Democratic Sentinel, Volume 17, Number 51, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 5 January 1894 — AT WAR WITH HERSELF. [ARTICLE]

AT WAR WITH HERSELF.

The Story of a Woman’s Atonement, by Charlotte M. Braeme. CHAPTER XXIV. Sir Bertram bent forward and tried ; to look in the beautiful face, but it was averted from him. Lady Charnleigh would not let him see the happiness so ! plainly written there. *1 wish,” he said, “that you were not so wealthy, Leonie. I should have liked to prove the purity and disin- i te rested ness of my love. I wish there ; were a thousand difficulties in the way, I that by beating them down, one after another, I might show how dearly I love you. I would serve twice seven years for you, as Jacob did for Rachel, he loved so dearly. I would be content, sweet, to wait upon you all my life if I might call you my own in death. Oh, Leonie, say one little word to me!” Then the lovely face bent half shyly over him. “Do you love me so well, Bertram?" she asked, In a low voice. “You can never know how well, sweet. I might spend my life with you —I might give to your service every moment of it —fill it with thoughts of you—know no other care or interest; and yet, when I came to die, you would not know how much I loved you. It is not given to all men to tell what they feel.” “I do not think you are very deficient in eloquence,” she said, with a happy dmile. “Ah, my darling, if I were a poet, I might put my love into song—a song so beautiful, so full of divine harmony, that the world in reading it would know how I had loved you. If I were an artist I could paint you, and show to the world that form which to me is peerless. But not being either, l cannot do so. I can only tell you in plain words that I love you better than fame, fortune or life; and I plead to you, Leonie, for some little love in return. ” “I am full of faults, ” said the girl. “I am not so perfect as you think me, Bertram. You might, perhaps, be disappointed in me after all." “There is no fear of that; I know you have faults, but, Leonie, they are such as I cannot but love.” "You do not know what they are,” she said. “I am so worldly, Bertram— I love rank, wealth, position, money, gayety, life, fashion, and those things which the wise despise. I love them, and should never be willing to live without them. “Love me with them," said Sir Bertram, “and I shall not care; those are very venial faults, Leonie, in one so ‘young and beautiful as ycu. ” “I am not very patient, either,” she continued; “and in me there is a great want. I can give it no name, and know no name for it; but I want something that Ethel Dacre, for instance, has in perfection. I am changeable, as the wird—grave, gay, idle, industrious, good and wicket, all in an hour.” “I can only repeat that I love your faults, Leonie. I believe they are dearer to me than the virtues of other women. But, Leonie, sweet, have you heard what I asked you? Tell me—will you care for me, will you be my wife?” It was the question that she had heard in her dreams a thousand times. “Will you be my wife, Leonie? My love shall shield you—my heart shelter you. Do not turn from me. Never mind those lilies—if they could speak, each leaf would urge a prayer for me. Look at me—tell me, will you be my wife?” Her fair head drooped near him; the passion of his words had conquered her. She could make no answer. He took her little white hands and covered them with passionate kisses. She made no resistance. She did not not draw them from him. Then, raising the faod so beautiful in its softened tenderness, he kissed the white brow, his lips murmuring the while words so full of tenderness that she never forgot them. “Say only one word, Leonie. Tell me that you love hie —even ever so little. I will hope for more in time." “I can tell you that, ” she whispered. “You love me a little!” he cried. “Yes —just in the smallest possible degree,” she replied, with a smile of perfect happiness. “And will you try really to love me more?” “I will try,” she answered. “Do you think the lesson will be a hard one to learn, Bertram?" He kissed the fair hands again, telling her she was as peerless as a queen. She tried to hide the happiness that surged through heart and brain, thinking that it was not maidenly for her lover to see how well he” was loved. “My head is not a very firm one,” she said, suddenly, looking up at him. “It is a very beautiful one," he put in, drawing the blushing face nearer to his own. “You have interrupted me, Bertram. I repeat, my head is not very firm—my brain will not hold many ideas at once. Just now it is filled with thoughts of the ball and several other things. Bertram, "'she continued, slowly, “ask me those questions again when the ball is over, and I will give you an answer.” He looked at her in a rapture of hope. “My darling,” he cried, “how good you are to me! Oh, Leonie, shall I win you after all? The very hope dazzles me. If you sent me from you I should ” “What should you do?” she asked, anxiously. “Not kill myself,” he replied, slowly. “Death is a coward’s resource. But from my life every glqpm of brightness would die out. I should go far away, darling, from home and friends, to some strange far-off land, where nothing could remind me of you. I should lose everything that makes life dear in losing you. And no face ever charmed me save yours. You hear how sweetly the bird* are singing; there is more music to me in one word of yours than in all their song. See how fair the lilies are; there is more beauty to me in this one white hand of yours than in all the flowers that ever bloomed. Your face to me shines more brightly thafi all the stars in heaven. I believe that if I died it would be found on my heart." . A The impulse was strong upon her to tell him "that she loved him just as dearly—that he was all the world to her, the soul and center of her being—but some strange instinct made her refrain.

