Democratic Sentinel, Volume 21, Number 51, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 December 1897 — A WOMEN HEART [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A WOMEN HEART

CHAPTER XXII. , Lady Otto, who had entertained some atrong suspicions respecting her daughter's desire to take -up her a bade in Onslow Gardens, watched her very nar«owly when she had got her there. She Was a worldly woman, but she was not going to let Lena disgrace herself and ter family for lack of a little care. She {felt certain that her object in living in London was to have the daily chance of meeting Captain Dorsay, and she felt equally determined that she should not do bo —at least without a witness. She need not'have been afraid. Jack Dorsay tad another project in view at that moment, and had it not been the case no teower on earth would have brought him hack again to Lady Ewell's feet. But Lena was not yet aware of it. Each day her mother saw her cheek flush feverishly as their carriage turned into the (Park, and her eyes rove incessantly from one aide of the Row to the other, for fear of losing sight of the only person she was there to see. Twice they met him. indeed, but each dame accompanied by Sir Wilfrid Ewell, when both men raised their hats to the dadies, and nothing more. Lady Otto susipected that her daughter wrote to CnpItain Dorsay, but she was never able to | establish that fact. Lady Ewell had her ,own maid to carry and receive her letters, and her mother felt she had no right fto interfere. But she guessed it, from .the anxiety with which Lena awaited the f postman’s knock —from the look of sickening disappointment that crept over her ■ [face, as she examined the envelopes pre- . pented to her. The mother and daugh- ' jter had lost all pleasure iu each other's ■ .society. The one was a prisoner—the othi«r a jailer, and Lena felt as if she had .’been more free (as indeed she was) at 'Lambscote. But her husband never wrote ito her now, nor attempted to see her, and the cnly evidence she had of his L‘existence was when she received the al■jlowance which was regularly forwarded I*o her. ■j At last the woman grew really sick with ■jonging and disappointment, and the conKriction that she had made a hopeless tanHgle of life which might otherwise have K>een tolerably easy. Lady Otto heard ■her pacing up and down her room at might ■—not despairingly, but angrily—as if she ■cursed her fate, nnd everything connected Flwith it, for having brought her to so disjmal a pass. Yet in the morning she would i«ppear with heavy lidded eyes, and in wnswer to all interrogations, would de'clare she had never rested better in her life. Lady Otto could not understand it. Bnt before long she understood it too well. One morning, when she had waited for Iher breakfast beyond the usual hour, she jeent for Lady Ewell’s maid, and desired fto know if her mistress was getting up. r “I don’t know, my lady,” replied the laercant, “I took up her ladyship’s hot [water at the usual time, and I have orders *to wait after that until her ladyship rings (the bell for me. And her ladyship hasn’t rung yet, my lady.” ■ ‘‘She must have fallen asleep again,” ■ aaid Lady Otto. “Go up stairs and tell f jher, with my love, that it is past twelve i o’clock. Perhaps she will have her break- * fast served in' her own room.” 1 The woman went upon her errand, but Returned in double quick time, with a Iddk of eonsternatiou. “Oh! if you please, my Indy, will you ■come to her ladyship? I can’t wake her, jmy lady, do what I will; and she looks <t(fr all the world as if she was dead, my jlady.” j Lady Otto turned very pale. She attached more importance to Lena's attacks of palpitation than the doctors did, and her first impression was that her daughter had been suddenly launched upon the unseen world. She ran up stairs as quickly as she could, and reached Lena’s bedroom. The first view of her was startling enough. Lady Ewell was lying over the [wide of the bed—ghastly white—with her teyes fixed and her mouth open. But she Fas notji dead, for she breathed with a irsh, snoring sound. “What is this?” exclaimed Lady Otto, taa she raised her daughter’s head. “What [has she taken?” ' “Oh, dear, my lady!” cried the whimpering maid, “I do hope as it’s nothing 'as will harm her ladyship. But her ladyship she will take drops to make herself sleep, my lady, and ” “Go for a doctor!” exclaimed Lady iOtto, authoritatively. “Send one of the ;tnen for Dr. Marshall, and tell him to at once.” ; 1 In a few minutes, during which she had tried in vain to restore Lady Ewell to consciousness, the doctor stood by the bedjßide. I He examined the patient’s eyeballs, and said briefly: 11 “Hydrate of chloral!