Democratic Sentinel, Volume 21, Number 30, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 July 1897 — AT LOVE'S COMMAND [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

AT LOVE'S COMMAND

BY CHARLOTTE M. BRAEME.

CHAPTER IV. It was a brilliant morning. A rich amber light lay on the loeh, a soft, golden haze had overspread the hills; the long line of distant sea shone white in the sun; the bess were humming over the purple heather and the golden gorse; the lovely water lilies glistened white in the sun; all the ambient air was filled with perfume, the first soft freshness of morning smiled over the land. A little boat was fastened to the trunk of a tree that grew close to the water’s edge. In the fragrant silence of the summer morning there came a faint sound of melody. It was a woman’s voice, clear, full of music, with an undertone of passion, as though an imprisoned soul found its vent in song. From the dark glade between the hills the voice came sweet and thrilling. The singer emerged from the darkness of the mountain gorge into the full light of the sun. She looked like the queen of mountain and lake. It was “Prince Charlie’s” daughter—the child who had been named after the Beatrix Lennox who had won a king’s heart —Beatrix lAmnox, a child no longer, but a girl in the full superb promise of magnificent womanhood—a girl of rare and dazzling loveliness. The girl walked to the boat, and, unfastening it, jumped into it, then taking the sculls in her hands, she rowed rapidly across the blue waters of the loch. She rowed swiftly across the lake, watching the light, feathered spray as it fell from the sculls; then, when the other side of ■the loch was gained, hhe secured the boat, took from it a volume that she had brought with her and sat down on the slope of the heathery hill. Finally she threw aside her book; with the sun shining on the waters of the lake, on the broad stretch of purple heather, on the golden gorse, on the distant hilla, fiow could She read? “Prince Charlie’s” daughter hod a poet’s soul. Keenly alive to all beauty, loving it with passionate love, she inherited the bright, quick fancy, the brilliant, vivid, poetic imagination of her dead father. She looked around her, and then with a sigh of perfect content sank back upon the heather. “My mother talks of drawing rooms and boudoirs; I am sure that uo room made by man could be one-half so beautiful as this spot made by heaven. Who would exchange the purple heather for a carpet, or this grand chain of hills for the walls of a room that shuts out the blue sky and the fresh air? Sometimes I wish that these hills would elose up together, so that we could never cross them, nor leave their midst.”

She turned her face to where the long line of distant sea lay white in the sun. Then the sound of a bell tinkling across the lake aroused her. She sprang up with a smile from the heather. The bell rang again. Beatrix sculled nerself across the lake, secured the boat, and hastened quickly through, the dark hill-gorge. Before her lay the Grange. The very sight of the ruined house seemed to warm the girl’s heart as she looked. The leaves of the scarlet creeper fell on her in a shower as rtie passed through the ruined gateway. In the courtyard lay a broken sundial, and a fountain, long dry, stood m the center. The ruin and desolation did not affect her; she murmured some words as she passed by the broken sundial, and turned to look at it, and then a low voice called “Beatrix.” A wipn flush—evidently one of pleasure —came over the girl’s face. “Yes, mamma,” she replied-; but in the tone could be easily detected love, respect, obedience, devotion, sympathy. She passed quickly through the dark entrance hall and entered the only habitable room on that side of the house. There sat Lady Lennox, who looked up as she entered. “I grew lonely without you, Beatrix. It is not dinner time yet, but I rang the bell. The whole house seems to grow so dark whale you are away.” “I wish you would come out with me, mamma; you would forget all about your sorrows before you had been one hour amongst the heather. Troubles fade in the light of the sun.” “The sunshine does not affect granite rocks,” sighed Lady Lennox; “and my sorrows are so durable that they might have been carved in granite, Beatrix. I wish, my darling, that I could be a brighter companion for you.” The girl looked up with bright, flashing eyes. “When have you heard me complain, mamma?” she asked. “I am happy enough.” “It is such a dreary life for you,” the, mother said, looking- at the magnificent face and figure. “I never wish to leave here,” was the reply. “It seems to me, mamma, that 1 have 'ound the true philosopher’s stone. I am content. .Lady Lennox sighed as she looked round her and thought of the recherche repasts, the' grand’ banquets, the costly wines and rare fruits that she had been accustomed to. She was growing tired of salmon and wild duck. But Beatrix made no demur; the simple homely meal, cooked in homely fashion, was a banquet to her. She waited upon her mother, devoting herself to her and cheering her with her chatter. Lady Lennox forgot her troubles, and said to herself that after all in the love of her beautiful daughter she was happier than most people.

