Democratic Sentinel, Volume 21, Number 37, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 September 1897 — AT LOVES COMMAND [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

AT LOVES COMMAND

BY CHARLOTTE M. BRAEME.

CHAPTER XVll.—(Continued.) The night seemed long; he could not sleep; and the beautiful, haunting face was never away from his mind. When it was time, he rose gladly and went direct to his mother’s house. Mrs. Carew was still in her pretty breakfast room, drinking her fragrant tea from the daintiest of cups. She looked up in wonder when her son entered the room. “Beltran,” she cried, “what has brought you here, my dear, so early in the morning? What has happened?” “I am here only to speak to you, mother,” he said; and his mother glanced at him in anxious alarm. The music, the hope, and the youth seemed to have died out of his voice. “How ill you look, Beltran, my boy, my darling! What is it? Have you been sitting up all night writing or studying?” “No, mother; I have been awake all night thinking—and that is worse. I have fallen in love, mother,” he told her. “The Words are simple and weak. Everyone uses them, I suppose. They hardly tell of the joy that is almost torture, of the pleasure that is keenest pain.” “I know it, my dear,” she said, gently. “The great event of life has come to you —that which makes or mars an existence has happened—and you fear it.” ' “Yes, 1 fear it, for the lady I love is far above me. It seems to me that I may just as well stretch out my hands with longing to one of the stars as to her.” “Beltran,” said his mother, in a low, persuasive voice, “will you tell me who this is? Your secret will be safe with me.”

“I know that,” he replied; “but I am afraid jou will think me so very foolish. I could not help it, though, on my honor.” “I am afraid I know already,” said hia mother. “It is Miss Lennox, Beltran.” His face flushed hotly, his lips quivered In a vain attempt to speak carelessly. Then, after a moment’s pause, he said: “Yes, it is Miss Lennox. How did you guess it, mother?” “I was afraid of it from the first moment yon saw her,” she replied, “but I did not like to warn you; it happens so often that a warning given in that way brings about the very evil that a person seeks to avoid. I am very sorry, Beltran.” “Then you think it hopeless?” he said. “Quite hopeless, unless " “Unless what, mother?” he asked. “Unless Miss Lennox is very different from other girls, and loves you for yourself —unless she is willing to change her state and splendor for such a position as you could give her.” He sat for some minutes in deep thought, and then, with a wistful smile that made her heart ache, he looked up into his mother’s face. “You understand the world and its ways well—tell me, would it be right or just, noble or honorable, for me to ask her to wait while I made a position? Ought I to seek her while such a difference of fortune exists between us? We know that peers and princSs woo her—that she might be a duchess or princess?” "But if she loves you, Beltran?” “Ought I to take advantage of her love? She is young and might mistake a girl’s fancy for love, and in the years to come might reproach me and say that I had not acted fairly. You know, mother, since she called me a hero, I have felt that I could not make my life noble enough.” “Poon Beltran!” said Mrs. Carew. “Miss Lennox is very lovely and very charming; but I wish we had never seen her, rather than she should have made you unhappy, my son.” “I would rather be made unhappy by her than be beloved and blessed by another,” he confessed. “Those who have loved Beatrix Lennox can never seek a lower or less noble love. That Italian Prince de Ferros, I have heard people say, has attracted the notice of half the fine ladies in London. He never seems to see any one except Beatrix Lennox. I will travel, mother—it is by far the most honorable course.” “Yes, Beltran—go; absent yourself for one year;-and if when you return you find her unmarried, pleased to see you, kind and gentle as she is now, you may rest assured she cares for you. In that case woo her with a contented mind. Your love will perhaps make her happier than her uncle's gold could do. Of course, if she .cares nothing for you, she will marry the duke who seeks her so perseveringly.” Beltran sighed deeply. “I will follow your advice, mother —I will go at once. I will go to Athens—that will surely be far enough away. I can study the old Greek codes. It is better to go at once. I must not see her again; if 1 do, I cannot answer for myself. I should be compelled, against toy own instinct of what Is right and honorable, to tell her how I love her—and I must not do it, mother.” -

