Democratic Sentinel, Volume 22, Number 7, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 February 1898 — WOOED AND MARRIED [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

WOOED AND MARRIED

BY CHARLOTTE M BRAEME

CHAPTER Xll—(Continued.! The woman was waiting to see her in one of the ante-rooms. Lady faraven’s generous heart was touched as she looked at her, she was so thin, so worn, with a face so white and so sad. and great despairing eyes; her clothes were a thin, shabby dress and a still thinner and shabbier shawl. As the young countess stood before her in ail the pride of her youth and beauty, amid ail the luxury of her surroundings, she felt, in some vague way. ashamed of the contrast. “Did you want me?” she said, in a low, gantle voice. ”1 am Lady Caraven. Did you wish to see me?” The thin, worn hands were clasped tightly. The woman hardly seemed to have the power of speech. “Do not be afraid.” said the young countess; "tell me what you want.” “Oh, my lady, my lady,” was the cry that seemed to come from a breaking heart, “will you take pity on me?” “I will indeed, if I can. If I can help you, I promise that I will. What is the matter? Y'ou must not fear to tell me. I can understand the sorrows of others, and feel.for them.” The woman looked up into the kindly, benutiful face.

“I hardly know how to tell you, my lady. It is not the earl's fault. None of us blame him; lie does not know it. It is all Mr. Blantyre's doing.” “But what is it?” she asked, gently. “Y'ou forget that I do not know.” “My lady, it is this: My husband—a fine, strong, handsome young man—was killed here in the woods two years ago; he was a keeper, and there was a fight with the poachers—my husband, John AA'oodruff, was killed. He was a fine, handsome young man, my lady, and we had three little children. I was fetched to him after he was hurt. He half been struck with the butt-end of a gun, and the doctor said that the moment he was moved he would die. So his companions fetched me to him, my lady—me, with my three little children; and we saw him in the early dawn of the morning, lying in the clover, dying—dying, my lady—the dear lad, who had never given me an angry word. AA'e knelt down beside him and he tried to raise his bead to look at the children for the last time; but lie could not see them —his eyes were dim, he groped with his hands, as though he was in darkness. He neither saw them nor me, but he knew that I was there. “ ‘Ellen,’ he said—and even in dying the •words sounded quite clear—‘Ellen, you have been a good wife to me. I am losing my life for a few birds of my lord’s; but he will see to you. The earl will see

to you—he will never let you want.’ And all the men standing round him said: “ ‘That is right enough; the earl will never let you want.’ “But, my lady, it was the keepers who buried my husband—l think the earl forgot him. We lived then in a little cottage —one belonging to the earl; and, my lady, since my husband’s death I have lived there —I do not know why—rent fl-ee. Living there has been my livelihood. I have had no rent to pay; and every week I have earned a few shillings by taking in washing for the people ut Court ItnvenSo, my lady, the little cottage has, after a fashion, kept me and my children. But now n paper has come to say that henceforth we must pay rent—four-and-six-pencc each week —for the place; and, my lady, if I pay it, I shall not be able to buy bread for my children to At.” “But you shall not pay it,” said the young countess.” “Oh, my lady, bless you! If you would but speak to the earl for me! lie is young, and he does not think—he does not know. If you would but speak to him for me!” “I will do all I can,” said the countess: “come and see me again in three days’ time from now.” And Lady Caraven placed in the thin hand that which mnde the widow’s heart beat fast for joy. “Lord Caraven,” she said that evehing, “I have a favor to ask from you—a great favor. AVill you grout it?” Then she told him. Her heart sank as she saw his face grow dark and angry.

' “Which of the servants told you that woman was here?” “Will you tell me why you wish to know, Lord Caraven?” 1 “Yes; the moment I know I shall dismiss him without a character, for disobedience.” “If he disobeyed you,” she said, “I am sorry for it. But pray do not allow that to inliuence you against my petition.” j He turned round angrily. “Plainly speaking, Hildred,” he said, ’ i have quite enough annoyance with my tenants without interference from you, and I cannot allow- ” "Lord Caraven,” she interrupted, eagerly, “do believe me—l have not the least wish to interfere, but this poor woman—if you had seen her pale, hungry face and isad eyes.” “It is easy enough to look hungry,” he said, impatiently. Her face flushed, her eyes shone brightly. “Let me ask you, my lord,” she said, “hnve you ever remembered that all this wealth was given to you, not for your own especial self-indulgence, but in trust for the poor and the needy ?” “I should like you to tell Blantyre that,” sneered the earl. “I have never remembered anything of the kind.” “Then let me tell you it is true. I would sooner be the poorest beggar turned from your door than I would be you, with your youT estates, your wealth, your dead conscience, nnd your dead heart.” And with an air of dignity, the young countess swept from the room, leaving him dumb with rage. CHAPTER XIII. It was a humiliation for Lady Caraven when Mary Woodruff came again, to tell her that she had failed in her mission—that, even at her solicitation, the earl had refused the little boon she asked. She would have given much if she could have shown even to this poor widow some proof of his desire to please her—but she could not. She was one of those people who never ■defer a disagreeable duty. She sent that same day for the poor creature, who came trembling for the fate of herself and her children. Lady Caraven received her very kindly, but entered at once into the matter. “I am-sorry to tell you,” she said, “that I have failed. Lord Caraveu does not 4e«l inclined to-forego the rent,”