CHAPTER V. A newspaper at the Grange was a novelty, a rarity, a treasure of great worth. Lady Lennox never purchased one; but, if by accident one came wrapper round a parcel, every word of it was read. It did not matter how old it was or what news it contained, it was always a novelty to her. Lady Lennox found one thus one day—it was a copy of the Times. “This will be a treat,” she thought, as she opened it carefully. It was but one month old. For the first time for many months Lady Lennox read of Prussia aud France, Holland and Belgium, read of the queen of the royal family, of the marriage of some whose names she knew, and of the death of others. She read one or two trials at law which interested her; and then she glanced at the advertisements. Suddenly, with a little startled cry, Lady Lennox rose from her seat and went nearer to the window, as though the light

would help her to understand. She read, re-read, and then sank back upon her chair, breathless with surprise and wonder. The words which had moved her so greatly were these: “Information wanted as to the whereabouts of Lady Lennox, widow of the late Col. Lennox of Erceldean. The advertiser, having sought vainly both in England and Scotland for new* of this lady, would be grateful to any one who could resist him in finding her.” I-ady Lennox looked at the address; it was, “P. L., care of Messrs. Gunter & Smith, Solicitors, Temple, London.” She began to reflect that after all the advertisement might have been inserted with a view to something else beside her husband’s debts —indeed it might have .proceeded from some one anxious to repay that which her husband had lent or given —money enough, perhaps, to lessen the hardships she and her daughter were undergoing. Her heart beat so painfully at the thought that s<he could hardly bear it. “I will answer the advertisement myself,” she thought, “and say nothing to Beatrix about it, lest there should be a great dteappointment in store.” The letter she wrote was brief enough> it ran as follows: , “The wife and daughter of the late Col. Lennox are living in the greatest poverty at Strathnarn Grange, near Ersedale, in the north of Scotland. Lady Lennox, who writes this, will be pleased to hear from t-ny friend.” A week passed—no letter came; and the mistress of Strathnarn said to herself that she must have been the dupe of a creel jest. One morning Beatrix sat down to the piano; the sunlight fell on her fair prmid face with its imperial tenderness, on the graceful figure and delicate hands. She hod just begun the first bars of What seemed to be a very beautiful melody, when the sound of a carriage driving up to the entrance was heard.

Lady Lennox grew pale as she listened. Was it—could it be the answer to her letter come at last? “It is a carriage, Beatrix!” she exclaimed. Boith ladies sat quite silent, looking at each other in the greatest consternation. They heard the sound of a masculine voice—a deep rolling voice—talking to Margaret, and Margaret’s trembling treble in reply. Then, in a state of great excitement, Margaret opened the door. “My lady,” she cried, “such a thing has not happened these twelve years—a gentleman has come to see you!” Early training stood Lady Lennox in good stead now; she controlled her excitement and spoke calmly: “Show the gentleman in, Margaret.” “I have taken the liberty of following this good woman, who seems to have almost lost her senses,” said the same deep bass voice; and, looking up, Lady saw a tall, slight, elderly man with irongray Whiskers and iron-gray hair, a hard cold, determined-looking man, yet with something in his face that made her heart beat wildly, she knew not why. He stood at the door, bowing deferentially, yet with keen, shrewd, observant eyes that took in everything. That same instant, had he been questioned, he could have told the color of the ladies’ hair and eyes, the color of their dresses; yet he seemed engrossed in themselves. “Pray enter, sir,” said Lady Ix-nnox, with old-fashioned grace and courtesy. The stranger advanced, hat in hand and bowing. “I presume Thntff'tfie honor of addressing Lady Lennox, widow of the late Col. Lennox of Erceldean?” he said. “The very words of the advertisement!” thought her ladyship, growing paler. She answered with quiet dignity: “I am Lady Lennox, sir.” Then he looked at the beautiful girl in the radiant dress of purple and gold. He looked at the fair, bewitching face, and a strange light shone in his eyes. “It is a Lennox face,” he said in a low voice, “a true Lennox face.” “This is my daughter,” announced Lady Lennox, “my only child, Beatrix Lennox, who should have been heiress of Erceldean.” “Extctiy. I am very happy indeed to see you, Lady Lennox. When I tell you that I have spent six months in looking for you, I wonder if you would guess who I am?” “No,” was the wondering response. “Have you strong nerves?” he asked. “Are you given to fainting, hysterics or anything of that kind?” ‘‘No/’ replied Beatrix sternly. “So much the better —I know that I shall surprise you. I am Peter Lennox, who was believed long years ago to have b?en drowned —Peter the gauche, the awkward, the unlucky, the ne’er-do-well— Peter, the disgrace to the family—Peter, who was never cared for, except by his brother C-harles. And now I am Peter Lennox, the millionaire. Have you a welcome for me?”

