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NOVEMBER 26, 1892,
THE NEW YORK LEDGER.
his sorrow, of his remorse and pain, but
she would have none of it.
“Dear, we are together again! That is
enough !” she said.
For the past, it was the past.
the future that they had to look.
But when, one day in the early spring,
Geoffrey softly asked her when she would
be his wife, her face grew grave, and yet
withal it was full of tenderness, as she an-
swered hi
“e Geolirey, TI have been thinking of this
for weeks——all the time that I have lain
weak and ill upon my bed—and I have
made up my mind. What I want you to
do for me is this: I want your when you
marry me, to be quite sure, . I want no
doubts—no action on the Sapulse of the
moment. You pity me now; youare sorry
for me; but, later on, who Knows? Geof
frey, you say you love me. I want you to
prove yourself. You are rich now. You
can do as you please. . Will you work—will
you become a sculptor and throw your
heart and soul into or my sake? And,
then, in a year, or two years, maybe, if you
come to me again and say: ‘Hilda, I have
I have won myself a
It was to
care to take me, I will come to you, Geof-
frey.”
He, knowing that he deserved nothing
at her hands, and that this trial was, in-
acet, shat most he needed, could but ac-
le “Shall be as you, wish, Hilda. This
shall bé my expiatio!
She would take no help from him, but
he secured her a good position, which
would enable her to live comfortably until
his time of probation was over. She co}
romised with him r as to allow him
to pay for. tittle Alice’ 's being put to a good
erself and Caporal went
to live in ee anne and Geoffrey rented a
studio hard by and worked zealously, de-
termined to win fame and his lady- Move to-
gether or die in the attempt.
And so passed the first year; and the
scaund was fast drawing toa close, when,
one day, he came to her, famo
His group of sculpture was the s success of
the year. The critics were unanimous in
their commendation of his work. Nothin:
would please him poe qhat she must come
to the academy at 0: Pres-
ently, they were standing together before
is group, a simple subject, done all in
pure white marble. A fair young girl, with
Hilda’s eyes and low, broad forehead, clad
in a loose Grecian robe, i in the act of step-
ping forward, a smile of perfect welcome
on her lips, ‘bearing in her hand a wreath
of Jaurel, as it were to crown some victor ;
at her feet, a dog-—Caporal to the very
life—his eyes upturned to her face in mute
inquiry, one paw uplifted, as if impatient
on; the whole instinct with a mar-
velous breathing vitality that stamped it as
the work of a genius.
The girl drew i in her breath. She had
not thought he could do so well as this.
Then n gently he speaks to
Dear, is it enough?
complete?”
She turns to him, a wonderful love shin-
ing. in the deep, gla ade Se
f I am worthy, Geotiey, and you
want me, I will come to you!
And so his expiation was accomplished.
z
Ts the expiation
THE END.
ONLY A GIRL’S HEART.
A MYSTERY OF HADDON’S FERRY.
BY MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.
SYNOPSIS OF PREVIOUS INSTALLMENT,
{Time: Shortly after the Mexican W: rT
wile! “County, in and about the ‘Alleghanies.
Scene: Haddon’'s Ferry, on the night of a terrific
thu indoratorm, Gabriel Haddon, the sexagenarian
ferry) man while aling to Gert ale a lovely,
fteen-year-old girl, that she is not grand-
child but a roundiing, is summoned to ‘th ne Tenth:
bed of old Get
neral Slaughter. During his ab-
cries of * Boat!”
en:
ining those
a cl jose. pursuit ¢ ‘of him for a deed w! ch,
he moutly generis . 18 not disreputable, Gertrude
turns a r to the pursuers’ repeated cries of
“ Boat!”
CHAPTER III.
THE FLIGHT. |
HE fugitive dropped Gertrude’s
hand and sank’ back in his seat,
quite overcome with the reaction
of excitement.” His face was pale
as death ; his brow was bathed in perspira-
tion; his frame shaking as with en ague fit.
The ferry-girl gazed on him with wonder
and pity.
