Democratic Sentinel, Volume 20, Number 5, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 February 1896 — Love That Was False [ARTICLE]

Love That Was False

Helen Marsden’s new life rose phoe-nix-like out of the ashes of the old. Turning out of one of the broadest and most fashionable avenues of C- . well down in the older part of the city, where the substantial houses and spacious grounds tell of a respectability which is of more than a nay's growth, you will find yourself in a quiet little street, if we dignify the place with the name of street, only two blocks in length, and coming to an abrupt termination against a garden wall. A strip of sod borders the narrow walks, old elm-trees stand sentinel at either side of the way, aud the pretty cottage houses are set back in the midst of shrubbery. In one of the prettiest of these cottages Helen Marsden was horn, and lived happily enough for the 19 years of her life. Her greatest joy and her greatest sorrow found her within its walls. In many a pleasant summer evening, she and Charles Belsham paced the gravel walks in the moonlight, or lingered by the little fountain that played in the middle of the grass-plot, or at the gate, while the elm-tree shadows fell over them and around them, and flickered on the pavement at their feet, and earth seemed fair enough for heaven. That was her greatest joy. The story of her sorrow will take me longer in telling. Marsden was a rich and influential man, but he was not a happy one. His business was old aud well established; his name stood high on ■‘change;” and and his house on the broad avenue, not far from the cottage in which nis■ niece and sister-in-law lived so pleas-; antly, was one of the largest and finest, but it was cold and empty, and there were no children to inherit .John Marsden’s name and wealth. Helen ‘ Marsden was her uncle’s only heir. This was why, although her father had died poor, she and her mother were dwelling in comfort and case; this was why she was well dressed and well instructed, and lived in every way as only a rich man’s daughter has a right to live; this, too, was why Charles Bel- j sham paced the garden walks with her ’ in the moonlight, but how was she to I know that? Charles Belsham was an inmate of ' her uncle's house, and a nephew of her ! uncle’s wife. Mrs. John Marsden was 1 a cold, hard.fashionable woman. T here | was one person in the world whom site : loved, and tliat was her nephew.C-harles I Belsham. There was one person in i the world whom she hated, and that was her husband s niece, Helen Marsden. If John Marsden died intestate, the law gave his immense wealth to his widow, but John Marsden's will was in favor of his niece, and although Mrs. Marsden was well provided for during her life, everything reverted to Helen. Mrs. John Marsden first discovered this will in the private draw of her husband’s secretary, she was inwardly raging, but outwardly as calm and cold as ever; and when she had tnaSe her plans, she gave her nephew her orders. Then had commenced those visits to the little cottage, those pacings in the moonlight, which were Helen Marsden’S greatest joy. John Marsden's home need not have been silent and empty, for he would long since have brought Helen aud her mother to enliven its solemn grandeur, If Mrs. Marsden would have consented. But Mrs. Marsden would not consent; not that she was jealous of quiet Rose Marsden—she could but respect and confide in a character so opposed to her own—but that she was jealous of hethusband’s love for Rose Marsden's child. So Helen and her mother continued to occupy the little cottage; and night after night, when Mrs. John Marsden had rolled away in her carriage to the opera or theater, or party, with Charles Belsham for an escort, John Marsden, growing tired of loneliness, would betake himself to its quiet hearth-stone, and there find his only realization of domestic comfort. But latterly there had crept a new pain into his life—an ever-increasing fear that this “ark of refuge” would be swept away; for gentle Rose was drawing visibly toward the end which cometh to all.

