Democratic Sentinel, Volume 17, Number 44, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 17 November 1893 — AT WAR WITH HERSELF. [ARTICLE]

AT WAR WITH HERSELF.

The Story of a Woman's Atonement, by Charioiie M. Braeme. CHAPTER XVI. “Do you hate me, Captain Llemyng?” ehe asked. “Do I hate you?” he echoed. “Oh, Lady Charnleigh, what a strange, cruel question. Why should I hate you?” “Because I have come between you and a- magnificent inheritance,” she replied. “But for me Crown Leighton wjuld have been yours; you would biive been in the place you could so nobly fill.” His face flushed, and a light came into his dark eyes. “Lady Charnleigh, believe me, no thought of repining has ever entered my mind. lam happy in the loss, seeing that it is your gain.” S 1 have often wished that I knew you and could write and say it —I have always intended to say it to you the first time we met. Captain Flemyng, let us forget how distant is our relationship, and try to imagine we are both members of one family.” “I am more than willing—l am honored beyond words.” “And now what I am almost afraid to say. If we were brother and sister, I could say to you, ‘out of the wealth of my abundance, out of the ample means that would have been yours, take what you want.’ Will you let me say that now? You would make me the happiest woman living if you would. ” Again the dark handsome face flushed. “I .am not angry, dear Lady Charnleigh, for I understand the noble, generous heart that prompts the offer; but, while I thank you for it, let me say it would be easier for me to die than to accept it.” "Have I annoyed you? 7 ’ she asked, anxiously. “No, you have shown me how generous you are. If I had inherited the fortune, I should have been just as anxious to share it with you. No, most generous lady, I shall carve my own ,0 ‘tune. You remember those glorious words, ‘There is no fate in life save such as a strong hand carves or a weak hand mars.’ My hand is strong. ” “I am sure of it,” she said, looking at him with admiration. “I am very proud of my kinsman; you will be different from the rest of the world to me

—something apart. You must never flatter me, but treat me as you would a younger sister of your own—we are of one race, you know. ” “Ypur frankness makes me happy, Lady Charnleigh. I shall esteem the offer you have made as the highest life can hold. ” Suddenly ho broke off and exclaimed, “I know that face—it is Bertram Gordon’s. . And the next moment the two friends had clasped each other’s hands. If Paul Flemyng had seen how the beautiful face flushed, he would have guessed that Lady Charnleigh was not indifferent to the grand, noble man whose friendship had always been a keen source of delight to him. Then the three whose lives were so strangly interwoven sat down by the bank of the river. “This is different from Malta,” said Sir Bertram; “how one’s eyes long, when away from home, for a sight of English green.” “Yes, people talk of the grandeur of tropical foliage. I do not think, for delicacy and beauty of color, there is anything to compare with our English trees; sind their greatest beauty, to my mind, is in the spring-time, when the buds are tender. Do you not agree with me, Lady Charnleigh?” “I am sure everything you say is \ right,” she replied. His question had aroused her from a deep reverie, and both gentlemen laughed- at her abrupt candor. “You will cause me to weigh most carefully everything that I say,.Lady Charnleigh. You have been very kind to me —may J ask a favor of you?” Her face cleared. “Ye 3 twenty if you will; it would be a great happiness to do anything for you.” Sir Bertram had at first felt half inclined to be jealous of his dark-haired handsome soldier, but the frankness and kindness of her words disarmed him. It was not thus, he felt sure, Women talked to the men they loved. When she look at Paul Flemyng her eyes were full of admiration, of kindly liking—it was seldom that he himself won one glance from those violet eyes; when he did they wore quite a different expression. “I have some friends coming to London very soon—General Sir Huntley Dacre, and his daughter, Miss Ethel Dacre. Lady Charnleigh, will you allow me to introduce her to you, and will you help her?” “I shall be only too pleased to show all possible kindness to friends of yours. In what way can I help her?” “She is very young, and in my opinion, very beautiful. Her mother has long been dead, and she has been alone with the General for some time. She has not seen much of this great, gay World of yours, and it would be kind of you to introduce her to some of your many friends, and to let her spend as much of her time as possible with you.” She looked up at him with a smile he did not understand. “I am going to weigh your words,” she said laughingly; “why do you call this great, gay world mine?” “Because it seems to me that you are one of its queens,” he replied. “Do you say Miss Dacre is beautiful?” “I have looked at the sun, and so cannot see the stars.” “Your poetry is flattery—we agreed that you should never flatter me.” Then Sir Bertram interposed. This handsome soldier, with his reputation for bravery, was likely to prove a dangerous rival, and her friendly liking for him might develop into something ■ warmer. He thought it high time to draw Lady Charnleigh's attention to himself. “Is Miss Dacre a young lady?” he asked. There was not the least embarrassment or confusion on the Captain’s face. “Yes, she is of about the same age as Lady Charnleigh, I should imagine. She will be an acquisition to London society. Lady Charnleigh, I hope you will like her.” “I am sure to do that because you have asked me,” she replied. “You are very kind. When they reach London, then, I will, with your permission, bring the General and Miss Dacre to see you. ” Here Lady Denham joined them.

