Democratic Sentinel, Volume 18, Number 9, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 16 March 1894 — AT WAR WITH HERSELF. [ARTICLE]

AT WAR WITH HERSELF.

The Story of a Woman's Atonement, by Charlotte IL Braeme. CHAPTER XI.VI. Six months had passed since Leonie Rayner placed the will of Lord Charnleigh in Paul Flemyng's hands. They had not brought much happiness to him. True, he was an earl now, a man of high rank and great resources, a man of distinguished position, with unbounded wealth and every luxury; but he wae not so happy as when he was a poor soldier, blessed only with Leonie’s love. He did not care for the earldom; he did not value money; he wanted her, and nothing in the world besides. Yet he knew that she would never be his; she had told him so, frankly and honestly. She did not love him; she loved some one else. He knew that, live as long as he might, his life would never be crowned or blessed by Leonie's love. He did not love her less because of her grievous sin. In his eyes the ample reparation she had made atoned for it He said to himself that she was the bravest, the noblest and best of women; but she was not for him. The world, so ready to worship Mammon, received him with open arms. He was sought after by half the fashionable mothers in London. But for Paul there was no peaee, no happiness, where Leonie was not It would take him long years to learn to think less of his love. Six months had brought back health and strength to Leonie Rayner. She was still at Reims, with the General and Ethel. She had visited the friends of her fair young mother; she had done her best to forget all that was painful and to regain her lost health. Surrounded by friends, she was somewhat herself again; her face had lost its radiance, but over those most beautiful features there was an expression of perfect rest, and a faint color had returned to the lovely face, and the beautiful lips had reacquired their former smile. One morning Ethel, with a bundle of papers under her arm, entered the room where Leonie sat.

“I told you,” she said, “that you should hear what the world thought of you, Leonie. Read these.” Leonie opened one of the principal morning papers first. “I feel quite nervous,” she said. “It is a terrible thing, after all, to be in print." Ethel silently pointed out the following paragraph to her: “Romance in High Life.—Some time since we announced to our readers the succession of a young lady to the estates of Crown Leighton and the title of Countess Charnleigh. The particulars of that succession will be remembered as interesting and novel. Lady Charnleigh, by her brilliant beauty, her gracious manners, and queenly generosity, made herself one of the most popular of the fashionable world. She has recently met with a reverse of fortune quite as sudden as her unexpected elevation. It may ba remembered that she succeeded to the Crown Leighton’s estates as next of kin in consequence of the late earl’s having died, as it was supposed, without a will. Lady Charnleigh was the neaiest of kin, and as such took possession of the title and the estates. After enjoying them for two years, she accidentally discovered the will of the late earl, by which he left all that he had to Captain Paul Flemyng. The lady, with a noble sense of honor and loyalty —unfortunately but too rare—immediately placed the will in the hands of the true heir, and then retired from the brilliant scenes x>f which she had been so great an ornament. Miss Rayner may never again possess a patent of nobility such as the world confers, but she has one much higher, which no one can take from her—she is a noble, generous, loyal lady—a title which no earthly distinction can give. The new Lord Charnleigh has taken possession of Crown Leighton, and has also taken his seat in the House of Lords. ” “You wondered what the world said of you, Leonie. Now you know. Could any praise be higher than that?” “I did not deserve it,” sobbed the girl. “Let me tell you all the truth, Ethel.” But Miss Dacre kissed the sweet face, and refused to hear another word. “If there is any secret,” she said, “it rests between Paul and yourself. There is no need for you to tell it, as he has not done so.” For Paul had kept her secret most loyally. When she had left him with the will in his hands, he went at once to Mr. Clements, the lawyer, and told him that Lady Charnleigh had discovered it. He never uttered a word about the terrible temptation, the deadly crime, and the most sincere repentance. The story was never known. Every one believed that the will was given to him in the same hour that it was lound.

The paragraph above was copied into all the papers; many of them added remarks of their own, all being in praise of her who was no longer Lady Charnleigh. The scrap of news went, as many startling scraps do, the round of the world, and it was read by Sir Bertram Gordon in the Holy Land. He had gone thither, vowing that never while he lived would he return to England. He did not care how his life was spent—how it passed; he was utterly reckless and despairing. He went to the Holy Land. There, he thought to himself, it would not be likely that he should ever meet people who knew him. He had been there for some time, leading a most hopeless and miserable life, when, in one of a numerous batch of papers sent to him from England, he read this paragraph, telling of Leonie’s change of fortune; and in another he read that Miss Rayner was staying with General Sir Huntley Dacre and his daughter at Reims, in France. A third repeated some bn dit as to the probable marriage of the Earl of Charnleigh with the daughter of a Scotch peer. Then Sir Bertram Gordon, with a low cry, started to his feet. If it were true, the engagement with Leonie must have been broken, Perhaps she had repented of her cruelty to him; perhaps she wanted him back, and yet did not know to what address to write. He would not lose an hour in going to her—he would start at once. How he was tortured on that homeward journey none knew but himself. One minute all was hope, another all despair; one minute he was thinking that there must be some chance for him, and the next that he was on a wild-goose chase. People wondered what restless spirit posses ed this handsome nobleman, this man with the face and head of a Saxon king. He never appeared to rest; he seemed unable to eat or drink as ordinary beings did. The question ever on his lips, whether on steamboat, or rail, or road, was—- “ How long will it be before the journey is accomplished?” Pericds of hope came over him, when he would say to himsalf that she loved him, and that his dismissal was but a caprice; and thbn he would picture to himself a long happy life blessed with

