Democratic Sentinel, Volume 21, Number 50, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 17 December 1897 — A WOMEN HEART [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A WOMEN HEART

BY FLORENCE MARYATT

CHAPTER XVII. Meanwhile Sir( Wilfrid was very unhappy. The mere) fact of his favorite sister being driven Dam his home by the unkindness of his Lite would have been j sufficient to poison his existence: but when Rosie’s demrture from Lambseote was followed by lor actual flight and disappearance fromf them all, he became miserably anxiot s and self-reproachful. Even the letter ! e received from Wales was no more tha: a passing drop of comfort. It told hit she was alive, and he never doubted tl it fact; but it left him completely in the dark concerning her address or her sur oundings, and held out no hope of their ever meeting again. He had several quarrels with his wife, naturally, on the subject of Rosie’s departure. Lena Tas at first so positive ithat her own belavior had had nothing whatever to do with the resolution of her sister-in-law. and afterward, when the news of Rosie's light from Surbiton had reached them, aid became an assured fact, she launeliep out in such cruel invectives against (lie absent girl—in such cruel insinuations and doubts of the purity of her conduct and motives —that Sir Wilfrid would not listen to her, and ordered her sternly to hold her tongue. “You can be unwomanly enough,” he said, “to arouse my suspicions respecting a poor girl who is not here to defend herself. But mind yon, Lena! Rosie will not be lost to us forever. I shall not cease to search for hrr until she is found. It is my duty. And when we meet again, I will have the Whole story from her own lips, that I may judge how far you have deceived me.” “And you will believe her in preference to me?” cried lady Ewell angrily. “You will take the wcjrd of a child, whose aim it will be to make you think the best of her behavior, before that of your own wife!” “Oh, Lena, rty dearest, it is the last thing in the woild I wish to do! But the side you have tilken in this sad affair has made me miserable—perhaps unjust. Since you are my own wife, why cannot you believe as I do, instead of being a mere echo of Lady Otto’s sentiments? Sometimes you make me fear there is an end of it—an end of everything—love, hope and happiness. But it is a sorry end for »ueh a bright beginning, Lena.” “I did not know it was a bright beginning. We married, I suppose, as other folks do, for our mutual convenience—at least, I did.” “You did not marry me for my money, Lena?” he said hoarsely. “Don’t tell me that!” *‘CouM I have married you without it?” she answered. “Now, don’t pretend to be so innocent, Wilfrid. You know as well as anybody, when you came into your fortune, that you were a bon parti. Would you have had the courage to propose to me else, knowing I had refused you before?” “But that was your mother’s fault. You acted under her influence —you told me so!” ! ‘As if one did not say anything' when one is being courted. Really, Wilfrid, I credited you with more sense. You have got me now, beyond all dispute. Cannot you be satisfied with that?” She did not love him, and she never had done so. Perhaps the intelligence was not quite new to him; but he had not realized it so fully before. To hear it from her own lips, accompanied with sueers at his folly, was very hard to bear. And as Sir Wilfrid wandered about his grounds, downcast and nlonc, brooding over his disappointment and the misery of an unrequited love, there came into his mind for the first time, a doubt whether it might not be a judgment sent by heaven upon him for his perfidy to Jane Warner. When Lena and her mother had been settled in Paris nearly a month, Captain Dorsay turned up, rather unexpectedly, at Lambseote Hall. Sir Wilfrid had not invited him, although he knew no reason why he should have a grudge against the man. But he had always considered Jack Dorsay as a friend of Lady Otto St. Blase and her family, and had left it to his wife to invite him as she thought fit. But he had not been seen at Lambseote since Rosie’s departure from it, a year before, and, to tell the truth, the reason of Lady Ewell’s restlessness was because she was afraid she had offended him on that occasion beyond forgiveness. She could not tear heT thoughts from this unworthy man, do what she would, and though she had seen how little be eared for her, she still hoped on that, some day, his truant heart would come back pleading for reacceptanee a.t her hands. But that .just happened to be the last idea in Jack Dorsay’s head. He saw through her worldly and selfish character tharofighly—much better than her husband did—and would not have taken her as a gift from his hands. In fact, Sir Wilfrid had less to fear from Captain Dorsay than from any other man—had he only known it —or, rather, had Lena only known it. But she shut her eyes (as children shut theirs at a fancied ghost) and refused to believe the truth. The baronet received him cordially. He was dull and hipped, and his guests were not a very bright lot, and Jack Dorsay was just the man to stir them up and keep them going. And the second night he was there —after they had finished an uproarious evening of funny stories and comic songs, and