CHAPTER XVII. If anyone had been asked at that particular time to same the happiest woman in London society, he would surely have named the Countess of Charnleigh. She had youth, exceptional beauty, wealth, position, everything, in fact, that the human heart could wish for. There was not a cloud on her sky. One beautiful morning the young Countess was sitting alone in the cool, fragrant drawing-room. The rose-col-ored blinds were drawn, and the light

that came through them was mellow and rich; the odor of white daphnes filled the air. The windows were open, and she could hear the song of the birds and the distant roll of carriages. Luxury, magnificence, and grandeur surrounded the young girL She wore a pretty morning-dress of white, shining material, trimmed with lace and blue ribbons; her golden hair fell in waving masses on her beautiful neck and shoulders. She held a book in her hands, but she never turned a page. Leonie, Lady Charnleigh, was thinking. Before her mind's eye flitted many and various figures—Lora Falcon, Paul Flemying and Sir Bertram. She was thinking long and deeply; presently her face flushed and the beautiful lips trembled. “I will be true to my love,” she said to herself, “come what may, I will be true to myself.” Then she started up in sheer surprise. Capt. Flemyng stood beside her, smiling at her evident abstraction, and by his side was a young girl. Gen. Dacre stood near.

“Lady Charnleigh, let me introduce Gen. Dacre and his daughter, Miss Dacre, to you,” said Paul. The young countess looked and saw a face that attracted her at first sight; it was beautiful, intelligent, full of poetry, with clear, dark eyes that had something of sadness in their depths. She looked earnestly in the eloquent face, and then clasped the girl’s hands in her own. “Capt. Flemyng told me that I should like you,” she said, impulsively;' “I do not think he was wrong. ” Then she greeted the General, who, like every one else, fell captive to her lovely face. “You will stay and spend the day with me, Miss Dacre? Capt. Flemyng has promised to take me to the Botanical Gardens; it will give us both so much pleasure if you will go also. We shall know each other better if we spend a day together than if we only met among strangers.” It was a remarkable fact that people seldom refused to do as Lady Charnleigh wished. Ethel Dacre did not Attempt to resist. Two hours later they were at the Botanical Gardens. Had Lady Charnleigh searched the world over she could not have found a companion who contrasted so strikingly with herself. They were both lovely, but in style ?[uite opposite. Lady Charnleigh was air, bright, and radiant, there was sunshine in her face and golden hair. Miss Dacre was dark, with somewhat of poetry and sadness in her features. Their * appearance in the gardens caused no little sensation. To Lady Charnleigh’s annoyance, the Duchess of Rockhampton and her son, Lord Falcon, were there, and would insist upon engrossing her time and attention. She had intended to devote herself to Ethel, but the Duchess urged her so pressingly to go with her to look at some Indian flowers that she could not refuse.

Paul and Ethel were left together. Miss Dacre looked long and earnestly after the frank, imperial girl; then her eyes grew dim with tears, and she turned to her companion. “You are right, Captain Flemyng,” she said. “The Countess of Charnleigh is indeed-'beautiful. ” “Is she not, Ethel? But to me her beauty is her least charm. Her frank, gay, bright manner, her kindness, and the winning fascination of her speech, are greater than her beauty. ” “How you love her!” said the girl, wistfully. “I must confess that I do not wonder at it. ” “We are very dear friends,” replied Paul, all unconscious of the pain in that gentle heart “I am told,* she continued, “that Lady Charnleigh has many lovers. ” The smile that answered her seemed to the girl full of happy triumph. “She knows how to keep them in order,” he said. “And so much homage does not spoil her?” pursued Ethel. “No—she has a frank, imperial manner with her which nothing can spoil. Ah, Ethel, I am so pleased you will be friends. Lady Charnleigh does not go into raptures, you must understand, with every girl she meets. She liked you at first —I saw it in her face. ” “It is for your sake,” she said, gently, and the sweet flattery was most gracious to Mm. “You have studied her face well,” she added, with some little bitterness, “to be able to read her thoughts upon it. ” “They are so plainly written,” said the captain. “Do you. remember the old lines?” she asked, trying to speak lightly: “My only books were women’s looks. And folly all they taught me.” “Ah, Ethel," said Paul Flemyng, “the words speak falsely—a wise man may learn the highest lessons and the truest wisdom from a woman’s face. ”

