Democratic Sentinel, Volume 18, Number 8, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 9 March 1894 — AT VAR WITH HERSELF. [ARTICLE]

AT VAR WITH HERSELF.

Die Story of a Woman’s Atonement, by Charlotte M. Braeme. CHAPTER XLll—Continued. • She had not lain long before she heard the sound of footsteps; then the door of her room opened, and Ethel 2)acre entered—Ethel, with a light on her noble sac light of fixed, determined resolve. She set the lamp that she carried In her hand down on the table, and went up to Leonie. She •knelt down by the bedside, and placed jher hand on the hot brow. > “Leonie,” she whispered, 'Leonie, my darling, I could not help coming to [you—l could not part from you in anger, as we parted to-night. We are, Doth of us, motherless —we have neither of us a sister—and we have 'been a great deal to each other. I could not retire in anger, Leonie, because I love you so dearly.” * The noble face softened into unutterable tenderness as she bent over the angry girl. ; “I know you are not pleased with me,” she continued, in the same low ivoice. “If you were but an indifferent (acquaintance, your right or wrong doing would not seem important to me; but you are my dearest friend, Leonie, and I cannot see you acting dishonorably without coming to plead with you.” ; *1 hope you will spare me all preach|ing. Ethel. I had quite enough.of that this morning. ” I “I want to plead with you, not to preach to you," said Ethel. “You shall jnot harden your heart against me, Leoinie; you shall not turn coldly from me. ■I love you, and by right of my love you must hear me." i “I cannot really see what it matters to you,” said Leonie. “How does it concern you? You can have no interest in the inheritance.” i 'Do not speak to me so, Leonie; my interest is in you, and in your soul; it is for your soul’s sake that I come to plead with ycu now.” “I can take care of my soul myself," said Leonie, abruptly. ! “You can; but will you do so? Let me speak to you as your own sister might speak; try to think that I am your sister, Leonie, and then you will have more patience with me. My darling, right and wrong are so clearly marked out for you—do not mistake them. Believe me, unless you give up this inheritance, which never was yours, you will be unhappy all your life; you will never know peace or rest again; you will even despise yourself. Honor and honesty both call upon you to give it up.” “Then they call in vain, Ethel, for I shall never do so." I “You will. I have more faith in you than you have in yourself; you will do right in the end. It is a terrible temptation —I admit that. Because you love luxury and magnificence so dearly —because you love all that wealth brings—it is a great temptation; but, Leonie, there is something far above all this. ’’ “That is preaching, Ethel." , Miss Dacre bent over the fair face; she looked tenderly at the rare perfection of its loveliness. J “You are so beautiful, Leonie,” she 'murmured; “your soul should match iyour face. See, my darling, there are Itwo paths before you; have patience iwith me while I sketch them. ” ( “I must listen, I suppose,” said [Leonie, resignedly. “Yes, you must listen, Leonie. Suppose you do what is right—you give up to Paul Flemyng, before your marriage, what is justly his—the money, estates, land, and title the late Earl meant to leave him. Before God and man you will then have done a just and honorable deed; and what will you be the worse for it? Your husband —who will never know of this argument—will ad[mire you as the most loyal of women, [and people will have faith in you because you have proved yourself capable of being honest at any cost to yourself. I can see naught in which you can suffer, but in every respect you will gain. You will have a fair name [before men, and a clear, bright, brave [soul before heaven. Oh, Leonie, think What that means; think what it is to have the clear light of heaven on you—to live so that you may find a home in that better land. There is the other path. You may, with perhaps some phow of legality on your side, keep this inheritance; you may humiliate the man you are going to marry by giving him everything, which in reality he ought to give to you; but I say to you that in doing so you imperil your own soul. Leonie, those are not light words. Suppose that half of England 'were yours, and that a wonderful extension of life were given to you—that you were allowed to live over a hundred years—you must die at last, what, then, would it matter to you whether you had been rich or poor? The great concern would be to have saved your soul. Leonie, can you say honestly that you are even trying to save your soul when it is weighed down by such a sin as this? Can you fancy what the hour of death must be for one who has lived a life of fraud? You know that, if you keep this which is not your own, •you can never honestly raise your head jamong your fellow-creatures; you will ibe burdened with a sin of wrong-doing •and misery that can never leave you. “Ethel, you are wasting your time,” said Leonie. “No, I do not think so. You turn from me proudly now; you refuse to listen to me; you despise all that I am saying—but you will remember my words, for all that, Leonie. You wid remember that I, who love you with a deep, true, disinterested love, have knelt here to pray you for your soul’s sake to act rigntly and honorably. Leonie, I have another idea about you; if I am wrong forgive me. I have fancied from your manner, from your feverish restlessness, from your craving for excitement—l have fancied, that all this is not strange to you; that you had perhaps found the will, and had hidden it.” A low moan answered her. When she looked at the white face, she saw that Leonie lay in a dead swoon. “Was I too hard upon her?” murmured Ethel. “Oh, no! Heaven knows that I have only told her the truth."

