Democratic Sentinel, Volume 10, Number 35, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 1 October 1886 — PHILIP ANNERSLEY'S PRIDE. [ARTICLE]

PHILIP ANNERSLEY'S PRIDE.

BY P. ROCHON.

CHAPTER L THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. Brightly the sun shone, sweetly the birds carolled that balmy May afternoon, and there was nothing fairer in nature than the face of Maude Hanmer, the young schoolmistress, as, her duties over, she lingered on her way homeward, to enjoy the beautiful day—now plucking a violet from its mossy bed, listening to the merry tinkle of the little brook, then softly humming to herself snatches of an old song. A girl’s face slill; for Maude’s seventeen years, although they had given her knowledge enough to teach the little school of Acton, had not fully molded her form, filled out the outlines, or given a womanly character to the sweet young face. Her chestnut hair, with here and there a golden gleam in it (reminding one of Titian’s women), clustered in thick, short rings over the well-shaped head, half revealing, half concealing, the little ears. The eyes were clear, blue, and frank as a child’s—a faint rose-tint on her cheek, a dainty hand and foot—she was a sight to gladden the eye. So thought Philip Annersley, as he rode «lowly by, fatigued by his long ride, and reins h nging carelessly on his horses neck; and Maude, lifting l:er eyes with a look of curiosity, encountered those of the handsome stranger. Baising his hat, he inquired, courteously, Can you direct me to the house of the late Mr. Morant?” “Easily,” she replied. “It is the large house upon the hill. You catch a glimpse of it through the trees.” Thanking her, he passed on; and Maude blushed as she recalled the evident admiration expressed in the dark eyes. Philip Annersley was the only son of a rich widow. His father died when he was but an infant, leaving him and a sister, a few years his senior, to the guardianship of Mrs. Annersley. Imperious to others, yet always indulgent to Philip, she had gratified his slightest wish, yet never allowed him, for an instant, to forget that the old Annersley pride and blood must not be shamed by word or deed of his. And, as the result of her judioious training, more than any one in the world, Philip loved and reverenced his mother. Tired of home scenes, he had wandered in foreign lands, and seen all that the continent holds wonderful. Pleasure held always a foaming cup for him to drink.yet he had returned to his molher “heart-whole and farcy free.” The death of an uncle had left him heir lo hie estates; and it was to examine his new possession that ho now visited Acton. He found all as it had been during his ■uncle's life; even the old servants seemed not a day older than when he had spent the vacations of his boyhood with his father’s •only brother. After his solitary dinner, as he reclined at ease upon the luxurious sofa, the housekeeper entered to ask which room should be prepared for him. The desired information being given, as she was leaving the room

“By the way, Mrs. Lyle, who are my nearest neighbors?” he asked, apparently intent upon watching the blue smoke of his cigar ourl lazily upward. “The Monsons, sir, live in the white house yonder, during the summer; Squire Bruce in the brick one close by.” “Are these the only families of note in the neighborhood?” he* next asked, in the same careless tone. “There are none others you would care to associate with,” returned the housekeeper. “How know you that?” said Philip Annersley, and a smile played over his handsome face'. • “I knew your nfbther; and I well remember how particular she was not to mix in «ociety beneath her.” “Then you imagine, as a matter of course,” replied the young man, “that I must share in her prejudices.” “I have been led to believe so,” returned the housekeeper, evidently not at her ease ut the turn the conversation had taken. “Hum!” and Philip Annersley mused with himself for a few moments. Presently he asked. “Who lives in the brown cotitage, at the foot of the hill?” “Farmer Grant, sir,” she answered. “I inquired the way there this afternoon, my memory not serving me correctly. A young ladv informed me. Mr. Grant’s daughter?”' “Law, no! that must have been Miss Hanmer. the schoolmistress. John Grant has no girl 6.” “Ah! I shall want breakfast at seven, Mrs. Lyle, as 1 can remain here but a few ■days.” But a pair of blue eyes peeped out from ihe smoke-cloud over his head, and in his dreams that night they looked at him with a childish, wistful look. CHAPTER H SECRETLY WEDDED. “Those trees must be cut down, they ob«truct (he view,” Philip said the next day to the old gardener. “Get some one to help

