Democratic Sentinel, Volume 21, Number 49, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 December 1897 — A WOMANS HEART [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A WOMANS HEART

BY FLORENCE MARYATT

CHAPTER XV. It was near upon Christmas day when Jane Warner left her home in Chelsea to go to Wales. It was near upon May day before she returned again. She came back to Chelsea so thin and anxious looking and distrait that she was not like the same person who had gone away. She seemed to have grown ten years older. Her delicate complexion was almost bloodless, and her deep blue eyes stood out from the rest of her face prfetematnrally grave and large. She was quite hysterical, too, as she clasped her mother in her arms and looked her over as if she would ascertain if she had sustained any injury since she had seen her last. The old lady did not participate in her daughter's emotion. Indeed, she was rather offended than otherwise at Jane’s rough handling, and only begged her to remember she wore her Tanjore brooch, without making any remark upon her return to Chelsea. May came and went, nnd the June flowers once more flung their sweetness over Chelsea. Jane became very anxious about that time to coax her mother to spend more time in the garden. The fresh air was so good for her, she said, and the sight of the blossoms and the song of the birds diverted her mind from dwelling too continuously upon one idea. She even tried, though with small success, to utilize Mrs. Warner, by making her weed the beds or rake the mold; but the old lady soon grew tired of anything like work. “What is the use of my looking among the flowers and shrubs for little green things, Jane? Why cannot you leave them alone? I am sure they are very pretty.” “But, mother, you don't know what you might find if you persevere in digging every day. I have read of people coming upon hidden treasures in old gardens like this.” “What is treasure, Jane?” “Everything that is of value. Boxes of money, or jewelry, or gold. Would it not be delightful to find one?” “My brooch is jewelry. Miss Potter said so,” replied Mrs. Warner, putting up her hand to feel if that Inestimable ornament was safe. “Of course it is, dear! So are many other things. Oh! do go on looking carefully, mother, every day, and I am sure you will find something of value before long.” And every morning Jane would try to stimulate her mother’s energy by asking her if she had looked behind the bushes yet, or in the lily bed, and assuring her she would find a treasure there some day. But she never mentioned the subject in the presence of Miss Prosser. One morning, when Mrs. Warner had trotted out ns usual at her daughter’s bidding, she reappeared in the sitting room with a mysterious air, and her finger to her lip. Jane—all white and trembling ■—rose, and followed her to the outer air. “Jane,” she whispered in her ear, “it has come!” “What has come, dear mother?” asked the girl, trying to speak calmly. “The treasure, my dewr; a basket full of It; under the bushes. I cannot remember when I dug it up, but I must have done jo, for It Is there. And it is making a Ireadful noise. Come and see it!” “Dear mother! what ore you talking about?” said Jane, with quivering lips. And then she called the servant. “Caroline, Mrs. Warner wants me to go and see something at the bottom of the garden, but I am too busy. Go with her, and come back and tell me what it is. It is most likely only her fancy.” She turned away to the dining room window as she spoke, and tried to look at the people passing In the street, and to fix her mind only on them. But in another minute the servnnt had run shrieking back into the cottage. “Good gracious, Caroline! whnt is the matter?” “Oh, Lor’ miss! you’ll never believe it; but come and see for yourself, please. And it isn’t the mistress’ fancy at all, miss! It’s true as Gospel and she is so pleased she’s been the one to find it.” “To find what, Caroline?” “A baby, miss! A lovely little baby in long clothes.” “A baby!—girl! You must be dreaming.” “I ain’t dreaming, miss, indeed! It’s a baby, as plain as the nose on my face, and was packed In a hamper just like game. And, oh, my! here’s the mistress with it, as proud as Punch!” And, in effect, Mrs. Warner appeared at that moment, bearing a bundle in her arms, with an air of The utmost importance and mystery. “Jane, it has come! I told you so!—and —no, don’t come near it, if you please; it to mine, remember! I dug it up, and it is making a terrible noise,” which the bundle certainly was, as it rent the air with Its screams. °'. t “Oh, mother, let me take it! I think you have got it upside down.” “Jane, I will’ be obliged to you not to touch it. It is my treasure, which I have been digging for, and it belongs to me. I did not think it would cry so much, certainly, but all the same, I found it in the lily bed, and it is mine.” “Dear, dear, what is all this noise about?” cried Miss Prosser, running up from the kitchen, where she had been making pastry. “Dear Miss Prosser, the most absurd thing has happened that you ever heard of,” replied Jane in a strangely agitated voice. “Mother has found a baby in the lily bed.” “Are you trying to make a fool of me, Jane?” “Indeed, no. It is the truth. Come and see for yourself. But the absurdity is, that I have been coaxing poor mother to help me in the garden lately, under the pretense that she might find a treasure if she dug deep enough, and she has taken it into her head that this is the treasure, and it belongs to her.” “A fine treasure, indeed!” exclaimed Miss Prosser indignantly. “A squalling brat to feed and look after. And whoever can have had the impudence to put such rubbish into our garden?” It was a little girl—the prettiest little girl, Mrs. Warner declared, that she had ever seen, and Jane, too, as she covered the tiny face and hands with kisses, appeared to have taken a great fancy for the little creature thus unexpectedly thrown upon her care. ' “Now t when is that child to go to the workhouse?” inquired Miss Prosser, after dinner. “You had better get it taken there before night, for it will keep the whole house awake, and I am not sure that you won’t have some trouble about It, if you don’t give notice at the police station at once. They might refuse to take it In, Jane.” Jane, who bad been sitting by the fire watching the baby sleep upon some shawl,

