Democratic Sentinel, Volume 21, Number 7, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 February 1897 — LOVE AND MONEY [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

LOVE AND MONEY

BY CHARLOTTE M. BRAEME.

CHAPTER XXVIII. For a few moments the Captain maintained a sullen silence; then came his reply, in a hoarse, trembling voice: “I consent; I will go,” he replied. VThere is no one now in this infernal Vountry for whom I care. Gladys i» dead.” “Yon promise me that you will never pain my mother by your presence?” “I *ever wish to see her again,” he replied almost savagely. “She is nothing, never was anything, to me.” “The more false, cruel, and wicked you!” she cried. “You give me your promise that yon will not return to England?” she continued. “Why should I, when Gladys is dead?” he mqaned. “For my part I promise to keep your secrets—the blackest my heart will know; and I will see that you do not want for money. Your punishment I leave to heaven.” And without another word, she turned and left him.

For long hours afterward he sat on, stunned and bewildered. Desolate, shuddering, with the brand of Cain on his brow, he sat until the sun had set, and then he wended his weary way back to Ouldale. , Late that same evening, as Lady Culdale was going to her room, she met Captain Wynyard in the hall, looking so haggard and so ill that she cried out in genuine alarm. “Hqsh, Lady Culdale!” he said in a hoarse whisper. “I want you to grant me a favor. Take me to her room and let me stay with her awhile. I have something that I must say to her.” Lady Culdale felt alarmed at his strange words and his wild looks. “Will it not pain you too much? You are already very ill.” “No; I must see her. I have something I must tell her.” “He is going mad!” thought Lady Culdale. “Oh, how I wish that I had never asked him here!” Not the faintest suspicion crossed her mind that Captain Wynyard had had any share in the death of the woman whom he professed to admire so deeply. “I will go with you,” she said, gently; and she led the way to the room where all that was mortal of Gladys Rane had been placed. “Do not come in with me,” he said; “leave me awhile—alone with the dead;” and he closed the door. Lady Culdale, although frivolous, was a kind-hearted woman, and the terrible event that had happened under her roof had sobered and saddened her. She did not like to leave the unhappy man, for she did not consider him in a fit state of mind to be left alone; so she waited outside the door. Never while she lives will Lady Culdale forget the sounds that came from that death-chamber —the passionate torrent of words, the heart-broken weeping of a strong man in agony. She endured until she could endure no longer; then she opened the door and quietly went In.

He was kneeling, with bowed head, by the side of his beloved Gladys. What he said will never be told; but Lady Culdale, after a short space, took him gently by the hand and led him away. “Hush!” she said to him. That same night, late as it was, Captain Wynyard left the house, and they never saw him again. The usual formalities followed; an inquest was held at which the verdict was “Accidental death;” and then one of the most lovely and brilliant women of her day was laid to rest. Lady Kinloch felt the blow severely, for she had deeply loved the girl. Her indignation had been great on finding Captain Wynyard had been visiting at Culdale with her niece; but she said nothing. It was useless then, for Captain Wynyard had disappeared and Gladys Rane was dead.

CHAPTER XXIX.

Rood Abbey was looking its fairest when Angela reached home. She found her mother still weak and ill, but Intensely thankful to see her once more. She clung to her, weeping bitterly, and beseeching her never to go from her again. She was so gentle, so patient, so resigned, that Angela’s heart adhed to think how much she had suffered. “A thousand times welcome home, my darling!” said Lady Laura. “I do not know why you went, and I am satisfied that the reason should remain untold. It is all right now about the will—Mr. Sansome destroyed it,” ‘‘Thank heaven! But, mamma, you are looking very ill! Have you been ill since I went away? I have not been absent long, but it seems like years i” and she sighed as she remembered how much of horror and distress she had witnessed during that short time. They were walking together afterward, Lady Laura leaning upon her daughter’s arm as they wended their way among the fragrant garden-beds. ‘‘Mamma, darling,” said Angela, "I have much to tell you, if yon think you are strong enough to "bear it. What is the dearest wish you have now?” There was a sweet pathetic dignity in Lady Laura’s face as she turned to her daughter. “Heaven pardon me, my dear,” she replied slowly, “but my greatest desire now is to be left alone in peace with you. I am weary of the suffering that has been mine of late.” “Your wish is granted, mamma,” she said: “that is the one piece of good news I bring you. For the rest of your life you are free. Your daily martyrdom is ended. Captain Wynyard will never return to Rood.” Though jt tyas the very desire of her heart, the gentle woman trembled when she heard the words. “He will never return, mamma. You are free from him forever. He will leave England, apd we shall fie troubled by him no more." “Is it true, Angela," asked h>ady Laura —“really true?" *fYes, mamma, quit* true,” she answered. “Then I thank heaven! For, though I loved him with my whole heart, he never ioveg me; and he haa blighted all that

