Democratic Sentinel, Volume 18, Number 3, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 2 February 1894 — AT WAR WITH HERSELF. [ARTICLE]

AT WAR WITH HERSELF.

The Story of a Woman's Atonement, by Charlotte M. Braeme. CHAPTER XXX VlOon tinned. “Do not doubt me, Paul,” she whispered. “My life is so novel to me. Let me enjoy it undisturbed for some time longer. He was satisfied: he was beside himself- with joy that she had voluntarily given him this little caress —she who was so distant and reserved. Her manner had often puzzled him. He had no right to doubt her, yet there was something sc strange about her conduct. , .She seemed always as though she were trying to make amend t to him for something—as though all her affection and kindness came from a desire to make atonement. He could not understand her. She had never wronged him; it was not her fault that she was the nearest of kin. There was no reason why she should accept him if she did not love him. £3he had had offers from some of the most distinguished men in England, and had refused them for his sake. She must love him after all, but he wished that she would show her affection in a fashion that he could better understand. He saw her often —he rode over from Weildon every day—but, in some 6trange kind of ■way, he never seemed to draw nearer to her pr to understand her inner life better than he had at first. Ethel Dacre was still at Crown Leighton, althought it was sorely against her will that she remained there; but General Dacre had gone abroad, and he had said that he should much prefer his daughter's residing with Tier friend . during his absence than keeping house all alone at Westfield. Ethel could offer no reasonable objection, therefore she remained. * * * * * * *

One bright morning in September Lernie stood at the library window alone. The lilies were dead, the roses faded, and in their place great sunflowers turned their bright faces upward, and tall dahlias reared their heads with handsome flowers. The leaves were falling from the trees; they lay, crimson, brown and gold, on the ground; the wind swept them along, and then moaned over them. The fair face looking wistfully from the window at the falling leaves had changed most remarkably. It was not less beautiful; but the brightness and radiance were gone—there was a worn look that did not belong to youth —the eyes were vei’y bright, but there was somewhat of fever in their brightness —there was a flush on the beautiful face, but it told more of unrest than of health—there was a tremulous movement about the white jeweled hands, a sudden quivering of the lips, both tokens of a mind ill at ease. No one saw Lady Chamleigh without remarking the change. Miss Templeton had been from Kew to spend the summer vacation, as she told the parents of her pupils, with the Countess of Charnleigh, of Crown Leighton, and when she had seen Leonie, she had cried out in wonder—- “ This gay life dees not suit you, Lady Charnleigh; you are so changed. You look as though you had had long years of incessant gayety —you want rest. ” “Rest!” the girl" had re-echoed mournfully. “There is no rest in this world." And after Miss Templeton had been there for a few days, and had noticed, to her dismay, the fover of unrest in which the girl lived, her surprise had become-greater still. “You cannot sleep in the dark, ” she had said, one day, after overhearing a conversation between Leonie and her maid; “you do not like the twilight: vou cannot endure to be left alone, you crave for continual excitement as children do for foed. My dear Lady Charnleigh, you give me the impression that you are at war with yourself.”

How the words had taunted her. How they taunted her still! They described her state of mind as no other words could have done. It was not a tempest, not a struggle, but a continual warfare —and the warfare was self against self. There was hardly a single moment, night or day, during which her better, nobler, higher self was not crying out in rebellion against the deed she had done. There was hardly a single moment in which heart or soul was free from that war. She was swayed by impulse as were the leaves by the wind. She would rise one morning determined to write to Paul Plemyng, and tell him all—determined to undo her great wrong—to give up the wealth she was so unjustly keeping from him—to be honest, loyal and true. The resolution would last until she went downstairs and saw the magnificence that surrounded her. “I cannot give it up,” the unhappy girl would say; “it is the best part of my life. I could not endure poverty after this.” At other times, the memory of the lover she had lost would be so strong within her that she would be ready to give up everything she bad in the world only to see him again. At such times she loathed even the name of Paul Flemyng; she avoided seeing him when he came; she went out into the green solitude of the woods and called by name him whom she had sent from her with a lie. No wonder that the radiant face grew worn-looking, and that the bright eyes lost their clear light; no wonder that sweet snatches ot song and sunny laughter were no longer heard. Lady Charnleigh stood watching the falling leaves. The wind* no longer wafted to her rich, warm gusts of perfume; it was wailing over the dead flowers. “My life was virtually over,” she was thinking to herself; “this world has no tnore to give me. I have lost my lover: nor spring nor summer will ever bring him back to me. Some time, sooner or later, I shall marry Paul Flemyng. I shall live and die Countess of Charnleigh. I shall live and die one of the fairest and richest women in England. But my life will not'have been a happy one, though I have my heart’s wish granted to me. Oh, if I had never found that will, or if, on finding it, I had but acted loyally, Bertram would have been mine, and I should have been happy!” She had made herself believe that in a short time she should forget all that was unpleasant and enjoy her wealth as she had been wont to do. She had believed herself capable of growing hardened in her sin; but the conscience she had done her best to trample under foot seemed to grow more vigorous in its opposition day by day. “I am at war with myself,” she saicl, "and peace will come to hie nevermore. Was the prize worth the sin? Too late! It is too late now. I cannot change what I have done. I must take my life as it comes, and make the best of it.” ( So through the autumn and winter she did her best to drown all regrets. Even Lady Fanshawe, who enjoyed gayety as much as any one, was almost astounded. There was no cessation to her young relative’s dissipation; balls, fetes, charade parties, dinner parties, archery meetings, croquet parties, picnics, every variety of amusement that it was possible to imagine, followed each other in rapid succession. No