Now, “‘if pity be akin to love” on the
one hand, it is allied to contempt on the
other. Perhaps the youth, as he raised
his eyes and caught the expression of her
face, might have fancied that the maiden’s
pity was the nearer to contempt, for he
suddenly exclaime
“’m no coward! I declare I am not!
But, you see, hangingisn’ 't what it’s cracked
p to be. No 0, that it isn’t.”
“*T do not think that you are a coward,”
said Gertrude, quiedly, dropping her eyes.
“No, I’m no criminal, either,
Upon m sacred word of honor, I’m not,’
he added earnestly.
“Tam sure you are not,” said Gertrude,
readily.
“Though, I dare say, I do look like
one,” he observed, with a rueful s
Gertrude could not forbear a smile, as
she glanced at the open, innocent face o
the youth, with its broad, full forehead,
frank light-blue eyes, turned-up nose, soft,
girlish mouth and smooth, beardless chin.
‘0, no,” she answered quickly. ** You
certainly do not look the least bit like a
criminal.”
“Why? Did you ever sce one?” he in-
quired, lifting his eyebrows.
‘*No, I never saw one ; but I can easily
imagine that no criminal ever looked like
you,” she answered, with a smile.
“ you know, now,
fecl quite _happy?
Well,
that makes me
I declare it does!
* Copyright, 1874, 1892, by RORERT BONNER'S SONS,
All rights reserved.
Before he could add another word, the
noise, that had ceased for a while, recom-
mence
“* Boat !” roared a chorus of voices from
across the ri
** Set fire to. Your throats!
yell to your hearts’ content! You
get any boat to-night !” sharply exclaimed
the stranger, Then, turning to the ferry-
girl, he inquired: ‘Oh, I say, you don’t
mind their howling, do you
“ Not at all,” answered Ger!
“© You “ure the very jolliest ‘ek! All
right, then 5 let them baw] to their souls’
satisfac
Pet! Y roored the voices.
“Oh, goit! Don’t stop in considera-
tion of our feelings! We can find ears as
long as you can find throats,” coolly re-
marked the young man. en, as if sud-
denly remembering something, he looked
at the ferry-girl and exclaim
“Oh, I say, how did you find out that I
am no criminal and no coward, much as I
look and act like both, eh?”
“You neither look nor act like either!”
persisted Gertrude,
“©Oh, yes, 1 do! 1 know I dot
Ido! Haven't I run away
“‘For some good reason, doubtless,
which is neither criminal nor cowardly.”
ut they say flight is always a sign of
wilt.”
** Not always; not in your case.”
“Well, now, do you know you lift me
right off my feet when 3 you say that?) But
how did you find it out, that is what I want
to know?”
** Oh, easily enough. When your pur-
suers reached the opposite side of the river
and called for the boat, you pleaded with
me, when you might have compelled me.
criminal and cowardly fugitive, under
he same circumstances, would have in-
sured his safety by binding me hand and
foot, or locking me in the room to prevent | i
e from crossing the ferry. You did not
attempt to do anything of the sort.”
While Gertrude spoke, the young man’s
eyebrows lifted themselves higher and
higher, his blue eyes opened wider and
wider, his lips fell apart, his whole counte-
nance expressed the drollest astonishment.
“You said that before !” he exclaimed.
“But, in the first place, I repeat, I never
once thought of such a base and treacher-
ous act, nd, in the second place, if the
father of fraud Aad suggested it to me, I
would have died before yielding to such a
temptation. Yes, ma’am ou had
chosen to refuse my plea and had gone
across the water in your ferry-boat to bring
the blood-hounds upon my track, I should
Now, then,
I feel
=>
have mounted my horse and tried to es-
cape ; but what could I have done with my
tired horse that I had ridden all day Jong,
against half a dozen men mounted on fresh
horses, probably obtained from the last
ost-house on their road? I could have
dove nothing ! I should have been brought
to bay by my hunters before morning. But
I would not have been taken alive to bring
shame upon my family. No! I should
have been a dead man probably by this
time. There, don’t let’s talk about it! It
makes your*flesh creep, I see!” he con-
cluded with a slight shiver.
