Democratic Sentinel, Volume 17, Number 43, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 November 1893 — AT WAR WITH HERSELF. [ARTICLE]

AT WAR WITH HERSELF.

The Story of a Woman's Atonement, by Charlotte M. Braeme. CHAPTER xm— Continued. The sun shining into her roam awoxe her. Her first thought was of Sir Bertram. The incidents of the day before seemed like «a distant, half-be-wildered dream. Was it all true? Ah, yes! There were the daphnes, there, too, in her heart was the same strange, sweet music that bewildered while it delighted her. The world seemed s* fair that morning; the sun was brighter than it had ever ijeen. Lady Fanshawe looked in wonder at the lovely young fa*a that greeted her with such a kindly, happy smile. “Where are you going to-day, auntie 1 ?” she asked, as they sat down to the luxurious breakfast table. “Have you forgotten, Leonie? The carriage is ordered for two. We are going to Lady Seagrove’s fete at Chiswick.” Again the young Countess’ first thought was a wonder as to whether Sir Bertram would be there. She would have liked to ask Lady Fanshawe if it was probable, but she could not utter his name. “The Duchess is sure to be there,” continued Lady Fanshawe, “and Lord Falcon, too. I should not be surprised, Leonie, if you were married in your first season. ” “I should,” she replied, with a gay little laugh. “Ah, auntie, when the world is no bright, why spoil it by speaking ol such serious things?” “Young ladies do not generally consider that love and marriage spoil the beauty of the world,” observed Lady Fanshawe. “Now tell Florette that you must excel yourself to-day. Many girls look pretty in a ball-room who are not so pleasing in the daylight and sunshine. You look equally well in both.” CHAPTER XIV. Lady Seagrove was the happy possessor of a grand old mansion at Chiswick. The grounds attached to it were extensive and beautiful; some of the finest trees in England were to be found there—stately oaks and spreading cedars, chestnut trees that were magnificent when in bloom, magnolias that filled the air around with perfumes, silver birches, aspens, copper beeches that looked like burnished gold in the sun. From the grounds there were some beautiful views of the river. Pretty seats and garden chairs had'been placed under the trees. Once during every season Lady Seagrove gave a grand fete in the grounds, and it was eagerly anticipated and enjoyed. After crowded theaters, heated ballrooms and their artificial atmosphere, it was refreshing to see nothing but green foliage and blooming flowers. Fair faces looked fairer in the sunlight, people were less artificial, less ceremonious there.

. Lady Charnleigh was queen of the fete, as she had been queen of the ball. She looked daintily beautiful in her dress of rich Indian muslin, with its trimmings of costly lace; a pretty little hat shaded her lovely face, and gave a coquettish appearance that did not usually distinguish her. She looked around her, but did not see the one face and figure that had haunted her all night. As soon as she appeared Lady Charnleigh was surrounded by a little knot of courtiers; first and foremost was Lord Falcon, who watched her delighted face with a smile. “Is this the first fete you have attended. Lady Charnleigh?” he asked, when, after great maneuvering he had secured a seat by her side. “Yes,” she replied. “I thought so; your face tells your every thought as plainly as your lips speak them.” “Then I must train my face,” she said. “It is very inconvenient to have one’s thoughts guessed.” Lord Falcon sighed. “Why do you sigh?” she asked, simply. “I was thinking that the fairer and more dainty the bloom, the more easily it is brushed from the flower. I was wondering if a few seasons in town would make you as artificial and worldly as other girls.” “I am worldly now, she said, with a low, rippling laugh; “that is, I love the world and everything in it.” “That is not being wordly, Lady Charnleigh,” he rejoined, half sadly; then he looked at her in wonder —a beautiful light had come into those violet eyes, a sudden flush to the fair face. The flush died away, leaving the face pale, with the least possible quiver. He had his own share of vanity, and believed that his words had moved her. How could he guess that in the far distance, between the waving foliage, she had seen the grand Saxon head and fair, handsome face of Sir Bertram Gordon? All the serene and beautiful calm was over. Her heart beat, her whole soul was engrossed with one idea — would he learn that she was there? Would he come to speak to her? She said to herself that Lord Falcon, the greatest match in England, was a most tiresome man. She wondered why he persisted in sitting there talking nonsense and looking at her. while the young lord from her silence began to hope that at last he was making some impression upon her. “I would make her an offer at once, ” he thought to himself, “but that mv mother so strongly advises me to wait. ” “I wish he would go away,” thought Lady Charnleigh; “then perhaps Sir Bertram might see me.” She sat in silence some minutes longer, and then silence and inactivity became a torture to her. What if he should leave the grounds without seeing her? What if he should go away and she should never see him again? . “I wish to find Lady Fanshawe,” she said, rising; and Lord Falcon, to his annoyance, saw that the interview was ended. They found Lady Fanshawe deep in conversation with the Duchess; from the well-pleased faces of both, the subject had evidently been satisfactory. Then Falcoln left the heiress with a bow, inwardly resolving that the time phould be as short as possible before he made her bis wife. Then, oh, then Wie sun grew brighter, a deeper, fuller beauty fell on flower and tree, for Sir Bertram had seen her, and he was coming. Bright, sweet roses on her face, welcomed him, smiles for which some men would have bartered their life greeted him. “I have been looking for you.” he said, gently; and then it seemed to her that they went straight away into paradise. They left the Duchess and Lady Fanshawe together; silently they went down a long avenue of blossoming lime trees, too happy for words. They did not need speech to reveal their happiness in beiDg once more together. She asked him some commonplace question at last, and then they talked long and earnestly. How she hung upon each word that came from his lips! It was “the very honey of eloquence,” she thought; everything he said struck her as being so true, so original; the very foundation of his

