Democratic Sentinel, Volume 22, Number 9, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 5 March 1898 — WOOED AND MARRED [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

WOOED AND MARRED

BY CHARLOTTE M BRAEME

CHAPTER XVI. Autumn came with its golden wheat, its ripe fruit, its gorgeous beauty of coloring. The spirit of improvement was nt work at Ravensmere; already the obnoxious cottages had disappeared, and in their places clean, healthy, well-drained dwelling houses were springing up. Lady Caraven worked hard, allowing herself little rest, and the earl was filled with wonder at her systematic method. They’ worked together. She made their duties so pleasant to him that he would not for the world have renounced them. Husband and wife became, as the Earl said, good companions, good friends. They had many interests now in common —the improvement of the estate, the building of model cottages, the education of the young, the relief of the aged and distressed. With a thoughtful look in his blue eyes the Earl would sometimes say to his wife: “I canot Imagine why I thought all this so tiresome before, or what gives me so much pleasure to do it now.” No one was more gratified than Sir Raoul. He exulted in the fact that his predictions were fulfilled. “I always thought a good woman's influence boundless,” he said; ‘‘and now I am sure of it.”

But he was not misled; he saw exactly how things were—that the Earl had started with the conviction that his wife was an unformed school-girl, and that, though believing her now’ to be a very clever woman, he still retained much of his early impression. Lord Caraven had accepted the fact that he did not love her with a lover's love, and that their marriage was a fatal mistake into which his own folly had led him—and he had not changed his opinion; he absolutely pever thought of love with reference to her. They were good friends, with one common interest—that was all. But with Hildred it was hot quite the same thing. She had once loved him; and now, as his better nature appeared, she began to care for him again. Not that she ever betrayed such a feeling to him. She was kind, affectionate, patient; she devoted herself to his service; but no word indicating a warmer feeling than friendship ever escaped her lips. She did not even own to herself or know that she was beginning to love him. One day,, after luncheon, when some visitors were staying with them, the conversation turned on a certain Lady Hamilton, who had just returned, a widow, from India. “Lady Hamilton was one of your early loves, Ulric, was she not?” said Sir Raoul, laughingly. I suppose so,” said the Earl, carelessly. “I had a great many early loves. Do you know what my opinion is?” “No,” answered Sir Raoul, “I do not.” “I do not believe that I have ever loved at all—that is, using the word ‘love’ in its best and highest sense.” “Then it is for want of appreciation,” said Sir Raoul, curtly. Neither of them knew that Hildred had overheard the few chance words, but they had pierced her heart as with a two-edged sword.

A kind of jealousy that she could not understand took possession of her. If, on looking at pictures or photographs, Lord Caraven praised one or thought it pretty, she would examine it in detail to find out if possible what he admired in it. If, in speaking of any lady friend or visitor the Earl expressed his admiration of her, a vague unrest would come over his wife; she would try to understand what attracted him. He had a frank, careless, easy way of expressing himself. Often, when she heard him, her face would suddenly grow pale even to her lips. If he loved at all, he must love her. Lord Caraven discerned nothing of this, but Sir Raoul was more deeply versed in human nature, and he saw that the young countess was beginning to love her husband with a passionate love. He did not know whether to be pleased or sorry—whether her love would ever be returned. Yet he could not feel surprised. One morning a letter came to Ravensmere. It was from Lady Hamilton, to say that she was returning from Cowes, where she had been staying some time, and would be glad to pay her promised visit. Lord Caraven’s first sensation on reading the coquettish little note was not one of unmitigated pleasure. They had been spending a very happy week alone, the Earl, the Countess and Sir Raoul—a week that he had thoroughly enjoyed because the greater part of it had been spent in the open air with his wife and Sir Raoul. They had been watching the builders’ progress, watching the improvements; and the Earl was more pleased than he would have cared to say at seeing once more a smile on the faces around him. He did not feel quite sure at first that he cared for the coming interruption. He gave the letter to Lady Caraven.

“If she comes,” he said, “it is pretty certain we must invite a party to meet her.” The young Countess looked up. “We are a party,” -she told him—“we are three.” Lord Garaven laughed. “Three is a very small number, Hildred. What would Lady Hamilton say if she came here and found that we had not invited any one to meet her? Raoul and I would be exhausted by the amount of homage we should have 'to pay. Lady Hamilton is the very queen of coquettes.” “I do not like coquettes,” said Lady Caraven, curtly. CHAPTER XVII. It was the evening of the day on which Lady Hamilton was expected. Several of the guests invited to meet her had already arrived, and the young Countess of Caraven anxiously expected her visitor. She had a strange kind of foreboding about her. “I wonder,” she said to Sir Raoul, “if some people do bring misfortune with them. I have an idea that Lady Hamilton will bring evil to me.” Sir Raoul laughed, and told her in his simple chivalrous fashion that a beautiful woman could bring only sunshine and happiness; but the young Countess sighed. “Helen of Troy did not bring much sunshine,” she said, “and she was beautiful enough.” It was with some little curiosity that the young Countess went to meet her -guest. Lady Hamilton had been shown into • prvity little boudoir, where she awaited her hostess; and these two worn-

en who were so strangely to cross each other’s lives looked almost eagerly at each other. Lady Caraven saw before her a tall, graceful, lovely blonde, whose sunny eyes and golden hair were bright and beautiful, whose red lips smiling showed teeth like pearls. After returning in the most musical of voices the greetings of her hostess, she requested that she might be shown to her room. She was in some measure just what Lady Caraven had expected to see. She appeared in the drawing-room two minutes before the announcement of dinner was made, and then Hildred examined her more critically. Her entrance made a sensation among the gentlemen. Hildred stood watching the scene, watching the pretty maneuvers of the royally beautiful coquette, and how soon they took effect. Hildred sighed as she turned away. This was the kind of beauty that her husband loved—blonde, tall and graceful. She looked nt her husband; he had not joined Lady Hamilton’s circle of admirers, and she felt all the happier on seeing that. “Do you know, Caraven,” asked Lord Darners, one of the guests, “who is the handsomest woman here?” The Earl looked around with a smile. “Amid so many how can I decide?” “The decision does not require a minute's hesitation,” said Lord Darners. “Look around and you will see that there is no one to compare with your wife. She is by far the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life.” The Earl looked up wonderingly. “Is she? Do you know that I have never thought so much of her appearance?”