"It is not my lord.” cried the woman. “I know it is not. It is Mr. Blantyre's fault: he said I should and must pay. But 1 cannot, my lady; I have not the means.” “I have thought it all over,” said Lady Caraven. ”1 cannot get the cottage rentfree for you, but I can pay Jhe rent. I will give it to you every month, but it must be on the condition that yon tell no one. Lord Caraven might b# displeased if he heard of it.” It was humiliating at first to her to give charities unknown to her husband, and then to beg that they might be kept secret. The gratitude of the poor woman in some measure compensated her, and made her feel less miserable. But, though Lord Carafen had "laughed and sneered and spoken angrily, he had not forgotten his wife’s words. Not for the world would he have owned it, or that they had made the least impression on him—on the contrary, he was, if possible, more brusque and abrupt, quoted Biantyre c Ynore frequently, and talked more than ever of what he would do with the poor tenants —yet her words haunted him. They seemed to be written in letters of fire, let him turn his eyes whither he would.

As to Ilildred, her humiliation had been great. She was fast losing heart and patience; her iiope had died a lingering death —there was no gleam of comfort left her, turn which way she might. Sir Raoul was ill and seldom able to leave his room. Owing to the number of guests in the house, she could not spend so much time with him as formerly. - She was dispirited and depressed. Above all, she disliked some of the visitors whom Lord Caraven had invited. There was one who was young, effeminate, weak in character, not much stronger in mind —a Lieutenant Hilstone, who had just succeeded to a large fortune, and who seemed nt n loss how to get rid of it most quickly. Lady Caraven had a shrewd suspicion bh to how much they won from him. More than once she had overheard heavy wagers made with him which she knew he must lose. She was scornfully impatient. Was not this conduct of her husband disgraceful—to allow a weak young soldier like the lieutenant to be what she considered robbed? One of the earl's most intimate friends —one, indeed, who knew all his affairs — was Sir Anthony Oldys; and Ilildred overheard him, quite by chance, one day lay-

ing a heavy wager with the young lieutenant. She looked at him calmly. “Sir Arthur,” she said, "I do not consider that is quite fair; Lieutenant Hilstone has no chance. You know more than he does when you lay such a wager —you know that you will win it.” She never forgot the sneer with which he turned to her. “Lady Caraven,” he said, “permit me to offer you my congratulations. You understand money matters almost us well as your talented father.” Without replying to Sir Arthur Oldys’ insult, without word or comment, Lady Caraven instantly quitted the room, her heart burning with hot indignation. How well her husband’s friends must know that he did not love her! They would never dare to speak to her as they did' but for that knowledge. How well they must know it, when they dared to try to insult her through her father! The pleasaunce must have been constructed by some one who knew how human nature longed for rest. Few of the Ravensinere people knew of its existence —the visitors did not. Some of the servants were in perfect ignorance as to its whereabouts. It was constructed for the sole and exclusive use of the Ladies Caraven.

The young countess bethought herself of this retreat. She had one key of the dark green door that led to it; Sir Raoul had another. She would go thither, she said to herself, and look her life in the face, and then decide what to do with it. It was slowly dawning across her that she would not be able to bear her trials much longer; that she could not and \Vould not endure them; that there was a brighter life somewhere, which she was determined to find out; that she could not sacrifice her whole life to a shadow of duty; that, in fact, she would go forth free. Free! The very word made her heart beat quickly. She went to the pleasaunce. If she were interrupted there, it could be only by her husband or Sir Raoul; there was no fear of intruders. A sense of relief came to her when she found herself between the four high walls. The blue sky smiled down upon her, the languid air stirred faintly, the scent of roses came to her on the wind; it was like a reprieve to enter that quiet retreat and feel alone. She walked down one of the broad, straight paths to where crimson carnations grew side by side with white lilies, and there she seated herself to rest — alone. There was no sound of men’s voices or of light laughter; no sneer could reach her where she was; there was nothing but the blue sky above, and the breath of the sweet western wind. , She was shut out from all sounds—alone’ with the thread of her life in her hands.