you—have them cut down and taken away.” “John Grant has a good team, and is not very busy now.” “I will see him myself,” he replied. That evening Philip Annersley knocked at the door of John Grant’s cottage. He was shown into the little sitting-room, where Farmer Grant, in his shirt-sleeves, enjoyed his pipe, his day’s work being over. His sister was repairing the damage John’s heavy boots and busy feet had done to his stockings; wh le Maude, one little hand busied in her curls, divided her attention between her book and pet kitten. His business discussed with Farmer Grant, but not so entirely, settled as to render another call unnecessary, he took Maude’s book, which she had thrown aside, apparently engrossed with her kitten. It was a book of travels. He spoke of places mentioned in it, then of his own experience; and speaking with the knowledge of the scholar, the easy diction and grace of the cultivated man of the world, no wonder Maude listened entranced, or that Farmer Grant started when the little clock struck ten.

“May I have the pleasure of lending you the book I spoke of, Miss Hanmer?” he said, as he took leave. “Thank you; it will give me great pleasure,” she said, ns she raised her eves, the sparkle still in them which his recital had called forth, the glow still on her cheek. After that evening they met frequently, Philip Annersley, the manor the world— Maude Hanmer, the vil age teacher. The days flew by, they lengthened into weeks, and still he lingered. “What,” whispered the Annersley pride—“what would my haughty mother, my highbred sister, say to a low-born wife? And yet, I can not—l will leave this place tomorrow.” Yet the morrow found him by Maude’s side, listening to her sweet voice, gazing into her bonnie eyes. The sun was hastening to his western home, the evening song of the birds trembled on the air, as Maude and Philip stood by the river, the last rays of the sun turning its waves to molten gold. Eloquently he told the old story unto a willing ear. In earnest and passionate entreaty he asked her love; he painted in glowing colors his mother’s pride, the awe in which he held her, and besought her consent to a secret marriage, to be revealed in time, when he had prepared the way; but, in the meantime she must be “his own, his darling, his wife.” Trembling,, blushing, overpowered by her great love for him, Maude yielded. The moon had risen in silver radiance, and the stars glistened with pale light, as they rose to go homeward. Turning to Philip, while her pure face shone in the moonlight like the face of an angel, Maude said, “1 fear my happiness is too great to last. This gray stone shall be the altar of our betrothal; kneel and promise to love me always.” Kneeling by the stone, one baud clasped in hers, the other raised to heaven, he swore, “I will love you, Maude, you only of all women, while I live.” She said, solemnly, “It is a vow. Heaven has registered it.” Not many days after, thoy were secretly married. Oh, what golden days came to Maude! If she had loved the lover, she worshiped the handsome, manly husband; and the interviews were sweeter because stolen and fraught with danger. Autumn’s golden glory was over Acton, when Philip walked up the path to John Grant’s door. Maude answered his knock, surprised to see him, as their meetings were usually at the rendezvous by the river. “Will you walk with me?” he asked. Maude wondered at his unusual silence and hurried steps. “Are you ill?” she asked, with a frightened look. “No, dearest; do not question me now,” he answered. Having reached the mossy seat by the river, he drew her to him, and folded her closely to his arms, so he could look into the blue eyes—those bonnie eyes—could feel her warm breath on his cheek. Still he spoke not. “Oh, Philip, what is it?” she cried. “I can bear anything better than this suspense. Has your mother discovered anything?” “No, my darling, but I have important letters summoning me to town. I must go to-night, and I can not tell how long I shall remain.” The color fled from brow, from cheek, and lip; she lay like one dead in his arms. He kissed her passionately, he called her by every tndearing name, and finally succeeded in restoring her to consciousness. He tried to comfort her, to persuade her to forget the present, and dream of a happy future; but she said, sadly, in answer to his earnest words, “I fear it will be long before we meet again. I cannot think of the future in this present sorrow.” With many kisses, with many promises to write, he parted from her, and his last words were, as he kissed the golden curls, the white eyelids, the little mouth, “Only, for a short time, liitle wife, and then, I trust, no more concealment.” Philip Annersley really loved his wife, and it was his intention at some propitious moment to reveal the truth to his mother; and the longer he delayed, the more formidable appeared the task of revelation. Finally, as time faded the memory of Maude’s loveliness and winning ways, he began to question the necessity of revealing the marriage at all; and, as he mingled in the fashionable world, he dreaded its comment upon Lis choice. Maude had never reached his intellectual want. So, day by day, he strove to forget the tie that bound him, and persuaded himself that Maude was happier in her humble obscurity than she would be raised to a station to which her attammenis were not equal. Letters at first came often—tong, loving letters; then at longer intervals, cold and hurried—a necessary duty, not a loving one. Maude at first excused the shortness and coldness of his notes with the loving excuse, “He is so busy. By-and-by he will write more.” At last even her innocent eyes could not be blinded to the evident neglect. The man of the world had now forgotten his plaything. Grieved and quite indignant, Maude at last ceased to answer his letters.

