Jasper County Democrat, Volume 1, Number 25, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 1 October 1898 — WOMAN'S ERRORS [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

WOMAN'S ERRORS

By Marion V. Hollis.

CHAPTER Xll—Continued.) And the beajitiful, flower-like face drooped over the fair, sad young wife. The lips that hhd here* sighed—had known naught but smiled—touched the lips to whom smiles were rare. Then the radiant lady, whose life: had no care, went away, leaving Lady Selwyn once more alone under the gladiolus, with those words of caution and advice ringing in her ears. , ” » Had it really come to Qfis, that strangers noted and commented upon the state of things in their household? Could it really be that strangers saw that Beatrice Leigh had more influence over her husband than she had? It was her own fault. In those early days, when Vivian’s lore was untouched by doubt, if she had complied more with his wishes, things would never have come to this pass. Better to have made a few blunders—to have committed a few faults— to have made mistakes; better that a thousand times than for Miss Leigh to have grown accustimed to taking her place. “Was it too late to change?” she asked herself, wearily. “If she could summon up courage now, and try, step by step, to regain all she bad lost, would it be of any use?” She was young, and held life dear. It seemed hard that hope and happiness should gradually fade from her. The sunshine and the flowers seemed to smile upon her. Bending over the golden gladiolus—in whose fragrant bells the bees were humming—she said to herself that she would try. An opportunity came that very day. During dinner Vivian spoke of the evening, and laughed at the eouutess' piquant notion of a committee, “It is some distance to her house,” Violante said. “How shall we go?” ■** As usual. Miss Leigh, who considered the formation of all plans her own particular province, spoke. , , “It will be a fine evening,” she said, “and a walk by the Arno will be delightful” "How fond you are of that river, Beatrice,” said Vivian. No one appealed to Lady Selwyn, or seemed to think she had any wish in the matter. Now was the timb to try. “If you have no objection,” she said, turning her fair, flushed face to Miss Leigh, “I should like to drive. The walk is rather long for mqj’ They looked at her with some surprise —it was the first time she had dissented from any wish. It was Lady Selwyn's first triumph. She had not time to feel pleased over it before seeing the expression on Miss Leigh’s face. It startled her; for it said that she should suffer for the contradiction, and she considered the victory dearly bought.

CHAPTER XUI. The Villa Pjsani was brillantly illuminated. The rooms were filled with guests; the queen of the fete was Beatrice Leigh. It had been given in her honor, and she was the most beautiful and brilliant woman present at it. A little group stood together near one of the numerous fountains that played among the flowers—Beatrice, looking superbly beautiful; Countess Sittni; an English lady, Mrs; Rochester; Lady Selwyn, and Prince Cesare; they had been admiring a rare Indian 'pQmt; whose flowers resembled a errmsod bell. Prince Cesare thought, as he looked at the group of fair women, that he had never seen Lady Violante look to so little advantage. The chief attraebon in her beauty had always been its brightness, the light of her violet eyes, the sheen of her golden hair, the exquisite coloring of her face; but to-night aim looked £im and faded—it was as though had washed away all radiance— had quenched the light of the starry eyes. She looked pale and wearied; there was no animation in her manner; 6be was abstracted, indifferent and dull, differing far as the moon from the sun,to the bright, queenly woman by her side. Lord Vivian joined the group, and he was struck as he had never been before by the superb beauty of Beatrice LeighShining down k rival was an occupation so agreeable to her that her face glowed with trumph— the diamonds on her white breast were not brighter than her dark eyes. Lord Vivian looked at her, then at his wife, who stood by her side “eclipsed.” He wondered what Violante could have done to herself—even her dress seemed either ill-fitting or ill-chosen. “I came in search of a runaway partner,” said Ixtrd Vivan to Miss Leigh—“are you ready, Beatrice Y” Her face waa good to as she raised it to his. “This will be our last dance for many long months,” she said, as they walked away together; “and, Vivian, when it is ended I shall not care to dance again.” “Why not?” he said simply. It never entered his head to imagine that Miss Leigh was what would be called “flirting” with him. “Because,” she said promptly, “I never find another partner like you; every one else scorns awkward and stupid; too tali or too short.” “You flatter me, Beatrice,” he said. “I had no idea you valued my dancing so highly.” “I value all you do and all you say,” she replied,- and he touched the white jeweled hand that lay upon his arm. Then they passed out of sight Prince Cesar* 'went away with the countess, Mrs. Rochester was joined by her husband, and Lady Selwyn, in a few minutes, found herself alone. “No one will miss me,” thought the poor child; “here, in my husband’s own house, no one cares for me: lam only In the way; no one will miss roe!” She passed out into the moonlit grounds, where the fragrant night air whispered to the trees, gnawing jealousy and injured love burning the child like, tender heart away. She went where the sound of the music could not reach her—, down to the banka of the river, where a thick cluster of orange trees ntsed; she eat down there behind one tree larger j than the rest, end turned her weary young!

