The Storyteller.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXVIII, Issue 1, 4 January 1900, Page 23

The Storyteller.

AT LAST 1

CHAPTER I. « QBBAIiDINB I ' ' Yee, aunt.' ' What answer did yon give Arthur Fareham this afternoon ? ' ' The only answer I could e^er possibly give him.' ' Do you mean to tell me G-eraldine that you have positively refused him / ' ' Yet,' and the gentle eyes were raised for the first time and rested on the irate countenance of her aunt, ' for I could never, never marry him.' ■ How long do you intend going on like this, Geraldine, defying me and setting my wishes at naught ? ' ' I always try to conform to your reasonable wishes, aunt but in this instance I cannot accede.' An angry gleam shot from Mrs. Wentworth's dark eyes, and the lines deepened round the hard, set mouth, as she moved uneasily in her luxuriant arm-chair. 'Have you considered, Geraldine, all that you surrender in discarding this brilliant mateh — the position, the wealth, the social standing that would be yours ? Geraldine 1 ' she cried, almost beseechingly, ' you must, you shall marry him I ' • I cannot, aunt ; I care nothing for his wealth.' The quiet tone carried conviction.' 1 You must be mad ! No other girl in the whole of Eastshire would think of refusing Arthur Fareham ! ' llt is useless to speak of it, aunt. As I said before, I could never mary him.' 'It is because he is not one of your Papists that you will not marry him. Is not that it ?' • Even if Arthur Fareham were a Catholic I should not marry him, for I do not wish to marry at all, aunt, and it distreises me when you mention the subject.' Mrs. Wentworth's anger rose higher and higher, and, in the excitement, she sprang from her chair and stood on the hearthrug, rage and disappointment depicted on her sharp, angular features. • I know what it is, Geraldine": I have Bifted your motives. You think you will inherit all that I have and then bestow it with a lavish hand on your priests and nunneries ; but rest assured of this, none of the Wentworths' money shall ever be devoted to suoh a purpose. I have quite made up my mind to that ! ' Unconsciously Geraldine's lip curled. 'Indeed, aunt, the disposal of your property is a subject that has never crossed my mind. You are, of course, free to bestow it where you will, and I must claim at least the right to choose my own destiny and refuse to be forced into a marriage that is so repugnant to my feelings.' Mrs. Wentworth saw that the argument was vain and useless, consequently her anger drew deeper and stronger. A union between Geraldine and Arthur Fareham had been her one aim and desire. Arthur Fareham being the only son, and consequently sole heir to his father's vast estates, was considered a most desirable • catch ' by all ambitious and speculating mothers, as well as by their amiable daughters ; and when he showed marked attention to Geraliine Mrs. Wentworth was delighted beyond measure. Such a union surpassed her moat sanguine expectations, and the thought of eventually leaving her own immense wealth joined to that of the Fareham's vast domains pleased her fancy and nattered her vanity immensely. Under such pleasing prospects she could with complacency make Geraldine and Arthur Farehain her joint heir. But here came the rude awakening from her cherished dream by Geraldine's obstinate refusal. Mrs. Wentworth's heart grew hard and her will more determined as she gazed at her niece, who was so docile to her wishes in most things, yet s»he knew perfectly well that on certain points her will couH be as inflexible as her own. ' Yes, Geraldine,' she said, in a hard, dry voice, ' I acknowledge you are free to choose you own destiny, and so by that choice you must abide ; our lives henceforth must run in different channels. Don't interrupt me,' she cried, seeing that Geraldine glanced up questioningly. ' You thall hear me to the end.' 1 Arthur Farehain implored me to-day to use my influence with you, to epeak to you once more on the subject of you giving a favourable ear to his solicitations, and it is at his request that I speak to you to-night. Meanwhile I have been thinking this matter over very seriously, and I have come to the conclusion that if you thwart my wishes in this matter I wash my hands of you completely. 1 consider that I have done my duty and fulfilled the promise to my dying sister in giving you a home as long as you required it, and now that you have Arthur Fareham's offer you require my home no longer. If you choose to be so blind to your own interests as to reject his suit, I can only say to you that you must go your own way, choose your own path — my house ceases to be your home.' The blood rushed into Geraldine's face, but her aunt mistook its meaning, for the lowered lids and long lashes concealed the glad joy that leapt into her eyes. Mrs. Wentworth looked at her niece expecting an angry retort or vehement protestation, and she was considerably taken back when Geraldine, raising her gentle, dove-like eyes, quietly replied : • I am ready, aunt, to go at any moment.' Stung by the answer, Mrs. Wentworth's anger increased, for she perceived that what was intended to be an overpowering calamity was only a subject of gratification to her niece. 1 Go, ungrateful one 1 ' she cried, her voice choked with fury. ' I see now what is my reward for nursing a Berpent in my bosom.