Suddenly—she could not tell why—the self-command of long years broke down. Her pride, her courage, her high spirit, the proud sense of resentment that had sustained her, broke down, and she wept ns she had seldom wept in her life before. The passionate tears seemed to relieve her. It was a luxury to weep there alone —for once to give herself up to a full sense of her misery, of her disappointment, of her blighted life—for once to dare to look the truth full in the face, and own to herself that she was one of the most miserable, most wretched girls in the whole wide world. She sobbpd out the words. It was a relief to say them, a relief to say even to herself that she was miserable; she had been so proudly reticent, so self-restrain-ed.

Suddenly a hand was laid upon her shoulder, and, looking up, she saw Sir Raoul standing by her side. In his pale face, worn with pain and suffering, she saw infinite pity, infinite love; compassion and tenderness shone in his eyes. He had never looked so true and so noble as he did just then. He bent over her. “Hildred, poor child, is it so bad as this?” he asked. “It is so bad,” she said, “that it could not be worse, Raoul—nothing could be worse. I am tired of it. I am going away.” “Going away?” he repeated, slowly. “That is what I feared. Have your patience, your forbearance, come to an end at last, Hildred?” “Yes,” she replied, truthfully, “they have, at last.” He was silent for a few minutes, and then, as she looked up at him, a great awe stole over her. His eyes were raised to the clear skies, his lips moved. Surely in «‘picture she had seen a figure some-

thing like this, with a serene light on tte brow. Her anger, her impatience, her bitter contempt and dislike seemed to fall away from her. even from that one look at his face. She rose suddenly into something nobler than a weeping, vengeful, unhappy woman. ”Y'ou are going away, Hildred—you can bear it no longer? Poor child! You may run away and leave your home, Hildred; but that will be a commonplace ending. Do that which is nobler, higher, better—resign yourself, submit to your fate and make the best of it. As a handsome and noble woman use your influence with your hnsband to rouse him from his Slough of Despond into a higher life.” She was looking at him in sheer wonder. “How ran I influence Lord Caraven?” she asked.

"Y'ou can do it by pntience and perseverance. Say to yourself that the task of your life shall be to make him a good man. Instead of ruuning away from it, devote yourself to it. There is much said of woman’s mission—let that be yours, and surely there can be no higher or holier mission than to rouse an indolent man to a sense of his duty, a selfish inay from his self-indulgence." "But how could I do it, Raoul?” she asked. "Y'ou could do it iu some fashion. The weli-beipg—nay. the very souls of men lie in women’s hands. Here is a lifelong task for you—a glorious mission, a noble work. Give your life to'your husband — to the task of him to a sense of his duties —to the task of making him a good man and a useful member of society. a conscientious steward of great wealth, a just land uvner; teach him how to be kind and- just aud merciful, help him to lead a fair and uobie life. Could any woman wish for a more glorious task than this?” Some of the light that shone on his face was reflected on hers. "It would be a noble task,” she said, thoughtfully. “Could I accomplish it, Raoul?” “AA'ith perseverance and self-control that would amount to heroism you might,” he replied. ”Y'ou must be the sculptor who, from a mass of qualities, good and bad intermixed, must try to produce a perfect character.” “But,” she said, doubtfully, “he does not love me.”

“That does not matter. I prophesy that he will love you in the end —that when you have roused his soul from its sleep it will turn to you naturally as the sunflower turns to the sun.” And an almost saintly enthusiasm shone on his face. She caught his hand and kissed it. He saw her face clear and a bright, earnest light shine in her >yes. She walked slowly down the path, Sir Raoul by her side. She looked round on the four high ivied walls. “I have always loved this little pleasaunce,” she said. “ I shall love it better than ever now. It will seem almost like a church to me.” “Why like a church?” he asked, with some amusement. “Because one of the best sermons I have ever heard has been preached to me here,” she replied. “I have learned a lesson here. I shall never see these high ivied walls or touch a crimson carnation without thinking of you, Raoul, aud all that you have said.” Then he watched her as she went from one bed of mignonette to another, looking eagerly for the choicest sprays, holding them up to him with wistful, eager face and sweet, pathetic eyes. “Will this do, and this?” she asked as simply as a child. “Oh, Raoul, I hope he will not be angry—l hope he will be pleased! I shall tell you how I get on. I am nervous about it.” In another minute the beautiful face had disappeared, and Sir Raoul was left in the pleasaunce alone. “A man might lay down his life for such a woman as that,” he said, with what was almost a sigh. (To he continued.!