair to her visitor. "Thanks, yes, for I have something t0,,; say to you," answered Geraldine, sinking into the easy-chair. ." I repeat, you think you havo a right bo", the name of Fitzgerald, Ipresunie?"; '", '.-,•''" ■■' *' JSjucK a right as my husband could con fer when he conferred it on me in. mar riage,'' replied the young wife with qiiiet dignity. ''.My husband !' Howglibly you say 4 rhy husband !' Do you really itoagine that you have, or ever had, a husband ? Ha-ha ha!" laughed the lady, in cruel scorn. "Miss Fltz<_erald 1" exclaimed Ger- with indignation. ■■■■■*' Aye ! you do well to blush,! girl. Ydji' have good cause. : You were so eager to snatch ata gentlethari's first, reckless offer to marry you that you never paused to con sider whether he was reiliy free to doiso. Gerald Fitzgerald has discovered, in good time, that he was not free to marry neither free in hand, nor free in heart. He has left you. You will never see him znore." (To be Continued,) :.

THE AUCKLAND EVENING STAR. WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 26, Igjfc

6



Business Notices. T_TC«SS6N-_-. ;: . j^ A FEW DOORS -/HIGHER UP THE STREETi And wishes to notify to all customers and - the public that he intends to confine himself to the supply of ALL DESCRIPTIONS OF TT PHO LS TE R V TXT ORK, 1 Including; B_BDDING, &0., &c- . SPECIAL LIN-_-S': : .: [SPRING MATTRESSES in Hair, Kapok, Max, , and Flock ; ORDINARY MATTRESSES in Hair," Kapok, ..... Flax, Mock, and Feathers SUITES in Utrecht Velvet, Tapestry; Leather, and Haircloth -~- -1 OCCASIONALCHAIRSin Variety of Coverings 'c. c. ~b- r °w N> ''HO-isON-S'3CREI-qp.; : .^^ , |~\RION. QRION. WHAT IS IT? a YMONDS STREET BOOT FACTORY. .-■'.".-• . T. R'____ATH. ' :: Being about to remove td hi- New Sh<)p and Faptory, will continiiefor a fortnight Speoia- Clearing Sales of hisTyaluabto and varied stook of LadieS. Gentlemen's and Children's Boots and Shoes for Cash Only. ' _■ "~0 T O ~B A T. h to ROTHS PUBLIC HOT. COLD; AND BHOWJ-K BATHS, Victokia-btkkbt East. Charge-ONJ_ SJAILLING. Open .ah; week days train 6 a.mV to 9 p.m„ and ■SUNDAJt MottNINGS from B till 10 a»m., The bath rooms are all private, and supplied wthevery convenience, Turkish* towels, flesh and hair brushes, combs, respirators, _oajfs,is.o. Seleof Bath-rooms (private) fOr ladies every day, at aU hours, withfemale attendance, oheSbihuigrand Sixpence. jMeasenote the Address-**-victorlaj street East, above the Greyhound Hotehand next the Cheap Bedding and Furniture Mart, Auckland. N.B.—Barberln attendance. TUT O N• U M E N T S AND VERMONT GKANITE. a stones in marble and stone. Iron Tomb Raimnqs at Mddbbate, Pbicbs, Prices and Designs sen t post-free. Country orders care fully packed. TAIT BROTHERS, - ' ' Motiumehtal Works, Corner of Rutland and Lome atreeta <near Queen-street Junction), Auckland,



' '^^^^^9__i_fl ttml_____B____i A T7T7 I AVi X- »'\fl ''*^9__H JL 9 ' QPTICIA™r _-^^03 Shins'li-^B^'.-^^Snfttaw _}*" -■ ■4 V' , < , *yli!™_ ~ it** ' *i^_l