Democratic Sentinel, Volume 20, Number 51, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 25 December 1896 — LOVE AND MONEY [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

LOVE AND MONEY

BY CHARLOTTE M. BRAEME.

CHAPTER Vll—(Continued.) Gladys Rane and Captain Wynyard were old friends, who had danced together a hundred times before, and would in all probability dance together a hundred times again; there was nothing surprising in it. But any one who saw Lady Laura Wynyard when her eyes first fell on the pair would have thought that something terrible had occurred. Her face grew perfectly white, the color died even from her lips, and her eyes gleamed even with a strange light. She stood watching them in silence for a,few seconds, and then passed on. There was nothing unusual in their manner; but it seemed to her as though she had received some deadly wound. Then she tried to laugh herself out of her unpleasant thoughts. There was nothing in it; her husband was merely dancing with an old friend. Yet at that moment Lady Laura’s martyrdom began. The ball was a most brilliant one. Angela seemed to enjoy it thoroughly, and she and her mother were surrounded with admirers. Lady Laura looked radiantly beautiful; but, though she laughed and chatted gayly, her blue eyes were restless and wandered continually in search of her husband. She did not quite recover her color, and there was something in her smile that to a close observer would have suggested tears. And for what? When she asked herself that question she was ashamed. A time came when she found herself near Angela, and she hastened to her daughter. “Angel,” she asked, “where is the Captain? I cannot see him. Is he in the ballroom ?” Angela'looked round with inocent, unconscious eyes. “I do not see him, mamma. Ah, yes, there he is—near the conservatory door with Miss Rane.” “I do not wish to stay here any longer,” said Lady Laura. “Do you not think it is time we left? We shall be late for Pemburn House.” As plainly as if her mother had spoken them, Angela read her thoughts, read her jealousy and fear. “I am quite willing to go home,” she replied. “Tell the Captain I want to speak to him, will you, Angela?” Much against her will, the young girl crossed the room to him. He was so deeply engrossed in conversation that at first he did not notice her; but Gladys ■atv her and welcomed her “Mamma wishes to speak to you, Captain Wynyard,” said Angela, with her usual cold formality. “I am engaged,” he replied, brusquely. Half an hour afterward he made his t way to his wife’s side. “We had better go,” she said; “we shall be late for Pemburn House.” But he did not care to leave Gladys Rane. “I find it so pleasant here,” he said, turning away, “that, with your permission, I shall stay an hour longer.” 1 CHAPTER VIII. ’ It was not without many a hard struggle that Gladys Rane had compromised with her conscience, and accepted, under the name of friendship, what she well (new to be love. So a few ran pleasantly on. The Captain was <Sreful to do nothing that could arouse his wife’s suspicion. He was kind to her in a careless fashion, and she had not the faintest idea that his whole heart was consumed with loye for another woman. He was absent from home a great deal, but then he had so many engagements. One evening, when he had been dancing with Gladys at the house of a friend, and had taken her afterward into the conservatory, she said to him: “Do you know, Vance, we have not had a ride together for a long time? and, of all things, I enjoyed most a ride with you. I suppose you are always on duty with her ladyship?” “I will ride with you to-morrow, if you wish it,” he answered, eagerly. “It will be a greater pleasure to me than it can be to you." “I should like it,” she said. “But what will Lady Laura say?” she asked. “Just what she likes. But there Will be no need to tell her. We will not wait for the fashionable hour; let us go in the early morning. Yon can manage that Gladys?” “I will manage it, whatever the cost,”, the replied, and she did. They had a long ride together, and both enpoyed it all the more because it was a stolen pleasure. But, husband looking somewhat tired that evening, Lady Laura said to him suddenly: “Have you been riding to-day, Vance?” , And he answered quickly, “No.” Later that same evening the Captain and his wife attended an “at home” given by one of the leaders of fashion, the Duchess of Everton. Among the guests was an old friend of Lady Laura’s, a Mrs. Gilder Langton, a pretty, fashionable woman, who came to her now with a smiling face. “I have just heard some one say that your ladyship has one of the handsomest husbands in London,” she said, “and I am half inclined to believe it is true. I suppose he takes those early rides to preserve his health and beauty?” “Early rides!” echoed Lady Laura. “I do not see how you can call them early. He rides with the rest of the world.” “It was not noon when I saw him with Miss Rane in the park this morning.” Lady Laura remembered suddenly what her husband had said. “You are mistaken,” she replied; “my husband has not been riding to-day; he told me so.” Mrs. Gilder Langton had not the faintest intention of making mischief, but she did not like to be contradicted, and she knew that she had seen the handsome Captain. “I assure you that he did ride, and with Miss Rane, too. I saw them both.” “You must have been mistaken; it was feat Captain Wynyard,” said her lady-

