CHAPTER LXXXVII.

Te Aroha News, Volume V, Issue 253, 25 April 1888, Page 6

CHAPTER LXXXVII.

TUX T.A^T OV APAM lACKLVM). All is over now * A ' Pain, with its keen and poisoned fang. The horror of the mortal panu;, The sufForihcr look his brow had worn, The fear, the strife, the anguish &one ; He sleeps at last in peace. WIMTTinR. * Oh, how I rejoiced when at dawn of clay I issued from that Fewful mountain pass, and came down upon the shore of the open river, and saw the peaceful ferry house beyond ! ' Inolongerhcardthemysterious step, the swishine garment, and the panting breath that; had followed me all night through that daik and terrible gorge, ehilline even my hot blood, and tr\ing my hardened nerve*. • With the shades of night, too. all my superstition? horror had -vanished, and I was inclined to think ot my phantom follower as only the cieation of a disturbed imagination. • I walked clou n to the ieuj -hut, found the horn, and blew it, and then called out : ' ' Bo vr '" • I waited until I icceived the response : 1 ' All right ! Coming '." 1 And then, knowing that it would take the boatman tome little time to come down from the hou^e and get the skill ready , 1 left the damp feny-hut and went out into the open air and up the bank to a dry where an aged hemlock tree giew : and beins: very tired, I sat down at its foot and leaned back against its trunk. ' The sun was rising behind the Eatrle Roost Ridge in the rear, and beginning to light up the sky and the river. ' I sat, ga/ing on the scene, thinking of the many years that had pa-=ed *ince I looked upon it last, and of all that had happened in the inters al, thinking of the curse that had banished me so long, and of the awful force with which it had fallen upon me whenever I had ventured to ioturn, and wondering if it would fall on me again, and when, and how it would do -o • These gloomy thoughts came ovei me like a sudden cloud, and I bowed my head upon my hand. ' At that instant, and now in broad daylight, again I heard the mystetious footsteps, the swishing garment, and the panting breath. 'I raised my ln«d to look, but In a moment 1 received a pieieing, burning -hock that sent me lollinir on my face — a Mow fiom a dagget, buned up to its hilt in niv vitals. ' For an instant I saw the a-«a-=in inij over me, with a face lighted un with the hre- of insanity, with lip- giblioiinir of lovenge and triumph: and then, muimming to m\ -elf : ■ 'It i< m} father'- curse !' I l<i-t con^ciousn*>«-. I ne\ei fully ieco\eied my <-en-e-until thi^ morning. 'Thus wa* the cuise wrought out to itbit tei end ' Observe the -cquence of evenN, (ierald ' The first time 1 biaved my father'- cm-e by returning to my native eountiv. I \va« met by a blasting disaster that tote fiora me my wife and child, and «ent me a raving maniac Hjing from the ,-cene ' ' The second time I returned, after fifteen ymi-. T fell under the power of Satan, -lew my fallow -man, was tiied and convicted for murdei, and nanowly e-capod with m\ life, henceforth ruined by icmoi-e. ' The third time 1 attempted to come back f wa« shipwrecked in the Zan/tbai. ' The fourth and la-t time I \entmed to -et foot on my nithesoil I received nn death-blow fiom the hand of an a— ,a«in, who was but the blind instrument of fate, the unconscious executioner of my father - '■ent°nce. ' With a -itrnns and healtln opponent, (.eiald Fit/geiald might ha\e contested thi- point, but he felt that it would be both n c eless and ci uel to dispute, with a dyincr man, on the -übiect of hi- monomania, lie contented himself with a-kintr, in a low and , sympathetic tone : j ' Who nn> thi- cowardh a--a<--in. \ Arthur j 'I may not tell you, Geiald. J do nofc I wi-h to have the creatme pjo-f>euled. • And yet there can be no doubt on my mind as to the identity of the muidere--. I ' onh asked you to name hei, to confirm my own secret con\iction." .-aid Geiald Fitzgerald, gravely. 'Probably; yet moial conviction h not legal evidence, you knou : and I decline to give, with m\ d^insr bieath, the legal evidence the law would requite to con-ign a poor, unhappy, irre-ponsible wietch to a prison or a gallows Give me .