[CHAPTER XXXVI.]
GERALDINE'S DEFIANCE.
"There are some sweet affections
That wealth cannot buy,
That cling but still closer
When sorrow draws nigh;
As the mistletoe clings
To the oak, not in part,
But with leaves closely round it,
The root in its heart."
Charles Swain.
Mrs. Fitzgerald sighed, and continued:
"I must touch briefly now on a subject painful to us both—your father's faithlessness."
"Oh, mamma, how could he be false to one like you—so noble, so beautiful?" cried Geraldine, in wonder.
"He was weak and easily flattered by a designing woman—that is all I will say, Geraldine, for how can I disparage an erring father to his child? Well, while I remained at my cousin's in Devonshire, my husband kept running back and forth to Paris, seeming infatuated by its charms. At length a rumor reached me that he was lavishing money and attention on a notorious woman who had caught his fancy. I wrote to him, begging that he would deny it, but he treated my letter with disdain, plunging more recklessly into dissipation, and even appearing in public by the side of the woman who had lured him from me, seated in a magnificent vehicle he had purchased for her use. To be brief, Geraldine, his vile conduct killed every spark of love I ever had for him. I returned to my home in New York and secured a divorce as soon as possible, encouraged by my father, who was then living. But he died in a few months, and afterward I was very lonely, having no near relatives to cheer me except you, my pet and darling. At a watering-place I met Mr. Fitzgerald, and a mutual fascination for each other was followed by an early marriage. Soon after our return from our bridal tour, your father—enraged, perhaps that I could find happiness with another—came to Chicago and stole you away. A cruel fate foiled all my efforts to trace you, until that day when chance brought us face to face."