Jasper County Democrat, Volume 1, Number 20, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 27 August 1898 — A WOMANS ERROR [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A WOMANS ERROR

By Marion V.Hollis.

CHAPTER I.

"Look at mo,” Raid n clour, s#Pot voice, with something both of laughter and tears in it; “look at me, Vivian. How can 1 ever be a groat lady? Nature never intended mo for one.” n “Nature has made you u queen by right of divine grace and beauty,” war the earnest reply, “and Nature, Violaute, is a lady who never makes mistakes.” “But,” cried the rich voice agaiu. “a lady, Vivian, to have a title to ray name, to live at a grand cnstle, to have servants* and carriages, jewels, and all kinds of grandeur! Why, Virion, 1 should not even know myself.” “But I should know you, and that is more to the purpose,” he replied, “Better any pain now,” she said, “than that hereafter you should repent; and, Vivian, we are so far apart, our lives have been so different. You would repent,. I am sure.” “We are not far apart,” he replied, hastily. “If you mean by that that I have thousands a year and your father one hundred, I maintain that you are quite wrong. Your father is a gentleman, a scholar, and a man of honor. What am 1 more—even if I have so much?” She made the most charming little courtesy, full of raock deference and winning grace. “You, monsignor," she interrupted, “are Iyord Vivian Selwyn, of Selwyn Castle, Knight of the Order of the Garter, Baron of Hulstone in Yorkshire, and of Crnighley in Scotland. You see, 1 know your name and titles by heart.” He smiled amusedly. ' “Never mind my titles,” he said. “You are the daughter of a gentleman; you are a lady by instinct, by nature, by training, by education, in manner, in thought, word and deed. What can 1 desire more?” There was still some hesitation in her lovely face. “Violaute,” he whispered, “do you see how the flowers bloom, and how their leuves send out fragrant messages to their ardent lover—the sun? Do you hear how, the birds sing? Do you hear the wind whispering among the trees? Shall flowers and birds and trees be more happy than I?” For tile first time she turned and looked at him, her beautiful eyes met his, and rested in them. In that quiet, serene glance, the destiny of their lives was settled. The world is full of beautiful pictures. Some hang on the walls of grand old galleries; some on the walls of palaces whose very names are redolent of fine art; some brighten humbler homes; some iire placed in old cathedral aisles—-over the altars of churches; some have never been framed or painted, save by the hand of the Great Creator—pictures whose beauty makes earth so fair; pictures of white, fleecy clouds sailing over a blue sky; of golden sunshine falling in soft rays; of pale, pure stars, making more solemn the solemn night-tide; such pictures as touch men’s hearts with a sense of the Sublime, bringing deep, holy rapture into the soul, and tears of earnest gratitude to eyes long dry.

And surely the fairest, the sweetest, the purest picture of all was this one upon which the sun shone like a smile from heaven. The picture of a long green lane where the grass grew soft and thick, where the hanks presented one muss of bloom, and the hedges were white with hawthorn—a green, shady, fragrant lane, such as onc> only sees in Old England. There was the (juaint, picturesque town of Woodeaves lying in the Leicestershire hills, half buried in green foliage, surrounded by thick woods, by rich green clover meadows, by golden cornfields, Infertile pasture lands, flowery gardens and fruit-laden orchards, stretching out to the purple hills ns to an unknown land. There was a grand old church whose spire pointed like a slender hand to heaven. It was covered with Ivy, and inclosed by tall oak trees, under whose shade the dead slept so quietly and so well. The houses were pretty and stood embowered in trees. That was the picture one saw from between the trees; and then, turning to the stile ut the end of the lane, there was another picture even fairer still. Behind a rluster of golden laburnums and purple lilacs, there stood a picturesque, gray old house, brightened by scarlet creepers, by purple wisteria, and climbing woodbines; a house with large, bright windows, framed in trailing flowers and roses of white and red, with quaint old gable ends and deep, overhanging eaves, where birds built their nests und sparrows chirped. A house that stood in a most bewildering garden— not square and trim and laid out as the Dutch like to see—but full of nooks and corners; full of trees, whose roots were hidden in great masses of mignonette and clove carnations: full of old-fashioued flowers such as poets loved loug years ago—sweet peas and sweetwilliams, southernwood and pansies, lilies and roses. Every path had a Charm of Us own, leading either to fragrant rosebushes or beds of white lilies or plots of rope-red strawberries or raspberries running wild. At the end of the garden stood the prety rustic old stile; golden laburnums drooped over it, and tall lilacs stood proudly near; and here the sunbeams fell as though they loved to linger, for they brightened the fair head of one of the fairest girls who ever looked up to the summer skies. She, Violante Temple, stood by the stile, with the laburnums drooping over her. Her lover bad pushed aside the houghs, and they made a frame for her lovely, piquant face. lie was bending over her, watching the play of her beautiful lips, drinking in the ever-changing beauty of her eyes, - She was a fair trteture. No artist ever painted, no poet ever sung of a fairer. She could not have been more than seventeen. Her girlish, slender figure was full of pace, every movement full of harmony. It was of exquisite proportions, with slopieg shoulders, and a carriage. fuji of easy dignity. She embodied the very poetry of motion, so full of unstudied elegance. Mo wonder the sunbeams lingered on

CHAPTER 11.

