Jasper County Democrat, Volume 1, Number 29, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 29 October 1898 — A WOMANS ERROR [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A WOMANS ERROR

By Marion V. Hollis.

CHAPTER XXI. Mrs. Rivers thought she had gone through the greatest pain ahe could ever know. The agony of death was not so great, she thought, as the anguish of seeing and speaking to her son, while he knew her not. But there was even greater pain in store. She came out of the school room (me afternoon, tired with the heat and the noise of the children; her head ached, her eyes were half-bHnded with the glare of the sun; she longed for rest and sleep. The little cottage stood all alone; no one over came near it. She dreaded no Intrusion, either of friend, or visitor, or foe. So, on this sultry afternoon, leaving the door which led to the garden wide open to admit a free current of air, she sat down in the pretty rocking chair, and laying her tired head on her hands, fell fast asleep. As she lay there, so unconscious, so happy in her dream, so peaceful in her sleep, the sunshine playing over her, die wind sighing gently round her, a step sounded on the path that led to the door. Lord Selwyn was passing the cottage, and thought to please his wife by an act of attention to her governess. He went slowly up the garden path, and smiled when he saw the open door. He entered, and there before him saw the sleeping woman, with a peaceful smile ,on her face. He did not recognise her. How should he, believing as he did that she slept under the white marble monument at Florence? He saw the dark hair and the widow’s cap, the patient lips brightened, by s smile that came from the peace of heaven, not earth, and his kindly, noble heart warmed to her. He will never forget her cry, he will never forget her terrified start, the unearthly fear that seemed for a few short minutes to paralyse her as she awoke. She stood before him, white, stricken with anguish in her face and in her eyes, waiting as the criminal waits for the words of the judge who has to condemn him. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Rivers,” said Lord Selwyn kindly; “I would not have disturbed you so cruelly for the world. I have alarmed you very much, I fear.” He heard the murmur of a few inarticulate words, and. pretending to have understood them, said: “You will find life rather dull at Thornleigh; but you must come up to the Castle sometimes. Lady Selwyn is very much attached to her schools. She would like you to be very happy, I am sure.” What was she saying? He bent down to listen, for her strength had failed, and ahe was sitting in the chair from which she had risen in such mortal fright. “He was very kind; Lady Selwyn was very good. She wanted for nothing.” “You do not seem very well, or yet very strong," he said gently. “Perhaps you have not got over the sorrow of your loss yet?” “No,” the white lips said. “I shall never do that—never get over it while I Kve.” Suddenly his eye#l fell upon that same volume of Wordsworth. He went hastily to the little bookcase and took it down, she watching him breathlessly the while. She saw His face darken, and an angry look come into hia eyes. “I beg your pardon, Mrs. Rivers,” he said; “this book must have been sent here by mistake.” “Lady Selwyn was kind enough to select a few for me,” ahe replied, “and that was among them.” “It was a mistake,” he said, curtly. “I value it very highly. I would not part with it bn any account. You will excuse me if I take it away.” Her very heart leaped at the words. Ah! then he did respect and even love her memory. It was by no wish of bis the book had been sent from the Castle, as not worth keeping; and Lady Beatrice had spoken untruthfully over that, aa she did over all other things. He quietly put the volume in his pocket, and turned to go away with an expression of deep annoyance on his face. “It was heartless,” he thought, “of Beatrice to give away anything that had belonged to poor Violante—sweet Violante!” and a deep ugh escaped him as the memory of his first wife’s fair yonng face rose before him. “You must accept my apologies for having disturbed you, Mrs. Rivers,” he said; “and pray remember, Lady BHwyn will feel great pleasure in attending to any request of yours.” Then for the first time he saw the sad, pleading eyes, and a puzzled look came over his Dace. “Have I seen you before?” he asked hastily; “your face is strangely familiar to me!” She tried to smile, but the attempt was a ghastly one. That one question was a most complete and perfect parody on human love—betted than a thousand volumes written to prove Its vanity. “I have not been out much since I have been here,” ahe replied evasively; but