CHAPTER XVIII. Of Ethel Dacre, Lady Charnleigh had grown very fond; there was a warm and sincere attachment between them. They were useful to each other. From Leonie, Ethel learned many of the world’s ways, little lessons in the art of savoir vivre; she acquired more gayety, greater brightness of look and word, some of the bright, pretty graces that add so great a charm to life. And from Ethel, Lady Charnleigh learned high and holy thoughts, lessons of gentle wisdom that she would never have learned from another. And yet, though they were dear friends, although their intimacy was of the most familiar kind, they never as yet had indulged in the usual conversation about love and lovers. Lady Charnleigh, so bright, so happy, had a certain conviction that Ethel had some sorrow preying upon her mind. “There is at times a listless look about her, and I have seen her dark eyes fill with tears. Ethel has her secret, although she may never tell it to me.” In the drawing-room of Lady Charnleigh’s superb mansion, Ethel Dacre sat one morning alone. She was going to the exhibition of the Royal Academy with her friend, and the Countess had not yet completed her toilet. Ethel looked very lovely on that bright morning; her eloquent face was flushed into the fairest bloom by the fresh morning air, her dark eyes were clear and true as the morning star itself. She had taken a book from the table and was reading to pass away the time until Lady Charnleigh should come. She had accidentally alighted upon that sweet love story of 'Elaine—the history of surely the sweetest, purest love ever given to man; and, as she read, the printed words faded, the passionate melody of the verse had found an echo in her heart. Even as Elaine had loved the grand and noble hero, so she loved Paul Flemyng. Even as Lancelot had no heart, no thought, no eyes for any save Queen Guinevere, so he, Paul Fiemyng cared for no one living save the beautiful young countess, who was “all a queen should be—and more.” It was her own story—love won, unsought for. “Only that T would never tell him,* she said to herself. “I would die, looking in his face with a smile, rather than tell him. I would suffer torture greater than that of a martry on the raok or the wheel, but I would never let him know. I would carry my secret to the grave with me, and it

should be burled deeper down thaa myself. Even in death he should never know it." She started, for a white hand lay on the open page of the book. “Ethel, dreaming again! What! Are you reading about Elaine? How strange 1 Do you know that in my own mind I have often comjfered you'to the ‘Lily Maid? ’ She must have had a face like yours.” Ethel Dacre made no answer. “Just such a face,” continued the young Countess, looking lovingly at her friend, “full of poetry, of love that had never been told; pure as a lily-leaf, sweet as the face of an angel —sad sometimes with a sadness half saintly; that is like you and like Elaine.” The proud head was raised; the fair voice replied: “It may be so. You have a vivid fancy, Lady Charnleigh: but* I shall not share Elaine’s fate. I will not die of love for one who loves me not. ” “Heaven forbid!” cried Lady Charnleigh. She kissed the white brow, looking tenderly at the girl. “I do not know how it is, Ethel; but when I look at you, I think that yours is the very face for a tragical love story. You are like Elaine and Juliet. I have seen that same expression on other faces—a kind of prophecy, as it were, written there, that undisturbed happiness is not to be the portion of the owner. I hope I am wrong, but I Lave this thought of you. ” “You are not a prophetess, Lady Charnleigh: you are only a belle and a woman of fashion. I shall not heed what you say.” J But the white hands tightened their caressing hold of her. y' _ “Tell me, Ethel— not some one you love very mtfch —some one you care for more than all the world beside—some sweet secret of your own that you have never told to others, but you will tell to me? Is it not so, Ethel?” She drew the sweet face close to her own and held it there. “Will you not trust me, Ethel, your sister and your friend? Ah, sweet, do not turn away: see, your tears have dropped on the open page. Why did Elaine’s story touch you, Ethel?” “Because I love all poetry, and I believe sadness has a greater charm for me than ioy.” She withdrew herself from the loving arms and looked almost haughtily at Lady Charnleigh. “How you weave romances!” she cried. “You had better take to writing novels. You will make me believe myself romantic and unhappy, whereas I am nothing of the kind. As for love, I love nothing on earth except ” “Captain Flemyng, my lady,” said a servant’s voice at the door, and Leonie laughed gayly. “If you could only guess how apropos was the announcement of your name, ” she said to the young soldier, holding out her hand. “It was delightful. ” Paul looked from the laughing face of the young Countess to Ethel, whoso face burned with blushes.

“I do not understand,” he returned. “Happily so,” said Lady Charnleigh. “Is it hot time we started, Captain Flemyng? I have been twice to the exhibit on, and have hardly seen a picture. ” “How has that happened?” he asked. “I am so unfortunate; the rooms always seemed filled with my own particular friends. “You hold a court there; so that is why you expressed a wish to go so early this morning. ” “Yes; perhaps fortune will smile; and if she frowns, Capt. Flemyng, you must do all the talking, while Ethel and I look at the pictures.” “That is to say. I must amuse my Lord Falcon, charm his grace of Alton, talk earnestly to Sir Bertram Gordon, tease poor Maj. Newsham, look sentimental with the young poet Clive Dering. No, thank you, Lady Charnleigh; you ask impossibilities. “Do you mean to say seriously that I do all that at once?” she inquired. “All, and more. You can charm every one who approaches you, but you cannot expect me to charm for y6u. v “I do not want to charm any one,” she said, quietly. “Not even one?” he said. “No—not one: at least ” and then her face flushed, and Leonie, Lady Charnleigh, with a low sweeping bow. led the w ay to the carriage that waited for them. ITO BE CONTINUED. ]