“Then you have been blind. Look at her now.” Lord Caraven looked up. He saw a tall, beautiful figure and a magnificent face, with dark, proud, brilliant eyes and a lovely mouth, round which played a half-grave, sweet, timorous smile. He semed to be impressed. “You are right,’ he said; “she is very beautiful.” “I should imagine so,” returned Lord Darners, emphatically. “Why, by her side even the brilliant Lady Hamilton looks faded. Every one is talking about your wife; you do not know how many envy you.” Lord Caravan laughed aloud. Perhaps if the world knew all, he told himself, there would be litle cause for envy. “She is beautiful,” he repeated to himself. He had suddenly awoke to the knowledge of the fact. He said to himself that he must have been blind. Had this woman been any other than his wife, he would have thought her perfection. As he looked at her he wondered that he had ever boasted of his preference for blondes. What could compare with the splendor of those dark eyes, the exquisite coloring of that noble southern face? He must have been blind. He crossed the room to where the young Countess stood talking to Lady Hamilton. “Hildred,” he said, simply, “will you save one dance for me?” She looked at the pretty tablets and then smiled at him. “I am not engaged for the next waltz,” she said. “Then give it to me,” requested the Earl; and the dark eyes were raised to his. “If I had been engaged, I should have felt inclined to break my engagement,” she said. Lady Hamilton was not quite pleased. Two suns could not shine in one hemisphere; and, if Lady Caraven had any idea of outshining her, the sooner that idea was abandoned the better. “It is rather odd,” she said, with one of her brightest smiles, “to see husband and wife waltz together—one would imagine you were still lovers.” Hildred was on the point of retorting that they had never yet been that, but prudence restrained her. “You will not forget your promise?” said the Enrl. And Lady Caraven took up the pretty tablets again. They held many names. Against the waltz she wrote, “My husband.” He was watching her intently, and when she had finished writing he took the tablets from her hand. How strange the words looked'! 'There were noble names above them, noble names below them. “My husband.” He wondered w’hy she had not written “Lord Caraven” instead or his initials. As he returned the tablets to her,•their eyes met in a long, lingering glance. Suddenly she turned from him with her face on fire; and Lord Caraven, with a strange sensation at his heart, began talking to Lady Hamilton.

“This is my waltz,” said Lord Caraven, shortly afterward, as he came up to his wife. She did not raise her eyes to his; she was afraid to do so. What if they should tell him her secret? What if he should read love for himself shining in their depths? The Earl half smiled, half sighed at the piquant strangeness of the situation. This noble woman, to the knowledge of whose beauty he had suddenly awoke, was bis own wife. They had spent much time together, both sang and worked together, yet he never remembered to have embraced her; now his arm was round the supple, graceful figure—the lovely face was close to his own. He saw before him the whole time, standing out clear and distinct from the others, the two words, “My husband.” Lord Darners had told hjm that he was a subject of envy. The past had all been a sorry mistake. How beautifully this neglected, unloved wife of his danced! It was the very poetry of motion. But —how strange it was!—she never looked at him; she did not talk or laugh; she seemed rather to avoid him, as it were. “She does not like me,” thought the Earl; “and she has little reason to.” He was frank enough to own that. The dance ended, he led his wife to a seat, and then left her with a bow. She was never quite the same again. As it needs but a small match to fire a train of gunpowder, so it needed but little to awaken her love into keen, quick, passionate life. That one dance with him had done it. She loved him with her whole heart, and the suddenness with which that conviction flashed over her bewildered her. She sat quite still, the soft, sweet music, the ripple of the little fountain, the subdued murmur, all mingling in her ears—flowers, lights, jewels, fair faces, all dazzling her eyes— and she said to herself: “I love my husband.” The whole world seemed changed to her. Shyly, timidly, she looked at him. He was talking to a group of ladies, his handsome face all animation, his tall, wellbuilt figure all grace. He was a man to be proud of—a man to love. But be must

never know about this love of hero—thia newly-found preebus treasure. He despised her for her rant of noble birth; she must keen her live as secret as the grave. That increased the distance between them. She was so fearful that he should think her unwomanly, so afraid that he should imagine she wanted his lore, that she took refuge in cold, shy, proud avoidance. There were no more rides or drives to see the buildings and improvements; there was no more quiet letterwriting in the library. When Lord Caraven wanted Hildred, she had some gentle ready excuse, and with a house full of visitors it was difficult to determine whether those excuses were genuine or not. It was not in Lady Hamilton's nature to pass by the admiration of a man like the handsome Earl. He must admire her. Had he not done so spontaneously, she would have won it from him. All homage was acceptable to her—his particularly so, because he was a handsome man, and because he had a beautiful dark-eyed wife who never looked quite comfortable when they were talking together—two little incentives which Lady Hamilton profited by, and which afforded amusement to her. What was nothing but sheer mischief, sheer love of admiration, was death almost to the proud young wife who counted every smile that her husband gave her. (To be continued.)