Democratic Sentinel, Volume 18, Number 7, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 2 March 1894 — AT WAR WITH HERSELF. [ARTICLE]

AT WAR WITH HERSELF.

The Story of a Woman's Atonement, by Charlotte M. Braeme. CHAPTER XLI-Conttaaed. Was there ever such a scene of wealth, luxury, and magnificence? Leonie stood in a white muslin wrapper, her golden hair falling like a veil around her. On every side were spread out costly dresses and shining jewels. Leonie held in her hand a superb necklace of diamonds. She did not look up when Ethel entered the room. “I know it is you. Ethel, by your footstep. I was just going to send for you to ask jpour advice.” Leonie was so deeply engrossed by her jewels that Ethel did not respond. She waited until her companion’s attention was directed elsewhere. “I am quite undecided as to what ornaments I shall wear to-night,” said Leonie. “I am going to a concert. People have always so much time to study one another s dresses at a concert. Mine is the palest, prettiest pink. 'What will go best with it, Ethel—diamonds or pearls? pearls have a chaste appearance, but diamonds are most brilliant. I want to look well to-night.” Still'Miss Dacremade no answer, and Leonie, looking up to discover the reason of her friend’s silence, was struck by the grave, serious expression of her face. “What is the matter, Ethel? You look graver than a judge. ” < “I want to speak to you, Leonie. Put those diamonds away for a few minutes, and come here. * Leonie laid the necklace down, and as she did so Ethel Dacre reflected that it did not belong to her, and she felt something like sorrow for the girl who would have to part with so much that she loved. Leonie laid down the necklace and moved to Ethel’s side; she placed one white arm caressingly round the girl’s neck, and said: “Do not keep mo long, darling; I must attend to my dress.” But there came no smile to Ethel's face, or cheerful word to her lips. It was a pretty picture—the magnificent room, with its warmth of color, and the two girls in graceful attitudes —Ethel seated on a crimson lounging chair, her fair, eloquent face, so grave and anxious: Leonie kneeling at her feet, her golden hair and white dress seeming to draw all the sunshine to themselves. “Leonie, ” asked Ethel Dacre,gravely, “have you ever heard anythin/ of a will by which the late Lord Charnleigh left everything he had in the world to Captain Flemyng? ”i For a moment it seemed to Leonie that some cold hand had clutched her heart and stopped its beating; a red mist floated before her eyes, a sound as of rushing wind filled her ears, her face grew deathly white. “A will!” she repeated, in low, hoarse tones. “No—what makes you ask me that?” A sudden deadly fear came over her —an awful dread. Had the will she believed so securely hidden come to light? Had any one discovered it? The things she bad loved so dearly seem to be already slipping from her grasp. Vanity, pride, love of power, all awoke with renewed vigor in her soul—she would not give up without a struggle. “What makes you ask me that?” she repeated in a voice so full of fear that Miss Dacre was surprised at it. “Because I have every reason to believe that such a will exists, or has existed. ” “It is not true,” cried Leonie —“it is false! You know—every one knows there was no such will; every sea' ch was made, every precaution taken. Why do you talk so, Ethel? Who has said anything of the kind?” “One dead has spoken, Leonie? It is a voice from Ulric Charnleigh’s grave that tells of a will. ” The white face grew even more ghastly; for one moment it seemed to Leonie Rayner that life itself was leaving her. “I have found this,” continued Ethel; holding out the letter for her to read; “it was hidden in the picture of Paul’s mother. Read it, Leonie.” The young girl held out her hand for the paper. She tried to read it, but she tried in vain; the letters appeared lik a red mist before her eyes. “I cannot see to read it, Ethel. ” And Miss Dacre, taking the paper from the trembling hands, read the solemn words. As she read, Leonie crouched lower and lower, until she lay at last with her face hidden on the floor. “The question is,” said Ethel, in her clear, low voice, “was that will ever made, or did Lord Charnleigh die before carrying out his intention?” Faint hope crept back to the weak heart. After all, then, no one knew that she had found the will; her secret was safe still; that letter could not oblige her to give up the inheritance. “If. the will was made,” continued Miss Dacre, “where is it?” - “It was never made,” said Leonie Rayner—a faint color crept back to her face, her lips lost their rigidness—“it was never made, Ethel, and you have frightened me for nothing." “Frightened you?” said Miss Dacre. “Yes—frightened me. You made me think that I should have to give up Crown Leighton. ” Ethel Dacre had drawn back from her, grave wonder in her eyes, a faint flush in her face. “Made you think so, Leonie! Do you not think so still?" “Certainly not; that letter is not a will—it is not binding.” “Not binding?” repeated Miss Dacre. “Leonie, you are surely dreaming—you do not know what you say. Please answer me one question: to whom did old Lord Charnleigh intend to leave his estates —to Paul Flemyng or to you?” “That is not worth discussing. lam entitled to them by law, and no one can take them frop me.” Ethel Dacre drew herself up to her full height; she looked on the kneeling figure with eyes that were full of noble reproach. “I am a soldier’s daughter," she said, “and have but one word for such conduct as yours—you are dishonorable, Leonie Rayner. You are dishonorable, ” repeated Miss Dacre. “You are bound in conscience and in honor to give up to Paul Flemyng that which Ulric Charnleigh meant to be his. ” “I am not bound to do anything of the kind, Ethel. None but a generous mortal like yourself would sav so.. Paul Flemyng himself would tell you the idea is preposterous. ” “Paul Flemyng is a noble man,” said Ethel Dacre. “Suppose he were in possession here, and had found such a letter, do you think that he would keep the inheritance one hour after reading the writer's wishes?” “I should imagine that he would,” answered Leonie; yet, even as the words left her Ups, she knew they were false. “You 1 , know he would not. Great Heaven) Leonie, are you mad, to dream that a mere quibble of the law could give a claim more sacred than this letter—the written wishes of the dead? , A man's will is but the written expression of his wish. Can anything be plainer than this?"