the other fellows had betaken themselves to bed or fallen asleep in their chairs—Sir Wilfrid found himself pacing the moonlit terrace in company with Jack Dorsay, and confiding to him somehow his disappointment respecting his wife. “Give me your advice, Dorsay,” he said, ‘‘and I will try to follow it. I know I'm a great fool about her, but I can’t help being unhappy. Perhaps she has told you —as I know you are such friends—that I fell in love with her years ago, and she wouldn’t have me. When she came round, it took me so much by surprise, I thought 6lie must care for me as I enred for her. But I’m afraid I was too sanguine. We have only been married two years, and she seems tired of this place already. She wants me to leave it and live altogether in town; but I don’t see my way to that. What am I to do?” “Nothing, my dear boy, but what you think best for yourself. Just listen to me. Lena has been spoiled all her life, and you continue to spoil her, and she won't like you a bit the better for it—women never do. They’re made to be ruled, and they love to feel the curb if it’s not too tight. Your best plan for the present is this: Let her remain with her mother. Pretend it makes no difference to you where she is, but don’t let her imagine that you fret. Take some chambers in town, and keep them for your own convenience and run up whenever yon feel inclined. I’ll introduce you to a first-rate set, and we’ll put up your name at the clubs. No man can belong to the fashion who mopes in the country all the year

around. You don’t know how it would brighten you up to pay us an occasional visit.” As soon as the pheasants were slaughtered and his guests had taken their departure, he went up to London with Captain Dorsay, and settled himself there for the winter months. Lady Ewell- was not particularly pleased when she heard of the step her husband had taken. Bachelor chambers and absence from Lambscote sounded very like an attempt at freedom on his part, and Lady Otto showed no sympathy for her alarm. J- told you how it would be, when you insisted upon accompanying me to Paris,” she said to her daughter. “Yon had no right to leave your home at such a season, and Sir Wilfrid resents it by showing you that he also intends to take his pleasure in his own way. You are playing a very foolish game, Lena, and you will live to repent it.” CHAPTER XVIII. Rosie Ewell, in coloring photographs, had found her vocation. Mr. Denham made her begin at the beginning, but she rapidly ascended the ladder. From “touching up” the plain photographs she went on to “tinting” faces and hands, and thence rose to coloring the whole figure—an art in which she so greatly improved that the most finished portraits were soon intrusted to her care. Mr. Denham, on finding out the progress made by Miss Fraser—for Jane insisted that Rosie should still maintain her incognito—transferred her to his Regent street establishment, where the demand for highly finished portraits was greater than at Chelsea. Jane consented to the new arrangement with some fears, but Rosie had none for herself. If she should meet any of her family, she averred, she did not care. No one should take her from her beloved Jane Warner, nor prevent her from supporting herself. It was a March day, cold, dull and wintry, and the girl was wondering whether she could accomplish any work on such a dark afternoon, when the proprietor of the studio—a brother of Mr. Denham's—came into her room with a carte de visite in his hand. “Can you do anything with this, Miss Fraser?” he inquired. “The gentleman wants the head colored for a locket, but I m afraid it s too dark. I advised him to sat again, but he has no time—is in a hurry, and wants it at once. Can it be done?” lie placed the photograph in her hands. She recognized it at once. It was a portrait of her brother Wilfrid. “Is the gentleman here?” she asked hurriedly. “Yes; waiting to hear what you say.” "It is much too dark an impression. It won’t be satisfactory,” she answered, giving it back with a trembling hand. “Very good, I’ll tell him so,” said Mr. Denham. But in another minute he had returned. “The gentleman—it’s Sir Wilfrid Ewell —says he will take the chance of its turning out a failure; but he wishes this particular carte colored, and would like to speak to you about it. You must come downstairs and see him.” “I cannot; I am too busy,” she answered brusquely. “But, Miss Fraser, I must insist,” commenced the photographer. “Am I intruding?” said a voice in the doorway, and her brother appeared upon the threshold. Mr. Denham retreated in his favor. “Ah, Sir Wilfrid! Now you can speak to the young lady yourself. Sir Wilfrid, Miss Fraser.” And so saying, Mr. Denham went back to his own department. Sir Wilfrid recognized her at once. Kosie had only to raise those dark, gray eyes—so like his own—and fix a look upon him filled with emotion, for him to know his sister. But surprise for a moment mastered his powers of speech. “Don’t make a fuss about it, darling,” said Rosie quietly, when she had found her voice. “It is I, indeed; and if you are angry to find me here, remember, it was my mother drove me to it.” “Rosie, my dearest sister! how could I be angry to find you, when your loss has been the trouble of my life? But what is this, dear? Are