he still looked puzzled and mystified. “You find school duties hard,” he said kindly; “yon do not look strong.” “I am very fond of children,” ahe replied; “I, am happiest among them.” “Good-morning, Mrs. Rivers,” he said; “try and make yourself as happy as you can.” The next moment he was gone, and the light of her life seemed to pass away with him. CHAPTER XXII. llow Mrs. Rivers managed to survive that visit and continue her work of drudgery in the school room she could never Afterwards tell. For several weeks afterwards she, happily for herself, saw nothing of either Lord Selwyn or Lady Beatrice. My lady was not well, Lord Selwyn thought a change would be beneficial to her. So they went away to the pretty estate in Pcotland, Hudson Hall, the boy Rupert remaining with .his tntor at the Castle, for lady Beatrice declared herself far too unwell to bear any noise. And during that time Rupert went often to the cottage. He could not explain to

himself how or why, bat he grew warmly attached to the gentle, patient lady, who always seemed so delighted to see him, and had always something nice waiting for him; who petted him and coaxed him aa no other woman had ever done; who listened with loving eagerness by the hoar together to his talk of his studies, his recreations, and his father. So the summer and the autumn passed, and she, sweet, simple soul, was so happy with her son that a faint color returned-to her face, and the sound of her silver-sweet langh was heard more than once. Then came Christmas, and it was my lady’s whim that Mrs. Rivers should be her almoner—should give away blankets, eoql, wine and beef, in her name; and in all those charities Rupert assisted, until the boy’s attachment to the governess was smiled at everywhere. “It will never hurt him,” said his tutor once. “No boy of his age could be anything but better for the companionship of a good and pure woman. Mrs. Rivera is that, and she is, besides, a lady in heart, mind and manners. The boy will gain by every visit be pays to the school cottage.” “I think,” said Rupert, one snowy day, as he ant with Mrs. Rivera in the warm, coxy little parlor of the cottage; “I think that if ever I were to have a bad illness, I should like you to come and take care of me. Would you?” “I hope you will never have my illness,” ahe said, the mothers heart filled with vague, quick alarm. “If I do,” he said gently, “I should ask my father to send at once for you.” Long after he was gone she pondered over those words. If ever he sent for her, idle would have to go. How could she bear to return, as a paid, poor, nameless dependent, to the place she had entered as a beautiful, blooming bride? Winter passed, and the springtime came again; the trees began to bad. the birds to sing; and then Lord Selwyn wrote to say that he was coming home with her ladyship. There were grand preparations at Selwyn Castle, and early in the month of April they returned. Still Lady Beatrice never came near the schools, and Mrs, Rivers began to wonder if she had Offended or displeased her; yet that could not be, for large baskets of fruit'and flowers were sent continually from the Castle. And one morning early In May, Rupert rode ©Ter to the cottage. How well she remembered that day in after yearn. “Mrs. Rivers,” he said, “1 have come to tell you the news, because I thought it would please you. Come up to the Castle and see my little baby brother!” She looked at him agasht, the color going and coining in her sweet face. “What do you mean?” she asked. “We are all so pleased,” he said. “Lady Beatrice has a beautiful little son, so that I have a brother now, and I mean to loTe him with all my heart.” Like wildfire the welcome news flew over the neighborhood. Lady Beatrice Selwyn had a little son. She had carefully refrained from even saying one word, and people were taken by surprise. No one was more pleased than Rupert, the heir of Selwyn. Lord Selwyn was Tery pleased. He was fond of children; be liked the music of their pretty laoghter. the innocent prattle, the amusing ways. It was a delight to him to think that once more he should hold a baby boy in his arms, once more teach baby lips to speak. And if he was pleased and proud, what was the happy mother? She had not the tenderness that distinguished Violante; her heart did not overflow with love for the helpless, innocent child in her arms. But she was proud of him, fond of him, in her stately way. There was one drawback. This beautiful boy, so strong, so healthy, her own son, was not heir of Selwyn. He had no proud rank to sustain, no grand position to hold in the world; for him there was no title, no estate; he would never be anything save a younger son, with a small income, and the thought of it was gall