CHAPTEB XLIIL “You are not angry with me, Leonie?” said Ethel Dacre, when the violet eyes unclosed at last, and Leonie looked round with a half-bewildered air. “No, I am not angry—leave me, Ethel. I cannot heir any more; you try me beyond my strength." Nor would she listen to another word. In sheer despair Miss Dacre went away at last; there was nothing now to trust to save time and prayer. If prayer would save the unhappy girl, then Ethel Dacre would pray earnestly. Meanwhile Leonie—sick, shuddering, her heart full of dread and sea watching for the dawn. “She will betray me —she tvill tell every one what she suspects. Is it possible that I shall ever be found out?” The very thought made her whole soul grow sick with fear. “Found out”—she whispered the words to herself—“found out to be a thief?”

She would fain have annihilated time and space, so eager was her desire to take hold of the will and destroy iff Nothing could affect her if that

were once destroyed; no human being could give evidence against her, and she should live and die Countess of Charnleigh. Ethel Dacre might betray her—she might tell the story of the letter —she might even whisper her suspicions about the will; what mattered it all when nothing—absolutely nothing—could be proved against her' She laughed aloud—a harsh, discordant laugh—terrible to hear from the lips of one so young and fair. “I have imperiled my soul," she said, “I have sacrificed my love, and have sent the man I love to exile and death; surely the small matter of losing the esteem of my fellow-creatures cannot hurt me after all that. It is the last sacrifice I have to make. Gocdness. love, honor, honesty—all are gone; self-respect may follow them, the esteem and good opinion of my kind go with it, but I shall live and die Countess of Charnleigh.” Suddenly across the dull gray of the morning sxy she saw a gleam of gold, and then she sprang up, knowing that the morning had dawned. She changed the white muslin wrapper that she Still wore for a dark traveling dress, and as she did so Florette gently opened the door. She brought a cup of tea and a fresh roll to her lady. Leonie eagerly drank the tea, but did not touch the roll. “Try to eat something, my lady, * said the girl, “you will faint.” Then came to Leonie ■■ a dull wonder as to whether she should ever eat again; her heart was like lead within her, her face pale, her hands trembled so that she could not fasten her cloak. “We will walk to the nearest cabstand," she said. “Open the door quietly, Florette; I do not want to disturb anyone. ” So, in the early dawn of the summer morning, Leonie left a magnificent home, where she had lived so brilliantly, to commit one of the most treacherous of crimes. Florette asked no question; yet she wondered what this sudden journey meant —she wondered why her lady s face was so sternly set and white—why the pale lips were so rigid and compressed, Crown Leighton was reached at last. Great were the surprise and bewilderment of the whole household at seeing their lady. No one could understand it Leonie asked at once for Mrs Fearon, and, more than half bewildered, the housekeeper entered her presence. “You are surprised to see me here so early,” she said. “We cannot sp>are many hours from London now, so I came by first train, and shall return perhaps this evening.” “I will do my best to carry out your wishes, my lady,” said the woman: “and you will not find the house in bad order. Shall I prepare some breakfast for you?” “No." Leonie could neither eat or drink again until that will was destroyed.

