Democratic Sentinel, Volume 22, Number 1, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 8 January 1898 — A WOMANS HEART [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A WOMANS HEART

CHAPTER XXIV. Sir Wilfrid felt as if he could not leave Chelsea before he had an explanation with Jane. But, on second thoughts, he decided to go. The girl had had sufficient excitement for one day She was totally unaware that Sir Wilfrid had overheard anything at a moment when she believed herself to be alone. And consequently she was quite unprepared for the search ing catechism to which he subjected her as soon as they met. She had been suffering all night from »ne of her nervous headaches, was still In her dressing gown, with her brown h.tir loose upon her shoulders, when Sir Wilfrid was announced. , “Why did you come over this morning?” said Jane, compassionately. “You should have stayed at home and rested your leg. I am afraid I must have seemed very ungrateful yesterday, not to have thanked you better for the great service you did us; but I had no idea that you were hurt.” “And I had- no wish that you should know it,” he answered, seating himself. “And, indeed, my bruises are not worth so much pity at your hands. My valet is an excellent nurse, and he rubbed in some liniment last night which has almost set me right again. Jane, when I first saw Nellie I asked you whose child she was, and you said you did not know. Was that the truth?” The woman looked as if she had been caught in a trap; but though taken utterly aback by the question, she made a gallant effort to escape. “I told you that some one put her over our garden wall when she was a little baby, and we found her in the lily bed — at least, mother did —and she had no idea to whom the child belonged. That is the truth.”

“I don’t want to hear anything about your mother. I want to hear you say that you do not know Nellie's parents. Jane’s head drooped upon her bosom. “Yes,” she said in a low voice; “if you must know it, that is the truth. But no one else knows it. No one suspects it even, unless it is Miss Prosser. Nellie is my child.” “Dear little Nellie!” said Sir Wilfrid musingly; “my sweet child! There must have been some instinct in my heart to tell me she was mine, for I don’t remember ever caring for an infant before. I shall love her doubly now. My own little girl!” A sudden terror seemed to grip the mother’s heart. She rose up from her chair, and turned upon him like an animal at bay. “You will not take her from me!” she cried fiercely. Sir Wilfrid placed his hand upon her arm and forced her to reseat herself. “No —no,” he replied, soothingly, “you need not fear. I have not the power, Jane, even if I had the intention. You poor unrecognized mothers have one advantage over those who stand higher in the world's esteem than yourselves. Your wrongs set you above the tyranny or the cruelty of man, and your children are your own. How could you think so basely of me, Jane? Has that one wicked act of mine changed my whole character in your estimation?” “Thank heaven!” ejaculated Jane, as she lay back in the chair and closed her eyes. “Jane,” said Sir Wilfrid, “those two words are the very bitterest reproach your lips could have conveyed to me.” “Listen to me, Will,” she said, firmly, though gently, “and then answer me as you think fit. After two years’ total silence and separation you sought me out, and asked my leave to visit at this house as a friend. I granted it —not because it was my wish, but because I was anxious to keep my secret, and not to do anything to attract suspicion to me. You thought, perhaps, because I yielded so easily, that I had-ceased to feel or to regret—that I had overcome my first frenzied passion of jealousy, revenge and despair, and learned to acknowledge that you had right on your side, because you had law, and that a miserable legal quibble had freed you from the oath you took to heaven to cherish me to your life’s end. It is untrue! I have not forgotten, and I have not forgiven! You deserted me in the very midst of my love for you, when I had never done a thing nor said a word, that I am aware of, that was unbecoming my duty as a wife to you. You broke my heart! I say it without any feeling of humiliation, for I never disguised my love for you. But you see I have lived on—without any hope and with little interest in life, but still I have lived. And the one cord to bind me to earth has been our child—your lawful daughter, Will. I will have her called by no name less worthy of her than that. And now you come—you, who have robbed me of everything—life, hope, companionship—you come and would doubtless like to occupy the position, of Sir Wilfrid Ewell, the owner of Lambseote, and the husband of the beautiful Lady Ewell, in the eyes of the world, and to have this poor cottage to creep to as a refuge when you are weary of society, to bask in the smiles of your innocent child, and to receive, perhaps, my welcome, as a comfortable pledge that you had never done anything to reproach yourself with regarding me. But it cannot be, Will. Your proper place is with the woman you call your wife, and from this day I request you will not come here again. You nave discovered the truth. Be satisfied with it. I do not think it will make you any happier, but it need not add to your remorse. Think of us as living here contentedly, if nothing more. But only think of us, for I must decline to receive you again at Wolsey Cottage.” Sir Wilfrid looked at her with tears in his eyes and, without a word, left her.

CHAPTER XXV. It was a difficult task for Jane to apprise Rosie of what had taken place without letting her guess too much of the truth. All she ventured to say was that she thought Sir Wilfrid was spending a great deal of time at the cottage, and had felt herself called upon to give him a hint not to come there so often. “I must go and see him, then,” said Rosie; “so don’t expect me home to tea this evening, Jane.” She guessed that something more had transpired between Jane and Wilfrid than had been disclosed to her, and determined to find out the truth; so, as soon as her day’s work was completed, she took her way to the Strand. Sir Wilfrid’s valet, Harvey, met her with a grave face. His master had been out a great deal during the last ten days, he said —a very, great deal—and had kept late hours, and he was afraid he rfhist have taken a chill. He had looked very poorly that morning when the valet took up his hot water —so much so, that Harvey had brought a doctor to his bedside; nod the doctor had said Sir Wilfrid must