CHAPTER 111. THE BELLE Of THE RECEPTION. Time rolled on. Four years had sped. What had they brought to Philip? What to Maude Annersley? “Do you go to Mrs. Bell’s reception this evening?” asked Mary Annersley ot' h r brother, as they rose from the dinnertable. “I do not know yet,” he replied.

“I think you had better,” she rejoined. “It is to be the most brilliant affair of the season. But, above all, Miss Hanmer, Mrs. Bell’s niece, the great belle and heiress, is to be there. We were very intimate in Paris. I am dying to introduce you.” “That beautiful Miss Hanmer, has she returned?” asked Mrs. Annersley. “Yes; and if possible more beautiful than ever.”

“My stately mother admitting that a young lady of the present day is beantiful! You Sique my curiosity; I shall certainly go, laiy,” laughed Philip, as he left the room.

Mrs. Bell’s elegant reception-rooms were filled with “fair women and brave men” when the Annersley party entered. After greeting their hostess, Marv was claimed for the waltz, Mrs. Annersley conversing with a friend. Phi. ip, standing alone for a moment, saw his sister make a sign for him to come to her. As he reached her side, she said, “Maude, allow me to present my brother, Mr. Annersley. Philip, Miss Hammer.” Philip Annersley bowed low; he fancied he could hear his own heart beat as the lady haughtily acknowledged the introduction. Never had he beheld a more perfect woman. Golden braids like a coronet encircled the head, a complexion like ivory, rendering still more distinct the delicate penciling of the eyebrow; glorious deep-blue eyes; a robe of blue velvet fell in graceful folds around the elegant figure, peerlessly beautilul, “faultily faultless.” No flush came to her cheek, but it mounted quick and high to his brow. So met at last husband and wife. “May I hope for the pleasure of the next waltz?” he said, as he offered his arm. She placed her hand upon it, and in a whirl of amazement he led her to her place. It was surely his wife—so like, yet so entirely unlike. He could not realize that this queenly woman, who moved so gracefully in the dance, had ever nestled in his arms, or glowed beneath his kisses. Whence came the change? “Maude, my wife, is it you, or am I dreaming?” he whispered. “I am, indeed, Mrs. Annersley,” she replied, with haughty grace—“the deserted wife of Philip Annersley. You will oblige me by forgetting the connection, as I have done.” The dance over, another claimed her, and Philip saw how men admired and women envied her. From a secluded seat he watched her, and many wondered that Philip Annersley had for that evening renounced its gayeties. There was a demand for music. With a faint, queer feeling he could not define, he saw Colonel Allen, a gifted and gallant soldier, conduct “Miss Hanmer” to'the piano. Clear and full the glorious voice floated forth, filling the room with melody, and the listeners, entranced, awaited the close in breathless sileuco. Philip’s voice alone withheld applause; he was too bewildered to cover his feelings, and returned home as soon as his mother and sister were willing to go.

