Democratic Sentinel, Volume 21, Number 44, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 29 October 1897 — AT LOVES COMMAND [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

AT LOVES COMMAND

BY CHARLOTTE M. BRAEME.

CHAPTER XXVIII. Mrs. Carew shook her head. “Truth is often stranger than fiction,” ■he said. “Yon will not be surprised to henr that my husband and 1 did not agree for one hour. Before the sun had set on my wedding day, I felt sure that I had made myself miserable for life. We could not agree—we could not understand each other. He seemed to me a grim, stern guardian; I appeared to him n foolish, undisciplined child; and, after a time, the usual result was attained—the very intensity of his love changed iutp dislike. “Our first violent quarrel took p.aee about the time my father died. I had wept ns one who could never be 'comforted. It seemed, however, to my childish mind, a source of some comfort to reflect that my father should have one of the finest monuments in Limn. My husband refused to listen to my request; it was all nonsense, sentimental rubbish—a plain headstone would do just ns well as a marble monument. One hard word led to another. We hud the most violent quarrel of our lives. It nil seems very childish to me now, and very foolish; but then it was a terrible tragedy. We did not speak at my father’s funeral, but when it was over he enme to comfort me. 1 was lying, sick at heart, on u couch, and he tried to kiss me. ‘Do not cry so bitterly, Grace,’ be said; ‘I will try to be very kind to you.’ ‘Do not touch me—l hate you,’ 1 cried. ‘Do you mean that, Grace?’ he asked. ‘Yes, I mean it. lam sorry that I ever saw you—l am sorry that I married you. I wish thnt I could be freed from you, and never see you again—l wish that I lay dead by my father’s side!’ He stood quite still while the torrent of my wrath rolled over him. When he turned to me again his face was as the face of the dead. Had he acted wisely, he would have borne with me until my humor had changed; as it was, he invested childish passion with the dignity of n woman’s anger. He repeated, ‘Do you mean that, Grace?’ ‘I menu ten thousand times more,’ I replied; and he bowed and left me.

“After that we rarely spoke; when we did, it was to quarrel most violently—and I never failed to tell him how intensely I hated him. ‘I believe you hate me, poor child,’ he said to me once; “and it is a hard belief, too. I mnrried you because I loved you so dearly.’ I cried out thnt I had never wanted his love. T believe thnt, too,’ he said; ‘but why did you let me marry you if you knew how little you cared for me?’ ‘Because I was a child, and a foolish one,’ I cried; ‘and I am so miserable now that I wish a thousand times over that I were dead.’ He looked so strangely at me that I was frightened; there was a terrible expression on his face; his eyes seemed to flame. I saw the fingers of his hand clinch. “ ‘Are you going to kill me, Peter?’ I asked; ‘I do not know,' he replied. ‘At times I think that the wisest thing I can do is to kill you first and myself afterward —anything would be better than this terrible pain which you make me suffer.’ And from that moment I felt sure that he would murder me. I resolved upon running away. All the stories that I had ever read of jealous, angry husbands slaying their wives, all the horrible tragedies ever perpetrated, came back to me, and I felt quite sure that some such story would one day be told about me. lam no coward, but this idea took a morbid hold of me. I packed a small bog, collecte d the little sums of money that from time to time he had given me, and went away, hoping never in this world to see his face again. It was a strange coincidence, but on thnt very day a favorite and confidential clerk of my husband’s ran away; and from the advertisements that I saw, I hnd a strong conviction that my husband thought we had gone away together. “From that day that I left the house of Peter Lennox, a frightened, terrible child, in fear and trembling, I have never held any communication with him. 1 was even coward enough to be pleased that he should have a completely bnd opinion of me. I left Lima, and, with the few pounds that I had, came over to England. Then something occurred that altered my whole life. Five months after I left my husband's house my dear son Beltran was born.” Lady Ailsa uttered a low cry of surprise; and for the first time during the telling of her story, Mrs. Carew’s voict trembled and faltered. “I did wrong, then,” she said—“you will find it hard to forgive me. Mind, when I left Peter Lennox, I was but a foolish, ignorant child. Still I did wrong to conceal from my husband the fact that he had a son. I ought to have written to him at once, and told him, even had I hidden the child from his sight forever. I loved my little Beltran so dearly; he was a fine, handsome child, and in my passionate love for him I swore that he should be my own forever and that no one should ever share in his love. Before that time I had called myself Mrs. Lennox; now I resolved upon calling myself by my maiden name of Carew. I took all precautions, though, about my son—the registration of his birth, the certificate, go to prove the truth of what I say. Though I swore that Peter Lennox should never know even of his birth, still I arranged everything so that at any moment I could prove my boy’s claims.” “It is a wonderful story,” said Beatrix, in a low voice. “I have but little more to add,” continued Mrs. Carew. “When, after being in society for many years, I heard at last of Peter Lennox of Erceldean, the great millionaire, it did not occur to me that it was my husband of twenty-four years before. I thought the name was a strange coincidence—that was all. The reality did. not occur to me until I saw Beatrix, and then I recognized the Lennox face. Then for the first time I knew that I had done wrong to my son to keep from him the fact that he was i Peter Lennox’s heir. Dear Beatrix, I felt rather impatient when 1 heard you called heiress of Erceldean—af-' ter all, Erceldean belonged to Beltran and not to yon. I never once thought of making myself known, not even for my son’s sake, though at times it was a sore temptation. I should never have told the truth or owned my story but for Beltran and his love. Beltran used to tell me that when he met Mr. Lennox the rich man was very kind to him, that he took an interest in him, and my boy’s heart was fwebed tfi bis Ipndnesß Once l trembled

