Democratic Sentinel, Volume 13, Number 18, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 May 1889 — A TALE OF TWO WOMEN [ARTICLE]

A TALE OF TWO WOMEN

“Como to me. lam dying. June.” Don Eastern’s brow was knit, and ho muttered a very impatient imprecation under his breath, as he stood studying the telegram which hud just been put in his hand. “I thought that was all over and done with. Must wo go through with it again, I wonder?" And then he took up a time-table and studied it attentively for a moment. “Of course a thousand miles in this beastly cold is a mere nothing lor a busy man! That’s understood. A woman's caprice must bo gratitled at nil hazards. My arch enchantress Isn’t ldving any more than I am, but I suppose I must go.” Glancing hurriedly through the mad on his desk, he t <un picked up, from the midst of commonplace, practical, business-like looking letters, a slim, satiny envelope of palest pink, with a faint perfume clinging to it. His whole face softenod, and his hand shook for a moment us he eagerly opened and regd the few lines. “My little Mignon!” he said, gently. But his little Mignon did not keep him from taking a journey of a thousand miles to see June Heatherton, to whom he ha t been engaged a year ago; with whom ho had quarreled fiercely over some palpable flirtation on her part; from whom ho had parted in bitterness and pain, and yet, with a half-relieved feeling in a corner of his hoart. Six months he had boen reckless, as a man sometimes will when a woman has been false and untrue in any particular; and then she had written him, proudly, tenderly, saying that, us she hud sinned, so sho must be the supplicant—in her auger she had said she did not love him. but now she knew better; she would never love any one else—would ho not come back to her ? Jlut this, he had declined, politely and firmly. Now that it was all over, he knew that he had never loved her, and that it was a most fortunate thing he had found it out in time. Her grace, her beauty, hor wonderful fascination, had thrilled his blood with a rapture that he thought then *wus love, but it was only hor false twin sister. Lovo had come to him. indeed, but it was a later guest, and then a sweet faee leaned 10 him through the shadows, and its purity and tenderness blotted out the wa m summer beauty of Juno Heatherton fiom lie ore his vision. Yota week later h« was in her presence. “She evidently stid lives!" ho murmured, sardonically, ns h • ent red the magnificent hall of Hoit.herton. pater, in which no signs of mourning flutte-nd. A moment later Jure entered the draw-ing-room, where he waited. Ah. yes, sli- could stir even his unbelieving, cold iieart. “My lovo! my love!” she murmured, softly.

And certainly Don Eastern was not the kind of a man to let the memory of little Mignon prevent him from holding a beautiful, yielding form olosely in his arms, and returning clinging kissos with interest, when such a rare opportunity offered. But for all this propitious beginning, Don Eastern went back to his own home, a week later, as free as when he left it. Ho alone know the full power of June Heatherton’s siren charms, for he was the only man she had ever loved. He alone knew of the tears she had shed; he alone knew that she had thrown herself at his feet in all her exquisite, gleaming beauty, and begged him to take her back to his heart, with all the despairing passion that a woman like her can feel when she sees the man that was once her abject slave beyond hor roach. What was her pride compared to the desolation that swept over her when she realized that the heart sho had trifledwtih was hers no longer, when sho had learned ;o prize it most? And so ho went back to his little Mignon, whose calm, pure face was. continually before him through all his journey in the bitter winter cold. A dainty little missive would be awaiting him—the last week or two would drop away from him then. But to his intense disappointment, no letter was there; ho only waited to grasp this fact fully, and to freshen up after his tiresome trip, when once more he started out. It was a very different woman from June Heatherton that greeted him at the end of his journey. Not tall, nor voluptuous, nor passionate; but flower-sweet and fragile, with dreaming eye 3. a sad mouth, and a radiant smile. A faint flush stole into hor cheeks as she came quietly to him and laid her hands in his outstretched ones ior a brief moment—she did not even see the love and longing in his eyes and then he ,took her in his arms. “Mignon, I can wait no longer. Say you love me." She looked up into his face, a little startled, and trembled like a bud the wind has shaken too roughly; but she did not strive to leave her prison, and, after a pause which was breathless and terrible to Don Eastern, sho said, gravely and sweetly: “I love you.” “My angel!” he said, passionately. “I am not worthy of you—not worthy to touch your hand; but I love you so, little Mignon, shall make you happy.” And sho laid her cheek against his. perfectly happy and trusting and content. ! Stjangely enough, he told her all about Juno Heatherton. He hid nothing —not even long journey last week and Mignon\ f aco \ vaß shadowed for a momont. “Did soever love her?” “Iso, my larling; I thought I did. but I know better now.” “Khe is very , eautiful?" “Yos.' “And sho lovesyou?" He bent down snd kissed her, but did not answer. “Are you sure—quhe sui»_that you love » er / " *