Bat what could I expect,' she added soornfully, ' from the daughter of a miserable French minstrel ? ' The flash on Geraldine's cheek pave place to two burning spots as she turned to her aunt and said with quiet hauteur : ' You may Bay what you like to me, but I will not allow a slur to be thrown on my beloved father's memory. He bore an honoured and an honourable name, and he was every inch a true and chivalrous gentleman.' Geraldine then hastily quitted her aunt's presence, and, gaining the privacy of her own room, she threw herself upon her knees, and, burying her face in her hands, she oried : ' At last, oh my G-od, at last I The hour has come when I can at laot fulfil my heart s desire. Accept me, unworthy though I am, as Thy servant and handmaid. " Show me the way wherein I should walk ; teach me to do Thy will, for Thou art my God !" ' And the tears gently poured down her cheeks — not the tears that are the outcome of anger and vexation, but tears that, like the gentle dewdropa of heaven, brought peace and relief to her troubled heart. Whilst Geraldine is there pouring forth her whole soul in prayer, we will take the liberty of making a short review of her past — and not altogether uneventful— career. Geraldine was the only child of Mrs. Wentworth's sister, who had mortally offended that lady by marrying M. de Perrier, a pro* lessor of music, who, although coming from a good old French family, was not endowed with much of this world's goods, and who, moreover, was a devout Catholic; and when a little later on Madame de Perrier embraced her husband's religion Mrs. Wentworth's anger and indignation knew no bounds, and she ceased all intercourse with her sister. But Madame de Perrier was too happy in the society of her devout husband and the sweet little baby girl with whioh God had blessed their union to miss the companionship of her proud and ambitious Bister. Gerald' ne was the joy and delight of her fond parents. How lovingly did they watch the first baby steps 1 how sweet to them was the musio of her childish prattle I and with what zeverenoe, night and morn, did they join the tiny hands whilst they taught the baby lips to lisp the sweet names of Jesus and Mary ! Geraldine in due time was sent so a convent school. Oh how fervently did that Christian father and mother recommend their absent darling to the tender care of their Heavenly Father, that He might always have her in His holy keeping. M. de Perrier, after attending a oonoert one night, caught a severe chill ; inflammation of the lungs followed, and Geraldine, at the age of 15, was hastily summoned to the bedside of her sick father, where she arrived only just in time to receive the last look and dying blessing of her fond parent. Overwhelmed with grief, Geraldine tried to console her almost inconsolable mother ; but alas ! the delicate constitution of the stricken widow never rallied from the terrible blow, and before the expiration of one short year Geraldine stood again beside the open grave and saw her much-loved parents united once more in the cold embrace of death. Feeling that her end was approaching, Madame de Perrier had sent a message to her sister to come to her, and implored her with her dying breath to take care of her darling Geraldine, to give her the shelter of her home, extorting from her at the same time the promise not to interfere with her religion. Had Geraldine been of unprepossessing appearance Mrs- Wentworth would not so readily have acoeeded to her dying sister's request ; but she was struck by the graceful elegance of her fair young niece, and quick as lightning it flashed across the mind of this ambitious woman how, in a few years' time, this young girl, with her distinguished appearance and winning face, would have the power to draw to her house the circle of society which now she courted in vain. Mrs. Wentworth was the widow of the senior partner of Wentworth, Baxter, and Co., bankers. As they were childless, Mr. Wentworth left his widow in sole possession of his effects and great wealth. After the first years of her widowhood were over, Mrs. Wentworth, who loved adulation and flattery, entertained sumptuously, and left no stone unturned to make her parties an unqualified success, but the absence of someone young and more attractive than herself was keenly felt. The young people voted her a bore, and the older ones could plainly perceive the acidity of her nature in spite of her efforts to appear amiable. She could not shut her eyes to the fact that plainly there was something wanting which she herself could not supply, and to her chagrin, as time went on, she saw her acquaintances — friends she had none—dwindle away, till at last she found herself stranded, with only a small circle of sycophants left to render her homage. Taking in at a glance Geraldine's attractiveness, she unhesitatingly assured the dying mother tbat she need have no fear for the future of her child — that her house henceforth should be Geraldine's home. Comforted somewhat by this assurance, the dying mother peacefully breathed her last. Bowed down beneath the weight of this crushing blow, Geraldine could scarcely rpise he.r head, and when she did so and looked into the cold unsympathetic face of her aunt, her poor, griefstricken heart yearned for some warm, genuine sympathy, and a great longing rose up within her to go back to her convent school. There she knew open arms and loving hearts would be ready receive her. Her gentle, docile disposition had made her a special favourite with the nuns, and in her deep sorrow she felt as though they were the only true friends she could look to. She therefore begged her aunt to let her go back to St. Mary's Convent. Mrs. Wentworth, to whom the sight of mourning and sorrow was distasteful, gladly gave her consent. It suited her for Geraldine to get over her tears and sorrow away from her : Geraldine in a few years hence, under a different aspect, was what she wished for. Accordingly the orphan child returned to St. Mary's, and there, amidst the peaceful surroundings and loving sympathy of her beloved nuns, time at last assuaged her grief.

