Democratic Sentinel, Volume 22, Number 11, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 March 1898 — WOOED AND MARRIED [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

WOOED AND MARRIED

BY CHARLOTTE M BRAEME

CHAPTER XIX. For some few’ minutes afterward she heard sounds on the borders of the hike; murmured sounds, as of intense pity and compassion, followed by the tramp of many footsteps, and then all was still. The ground was covered with dead and dying leaves. Lady Caraven flung herself down upon them, and as she lay there the old words came to her, “Let me die!” Death would have been a mercy. The golden stars came out in the sky. Was it really herself, or was she dreaming? Was she Hildred, the beautiful,popular Countess of Caraven, lying there in all the abandonment of her misery, her husband's angry voice in her ears, the marks of his angry grasp on her arm? Outcast, wretched, despairing, there was only one friend for her in the world, and that was Sir Raoul; if she could but see him, if she could but tell him! The pitiless night hid her from all eyes. Surely there had never been a night so full of pain. How long she had been lying there she never knew. Time was all ended for her. She was conscious only of infinite misery. She did not even feel the chill breath of the wind as it passed over her. Then, after what seemed to her an age of suspense and agony, she heard footsteps amid the brushwood, and Lord Caraven calling her by name. “I am here,” she said. In the thick growing darkness it was with difficulty that he discovered her. He saw her at length lying with her face hidden among the dead leaves. “You may rise and thank heaven,” he said, in a stern voice, “that you have not succeeded; the evil is not so great as it might have been.” She rose and stood before him, the same dazed look on her face. “I do not understand—you say such hard, cruel things,” she moaned. “Hard and cruel,” repeated her husband, with bitter contempt, “did ever a woman live so cruel as you?” “I am not cruel,’ she replied. “I have been driven mad.” There was such infinite sadness in the young voice, such dreary despair in the young face, thjt he was touched in spite of his anger and contempt. “Tell me,” he said, “what made you do this thing—this cruel, ungenerous, unwomanly deed.” She thought he referred to her conduct in following him, and they seemed to her hard words. “What made me do it? You will only despise and hate me the more if I tell you,” she replied. “Frankly speaking, Hildred, nothing that you can say to me will make the matter worse, but it .may certainly be made better. Tell me the plain truth.” “Yes, I will tell you,” she replied. “I see that alh good understanding is at an end between us.” ■ “That is certain,” he said, with emphasis; “with my consent you shall never enter my doors again.” “Have I acted so very wrong?” she asked, sadly. “Wrong?” he exclaimed, contemptuously. “We will waive that, Hildred. You have done that which I will never pardon. Now tell me why you did it. You may speak the truth to me; you bear my name. I will shield you from all harm. No one knows but myself.” “Then she did not see me?" said Hildred, drearily.

“No—and you may be thankful for it,” answered the Earl, severely. “She did not see you. You may .speak quite frankly—no one knows anything about it except myself. Now tell me.” “What have I to tell you?” she said. “I—l did it; I followed you here because —oh, how hard it is to tell!—because I was jealous of her. I thought that you were both ridiculing me, that you would tell her that you had been obliged to marry me to save yourself from ruin, but that you did not love me, you did not care for me, you disliked me, you hated mo, you longed to be free from me —my accursed money was all you wanted —that you would never like me. And I fancied she would pity you, in that soft, caressing voice of hers—pity you for being burdenfed with a wife you did not love. I believed that you would tell her that I was jealous of her, that .then both of you would laugh at me.” The passion of her words had deadened all sense of shame. She had forgotten that which her jealousy had prompted her to do, nnd remembered only her great, bitter wrongs. She was no longer a heroine—only a passionate, injured, deeply loving woman. She rose to the occasion. The Earl was impressed more than he would have cared to own. “I could not l>enr it,” she continued passionately. “I should have done worse than this, I am sure, if it could have been done. I was mad. I will tell you all. 1 was mad, because I had learned to love you with all the strength of my heart and soul. I could not bear that you should jest about me with careless words; it was as though you stabbed me for pleasure.” “You love me?” he interrogated, incredulously. The dark shawl fell from her, and she stood erect before him in all the dignity bf her pale, passionate beauty. Her umber dress and her rubies gleamed in the starlight; the queenly head was held aloft; she no longer pleaded and wept; the memory of her passionate love and her bitter wrongs filled her with angry pride. “Yes, I love you,” she continued, proudly. “AVhose is the sin? Is it mine, because I, your wife, have to tell you this, and you feel surprised? I love you; and uow that I have to leave you I tell you that woman never loved man, wife never loved husband, more dearly, more deeply, more devotedly, than I love you; I would have devoted my life to you; I would have died for you; every beat of my heart, every thought of my mind, every action was for you.” He looked terribly distressed. “M hy did you not tell me this before, Hiidred?” he asked. “I tell you? How little you know me! W as it my place to go to the husband who neglected me and plead for his caresses, for his love I I could have died a thousand deaths first. How little you know me! I should not tell you all this now, but that I know in this world we shall never perhaps meet again, I am speaking to you a grave. I stretch out my hands to you over a grave—the grave where my love lies—slain!” And as she said the words she fell upon her knees, weeping, sobbing with bitter