character appeared to be truth. He was describing some adventure that he had met with years ago, when he happened to mention Captain Flemvng’s name; she looked up at him with a glance of wondering pleasure. “Do you mean my kinsman —if so distant a relation may bear the title? Is that the Paul Flemyng who would have had Crown Leighton but for me?” “Yes,” he said. “I had forgotten for the mcment, Lady Charnleigh. I trust the mention of his name is not displeasing to you.” “Oh, no; why should it be? I should like to see him and know him." “I knew him well before he went abroad,” said Sir Bertram. “Tell me more of Paul Flemyng,” she said; “I should like to hear of him. I am entirely alone in the world, and he is like a relative, though he is only my fourth or fifth cousin. “What can I tell you, Lady Charnleigh? It may interest you to hear that there is a rumor that his regiment is coming home: - “I am so glad!” she cried. "Of course, I love Crown Leighton very dearly, but.l always feel sprry for him that he has lost it. Was it a great trouble to him?” “I do not fancy that he would let it trouble him,” replied Sir Bertram. “You do not know him, Lady Charnleigh; he has a grand soul—a hero’s soul—as fa? 1 above all all greed, as the stars are above the earth. He realizes that one line of Tennyson’s, ‘Truest friend and noblest foe.’ ” She looked at him with wondering eyes. “Do you love him?” she asked. “Men do not use that wordjwhen they speak of each other. Paul Flemyng was my friend."' She walked on some minutes in silence; then she looked at him with tears in her eyes. “I wish Paul Flemyng would take half my fortnne,” she said; “I feel as though I had wronged him; yet I could not help being ‘next of kin’— could I?” “Certainly not. You are sure to have those feelings—you are generous and sensitive; when you know Paul you will understand and feel sure that he would not purchase his prosperity at any risk of yours.” CHAPTER XV. There was an unusual stir in the military world; fresh troops were sent to Canada, new regiments to India, and in the general movement it happened that Paul Flemyng’s regiment was summoned to England instead of proceeding to the East. It happened still more strangely that their place of destination was the pretty town of Weildon, not far from Crown Leighton. > Captain Flemyng, who had leave of absence, intended to spend the latter part of the season in London. General Sir Huntley Dacre, who was the very happy owner of a very fine town mansion, made the same reselve. “It will not be like parting, ” said Ethel Dacre, when Paul came to bid her adieu. “We shall meet again in London.” And Captain Flemyng, all unconscious of the loving heart so sorely troubled for him, went on his way to London, wondering what the difference would have been had Crown Leighton been his. He received the warmest of welcomes—all the warmer and more kindly that people knew how calmly he had suffered a keen disappointment. His only puzzle was which of the numerous invitations lavished upon him he should select; he decided at length upon an independent course, and took apartments near Piccadilly. In this way he would please himself as to whither he might go and what he might do. One of the first invitations he accepted was to Lady Denham’s garden party a species of entertainment quite new to him. It was arranged that Claude Denham, her ladyship’s son and heir, should drive him down. Lady Denham had a beautiful house, surrounded bv magnificent grounds on the banks of the Thames.