Three years sped by all too quickly for Geraldine, and the time Arrived at last when she had to return to her aunt's house, to take her place in the world. Sad indeed was the leave-taking to both nuns and pupil, and with tear-bedewed cheeks Geraldine turned her back on the convent walls that had given her such kindly shelter.

Repugnant to her was the life upon which she was about to enter. She had seen but little of her aunt, and that little did not tend to impress her favourably, but deep down in her heart she treasured a secret that brought strength and comfort to her muchtried spirit. During her peaceful sojourn at St. Mary's the will of God had been made manifest to her ; she had found the pearl of great price, and, like the merchant in the Gospel, she resolved to sell all that she might bay it. To serve God in the person of His poor was Geraldine' • earnest desire, and gladly would she have entered upon the religious life and proceeded at once to Nazareth House, H , where her father's cousin was Superioress ; but it was pointed out to her that plainly it was her duty to spend at least a time with her aunt in accordance with her mother's dying wish.

Nearly three years Geraldine passed under her aunt's roof before the interview already recounted took place. She had suffered much during those years — more than most girls in her place would. Mm. Wentworth was rejoiced to Bee her rooms filled once more with bright and animated guests, although it was a bitter pill to swallow when she recollected that it was on Geraldine's account that her visitors so readily accepted her invitations ; but still anything was better than the ennui of being thrown on the slender resources of her own mind for any form of diversion. The giddy vortex was her natural element as much as it was the aversion of her nieoe, who was compelled through necessity to mix in the gay assemblage!, for she was yielding and obedient to her aunt's wishes in all things save when they clashed with duty and conscience.