cries, as though a grave lay there, and she had fallen upon it. He Was touched. He could not tolerate what he believed to be her crime, but she was young, beautiful, and loving. Her crime nad been committed through love of him. He raised her from the ground. “I am very sorry, Hildred,” he said; “it is very sad for both of us. Now we must talk of something else. You must go at once.” She raised her weeping eyes to him. “Must you send me away?” she asked, gently. "It was wrong, I was mad with jealous anger, but I did not think I was. Could you not overlook it?” “You speak lightly,” he replied, sternly. “No, you can never re-enter my house. I have arranged it nil. I did so when I took poor Lady Hamilton back to the castle. I told our guests that you had been suddenly sent for by your father, that I had driven you to the station—and it is to your father's house you must go.” “Very well,”’ she said, drearily. “You do not seem to understand,” he remarked, sharply; “do you not know the danger, the peril that hangs over you?” She did not, but of what use was it to say so? “Try to collect yourself and understand,” he continued; “time presses. 1 cannot keep them away much longer. You must depart at once without being seen. No one must know at what hour you went. You must go to your father’s house and wait there. If it should be needful to send you abroad, I will arrange it.” It was the early dawn of morning when she reached the station—a large railway junction where she was both unknown and unnoticed. The train started for London in half an hour. No one spoke to her or appeared to see her as she took her place, and in a few minutes more she was on her way. It was a ’hard punishment—terribly hard for such a trifle, she thought, wondering that the earl could be so stern. She was tired, fatigued with passion and emotion. She had neither eaten, drank nor slept since the evening before. When she reached London, she asked a porter to call a cab for her, and gave the address—“ Mr. Ransome, the Hollies, Kew,” and the drive thither seemed to her more than ever like a dream.

CHAPTER XX. Arley Ransome had not worked quite so hard of late; there was but little need. He had achieved the height of his ambition; he had a large fortune; he was able to speak of his daughter the Countess of Caraven; he could claim kinsmanship through his daughter with some of the noblest families in England. There was no need now to work quite so hard; he could linger over his daintily spread breakfast table and read his papers at his leisure, content if he reached the city before noon. On this morning he had seated himself so as to enjoy three things at once—the beautiful view of the river from his window, the bright fire in the grate, and the recherche little breakfast that had been served up to him. It was a sudden shock to him when, on hearing a sound, he raised his eyes to the door, and saw there a pale, beautiful woman who stood wringing her hands. "Father,” she said, “I am come home.” In utter amazement ho started from his seat. His daughter, his beautiful Hildred, the Countess of Caraven, pale as death, wrapped in n dark traveling cloak! What could it mean? “I—l am glad to see you, my dear,” he said; but he had a horrible foreboding that something terrible had occurred, and that the days of his greatness had vanished. “Come in—pray come in, my dear —do not stand there. How strange you look! Where is Caraven? Dear, dear, how odd it is! Come in, Hildred—the servants will think it strange to see you standing there.” She entered the room and walked up to him with haughty mien. “This is the end of my marriage, father,” she said, calmly—“the marriage that you told me could be happy without love. This is the end of it, and I am come home.” “Sit down, my dear, sit down; there is nothing so horrible as a ‘scene,’ and this looks like one. Take off your cloak and your bonnet. What a strange head dress!”