“A fortress that is easily stormed is never considered a great conquest,” she said to herself. “Bertram must ask me again and again—he will love me all the better in the end.” “After the hall, remember,” said Sir Bertram; “Leonie, I shall count the hours until it is over, and yet I cannot help hoping. You are too good to torture me; if you meant to send me from you, you would do so at once., You are too good and generous to be cruel.” She looked at him with a smile. How little he knew, how little lie guessed that he was the very sun of her existence—that, if anything could surpass his love for her, it was her love for him. . “See," she said, suddenly, "the lily-

cups are closing, and the dew is beginning to felL Bertram, we must go “I wonder,” he said, slowly, “how I j shall live through these hours. I could hardly do so but that I believe in the end you will be my wife. When is the ball to take place, Leonie?” “On Tuesday week—Tuesday, the nineteenth of June.” “I shall remember the date: that ball ha 3 suddenly become most important to me.” Another hour passed before they walked back over the fallen rose-leaves to the house, and then there was little doubt left on Sir Bertram's mind that Leonie would eventually become his wife. • “She is so beautiful, so peerless, so eagerly sought after, I could not expect her to say ‘yes’ all at once, but I know she loves me—she would have sent me from her if she did not” “Remember,” said Lady Charnleigh, as they drew near the long open window, “you are not to speak of this, Bertram, until “ “Until your brain is clear and the ball is over. I will remember,” he promr ised, with a smile. “You like to enteretain one idea at a time, Leonie, and no more.” “You understand perfectly. See, there is Lady Fanshawe. Have you any idea, Bertram, whether it is etiquette for a Countess of eighteen to linger among the lilies with a Saxon prince?” It was the first time she had ever flattered him, and the fair, frank face flushed hotly. “For your sake I wish I were a prince,” he said. She looked at him with an assumption of perfect gravity. “You please me best as you are,” she returned, and when he would have caught that white jeweled hand she turned away. “My dear Lady Charnleigh,” said Lady Fanshawe; “do you not think it is late for you to be out?” “Please blame Sir Bertram, auntie — he has beguiled the time.” Lady Fanshawe looked keenly at that gentleman’s face. “Has he anything to tell me?” she said to herself. “No, he looks exceedingly happy, but not as though she had promised to marry him. Whom does she like best, I wonder?” Miss Dacre looked up from her book as Sir Bertram re-entered the room; Lady Charnleigh had lingered outside, pretending to fasten some drooping roses, but in reality to hide the beautiful blushes that had not yet died from her face. “He has not asked her to marry him,” thought Miss Dacre; “he looks like a happy lover, but nothing more.” A sharp sudden pang smote her. “Does she like Paul Flemyng best? If so, he will win her.” She laid down her book and went out to where the youngcountessstood raising the drooping flowers. “How sad it is that roses die!” commented Lady Charnleigh. “Look at those lovely leaves, Ethel; they ought never to fade." But Ethel Dacre went up to her and clasped her white neck. “Leonie,” she said, “you are not really thinking about the roses. Tell me, have you been kind to Sir Bertram this evening.” The countess opened wide her lovely eyes. “My dearest child child," she said, “have you baen with me so long without learning to understand me. lam kind to no one but myself.” Nor could Ethel get any other answer from her.

CHAPTER XXV. Perhaps the time that elapsed between that night and the nineteenth of June was really the happiest part of Lady Charnleigh’s life. She was sure of her lover’s affection; she had but to speak one word to him, and the happiness of her whole existence was secured. He loved her; he had prayed her to be his wife. She had but to consent. “I will make him so happy,” she said to herself with a smile. ’‘l will make him wait a few days longer, and then I will tell him how dearly and truly I have always loved him. I have teased him enough; I will submit for the future.” She was standing in her favorite spot, the western terrace, where purple pas-sion-flowers grew in luxuriant profusion; leaning over the stone balustrade round which climbing roses and sweet woodbines clung, there came to her a dream—a dream of the day when to this home she loved so dearly her lover should come, of the long vista of happy years stretching out in the golden sunlight, of the future to be spent together, of the love that should end only with life.” “We shall be buried together," she said to herself; “we shall lie side by side in the last long sleep, in the green churchyard at Weildon, with flowers blooming over us. Neither in life nor in death shall I lose my love.” Tears filled her bright eyes as she raised them to the cloudless sky. I ought to thank heaven, ” she said, “that has made me so wondrously happy. I ought to be good, for my path in life lies among bright flowers which have no thorns." And the memory of this dream lingered always with her. She caught herself later on looking round her magnificent rooms, and wondering which should be Sir Bertram’s study, wondering which he would like best, valuing her possessions ten thousand times more, now that they would be his also. She found herself always thinking of this future that was to be shared with him. “When the limes are in flower next year,” she said, “he will be here with me.”