with fear, for it seemed to me that my Hecret must be discovered. One evening Beltran came home and told me thnt Mr. Lennox was always troubled by a shadowy likeness that he saw in his face, and a fumilinr sound thnt he detected in bis voice. I grew fearful then. 1 could easily have soiled the mystery for him, Lady Ailsa. For I have strong reason to believe that my son resembles your deceased husband, ‘Prince Charlie,’ and not his own father.” Lady Ailsa looked up quickly. “You are quite right,” she said. “I wns struck by the same thing in your son—a shadowy resemblance. Now I see it.” “Then I was stSrtled,” continued Mrs. Carew, “on finding thnt my boy had fallen in love with the millionaire’s niece. At first I wns vexed, and I tried hard to per’suade him to forget her; I knew that if ever a mmringe took place I must tell the truth. But my boy wns so wretched that my conscience reproached me, and I have yielded at last. 1 did test their love. I wanted to see whether Beatrix would be constant to Beltrnn through all fortunes, or whether she would prefer the wealth of Ijfter Lennox to the love of my son. She has come nobly out of the ordeal, and now nothing remains for me but to send for my husband and tell him the truth. Imagine —it is twenty-four years since I have seen him! What will he say to me?” Beatrix rose and clasped her arms round Mrs. Cnrew’s neck. “You bear it very bravely,” she said; “but I know that you have suffered, aunt. Only imagine—l have an aunt after all! Aunt Grace, kiss me, nnd tell me that you love me for your son’s sake.” “For his and your own,” she replied, warmly. “My dear Beatrix, all the time that I wns painting your portrait, I was longing to tell you thnt the uncle you spoke so much about was my husband, and that Beltran was your cousin.” Beatrix laughed a low, happy laugh of perfect content. “You see, after all, mamma,” she said, “I was a most wise nnd prudent girl.”