She unfastened the thick traveling cloak and there in picturesque disarray was the rich eveniug dress of amber and black, with a faded crimson flower clinging to it. The lawyer looked on in utter dismay. This disregard for dress and appearances spoke more forcibly than anything else could have done—told more plainly than words that something dreadful had happened. , “You have not quarreled with the earl, I hope—that is, you have not left him?” “He has sent me away,” she replied; and Arley Ransome’s face grew very dark. “There is not much to tell,” she continued, wearily. “You misled me—you told me that marriage could be happy without love. I find that love is the soul of it, that without love marriage is like a dead body. I being weaker and inferior, was the first to learn to love. I learned to love my husband—he has never cared for me.” “You are too sentimental, Hiidred,” said Arley Ransome, severely. “I have been doing my best for my husband,” she continued, “and we were growing happier. In time I think that he would have loved me; but some one else, a fair woman—one of the kind of women that he admires—Lady Hamilton, came, and ” “I see,” said the lawyer—“the old story, jealousy and quarreling. Surely, Hiidred, you have not thrown away the labor of a lifetime by growing jealous and vexing the earl?” “I have done worse than that,” she said * ar X' orsc - I was jealous of Lady Hamilton. I thought that both she and my nusband were deriding me. I followed them when they went out to see the sun set over the lake. I hid myself behind the alder trees to listen if they said anything about me; and then—l cannot tell how it happened—my husband saw me. He was very angry; he said I was never to enter his doors again, but to return uome at once to you.” The lawyer’s face cleared. “You are quite sure that you have told me the whole truth?” he said. “Yes, quite sure. What should I keep from you? It seems very hard punishment for what was merely a fault rather of judgment than anything else. I told the earl that I loved him, and that jealousy had driven me mad.” “You told him that? Then rely upon it in a few days all will be well. He will forget his finger and come to find you.” “I do not think so.” she returned.

“You are quite sure, Hildred, that you have hidden nothing from me?” he interrogated; adding, “It is, as yon say, severe punishment for so small a fault.” She looked up at him in surprise. “What can I have to hide, papa? In telling you of my love, and my jealousy, I hare told you the worst.” “Then all will come right again. In the meantime keep up appearances; go to your own room unobserved and wait until your luggage arrives. I shall say ■that you are come home for a few days’ change. Keep up your spirits; all will come right again, I feel sure.” “I am very tired, papa,” she said. “I think I will stay in my room to-day.” “Very well, my dear; do just as you like; you know best, of course. I will say that you do not feel very well. Go to your room, by all means. I hope you will soon lie better. Now try to cheer up; it will be all right. I will see to this difficulty with your husband for you.” She looked up at him proudly. “You must not interfere, papa! I shall never return to him now!” He looked pityingly at the white face. “You appear very ill, Hildred. Is there nothing that I can do for you?” “Nothing,” she replied, coldly. In her heart she felt bitterly angry with her father. She had trusted him; he had misled her. She did not offer to kiss him or to touch his hand, but went quietly out of the room and upstairs, leaving him with some very unpleasant thoughts. It had not been an agreeable interruption to his breakfast, but he tried to think little of it. It was only a quarrel, after all, and _his daughter had done nothing w’rong. He should make it all right in a few seconds when he saw the earl. He wrote to him before he went to the city, telling him that his wife had reached home safely, but was looking very ill. The rest of that day Hildred remained in her room, and on the morning following she did not come downstairs. It was afternoon when Arley Ransome, with a face as pa°!e as death, asked for admittance to her apartment. She bade him enter, and he did so, with an open letter in his hand. It was her husband’s writing, she perceived. “You have deceived me,” said her father, sternly; “you told me that you had hidden nothing from me. Your husband tells me that he has hidden you here because you shot Lady Hamilton on the evening of the thirty-first—shot her with intent to murder, and that you confessed your guilt!” Without a word or a murmur she looked at him, and then fell like one dead at ms feet (To be continued.)