It was a dreary night in November; the rain was falling steadily; the wet, dead leaves that strewed tne sidewalks glittered in the lamplight, and not a footstep broke the stillness; but in tbp cottage there was unusual stir. Mrs. Marsden was suddenly worse, and Helen was hanging over her in an agony of fear and hope. Before morning she was a double orphan. Bose Marsden was dead, and John Marsden was not there to comfort the daughter she had loved so weii.Wnen they had come to his room in the morning to tell him ojf his great loss, they found that it was rather a gain. Somewhere in the measureless realm two souls had met. The servant who went to summon John Marsden to the cottage came back with a white face, and there were hushed comments and whispered consultations as to who should tell the quiet girl up-stairs. Helen seemed to be living in a dream, a trance, out of which she would wake to find all the sorrow and pain which were so new to her gone out of her life. When she was at last told she did not even seem surprised. It was when the funerals were over, and she came back to sit alone in the •ilent house, and wait for Charles Bel•ham, who would be *vith her in the evening, that her thoughts turned to the future, and she caught eagerly hold of the one comfort that was hers !a the midst of her deep affliction, Bel-

■ham's love. Whatever storms might bear upon their heads, whatever sorrows might come into their lives, they two together would meet them. Boor, foolish girt, she waited expectantly, anxiously. It was twelve o'clock and Charles Belsham had not come. She was tilled with a vague prescience of calamity. What was it? At last it. was morning. The fire wis i dead; the servants were stirring. She I rose chilled and miserable, and went. up to her own room. There could be ■ nothing serious the matter, and soon > her lover must come to explain away i the trifle. But as tin* morning wore away, aud lie did not come, the doubt and uneasiness returned, and for the first time ! there crept into her heart a feeling of i condemnation for the man she had ! thought could do no wrong. It was near noon when the servant j announced a gentleman.

"Who is it, Jane?” "I don’t know, Miss. He is an old i gentleman.” When she entered the parlor, she ! recognized in the person who rose to . n eet her her uncle’s lawyer, j "Mr. Haverly," she said, “it is kind | ; of you to remember me.” "My dear Miss Marsden, I came upon I business, and I would rather this moment be almost anywhere else. I have bad news for you—” She sat looking at him, unable to articulate. "Very bad news; but you must try to ! bear it bravely. Your uncle's will cannot be found—l mean, your uncle left no will.” She breathed more freely; her ...st thought had been of Belsham. “I do not quite understand,” she said. He saw that she did not understand. “My dear, if we do not find a will ■ you will get nothing at all.” She sat silent for a long time, and when at last she spoke she showed that she comprehended the whole matter. “Did my uncle know?" "Certainly, certainly. It is an almost unpardonable piece of careless-