now came forward and leaned caressingly over Miss Prosser’s chair. “And what,” she asked, as her trembling fingers wandered lightly over the other’s hair, “what if they did refuse? Should we miss very much the drop of milk and bread the poor little creature would consume?” “My dear child, you are mad! It Isn’t the bread and milk now —that’s nothing; but it’s the bread and meat, and dresses, and schooling, that she’ll consume by and by. You cannot dream of taking such an unnecessary burden on yourself, surely!” “Perhaps it would not prove such a burden as yon anticipate. Miss Prosser. Perhaps by and by, when poor mother has left me, this little waif may be all my comfort. And if I die first, she may prove a second daughter to my mother! And—and —if you did not think it very foolish—l feel as if I should like to indulge her in this fancy; since she has so little to make her happy.” “Oh, what I think is of no consequence at all, my dear! The house is your own, and the money is- your own; and If you believe you can maintain three people on what has been barely sufficient for two, why, there’s an end of it. Only, don’t ask my advice again, when you’ve made up your mind first, that's all.” “Isn’t she pretty, Miss Prosser? Such big eyes, and snob a wee, wee nose." “I suppose you’re quite resolved not to send her to the union?” “Oh, quite, quite!” said the girl, with bated breath. “Well, then, you must let me share In some of the labor she will impose upon us, my dear; for the little creature has quite converted me already, and I should be almost as sorry to part with her as you would. I will be her godmother, and you shall call her ‘Helen,’ after me —that is, if you have no objection.” “Dear friend,” cried Jane rapturously, reaching up to kiss Miss Prosser, “I would rather call her after you than anyone.” "I will take upon myself the charge of educating her, and that will be an expense off youT hands, Jane! Well, well, It is a foolish business, but we will say no more about that after to-day. Little Helen shall be the joint property of all three of ns, and we wjll vie with each other in taking proper care of her.” “Oh, thank you—thank you, dear friend! You have made me so happy!” cried Jane, as she lay down again, with the little Infant cuddled close to her breast CHAPTER XVI. Rosie Ewell, having once made up her mind to tell her brother Wilfrid that she would not remain at Yambscote Hall, did not let the grass grow under her feet. She plainly told her brother that she and Lenn had quarreled and that nothing would keep her from returning home the next day. She declined to tell him the cause of her quarrel, but referred, Mm to Lady Ewell. That lady was equally reticent on the subject, but eagerly acquiesced in Rosie’s departure. When Rosie returned home she was not at all welcome. Her mother in vain sought to make her tell the cause of her qunrrel with her sister-in-law. Not succeeding in this, Mrs. Ewell sought out Lady Otto, who told her about Rosie’s meeting some gentleman in the park at Lambscote, and Lena’s discovering the fact. She carefully concealed anything that might have reflected on her daughter’s reputation. Armed with this information, Mrs. Ewell again confronted her daughter with the request that she should beg Lena’s pardon and return to Lambscote. The poor, pestered girl took matters in her own hands by running away from her home, and, above all places in the world, seeking a refuge in Chelsea with Jane Warner. Sir Wilfrid was dreadfully distressed about his little Bister, and accused both his wife nnd his mother-in-law of having co-operated in making her dissatisfied with her home. He made every inquiry possible, and succeeded in tracing her as far as Waterloo. But there his discoveries ceased. Strangely enough, it never entered Wilfrid's head to think his sister had gone to the Warners. He put some mysteriously worded advertisements in the daily papers, which never caught his sister’s eye, and he consulted Mr. Parfitt on the subject. But that worthy gave him little consolatikm, except by screwlg up his mouth and shaking his head, and saying he thought it very unlikely the young lady had left home alone. And a few lines that reached Sir Wilfrid in Rosie’s hand about a month afterward seemed to further Mr. Parfitt’s idea. They were posted from some remote place in Wales, where she took care to tell him she had never been, and were merely to the effect that he was not to worry himself about her, as she was quite well and happy, and with some one whom she loved dearly, and who took every core of her. Sir Wilfrid’s mind was somewhat relieved by the reception of this letter, but he felt that so much of the sunshine of his life hnd evaporated with his little sister, that he made many journeys up to London for the sole purpose of wandering about the streets, in the distant hope of running up