Democratic Sentinel, Volume 18, Number 2, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 26 January 1894 — AT WAR WITH HERSELF. [ARTICLE]

AT WAR WITH HERSELF.

The Story of a Woman's Atonement, by Charlotte M. Braeme. CHAPTER XXXll—Continued. A pleased light broke over his face. “I understand perfectly, darling. I app: eciate your delicate consideration for others. It shall be just as you say —my happiness is purchased by another’s pain. You accept me, and reject scune one else—is it so?" “Yes,” she said, in a low voice. “Wait at least three or four months before anything is said about it." “I will do anything on earth you wish, Leofte. See, I must have some visible sign, known only to myself, that ryou are mine. I have brought this ping—will you wear it for me%. It was my mother's. When she was dying she took it from her finger, and gave it to me. Will you wear it for my 6ake, and for hers?” She held out her hand to him, and he wondered that it should be so cold, that it should tremble; he placed the ring upon it, and then held it to his lips. “Some day—l pray Heaven not far from now—l shall place another ring on this dear hand.” He wondered again that she turned from him with what seemed a shudder. Her eyes lingered on that ring; to her excited fancy it would not have seemed strange if it had suddenly changed into a living serpent, and had turned round hissing to sting her. It had belonged to the “mother” whose son she had defrauded, whom she had robbed of his birthright. She could never look at it without keen pain. “Leonie,” said Captain Flemyng, “although our engagement is to remain a profound secret as yet, you will let me come over to tee you often —you will write to me—you will not be cruel, and keep me at a cold distance, as though I were a stranger. ” “No, I will not do that,""she answered. “And after a few days, when the novelty of being engaged has worn off, you will be kinder to me than you are now? You will, perhaps, then lay your hands in mine, and say, 'I love you, Paul, and will be your wife?’ You have only written the words, Leonie; you have not said them. ” “I will say them now. ” She clasped her white hands together and laid them in his. “I love you, Paul, and I will be your wife.” But there was something of sadness in her voice, something he could not understand in the expression of her downcast face. „ He said to himself that it was but girlish coyness—she would feel more at ease with him in time.

CHAPTER XXXIII. “Has Captain Flemyng gone without coming in to see us!" said Miss Dacre. “How strange!” She looked so disappointed that for the first time it occurred to Leonie that Ethel loved the man she had just promise to marry. “How was it?” repeated Lady Fanshawe. “Captain Flemyng always seems to enjoy an hour with us.” “I do not know; he will come over again to-morrow. He inquired very kindly after you.” Something in the words or the voice struck Ethel Dacre, and she looked inquiringly at her friend. Leonie’s face flushed under that quiet, calm scrutiny. “Why do you look at me so strangely?” she cried, impatiently. “I object to being looked at as though my thoughts lay bare, and every one could read them. I cannot help Captain Flemyng’s abrupt departure; he professed himself quite unable to remain, so as a matter of course I allowed him to go.” She did not tell them that he had gone with tears in his eyes—tears of earnest, heartfelt happiness; and that he had told her he could not talk “commonplaces” to other people after his interview with her. Lady Fanshawe raised her eyos in mild rebuke. “My dear Lady Charnleigh, if it were possible to imagine one as charming as yourself could be pettish, I should sav you were inclined to be so.” Leonie hastened to Ethel’s side. “Will you forgive me? I spoke without thinking. Have patience with me, Ethel—l am not very happy just now."

“Will you not trust me and tell me why?” said Miss Dacre. “I do not know why. I am out of spirits—inclined to be cross, not only with every one else, but with myself also. ” “Sir Bertram Gordon,” announced the footman, who had just received a parting vale from Capt. Flemyng, and who, with a grim sense of humor, smiled at the situation. For one moment Leonie was inclined to give way. She had not expected him so scon, looking as happy and bright as the morning itself, utterly unconscious of the doom that hung over him. “I have been counting the hours,” he said in a low voice to Leonie, “and I really thought to-day would never come.” He looked so bright with the untold gladness of his heart that Lady Fanshawe bethought herself of something that required attention in the housekeeper's room. Sir Bertram did not even hear the apology she made—he had no eyes or ears save for the lady of his love. Miss Dacre took up a book and wandered away into the cool, pleasant fernery. “Sir Bertram looks as though he did not want me,” she thought with a smi'e. The fernery was very pleasant and the ferns looked cool and refreshing; the waters fell with a soft ripple, the air was laden with sweet subtle odors. Mis 3 Dacre sat down with her book, but she turned no page in it. A sudden chill had come over her. Why should Lady Charnleigh look and speak so strangely? Could it be possible that she cared for Paul Flemyng? “It cannot be possible,” she said to herself. “If there be any truth in looks and actions, she loves Bertram Gordon.”