“My Dlossom!* he murmured, with infinite tenderness, "if you are not the other half of my soul, I pray God I may go to my grave bereft." "But you wpuld have married her." she said, after a lftttc. “I don’t think fate would have been so cruel, knowing my little unknown Mignon was my rightful portion. Uemember, dear. I did not know you then." Three months later Don brought her June's wedding-cards.

“You see, dear,” he said, "that she did not love me." But in a day or two came a mad letter to lilm. written by June on her wedding-day. And Don Eastern was sorry, indeed; for June Heatherton, despite her coquetry, was a girl with a really fine nature. Hhe was good and noble in most things, but this unreasoning love seemed to have overwhelmed her and swept her off her feet. He said nothing to Mignon. He destroyed the letter and did not answer it. He was beginning to hope she found a new love to fill her heart, when another letter came. She had tried to love hor husband; she had imagined, if she were married to some good man. she could forget her wild love for him. But it was in vain, and she was the most miserable woman on the faee of the earth. He said nothing to Mignon. It would only grieve her, and she was too white and innocent to know anything of such stormy passions. A third letter came, and a fourth, and he began to be seriously annoyed, when one day a little note came iroin June—Mrs. Langdon—saying she was to be in town visiting her sister; would he not call? In his perplexity (men are such stupids) he we'nt to Mignon, Ho told her Mrs. Langdon was in town: that she had written to him to call. Should ho do so? And then to her questions: No, sho was not happy, and she had not yet learned to lovo her husband, whom she had married in one of her freaks, but in time, perhaps And poor little Mignon, with a very sore heart and a calm face, told him to go if ho wished. It would only bo courtesy. Sho had seen June’s picture, and the beautiful sorceress face was something to remember—tho sweet, smiling lips, tho lannuid, durk eyes, the pearl softness atid fairness. Often, when she was nestled in hor lover’s arms, the thought would steal to her that that beautiful head had lain where hers was now; that his kisses had been pressed upon other, redder lips, and she felt a little pang, as a loving, jealous aeart will, for them is little love in this world that docs not walk hand in hand with jealousy. It is all very well to talk about a perfect trust, a noble confidence, but this is the nineteenth century, and one must bo vain, and arrogant, and selfsufficient indeed, when no doubt over creeps in of one’s own power and fascination when pitted against another's. June Langdon had wealth, beauty, and passion. Mignon had twice her intellect, and tenderness, and capacity for pain, and so If-sacrifice and love. Juno was a magnificent cactus-blossom, scarlet and gold, and sutbti'; Mignon was a fair day-lily,, pallid and fragrant and pensive. And men have such an unfortunate weakness for tropical flowers, they cannot pass them by carelessly or unconsciously, oven though they have already plucked the lily and laid the frail petals over their hearts. The white flower brought out all tlie beauty of Don Eastern's soul, its chivalry and tenderness, its belief in the good and true, its higher impulses and aspirations; but ho could not ignore the brilliant cactus-bud; it caused his Mood to flow faster, it gave a new zest to living—for an hour.