Leonie's love. Again a period of despair would succeed, when he would feel sure that his errand must prove fruitless. Were such the result, he decided he would go and lose himself in the depths of an African desert. So time passed, until one day, in the early spring-time, he reached the picturesque old city of Reims, in the fair land of France. The sun was shining, the birds were beginning to sing, pale blossoms were peeping, summer buds growing green on the trees. Leonie Rayner, feeling strong'' and almost well, sat in the pretty salon of the little villa alone. Sir Huntley, who was a most devoted “squire of dames,” had sent a magnificent bouquet of pale hyacinths and violets, and many other fragrant flowers, that brought, such sweet, sad memories to her mind. As she sat there admiring them, Ethel entered the salon; her faoe wore an expression of sudden, startled joy. She went up to Leonie and took some of the flowers in her hand. “I ought to be jealous,” she said; “papa has sent me no bouquet.” “Perhaps he thought you did not deserve one,” remarked Leonie, with a little laugh. “Leonie,” said Ethel, suddenly bending over her, “could you bear a great joy?" “I might try,” replied the girl, with a sad smile; “I do not think life holds many more joys for me." e “Some one is here, and waiting to see you. * “Is it Lord Charnleigh?” asked Leonie, with a sudden shrinking of pain. “No, it is not Paul,” replied Ethel. “Guess again. It is someone you liked better than you have ever liked Paul.” The beautiful face grew white, the violet eyes opened wide—fear, hope, expectation, sorrow, all appeared in that wistful glance. “Is it—it it Bertram?” she whispered, and the faint whisper died on her lips. “Yes. it is Sir Bertram. Here he is to speak for himself;” and Ethel turned away, while Sir Bertram clasped her in his arms. “My darling,” he cried, “you will not send me from you again?” She tried to resist, to cry out to him that she was not worthy of his love; but he would not listen' to her. The might of his love swept away all obstacles, as the whirl of the stream sweeps away dead leaves. “You will not send me away again, Leonie, my love, my wife that must be. I have tried life without you, and I prefer death. ” It was useless to resist. If her pale lips opened to utter a word of remonstrance, he closed them with passionate kisses; if she tried to withdraw herself from those loving arms, he only repeated over and over again that he would not leave her, that he would not even release her, until she had promised to be his wife.

“You know you love me, Leonie; if you did not you would not let me kiss your face. You know you love me—why be so cruel, why try to deprive me of all hope and pleasure in life? Leonie, will you be my wife? You did not love Paul Flemyng—you loved me. Say one word and I will release you. ’’ He told her that he would not, could not release her, until she did so; and then he looked at her with such longing, loving eyes that her heart almost ached with the excess of her happiness, so she whispered the one word he wanted. “You are more lovely than ever, Leonie,” he said, “my pearl among women!” “Bertram,” she asked, gently, “how did you know that I was ” “That you were longer a countess, and were free for me to win?” he interrupted. “Bless all newspapers, Leonie—they told me all about it, and through them it is that I am here.” CHAPTER XL VII. “I will never speak falsely again—never while I live,” Leonie had declared; and now, as she stood in the pretty garden of the villa, the words returned to her with cruel force. Bertram had praised her so warmly, Bertram admired her so truly; he thought her so loyal, so honorable; he believed her to be almost perfect; he had no idea of her sin—not the faintest notion of the fraud, the deceit that she had practiced; he believed her fair and pure as a spotless lily. She knew herself to be fair only in the light of repentance. No one knew of her sin but Paul, and tortures would not drag the story of it from him. Was there any need to tell Sir Bertram? It would part them forever, she felt sure. She remembered what he had once said, that he could pardon anything but dishonor, but that never. The revelation of her sin would surely part them. He loved her, considering her loyal and true, but would he love her when he knew that in plain words she had been a thief? Why not marry him and say nothing to him about the past? He would never know; and he would believe in her until the last day of his life. Sconce more Leonie Rayner stood in the sunlight, and held as it'were the balance of her life in her hands; once more she was at war with herself. Why not be happy now that the choice had been given to her? Why not marry Sir, Bertram, and enjoy his love and homage. without telling him the story that Would make such love impossible? Then her own words returned to her with double force. “I will never speak falsely again, ” she had said—“never while I live. ” No—she never would. She raised her face to the smiling heavens, and the sunlight seemed to fall like a halo around her. “I will tell him the whole truth,” she said, “and leave the result in Heaven’s hands. There shall bo no more falseness, no more deceit, no more untruth for me. ” She sent for Sir Bertram there and then, lest her resolution should fail her. She did not hide a single detail of her many faults from him. He listened in speechless wonder. “You, Leonie—you did this?” was all he could say. “Yes, I did it, Bertram. The temptation was a great one, and I fell. I was so proud of my fortune, so proudfoolish child that I was-—of baing a countess. I fancied to be called ‘My lady,’ and to hold high rank,. the grandest things in the world. I was so blind, so foolish. I know you can never forgive me, dear —I do not expect it; but I said to myself that I would never be false again. I need not have told you. I might have married you, and have kept my secret; but I would not deceive you.” “You did this, Leonie?" he repeated. “It cannot be.” “On looking back, it seems to me, as it seems to you, impossible. But I did it, Bertram. You remember the night when I sought for the silver buckies? That was the night that I found the will. I have never had one happy moment since then. I thought that if I married Paul it would be the same as giving him the will; t..us I was false to you, for I loved you, and false to him, for I did not love him. But I will never be false again. I have told you all, Bertram. I know you cannot forgive me—l remember what you once said —that you could never pardon a woman who acted dishonorably. It will be ,ust that you should leave me now, knowing what I have done.”