day passed without some kind of entertainment. Leonie seemed to dread only one thing, and that was time and leisure and thought. Lady Fanshawe and Miss Dacre had grown tired of asking each other what had come over her. Ethel thought she had been deceived in her first .estimate of her character. She seemed to live only to kill time, and not to turn it to profit. Even those who shared her hospitality began to talk of her and say that it* was sad to see one so young giving up her heart and soul to the pursuit of pleasure. Paul Flemyng was the only one who saw no faults in her: he made all allowances. It was but natural, he said to himself, that, on suddenly finding herself possessed of almost unbounded wealth, she should want to enjoy it in her own way. Spring came round again, and it was decided that Lady Charnleigh, Ethel and Lady Fanshawe should go early to London. The Duchess of Warminster had invited Leonie to spend some time with her in her beautiful villa near the Thames, and she had joyfully accepted the invitation. “The ghost that h aunts me at Crown Leighton will stay there,” she said to herself, “and I’ll be happy again. *

CHAPTER XXXVIL People in London made the same remarks about Lady Charnleigh as her neighbors in the country bad made. Gayety and pleasure were delightful; but it was possible to have too much of both, and the young countess went quite to the extreme. Did she ever rest? Did she ever sleep? Her days and nights seemed to be one leng round of gayety; she danced, sang, acted most gloriously in private theatricals and charades—she did everything except reflect. The season was half over when the Duchess of Warminster insisted upon Lady Charnleigh's paying her promised* visit. “I saw you at the opera last night,” said her grace, “and although you talked and laughed so gayly, I thought you looked very tired,and not at ail well. They tell me you lead the gayest of lives in London—a week at the villa will do you good. Life is not so hurried there.” “It is not quiet, I hope,” returned Leonie, quickly: “there is nothing* I dislike so much. ” “My dear Lady Charnleigh, forgive me—remember 1 am old enough to be your mother—but I would not counsel you to speak often in that fashion; you mean no harm, but such words do not sound welL No, we are not quiet—that is, there is a large party always staying with us, and each one amuses him or herself according to taste or fancy. 1 have never yet seen any one looking dull. ” Lady Charnleigh went, leaving Lady Fanshawe and Miss Dacre, who had declined a like invitation, in the London mansion alone. Leonie found lite at the Duchess’ villa gay enough and pleasant enough; no one ever interfered with visitors there—each one did just as he or she liked; and one Sunday morning, when Leonie awoke, the world around looked so fair and bright that she decided upon a ramble through the woods. As a rule, she hated and dreaded solitude, but to-day heart and soul desired it. She said to herself that she would go out away from the world of men and women to where the green boughs waved in the wind, and the birds sang of peace and of love. She wandered through the woods—how far she did not know; she walked fast, memory and fancy both busy with that terrible past which she could never undo. She wandered over the rich clover meadows, past the hedges all covered with hawthorn, past pretty limpid brooks that sang of Heaven s great love for men in making earth so fair. She came to a narrow gieen lane, where wild flowers grew in rich profusion; there was a rude stile at the end, and when Leonie reached that she stood for some moments lost in admiration.