ness.” "My uncle was not a careless man.” "That is what puzzles me.” "Mr. Haverly, if my uncle knew what the law was, there is a will somewhere.” Mr. Haverly only shook his head. “We must be careful what we say,” he said. "Did you say anything to my aunt?” "Yes. and I found at once that she i would hear nothing concerning your i claim. I may as we.* 101 l you at once that you have nothing to expect from her generosity. If you want any help or advice, I will be glad to do all that I can for you.” She thought he had gone, but he was back. "Miss Marsden, you will not be offended—but, do you need any money—immediately I mean?” The tears came into her eyes. “No.” she said. “But I thank you, thank you!" Belsham had known this, and he had not come to her. It was all plain enough now. No mother, no uncle, no fortune, no lover! If she had not been a brave, strong nature, she would have been utterly crushed; but pride and indignation came to her support. She engaged board in a distant part of the city, with the privilage of furnishing her room, and removed to it her own room furniture, adding her mother’s work-tnble and many little articles of ornament; but there was not room for half the things she would have taken, for every article in the old house had its associations, and to qart with any of them was like leaving old friends. Nevertheless the red flag had been hung out, and they were gone. All debts were paid, the servants were satisfied and discharged, and mere were a few hundred dollars left, with which to begin the new life she proposed. Helen Marsden was a successful woiiian. After ten years, she was for the first time going back to her uncle’s house. Mrs. Marsden was ill, and had sent for her. She did not hesitate a moment; all feeling of animosity had long since died out. As she ascended the well-known stairs and entered the library, she looked curiously around to note me changes, and was shocked by the dilapidated aspect of the place. There was but one change to note—that of time; the carpets, the curtains, the furniture were the same, stive that they had grown old and faded and shabby. “How long has Mrs. Marsden been ill?” she asked of the servant. “Its years since she has been downstairs, Ma'am; but it’s not very long since she took to her bed.” If there had been any enmity yet lingering in Helen’s heart, it surely would have received its death blow at sight of the ghastly face that peered at her from the midst of toe pillows of Mrs. Marsden’s bed. Mrs. Marsden’s voice was much stronger than one would have expected from such a frail body. “Is that Helen Marsden?” she asked. “Yes, Aunt, it is I.” Mrs. Marsden moved uneasily. “Give me a drink,” she said to the nurse; but even while she drank, she continued to gaze over the rim of her cup. "How I hate you!” she exclaimed; then suddenly to the nurse again, “Well, what are you staying for?” Helen began to fear that she was in delirium. “You sent for me, Aunt. Did you want me? Can Ido anything for you?” “I hate you. 1 cannot rest for dreaming of you. Why do you torment me? 1 never did you any harm.” “I never accused you of doing me harm.” “But I did. Yes, and I would do it over again.” “Mrs. Marsden, it seems to me it is time for you to put all hatred out of your heart.” I A look of terror came into those immovable eyes. “Did, you come here to tell me I am going to die?” “No.” “But lam going to die; I know it. 1 am afraid to go ■without telling you. I will tell you, and hope it will as great a curse to you as it has been to me.” “Aunt, Aunt. Do* you Mean my uncle’s money?” “Yes. He gave it to you.” “He gave it to me?” “In his will. I hid it!” “The will?". “I hid the will. I wanted Charles to

! have it At first the only way seemed I for him to marry you; but he did not I love you, and did not want to marry I you; and when John Marsden —ed I ' knew where thewill was. and I took it. I was afaid Charles would hunt you up, I and I made him go to Europe. I thought he would come back soon aud stay with me, but he has never come j back. They say that he is dreadfully i dissipated, and I know that he is dread- , fully extravagant. I have sent him ' money, and money, and money. He i never writes but when he wants money, I and he cares nothing at all about me. He thinks he will have it all after I am gone, but he is mistaken. Here, ' take it,” and she threw a paper at Helen's feet. Helen glanced around the cheerless room, and thought of the pitiable condition of the woman before her. “I wish you would let me stay and take care of you,” she said. “No.” “Shall I come again to see vou?” “No.”

So Helen left her. She did not. however, stay away from the house, hat ■ came daily to inquire about the sick I woman. A month passed and the in- ; valid grew steadily weaker. One morning Helen came as usual. “How is she to-day?” she asked. “Oil, she’s most Hadn’t you better go up? she Won’t know you.” Once more Helen stood within the forbidden chamber; the difficult breathing of the dying woman fell upon her ear. Louder and louder, and more difficult grew the labored breathing. At times it ceased entirely, aud again it went on and on: but ever the pause's grew longer, and the time between them grew shorter, till at last that long pause came—eternity. Helen and Charles Belsham were together in the library of the old house, and Belsham was pleading for the love he had lost so long ago. “If you knew how I have suffered, you could forgive,” he said. “I was weak ami easily led, but I have paid the penalty. I have never ceased to regret you for one moment." “You were right.” said Helen: “you were in no way fitted to work for us and your aunt would, as you say, have disinherited you if you had insisted on marrying me then. But you must not hurry me; I must have time. If you will come to-morrow, i ..<mk I will grant you all that you want.” "My darling!" He would have taken her to his arms, but she stopped him. “Not to-day,” she said, "wait.” When he came next day the servant handed him a document, upon the inner wrapping of which was written: "All that Charles Belsham wants." It was the will of John Marsden. The signature had been torn out and destroyed. Helen went back to the new life and not a memory of him remained with her.