Democratic Sentinel, Volume 18, Number 1, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 January 1894 — AT WAR WITH HERSELF. [ARTICLE]

AT WAR WITH HERSELF.

The Story of a Woman's Atonement, by Charlotte M. Braeme. CHAPTER XXXI. She was no insensible heroine, this unhappy, erring girl, who had taken love and honor in one haud. wealth and uutruth in the other, and had deliberately decided in favor of the latter. She was far from insensible, and she did not find it quite so easy to destroy her own conscience as she had thought. Something quite strange and new liad come over her. A sudden noise—the opening of a door —the sound of an unexpected footstep—made her tremble. “My lady never used to be nervous.” said Florette, “but ever since that ball she has been nothing but nerves. ” Was it an unquiet conscience? She who had laughed at the world's opinion, who had been completely indifferent as to what people said of her, now never saw two persons whispering together without wondering if they knew that she had found the wiil aad had hidden it again. On the morning after the ball she dressed herself carefully. She bathed her face in clear, cold water to restore something of its bloom, and tried to look as much like herself as possible: but she did not succeed. Something had gone from hor face that was never, while the sun shone, to be seen there again. Lady Fanshawe looked at her. and told her bluntly that late hours did not suit her She went up to Miss Dacre, and Ethel took her hand with a

warning glance. “Why do you look at me so strangely?” asked Leonie, “You are like a flower with the bloom rubbed off,” replied Miss Dacre; and her answer brought a flush Do tue fair face. “What do you mean?” asked Leonie. “How strangely you speak to me! What are you thinking of that you say such a thing to me?” Miss Dacre was more astonished still at her vehemence. “My dear Lady Charnleigh, I mean nothing, and I am thinking of nothing more tha i this—that you look very tired, and have very little color.” Leonie turned away with an angry’ expression at her own folly. “Am I always to be frightened and nervous—to fancy that people have found me out—to mistake simple words for accusatkn; of guilt? If so, the price of my sin will be a heavy one.” That it was a heavy one she'found out before the day was ended; and yet the most sorrowful thought of all—the remembrance that she must give up Sir Bertram-she resolutely kept at bay. One of the .first things she did was to answer Paul Flemyng s note. “I have not time for many words. ” she wrote: “but if you think I could make you happy, I will be your wife. Grant me two favors—do not come over to Crown Leighton to-dav—l am too tired to see anyone; and do not mention the fact of cur engagement until I give you permission. I have very special reasons for making this request.” She signed the name—Leonio Charnleigh—in a clear, legible hand, and smiled bitterly to herself as she did so. “If he knew the title was his, not mine, what would he say?” She sent the note at once, and. though she did not acknowledge, even to herself, why the had dene so, her real motive was that she should so far bind herself as to put all possibility of retracting out of her power. As she folded and sealed it, she said to herself: “Now I am Paul Flemyng's betrothed wife, and it does not matter which of us has the money—it will soon belorur to both.” 45 But that day she found out something of the price of her sin. Her pleasure of life was destroyed: the hours that had once seemed golden and too short now dragged so heavily that each seemed to her a day. The luxury and splendor of Crown Leighton, that had once been to her as the very light of her eyes, was nothing. He Whom she loved would never share it —what was it worth without him? She had loved the sunshine and the flowers even as the birds do: but now she turned from them with a positive loathing. Why should trees and leaves, waving grass, and singing birds all tell of himj’ He was to ba nothing to her. They might both live long, and yet life would never bring them any nearer to each other than Aliev were now. She had loved the* old" mosscovered sun-dial that stood near the well, but to-day she cared little for it; no hour that it could tall would bring her lover to her side again. “My life seems cursed,” thought the girl, as she turned drearily from all the splendor and magnificence she delighted in. “Is it possible that I have purchased Crown Leighton at too dear a price? Perhaps not—it is the first time in my life that I have done what peop’e call wrong. . I have been guiltv .of a hundred follies, but no wrong: that is what darkens the sunshine. In a few days I shall have forgotten it, and shall take the same keen delight as ever in my beautiful home." “Sir Bertram has not bean over today,” said Miss Dacre. as the three ladies sat alone at dinner. “What can have happened to keep him away?” “Perhaps he guesses we are "all too tired for visitors,” said Lady FanBhawe. Leonie spoke no word: a pain she could hardly bear had smitten her. If this day seemed so terribly long, so weary, so dull, because he had not been, what would the days and years be like when there was no hope of his coming! The very thought of it frightened her. He would come once more, and she would have to tell him that she was going to marry his rival. He would leave in anger and they would never meet again. “Leonie,” said Miss Dacre, “what has come over you? Do you know that since last evening you are completely changed?” “How can any one change in twelve hours, Ethel? Talk reasonably.” “Sir Bertram says ladies talk feelingly, but never reasonably,” replied Miss Dacre, and the fair face at which she was looking so intently grew burning hot at the mention of that name. “Will you come out? The evening is very plea ; ant, and some of tliS white rose 3 Sir Bertram sent you are budding. Will you ccme and see them?” • “I am so tired of flowers, Ethel; the buds will grow .into flowers very well without me. ” “Come and ting; I have some pretty duets that we have not tried yet. ” “Oh, Ethel," sighed the weary, young voice, “I am in no humor for music,” “The bix of books has ccme from Mudie's: shall we have it unpacked?” “If you like: only do not bring anything near me.” -Tnen Ethel west up to her friend and laid her cool hand on the hot brow. “Tired of sunshine, of flowers, of music, of books, and of everything else —Leonia, what has come over you? I thought you the brightest, gayest, happiest girl in the wide world—what has made you grow tired of everything, dear?” “Do I seem to be so? Perhaps I am like the girl in the fairy tale —spoiled