“I am the late earl’s nearest of kin. He died without a will, therefore all that he possed is rightly mine. ” “Oh, Leonie, how falsely you reason! It is no more yours than mine. You know at this moment that there is a voice in your own heart telling you to give up at once what does not belong to you." “I hear no such voice," said Leonie. Ethel Eacre went to her; she looked long and earnestly in the beautiful colorless lace. “I kn>w you are jesting, Leonie. You are not saying what you really think. You would not do wrong; and you know that to keep what is not yours is—as we said the other day—simply stealing. Surely ycu, with the Charnleigh blood running in your veins—you, Paul Flemyng's intended wife—a patent of nobility in itself—surely you would not write yourself down ‘thfei.’ ” Leonie s face flushed crimson at such words. They were but t.ie repetition of her own thoughts. She stood erect before Ethel. “Do not repeat that word, Miss Dacre. There are limits to everything, and my forbearance will not go much further. You call me ‘thief’ because I choose to keep that which belongs to me by law and by right. Do not repeat the oifense.” Yet even as she spoke so proudly and haughtily, in the depths of her own heart she knew the charge was true, and she loathed herself for her sin—she hated herself because she could not look Ethel Dacre in the sac hated hersMf for the fierce humiliation that her own act had brought upon her. “I am sorry to have offended you,” said Miss Dacre. “When I came in to speak to you, offense was the last thing I thought of; but, Leonie, right is right, and it must be done at any cost. I shall never think again of what you have said. I can make allowance for the disappointment and irritation, which are but natural; but you must do right—you mi st give up to Paul Flemyng this inheritance, which is justly his.”

“For the last time I tall you that I shall do nothing of the kind. I shall' keep what is legally mine.” “It seems unnatural for a girl so young and beautiful as you to be mercenary and dishonorable,” said Ethel, sadly. “Leonie, if you will not do right I must. I shall send Captain Flemyng the paper I have found.” “You will not dare to do anything of the kind,” exclaimed Leonie. “I must,” said Miss Dacre, still more sadly. “I could not rest with such a secret on my conscience.” “But, Ethel,” persisted Leonie, “why need you tell him? We are to be mairied very soon, are we not? Then all that I have will be his. Of what use is it to make all this stir and excitement? If I were going to marry any any one else, I could better understand your decision; but, when all, will be his so soon, why disturb matters, why cause unending mischief?” “You cannot be serious, Leonie—you cannot think of making such a c mpromise with your conscience. The inheritance is Captain Flemyng’s, irrespective of any marriage, and you must admit that it ought to bo made over to him at once.” A sneer tliat was not pleasant to see marred the beauty of .Leonie Rayner s young face. “You are very zealous, Miss Dacre. It is hard to believe that your pleadings are entirely disinterested. Perhaps you think that if Captain Flemyng were Earl of Charnleigh he would transfer his affections.” The noble face grew paler, but a bright light shone in Ethel Dacre’s eyes. “You are wrong. Paul Flemyng is a noble, loyal gentleman; he loves you—you alone—of all in the world: and he will never care for any one el- e —never, while the world stands. It is because he iq so loyal that I wish you were different for his sake. I must tell him what I have found. He can please himself to actpon the discovery or not.” “You will understand that, if you interfere, all friendship between us is at an end, Miss Dacre.” “I shall be sorry for it, but nothing can give me so much sorrow as to find that I have been deceived in you. Oh, Leonie, I pray heaven to change your heart, to take from you that fatal worldly vanity which has transformed a noble disposition into one that has no nobility. ” She waited a few minutes longer to see if Leonie would say anything more to her, and then, noticing the sullen, gloomy expression of the beautiful face, she went slowly from the room. Before she had closed the door Florette entered. “It is growinglate, my lady: is it not time that you dressed for the concert?” “I am not going,” said Leonie; and there was something in the despondent tone of her voice that caused the maid to look into her mistress’ face. She was startled and surprised at what she saw there. “You are ill, my lady," she said; “your face is as white as death.” “I am tired,” explained Leonie; and there went up from her heart a great yearning cry for rest from the warfare that seemed to have no end. “Then you will not go out, to-night, my lady, at all?” questioned the maid —“you will not go to the ball?” “No; give my compliments to Lady Fanshawe, and tell her I have changed my mind. I shall not go out to-night. ”. “Shall I take any message to Miss Dacre?” “No,” replied Leonie, with a sudden hardening of her voice and sac—“no; I have nothing to say to Miss Dacre.” It seemed very strange to Florette. An hour since she had left her lady all eagerness, all anxiety about her dress —full of animation, and thinking only of the ball, she returned to find her pale, dispirited, and gloomy. “Shall I put away the diamonds, my lady?” asked the girl. Leonie looked at them, those shining', precious, costly gems. She had been so proud of them, she had thought to much of them, how could she give shem up? “There is one thing I must not neglect,” she said to herself. ’ “I must go at once to Crown Leighton and destroy that will. I shall know no more peace until it has perished. I will go to-mor-row, before Ethel can let Paul know what she has fcund; and then I can defy them all to make me give up that which the law has said is mine.”