“Who is this Miss Ilanmer?” he asked, carelessly, of his sister. “A niece of Miss Bell’s. Her mother was mamma’s most intimate friend lin girlhood. .She married a gentleman of fortune, but some years after his marriage he lost his money in an unfortunate speculation; they lived secluded in the country. After the death of her parents, Maude supported herself by teaching, until the death of a relative, leaving her heiress to an immense fortune. She has traveled, is accomplished, and surely you have seen that she is beautiful. If you ever do marry, brother, I hope it will be a woman like Maude Hammer.” Philip murmured sadly to himself those saddest of sad words, “It might have been.” After that, Philip met her everywhere; unable to resist the fascination of being near her, yet not daring to approach her, he suffered bitterly as he contrasted the animated face with which she listened to Colonel Allen, with the cold indifference with which she met him. His mental anguish began to work upon his handsome face; he grew listless and‘indifferent, and though evidently ill, night after night he visited the opera, parties, and balls, just for one look at her face, to satisfy his hungry longing. • CHAPTER IV. ANOTHEB WEDDING. One evening at Mrs. Bell’s, as Philip Annersley entered the conservatory, he encountered Maude. A spirit he could not resist came over him; he seized her dress. “Maude, I cannot bear this; if I have sinneu, I have suffered also; do not make my punishment greater than I can bear.” She withdrew her dress haughtily. “Mr. Annersley forgets himself.” * “Oh, is not forgiveness a virtue as well as justice? Forgive me, for I love you so; I love you so! I offer you my life-long devotion; my life shall be one long atonement.” “How dare you say this to the woman you have wronged so deeply? You aloue have made me what I am—you must bear the consequence of your own cruelty.” “I will proclaim to the world the connection between us,” he exclaimed, maddened by her tone. “Do so, and I will at once procure a judicial separation 1 or desertion. He turned from her; he looked like death. His hand, which had touched her in his passion, was icy cold; he groaned aloud. As he staggered toward the door, 6he crossed the room, and, placing her hand upon his arm, said, “1 will marry you again on one condition." He turned to her eagerly. “It shall be a marriage in name only. I will bear your name; before the world I will be your wife. In private we will be as we are now—strangers.” I “I consent; it is all I can do,” he added, bitterly, as he 1 ft the loom. And Maude, with-1 eiglitened color, and a smile upon her lip, surpassed herself that evening in brilliancy and beauty. The brilliant wedding and magn ficent establishment were a nine davs’ wonder in the fashionable world. Then Mrs. Philip Annersley took her place as one of the que-ns of society. At her house was gathered all the wit, talent, and beauty of the day; and not one of the mauy who mingled in the numerous festivities but came nearer to her than he who seemed before the world her happy husband. He strove by the most careful and delicate attentions to win her love; her slightest wish was a law to him; but he might as well have lavished his care upon a marble statue. Through suffering, Philip Annersley was becoming each day nobler and better—-

worthier of a true woman's love. His selfishness had passed away—all that was beautiful in his character shone forth with purer luster. Another year rolled by. Mrs. Annersley sat in her boudoir, carelessly turning the leaves of a new novel. A knock came at the door. “Come in,” she said, expecting to see her maid enter; but, for the first time, her husband entered the room. As Maude rose, with a slight look of astonishment, he said, coloring slightly; “I beg your pardon for this untoward intrusion. It is the last time I hope to trespass upon your kindness. With your permission, I will sit.” “Certainly,” said Maude, recovering herself, and carelessly sitting upon the piano stool. She half turned toward him, while her hand toyed with the music, as if anxious for him to go. Never had she looked so lovely as this morning in her simple white dress, without a single ornament, her hair gathered in a careless knot, one tiny slippered loot peeping out from under her dress. He looked at her sadly; then he said abruptly, “I leave for Italy next week. I have some arrangements to complete before leaving, about which I wish to consult yon.” “I cannot make the necessary preparations in so short a time,” she said, with astonishment. “I cannot possibly go be.ore next month.” “I beg your pardon; I do not expect you to accompany me,” he said, gently. “It would defeat the very purpose for which I go.” “Ana what purpose?” she questioned. “Because,” he said, rising, “I feel too bitterly the mistake I have made; because I love you too truly and passionately to be contented with this mode of life; because I cannot bear to see others receiving the smiles which I can never hope for; because, though I have sinned much, I have suffered much. Henceforth I will not annoy you, but will go forth into the world to do anything that comes to me that is noble and good—all that a true man may do, and when I die, even you shall say I have atoned.” As he stood before her revealed in a better manhood—having cast aside the yoke her woman’s hand had imposed—she sat pale nnd unmoved, apparently indifferent. “I will see you again,” he continued, quietly, and left the room. As the door closed behind him she threw herself on her knees, convulsed by tearless sobs. “How can I bear it—how can I bear it?” she exclaimed, in her agony. What kind angel sent Philip back for the papers he had left upon the table? He noiselessly opened the door, when seeing her distress, he was about to retire without disturbing her. An impulse caused her to look up. She sprang to her feet. A new light flashed into Philip’s mind, and lighted his face with a glorious hope. “You love me!” he said. He held out his arms, and, hiding her face in his breast, Maude wept tears of mingled joy and sorrow for the past, joy for the present and future. “And the trip to Italy, dearest?” she said, archly, an hour after. “It shall be our bridal tour,” he answered.