The lover who pleaded so earnestly with her wns some years older thun Violante. As Lord Vivian Selwyn stands there, one’s eyes rest on him in admiration. He presents a marked contrast to the young girl by his side; she is fair and graceful, he dark and stately; she is winsome and sweet, he has all the dignity of a grand old race; her face is gentle and flowerlike, his descended from crusaders and cavaliers, brave and noble; she is delicate and fragile, he strong, with a martial air that agrees well with his broad shoulders, his open chest and magnificently developed limbs. He had wooed her with such loving, tender words, she had no power to resist. “Last night" it was true he had taken her by surprise, and she had confessed she loved him, but for long hours afterward she hud been busy thinking; prudence nnd common sense told her the difference between them in rank, position and station in life was too great, nnd that she had better fly in time from the dazzling dream. All day the lovely young face had worn a grave, serious expression, and the dark eyes had been shadowed with care. How could she, Violaute Temple, the daughter of n country lawyer, whose only boast was a good and honored life —how could she take the place of Lady Selwyn, of Selwyn Castle? So she had spent the day in-shaping great resolves. She would see him once more, nnd tell him it could never be —that he had better go and leave her; for it could not end happily, her own instinct told her so. All day the sweet, flowerlike face hnd been shadowed with these thoughts, nnd in the light, sunshiny afternoon she had gone to her favorite nook, the stile in the lane, to sit there and shape her thoughts into words, when a hand, whose clasp she knew well, touched hers, and the voice she loved best said: “Violante, I have been looking everywhere for you. I have come to ask you if you meant what you said last night, and if you are willing to be my wife?” And before she knew whut to reply he had raised her from the moss-covered stone on which she sat, and they were standing under the delicate, drooping, golden laburnums. “I meant what I said,” she replied, shyly; “but I can never be your wife.” Then in good order as she remembered them she made use of all those sensible arguments which made him so impatient. “I inn twenty-five years old,” he said, smilingly. “I am my own master; lam rich and prosperous, and I love only one woman in the world. Yet you tell me I cunnot have her for my wife. If she is to ho won by prayers and by love, she shall be mine, Violante; for life will be all blank to me without her.” One by one he vanquished all her arguments, and at last, with her hands clasped in his, she had promised to be his wife, —to love him, to be true to him, to care for him, nnd him alone, until she died. “What will my father say?” cried the girl suddenly. “He has not the faintest idea, Vivian, that you have spent these summer weeks in fulling in love with me.” “He will be very pleased, and will say I have spent my time well,” was the smiling reply. “He will never believe I am old enough to be married,” she cried, with a low, delicious laugh, sweet as the chime of bells. When Mr. Temple returned that evening to Oakside he was surprised at the merry voices and happy faces awaiting him.

His daughter—his little Violnnte— to be married! His little girl, who had made his tea, mended his socks and attended to his comforts, to become Lady Sehvyn of Selwyn Castle, one of the grandest ladies in the land! “You have no objection?*’ said Lord Vivian to Mr. Temple; “’you are willing to give Violante to iue?” “I am simply bewildered,” was the truthful reply. “I do not know whether to be angry and refuse you—to tell you such nonsense must be forgotten—or whether I ought to give you both my blessing. lam bewildered, as I have never been in life before.” “Take some time to consider, sir,” replied the young lover; “I shall be at YVoodeaves ten days longer,” That night, while his daughter's golden head lay at rest, and her fair face smiled IH'aeefully, Horace Temple sat up to think, and consider what it would be beat to do. He himself had married young; he did not remember whether he had been very passionately in love with his own wife or not, but he had made his wife very happy, he had provided for all her wants; she had lived a commonplace, happy life in the pretty home at Oakside. Two children were born to them there; Bertie, and four years afterward, Vlhlante, a lovely, dark-eyed, fair-haired daughter. Then, quietly and gently as she had livedi Mrs. Temple faded away and died, not of any acute or painful disease, but of slow, lingering decline. She faded out of life as the colors die out of the western sky; dying so gently that those who