She went to the room, almost dreading to look in the hiding-place lest the will should be gone. She locked the door, and then went with trembling, faltering steps to the place where she had hidden the document. It was safe; a little cry escaped her when she saw it again. She took the cause of all her misery in her hands. “You have cost me my love, and you may cost me heaven," she said; “now I will destroy you. You shall cost me no more. ” But how was she to destroy it? There was but one method, and that was to burn it. “If I were to tie it up with a stone, and throw it into the sea,” shb said to herself, “it might rise again. I will burn it —I will watch the smoke from its ashes curl in the air—l will watch the ashes disperse in the wind; then, in my own right, I shall know that I am Countess Charnleigh of Crown Leighton. How was she to burn it? If she carried it down into the servants’ quarters, and was seen to put it into the fire, rumor might rise and tell against her. She must destroy it here in her own room, unseen, unknown by all. “One more falsehood and I shall be free,” she said to herself, as she rang the bell. Mrs. Fearon answered it —the maid was resting after her journey and looked somewhat aghast when her lady asked for a fire. “A fire?” repeated the housekeeper, as she looked from the beautiful, restless, feverish face to the glowing sun outside. “If you do not think it too warm ” “I have taken cold—l am cold,” said Leonie; and the shudder with which she uttered these words gave them the semblance of truth. “Early rising is not good for you, my lady,” decided the woman; “I will light the fire for you myself." A few more minutes and a bright fire was blazing in the grate, contrasting oddly with the glowing sun and sultry warmth of the Juneyday. “I will ring if I want you,” said Leonie to the housekeeper, and then she locked the door and went to the hid-ing-place where lay the will. As she passed, the great mirror she started back in sore affright. Surely that ghastly pallid face was not hers; those wild burning eyes so full of fear, those pale trembling lips—surely they did not belong to the beautifnl, radiant girl whom people called Countess of Charnleigh. “Wicked deeds do not suit me," she said to herself, with a laugh that sounded like the cry of a lost soul. Then she stood before the fire with the will in her hands. “I am going to commit a crime,” she reflected—“a crime for which in olden days men were hung. ” Why did she pause? The red flame blazed merrily; the door was closed; no human eyes could see her. Why did she hesitate? Good and bad angels had fought for her; good and evil spirits had waged fierce battle for her. Her own self had been at war with her own self. She had sent into sorrow and exile the man she loved; she had listened while honored iips told her she was imperiling her soul; she had given up her hope of heaven. Why did she pause over this crowning act of her sin. She had said to herself that she would keep what she had at all risks. She knew that she would lose her fair name before men —that she would be forever estranged from those she loved best; yet she had weighed all that in her mind, and it seemed to her as nothing in comparison with what she gained by her sin Why did she hesitate? The red blaze seemed to laugh as it roared away.. She raised her hand to thrust the will far into the soft glow and then paused. She could not do it—she had tried, and failed; she could not, she dared not do it. Perhaps the good angels had won the battle —perhaps the evil spirits had fled. She could not do it that crowning act of her sin was beyond her. Slowly the arm that held tue will dropped; and presently the roll fell from the nerveltss hand to the floor and the girl droppedon her kn es with a passionate cry and passionate tears. “Merciful heave|n," she called, “help me to do right!"/ The trial and struggle were over—she was no longer at war with her elf: the better natuie conquered the lower one, loyalty had beaten down false-

hood, honor had shamed dishonor. She who had boasted so proudly that she would risk all for Crown Leighton lay weeping a helpless, humble child. The temptation had been a terrible one—it was trampled under foot now. Looking back, Leonie thought she must have gone mad. She had tried to be brave and hardy in her wrongdoing; but she had a nobler nature than she herself knew of. When it came to the last act in the drama, her nob'.e heart, her natural goodness, and her early sense of right, were all stronger than temptation, and they beat it down. The relief was as cooling dew-drops to thirsty flowers; what soft, sweet showers are to parched trees and arid grass, such to her soul were the tears that she shed—they seemed to bring grace and healing igith them. “How could I dream of this wicked deed?" she sobbed aloud. “Never again shall such an evil spirit hold me in chains. I will live and die loyal and true, even though I may not be Countess of Charnleigh.” She remembered the old saying, “The woman who hesitates is lost. ” ”1 will deliberate no longer," she said; “I will place myself beyond temptation: I will place this in Paul Flemyng’s hand, and then I cannot go back. Left to myself, I might fall again; if I do there can be no retraction.’* When the passion of her tears had been exhausted, she rose from the floor; then she stooped and carefully picked up the will. “1 will not stop to look around me," she thought; “1 will not linger over the magnificence of Crown Leighton; I will go at once, before the temptation returns even stronger than before.” And without one glance at the sumptuous chamber, without one look at the splendor she had loved so well, she put on her traveling cloak and went down stairs. “Mrs. Fearon,” she said, “will yon order the carriage? I want to go at once to Weildon. I have not a moment to spare.” Wondering a little at what she thought her lady’s caprices, the housekeeper hastened to comply with her request. Ito be continued, i