CHAPTER XXIX. Perhaps there was not n more miserable man in England than Peter Lennox, the great millionaire. He had told the detectives all the story of his marriage, and the utmost that they could discover for him in Lima was that his wife hnd gone away quite alone—that therp hnd been no such thing as an elopement with the suspected clerk, and that she wns quite free from that imputation. Then came intelligence that startled him. His wife had been traced t« London, and there she had had n son; but from the time the boy had reached his fifth year all clew to her was lost again. His emotion had been great at the thought of n son having been Bom to him —n son who, if he could find him, would be heir to his estntes, his vast wealth, and his name, who might add honor to honor nnd be the very Balvntion of his race. He wondered if it were possible to find him. He mnde almost superhuman exertions; but it was all in vain, he could glean no intelligence of his wife or son, the son whom even only to see he would have laid down his life. Disheartened, and almost despairing, he sat one morning alone in his great London drawing room—he had returned to town so as to be nearer the detectives—he could rest no longer at Erceldean. Presently a note wns brought in to him from Mrs. Carew, saying that she wished to see him upon important business, if he would be kind enough to call upon her as soon as he could make it convenient. He drove direct to the little house in Mnyfair, and asked for Mrs. Carew. “My mistress Is expecting you, sir,” said the servant, when he had told her his name. “She is in her painting room.” He followed the servant, wondering ut the beauty of the apartments, at the wealth of ornaments, pictures nnd statues. Then he reached the painting room, nnd the servant, after opening the door for him, retired. At first his eyes were disturbed by the dim, uncertain light. He saw a tall, womanly figure standing wniting for him- he could see folds of rich velvet that swept the ground; but in his confusion he did not plainly discern the face that was turned toward him. The Indy bdwed; he returned the bow; then Mrs. Carew placed a chair for him, and Peter Lennox sat down. Presently Mrs. Carew spoke. At the first sound of her voice, something in it struck him ns familiar. He told himself that it was her son’s voice of which he was reminded - the young barrister whom he had liked before he declared himself the lover of Beatrix.

“I am sorry to have troubled you,” said Mrs. Carew; “but I wanted to ask you is there no way by which we can ccuie to terms?” “To terms over what?” he inquired. “Over the marriage of your niece to my son,” she answered. “No, madam. It is a subject we will not discuss.” “Then you refuse to listen to anything that I can suggest?” she said, proudly—and the ring of passionate scorn in her voice struck him as being somewhat familiar. “You can suggest nothing practical,” he replied. “Such a marriage would be most advantageous to you and your son; but it can never take place—of that you may rest assured.” Hitherto she had been standing where her face was in the shade and half hidden from him. She went now to the window and touched the blinds; they sprang apart and admitted a flood of sunshine. She turned and confronted him, her black velvet dress trailing on the ground, her hands raised half in denunciation, her keen, brilliant, passionate face flushing, her lips curling half scornfully. “Peter Lennox,” she said slowly, “look at me; do you know who I am?” He looked at her quite indifferently. “Yes,” he replied, “you are the scheming mother of a scheming son.” “Look again,” she said— “not at the ceiling over my head, not at the wall behind me, but at my sac Peter Lennox, and tell me who I am." He looked indifferently, at first, standing just opposite to the graceful, brilliant woman whose face had such strange repressed passion in it. Then gradually, •Jowly, surely, the indifference died *w«y,,

Somethin* of wonder, of incredulity, of surprise, of fear, came in its place; his lips *r*w white and trembled, the dawn of new and great emotion name into his *7o** the calmness of his face departed he tried to apeak, but the aound died a way on his lips. “Who am I?” she repeated. He raised hit trembling bands as though to ward off a blow; all power of speech had gone from him. "I will tell you,” she said. “I am Grace Carew—Grace Lennox, your wife; and you hare disinherited your niece because you were hard, stern, cold of heart, cruelly unkind; because you did not know what human lore meant; because you trampled my girlish heart under your feet; because you could not and would not understand' what a sensitive, warm-hearted, loving nature required; because you wanted to : reduce me into a mere machine for regulating your house and saving your money! What was it to you?” she continued, in a passion of scorn, “that I had a quick, changing, sensitive soul, that I had a warm, tender nature, that I was blithe of heart and gay by nature? Less than nothing.”’