-something, Gerald. lam fainting.' i Fitzrjerald cotnj^lied with his request, and then arranged hi- pillow?, and ach i-ed him to be still and rest foi a little while. ' I will,' murmured the fa-t-failing man ; 'but meanwhile, go and tell my daughter who lam, and piepaic her to sec inc.' 'She will nofc need much preparation. Her heart has natm ally yearned to you from the hr-t. She lui^ been your con-lant and devoted niu-c ever sincf you weie brought into the hou-c,' su'd ( olonel Fitzgerald, gently. ' Heaven bles^ her ! Now, then, go, dear Gerald.' Colonel Fit/gerald lett the room and went out into the hall, wheie he found Jess loitering near the door. ' Well, Mar.-se Gerald, is yer all forgot your daily wittels? Dinner ready di-> two honvk,' she said. ' Let it wait, -Jess. And do you in and sit by our patient until your young lady comes to take your place,' said ho7master. The old woman parsed into the sickroom, and the colonel crossed the hall and entered the parlour, where he found Geitrude walking uneasily up and down the floor. • How i& he'i How is he, Gerald V .she eagerly inquired, turning and hurrying to meet her husband. ' Come and sit down with me, my little love. J have much to say to you,' spoke Colonel Fitzgerald, as he took her hand and gently led her to the sofa. ' Oh, Gerald, he has not gone — not gone yet ?' she cried, when they were .seated. ' No, no, my love ; yet it cannot be long before he passes away. But I have something to tell you, my Gertrude— something very important to yourself,' he answered, so gravely that she raised her eyes to his in mute, earnest inquiry. 'It concerns this, wounded man, my child.' * Yes, Gerald ; I am all attention,' bhe said. ' You take a very deep interest in him, Gertrude.' ' Oh, yes ; yes, I do, indeed. I have

I from the first; moment I mob him on board j the poor, unlucky Zanzibar.' ' ' Did you never think it strange that you should feel so deep an interest in an ordinary stranger ?' 'No : but then he never seemed like a stranger to me, and certainly not like an ordinary man, Gerald.' ' Rut was it not very extraordinary that he should have had this effect upon you, my wife.' 1 "'No. Oh, Gerald, was it wrong?' she inquired, with sudden anxiety. ' Why, no, my child, certainly not ; it was quite right. And it was natural, moro natural than you knew.' j 'You mean — \ou mean — Oh, ichal do you mean, Geiald?' she inquired, tremblingly. I ' This man. Gertrude, is a very near relation of mine, said Gerald Fit/gcrald. ' Oh, lam not surprised. He (/<?<"> look -ike you, Gciald! almost like enough to bo your eldci l»i other,' she answered, with a gia\ c *mile. 'He is not quite of so near kin as that. Bm ho is \ory near. He is my first cousin, the only &on of my fai/hei's elder brother.' '(;n;vu)!' exclaimed Geitrude, almost aghast. ' Well, my child ! what thought lias startled r-o much '!' 'Js he— is he -is he that unhappy one— that banished At thin- Llo>d Fit/geuild, so long supposed to be dead '! That poor, lost Ai-thui, whom I have pitied with all m> heart and soul ever since I tirst heard his tiagicstoiy ?" 'Yes lo\e. the \ery s-ame ! Arthur Llojd Fit/gctaid and Adam Lackland aie one' and the same. And it was hi-> continued existence, when he lay under sentence ot death at Washington, which was the bccict told m;\ fathei on hi-, death-lied by the mad woman Magdala, and which ac eeleiated his death ! 'Oh, I undo Wand it all now ! And 1 undeistand the inteie>t 1 telt in him,' mm miiuii < !ei tiude. •(ieitiude, theio is another and a nearer cause toi that mtcie-t !' 'Geiald ! win do \ou -peak solemnh .' Oh .' w hat mot c '!' ' Calm \ourself, my child, and answer mo — Did >ou e\ei hear an> one lemark that sou jouiself boie a very strong family lilvene*- to the Fit/gei aids'.'' 'Oh, yes, man) pcoj)le ha\esaid -o Oh ! w hat aie you about to tell me, Gerald ?' she inquired, with -omc prcusion of the truth. 1 \on know, my precious one, you have hcAid the circumstances of your di-co\ei\ and adoption by that excellent old man, Gabriel Haddon .'" ' Oh, yes. 1 know that 1 was found in a ciadlc, stianded among the water lihe-s on the morning after the gieat flood, and that m\ paientb weic to ha\e been di'owncv',' replied Gertiude. 