ship; and then some friends joined them and the subject dropped. Lady Laura, however, did not forget it. When they were in the drawing-room at home—the Captain recruiting exhausted nature with is favorite remedy, brandy and seltzer, Lady Laura looking beautiful and stately in her rich velvet and diamonds —she said to him: “Vance, did you ride this morning?” Again he answered, “No.” “I knew you did not!” she cried. “Mrs. Gilder Langton told me she met you and Miss Rane.” Lady Laura could not help seeing how hotly his face flushed, and how fierce was the gleam that came into his eyes. If he had laughed good-naturedly, she would have forgotten all about the incident, but his anger made her suspicious, and she resolved to find out the truth for herself. After a few words with Mrs. Gilder Langton, she knew that her husband had been out riding with Gladys Rane, and had kept the matter secret from her. It was the secrecy that distressed her. Why had her busband sought to keep the truth from her? From that hour her suspicions and her jealousy were awakened, and she did what she had not done before —she watched her husband and Gladys Rane —watched them, and, in so doing, almost broke her heart. She told herself that she had been blind and credulous —that she had been asleep; for who that saw them together could doubt that her husband loved Gladys Rane? She noticed how frequently he danced with her, how often, when the dances were ended, he disappeared with her into conservatories or shaded retreats. She saw the delight In his face when he met her. Slowly she realized the fact, and she remembered, with something like terror, Angela's words, “He will marry you for your money, but he loves Gladys Rane.” A horrible fear took possession of her. Suppose that those words were true—that he did love another? The very thought made her heart sink within her. He was the idol of her life; all the brightness and warmth of her existence came from him; and if he cared for some one else, there was an end to her happiness. She could never live and know that his love was given to another.

CHAPTER IX. Lady Laura Wynyard was suffering from nervous headache. She had tried many remedies, but had found no relief. Yielding to her mother’s entreaties, Angela had joined a party of young people intent upbn going to see the picturesque ruins of Bramber Castle and driving home by moonlight. The Captain and his wife had also been invited; but the latter was not well enough to go out, and the gallant Captain found a greater attraction nearer home. He had left the hotel soon after luncheon, saying that he should be home in time for dinner. Lady Laura had been alone during the afternoon and evening, and it was in consequence of her terrible weeping that the nervous headache came on. Doris Newsham, one of the most faithful maids, was in despair, for her mistress’ headache would not yield to any of her usual remedies. “I know what would do you good, my lady,” she said; “but perhaps you would not like to try it” “I would do anything to get rid of this trying pain,” returned her ladyship. “What is it, Newsham?” “Why, my lady, if you would go and stand at the pier-head, and let the seabreeze blow round you, I am sure it would do you good.” “The remedy is simple enough; I will try It, Newsham,” said her ladyship. “Shall I go with you, my lady?” asked the maid. “No; I prefer to be alone. Give me a cloak and veil; I do not care to be recognized, few I could not talk to any one." Lady .Laura walked to the head of the pier. Xhe sea was rough; the waves seemed to tumble over each other in their haste; the breeze was full of a refreshing, briny ordor. Gradually it cooled the burning temples, it eased the weary, heavy eyes. It was like a breath of relief. The evening shadows were falling thick and fast over land and sea as Lady Laura stood looking at the white cliffs beyond which lay Rottingdean and Newhaven, the lights that shone on the vessels out at sea. In the presence of the grandeur of nature’s work, she forgot herself and her troubles.

Suddenly she became aware of two figures sitting not far away from her, on one of the side seats looking toward the sea —a man and a woman—and the man was leaning, with an air of loving tenderness, toward his companion. In a moment she recognized the outline of her husband’s broad shoulders. She could not see his face; but she was none the less sure that it Was he, and that the woman who was with him was Gladys Rane. Drawing her veil more closely round her face, Lady Laura stood still and watched' them. They were talking earnestly, but she could not distinguish what they said. Once she saw her husband clasp Gladys* hand; but the hand was quickly withdrawn. She watched them like one spell-bound. This was her own husband; this man who had stolen out in the shadows of evening to meet another woman—her own husband; and, though he cared so little for her, she loved him with all the devotion of a true and loyal wife. Should she go to him and demand an explanation of his conduct?' No; for he might say that she had followed him; he might humiliate her before her rival; he might say that he had met Miss Rane accidentally, and that they were enjoying the beauty of the soft gray evening together. No; it would be useless to confront him. He would only laugh her to scorn, and her rival would triumph. She sat down on one of the seats at the end of the pier, her brain on fire, her heart beating wildly. She longed with an inexpressible longing that the calm and repose of death would come to her rescue. Life held nothing for her but utter misery unrelieved by a gleam of happiness. Even should her husband repent of his unkindness and love her with his whole heart, it would never blot out from her memory this terrible ordeal. If death would but come to her and release her from the pain and the fever of life! Rising from her seat, she made her way through the crowd and returned to the hotel. She went softly up the great staircase, and met Newsham at the door

