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

IT WAR WITH HERSELF.

iH» Story of a Woman's Atonement, by Charlotte M. Braeme. CHAPTER XI.IV. Captain Flemyng had very pretty Kms in Castle street, Weildon. was not often here, but he retained toem for himself. He was very popalar with his landlady—rather a severe maiden lady, who was accustomed to •peak of him as "quite the gentleman. ” , On this June morning, when so great a change-was to take place in his circumstances, he had risen late. Miss JMnvera had sent twice to say that (breakfast was ready, and yet he did wot appear. A third tima the little page knocked at his door —this time the message was of a more startling description. • “A lady is waiting to see you, Capt. Flemyng, and she says her business is important. ” i “A lady," repeated Paul; “who can it |be?" 1 He never even dreamed of Leonie; bis only impression was it might be some one soliciting charity—some one about a fancy fair, or a bazar, or something of that kind. How little he thought that waiting for him were the title of Earl, and the inheritance of ,Crown Leighton! | “A lady," the little page had said: so Capt. Flemyng hurriedly completed his toilet and then went down to the drawing-room, where the visitor awaited him. He saw a lady closely veiled and wearing a large traveling-cloak. He bowed, inwardly wondering who •he was and what she wanted. Then the veiled figure came up to him and a faint voice murmured his name. He started back in surprise. “Leonie!” he cried. “Great heavens! what has happened, what has brought you here?" He saw then that she held In her hands a paper packet. She placed it in his. i “Take this, Paul,” she said, simply; *it is yours.” He took it, wonderingly, and then ■he threw back her veil and gave a great . gasping sigh as of one who te relieved of a deally burden. He looked at the beautiful, colorless face, with its strange expression of peace after a storm. “What does it mean, Leonie?" he asked. “You astonish me—stay, you shall not speak one word until you have taken something. You look so ill, my darling.” Still holding the packet in his hand, ■ever looking to see what it was, he led her to the little couch and made her sit down, and then he poured out a glass of wine. She would have refused it, but he told her he would net listen to her until she had drunk it. _ The generous wine brought Lack a tinge of color to the sweet face. It was all sweet now; that torrents of tears seemed to have washed away the former pride, hardness, and coldness forever. He was struck by the softened beauty, and bent down to touch the white brow with his lips, but she shrank from him as she had never done before. “Do not do that, Paul, until you have heard what lam here to say. Look at what is written on the document I have given to you.” He looked and saw—- “ The last will and testament of Ulric, Earl of Charnleigh.” “Leonie, ” he cried, “what does this mean?” But she .had risen from thß Tittle •ouch and was kneeling at his feet. He eried out again when he saw that; he tried to raise her, but she bent her head in lowliest humility. “Listen, Pau) —listen to me. I am worthy only to kneel here, not to stand by your side, dear; for I have willfully robbed you, knowing that all I had was yours. ” “Robbed me!” he exclaimed. “What •an you mean, Leonie?” “Read that will, and you will understand.” He opened the document, and as he read a murmur of wonder that souiftled almost like regret came from his lips. “Mine,” he said—“it is not possible! Mine, Leonie, and not yours!” “Yes; I have robbed you, Paul. I found this will long months ago, and hid it. I came down to Crown Leighton. this morning purposely to destroy ft, never intending to give to you what is your own, but I could not do it; Heaven was merciful to me —I could not wait" He seemed quite bewildered. “I do not understand, Leonie. What is it you say? Explain to me clearly—you have startled me.” Kneeling there, she told him the whole history of her sin—from the first moment when she found the will on the eventful night of the charades to this, when, humbled and repentant, she came to confess the truth to him. She did not spare herself; she told him how, one by one, she had discarded her own self-respect, her love, her honor, her hopes of Heaven. She did not •pare herself; she did not hide from him one single incident of her wrongdoing. “It was a terrible temptation, Paul," •he said, “and I yielded to it. I have not one excuse to offer. I repent of my ■in now, but that will make it none the less heinous.” Paul sat like a man suddenly bereft of his senses, unable to speak, unable even to think clearly. “I am dazed, Leonie,” he said, at last; . “I cannot understand your words even yet.” “I have robbed you,” she said—“l have deceived you in every way. I have kept this will back from you, trying to compromise with my conscience, trying to make myself believe that if I married you it would be the same—it would not matter which had the inheritance, you or I.” He tried to speak, but she went on hurriedly—“l did not love you. Paul. I loved Bertram Gordon; and the greatest wrong I could have done would have been to marry you, for I love Bertram with all my heart’s love." “Was it only to be Countess of Charnleigh that you promised to marry me?” he asked) sadly. “That was all. I love you just as though you were my elder brother. I have never had a lover’s love for you, Paul; perhaps that was the worst part •f my sin." He let the will fall, and with a low moan buried his face in his hands. She tried to draw them away. “Do forgive, me, Paul—Paul, my dearest friend—Paul, my brother, do pardon me! I am so sorry—so sorry lor my sin!” He looked at her. “Leonie, I do not value Crown Leighton, er the title that goes with it; but I do value you and your love above all earthly things. You have made me an earl, yet I am poorer than the poorest pauper. You Are worth a thousand earldoms to me,” •1 ant a‘trder woman, dear, kneeling here and giving you up, than I should be if I married you. ‘ J cannot marry you, PauL HeaVen helping me, I will •ot speak falsely dr act falsely again while I live.” “You are a noble woman, Leonie. You might have destroyed this; you might have defied the whold world to prove my claim. You have acted loyally after all '