by tco much happiness," she said. “Go and fetch a nice book—a novel where the heroine loves gold better than anything else in the world.” “I do not think it would be possible to find such s book," replied Miss Dacre: “most heroines are made good and attractive.” “Then a gcod woman never cares about money," said Leonie, quickly. “A good woman is never mei cenary, Leonie. as cne must be who makes money her first thought." Ethel went to find the novels, and Lecnie opened one; but the page was never turned: she was not reading, but trying to solve a problem—was she mercenary, or was she Dot? And she found it impossible to decide. “1 cannot be mercenary,"she said, to herself. “If Paul Flemyng would have taken half my fortune when he came home. I would most cheerfully have given it to him; therefore I cannot love money for money’s sake. If any one came to me poor and di-tre sed, I would relieve them with bountiful hands. I love to be generous: I love to show queenly hospitality, to make handsome presents, to pay ample wages: I like to spend money as queens spend it—royally. lavishly: so I am not mercenary. 1 do not love it for its own sake. “Why do I love it?” she thought again. “Because it brings me the power of being generous. It brings me position, splendor, Homage, and ministers to my every caprice. Yet do' I care so much for it as to sacrifice my love to it?” Never one page cf the book was turned: she was asking herself, was it too late, even now? She might own the truth to Lady Fanshawe at once, and be happy with Sir Bertram without splendor. She had forgotten for a few minutes the note she had sent to Paul Flemyng: she remembered it now with a deep-drawn, bitter sigh. It was too late: she must go on iu the path she had chosen for herself. “How am I to meet the morrow?" she asked herself, wearily. “Bertram will c<~ and to send him from me will b iy heart and his.” The l are idea n •• look so pale and ill that Lady *•> rose in alarm. “Lady aigh,” she said, “do not lose pat.e. :th me, but I insist on your going , ycur own room. You look so ill that my heart aches for you. ” “Does it. auntie? Then I will go, and not unwillingly either, for this has been the longest day of my life.” “I wonder,” said Lady Fanshawe to Miss Dacre, when thev were »Uone, “if she has Quarreled with Sir Bertram Gordon. I am quite sure there is something wrong; I have never seen Lady Charnleigh out of spirits since I have known her until now.” “I do not think there has bean any quarrel,” replied Miss Dacre, quietly; “Sir Bertram went away last evening quite as much in'love as ever.” Meanwhile Leonie walked slowly to her cr«vn room, and asked hoivelf whether she could possibly live through many such days as these or not, and whether, after all, she had not paid dearly for hor title and wealth.