was brightest and best in my life. And now I shall be free. His pretense had grown into torture that was greater than I could bear.” Angela clasped her arms round her mother’s shrinking form. “Yon will be my care new, darling,” she said; “and you shall miss no lovo. Try to forget him, and let him pass out of your life without regret.” “I do not regret him," sighed gentle Lady Laura. “I shall be happy in the thought that my martyrdom is at an end." “I have something more to tell you,” continued Angela, “that will grieve you in spite of all that you have suffered. Poor Gladys Rane Is dead!” “Dead!” repeated Lady Laura, greatly shocked. “Gladys "Rane! Oh, Angela, how terrible.” Then Angela told her mother how the Captain had been visiting nt the same house with Miss Rane; but she did not betray his secrets, never hinting at the true cause of Miss Rune’s death. Lady Laura believed, as every one else did, that Gladys had accidentally fallen into the lake. That was a day of great excitement and agitation to Lady Laura; but in her gentle heart was nothing but regret for her dead rival.

* CHAPTER XXX. Two months passed before Angela wrote her note and sent it to the address given to her by Lord Aricigh. It ran: “I am staying at Eastbourne with my mother. We are at the Queen’s Hotel. When you come, ask for Miss Rooden.” He arrived without an hour’s delay, his heart on fire to urge his suit. “At last!” he said; “and how I have longed for the day! And, my darling, before I ask you to be my wife, let me repeat that your secret Is safe with me. My dearest wish is that you fehould be Lady Arlelgh. 1 promise you never to allude tothe subject of your visit to Brantome again.” “I wish,” she said, gently, “our friendship had not begun as it did.” “Forget that," he said, laughingly. “You had, I am sure, good reusou for all that you did. We will date our friendship from now, and the first proof I ask of you is that you will consent to be my wife.” “Ask me two months hence,” she replied. “That will simplify everything.” “Will your answer content me theu?” he asked. “I think it will," Angela replied. And he knew his point was gained. It was some surprise to Lord Arlelgh to' learn that the “young person, Mrs. Bowen’s guest,” whom he had learned to know and love as Miss Charles, was the renowned beauty and heiress, Angela Rooden. The course of true love ran smoothly in their case, and when, in November, the engagement was announced, everyone pronounced it to bo a most suitable one. Lady Laura was delighted; and when the Countess of Arlelgh came back from Italy with Lady Maud a happier family was nowhere to be found. Lady Arleigh could never understand why her son would engage nn entirely fresh staff of servants at Brantouie Hall. Mrs. Bowen retired with a pension, good situations being found for the rest. Angela understood her lover’s motive, and thanked him in her heart for his kindly consideration. They agreed that at present they would not go to Brnntome. “I love the Hall,” she remarked, "but I shall always dislike the lake;” and her lover considerately had it drained and filled up. Soft green turf now marks the spot where Gladys Rane met her death. Lord Arleigh himself was no* sorry to have all trace of the lake removed, for it was to him the reminder of a grave. After their marriage Lord and Lady Arleigh spent the greater part of the year at Rood Abbey, nnd with them the gentle lady whose heart had been well-nigh broken, but whose martyrdom had ceased. When Lady Arleigh’s little son and heir was born they went to Lady Laura and asked her what name he should bear. She thought of the true, noble love she had once known, and answered, “Charles.”

So upon the fair old Abbey, with its smiling park-laud, deep peace fell once more. Lady Laura Wynyard rapidly recovered health and strength, and, though she was never quite happy again, her life was at least free from the cruel pain that had blighted her second marriage. She could never rectify the great mistake of her life, but her martyrdom had ended. Leading a quiet and peaceful life, as time rolled on she forgot the handsome Captain and his cruelty, and thought more of Sir Charles and his Unvarying affection. The Captain was well provided for, A liberal Income was settled upon him, and he took up his abode at Monaco, where he led a life of reckless extravagance and dissipation. On the fourth anniversary of the death of Gladys Rane the Captain met his death by violence, being shot by a notorious French count in a quarrel over a gambling transaction. Lady Laura lived to a good old age, and, though her declining years wore made bright and happy by the love and affection of happy grandchildren, who never tired of Rood, time failed to blot from her memory the story of her martyrdom. (The end.)