1 Ye« : but the> weie not both diowned. Your mother was drowned, indeed. You weie naturally belies cd to ha\e been di owned, and your poor father, maddened b) a ilouble beiea\emenb, belie\ing him-elf al-o to be pursued by a cui-e (led the country and became a wandeier over the face of 'the eai th. Only recently he learned that hi- daughter still lives, and onl> within .1 week lie leturncd to thi< neighbourhood to claim her, and to claimjhis inheiitance, for hei sake. Geitiude, canyon diwne ncm- what neai and dear cau-e \ou have to feel a deathle— iiucte^t in yon d) uig man"' 1 Oh, Gciald ! Gerald ! He U— he is—' ' Youi fathei ' Yes, Gertrude, you ha\e dhinul che truth ; and your lunrt received it befoie your mind could understand it. Ho not weep so, my deir,' ho said, as she co\ered her tace with hei hantU and buist into teai-. 'Hut, oh. (Jciald 1 to meet him at la--t onh in tin- way '' she answered with a wild bui -t of -oi tow. He diew- hei head upon hi- bo-om, whoje -he -oblied until the ctoi m of giief had ev-liau-tcd it -elf. Then she lifted up hei face, and w lfied her e\ o-. ' That l- i lght, my bra\ c little gii 1. (. om-[io-c Noui-elf tor youi father- sike, foi he i- waitinir foi \ou, and \ou tm^t go tn him a-. -oon ,H}ou <u^ calm onouL'h to do so. Xow, in rhe lnramvhile, let me ttll \ou -omethipg that maN -ei\c to help you h\ di\f>rting \oui thought-. \ our mother — rio \ou f»'cl no intcie-t in healing who -he wa- ' ' Oh, }c- ' indeH, >»fh-<l I do ! My poor mothi l ' ln>t -o \oung ' — 10-t m the. Mmi 1 wav in which i wa- -uppo-ed toha\e been ' Tell me of m\ mother, but Jell me qmckh, de.-v Gcr.ild, tor I mu->f go to uiy pooi father, who ha- not many houi-> to ]\w ' sud fJci tiud»\ dr) mg hoi c\e-. and tjvmg -o hard to compo-e her-elf that he t efloit-defi-ated the end. ■ Youi mothci , m\ little lad\, wa- no other than Magdala lladdon, the 10-t daughter of Gabiiel lladdon and ot hi-lo\'-l\ viit, Lillian \*ale ' ' llea\en of heaven- '' mutteied Gci (rude, cla-ping hei haniU and turning pale with emotion. ' .So that old Gabriel Haddon, who taught >ou to call him " grandtathei ," wa-, indeed and in tiuth, your giandfathei, though the fact was unknown to him and to \ou," added Gerald Fit/geuild. Gertiude made 1 no lCfily, but '■at with her hand-, clasped upon her lap, ga/ing '•tiaight before her a- in a deep ic\oiie. At ia-t -he looked up, znd inquired : 'And Magdala, that change, unhappy woman, who wont by ni) mother-) strange Chiiitian name — what had Magdala to do with all thi-?' 'J will tell you lalei , Geitiudc. ll ia lout: f>toi ) , and 1 liave not time to tell it to you now. He-ides, f ha\emuch mcie to tell you — the circumstance^ ot youi fathei s maniagc with your mother, and many othei matter which mu-,t bedeiciied to a moie coincident season. Arc you calm enough to go to your lather now, my child V 'Oh, yes, Gerald,' fehc answeied, a.s .she ro'-c trom her .seat. Ho attended her to the door of the sickicom, opened it, admitted her, and then closed it behind her. As Geitiude entered, old Je->s, anxious about her cookery, and glad to bo relieved from her post of duty, arofce and ciosscd the room and passed out. Gertrude appionched the bedside. The dying man, who had seemed to be sleeping, divined her approach, and turned his fading eye.-> Coward's her, and held out his failing hands to i eeeivc her. ' She went and sank on her knees at his ! bedside, and took his outstretched hands 1 , and piesbed them to her lips and to her bosom, while her tears fell fast upon them. ' My little daughter — my little daughter,' — ' lie whispered, ' you now — know all—' ' Yes — yes, my father — ' murmured Gertrude, amid low sobs, that she tried hard to suppress — 'yes— all ! And I love you,— I love you dearly — ' ' My little Gertrude,' faintly gasped the failing man, as he feebly withdrew his hand from her hold to lay it on her bowed head. ' I pitied you, dear father — T pitied you, as Arthur Fit/gorald, all my life, before I ever saw you !— l pitied you from the depths of my heart. And I loved you as Adam Lackland the first moment I ever met you on board the Zanzibar,' breathed the kneeling girl, amid the kisses and tears she lavished on his hand.

