had now, for the second time, beheld. As she ceased speaking, he burst out into a low soft laugh, as in bantering tones he accosted her 66 'Why, Kate, I think you want to bewitch me, as well as yourself. I believed you to be more reasonable. Now, if instead of all this rigmarole old granny's tale, your ministering spirits had discovered to you some wonderful treasure, it would be good fortune-for instance, such as the old family about to be restored to its former power, which belonged to it fifty years ago—or, better still, you yourself in your bridal robes, and as the song says "With gold galore, Above and below you, then I should say that your imagination was enchanted to some purpose with the richness of its own fancy, and tell you to keep on dreaming. But when I see, as I now do, your persistence in deceiving and exciting your too exalted feelings, with what I may call such works of Satan as you have for some time acquainted me with, I shall at last begin to think that your mind is becoming unsettled, and shall speak to your uncle about it, so that proper measures may be taken to irradicate such monstrosities from it. As to your fears about the unexpected arrival of that English cousin, and the influence you say he is gaining over Geraldine, even admitting it to be the case, it can't injure her in any way; on the contrary, more likely in my opinion to conduce to her happiness. I would give much to see her settled in life. She is too lovely, too vain, and ambitious to be left to carry out her own wishes. Why should not this proud Saxon marry her, if he will, and take her to his own country. What assistance or comfort is she to her old father? or, in fact, to any one? She is selfish to the very heart's core, and I believe would sacrifice any one to accomplish her own ends. She is the only Irish woman (I am happy to say I ever met) without a heart, for with that beautiful exterior of hers, she is internally a stone. She will leave few regrets behind her; all that is attractive about her, she carries in her face. I would not exchange your smile, which is too rarely seen, nay, even your prejudices, that in some instances are many, for her elegant self." While Father Maguire was speaking, Catherine thought she heard a slight movement of the branches of the trees near which they were standing, but the night was too dark for her to distinguish any object. She spoke again. "Father Maguire, don't wish for an O'Neile to unite herself to an enemy of her country. Far better that she should enter a convent, or indeed make any sacrifice, rather than degrade herself in that way." Then, suddenly remembering for what purpose she had come, that in the moment of her anxiety for Geraldine she had well-nigh forgotten, she returned to it. "Then you will not help me? you will not give me any consolation in my misery? but let me return to my morbid fancies. You will not even allow me to warn my uncle that some great - some unforeseen danger threatens his happiness? You, who have known me from early childhood, and have ever listened to the temptations and weaknesses of my heart-you, who have known its almost every thought-and "— "Catherine!" uttered the priest in a sad, reproachful tone. She seemingly did not, or would not, notice the interruption, but continued-" and many conflicts— you to whom I have ever looked for approval and guidance" The priest interrupted her once more-" Yet, Catherine, one secret has never been mine-you have never made a clear confession of all that was in your heart. There was, and is, a corner in it that I, as your spiritual guide, had a right to see into; still you had not the courage the will to confide in me. Yet I forgive you, my child, this one weakness, which I trust you have long since conquered." Catherine was silent, yet the priest knew by the trembling hand which still grasped his, and the halfstifled sob, what was passing in her mind. After she had sufficiently mastered her emotion, she continued— 66 'You now cast me off-refuse to lend credence to my tale? Then be it so! You have listened for the last time to my appeal. Now may the blessed Virgin and all the saints have mercy upon me! for I am indeed in need of it. Had I committed a robbery-or worse still-" again the rustling of branches was heard, and this time Father Maguire turned quickly round, while he said "Did you hear anything, Catherine?" But she was too wretched to be affected by mere sound, and apparently took no notice of his question, but went on "Father Maguire, were it even murder, the Roman Church has consolation for its wretched children." At the word "murder," the priest seized her arm, and, in stern reproachful tones, said— "Catherine O'Neile! let me hear no more of this. Go home, and say your prayers, till your mind becomes steadier. To-morrow, at ten, I shall be in the confessional. Now God be with you!" He turned quickly and left her. She remained for a long time irresolute and motionless in the darkness of the night, listening to the retreating footsteps of the priest. Then, with choking sobs, she began slowly to retrace her steps towards the house, and in her grief, not heeding a shadow that followed close behind her. When she reached her room she threw herself upon her bed, where she lay a long time so still, that scarcely a sound or even breathing could betray that a human form was there. Then she rose, procured a light, and taking her breviary, she knelt down and repeated over and over again the prayers appointed by the Church, till the candle had burned low, and the short morning hours were heard from the village clock. . The white face had become whiter, and the dark eyes had a distracted, troubled look in them, which told that no consolation had been given to the weary heart by her appeal to the saints. After a few hours of feverish sleep and excited dreams, she went out into the fresh morning air, walking on till she came to a tree, underneath whose spreading branches it was her custom to sit and think. As she watched the mists clearing away from the faroff landscape, her ear caught up the distant murmur of the sea, the view of which was shut out by the high cliffs along whose fretted base the surges were beating their eternal refrain; her attention was distracted by observing something white lying on the grass at her feet. She stooped to pick it up, and found it was a small piece of paper folded tightly together, already damp with the night dew. She opened it mechanically, yet carefully, when to her astonishment she read her own name, in large, bold characters, similar to those of a child, but so legibly and steadily written, that it was evidently an assumed hand to prevent detection. Then followed these words "Would you know what prayer is ?-read 'Prayer, is the breathing of a sigh, The falling of a tear, The upward lifting of an eye When none but God is near.' 999 Her feelings upon first reading these lines were surprise and perplexity, that soon gave place to indignation and shame, for they seemed to indicate to her that her secret was known, and that she had been observed. Who could it be? She had never breathed to mortal her extraordinary pre-visions, except to the priest and her foster mother. Father Maguire's sacred profession forbade his disclosing any of its secrets, and she felt assured that her foster-mother would rather die than betray her. She now for the first time recalled the noise she had heard the previous night when talking with the priest. What could have caused it? and with what motive had that paper been placed where she had just found it? Undoubtedly by one well acquainted with her habits, and who had watched her well. When she had read the lines several times, till their truth and simplicity became clear to her, and the words had fixed themselves in her memory, she tore and threw the paper from her, looked nervously around, not feeling sure whether she was watched or not. She then walked from the spot, with the determination one moment of seeking the priest, and the next feeling assured that he would give her no comfort. Her religion, that before had been her solace and support, now seemed to mock her, as she endeavoured to repeat one of its prayers. She began to consider herself as one almost denounced, and destined to bear in her heart a fearful and tormenting curse. From whom had she inherited this gift of secondsight, that only brought sorrow and bereavement to those who were dear to her, and pain and terror to herself? |