of her room. The maid uttered an exclamation of alarm at the sight of her mistress’ colorless face. “Why, my lady,” she exclaimed, “yon look worse!” “I am woree, Newsham,” returned her ladyship, “I will not go down again tonight.” Before she had opened the door of her room, Lady Laura heard light and rapid footsteps, and the Captain, looking the beau-ideal of manly beanty in his evening dress, stood before her. “Not coming down to dinner, Laura?" he cried. “How is that?” “I am tired,” she answered, coldly. “Tired! You puzzle me. The quieter you are, and the less you go out, the more you complain of fatigue.” “You ask me why I am tired,” she replied; “I will tell you. I had a bad headache, and I went for a walk to the end of the new pier. You will understand.” And the expression of the Captain’s face was a study as the full meaning of her words dawned upon him.

"Miss Rooden wants to see me?” said <3aptain Wynyard doubtfully, as Angela’s maid delivered her message the next morning. “Are you quite sure that there is no mistake?” 1 “Quite sure, sir,” replied Jane. “Miss Rooden told me to see you before you ■went out, and ask if she cotfid see you." A few minutes later Angela, in all the grace of her girlish beauty, entered the room. The Captain was a stranger to fear, but he winced before the reproachful eyes of this young girl. “You want to see me, Angela?” he said, somewhat nervously. “Yes,” she replied, gravely. “I will not detain you long. Captain Wynyard,” she began, in a clear, low Voice, “you are my mother’s husband, and I do not wish to say anything that is disrespectful, but I cannot endure to see my mother suffer as she does without doing something to help her. > “My dear Angela,” he said, with just a trace of annoyance in his manner, “your Interest in me is most charming. I am grateful to you. But. do you not think it would be better that these little matters should be discussed between your mother and myself?” “No, I do not,” she replied; and her courage in speaking compelled him to listen. “My mother is not strong, and she is so sensitive that what would not affect another woman is keen pain to her. Do you know,” she continued, indignantly, “that’my mother is so changed, so ill, so miserable, that her very life is in danger?” Could she be mistaken? Was it a flash of light that she saw in hjs eyes, an expression of relief that she noted in his face, a something that came quickly and went quickly, and was rather gladness than pain? A pang went to her heart as she noticed it. “You know,” continued Angela, “why It is unpleasant for my mother to remain in Brighton; and I wish to say that I have persuaded her to return with me to Rood.” “Just as you will,” he said, carelessly. “There,” remarked Angela, “my mother will not be made miserable. She will not have obtruded on her notice every hour of the day that which makes her most unhappy. I shall take her away.” It was well for her that she could not Bee the look of hatred which followed her.’ 3 It was well that she could not read the evil thoughts of the man who had so completely ruined her mother’s life. Captain Wynyard tried to laugh at what had passed—to sneer at it; but the grave, noble face of the young girl rose before him; the pure, reproachful eyes would not leave him. Shortly afterward he went to his wife’s room, and said, loud enough for the maids to hear: “So, Laura, Angela has persuaded you to return to Rood. lam sorry that Brighton does not suit you.” Lady Laura made no answer; nor were the maids deceived by the regretful words of the Captain. “I am sorry that I cannot run down with you myself,” he continued; “but your decision has been so sudden, and I have so many engagements, I cannot leave just at present.” Still no remark fell from his wife. Her thoughts had flown back to the pier and the u two figures she had seen passing to and fro in the dusk of the evening. “Good-by, Laura,” he said, drawing nearer to her. “Good-by,” she returned, coldly. “Have you anything to say to supplement your daughter’s most dutiful -address to me?” he asked. “I have nothing to say,” she replied. He was surprised at the change which had come over his wife, and half sighed as he left the room. At noon Lady Laura Wynyard and Angela left the Grand Hotel for Rood, and the Captain was left to his own devices. He‘did not feel quite so happy as he had expected, notwithstanding the greater freedom he now enjoyed. Every one seemed to think his wife’s sudden departure rather strange, and people looked curiously at him when he spoke of Brighton not suiting her. “It is Angela’s fault,” the Captain said to himself. “Laura would not have gone but for her; she would never have had the courage to concoct such a scheme.” And he hated his wife’s fair young daughter with a hate that was to lead him—whither?