not dream of getting up. And, indeedconcluded the man mysteriously—he did not think there would be much more trouble in the matter, as his master was altogether too ill to stand. , Left alone with her brother, Rosie fobnd him very disinclined to talk. He appeared to be sullen or morose —a mood which her affectionate heart attributed entirely to his condition. He did not mention Jane Warner or the cottage, and when Rosie alluded to her friends he made no reply. She stayed by his side for nearly an hour, trying to cheer him up and to persuade him to take a change to the seaside as soon as his feverish attack should have passed away. But Sir Wilfrid met all her proposals with a gesture of impatience or dissent. After a while the girl, seeing he looked drowsy, wisely held her tongue. In a few minutes he slept, and as soon ns Rosie was convinced his sleep was sound, she rose lightly from her seat, and, turning down the lamp, left the chamber. Sir Wilfrid’s sitting room was on the opposite side of the passage, and she entered it to fetch her hat and gloves. As soon as she had turned the handle of the door she saw that it was occupied. A man stood with his back toward her, looking out of the window, which commanded a view of the Thames. As she entered, believing her to be a servant, he demanded curtly, and without changing his position: “Well —can Sir Wilfrid see me now?” “1 beg your pardon,” said Rosie bashfully, “but my brother is asleep.” The man at the’ window turned round quickly, and peered eagerly at her through the falling dusk. “Good heavens!” he exclaimed; is it possible? Y’es, it must be!” And Rosie Ewell felt every drop of blood in her body rush to her face as she recognized the voice and figure of Captain Dorsay. He advanced toward her impressively, and took her hand as though he had no doubt whatever of the welcome he should receive. But Rosie was not disposed to be (responsive. She drew her hand back abruptly, and answered in a low voice: “No.”

“No? —not glad to-seeme?” he repeated incredulously. “Oh, nonsense! I can’t believe that. You are a great deal too good and too charming to be so cruel! “Captain Dorsay,” said Rosie, raising her burning face to his, “please don’t speak of that time. I hoped that you had forgotten it long ago.” “Forgotten it! My dear child, as if I ever should forget it! Nor the deucedly unpleasant way in which that spiteful creature, Lady Ewell, put an end to it all. I have been longing to see you ever since, Rome. If you hadn’t bolted from us in that mysterious manner I should have had an explanation from you long ago. You didn’t believe what Lena said, did you? She was simply mad with jealousy, and some women will tell falsehoods to gain their own way. You were never so foolish as to think she spoke the truth?” “I did more than think it, Captain Dorsay—l know she spoke the truth. And’ if it were not for my poor brother’s sake, I should say that it makes no difference to me now whether she did so or not.” “It made a difference to you then. Miss Ewell.” “Yes, I know it did,” she replied simply. “I thought you were everything that is good and true, and it seemed hard to lose you. But I see things more plainly now, and I am very glad it ended as it did.” “You do not think of me,” said Captain Dorsay jealously. “You do not ask what I have suffered, nor if I, too, am thankful that it ended as it did.” “It is not necessary to do so. I am convinced you do not suffer.” “Why?” “Because if you had one kind thought in connection with that time, Captain Dorsay, you would not be the bad friend to my poor brother that you are.” “What do you mean by a bad friend I Sir Wilfrid, I am happy to say, classes me amongst his best; and I can truly affirm that I have the greatest regara for him.”

“Regard!” echoed the girl, indignantly. “Regard for what, Captain Dorsay ? For his health, or his pocket, or his morals? Ah! I am not such a child as you think me. I have grown in knowledge, you see, since those days, and my eyes have opened to the wickedness of the world. You call yourself Wilfrid’s ‘friend,’ and I tell you you are his greatest enemy. He never used to bet, or gamble, nor. drink before he knew you. You are taking advantage of his unhappy position, in being separated from his wife, to tempt him on to all kinds of excesses. Lena is a bad wife to him, it is true—a cold and false and deceitful woman; but she does him less harm than you are doing. And you say you cared for me! Why, Captain Dorsay, though you trifled so cruelly with my feelings when my eyes were blinded to your many faults, I would not —for the sake of the memory of the time when I believed in you—treat a dog of yours with so little consideration as you treat my brother.” The girl was crying now quietly to nerself, and Dorsay walked up and down the room, smitten by the truth of her words, and not knowing what to answer to them. At last he stopped before her. ‘‘Have you anything more to say?” he asked. “Yes, if I thought you would listen.” “I will listen to every word. Say just what you please, Rosie.” “Then, Captain Dorsay, if you ever liked me, even a little, will you grant me a favor?” “I will grant anything that is in my power.” “Will you leave Wilfrid alone for the future? Will you go away somewhere, and write and tell him it was all wrong, and you mean to give it up—and ask him to give it up, too?” “I will,” he answered, firmly; “I swear it before heaven. I will leave England, as you ask me to do; and I will not see Sir Wilfrid again.” “How can I sufficiently thank you?” she said through her tears. “What can I do to show my gratitude?” “Think of me sometimes, child, and as kindly as you can. And if, at some future day, when Ewell is onch more safely settled at Lambscote, he should invite me down there, don’t refuse me the right hand of friendship.” “Indeed —indeed I will not,” she answered, holding out her own; “for now I shall really look upon you as my brother’s friend. And when will you leave town — to-night 7’ “How anxious you are to get rid of me!” he laughed. “No, not to-night, but certainly to-morrow. Sleep in peace tomorrow, Rosie, under the assurance that the ocean rolls between us.” And with a farewell pressure of her hand he was gone. (To ba continued.)