—an overdose!” f “Oh, doctor; will it kill her?” h' “Not this time; but Lady Ewell had iTbetter be careful how she plays such tricks with herself. I have cautioned her .against opiates of all kinds. The palpitations she suffers from, though not dangerous in themselves, indicate a very weak heart, and an indiscretion of this sort (might prove fatal to her. Let her sleep iit off now, Lady Otto. She willprobably inot awake for some hours yet But when she does, you must give her a good talking to, or very serious consequences may ensue.” Lena was awake by dinner time, and apparently in'her usrual spirits; but her mothler did not mention the subject to her till [the following morning. And when she [did, she fould to her consternation that jLady Ewell was obstinately opposed to believing that any harm could accrue to her from the use of chloral. From that day a continual warfare .(though an amicable one) waged between 'Lady Otto and her daughter, and it was doubtful for a long time which side would win. It was the mother’s aim—by artifice, [by bribery, or by force of arms—to present Lena being supplied with the sopojriflc that might prove her death.- And 'Lefla—perfectly aware of the tricks that jWCTfI being carried on behind her back—jmade it the business of her life to procure it It Was in vain that podr Lady Otto 'efiliiat&d the doctor and chemist on her •ide—that she bribed the maid to substitute some other drug for the chloral—that •he watched her daughter like a lynx, •find used everj, precaution possible to neutralize the effects of the medicine she secretly procured and swallowed. Lena, in Mine marvelous manner, evaded all her espionage, and did exactly as she chose. -The habit had grown so strong with her that she found it impossible to shake it off. i She was like the drunkard, who, once ► [thoroughly infected with his fatal mad- '■ ness, could not be induced to stop, even L If the flames of hell were opened before ■hinu But she did not let the world guess ■her weakness. She pretended to her moth■er that she saw the danger of each a cus■om, and had completely given it up. And she ™ careful never to be ever takes

BY FLORENCE MARYATT

in like measnre again, it seemed probable that her assertion was true. And so the season rolled on its course; and while Sir Wilfrid was spending a great deal of his time in the cause of friendship in Jane Warner's cottage, Lady Ewell was gazing anxiously from her drawing room windows for the appearance of a form that never knocked for admittance at the front door in Onslow Gardens. CHAPTER XXIII. If Sir Wilfrid Ewell imagined for a moment that Jane Warner, in giving her reluctant consent to his visiting Wolsey Cottage, intended that they should meet on anything approaching their former terms of intimacy, he was very mnch mistaken. She kept her word with him. She no longer forced herself to leave the house directly Rosie intimated that her brother was coming to see them. But, on the other hand, she never put aside any duty or engagement in order to enjoy his company. And he never saw her by herself. An ordinary shake of the hand and a quiet smile, given in the midst of the family circle, were all the recognition he eonld obtain from the girl he had once called his wife. One Sunday he strolled in, when the whole family was assembled on the lawn nt the back of the house. His sister and Miss Prosser had their bonnets on, in readiness to start for afternoon church, and Rosie laughingly asked her brother to accompany them. But he grumbled out a refusal, and threw himself in a despondent. attitude on the grass instead. Little Nellie, who had grown familiar with the sight of him, toddled up to his side, and commenced to decorate him with daisies. Jane sat on a bench near at hand, and Mrs. Warner, seeing tire’’ party occupied, trotted off in the direction, of the cottage. “Dear little Nellie, do go and toddle out of sight!” exclaimed Sir Wilfrid, significantly. “Does she annoy you?” inauired Jane; “if so, I will take her away/’ “No, no! 1 like to play with her. I think she is the prettiest little lass I’ve ever seen. It has been a real trouble to me, having no children.” “Have you none?” “Have you so little interest left in me as not to know?” Jane lowered her eyes. “Rosie has never mentioned it,” she said. ' “No, I have not got a child,” he resumed presently, with a sigh. “It has been a great disappointment. I would give half my fortune for one. It would have made things different, I think. A child is such a sacred link between a husband and wife.” “Yes,” replied Jane Warner, biting her lips. They had been talking together so earnestly, that they had failed to notice what went on around them. In her anxiety to change the subject Jane now looked up. Mrs. Warner was quietly slumbering on the bench beside her with her head upon her breast. Little Nellie was nowhere to be seen. Jane ran down the path, stared about her -wildly