Mignon was his saint, his nun. his good angel, and ho loved her truly, with all the high love a man o* the wc Id can ever know. He reverenced her for hor womanly goodness and truth; he trusted her as he never supposed Ire could trust any one. She rested him and soothed him unspeakably. And little Mignon loved him with a strange power and intensity that was the very breath of hor life to hor. But ho went to see Mrs. Langdon all the same. She camo to him more royally beautiful than over, with eyes more lustrous and filled with a starrier dusk, with redder lips and a deeper flush on her delicate cheeks; hor garments clung about hor lissom form, a faint, mystic perlume rose from her laces —Circe* indeed. Ho stood up silently and gravely, but she laid her head on his shoulder and drew his lips down to hers. Sho laid once been delicately reserved, and high and proud, but a mad, unthinking love had changed her strangely. And, married though she was, this man, Don Eastern, held all hor soul in his keeping, and, with a tropical nature like hers, love is everything. She would have preferred heavon and the "lilies and languors, of virtue”; debarred from that, she would tako hell and the “rapture and roses” of a love to which she had no shadow of right. By-and-by sho said: “Don. you love some one.” He bowed, with a deep look into her face. “Not me—you do not love me!” she said, impatiently. “It is some one else, some one I don’t know—tell me about hor!” “My dear June, could a man ever find room for two women in his heart, when one of ihem was you?” “Tell me about hoc,” sho said, steadily. “I have not loved you all these years, Don Eastern, without learning every phase of your mood. Does she live here?” No, but she is visiting here at present,” “Is she beautiful?” “No.” “Brilliant?" No.” “Wealthy?” “No.” “What is she, then?” “An angel, whose garments it is a profanation to toucti.” She looked at him wonderingly and sighed heavitv. “Can I see her?" "I am sure Ido not know. You may possibly meet her at some party or something.” “Are you going to hear Modjeska tomorrow night ?“ “Yes.” “With hor?” “I believe so.* “Then I shall see her Oh, my God!” Sho caught her breath sharply, and fell down at his feet in all hor exquisite beauty, “Can you never, never love mo again. Don? My life, my soul, it is all yours! Can yon not give me a little love in return?” He lilted her up gently. “It is too late to ask that now, June. Try and forget you ever loved any one but your husband. Believe me, you will be happier. No one can more bittorly regret than I the misery of our past. Lot us begin anew.” But she thiust him away from her wildly, and bade him to go, it he did not wish her to fall dead at his feet. So he went away sadly. ****** Mignon was visiting a school friend, Mrs. Barrymore, and the next night they all sat listening to the heart-breaking story of “Camille”—Mrs. Barrymore piquant and gypsy-like; Mr. Barrymore blonde and languid, but very devoted to his pretty, dashing wife; Mignon und Don Eastern. MignoD was listening earnestly to Modjeska, who interpreted so well a passionate, loving, erring, noble woman’s heart. The high-bred grace, the dainty foreign accent, the naturalness of this actress, held her in thrall, olid she never took her eyes from the stage: but* as ihe cqrtaln went down on the second act, she lifted her glass and slowly scanned the house. Suddenly she paused with a heart that throbbed strangely. Directly across from her sat a woman whom

surely she had seen somewhere—a woman with great dusky eyes and golden hair, and a brilliant scarlet on her lips, and a fitful flush on her checks—a woman in gold satin that fell away from t he snowy neck and arm on which opals gleamed ominously, with a knot of crimson In her hand. “Don." she said, tremulously, “is not that an old friend of yours in the box opposite?" He lifted his glass. "You recognize her from her picture. I see. She is looking remarkably well, is she not?" nonchalantly. "She is glorious!" but the tender heart contracted. The dusky eyes across were looking in her direction with a restless, smoldering fire in their depths that painel her to see. June Langdon had glanced over with a hungry intensity that seemed to search her. She passed over Mrs. Barrymore’s bright, dark beauty, and settled Uirectly on Mignon’s faee, studying it intently. The dark eyes, the wistful mouth, the dieaming, calm, sweet face. “Not beautiful? No; but a face that any man would shiine in his heart and love more recklessly than any mere beautv of form and coloring," she murmured. “Yet she dresses like an actress. '1 here is not another woman in the House like her. She is odd and picturesque. She is like a strain so Mozart, a spray or lilies, a cool pool in the heart of a desert. My God! how he looks at her—he never looked at me like that! He respects her. he worships her ” She sank back, breathless with misery, and yet again and aga n she found herself gazing intently at Mignon. In a long, black velvet gown, cut after tho fashion of an old picture, with rare lace at tnroat and elbow, with long black gloves and a black fan. and a largo bouquet of creamy, odorous jasmine in her hand, she was a contrast indeed to most women there. Mrs. Barrymore was more of a gypsy than over in pale amber and dark ruby; all about her was color and glow and shimmer, but from the rich darkness. Mignon’s clear pallor, like the loaf of one of her jasmine buds, the sweet red lips, the dreaming eyes, shone out and attracted a thousand eyes, bhe was like a picture of repose. She was like the twilight, tender and pensive, after tho hot, tumultuous day. And Don Eastern, looking .'.cross at tlie beautijul enchantress in her gold-satin draperies without a shrill, knew that for one touch of the small gloved hand at his side ho would bravo death. As Camille was parting with Armand after her interview with his father, looking so sadly changed lrom tlm lighthearted, joyous girl, in her pretty pink dress and gnrden hat, from an hour before, laughing and sobbing in a breath, kissing him in despairing, soboing love, smiling in a grand seif-renunciation, woeping over her dead and broken hopes altogether, Juno Langdon, glancing over, saw that the sorrowful blossom-face had grown strangely white, and that Don Eastern was fanning her anxiously, and that he had drawn a mass of black, Spanish drapery about her slim lo m. Site saw Mignon look up with unspoken thanks, lifting her eyes with such devotion and lovo and laith in them: she saw him look down eagerly, -with truest, tonderfest love and anxiety: and then she waited no longer, but rose impatiently, with rage and hatred in her heart.