To the plash of the falling waters she wove sweet, bright fancies of her own—of the day when this hero, this prince among men, would seek her with loving words, and woo her to be his—bright dai ty fancies of a life that would be spe it in mini tering to him. in looking up to h m as the flowerd look up to the sun. Would it ever be so? She had loved him so long, so faithfully, that it seemed to her her love must meet with some return—that the very force of her own affection must win s. niething from him. On the night of the ball he had held her hand in his, and nad spoken so kindly to her that the girl’s heart had overflowed with delight. Tiie music of that falling water, the breath of that warm, flweet wind, helped to All her mind * with fancies melodious and sweet as themselves. “Leonie,” repeated Sir Bertram, “I thought to-day would never come. I have counted the minutes and the hours, yet I have had hope. You have not been trifling with me?” She stood -before him, her rwtorlnnn

face drooping from his sight, her hands trembling in his strong grasp. “1 want your answer,” he said, bending his hajdsjme Saxon head over the white hands ard kissing them. “I asked you to be my wife, and you told me r.) come to-day for the reply." “Let us go out,” she said, with a strange stifled gasp; “I cannot speak— I cannot breathe here. ” A sense of horrible pain had almost mastered her. How was she to tell him they must part when she loved him so dearly that she would have given her life for him? How could sue inflict this anguish upon him when she knew that his life was wrapped up in hers? Silently she passed through the long open window, over the green lawn, where great clusters of scarlet verbena shone in the sunshine, past the great sheaves of white lilies and the fragrant roses, past the tall chestnuts, until she came to the grove of blossoming limes. Their tall branches met overhead and formed a deep shade. The sunshine came through the dense green foliage with a mellowed light such as is seen in the dim cathedral aisles. The turf was thick and velvety; the banks were covered with wild thyme; the whole place was lovely as a fairies' glade. A fatten tree, over which scarlet creepers had grown, lay half across the path, and on it Leonie sat down, raising her beautiful face to the rippling foliage above her head, then suddenly hiding it in her hands. She had no right even to look at the smiling summer heavens —she who had stolen an inheritance, and was about to barter her love for it. “I could not breathe in those warm rooms,” she said. “How quiet and beautiful it is here. ” “Leonie,” said Sir Bertram, earnestly, “1 am sure that you are no coquette; and you cannot help having many lovers—ail fair women are so much admired. You are no flirt—you would not lead a man on by kind words and kind smiles until his heart lay under your feet,and then trample upon it. ” “No, I would not do that,” she answered, with white set lips. “And yet, darling, do you know that lam growing frightened? I fancied your little probation was bat to try me. I have never looked at it seriously. I believed that when I came to you to-day you would be all smiles, all sweetness, all gladness. Yet, Leonie, your face is turned from me—you havo no word for me. What does it mean? Remember, darling, though I ask the question I do not doubt you.” His generous trust, his devoted love, smote her as no pain could have done. She had to take this noble heart in her hands and break it; no wonder that her strength failed her, and that, with a long, shuddering sigh, she turned away, burying her face in her hands. The next moment he was kneel: ng by her side, his noble face full of deepest anxiety. “Leonie, what is the matter? What has changed you so utterly? My darling, where have all your brightness, all your gay spirits gone? Let me look at that dear face.” He raised it in Ms hands, and tried out in surprise, when he saw it. “Where is your color? Your lips are white as these wild strawberry bio - soms. Years, sorrow, and pain have passed over you—what is it, Leonie? Have no fear—tell me all.” “I hate to inflict pain,” she said hoar.ely, “and I know that I must pain you.” “Why, my darling? Ido not see the need.”