watched her did not know when sleep ended and death came. Her death certainly roused Horace Temple; it roused him into greater tenderness for bis children. Before that ho had been contented to see them morning nnd night, then leave them to their mother’B care, now he tried his best to be father and mother both. Violante was easily managed; she had lessons at home, superintended by him, and the result was the strangest education a young lady ever received. She learned Latin: she was well versed in the English classics; the history, the literature of her own country, were all familiar to her; she could draw with exquisite skill; she sang nothing but old English buflads, but those she sang with the purest, sweetest voice, with a wondrous power of expression that completely charmed all who heard her. The boy Bertie fared better than his sister; his vocation, even in early life, Wns settled. He would be nothing but a soldier. In vnin Horace Temple painted the delights of the law, the church, ths| civil professions; he would have none of them. To liis same regiment belonged Captain Vivian Selwyn, the nephew.* and heir of Lord Huldibrand Selwyn of Selwyn Castle, a brave, noble, generous young officer, perhaps better liked than any in the service; a man beloved by all, by comrades and men; a man whose heart and hand were ever open to help, to relieve, and to assist. The fair-hnired young ensign looked up to Captain Selwyn with something like adoration; he thought him the grandest man, and the greatest hero the world ever saw. He was happy for days if the captain spent ten minutes in talking to him. The time came when the “Queen’s Own” wei* l ordered off to India, and Horace Temple bade his only son farewell. The quiet, reserved, solitary man never knew until that moment how dear his children were to him —he had not realized it. There was a rebellion among the native troops, and the “Queen’s Own" were ordered off to quell it. It so happened that the commanding officer, Major Threlton, wanted to send some important papers to Madras. They were papers that had been taken from an Indian chief mnde captive, and related to a conspiracy spread far and wide among the native troops. /

It was the youngest of them all who offered to go—Ensign Temple. They called him Bertie and Beauty among themselves, because of his fair, boyish face and golden curls. But there was not one among them whose heart did not boa# faster when the young hero stood up and asked if the dangerous duty might bo his. They gave him the papers, and ho went out; four soldiers went with him. They rode out of camp one morning while the haze of heat covered the sky like a thick, coppery mist, and never a one returned. They were half way to their journey's end when they met the detachment of natives sent out by the rebels to waylay them and regain the papers. Ensign Temple, with a deep saber cut on his brow, with innumerable wounds on his chest, his neck and arms, managed to escape. He rode into the camp, and lived long enough to redeem his promise to place in the hands of Gen. Vinny the dispatches intrusted to him, none the less precious that they were bathed in his blood. it was night when he arrived, and the general was surrounded by his staff. They were grim old warriors, most of them; but to this day they tell with trembling lips of the bright-haired boy who rode so suddenly into the camp, streaming with blood, with death in his brave young face. They tell how he placed the papers in the general's hand, and fell at his feet, saying with the smile of a child: “You will tel) them at home that I did my duty.” There was a Btir among them. Dark, bronzed faces grew pale and quivered as they rnised the boy and carried him away to die; But there was one happiness in store for him. News reached Major Threlton that the young ensign and his little troop hnd been waylaid. Captain Selwyn, with a small body of men, was sent after him at once, and the captain was just in time to see the young hero die. They had laid him under the shade of a large palm tree. The evening sun had set, and as though in mercy to him, a cool, calm breeze had risen. "Ah, captain!” said the boy; "I longed to see your fare and touch your hand once more. You have always been my hero, and I have loved you so well. You will go back to England some day; promise me that you will go and see my father, that you will say with my last breath I sent him my love; tell my sister Violante I thought of her as I lay dying, with infinite love, and tell them for me that i died a soldier's death, doing my duty as soldiers do. I told my father I might live to be a general, but my laurels are few, and I have gathered them young. Captain Selwyn, I am not afraid of death, but will you let me hold your hand while I die?” And Captain Vivian Selwyn—used as he was to sickness, to wounds, and death —felt bis face grow white and his lips quiver, as he stood by and watched the young soldier die. Tears filled his eyes as he noted the deep crimson wound on the fair young brow. “Heaven bless him,” he said with reverent lips. “England may well be proud of her soldier sons, when they live and die like him.” __ With his own hands lie cut off two of the golden curls, resolving to keep them until he returned home, and then to take one to his sister, and one to the father of the young hero whom they were never more to see.

Captain Vivian Selwyn redeemed his promise. That was how he came to meet Violante. He lingered"on at Woodeaves, trying all in his power to win the love of that pure young heart: he succeeded at last; the time came when he could keep his secret no longer, and one evening, when Mr. Temple had been obliged to return to his office for papers, nnd the two were alone, he surprised her into confessing that she, too, loved him. t "Against my better judgment.” she said with a saucy, bewitching smile, “but I cannot help it.” After two days of deep thought and consideration, Horace Temple, bewildered as ever, gave his consent; and the marriage of Lord Vivian Selwyn and Violante was arranged to take place in September. (To be continued.)

The tallest man is Missouri is Ai. G. Waite, of YVaveriy. He is 6 feet 8 inches out of his boots. He is one of a family of tan, the tallest of whom was 7 feet 8 Inches. His smallest sister is 6 feet 8 inches tall. The Waites are relatives of the late Chief Justice Waite.