She paused for one last look. Mrs. Barrymore had leaned forward to speak to Mignon. and as Juno’s oyes fell on her lace sho started. “Why, it is Blythe Hart! I knew she had married, but did not Know what had become of her. Ah, everything is easy now.” Tho next day Mrs. Latigdon’s carriage dashed up to the Barrymore mansion, and a moment afterward Mrs. Langdon was announced. Mrs. Barrymore and Mignon wero seated together in the drawing-room, Mignon nestled in a great chair be.ore the grato. Mrs. Bai rymoro lying luxuriously on a low Turkish divan. Mr-. Barrymore stood up ivith a \ - ery faint suiprise in her faee. that changed to delight as she recognized an almost forgotten Irmnd. “Wiiv, June, are you Mrs. Langdon? Three years in Europe have set me quite outside tlie pale of all my old irienas. This is my dear friend, Mignon Trevor. Little Mignon, you have often heard me speak of June Heatherton?" And Mignon, with a faint color in her cheeks, bowod quietly, but did not speak, and relapsed into hor reverie, gazing with dark, dreaming eyes into the flames. How did it happen? Circe alono knew. But after that these two Avere often together. “Such a lovely morning, little Mignon. You must come for a drive with me.” Or, ”1 shall be alone to-day: you must come and make the hours bright for me.” And although Mignon felt a vague dread and dislike, it was so intangible, and the beautilul voice and face and manner so enchanting, that sho could not resist, and felt asiuimed of her distrust and fears. The days had flown swiftly, and they had been days of rapture for Mignon; thegayety and life and bustle were quite new to her. Every day Don was with her. morning and evening; no watched over her with a jealous care and loving devotion that Avere a marvel to himself. He took her for drives, and accompanied her to the opera; lie sent her rare floAvers from his oavu green-houses; he brought her his favorite books and music, and late in the evenings he lingered beside her, parting from her reluctantly, and thinking of her every moment ho Avas away from her. He realized that this pure, gentle, loving girl Avas the one supreme love of his life—her white lmnd could lead him unscathed over every sin and temptation, her sweet, dark eyes draw him to the uttermost ends of the earth. Ho was proud of her intellect and culture, he worshiped her for her innocence and trust, and for the first time in his life the restless, cynical man of tlie world was happy. Juno Langdon Avas less than nothing to him. He had never been near her since that day. He had neA r er even thought of hor.