CHAPTER XXXII. It was quite a novel sensation for Leonie to awake and feel that the coming day would be full of discomfort to her. She had been accustomed to rise with a glow of happiness at her heart—a sense of renewed gladness—a keen anticipation of coming happiness; but this morning her heart was oppressed with a heaviness, as of lead, for two interviews wore before her. Firs”, she must meet the man she had defrauded, and meet him as her lover. Secondly, she mhst toil Sir Bertram that all his hopes Were qt an end. Woir.an-iike, the moke certain she grew of having to part fronr him', the deeper, truer, and more earnest became her love. When she stood before the mirror that morning she started back in sore fright. Was that the brilliant Lady Charnleigh—this pale-faced girl, whore eyes were heavy and dim as with long watching? .“I must alter this,” she thought. “I am losing all my beauty—my face is pale, my eyes are dim. I must make haste to be happy again.” It had not yet occurred to her that by. her own act she had willfully cut herself off from all happino-s," and that, though she might regain her color and the light in her eyes, she would never more regain peace of heart or gayety of spirit. “If I could only remember the good things that remained to rre,” she thought. “I am Lady Charnleigh, mistress of Crown Leighton, and one of the wealthiest women in England, Am Ito be haunted by a ghost,” she cried, with sudden passion—“a ghost who whispers to me every moment that what I have is not mine, but stolen from another? Let me f rge' that, and remember only the good that remains to me. ” She went down to breakfast with a snatch of some sweet song on her lips: she laughed and talked as gayly as ever: she ridiculed her own overfatigue, until Lady Fanshawe felt quite at ease about her. But Miss Dacre was more than ever convinced tha', there was something serious y wrong with Lady, Cha nleigh. It was not yet noon when Paul Flemyng reached Crown Leighton, and despite her assumed bravery Leonie s lace grew perfect y colorless when she heard his name announced. "Is he here?” she said, hastily. “I will see him in the drawing-room.” i “Pray lorgive me if I have not waited to know where you would see me," ta d Capt;ia Flemyng, who had followed ti e servant ciosely. “I was too impatient, Lecnie —I could not wait. ” They wel-e quite alone in the pretty sunny apartment known as the morn-ing-rcom, and Captain Flemyng, his handsome face lit up with smiles, went up to her and took her hand. He did not notice that she shrank from him, with a look in her eyes like that of a wounded animal driven to bay. “How happy you have made me, Leonie,” he said. “How proud I am! 1 ask myself what have I done .that I sh uldwin a treasure so priceless as your love. How am Ito repay you?” His handsome head was thrown back, his face alt aglow with the Tight of love, yet softened by the tenderness that made it beautiful as a woman's. He looked in that moment a lover qf whom any woman might have beep proud—brave, gallant, handsome, and noble; yet no such thought came to Lady Charnleigh. She shrank from the eager eyes and tender words. “That you should love me!” he said. “It seems so wonderful, Ldohie. 'lt is as though a queen had stooped from her high estate to place' a' subject, by her side. The sun in the summer i kies seemed no further from me than you, Leonie. ” Still she had no wo d fo’’ him, and he looked at the downcast, colorless !faca with somethirg of wonder. He knew she was sensitive and had net expected rapture: bat,he hal certainly looked' for something very different from this. “Leonie,” he said, “why are you sq silen-t.-’ Looking at you, sweet, so silent so sad, l coula fancy you had been forced into accepting me: and you know, all unworthy as I am. you have taken me of your own free will.” bh'e raise i her eyes to his face. that Paul. I have not been ’for ed,’ as yod tol it. ” ''

"I know that, darling. * She shrank bitWH!the word—lt wa* one that Bertram bad delighted in usii g to her. and it bfeeme:l such an infringement on his righ»» that she shrank in pain. Then she suddenly remembered that he h-dno right over her, and that no ore living pushes ed any, except the .young soldier by her side. “Sav I am welcome, Leonie,” he continued, with something like pain in his voice. “Say something kina to me or I - hall think the time that you ga veme such unutterable happiness only came to me in a dream, after aIL" Tnen she roused herself. “Of course you are welcome. Paul. How strangely you word your ideas! And I—l will try to make you very happy. * It was quite enough to drive him beside himself with purest joy. She did love him. and she would be pleased to be his wife. He had thought her cold and reserved: but it was only maidenly modesty and sweet, girlish reserve after all—nothing took her jewelled hand in his. -My darling, my«fe that is to be, I thank you for theqflit of your love. 1 couldjnot love you better. My heart, my mind, my strength, my life itself, are all yours. I believe in you as I believe in Heaven. You have 6aid you care for me—you have promised, to be my wife; and my faith is bouniless as the deep sea.” The passion of igjiwNrords touched her with remorse. Htste-all his love was wasted upon her! How little she deserved it! She had none for him. It is not in human nature to love that which we have injured, and she had injured him; she had robbed him of all that belonged to .him. and now she found that she cofildnot even give him love in return. It wjas in vain that she tried. He stood therein the place of the man she loved. Fbr his sake she must part with Bertram. How was it possible to care for him? And yet she had done him such a grievous" wrong that hpr whole heart tupned with infinite pity to him. '... “Leonie,” eajd Paul Fleinyhg, "a e you quite sure,you,love? Prav forgive me; you look to sad.’ A dreadful idea has just occurred to mo—shall I tell you what it is?” itof “I do mt think any idea of yours can be very dresdfui," sjpe replied. “Yes, tell me. Paul.” “Are you quite sure, dear, that you have not consepted to marry me from some quixotic notioh of generositysome idea that yon will make up to me for having lost in b#?derthat you might gain? Surely, it is not so Leonie?” The words stubbed hor with the sharpest pain. “It is nit so!” she'cried. “You are cruel to me, Paul. ’Why will you net believe that I love’you?” “I will and do belihve— only that you seem so tal, my darling. I Would lain see you smiling, bright, happy.” “1 shall be happy jn a few days. You do not realize h,ojiv ” Then her voice faltered, and the words died on her lips. “I do not realize'ltbw strange it is to love and be loved—perhaps not, darling. 1 love you all the more for your shy, sweet rereryq, Now, tell me why do you wish pto keep our engagemint secret “It is only for a.flroo,” she answered, wistfully, “anp not f q'p!c-s you please, of course. But you know. Paul—l cannot help it —others hdy e cared for me as well as you.” * " |TO BE CONTINUED. I