“No, my son, you must not,” she returned; “you must make the sacrifice, and make it at once. Is it too much to expect from a man like you No one but himself knew how much it was or what it cost him. CHAPTER XVIII. Beatrix had risen with a light heart. She was sure to see Mr. Carew, she said to herself, in the course of the day. He had not been able to say much to her on the previous evening at the opera; but he had revealed a great deal. She had rightly read in his face that he had much to say; he would be sure to call when the joyous world was in full activity. He would call on some pretext or other, and, if he did not, she should see him in the evening. “Patience,” she said to herself towards afternoon, “the longest day must come to an end.” She stood by a cage full of beautiful tropical birds, admiring the brilliant plun-age of its inhabitants, when a letter was brought in to her. The handwriting was quite new to her. When she saw that it was a closely written letter, she looked at the signature—“ Beltran Carew.” Her face flushed when she read the name. She put the letter hurriedly into her pocket. It could not be read before Lady Lennox, or any one else; she must jread it oldik With her heart beating fast fbr joy, and her face burning with a hot flush, she hastened to her own room. Her fingers trembled as she held the sheet •f note paper. The letter began:

“My Dear Miss Lennox: You are always so frankly kmd to me that I am unable to apologize as I should for troubling you with a letter. I cannot leave England without thanking you for all the pleasant hours we have spent together, for all your kindness to me, and for your patience. I am leaving for Athens to-morrow, and regret that I shall not have the pleasure of seeing you before I go. I shall hope for your good wishes on my journey; you have mine.” So far it was all very sensible. Beltran had exhibited more than usual selfcontrol, although he was seldom deficient in that trying virtue; but the next line almost tqtoiled all. It said: “Alas for the poor moth that singes its wings by drawing too near the flume! 1 hope, when I return to England, to find you as well and happy as I leave you. Pray give a thought sometimes to your true friend, BELTRAN CAREW.” Beatrix’s face grew deadly pale as she read; her hands trembled, a dark mist came before her eyes. She sat quite motionless, like one who by a sudden thrust has received a death wound. The minutes became hours, and she still sat there, numbed, para'yzed, by the sudden blow. Then she roused herself. Why should she feel it so keenly? Why should it make the world to terribly, so suddenly dark to her? Beltran Carew had gone away; there would be a void in a very pleasant circle; she should miss a most pleasant companion—that was all. What did the terrible pain mean that was searing her heart and brain as with red-hot irons? Why had she. been sitting there stunned and silent? Why did she suffer such horrible pain?

The dressing bell was ringing. She trembled, and the room seemed to whirl round her. Then her maid entered with a message from her mother, and the girl looked half frightened at the ghastly face of her young mistress. “You look very ill, Miss Lennox,” she said, quietly. “Can I get anything for you?” “Do I look ill?” asked Beatrix. "Why should I ? ’ I am quite well.” She went to her mirror, still with the same dazed sense and feeling. She looked into the glass and almost failed to recognize herself. The face at which she gazed was ghastly white, the lips were pale and trembling. “I do look ill,” she said, slowly; "but 1 am quite well—l have no pain. I will dress now, Lisette,” and the maid did not venture to make any further remark. There was nothing wrong with her—only Beltran Carew was gone away, and Beatrix did not know whether she should ever see his face again. The world was all darkened, life was all changed; the new well-Cbilng or happiness naa uriea up, the light was gone from everything. It was settled at last. Beatrix had for some time seemed very unwell; she had grown pale, the lovely tints of the richly colored face had faded. Her mother hud grown anxious about her. “The season is over now-why not return to Erceldean?” she said; and Peter Lennox, alarmed on account of his treasured darling, hastened their departure. Beatrix was anxious only about one thing, and that was to leave London without any scene with the duke. He felt sure now of his ultimate triumph, and believed that he was acting wisely in keeping silent. She was timid and coy; he thought he would leave her for a few months in peace. He would not even go to Erceldean after her. He would content himself by sending her some pretty reminder from time to time, and then, when they met in London during the following season, he should find her willing for the wedding to take place at once. “Thank heaven, we are at home once more!” cried Beatrix, as she stood with her mother on the lawn nt Erceldean. “How sweet and fresh and fair everything is! And oh, mamma, what a delightful reflection—no lovers, no neverending annoyance upon the topic of love! If there is one word that tries me more than another, it is that. lam quite sure that people make love In London to fill up their spare time. There is so little real earnestness, so little real work; men cannot be quite idle, so they make love for pastime.” Then there came a great peaceful calm. Peter Lennox would not have any visitors during the first few weeks; he said Beatrix needed rest, and rest she should have. A beautiful calm took the place of all the artificial enjoyments which had before seemed so bright.