you obliged to work for your bread? Whom are you living with? What are you doing? Oh, Rosie! do not be afraid of me, but tell me all.” He had closed the door by this time, and coming forward, folded her in his arms. And Rosie, feeling his kisses on her cheek, wondered for a moment how she could have had the heart to run away from him. “I am not a bit afraid, dear Wilfrid; tior have I any reason to be ashamed. But you must let me go now, darling. Suppose Mr. Denham should come in and catch us kissing! I should be dismissed upon the spot.” They both laughed at that, and Rosie dried the tears that had risen to her eyes. “Now that I have found you, Rosie, I will never let you go,” said Sir Wilfrid. “And I have no wish that you should, dear brother; for meeting you again makes me wonder how I can have lived so long without a sight of your face or a sound of your voice. But you must not stay here now. Give me your orders about the photograph, and tell me where I can see you, and I will come as soon as my day’s work is over.” "Oh, hang the photograph!” exclaimed Sir Wilfrid. “I don’t want it now. All I want is you.” But that will not be very satisfactory for poor Mr. Denham,” said Rosie. “May I tell him you will sit to him another day ?” “Say anything you like. But can’t you' come with me now?” “No; it is impossible! Neither must you return for me. We don’t want them to know that I’m your sister. Only say where I can see you, darling—alone, remember and I will be there by five o’clock.” lou must come to my chambers, in Rochester street. You remember the old place, don’t you?” “Living in chambers, Wilfrid! And where, then, is your wife?” Sir W ilfrid s brows contracted with a frown. “She is staying with her mother in Onslow- Gardens. She prefers it to living with me. But I will tell you all about that when we have time to talk together. And you promise me faithfully to come to my chambers at five?!’ "I promise you, dearest; and I shall be so impatient for the moment to arrive, that I do not know how I shall get through my work till then.” CHAPTER XIX. The reappearance of the photographer on the scene of action here forced Sir Wilfrid to tear himself away; nnd after promising to return and sit for his por-

trait, ne left Rosie to think over five Kciting interview she had passed through, As soon os ever the day’s work was completed, she hurried on her walking apparel and took her way to the Adeiphi. Sir \\ ilfrid had asked her to give her own name to his servants, to avoid any scandal; and as soon as the valet, who answered the door to her, heard it, he ushered her without ceremony into his master s sitting room, where she found M ilfrid seated before a blazing fire, and beside a table laid out with every luxury suitable to an afternoon tea. As soon as the door was closed behind heT, and they found themselves alone, the brother and sister flew into each other’s arms. “And now, Rome,” exclaimed Sir Wilfrid, when their rapture at their reunion had somewhat abated, “the first thing you must do is to eat. I won’t hear another word, nor answer a question, till you have had your tea. Here is some very tolerable bread and butter (considering Harvey cut it), and some first rate Dalninni—l can vouch for the excellence of the Dalmani, because I tried it at luncheon. And what is this? Oh! a cold game pie. And here is some guava jelly (you girls are always ready for sweets), and seed-cake, and ” "Stop, stop, Wilfrid!” cried Rosie, laughing; “you talk as if I had had nothing to eat since we parted. I have not been starved, I assure you, dear, and I had my dinner later than usual to-day, so that I would rather wait a little —if it is all the same to you—before I take my tea.” She had removed her hat and cloak by this rime, and now stood np before the glass, and rutiled her bonny brown hair becomingly with her hands. “You are prettier than ever, Rosie,” said her brother, admiringly; “and I really think you have grown. But now tell me everything, dear. I am burning to hear where you have been all this time. You are alone, Rosie, I hope? You are not married?” Ihe brightness died out of her laughing eyes. "No, Wilfrid, I am not married, nor do I think I ever shall be. I have seen too much of the effects of marriage on my friends. It seems to me it is better left alone.” “But what made you leave us all in so mysterious and extraordinary a way, dear? You don’t know the misery and anxiety you have caused me.” “Dear old boy!” said the girl, affectionately. “And you were the only one I grieved after, too. The reason I went was this, Wilfrid. You know I told you it was impossible for me to live at Lambscote. Don’t let us allude to that question again. It is settled, once and forever. But mamma insisted that I shoulddo so. She called me ungrateful and disobedient, and said I was a burden, and all sorts of hard things, and threatened to take me back to Somersetshire herself. And so I ran away. The money you had given me kept me until I got work, and since I obtained that I have kept myself. There is my whole history, Wilfrid. A very simple one, with nothing in the background. You need not be ashamed of me, brother. I have done nothing to disgrace my birth or breeding. And—except sos not seeing you—l have been tolerably happy.” •To bo cont nued.)