Old memories came rushing over her of the young brother, who had died like a hero; of the kind, generous father who had njver uttered an angry word; of the “old home” as it stood embowered with trees. Her heart went lack to those childish, happy days, so different from the dreary present. Then the wait* ended, and the dancers sought the cool, lighted grounds. She was only disturbed from her reverie by the rustle of a woman's dress, and the sound of s msn’s voice, speaking in a subdued tone. Raising her head, she saw that on the other side of the orange tree there was a garden chair —on it sat her husband and Beatrice Leigh. “Ton will still be one of us.” Lord Vivian was saying, “although you are going from I shall miss you sorely, Beatrice.” “Not SS 1 shall miss you.” she cried, passionately; “I am nothing to you, while yon—you are ” “What?” he asked, for the words had died upon her false lips. “Ton are everything to me.” she said. “When I leav* your roof, I leave my world behind me.** Do him justice. He riever dreamed of the guilty loTe that had mastered her. He a Selwyn, of Selwyn Castle—the descendant of “stainless women and brave men”—could not even imagine a woman capable of seeking to undermine his faith. He believed that she was specking of the calm brotherly and sisterly affection that he thought had always existed between them. “Poor Beatrice,” be said, taking the white hand in his. “I am sorry you must go.” He did not see the suppressed passion in her face—the eager Sight of her eyes as. bent upon mischief, she continued: “I wish—forgive me if I speak too freely—l wish that I left you happier. Vivian. The world begins to talk of you as n disappointed man.” He sighed deeply, and that sigh fell like a death-knell on the young wife’s bedrt. “Whether my life is made or marred,” he said gravely. “I ara responsible for my own fate.” “It might all have been so different,” continued Beatrice. “Ah, Vivian, your manage ought to have crowned your life.” “As I have sown, I must reap,” he said after a silence of some “Do not talk to me of this. Beatrice. If there has been a mistake, it has been mine, and mine alone.” Then came some half-murmured words from Miss Leigh. Lady Yolante could not hear them, bnt her husband’s reply waa perfectly audible. “I do thank you. Beatrice, for your kindness to her: poor child, she suffers for my mistake.” Lower still dropped the golden head — lower, until it rested on the smooth stem of the orange tree. Sue clasped her hands before her face. lest, in the madness of her despair, she should be tempted to cry out. She bit her lips, she clinched her slender hands until her rings made great indentations in them—anything rather than cry aloud. “This is my real good-by.” said Bestrice Leigh. *T do not suppose 1 shall see you again alone, Vivian.” The bright moonshine showed him the tears in her dark eyes, as she raised her beautiful face to hia; and the iove in it was so great, the sorrow so real, that he bent his bead and kissed her forehead, as her own brother might have done. Remember, they had been brought up as children of one mother for many years. “Good-by, Beatrice,” he said. “Heaven bless you for jonr love to me, and your kindness to my wife.” But those words, which must have opened her eyes to her folly, were unheard by Lady Yiolanfee. Through the silver leaves she had seen that kiss. She judged her husband not by her reason, bnt by her jealousy, and the sight drove her mad. They rose from the garden seat and walked away. She crunched lower amid the orange trees and prayed her old prayer: “Oh, that I were dead and he were free!” ' Then she rose, and trampling the sweet almond blossoms under her feet, walked quietly back to the house. The music came in sweet, soft gushes of sound from the ball-room, where Beatrice Leigh, in her imperial beauty and Circean grace, was queen. Quietly and slowly the mistress of the house walked through the silent rooms, where no guests lingered, up to her own room. Who would have recognized in the pale, wearied, heart-broken woman, the fresh, dimpled beauty of Yiolante Temple?

CHAPTER XIV. She went to the nursery where Rupert lay sleeping; the nurse sat by the child’s cot, and she looked up in horror at the white, ghastly face of her lady. “Mrs. Peters,” said Lady Violante. “will you go and find the butler? Tell him to see Lord Selwyn, and say from me that I am and unable to return to the ball-room to-night.” “You look very ill, my lady,” said the woman; “is there anything I can do for you?—anything I can get?*’ Lady Violante thanked her. It was one of this unhappy lady’s peculiarities to be exceedingly kind to every one abont her; and Mrs. Peters went down stairs, thinking to herself that of all the unhappy women she had ever seen, none were so unhappy as Lady Selwyn. She found the butler, who sought his lordship, and delivered his lady’s message. Lord Vivian shrugged his shonidllb, sent some commonplace message in return, and said to himself it waa always the same. “Violante was always ill when there was anything to do.” When the nurse was gone she knelt down by her sleeping child. She laid her tired head on the white pillow by his side. * She laid her gentle hands on the chfld’a •kMoTI the psaggds.*the red, Lulling toaliy

