Democratic Sentinel, Volume 22, Number 10, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 March 1898 — WOOED AND MARRIED [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

WOOED AND MARRIED

BY CHARLOTTE M BRAEME

CHAPTER XVIII. With an intolerable sense of shame and disgrace, it suddenly occurred to Lady Caraven that her lot in life was quite different from other people’s. It seemed to pass over her with a sudden terrible commotion. She had been so occupied with her efforts as regarded her husband, her plans of reform, her schemes for the benefit of others, that she had not given much thought to her own position as a wife whose husband made no pretense of loving her. The knowledge of her real status came to her now with a keen sense of intolerable pain, yet she would have borne its bitterness but for the fear lest the brilliant, beautiful blonde should become as wise as herself. That would have been intolerable. A trifling circumstance brought Hildred'S jealousy to a climax. The Earl was going out in a groat hurry one morning when he found that the button of his glove was hanging by a thread. Lady Hamilton, who was now engaged on some kind of fancy work, with needle and silk in her hand, sat by. He went to her at once.

“Lady Hamilton, be kind to me —give this one stitch.” She laughingly complied; she would not let him remove the glove. “You need not take that trouble,” she said; “I can do it as it is.” With a pale face and darkening eyes the young Countess watched the little scene. Why had be gone to her for this small service? Why should she hold her husband’s hand and look with laughing eyes into his face? She could not endure it. She went up to them. “I thank you, Lady Hamilton,” she said, “I will do that for Lord Caraven.” Lady Hamilton looked up in amazement, but there was something in the young Countess' face which made her yield at once. She drew back coldly. “Lord Caraven asked me to do it,” she said. “In all probability he had forgotten that I was here,” she returned, in a high, clear voice. The Earl, like a prudent man, remained quite silent. He looked.at his wife's face as she bent over the glove, and he saw something there that, shrewd as he was, puzzled him. Why was she so pale? What was it that shone and gleamed in the dark eyes? Why did the proud lips tremble? What was in her face? He gazed in silent wonder. She had finished. “The button will not come off again,” she declared. “I hope not,” said Lady Hamilton, in a peculiar tone of voice; “and, if it does, do not ask me to help you again. Lord Caraven.” He turned away with a laugh, but the mischief was done; the sight of her guest's golden head bendinc over her husband's hand had fanned the jealousy of the young wife into a flame—nor did what followed extinguish it. The Earl had laughed to himself, thinking the occurrence a pretty hit of by-play. He was smiling still when, an hour afterward. his wife met him. "Hildred,” he said in a tone of gay banter, “were you jealous of Lady Hamilton?”

Then the idea seemed so absurd to him that he laughed aloud. To his surprise she grew deadly pale; her lips quivered with emotion. “Yes,” she replied, bitterly—“l scorn to speak falsely—l was jealous of her. You may think what you like of me.” Still he would not be serious about it. He said jestingly: “I always thought until now that jealousy presupposed love.” “Did you?” questioned bis wife, with proud indifference. “I always thought love presupposed perfect trust.” “You are a good fencer, Hildred,” laughed her husband; and he thought no more of the matter. But she did. It had wanted but that trifling incident to fan her jealousy- into a flame. How the hours of that day passed she never knew. One picture filled her mind —that of Lady Hamilton's golden head bending over her husband's hand. She could not bear the thought of it. He might not love her, but he should not love any one else. He should not laugh because she was jealous, he should not admire this fair woman while he so cruelly neglected her. She worked herself into a frenzy of jealous despair, yet was outwardly cnlm and proud as usual. The dinner party at the castle on that day was not a large one; many of the guests had left, Lord nnd Lady Darners had returned home. Sir Raoul was in his room. Lady Caraven had dressed herself with unusual care and attention. During dinner she watched her husband and Lady Hamilton. More than once she saw them laughing and heard them talking merrily. Was it of her? Was the Earl telling her that his wife was jealous? And was she laughing because the very cream of the jest was that her husband did not care for her? For the convenience of one of the guests who was leaving they had dined a little earlier than usual. When the ladies reached the drawing-room the room was filled with ruddy light from the sun setting in* the western sky. It would be cruel, they said, to spend such a warm, lovely evening indors. The gentlemen, thinking the. same thing, had hurried from their wine, saying that it would be a pity to lose the last gleam of sunlight. But before they went out someone prayed the Earl to sing one song. “I will sing a duet,” he said, “if Lady Hamilton will help me.” It was useless, he thought, appealing to his wife. The last time he hnd asked her to sing with him she had refused. Lady Hamilton was only too pleased. She went to the piano, and very soon the two beautiful voices seined to fill the room —Lady Hamilton’s clear nnd sweet, the Earl’s rich and musical—while the young Countess watched them with longing, pitiful eyes. They were singing about love,’ love that would never die. love that was immortal. More than once the unhappy young wife saw the widow look at her husband; more than once there came to her a wild impulse, a longing to strike the 'fair face. When the song was over, it was time to go and watch the sunset. Hildred saw that her husband did not leave Lady Hamilton’s side. He remained near her, saying: “We will watch the sunset over the lake. It is one of the prettiest sights at Ravensmere.” She did not hear Lady Hamilton’s answer; it was given with smiling lips and