Thus passed the autumn and winter. She heard nothing of Beltran Carew and the duke, too, kept bis resolution; he wrote nt intervals, but he did not mention love or marriage. So the spring came round again and new life appeared in the great spreading trees. Then began a new stir in the world of fashion. It was to be a brilliant season—everyone Was agreed as to tlrat. The limes were in blossom when Peter Lennox and the ladies of his household bade adieu to Erceldean and departed for town. One of the first visitors was the Duke of Heathland, who was becoming soaie.Aut restless. He had been patient long enough, he said to himself; now Miss Lennox must listen to reason; and he planned that his wedding should be the crowning event of the season. He waited upon Peter Lennox first, at an hour wnen he knew the ladies would be from home, and he overwhelmed the millionaire by the magnificence of his offers as to settlements. The settlements he offered to make upon Beatrix were princely in their generosty. On that evening there was a state ball and Beatrix was going with the Duchess of Elmslie. Peter Lennox was greatly delighted when he saw the royal invitation. He did not look upon it as a printed form common to all the invited. It seemed to him ti special recognition of the services that the royal race of Lennox had once upon a time rendered to the State. Lady Ailsa was quite unable to attend, so it was arranged that Beatrix should go with the duchess. It'was a memorable evening for the young girl. Her wonderful beauty drew special attention to her. More than once she was congratulated upon w’hat the speakers chose to term “the happy event.” The Duchess of Elmslie was exceptionally excited. “My dear Beatrix,” she said, “every one is talking about you.”

“Yes," replied Beatrix, "but I do not quite understand.’’ “It is about your marriage with the duke,” said her grace quickly. “AU London is talking about it. You are certainly a most fortunate girt.” The beautiful face flush Al hotly. “It seems strange ” she remarked, “that all Loudon should be talking al out a thing that concerns me, yet is news to me.” “Now, Beatrix,” returned her grace, in a tone of ealm rotscnstrunee, “it cannot be news to you tl at you are going to marry one of the tiucst lovers a girl has ever had. Your approaching marriage with the duke was announced in the Court Journal this n.oi nit g ” The (inches* started in dismay. The girl’s eyes seemed to flash fire as she turned quickly to her. “Who dared to do that?” she asked. “The public, I should imagine,” was her grace’s calm reply. “It is not news to any one except yourself; and, Beatrix, my dear, unless you wish to brand yourself before all England, you cannot recede now—you must marry the duke.' “But it is a mistake,” she cried—"and such a mistake!” “Most people would call the error a very fortunate one. But I will say no more upon the matter—l leave it to others,” said the duchess wisely. And not another word could Beatrix extort from her. The little paragraph in the Court Journal had been copied and recopled. One of the first to see it was Beltran Carew, who had just returned from Athens. His mother folded the paper and placed it on the table so that he could not avoid seeing it. and then with kindly consideration left him to read it alone. She went back in half an hour and found him with his head bent over the paper and his face hidden. She was almost shocked at the terrible change in his face when he raised it to hers. He laughed a low, bitter laugh that made her heart ache ns she listened. "That shows me, mother, how 1 have deceived myself," he said. “I thought I had schooled myself even to meet her and not care. Why. I find that 1 have been living upon love —and here is my death warrant. It wus the duke she cared for, after all.” “Perhaps,” said Mrs. Carew, coolly. "It is certain. You have read this? You see what the paper says, mother?” “I have seen some very glaring untruths even in the most veracious journals,” she said; and then looking at him, she asked: "Do you love Miss Lennox so very dearly, my boy?" “I love her sc well, mother, that the life almost dies within me when I think of her as belonging to another. I love her so well that when she marries that man I shall go to Africa and never eome back. I cannot live without her.” The handsome face was covered with his hands, nnd he sat silent. Mrs. Carew looked at him for a few minutes. "Beltran,' she snid, “sitting there with white face raid lack-luster eyes will not help you. I have a suggestion to make. Go and see Miss Lennox and ask her if the announcement is true. If she says ‘Yes,’ you must do the best you can with your life; if she says ‘No,’ win her. After all, whnt is a little gold or a long pedigree compared to the true, real, pure love of such a heart us yours? Go and learn your fate from her own lips, Beltran, and abide by that fate, let it be what it may.” “1 will,” he replied; and in her sweetest voice Mrs. Carew responded: "Heaven speed yon, my son!” She stood musing for a short time after he had quitted the room—musing, with a strange expression on her face—and then to herself she snid, "It was a strange fate that brought this about, but I foresee the end." (To be continued.)