When Arthur Fareham began to show marked attention to Geraldine Mrs. Wentworth commenced at once to erect castles in the air according to her own fancy. Such a connection would have given her a firm footing in the very best society, and thus havt* satisfied the longing desire of her heart, but Geraldine's course of conduct upset all these worldly-wise projects, h«nce her wrath against her was in proportion to the disappointment she felt at being compelled to relinquish her cherished scheme. Long after midnight Geraldine still knelt on in Bpeecblees prayer. She perceived the time had arrived when she could sever har connection with the frivolities which her soul loathed, and having received her aunt's angry dismissal, what further need had she to stay? On the morrow, therefore, she would take her departure, and with this resolution she retired to rest and calmly fell asleep. Next morning, at an early hour, Geraldine wended her way to the churoh, and after offering up a short but fervent prayer, sought for an interview with Father X , her confessor and prudent adviser. To him she recounted what had taken place the night before, her aunt's anger at what she termed her obstinacy, and the resolution she had formed to Btart that very day for Nazareth House.

The good priest lent an attentive ear to all she had to say, and prayed within his heart that God would direct all things according to His holy will. He feared that Geraldine was acting too hastily, leaving too abruptly, but she assured him that Bhe had weighed the matter well — it was evident her aunt wished to rid herself of her presence since she would not acquiesce in her wishes. Only the day before she had received a letter from the Mother Superioress saying how she longed and prayed for the time to arrive when she could open her arms to receive her, and bidding her to hasten without delay when the appointed hour should come. Kneeling for the good priest's blesaing, Geraldine repaired to the church to prepare herself for the devout reception of the Sacraments,

After Mass she knelt for the last time at Our Lady's altar and poured forth her whole soul in prayer, asking that dear Mother to watch over and guide her in all her ways.

With eyes brimful of tears, Geraldine's gaze lingered in fond farewell on the church she loved so well, the sanctuary and altar rails where she had so often received the Bread of Life, the altar of Our Lady, the statues of the Saints, where Bhe had knelt and implored their help and protection ; the bright, steady lamp of the sanctuary, which had soothed her troubled soul when, weary of the vanity and emptiness of her aunt's frivolities, she had sought solace and comfort in the peace of the Banctuary.

Hurrying back to the house that was to be her home no longer, Geraldine partook of a slight breakfast, gathered together her belongings, and wrote a note to her aunt thanking her for all she had done for her during the years she had spent under her roof, and asking her forgiveness for her opposition to her wishes, adding that she was bound to choose the state of life that had been so clearly pointed out to her as being the manifest will of God. With a kindly spoken farewell to the servants, who were devoted to her, Geraldine set forth oh her Journey to begin her new life, where crosses and trials must necessarily await her ; but her heart was full of peace and joy, for did she not know that she was walking in the footsteps of that Divine Master Who had trod the rugged hill before her, but Who had said that His yoke was sweet and His burden light. She was warmly received by the Rev. Mother, and Geraldine repaired at once to the convent chapel, where, throwing herself on her knees before the Prisoner of Love, and with eyes fixed on the tabernaole door, ' At last 1' Bhe exolaimed, ' at last 1'

Time went on, and at the end of thirty years Geraldine, or Sister Anastasia, as she was called in religion, was as active and Eealous in all her deeds of charity as the first day she received the novioe's veil. Time had left but few traoes on her countenance

save to mature the sweetness of its expression. She had been away to make her novitiate, and after making her profession returned to Nazareth House to cirry on her work of charity — at one time soothing the dying, smoothing the pillow of the aged and feeble, or listening with a patient ear to some wayward child's complaint. With both young and old she was always the consoling angel, the bearer of comfort.

During all those years not one word had ever reached her from Mrs Wentworth. For the first decade of years she had annually written to her aunt, but as her letters were invariably returned unopened she at Ja^t, by the Superioress's artvicp, ceased to write, but she did not forget the worldly woman in her frequent prayers ; her petitions she felt must be heard, and grace in time would touch the stony heart.