against her. But it was many, many months before he did so. With the blooming of the June roses and the advent of the little foundling in the lily bed, Jane Warner’s health and spirits improved. She did not sing, nor laugh aloud —she had never been a merry girl at the best of times—but she smiled far oftener than she had done before, and went about her work with cheerful alacrity. She was walking up and down the lawn one evening in July, putting little Nellie to sleep in the soft summer air, when the maid, Caroline, came to say a young lady wished to see her. “A young lady, Caroline? What is it for? Does she want any rooms—because we have none vacant.” “I don’t know, miss. She didn’t say. Only she asked for you particular.” She placed the infant, with a kiss, In the servant’s arms and walked slowly to the parlor. As she entered it Rose Ewell confronted her. At first Jane thought Sir Wilfrid must be ill or dying, and had sent for her, and ail the blood forsook her cheek. She grasped the back of a chair with her hands to steady herself, and asked, faintly: “What is it? What do you want?” Rosie’s expectations were chilled by this reception. “Oh, Miss Warner, have I done wrong in coming to you? But I am so wretched —so unhappy—and I thought you would be my friend.” There was no need for that appeal. Directly Jane understood that the girl was in distress and in want of a friend, all her womanly sympathies went out toward her. “You are welcome to stay here as long as you like. I was only wondering if any members of jrour family would follow you

“They cannot. IWey hare not evea h*ard me taetrtion your name. But I have never fotfotten you, Mias Warner, and when I felt I so much wanted a fried I thought of you at oace, and believed somehow that you would not refuse to befriend me.” “It will be safer for you to take another name. Your—your brother was so well known In house, and we hare a friend —a very dear, good friend—but rather inquisitive, and if she hears you are Sir Wilfrid’s sister she will never rest until she has found out the reason for your coming here.” "What shall I call myself? Decide for me, Jane.” “Any name will do that is not noticeable. Shall we say ‘Miss Fraser?* My mother and Miss Proseer will be home shortly, and we had better decide before they come.” “Yes; Fraser will do as well as any other name, and I will not forget that I am Rosie Fraeer.” Mrs. Warner, busily engaged In discussing her meal, did not evince the least curiosity on the subject of Roaie’s sudden appearance in the midst of their domestic circle. But Jane saw that Miss Prosser thought It strange there had been no premonitory symptoms of such an event, or that she waa not further enlightened upon it now, and was thankful when the supper was concluded and she had a fair pretext for withdrawing with her friend. But, shut in the seclusion of the bedroom, Jane’s mood underwent a singular alteration. She seemed as if she wished to postpone the explanation, to hear which she had retired so early. Rosie took possession of a footstool, and flung her arms across Jane Warner’s knee. “It to a very dreadful story, Jane, and I hardly know in what words to toil it you. Yet I feel I must. I have repeated it to no one else—not Wilfrid even, nor mamma—because it might injure Lena with those who are obliged to live with her. But as you never will know her—and if you did I feel you would keep my secret —I have less hesitation in confiding It to you.” "I will faithfully guard any secret of your own you confide to me, but don’t fell me those of anybody else.” "I know you will say he must be a bad man, and not worth caring for,” continued Rosit. ‘But you know, Jane, that you can't leave off loving a person all at once because, jou fin'] out that he is not worthy.” * “Yes, dear, I know," answered the other, with •i pressure of the hand. “And then she told me I must leave Lambscote, and what could I do? I could not have stajed there with Lena and—and —that man." “No, no.” cried Jane warmly. “It was impossible." “And be a traitor to poor Wilfrid, eating his bread, and letting him be deceived under I>D very eyes. So I went home to my mother, and she wouldn’t let me remain wiih her, Jane. She heard some garbled account of this story from Lady Otto—that’s Lena’s mother—and said I was not fit to live with my sisters, and she should take me back to Lambscote Hall, and make me beg Lena’s pardon. And that I will never do,” said Rosie determinedly. “I will not beg Lena’s pardon, nor will I betray her to Wilfrid. And so there is but one course left open to me— 1 to earn my own living; and I came to you, Jane, to ask if you can help me. I have no claim on you, dear, except your past kindness to my brother. But I felt somehow as If you would be my friend.” "You felt right, dear. I will be as good a friend to you as is in my power. But this gentleman you speak of, are you sure he will not follow you down here?” “How can he, Jane? He does not know your name." “But—hut Sir Wilfrid?”- said Jane iu a Vow voice. “Oh, no, he will not come. I do not know why, but he will not let me mention you before him now. What is the reason, Jane? Is he angry with you? Have you quarreled?” “No, not exactly; but there is a coolness. Don’t question me about h, Rosie, for I can tell you no more. But If your story l Is true —as I have no doubt it is—and you have no home either at Lambscote or Surbiton, why, look upon this as your home, dear, until you find a better.” “Oh, Jane, Jane! how good you are! How I wish you were my sister?” “Believe I am your sister, then, dear. Think of me and confide in me as such.” (To be continued.)