“You will see some of the handsomest women in London at my mother’s garden party,” said the hopeful heir of the Denhams; “and for my part, I consider a reallv handsome woman the finest work of creation. What do you say, Captain Flemyng?” “I have the greatest reverence for all women,” he replied, gravely, “but the question of beauty is not one that has hitherto interested me." “I think all women ought to be goodlooking. 1 cannot see why they are not. ” “They are,” asserted the young soldier, in perfect good faith. “I have never yet seen a woman’s face that had not something beautiful and true in it.” Claude Denham laughed aloud. “For Utopian ideas commend to me a soldier who has been abroad. I will show you a face to-day, Captain Flemyng, worth coming all the way from Malta to see. ’’ They made their way to Lady Denham, who professed herself delighted to see Captain Flemyng. “You will find many of your old friends here,” she said. “Sir Bertram Gordon has been inquiring anxiously as to when you were coming.” “Now for the face I told you of,” said Claude to Paul. “I do not see the lady at pijpsent; but wherever you notice two or three men looking as though they were moon-struck, be sure she is not far off.” They passed through several alleys under long rows of branching limbs, and across a smooth greensward. “Surely she is come,” said Claude. “I know that my mother relied on her as the great attraction of the day. Ah!” he continued, with a little cry of admiration, “there she is! Now confess that in all your travels you have never seen a picture so fair!” Paul Flemyng looked, and what he saw remained engraved on his heart until his dying day. Before him was a large white acacia-tree in full flower, its white blossoms falling where the wind carried them; underneath its branches was a pretty rustic seat, with the golden sunlight falling on the loveliest face ever dream of artist imagined—a face so bright, so fair, so tender, so radiantly lovely, so happy, that he was dazzled by it as a child who looks rashly at the sun. He saw violet eyes full of light, and golden hair that seemed to have made the sunbeams captive. A shining mass of palest pink silk and white lace draped the perfect figure and fell in sweeping folds: a little white lace bonnet a marvel of art, with one pale pink rose, crowned the golden head. The girl's beautiful face was bent over some white acacia blossoms that had been gathered for her. “There, ” said Claude Denham, triumphantly—“have you ever seen anything like that?” But Captain Flemyng made no answer. He did not know who she was; she might be _ a royal princess, she might be a singer, an actress, cr a duchess, he did not care—she was his ideal woman found at last. His life in that moment grew complete; it was as though he had found something for which he had looked long and anxiously; it was such a face, bright as the stars, and lovely beyond comparison, as he had dreamed of, but had never teen. 1 “Who is she?” he asked at length. “J. was waiting for the question. She

1 Is no less a personage than leonie, Countess of Charnleigh, at this moment assuredly the mo6t popular and eagerly courted lady in the three Kingdoms. You would like an introduction to her?” “Not just yet,” he replied. He wanted time to collect himself, to drink in the marvelous loveliness of that face, to watch the graceful movements of the little white hands —time to still the rapid beating of his heart, to quiet the thrilling of every nerve. Claude Deo* ham gave a keen, sharp glance at hid face, and then turned aside with a laugh. “Where there are lights there will be moths; but I did not expect to see you so easily caught,” he said; but Capt. FLmyng never even heard his words. His whole heart, his whole soul had gene from him—he stood there, as it were, without life, so intent, so earnest was his gaze. So, for a long period, did Paul Flemyng stand aloof, watching the beautiful girl whose smiles were so eagerly courted, and then Lady Denham passed by. He went to her -and spoke anxiously. “Of course I will,” replied her ladyship—“come with me. She led him through the little group of courtiers, and said: ‘JLady Charnleigh, allow me to introduce to you Capt. Paul Flemyng, who has just returned from Malta. Lady Charnleigh looked up with .a statt of amazement, that did not escape those around her. The color on her exquisite faoe paled, and a shadow came into her eyes as she repeated the name. “Captain Flemyng,” she said, “welcome home.” She dropped the white acacia blossoms and held out her hand to him. She did not notice afterward that he picked up one of those flowers, as a miser does gold. “You have taken me by surprise. I heard that you were coming home, but I did not know that it would be so soon. ” He looked at her dazzled, as though a wave of warm sunlight had fallen at his feet, and was unable, from very excess of emotion, to answer her; he felt when the silvery voice ceased to speak as though a strain of sweet music had parsed away. * “When did you return?” she asked, seeing that he was deeply agitated and mistaking the cause. “Last week,” he replied, making a great effort to control himself. “And you have never been to sea me!” she continued. “I shall scold you. Shall we walk down to the river?” The gentleman who had been talking to her drew back; Paul bowed low. “Will you give me your arm?” she said. “I shall not allow you to treat me as a stranger. ” She laid her little hand, so exquisitely gloved, on his arm, and his heart beat as it had never done before—so violently, indeed, that his face flushed. Far more bravely than he walked by the side of this young girl had he stood before the guns of the enemy. [TO BE CONTINUED. |