Krief, she prayed aloud that heaven would bless the boy. Little —U®- *o of when ajsf homahe should kto that face again." wflbt to her wvfPing table and opened the pretty little desk that lay there. She sat for some minutes thinking what to say. wondering in what words she could Ihest reach his heart, so as to touch him with some little sorrow for his loss. Then she wrote; . | “My Deaf Husband—l call you by that name for the last time, as I write for the last time. \Ve are not happy, and I am going from you. You are bitterly disappointed in me. I heard to-night that all Florence pitied you, and knew how unhappy I made you; so, Vivian, I am going away where you will never see me any more. If I could die and set you free, I would, so gladly; but until heaven calls me, I must live. I dare not take my own life, even to set you free; but I will do the next best thing to that—l will go away where no one who knows you will ever see me again. So shall I free you from a presence yon dislike, und from what you dislike even more —the need of parting 'with Miss Leigh. She can remain now that I have gone.” The poor jealous heart revealed herself in that line—her scalding tears fell like raindrops upon the note. Lady Violante took what money remained in her desk. Half of it she gave to her maid, and took half herself. Then from her wardrobe shelves she took a small traveling, bag; in it she placed her jewel case and the purse, together with a few papers. One contained a lock of her baby’s hair, and was labeled “Rupert's hair.” The other contained a faded rose, the first flower Lord Vivian had ever given her, and the third held the little locket that Lord Vivian had traveled to Oakside to give her. These were her treasures; little reeked the unhappy girl of the diamonds and rubies her husband had lavished upon her—her only thought was for those, her treasures, dearer to her than gold and jewels. Then she gave the bag into her maid’s care, and as she did so, she was struck by the coldness of the woman’s hand. “Are you chill nnd cold?” she asked; and the woman shivered ns thought it had been December. “I am cold, my lady,” she replied; “cold, sick and faint, as though with a great dread. I cannot tell What has come over , me—l feel as though I wore going to die.” With her own hands Lady Selwyn took from the shelves a thick, warm fur cloak. She wrapped it round her maid’s shoulders. ' “That will warm you,” she said. “And now' listen while I explain my plans. I am determined that I will not be.traced; that which I ily from is more bitter than death, and I will not be found. We will go to the railway station together; you shall keep out of sight, and I will buy the ticket for Genoa. You shall go by train, and wait for me in Genoa; I will follow you by another route. Do you understand?”

The woman’s eyes, with the strange shadow in their depths, were raised calmly to hers. “I understand, my lady.” “When they know that I have gone away,” cofitigffed Lady Selwyn, “they will hear at the station that I took a ticket for Genoa, and they will follow me there. They will find you if they find anyone—l shall he miles away. My idea is to throw them off the right scent. There could be no better plan than this.” “None, my l|dy,” said the maid, trying to shake off the dull lethargy creeping over her. “I shall join you in Genoa,” continued Lady Selwyn, “when I know that the search for me has proved fruitless. If by any chance you should be seen, Theresa, you must say—what will be perfectly true —that you know nothing of my whereabouts, but that you yourself are returning to England. Now let us start; go first, and I will follow yon.” Theresa Bowden went on to her fate! No one had noticed the departure of the maid. Some of the guests were already leaving the villa when Selwyn, dressed in a dark traveling cloak, passed forever from her home. The railway station at Florence was not crowded on this eventful evening. One mail train had just disgorged its load of passengers, and another was preparing to start.

When the train-did start a lady took her place in the fiyst-elass carriage, and another—unobserved,, uoupticed—stole out of the station yard. Then, and for the first time. Theresa Bowden had time to think of what had happened—had time tQ .realize her lady's flight. The girl’s thoughts were very sad ones; suddenly she found herself torn from a comfortable home hud launched on a sea of difficulties that appeared endless. “I know,’! she said to herself, “that if the truth were known, all my lady's unhappiness comes from Miss Leigh.” The train passed by quiet vineyards, where the faint dawn of morning shone on the purple grapes; past quiet Italian villages, past purple hills and suow-cl&d mountains, without stopping, without accident. It reached a small station at last, near the pretty town of Sedi. There they who traveled heard the first Taint morning carol of the birds—and then on again. On. until—who shall say how it happened—there eame a terrible shock, a terrible noise, a hissing of steam, a crashing as of broken carriages, a ruslffug, blinding, bewildering shock, as two trains met with deadly force, and one forced the other over the embankment into the vinewreathed valley below! A collision! One train was five minutes too early, another three minutes late! There was some carelessness over the signals, and for that carelessness some ten or twelve innocent, helpless human beings paid with their lives. ' There was dire confusion and dismay; then those who had escaped began to collect themselves. In less than an hour help came from Sedi, and the dead, the tlying and the wounded were extricated from the wreck of broken carriages and laid side by side. (To be continued.) A marblq bust of James G. Blaine has been placed in the rotunda of the state house at Augusta, Me. It I's the work of Prof. G. Trentanove, the Italian scnlptor. The bust is a gift to the State, and, while the name of the donor Is kept secret, It is said to be Joseph H. Mauley. God be thanked for books; they are the voices of the distant and the dead, and amke us heirs of the spiritual life of post ages.—Cbannlug. bore others just because others