There was a broad path that ran through the clover meadows, and the path was bordered by tall, stately elm trees, it led to .the most picturesque village that she had ever seen; and there, at the foot of the hill, stood an old gray church, the tapering spire and the arched windows of which were covered with ivy. There was a quaint, old-fashioned gate standing open, as though inviting all to enter; within were green graves where the dead slept in that beautiful summer calm. As she stood watching the tranquil loveliness, the bells began to chime. Never while life lasted did she forget the solemn beauty of that hour. The birds were singing around her, the bees hovered over the rich clover, the bright-winged butt3rflies sought the wild roses, the sweet western wind came laden with the rich odor of hawthorn, and above all was heard the. sweet chiming of the Sabbath bells. It was all so fair so calm, so sweet, so like a glimpse of the far-off meaven, that the girl stood still and felt the solemn, beautiful calm stealing over her.

How long was it since she had knelt at her mother’s knee and learnt her simple prayers? Exalted in rank, how long was it since she had risen in the morning and said one word of prayer—since she had offered one word of thanks to Heaven ere she had retired to rest? How long was it since she had ceased to read the grand old Bible stories? She had done nothing right, nothing good, since she had bartered her soul for richos and her love for luxury! They were going into church now, gray-haired men and little children; the sweet, simple faith of her childhood seemed to come back to her as she watched them the time recurred when she had believed with a child’s faith that if she was good she would go to heaven. Was there any heaven for her, her hands laden with theft, her soul stained with dishonor, with fraud, with untruth?

She had hardly looked at the religious side of the question before; but now that it was brought before her she stood, a< it were, face to face with her own soul, wilh its dark stain of crime, and she turned, shuddering, from it. In the whirl of dissipation she., had kept such thoughts at bay; in this sweet, soleunn time, when the Sabbath bells were chiming, she could not evade them. The conscience she had so long deadened cried loudly at last. Leonie drew her veil tightly over her face and entered the church; it was not like'y, she though to herself, that any one here would recognize her; she was only a visitor, and might never see the place again. After morning prayers the congregation sang a sweet old hymn, a: d then a white-haired minister stood up to preach. He was not eloquent, he was no grand orator, but : his lips had been touched by divine fire. He spoke from the depths of his hfeart, and his words touched the hearts of others. He spoke on a common theme; he told his simple hearers that no one who persisted in sin could ever go to heaven. Such plain, earnest : words, so true t so strong, no one who j heard could ever forget. Long before he had finished, the 1 fair, stately head was bent, and tears flowed like rain from the wearied eyes. No hope, no heaven! Was an earthly crown to be vyeighed in the .balance

with an eternal one? What mattered it that a diadem should shine on her brow here if her face was never to be seen among the heaven? Could it be possible that the punishment of her sin would be so terrible, so great? Sbe did not fear punishment in this world. Here she could keep her ill-gotten goods, here she could enjoy the wealth for which she had given so much; but the justice of that other world was inexorable. She wept, and the tears of pain caused by an awakened conscience were as the cooling dew to the thirsty flowers. Suddenly she raised her head and saw that most of the people had left the church, and that the white-haired minister stood in the vestry alone. Impulsive as she had over been, Leonie rose and went to him. As one in a dream she saw a little square room with the branches of a laburnum-tree waving against the window. She turned to the minister—neither then nor afterward did she learn his name. “You are a truthful, earnest man,” she said, “and I want to ask you about a soul that is in trouble—will you answer me?” “To the best of my power,” he replied. “Thus it was—where it happened matters not,” she began. “Some time since there were two claimants for a large property—one a man, the other a girl. The girl, by the chief judges in the land, was pronounced next of kin, and as such succeeded to the inheritance. When she had enjoyed it long ehough to appreciate its value, she found a will, by which the late owner left all to tho man. What was she bound to do?” “Give up the inheritance to him, most certainly, ” replied the minister. “But she could not—she could not go back to poverty and privation—she could not give up the wealth and luxury. She kept the will and determined to marry the man whom she had defrauded —did not that meet tho difficulties of the case?” she continued, eagerly. “Wai not that restitution sufficient? She would give him all in that way. Speak to me—tell me, was not that enough?” “No,” he said, “that was not enough —either to satisfy the law of man or the law of heaven.” She clasped her hands with passionate eagerness and ds ew nearer. “But do you not: ee that by marrying him she gives him the property just as though sne had put the will into his hands?" “No,” he objected; “it would be but left-handed justice after all—not pure and perfect. The sin of theft and fraud—of injustice and dishonor—would still be upon that girl’s soul.” “Would there be hope of heaven for such a soul?” she asked. “I cannot—l dare net say; I should not like to die with tho same stain upon my conscience. ” | k“You are a good man,” she said, turning away, “pray for a soul in pain.” Before he could answer her she had gone; but all day and all night those words rang in his ears —“pray for a soul in pain.” |TO BE CONTINUED. |