for a moment, and then with a scream of terror rushed out into the road. She had descried little Nellie, in her white frock and fluttering blue ribbons, toddling across the thoroughfare, in the very midst of all the London traffic. She had already started to follow her, when Sir Wilfrid grasped her arm and pushed her back upon the pavement. “Stay there!” he exclaimed authoritatively, “and I will bring the child to you.” He dashed into the middle of the road. Cabs and omnibuses were plying their trade as vigorously as on week days, and the infant was in imminent danger of being run over. Just as Sir Wilfrid reached her side, she was innocently crossing in front of a hansom. He stretched out his arm, and seized her by the frock; the driver pulled his horse back upon its haunches, but not before it had knocked Sir Wilfrid down, and struck him with one of its fore feet upon the thigh. But Nellie was safe. He rose with some difficulty, and telling the driver to follow him, crossed the road again, and placed the child unhurt in Jane Warner’s arms. She disappeared into the house with it, and Sir Wilfrid turned to reward the hansom driver for his promptitude. “Close shave, sir, wasn’t It?” said cabby, as he received a handsome gratuity; “thoaght it was ail over with the baby myself. Thank you, sir, kindly, and I hope you're not much hurt, though I’m afraid my horse gave you an ugly knock upon the shoulder.” “It’s my thigh,” said Sir Wilfrid, screwing up his face with pain; “bnt I dare say it won’t be more than a bruise. Goodday, cabby,” and he turned to re-enter the house. He looked a comical object as he did so. His hair and clothes were covered with dust, the lapel and skirt of his coat had been torn, and his face was contorted with pain in his thigh. He had been completely rolled over by the blow he had received, and could not help thinking he had earned a little gratitude for the risk he had run. But as he entered the passage of Wolsey Cottage, his thoughts were entirely diverted from his own miftying The parlor door was open, ancnie could hear Jane sobbing violently inside of it. Jane, who was usually so calm—so completely mistress of herself—what could have happened, now that the child was safe, to betray her into so costmon a weakness as hysterics? He hastened forward with the idea of giving her comfort, but the sight he encountered and the words he heard arrested his steps upon the very threshold. Jane Warner was sitting in a chair,, rocking the child to and fro, while her tears fell unrestrainedly upon its flaxen curls. She appeared to have entirely lost her self-possession, and to be unmindful of who saw or listened to her. “Oh, my darling! my darling!” she walled; “what should I have done if I had lost you? Oh, my own child! my own baby! The only thing he left me—the only consolation I have in this world! What would your poor mother have done had you been taken away?” As she cried, and sobbed, and strained the, little child to her bosom,, no one could have mistaken the relationship between them. There was all the “mother” in Jane s eyes and voice. The hungry, jealous look of the creature over the thing it has area ted, the sacred right of maternity, the absorbing pride of possession, were all present in full force, nnd one must have been blind indeed not to recognize them. Sir Wilfrid stood on the threshold petrified with astonishment. It had never occurred to him that NelMe could be Jane’s child. He had accepted the fable circulated in the household concerning her with perfect faith. But a light broke on him now, and the thoughts that followed it made him tremble. Yet be would not stay to ask a single question. Jane was evidently mt herself. Fear had upset her

spuat equanimity, and her honor waa at stake. The first thing he did, therefore, was to close the door, that her ravings might not be overheard. The next, to try and recall her to herself. For this purpose he went up and touched her on the shoulder. “Jane,” he said gently, “remember where you are. Do try and compose yourself. Caroline will hear what you are saying in the kitchen.” She seized bis hand, and clung to it convulsively. “Oh, Wilfrid! oh. husband! You are sure that she is safe?” “I am quite sure of it, dear. Look at her! She has not even a scratch! I think the blue ribbons are the only things that have been damaged. Take her upstairs and lie down together. It will do yon both good.” And he stooped down and kissed Jane on the forehead as he spoke. It was the first kiss he had attempted to give her since they had parted, and it seemed to thrill through her frame and rouse her to a sense of her position. - She shivered under if, and her hlue-veined eyelids were lowered solemnly. “Yes,” she said, “it will be best to do as you say. I will take her upstairs.” (To be continued.)