CHAPTER XI. Captain Wynyard did not find it all sunshine at Brighton. Lady Kinloch, roused t® indignation by the fact that he had allowed the ladies of his family to travel without an escort to Rood, while he remained idly at the seaside, gave orders to her servant to say that she was not at home when he called; and from that time she kept a closer watch on Gladys. So one fine morning at the end of October the gates of Rood opened to admit the man who was now practically its master. “I did not write or telegraph to you that I was coming,” he said to his pale, startled wife; “I thought my arrival would he a. pleasant surprise for you.” “It is indeed a surprise,” she responded, coldly; but she did not add that it was * pleasant one. To Angela the Captain’s return meant every kind of annoyance. He had been passively indifferent to her before, now he was actively antagonistic. He lost no opportunity of annoying and irritating her, and his favorite method of attack was to speak lightly or sneeringly of the father she had loved so devotedly. He never lost an opportunity of wounding the heart ofithe girl whose chief fault in his eyes was the great love she bore her mother. “You call this place an abbey, Laura,” said the Captain, laughingly, one morning. “It is really a hermitage. Pray let us have some visitors down.” “You can invite whom you will,” returned Lady Laura. “I wish to heaven I could!” he cried, impetuously; and she knew weH of whom he was thinking. “Give me carte blanche, Laura,” he went on, “and you shall have

the gayest party ever gathered within these walla” Her mind went back for a minuts to the noble men and fair women who had lived under the roof of Rood, and the smile that curved her lips was one of unutterable contempt. The Captain, in nowise daunted by this, became only more eager in respect of his plan. They jrere a happy and noisy party; music, laughter and singing hardly ceas-. ed resounding within the old walls. The guests seemed scarcely ever to be at rest. Every hour of the day brought some new amusement, some new occupation, and the Captain thoroughly enjoyed bustle and movement. Lady Laura, howeveh, felt that she should be thankful when it was over and quiet once more secured. So the rest of October passed. The Captain contrived always to have the Abbey full of visitors; but he ,did not again propose to invite Lady Kinloch and Gladys Rane. The state of affairs at Rood Abbey.did not quite escape the notice of the guests assembled there. It was a matter of comment that the handsome Captain, so chivalrous, so devoted .to other women, was most neglectful of his wife. One morning the Captain and Sir Hal Marham stood on the terrace, smoking and talking after their usual fashion. “What a grand old place this is,” observed‘Sir Hal. “What a fine thing for you to step into it! You were close to the water's edge at the time, were you not?” “Yes; I could not have held my ground another month,” replied the Captain. “What would you have done if she refused you?” asked Sir Hal. “I knew that she would not refuse me,” said his friend. “I was pretty sure of success.” z “But .what,” persisted Sir Hal, “should you have done if she had said ‘No.’ ” “I must have left the country,” the Captain replied. “Then at least you owe her some gratitude,” said Sir Hal. “I suppose so,” responded his companion, carelessly. Then, after a few seconds, Sir Hal asked, abruptly: “What became of that beautiful girl we met in London—Miss Rane?” The Captain's dark face flushed. “She is in Paris again, with Lady Kinlock,” he replied. “You were very fond of her, Vance?” said his friend. “She was the one love of my life!” “That is hardly fair to the woman you have married.” “It makes but little difference,” was the Captain’s comment. “You have certainly been a most fortunate man,” remarked Sir Hal. “I should consider that I was If the estate were wholly mine and without incumbrance," said the Captain. “I have heard people speak of the late Sir Charles Rooden’s will,” continued Sir Hal. “Rather an extraordinary one, was it not?” “A very foolish one, some people think," replied the Captain. “He left the whole of his estate and fortune, without any restriction, to his widow, and after her decease it was to go to her daughter." “Then, if Lady Laura died, you would be a poor man again, Vance?” “I should indeed, unless ” But he did not finish the sentence. . “Unless what?” asked Sir Hal. “Unless her daughter died also,” replied the Captain. “And what then?” asked his friend. “Why, then—but remember, Hal, it is a most unlikely thing to happen—the whole of the property would come to me!” ' Sir Hal gave a prolonged whistle, while the Captain looked at him with serene unconsciousness. “Only those two lives between you and a vast fortune?” he said, musingly. “That is all,” responded the Captain; “but those two lives are good ones.” “I do not know,” said Sir Hal, gravely. “Angela seems strong, certainly; but Lady Laura looks very delicate. Ido not think hers will be a long life.” Then, as if suddenly making a discovery, Sir Hal added: “But, Vance, if anything happened to your wife, you would be worse off than you were.before your marriage. You would be a dependent on Angela’s bounty.” “That I should never be,” said the Captain. , “Vance,” observed his friend, “you must change your tactics. This will never do. You must turn over another leaf; you must take more care of Lady Laura. What a misfortune it would be for you if she were to die! Suppose she fell ill to-morrow and died in a few days, where would you be?” The Captain looked up with a startled face. The prospect of such a sudden change in his circumstances had never occurred to him. “You are altogether on the wrong road,” continued his friend. “Instead of making your wife miserable, as I see you do, instead of.crushing her gnd making her heart ache,, you should be all that if kind and loving. Make ber happy, if you would prolong her life and enjoy the benefit of her wealth.” “There is reason in what you say, Hal,” agreed the Captain, “but there are limits to human patience.” “Never mind human' patience,” rejoined Sir Hal. “Patience has nothing to do with it. Think of what you have at stake. If your wife dies you will be left a comparatively poor man—and, to my thinking, she looks more likely to die than to live. Think of what you are doing before it is too late.” And those very unpleasant words sounded in the Captain’s ears all day.