“Yes, after all; but that ‘all’ oomprises much, Paul. I have sent from me the man I loved. 1 have done my best to break an honest heart. Now listen to me, Paul. I know my own strength and my own weakness. lam going away—going where, with hard work and privation, I may forget the enervating lessons I have ’earned—where I may do my best to atone for my sin. Y r ou must not persuade me to stay, neither must you ask me whither lam ging. I have cne favor to request of you. Will you take care of Lady Fanshawe? From your abundance you will spare something for her. For the rest, you will do what you will. Make the discovery public it you choose: if you can spare me, do. Ido not ask for mercy, but you will show it to me. No one but you need know that the will was found so long ago: thez will think, when they read of it. that the discovery has just taken place. You can spare me so far, Paul.” “You are a noble woman,” he repeated: “the world holds none nobler." She smiled sadly. “I am going now,” she said. “Letme be the first to call you Lord Charnleigh. Ah, you will forgive me, Paul, because I have suffered so much. You will forgive me before I go?” “My darling,” he said, with a deep sob, “I cannot part with you. I love you so dearly, Leonie. Do promise to be my wife—forget all this, and renew your promise to be my wife.” “I cannot,” she returned. “Please Heaven no other false words shall pass my lips to you while I live. I cannot marry you because I do not love you; and I do with all mv heart love some one else. Say you forgive me, Paul.” “I forgive you, Leonie,” he said; and then before he could interfere to prevent it, she had quitted the room.

CHAPTER XLV. When Leonie Rayner left Paul she gave no thought as to whither she was going. She never thought of Florette waiting for her at Crown Leighton; she had made the great sacrifice for which she had strained every nerve, and the reaction was fast setting in. She told the coachman to drive her to the railway-station; she had some vague idea of going to London and losing herself in the crowds of that vast city. One thing she knew was impossible, and that was for her to meet just at present those belonging to the old brilliant life now passing from her forever. She would go to London and find some employment there; but first she must have rest—rest. She said the word over and over again to herself; it was all she could hope for—rest. A sweet peace seemed to float around her; she was aroused only when the carriage stopped at the station. The coachman came up to her, and touched his hat. "Have I any message, my lady, to take back to Crown Leighton?” She started as the familiar words fell on her ear. “No, none. You gave me a title that does not belong' tb me, Simmons. lam no longer Lady 'Charnleigh. The will has been found that makes Captain Flemyng Lord Cfiarideign-the heir to Crown Leighton. Hfi will be your inaster now. ” Her voice was low and clear, every syllable distinct. The man looked at her in astonishment too great for words. “It is can tell all the servants when you return. " "I am very sorry, my lady," and Leonie was touched at seeing tears in the man's eyes. He did not leave her until he had seen her comfortably placed in the London train. Then she was alone for the first time since she had trampled on her temptation and put away her sin—alone, with a strange feeling of weariness and peace - alone with strangely mingled thoughts. The brilliant life was over forever. Leonie, Countess of Charnleigh, was dead—no such person existed. How would they speak of her in that world she had loved so well? They would say that it was a short, brilliant reign, and that she had been much admired; and they say also that she died a queen. There had been nothing paltry—nothing mean in her abdication, bhe had given up entirely —she had not reserved to herself jewels or purses of gold, as tome women might have done. She was proud as on that June day when, amidst light and shade, the lawyer had announced to her the fable of her wealth.

A strange weariness was creeping over her; she laid her head back and closed her eyes; she i emoved the thick veil from her beautiful, colorless face, that the air might refresh her. Strange fancies crowding on her mind—strange fancies floated before her—then a calm, deen brooding darkness fell, and the tired senses seemed to sleep. Nature must have its reaction. After a great storm comes a calm. Such a calm came over Leonie Rayner as she closed her eyes—darkness and silence seemed to enfold her, and she knew no more. The strain upon her nerves had been terrible; forlqng months past she had known no peace; night and day she had been at war with herself. Now the war was over—the evil spirit vanquished—arid she fell as a warrior might fall who had fought a hard battle and, wearied out, dropped by the wayside She remembered no more. The train was one not much used—there were few passengers; nor did it stop until Euston square had been reached. There a porter, opening the door, was startled to find a lady with a white, beautiful face, lying like one dead. He gave an alarm, and there was a rush of people to the spot. It happened most providentially that in the booking office, sending a messenger to Crown Leighton, was Ethel Dacre. There had been great alarm when Leonie’s sudden journey was discovered. Lady Fanshawe was amazed, annoyed and disconcerted. “Such a thing to do in the very midst of the season—to rush off "to Crown Leighton in that eccentric fashion! What would the world say?" But what the world was to say or think mattered little now to Leonie Rayner. Lady Fa&sbawe could not be pacified until EtheTTiad promised to go herself to Euston,/ square and 'send a messenger to Crowi£Leighton. “Send a letter to Lady Charnleigh begging her to let us know what she is doing and when she intends to return.” So Miss Dacre, who began to have some faint glimmer of the truth, went at once and while she was engaged in dispatching a messenger she heard the people _ saying that a lady had been found in a railway carriage either fainting or dying. A sudden conviction seized her that it was Leonie. She found her instinct had not deceived her—Leonie, cold, silent and motionless, but with a look of peace oq her white face which Ethel had not seen for months, was lying in the ladies’waiting room. She guessed at once what Leonie had done. “She has been to Paul Flemyng and has told him all.” Ethel knew that that calm, serene expression could come only from a soul that was at peace. Even while she stood at Leonie’s side she formed her resolution; she decided that the giil should not be carried to that magnificent mansion where she had been