CHAPTER XLII.

Lady Fanshawe was at a loss—never since she had lived with Lady Charnleigh had such a message been sent to her. She sent once or twice to inquire if there was anything Lady Charnleigh required; the answer was always the same, “no.” So, while the great world went on its way, heartless, rejoicing, careless 'of all suffering, Leonie lay in a darkened Boqm during the fierce, hard battle —at war with herself. _ She had foreseen no such complication as this when she had decided on hiding the will. Would anyone have dreamed that the old earl would be filled with such a sentimental idea as to write a letter and place it in the picture of the woman he loved for her son to find? “I am in reality no worse off than I was before,” she thought; “finding the letter will prove of no consequence un-

less they can find the will—and that 1 will destroy." Such a hard, worn, wearied look came over the young face as ly changed it. She was thinking of such desperate deeds. Thus far on the path, she would not ret. ace her steps, she would not lock back. She had periled all that she held most dear—, her heart’s love, her soul’s salvation! it was not probable that a few words from Ethel Dacre would change her. “She called me dishonorable,” said the girl; “ what would she call me if she knew that I had not inly found the will, but had hidden it—that I had willfully defrauded Paul Flemyng." A keen, burning sense of humiliation filled her heart a’l the time. She thought with angry impatience of the brillia it scene where she had intended this night ti reign a queen; she th"Ught of the engagements of the morrow which she would he obliged to forego. “I wish I had never seen Ethel Dacre," she said to herself. “I wish I had not let her tmch that picture.” She imagined to herself how Ethel would write that very evening to Paul, inclosing the letter and bidding him hasten to Crown Leighton to search for the will. He would hasten eagerly thither, and, though she believed it safe and secure, who could tell what mteht happen? He might find it, ana

Then her conscience reproached her; she knew Paul too well to imagine that he would act in that way—his trust in her was too great, he was too loyal to himself to dream of disloyalty in her. Still it was impossible to say what Ethel would do; she would in any case make her discovery public, and then Leonie, who had enjoyed the homage paid her —who had enjoyed her sovereignty over men —would incur their contempt. There was no foreseeing what might happen, and the only safe plan she could think of was to go at once to Crown Leighton and destroy the will; then she would feel secure. There was a train that left London quite early in the morning for Crown Leighton. She would go by that. There was no need to inform Lady Fanshawe; she could leave a note telling her that she had gone to Crown Leighton on important business, but ihe should be only a few days away. She rang the tell, and told Florette to prepare for the journey. “Do not look so astonished, Florette; there is nothing so weak as always expressing great surprise. You will get up to go with me in the morning; but, remember, not one word to any one about the journey. ” “I will not mention it, mv lady,” said the maid, quite subdued by the vehemence of her mistress.

“I am not the only person who has been compelled to take a sudden journey.” rejoined Leonie, as though her conduct required vindication. The maid was dismissed, and she was left alone—alone to watch through the long summer night and wait impatiently for the dawn. She could not sleep; the danger seemed too near her —too ever-present. There could bo no more rest for her until the will was destroyed. She sat at the window—she listened to the distant roll of carriages—she watched the dark shades of night creep over the earth—she watched the stars glow one by one in the azure sky. And then, when her eyes had grown wearied, she lay down to lest—not to sleep—with sleep came dreams too horrible to bear—but to rest, until the earlj’ dawn should chase away the shades of night. [TO BE CONTINUED, i