So with everything. She had but one date—“when he would be with her.” She said nothing to Ethel, her chosen friend, of her love. Lady Charnleigh was full of life, animation, and spirits, but she was not. one to speak of her deepest feelings; they were kept sacred. She rather avoided than sought conversation about Sir Bertram. JJS Lady Fanshawe and Miss Dacre were puzzled. Whom did she like the better? Which did she prefer?—le beau sabreur or Sir Bertram. That neither could solve the mystery satisfactorily was something to the credit of the Countess of Charnleigh. “Of course, in one way, ” said Lady Fanshawe, pensively, “a marriage witn Captain Flemyng would be very suitable —it would seem only fair that he should share the inheritance; but, looking at the matter from a sensible point of view, it would be a great pity. With her beauty and wealth, she might do so much better.” Hearing which, Ethel Dacre’s face flushed, and she felt much inclined to make an angry reply. She contented herself with saying: “Neither money nor title could ennoble such a man as Paul Flemyng;” and then Miss Dacre sailed with great dignity from the room, Lady Fanshawe looking after her with very widelyopened eyes. The nineteenth of June r«me at last, and found Crown Leighton In a state of delightful confusion. The Illumination and decoration of the grounds were oompleted, but the intorior of the mansion was at present in “magnificent disarray.” Lady Fanshawe was much.

amused. It was quite early in the morning when Sir Bertram rode over, . bringing with him a magnificent bou- ! quet of lowers for Lady Charnleigh. “I know I must not detain you now, Leonie, but remember, sweet, what you have promised me when the ball lis over. 1 shall be jealous to-night if you dance with any one but myself." “A little jealousy does most men good,” said his lady-love, as she hastened away. Sir Bertram rode off again. It was useless to remain at Crown Leighton; as he could not talk to its beautiful mistress, he was quite as well away. ! He had not been gone long before Captain Flemyng arrived and sent to request five minutes with Lady Charnleigh. “I am afraid, Leonie,” said Lady Fanshawe, “that you find so many lovers embarrassing." “No one said anything about lovers, auntie. I presume gentlemen may call on business without being suspected of wishing to make love.” And the Countess of Charnleigh walked out of the room with her head proudly erect. Lady Fanshawe's remarks were rather jtoing. ,'Captain Flemyng was in the morningroom, looking very handsome. Leonie's quick eves discovered some trace of emotion oa the high-bred patrician face. His errand was much the same as his predecessor's; he had brought two superb bouquets, one for Lady Charnleigh, and one in no way inferior for Miss Dacre.

“I have something to say to you, Lady Charnleigh,” Oigan Paul “I know that I must not detain you now, but, when all this is over, you will grant me an interview? All my future depends upon it.” His face flushed, and his eyes were full of suppressed fire. He took one of her hands in his. "I will not detain you, Leonie; but the hours will be full of painful suspense until I see you again and have your answer." She liked him so well that long after he had gone away she stood with tears in her eyes, knowing the pain she must inflict on him. “I would have done anything to prevent this,” she said. “I have robbed him of his inheritance, and now I must rob him of his peace and happiness. Oh, Paul, you should hate me!" She liked him so well that, although it was the day of her magnificent ball, she wept bitterly for the sorrow that must be his. “If he had only liked me as I like him, ” she said—“in in kindly, sisterly way, without any of this tiresome love! If he had only loved Ethel, who is worth a dozen of me! He will not reproach me, but he will go away from me looking so sad and so> wretched that I shall never feel quite happy again—he whose love might honor a queen." She was obliged perforce to dismiss all thoughts of him, for servants and assistants required hor superintendence. She was wanted in twenty places at once. It was not until the hour came for dressing that it occured to her that she was in a sad dilemma over the two bouquets. Which must she carry? “I will take a few flowers from both,” she said, with a smile, “and then I shall avoid any tragical denouement for this evening at least. ” ITO BE CONTINUED. |