Her courage and self-command broke down all at cnee. “I can not marry you, Bertram—l can never be your wife, and it hurts me to tell you so. ” His face grew very white, and a stern, angry light came into his eyi s. “Repeat those words, Leonie! My senses must surely have played me false - not j on." “I can never bo your wife, Bertram: do net bo angry with me. If you turn from me in anger I shall die.” “You can never marry mo, Leonie! Am I dreaming, or are you? Do you know t lat you had almost given your promise? Do you know, although you have not said the word yet, that you pledged yourself over and over again with the pledges which a true and loyal woman considers as sacred and as binding as an oath?” “I know,” she said, raising her white, despairing face to his; “but I cannot marry you—l cannot be your wife. ” “Will you tell me why?” he asked, and a gleam of hope came to him—it might only be some girlish fancy, after all. “I cannot tell you that, ” she repeated, with the same quiet despair. “Do you know what you are doing to me, Leopie? You are killing me! You would be ten thousand times more merciful if you stabbed me and let me die at once. Do you know that I cannot live without you? Heaven help me, I cannot. My love and my life are so twined together that if one goes the other gees.” She made him no answer, but sat as though her white face was turned to stone.

“You are only trying me, Leonie — you cannot mean it. You want to see how dearly I love you. Oh, my love, mv love, it is a cruel jest!” “It is no ;'e;t,” said the girl, “it is sad, sober, earnest truth. ” “But, Leonie, you love me. lam not vain, but—darling, I am not blind—you love me. I have seen the light come over your face that has shone for no one but me. You have told me in a hundred different ways, without words, that you love me." “Yes,” she repeated, slowly—“ Heaven pity me!—l love you.” “You do,” he c ied. And before sho cou’d speak he had clasped her in his arms and kissed her trembling lips. “You love me! O, Leonie, if that be true, what shall part us?” Then she knew that in admitting the ’act of her love she had made a ter rib e mistake—one-teat'she knew not how to remedy. “Tell me,” he cried again, “if yon love me, Leonie, what in the wide world can part us?” She lookod at him, her lips trembled, but from them came no word.

, CHAPIER XXXIV. “I must know the truth." said Sir Bertram, in a clear firm voice. “You owe it to me. What qm Ito think of you, when you own that you love, vet lefuse to marry me?” “You must think as you will.” she replied, despairingly; “I can only repeat my words-that never, while the sun shines and the birds sing, can I be your w.fe.” “Did you know this when you lured me on to love you -when you stole my heart from me by the witchery of your beauty-when you let me speak to you of love, and did not chide me? bid you know this then?” No reply -but the beautiful face grew more ghastly in its pallor. He grasped her wrist, and held it as in a vise. “Answer me,” he said—and his voice was not oleasant to hear—“did you know this’then?” i “No,” she replied, “I did not, Bertram.” “Oh, Leonie, be frank —my love deserves itl If there be any difficulty, tell it to me—l can perhaps remove It. Trust me—for I trust you. I have no secrets from you, my love. Who would be bo loyal, bo true to you, os I would be?” -

“I have nothing to fell you,” marmured the white rigid lips, “exoept that I can never marry you.” Hot anger flashed in his face. For a few moments he lost sight of his outraged love. “Tell me one thing more, Lady Charnleigh. I have a right to ask for it—the right of a man who has been duped and deceived. You say that you cannot marry me. Pray may 1 ask are you going to* marry any'one else?” There was a silence for some minutes; the wind whispered among the blossoming limes; the harebells seemed to ring out faint, sweet notes in the wind; then, clear and even, her answer came: “I know you will.hate me, Bertram— I have promised to marry some one else.” “I am answered,” he said, bitterly. “You, Leonie, whom, only one short hour tince, I looked upon as the very flower of womanhood—you whom I thought more pure than a lily, loyal and true as the angels in heaven—you tell me deliberately that you love me, but have promised to marry another?” “Have pity on me, Bertram! I have been sorely tried.” “There is no pity for you,” he cried, indignantly. “You are false—false to me, whom you have pretended to love —fake to him whom you have promised to marry. I appeal to heaven against you!” he continued. “You have done me the most cruel wrong that woman can do to man—you have lured me by false words, false looks. You have deceived me—you have betrayed me. 1 denounce you for being as false and cruel as you are fair. O merciful Heaven, keep me from losing my reason! I fear I am going mad!” He flung himself on the turf with a terrible cry; a strong man, in his agony he sobbed aloud, for the anguish of his loss was full upon him. She sat quiet and motionless, until she could bear the sight of that prostrate figure no longer. Then there came to her a good impulse—to kneel down there by his side and tell him all the truth; poverty, privation—anything would be better than the knowledge cr sight of that terrible pain. And yet, if she confessed to him she would lose all. [TO BE CONTINUED. I