queen. Westfield, her father’s home( was but a few miles from London; she would take her thither. She dispatched a messenger to Lady Fanshawe, telling her what had happened and what she had done, and then ordered a carriage and took Leonie home to Westfield. The doctors pronounced it to ba a case of brain fever, from which there did not seem any chance for the patient's recovery. It was a June day on which Leonie Rayner had turned from her sin and fled from further temptation—fled, resolving to be loyal and true for the rest of her life, come what might. The wheat was standing in huge golden sheaves, and the fruit was hanging ripe on the trees, when she opened her eyes to reason and light—such feeble reason, such dim light. At first she was conscious of no other sensation but that of lying at rest, and then, when that became familiar to her, she began to understand that she was more helpless and feeble than a child. She tried to raise her hand, but could not; she tried to speak, but the trembling lips could form no words; then she looked round, but the place was all strange to her. Near the window she saw the outline of a woman's figure; Leonie raised one of her hands, and it seemed to her that it must belong to some one else, it was so white, so thin, so frail. And then, slowly, gradually, the once active brain began to work again; memory and reason, the power of thought, began to return to her. She sighed deeply, and the figure at the window hastily turned round. “Ethel!” she whispered, faintly. “My darling! Thank heaven, you are yourself once more!” and the next moment Ethel Dacre was kneeling by the bedside holding the frail, trembling figure in her arms. “Tell me where I am, Ethel,” she said. “You are in my home—Westfield; you have been here ever since you were taken ill." “How long is that?" asked the faint voice. “More than six weeks, Leonie. But you must not talk—you must rest." “Rest!” The word fell like a chime of half-forgotten bells—like the faint, sweet music of a dream. “Rest!" The poor, half-dazed mind dwelt on the word —it opened the whole past to her. “Does every one know, Ethel?” she asked. “Yes, my darling; everyone knows, and everyone says you are the noblest woman in the world. ” Her fair name had been saved from all stain or reproach. She turned her face away, and fell into a sweet, dreamless sleep, every moment of which was full of healing to her. It was some weeks longer before she was able to leave her room. Once or twice she thought to talk to Ethel about that terrible past, but Miss Dacre would not hear a word. “When you are stronger, Leonie, you shall say what you like, but not now. Make haste and grow strong. Papa wants to take us both to France. Would you like to visit Reims, where your mother’s family live? We will go there and stay until you are quite well.” The idea of visiting Reims delighted her, and then, by degrees, as Leonie grew stronger, Ethel told her how Lady Fanshawe was still at the London house, superintending affairs, and how Paul had taken possession of his estates, and now was installed as Lord Charnleigh. “How is he, Ethel? Did you over see him?” she asked. “Yes—l see him everv day, Leonie. He drives over to see how you are.” Then, noticing that the sweet face grew pale, she added, “You will not see him, Leonie. Dr. Markham has forbidden me to allow anyone to see you until we return from France. Half fashionable London has sent to ask about you.” “Then people do not like me less became I am no longer a countess?" she said.

“I think all sensible people like you better than ever,” replied Ethel. “When you are stronger I will show you what all the papers have said about you—l have carefully preserved them —and then you will understand how you are appreciated.” Leonie did not grow strong as soon as Miss Dacre had hoped. When she was able to travel, Sir Huntley took them both to Reims. The brave old general had grown very fond of the girl who had acted in what he called a truly brave and loyal fashion. He would have done anything for her. Leonie begged hard that she might see Lady Fanshawe before she went, but Ethel was firm. “Lady Fanshawe was grieved very much about you,” she reinarked; “indeed, for a long time she persisted in saying that there must be a mistake about the will. If you were to see her it would only bring about a rush of painful memories. You must wait until you return. ” “Ethel," said Leonie, “you evaded my question the other day. How is Paul?"" Miss Dacre’s face flushed. “Leonie," said she, “Paul loves you too well to be happy; he would give back his earldom, dear, to win you.’’ ’ But Leonie Rayner looked with frank, clear eyes into her friend’s face. “I shall never act falsely again, Ethel, while I live; and I cannot man y Paul, because with all my heart I love Bertram Gordon. ” |TO BE CONTINUED. I