“ B-o-a-t!” thundered a full orchestra
of voices from over the water.
“ Encore /” jaughed the fugitive. ‘* You
are sure you don’t mind their bellowing?”
he inquired considerately of his com-
pan’
“Quite sure,” she answered.
** All right, then, let them bellow. It will
do them good. Oh, » you ave sucha
regular trump I’d fixe ker so much to
give you a kiss—but, oh! 1 beg your par-
don. I declareI do! The words slipped
out, upon my word they did! I wouldn’t
offer to do such a rude, impertinent, offen-
sive thing for the world, under these cir-
cumstances; J declare, upon my honor,
wouldn’t. ou are not angry with me, I
hope : he eagerly inquired.
» 1 3 but I trust that you
will tember you ‘are my guest,” gently
replied the ferry-girl.
** And your debtor for my life, too; in-
deed, I will remember, and I tell y
wat else I will do. I will marry you hist
s soon as ever I getout of this awful scrape
that is to say, of course, if you will have
me; and I think you will when. you know
me better. I do, really! I’m rather a yood
ot Iam, ind deed! And I’m awful rich!
When I say ‘awful’ rich I know what I
am talking about; for I have an immense
property, and I know it is going t6 be a
horrid bother to take care of it all. So I'll
marry you if you will have me, and you
i st estates on
this continent. I declare you will? And
you will deserve it, too, a great deal better
than I do, who was born to it. You will be
the mistress of the grandest old house in
the country, you will, really—an old an-
cestral home built in * the year 1648, and
ou’ll be an honor to it! You are sucha
regular jolly stunner—that you are! Now,
you just think on what I have told you,
that’s a good fellow, and don’t go marrying
any other beat, and I’ll come straight
back to you the minute I am out of this
horrid mess, you see if I don’t, now !” con-
cluded the youth, rising and looking about
himself,
“‘What is it that you want?” inquired
Gertrude.
“*My hat. Iam going now. My horse
has had a feed and a rest, thanks to your
goodness—you are such a perfect tramp—
that I think he can take me another stage
o-night. To- night—this morning, I mean.
Look. at the clock !”
Gertrude glanced at the time-piece and
saw that the hands pointed to half-past
three.
“Oh! I wonder—I wonder what keeps
my grandfather?” she exclaimed, in dis-
ma
oy don’t know, my dear girl; not hay-
ing the pleasure of the old gentleman’s ac-
quaintance, much less the honor of his
confidence, I can’t say; but I know it is
very fortunate for me that something keeps
f he were here, t take it
into his grandfatherly head to’go and fetch
the enemy over the water. Good-bye, my
dear! Lam going now et my horse
and shall pass out through the alley.”
“*But—do you not wish to put on your
own proper clothing?” inquired his young
ae, hesitating and blushing.
The grandfatherly raiment
makes a ‘better disguise. Stay—bless my
soul alive! I do believe I have left my
pocket-book and all my money in the coat-
pocket of my other suit. If, you will per-
mit me, I will go and get it.”
Gertrude bowed assent, and the young
man went across the passage to Gabriel
Haddon 's room, and soon returned,. bring-
what seemed to be a well-filled porte
monnaie with him.
e, my dear girl,” he said, selecting
three notes of twenty dollars each‘ here
my wet clothes to get dry, and
Teawe this sum in payment of the patri-
fecha suit I wear away. Take it, if you
please.”
**No, no, no! Indced, I cannot !” ex-
claimed Gertrude, shaking her head and
putting her hands behind her.
“Oh, will put it on the mantel-
piece and. put this brass candlestick down
on it to keep it from blowing away. You
have no right to refuse it, you know. And
I have no right to wear away these clothes
without paying for them, cither,” said the
young man, suiting the action to the word
and depositing the notes in the improvised
nk.
o
“#1 do wish you would not persist in
leaving that money here,” expostulated the
ferry-girl. :
**Do you, my dear? You are such a
tip-top, out-and-out trump! A number
one, jolly stunner! Wouldn’t Pat take a
shine to you, neither?” he exclaimed in
enthusiasm. ‘‘ Don’t know, after all,” he
added, contemplatively. ‘She might be
jealous, this absurd Pat!”
at?’ echoed Gertrude, interroga-
tively.