CHAPTER VI. Lady Lennox was the first to break the silence that fell upon the little group. She raised her colorless face to his. "Are you quite sure,” she said, “that there is no mistake? My husband always told me his brother Peter was dead.” “I am alive enough,” was the quick reply. When the Ormolia went down, most of those on board sank with her. I swam away from the vessel, and, being a capital swimmer, contrived to keep up until I was rescued by an English ship outward bound. I went with that ship to China, and—well, I never cared to return home. No one eared for me at Erceldean, and I knew my money would be useful to Charlie.” His voice faltered for one halfminute, and then he went on. “I let them all believe that I was dead. What could it matter? I should never see home or any of them again. Now, Lady Ijennox, look at me and tell me—do you believe that I am your husband’s brother?” ‘‘l believe it, mamma,” said the clear voice of Beatrix. “I can trace the Lennox features in the gentleman’s face.” “Thank you,” returned Peter Lennox. “That is the first compliment I have ever received on the score of personal beauty. Still the Lewnox features are good.” “You have a trace of them,” said frank Beatrix, “without the beauty.” Peter Lennox laughed, bis sister-in-law looked alarmed. She held out her bands In

'greeting to him, He kissed -hem aad seemed to be greatly pleased ■ “TKuik jAtk Tw«e are the tint words pf welcome I have heard,” he told her. t*l am glad that they hare come from my Now let me make friends with my niece.” He Ntd out his hands to Beatrix, who shyly gave him hers. “And now,” inquired Peter Lennox, “may I feel at hotile?” He looked up at Lady Lennox. "I have starjtled you,” he said. "You tremble; you ar? quite pale. 1 ain 4 too abrupt—you tnust pardon me.” He .ed Lady Lennox to the little couch near the window and placed her on it. ■ “I cau hardly believe my senses,” she told bim. "We huve been so long deserted, and now it seems as though we had found a friend.” "I am a true friend,” said her brother-in-law, “but we will talk of that afterward. Do you know that thousands of miles away from bonny Scotland I read of my brother’s marriage to Alisa Graeme, and that I tvave been longing to see you ever since? I have been a hard, stern, cold man all my life. I have devoted myself to one thing, and have cared for nothing else. Years ago 1 learned that money was power. In the new world, where I am better known tthun here, they call me Peter Lennox, the millionaire!” “I am glad that you have succeeded,” said Laxly Lennox gently. “Yes, success is the very wine of life. I thought that I cared for nothing else but money; yet, of late, something has been pulling at my heart-strings—some-thing has stirred up faint memories of home. Three years ago I met in New York some one who had known my brother Charlie, He gave me ail bis history, and told me how he had been courted by the noblest of the land—‘Prince Charlie,’ they called him. I heard the story of his ruin, of his sudden death, of the loss of the old home, Erceldean, and a new ambition entered my heart. 1 said that I would go back home, that 1 would seek out ‘Prince CharHe’s’ wife and child, that I would purchase Erceldean, and restore the glories of the house of Lennox.”

Lady Lennox clasped her hands, and woids of unutterable thanksgiving went up from her heart. Beatrix stood pale and trembling, her dark eyes fixed on her uncle’s face. “You need not remain here another day,” said Peter Leirnox. “I have taken a house in Lindon—a mansion, I should say. It is already fitted up and decorated, as the auctioneers say, in the most complete and charming fashion. Seriously, it is one of the finest houses in the metropolis —and it Is quite ready for you.” “In London?” cried Lady Lennox. “I can hardly realize it! Heaven has heard my prayer at last!” “London?” repeated Beatrix, with a look of dismay. “Oh, mamma, shall we leave mountain and loch for a city full of men ?” Neither of them noticed the dismay, the dread in her voice; they were engrossed in their own plans. “I have lived for one object," said Peter Lennox, “and I shall accomplish it yet. I Shall buy back Erceldean, and make it once more the home of our race. I am willing to give double the price that it was sold for. I want to restore it to more than its ancient grandeur; I want to live there with you, sister, and Beatrix shall once more be heiress of Erceldean. With the beauty heaven has given her, and the gold with which I shall endow her, she can marry any one; the greatest peer in England will be only too proud to make her his wife.” Lady L-n-nox looked anxious. “Beatrix marry! I am afraid, Peter, we shall have trouble over that; she does not like men.” “Hive no fear,” Peter Lennox laughed; “the fire in those dark eyes of hers will light a flame that even she will not be able >o extinguish. The only thing we shall have to do will be to exercise care, for it strikes me that when she does love there will be no half-heartedness about it.” Time proved that he was right. (To be continued.)