and wormwood to Lady Beatrice. She was difficult to please in selecting a name for her child. She qjiose Lancelot, after much consideration. Lord Lancelot Selwyn, in olden days, had won great fame as a warrior, and had made his name famous through all the land. Envy is a weak word to describe the jealous anger and gnawing, bitter hatred that filled the heart of Lady Beatrice for the heir of Selwyn. Her own boy was a beaut if nl child, fair of face, noble and generous of disposition; slightly inclined to be tyrannical and imperious, yet loTing and gentle when his little fits of anger were OTer. He resembled his father even more than Rupert did. “The pity of it,” as my lady often said, “that he, descended from a noble line on his mother’s side, as well as his father’s; that he, who resembled so closely tie master of Selwyn, should not be its heir.” She detested this interloper, this grandson of a country attorney, this son of a plebeian mother. She hated him with all the scorn of a passionate, proud soul. Had little Lance never been born she would have tolerated Rupert; but. side by side with her love for her own child, grew her intense and angry hate for him. She was obliged most carefully to conceal it. Lord Selwyn would never hare permitted from any one living the least unkindneas to Violante’s son. No one knew better how to inflict a wound than Lady Beatrice Selwyn. She had a way of speaking to him—a quiet sarcasm, a killing contempt—that stabbed the boy; yet careful was she that there was no word ever passed her lips that could be repeated to his father. She made his home so uncomfortable that he went oftener than ever to the cottage. Lord Selwyn just at that time was busily engaged in some political business, and waa very often from home. Lady Beatrice cared little where the boy apent his time, provided it was not with her. 80, when hia day’s lessons were over, Rupert would mount his pony and gallop away. He never tried to explain, even to himself, tbe attraction that took him to

Mrs. Rivera. He liked her gentle voice, always hushed and low; her quiet, graceful manner, her soothing words. He liked her to pet him, to indulge him; to sit, hour after hour, telling him tales that reminded him of his mother—he knew not why or how; Btories of great men and braTe deeds, true heroism, and grand self-devotion. Those quiet hours in tbe summer gloaming, with the lonely lady whom he was growing to love so dearly, did more toward forming Rupert’s character than all the hoars of study. He went there one day when Lady Beatrice had been very unkind to him. Lord Selwyn was away, and she had refused to allow Rupert to play with little Lance, or even to see him—refused him with words that, if repeated, lost all their sting; yet the look that accompanied them was bitter as death. It was not often that Lady Beatrice made Rupert wince—he was very patient under her scornful dislike; ffiit on this day hot tears rose to his eyes and blinded him. The trace of the tears was quite perceptible on bis face when he reached the cottage. The contrast between those two women was so great; the one indulged, caressed, and half-worshiped him; the other was cold, proud and disdainful. Little by little Mrs. Rivers drew from him the story of his wrongs, each word stabbing her with deadly pain. Then some days passed and she did not see him. The summer was drawing to a close; the leaves were beginning to fall from the trees; the sweetest flowers were fading, the birds sang of their approaching departure. He did not come. Wearily, hour after hour, she stood at the little gate, looking down the high road. There was no chestnut pony, no bright face smiling under a glengarry cap. She missed him with a pain that frightened her. Perhaps Lady Beatrice had prevailed, and he was sent away. Perhaps Lord Selwyn had changed his mind, and had sent him to school. She thought of a hundred different things. She woke up in the night, fancying she heard the quick gallop of the chestnut pony, then went to sleep with a prayer on her lips. Still the days passed on, and he did not come. She stood one day at the window, thinking to herself that if she heard nothing of him she would summon up courage and ask the rector for news. The sound of footsteps in the little garden outside aroused her. There stood his lordship, looking pale, scared and anxious. “Good morning, Mrs. Rivers," he said, gravely. “I have come to ask a great favor. Will you grant it?” The sound of his voice always pierced her heart like a sharp sword. “My son Rupert is very ill,” he continued; “60 ill that we are all frightened over him! He cries incessantly for you. Will you get some one to take your place In the school and come to nurse him?” (To be continued.)