But to-day he held an Ivory sheet of caper in his hand, with a monogram emblazoned in violet and sold upon it. And a line in the elegant running hand he knew so well. “I am going away to-morrow. Come just once more, for the sake of the old days, when no other woman was dearer than I. I am going to Paris to live, and may never see you again. June.” And he went. Reluctantly and distastefully—but he went. He was ushered into a dainty little boudoir, maize and poppy, musk-scented and ilower-fllled. Mrs. Langd n came forward from the library to meet him, in a creamy, clinging robe, with a scarlet poppv on her bosom that gleamed out white and satiny from the yellow enshrouding laces. She did not - give him unasked kisses this time; she did not even offer him her hand, but threw herself down in a great chair, with a sad languor that would have touched any heart but his. They talked a little indifferently, and then he arose to go. ”Good-by, Mrs. Langdon. 1 hope you will enjoy Paris, and not quite forget all your old friends.” But with a low and exceeding bitter cry she sitood up. “Must we part like this? Oh, my God! I cannot bear it! Have you no mercy, no pity?” The tears streamed down her cheeks, and she held out her hand imploringly. With the deepe>t pity and sympathy, he took h6r hand in his. “June, you will forget. Bolieve me, you will forget all this in a very little while. What good would my love do you now? It could bring you nothing but sorrow. We must never meet again. I hope—l know you

wilt be vjry happy yet. Good-by. God be with you. dear. He bent down and touched the trembling hands with his lips, feeling wretchedly sorry for this beautiful, undisciplined woman in her misery. But she nung her arms about his throat, and clung to him in a very abandonment of grief, sobbing hysterically, with low. sharp moans that cut him to the heart. “June, dear child, do not weep so. You will be ill. It is torture to hear you." She faltered and shirred, and he put his arms around her, and kissed her on the fair brow, once, twice. Her arms were about him, and the beautiful. quivering, wet face pressed close against him. A deep sigh startled him. He lifted his head, standing in the door, pallid a* a ghost, with frightened. wo;ul eyes and despair in every feature, stood Mignon. With a loud exclamation, with rage and impatience and disgust, he shook the exquisite form from his bosom and strode across the room. But the portiere had fallen .back into its place and Mignon had vanished. He called a servant and gave him a message for Miss Trevor, but the man returned with word that she had just gone out. He left the house without another look at the woman who had brought that despairing look into his sweet love's face, and rushed to Mrs. Barrymore’s. But the servant. with no expression at all in his welltraiued and very expansive lace, informed him that tho ladies were not at home. Perforce he was obliged to wait until night, and then he round himself once ihore at the Barrymore mansion. Mrs. Barrymore received him coldlv. Mignon had gone home; she would write to him lrom there, probably. He waited two days, and then the little rosy missive reached him. He kissed it passionately again and again before he opened it. “I never wish to see you again. My one prayer now is that I may forget you utterly. Good-by for all time. Mignon.” With a mad and bitter wrath he cursed June Langdon—cursed her fiercely and cruelly—and then ho started for Mignon’s homo, only to find it closed and deserted. And then despair overtook him, too. Everything, every one was repulsive to him. He went to California, and from one end of the Pacific coast to the other. He speculated wildly. He was insanely reckless. One day, six months after he had first gone through the Golden Gate, he saw a notice in a paper that made June Langdon a widow. He tore the paper in two. and trampled upon it. * # #*■»## * A year went by. and then he grew calm. He would go home and seek Mignon. lie would mako her believe in him; life was not worth the living without her. For one touch of her cool hand, one glance of the calm, dark eyes, one smite of the sweet, wistful lips, he would barter wealth and fame, and all the world had to offer—aye, liie itself! He never paused after he had started, nor night nor day, until he had reached the pretty little rustic town that held his pearl of price, his snow-white lily, his dove of peace. And then a great fear fell upon him, undefined and foreboding. He wandered up the wide, irregular street with a beating 1 1 eart an d feve ri sh pulses. In a few hi i nutes she would be beside him, gentle, loving, so giving. The tears came into his eyes, ana he muttered a wordless prayer, sneering, cold man of the world that he was. He drew his hat over his eyes, and wandeied off across a wide, daisied field that opened from the street until he had shaken off his unwonted emotion. The little nestled close beside the field; it looked cool, and shady and restful, and unconsciously ho stepped into it. Suddenly, .with a great cry, lie stood still befote n fair, slender marble shad. ; Mignon. Agep .19. • ; ; “Blessed are the pure in heart.” : There was only one Migno,u in the world. He fell down with his face upon her gravo. She had died in Home ofdrfe fever. Two years later June Langdon was Mrs. Don Eastern.