“Yes, Pat—Pat Fitz!
be jealous and give m
*Do you mean Miss Patricia Fitzger-
I Say, she might
ald?”
“*Yes, I mean Miss Patricia Fitzgerald,
my imp of a cousin! We are a// cousins
in Wilde County, you a know. I have’ not
the slightest doubt in the world that you
are my cousin also! In fact, you must be,
if you are a native of Wilde County. Well,
good night, Cousin Gertrude
“Good night, good night! Parting is such
sweet sorrow,
That s shan say good night till it be to-mor-
And V m T blessed if it isn’t already to-mor-
TOW, too, as Pat would say! Look at the
ock! So good morning, my dear girl!
1 am really off now. And now for the
Summit, like a bird of ill omen, to carry
pad news. to a waiting bride! Anathemas!
I hope Gerry won’t ‘strike me down dead
with the black lightning of her eyes !”
“ “Gerry?” repeated Gertrude, in per-
plexity.
“Yes, Gerry Fitz—
“ «From the glance of her eye
Shun danger and fly,
For fatal’s the glance.’
And [have got to brave, u this morning.
Pray for me, my dear
y be delivered from “teath, the devil
and Gerry’s angry eyes.”
“Are you talking of Miss Geraldine
Fitzgerald, the bride-elect?” inquired the
ferry- -girl, in a tone of awe.
ust! lam talking of Miss Geraldine
ray
Fitzgerald, the bride-clect—‘the queenly,
dark-eyed Geraldine.’ She is another
cousin, What did I tell you? We are
all cousins in Wilde County—we are all
cousins in Virginia, 1 meant. Well, once
more, good morning, Cousin Gertr ude. I
tear myself away. I go, like good King
Arthur, of the legend:
“To slay aud to be slain.”
So saying, with a melodramatic flourish,
the eccentric traveller bowed himself out
of the room
none minute afterward she heard his
voice in the back-yard, expostulating with
the bull-dogs, who first resented his in-
trusion there with deep growls of hatred
and defiance; and then, as they recog-
nized, welcomed him with glad barks of
fricndship. and apology.
vo minutes afterward she heard him
gallop through the alley and down the
turnpike-road in the direction of the Old
Red Sandstone Church.
CHAPTER IV.
THE FITZGERALDS OF THE SUMMIT.
the same stormy night that wit-
nessed the flight of young Sallust Rowley
across the Wilde, the beautiful Geraldine
Fitzgerald sat in her bower in Summit
Manor House, wounded, sorrowful, indig-
nant, awaiting the coming of her laggard
bridegroom.
No purer, nobler race of men ever bore
the honors of a long descent, or wore them
with more grace and courtesy, than did
the far famed and widely-scattered family
of the Gherardini, or Fitzgeralds, a great
jouse of remote Italian origin, now colo-
nized all over the civilized world, who still
honor as their feudal head the Irish Duke
of Leinster.
More than two hundred years ago a brave
cadet of that princely house, one Otho-
Maurice-Gerald Fitzgerald, for some great
service rendered the realm, received
royal grant of land and a munificent sum
f money from Queen Elizabeth, with
which he ‘emigrated to Virginia, settled on
his estate, and built an im
He brought with him as his bride a
young lady of the noble Scottish house of
ouglas, and in due course of time he be-
came the patriarch of a numerous tribe of
sons and grandsons, all of whom received
royal grants of lands in the immediate vi-
cinity of the Summit Manor; and daugh-
ters and granddaughters, all of whom mar-
ried large landed proprietors in the neigh-
borhood, until at Xe ength nearly the whole
extensive tract known as the Wildes be-
came the Property of the Fitzgeralds and
their connectio:
The Summit ‘Manor, however, descended