He held up his hands in deprecation. “You did not understand me,” he said. “I loved you all the time.” A slight, scornful lntigb was her answer, and then her face flushed. “You loved me, yet you suspected that I had run away with a clerk in your office. I was but a child when I ran away, but—understand me clearly, Peter Lennox—l ran away because I did not love you, and because you made my life miserable. Understand that, since I left you, my life has been filled with hard work; but it has been spotless, and you may trnce every movement of it. There is another thing, Peter Lennox. My son Beltran is your son, the lawful heir of Erceldenn. He was Born five months after l left you. I have every necessary proof to place in your hands. Mind what 1 say. I did wrong in keeping him from you; I should have given you your son. But I loved him too well; I could not part with him. He is like your brother, it appears, the Lennox who was called ‘Prince Charlie,’ and not like you.” He made no answer, but a strange gray pallor came over his face which touched her as words could not have done. “I am very sorry for the past,” she said, quietly; “I have been sorry ever since 1 fled from my home. I was very young and thoughtless.” But Peter Lennox made no answer. The tall, stern figure swayed to and fro, and then he fell with a low cry at his wife’s feet. She bent over him. “I am truly sorry, Peter,” she said, but he was unconscious, and, seeing the gray tint deepen on his face, she began to fear that he was dead. CHAPTER XXX. A few hours Inter Peter Lennox opened his eyes and found himself lying in a charming room. At first he was puzzled to know- where he was, and what had happened to him; there was a dull singing in his ears, a strange confusion in big brain; a queer uncertainty troubled him as to his whereabouts, a heavy kind of wonder and pain. He looked about him; it was an artisti* room. In all his superb mansion there was nothing like it. Then his eyes fell upon the figure of a woman kneeling by his side. Gradually all returned to him, and he knew that he was looking in the face of his wife Grace; he knew also that he had had a narrow escape from death. “Grace,” be said feebly—and his voice seemed to come from a distance—it had a faint, feeble kind of sound—“tell me all about it again. I cannot imagine that it is really true.” She repeated the story to him, and he listened with new wonder, “So I have a son,” he said—“the handsome, noble boy whom Beatrix loves? He is my son—my own son? Oh,. Grace, how shallJl learn to believe it? Can it be true —tny own son?” He repeated the. words over and over again to himself—his own son, and how should he believe Then after a time he turned to her. “Grace,” he said, “I should like to see my son.”

“So yon shall,” she replied. “I have a surprise in store for you, if you are better this evening.” “Will you—will you kiss me, Grace?" he asked in a low, trembling voice, as though he were half afraid of making the request. She bent over him. “Yes, I will, Peter,” she replied, earnestly—“l will indeed. lam sorry that things went so wrong between ns. I will say now what I have never said before—that I wish with all my heart matters had been different—that I had been older and better, you wiser and kinder.” She kissed him, and a great calm light came over his face—the stern, grim face that had known so little brightness. A contented smile-played round the lips that had smiled so little, and presently Peter Lennox fell into such a sleep as he had not had for years. It was nearly evening when he awoke again, refreshed, invigorated and almost well. His valet stood ready to attend to him, having been summoned by order of his wife. He went downstairs. His wife met him in the hall. She opened the door of the drawing room and led him in. There he saw Beatrix, Lady Ailsa and Beltran. A mist swam before his eyes. He trembled as a leaf in a strong wind. Then Beatrix went up to him and clasped her arms around his neck; but it was on Beltran’s breast that the gray head rested at last. It was to Beltran that the feeble arms clung while the old man cried: “My son—my son! Thank heaven that I have lived to see my son.” The occurrence was, as Lady Ailsa remarked afterward to the bishop, “nffist providential.” It seemed marvelous to think that Beatrix should from the first have loved Beltran. *******

The wedding Erceldean Was talked about long after it had taken place. Such a scene had not been witnessed for many a year in bonny Scotland. From miles round people flocked to see “Prince Cnarlie’s” daughter married and “the king take his own again.” Peter Lennox lavished wealth on the son of*whom he was so proud; he purchased for him one of the finest mansions in London—for Beltran would not abandon his professional career. Whenever his father mentioned such a thing to him he would say: “We have had great warriors and great statesmen amongst our ancestors; believe me that a great lawyer will add to the honor of the Lennoxes. I am to strive for the woolsack, you know.” In after years he won it, while Beatrix Lennox remained a queen of society, loved, admired and revered. One event gave her great pleasure. Three years after her own marriage Lady married the Duke of Heathlaud. Lord Rayner killed himself by drinking and dissipation, and Lady Rayner, after her year of mourning had expired, married the handsome duke, who had loved her friend so, dearly. Beatrix was delighted,, and. the Duchess of Heathland always remained her devoted friend. There was no happier woman in England than beautiful Beatrix Lennox. She was rich, honored, esteemed, beloved —she had one of the kindest of husbands, chil--dren who were most devoted; but she never forgot what had been the cost of her love* Cfhe eudO