He had listened to her in almost speechless wonder; he had felt Borrow almost beyond mortal sorrow; but, when he saw that fair head bent so humbly before him, the beautiful face wearing the simple, wistful look of a child, for all answer he opened his arms and took her to his breast. "My darling," he whispered, “nothing shall part us." “Not even my past dishonor. Bertram?" she whispered, clinging to him with happy tears. “My darling," he said; the very fact of your having made this confession to me proves you to be the nobleat of women. You need not have told me your faults, yet you have done so; and I say that you are now nobler in your repentance, in your voluntary humiliation, than are thousands of women who have never known temptation, and so have never fallen. If that is the only barrier between us, my darling, let it exist no longer. We need never mention the horrible past again—it is over and done with for ever and ever. Oh, my darling, do not look at me with those humbled, grateful eyes. It is I who pm unworthy of you, sweet; your truth and goodness are so far aoove mine.” “Then you quite forgive me, Bertram?” she whispered. “Yes, and I say this atonement has been more noble than the sin was dishonorable. Do not mention it again, sweet. I shall remember it only when I wish to realize how good and true women are by nature—so good that, if they yield to a terrible temptation, they rise again even more noble for the fall. Will you be my wife when the summer flowers are blooming, Leonie?” The sun was shining over them, the birds sang on the green boughs, and the breeze brought a fragrance of the pale spring flowers. A sunbeam, which Leonie thought was a smile from heaven, fell over them, and she looked in her lover’s face without a cloud on the brightness of her own. There were two “sensations” that year in the great world. One arose from the marriage of Sir Bertram Gordon and Miss Rayner, the other from the sudden wealth that unexpectedly became his portion. Large coal-beds were found on his estate in Scotland—beds that made him in the end a millionaire. Lady Fanshawe was made happy at last. She could not live away from Leonie, and Sir Bertram asked her to live with them at Glen Brae.

Five years after their marriage they were at the very climax of human prosperity. The immense wealth that came to Sir Bertram from the mines, added to the income of his estates, made him one of the wealthiest men in England. Lady Gordon once more reigns a queen of society. She is one of the most beautiful and popular women in London. The world Is at her teet again; but she is wiser than she was in the days when she considered riches the greatest good. She is honored among women for her truth, her generosity, her charity; and, if there is one quality in her more beautiful than another, ft is her pity and sympathy for the erring and unfortunate. How many she has reclaimed and kept from utter ruin—how many she has cheered, comforted and consoled —how many she has made better by her noble words, will never be known on earth. There are hundreds of men and women who, when they hear her name, say, “Heaven bless Lady Gordon.” At the Academy Exhibition a few years back tncre were three portraits that were very much admired. One was of a child—Rayner Gordon, the son and heir of Sir Bertram Gordon of Glen Brae Castle, a lovely child with a charming Saxon face. The second was of Paul, Lord Charnleigh, a very handsome man with a slight tinge of melancholy on his face; and the third of Ethel, Lady Charnleigh, whose noble features formed one of the great charms of the exhibition. From this it may be gathered that Paul recovered from his disappointment, and in the after years married the girl who had loved him and no other all her life. [TH« END. J