laughing eyes. Was it her morbid fancy, or did she really hear her husband say, “Yes, nnd I will tell you the story of my marriage.” She did not wait to ask herself if it were mere fancy. She believed that she had heard it, and the idea of it drove her almost mad. They were going to watcH the sun fade among the flowers, nnd the Earl would meanwhile entertain his companion with the story of his marriage—how he had wed the money-lender’s daughter, or else lose Ravensmere, but how he had avenged himself by neglecting her. Hildred's heart and brain were on fire. The husband she loved despite his neglect and the rival whom she disliked were going to laugh over her together. An idea suddenly occurred to the unhappy wife —they should not do this, they should not Inugh at her, her love and her jealousy should not be sport for them. She would follow them unperceived, and then, when they began to laugh over her story, she would confront them, and dare them to amuse themselves with her anguish. All the pride of her nature was aroused. She would suffer death rather than be laughed at by her husband and her rival. The grounds of Ravensmere were so well wooded that behind the safe shelter of the tall trees she could walk quite unseen by the Earl and his companion. The sweet southern wind that scarcely stirred the leaves brought to her from time to time chance words, but none of them were of her. She did not want to listen to their conversation; she only wished to prevent the story of her marriage from being told. Sometimes the low, musical laughter of Lady Hamilton reached her, and then the rich ring of her husband's voice would sound cheerily in the gathering gloom; and all the time she, his wife, was slowly threading her way after him like the shadow of fate. There had not been one word of her yet —the conversation had all been about people they had known years before; and now they stood on the borders of the lake, where the crimson waters, to the dazed mind of the young Countess, looked like blood. She shuddered as the idea occurred to her. Some of the crimson glow fell on the white dress and on the silken veil. She saw Lady Hamilton hold out her little white hand and cry, gleefully: “Look, Lord Caraven —my hand is dyed red !”

They had not spoken of her. The red sun «*as fast descending. “That is what I wish you to see,” said the Earl. “The moment in which the sun seems to touch the water a red gleam passes through it; then the next moment it is quite dark.” They watched in silence, while the dark figure stood motionless and still behind them. The sun, as it set, seemed to touch the outer edge of the lake; a red gleam came over it, beautiful and curious, and then, almost at once, it was dark. “We will go home by the coppice,” said Lord Caraven; and his wife remembered the long avenue of trees extended to the very gate. She could therefore walk almost side by side with them, yet quite unseen. They had not mentioned her name. Could she have been wrong in her suspicion? Had she mistaken her husband's words? They were standing at the edge of the lake, a cold, dark sheet of water now, and she established herself behind a great group of alder trees. It seemed to her that the silver veil on the fair woman's head and shoulders absorbed all the light there was. Presently she drew near. Another group of trees separated her from the two who were so unconscious of her presence—large trees with swaying branches; through them the night wind brought every word to her. They talked only of the light on the water, and the sudden darkness there—of some one who had known and loved Lady Hamilton before her marriage. She laughed coquettishly over it.

How long was that nonsense to last, the unhappy young*wife asked herself? How long was she to stand under the darkening evening skies, with the great alder branches swaying to and fro, and the soughing of the wind in her ears, the fire of love, the madness of jealousy raging in her heart—how long? It was almost unbearable. She felt inclined to cry out that it must end. She clinched her fingers, she bit her lip;’then suddenly she heard the sound of her name —her maiden name —“Hildred Ransome!” What were they saying? Was the Earl telling how he had been compelled to encumber himself with a wife he did not love? Was he saying that, although he did not love her, and they were strangers to each other, she cared for him? Was he laughing because she had owned that she was jealous of him? “I cannot bear it!” she thought. The next moment there was the sound of a shot—something seemed to rattle through the alder —there was a low cry, a startled exclamation. “There are poachers in the wood,” she thought; “he will go in search of them, and then he will find me!” She turned to fly; now that there was the danger of being caught, she seemed to wake to a full consciousness of what she was doing; the bare fact that she was listening seemed to come home to her as it had never come before. She turned to fly; not for anything that could be given would she be caught there. She wanted to hasten, but she could not; it was as though great weights of lead were fastened to her feet. Her brain was dizzy; the unusual excitement, the frenzy of love and jealousy had been too much for her; her tali, graceful figure swayed for a minute like a leaf in the wind, a low moan came from her lips, and then, as in a dream, the white, angry face of her husband was looking into hers, and he grasped her arm in a hard, cruel grasp. Near to the lake, across which the last red glimmer of the sunset had faded, husband and wife stood for one moment beneath the darkening sky, looking at each other. Lord Caraven’s face was ghastly white, an unknown, untold horror lay in his eyes, his lips trembled with uncontrolable emotion. Hildred—pale, terrified, wondering—gazed at him like one fascinated. “What is it?” she gasped. “You guilty woman,” cried the Earl—“you cruel, guilty, jealous woman!” ■She shrank back as though he had struck her, her lips parted as though she would speak, but all sound died away on them. “You guilty woman,” repeated the Earl, “own the truth! You followed Lady Hamilton and me here to watch, to listen. Speak!” “May heaven pardon me, I did!” she moaned. “Here you must remain. I shall come

back. I shall Jcnow where to find yon, crouching at the end of the alder trees, where you hid yourself to listen to your husband and his guest Great heaven, that a spy should bear my name! Stay here I return. If you attempt to escape, I will send the whole county after you. And I was beginning to care for you —to think you a noble woman!” She shrank cowering from him. His angry face, the anger that shone in his eyes, the stern voice frightened her. She shrank lower and lower, until she fell on her knees, sobbing as though her heart would break. “Stir at your peril!”, he said, and then he left her. (To be continued.)