CHAPTER XII. “If your wife dies you will be left a comparatively poor man.” No matter what other sounds came to the Captain’s ears, those words were paramount. A poor man! He had run through two fortunes, he had no expectations of money from other source, and his tastes were more luxurious and extravagant than ever. He could not live on a small income; and he felt that he deserved blame for not having been kinder to his wife and more careful of her. It was a grave mistake on his part, he admitted to himself. But his thoughts wandered to other contingencies. If Angela died, and his fragile, delicate wife followed her, then the

position of affairs would be quite differ* ent. He would be free, and the property would be his. Free! At the very word his heart beat with a quickened pulsation. He knew what he should do with his freedom. He should go straight to Gladys Rane and ask her to be his wife. He closed his eyes as tbcyjgh the better to realise the possibility of such a thing. Master of a splendid estate, and free to marry Gladys! As the days passed, as they grew darker and colder, so his demeanor seemed to change with them. He grew grave, stern and cold, the bantering words, the light jests, the brilliant smiles, the cheerful, genial manner all vanished. The master of Rood Abbey went about with a. gloomy face, absorbed in thought, for the shadow of a great crime was over him. One morning, when Captain Wynyard came down to breakfast, he found his newspaper lying untouched on the table. He unfolded it, and almost the first thing he mw was a paragraph headed, “Fatal! Accident at Newton Mere.” It related, how a young lady, out skating with some friends at Newton Mere, had met with a sad end. She had been told which part' of the mere was safe, and where it would 1 be dangerous for her to go. She had evi-j dently mistaken the directions, for she went to that part of the mere where the alder trees bent over the ice, against which she had been especially warned. Either she had mistaken the locality or the directions, for she tried to cross the mere, and so to get to the alder trees. The thin ice at once gave way, and, before the unfortunate young lady could be rescued, she was dead. Some impulse made the Captain fold up the paper and take it to his study, lest any one else should read' the account, and it should become the subject of comment.' He read it over and over again with everincreasing'interest. Then, when he had read and re-read until he knew the whole paragraph by heart, he destroyed the newspaper, lest any part of the story should be seen. The visitors at the Abbey wondered on that day what had become of the Cap-'! tain. Instead of going out in the morning, as usual, to skate, he remained in his study. The next morning he seemed* more like himself. It was not often that he addressed Angela voluntarily, but he did so during breakfast. “You like skating, Angela?” he saidj interrogatively. “Yes; it is my favorite amusement in winter. I enjoy it even more than dancing. t I like the sensation of seeming to fly through the frosty air.” “There will not be many of us this afternoon," he said; “the Delaneys cannot come. We shall hardly number enough to have a quadrille on the ice.” “I do not care for quadrilles,” she said.| “I like a long, straight sheet of ice and a swift run." “Then you shall go to Hetfield Pool,” he decided. “There is a straight run of quite a half mile, and it is completely frozen.” * “Is it safe?” asked Lady Laura, lovingly regarding the sweet face of her daughter. “Safer than our lakes and ponds are, and of greater extent,” he replied. “The ice is quite thick. We will go there today.” But, when the time for starting came, there were but four in the party—the Captain and,Miss Rooden, with young Squire Ardenand Lady Bell Norton, who< were staying at the house. “We are going to Hetfield Pool to-day,” said the Captain. “We will drive there, then we shall have more time on the ice.” (To be continued.)