IMy litfclo angol ! Only angols lovo «'md ; pity the lost ! My little daughter— l would bless you — if 1 was worthy to do ao,' ho panted. ' Oh, bless me, my father ! bless your child ! Lot hor nob livo unprotoctod by her father's blessing,' pleaded dortrude, still lowlier bowing hor head. ' May the Lord bless you, my daughter ! May the Lord bless you !' ho reathed, with his hands upon hor bont head. And so thoy remained for a few seconds, and then the fast-sinking man whispored, ! in a changed voice : ' A/v: /' (Jercrudo arose and bent over him. His faco had altered fearfully. Tho darkness of death had descended upon it,. ' Father ! Father !' she whispered, ' shall loalHlerald?' ' Yes,' he mm mured, so low that she had to bend her ear to hear the word. Swiftly and silently she glided I rom tho room and pas.sod into the parlour, wheic she tound Colonel Fit/Gerald walking .slowly and thoughtfully up and down the tloor ; t'oi oven he could not sit still while Arthur Fit/.gorald was dying in the next room. '(Jerald, his last moments arc at hand. He has asked for you. Come r she whispeied in a broken \ oico. lie silently took her hand and drew it within hi* own, and supported her totter ing steps back to the .sick-room and to tho death-bod. ' Aie - you — both — hore ?' inquhed Aithur ITit/.gcrald, with low gasps, tor .sight and breath weic both going. ' We aie both hcie,' answered (!erald, toi (Icitrude could not speak for weeping. '.loin -your hands — and put them — -in mine !' panted the parting rim it. < le. raid took (lertrude's hand and j>i\t. it , with his own, in that of Aithur Fit/ gerald. The latter closed his iingei- on both, and gasped : ' ( lerald -be nood— to her r ' 1 will, as I hope Hea\en to sa\o me (% fer\ently replied Fit /gerald. 'The Loid — blc-s >ou — both — ' The last ".voids weie seaicoly audible, for with the las-t syllable the sulloring spirit, fell into that brie!, delicious sleep fiom which he would awaken im the highei life. 'All is ovei . my dailing, '-aid (lei aid Fit/gerald, in a low and icwicnt tone, .is he tenderly closed the e\e<- ot tho bod\ There was no outburst oi gnct fiom <ici fcrude now. S'nc was sensitive to the peace ful spheic ot the sleeping .-pint, and awed and calmed by it. She let her husband lead her fiom the room in silence, and then she .sought her own quiet chambei to pra} in «ecret. Colonel Fit/gei aid > etui nod .done to (.lie bed of death, t-Uuightened the bod), smoothed the bed - e<ucutig, closed the blinds and daikenod the loom ; and ha\ - ing made ever} thing decent and in otdei lie pds-cd out, locking the rlooi behind him and putting the key in his pockel ' How is de pooi ge'man !>} dis time, ' Maisc ( lei aid v ' inquned Jer-s, who came out of the kitchen to put this question. 'He i- well b\ (hi- time, 1 hope, -Jess That is to -a), he ha? parsed aw a), an sucied Colonel Fit/geiald, gnu eh 'What -ly you, Marsc (icr'ld — gone exclaimed .less, in awe ' Vcs, gone.' ' Den, hadn t mo and Hct licttcr go in dete and 'tend to the body?' ' Ko, not yet. All is done that i- needed at piescnt And tho body miiM. icm.im undi.sturbe 1 until the rurhal of paities wlidin 1 have summoned to identify it, and indeed until the coroner's inquest has been held.' 'Oh, Marsc({erid,mustdcrbe a crow nei s quest in t,hi-« \ C r \pectablc house? 1 inquiicd the scandalised Jes-ie. ' Ye-, .less. If i(, -woe in a king's palace in-tcad of a humble fciry-housc, the in quc j t would ha\e to be held o\er the mui(lcied man all the same,' gravels lophed I Colr.ru I Fit/geiald, a^ he passed on to the pai lour, which was now vßcant, and wheie he sat down at old Ciabriel lladdon s anti([tie wiitingde«k, and wiotc two letters, our to the country coioncr, notifying him of the death of the mmdoied man, and a^ ing an immediate inquest, and anothei to the \illage nndertakei , saying that hi.--ei\ices were rcfiuiied at Haddon - Feiiy. These note" he .sent ofl by .lohn Biooks, I who w a« now the onlj mcssenc:er left at the j fen>- Jubal having been sent to summon i Ih (ioodwm and !h Sivaw, and Hannibal ! to icn h Miss .M.ivima Uowle\, Mr Royal (lieenleaf, and Mi I Jen liowuTfi\ mg despatched tin- urgent l)u-in< — . <iciald Fit/gci.dd went upstans(o-i( wilh < lei ti ado, whom lie found leading horn the ' open l'ii)le on the table betoic hci. She wa- \ci\ calm.