Jasper County Democrat, Volume 1, Number 31, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 November 1898 — A WOMANS ERROR [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A WOMANS ERROR

By Marion V.Hollis.

CHAPTER XXV. Eoiled, baffled, desperate, Beatrice— Lady Beatrice no longer—returned to her room. She fastened the door, she secured heraelf from all observation, and then gave loose to the hot, angry passion that raged within her. Her eyes gleamed with fnry; her face, in its livid passion, was terrible to see. She set her teeth, she clinched her strong white hands; hate and murder ran riot through her veins. She stood there like a beautiful, sullen fiend, forced to own that the Nemesis she had laughed at and scorned had overtaken her at last. Further than that she would not go. She would not say to herself that htr sin had found her out, and heaven itself had punished her. She scoffed at the notion. “Her fate,” she said to herself with a sneer, “was in her own hands, and she might win yet!” Not until evening was that hateful secret to be made known. She had still many hours, and it was, perhaps, in her power to sweep the woman she hated from her path—to slay her as she would fain have slain her son. The value of a human fife was as nothing to her in her moody madness. What did it matter if, after death, the secret were known? It would be hushed up then. Lord Selwyn would do anything to keep it from the world. After death its revelation would not injure her. His lordship would then, in all probability, look upon her as deeply injured. They would have to go through the marriage ceremony again, and there it would end; no more would be heard of the matter! As for the sin—bah! what mattered sin! “If a man sees a tigress ready to spring u;K>n him and rend his heart, he sees no harm in shooting it down,” she cried. “Why should my heart, my honor, my fair name and that of my son be rent? Why should I not destroy the one who would so rend it?” With flushed face and gleaming eyes she paced up and down her magnificent room. “The first thing," she cried, “I will drive to Redruth and get what I want. Before the sun sets we shall see who wins!” She never thought of going to sleep; her brain was too excited, her heart too much agitated. Sleep while she lived —that hated. loathed woman! Her purpose gained strength every hour. No need to enter into its terrible details—no neod to darken a memory that was never too fair. - When the sun rose •he had regained her outward calm, she was herself again; stern, cold and proud. She wag the first to descend to the breakfast room. The morning was beautiful, ■ s some of the darkest days in life often •re—serene and bright, the skies blue, the •ir fragrant, the birds singing, bees and butterflies hovering round the sweetest blossoms, a morning that reminds one of Paradise. Lord Vivian had not yet left bis room. Beatrice went to the window, opened it, stretched out her hand idly and gathered one of the large white roses that ■ came peeping in. She stood idly watching the sky, the trees, the flowers, and no warning came to her of what that bright, sunny morning might bring forth; there was no cloud in the sky, no dirge in the sweet, joyous music of nature, no knell in the glad song of the happy birds. Aud no remorse caine to her either. She thought quite calmly of the fact that before that same bright sun set she should have taken her revenge—she should be to •11 intents and purposes Lady Selwyn, with no rival to fear, no fair-haired woman to dread. Before the sun set! The cry of a little child aroused her. It was pretty, imperious Lance, led in by his nurse. “I beg a thousand pardons, my lady,” she said; “but Master Lance will not be dressed until he has been in to kiss his mamma.” She turned and took him from the worn«n's arms. Wicked, cruel, mad as she was, there was unbounded love in her heart for this her only child. She kissed his beautiful face, she caressed his bonny curls, she twined the •oft, loving little arms round her neck, she • ailed him by every endearing name she could invent. Then to herself she murmured: "It is all for you, my darling—all for ion!” And again no warning came to her that the soft little hands caressed her for the last time—that for the last time that beautiful head was nestled to her heart—that never more would the baby lips kiss her or lisp her name; no warning, although even at that moment a dense, dark shadow hung over her, a stern angel, with drawn sword, stood by her side. “Take him away now, nurse,” she said; “I hear Lord Selwyn coming.” And long afterward the woman told how, when she reached the door, the babe looked back and cried, “Mamma!” and her mistress took him again, lavishing the •weetest caresses upon him, calling him by the most endearing names. “Poor lady!” said the nurse afterward, when she told the story; “it really seamed as though she knew what was going to happen, for she never kissed the baby •gain!” - CHAPTER XXVI.— “Papa," whispered a faint voice, “I am much better, I feel life at my heart again; do you think I shall get well now?” “Yes, my darling," said his father; “heaven has been very merciful and has •pared you to me this time.” There was a smile on Rupert’s face as he listened— a smile that had not been seen there for many long, sad weeks. Lord Selwyn turned to the gentle, patient woman who knelt by his son’s side. “Rupert,” he said, “you must always remember that, after God, you owe your life to the careful nursing of Mrs. Rivera,*’ T. - “I know that," said the boy gratefully; W I dhall never forget. I shall love her as long as I live." She bowed her head as he spoke. If they knew—ls they only knew, that the *

hour was drawing near! Before sunset Lord Selwyn would know that she was living. Rupert would know that the mother whose memory he had worshiped had deceived the whole world, and had nursed him. Before sunset —and it was now near noon. Then bis lordship told her that Lady Beatrice had been suffering all night and was resting in her own room. While the words were still on his lips there came a gentle tap at the ante-room door. Fearing Rupert might be disturbed, Lord Selwyn went himself to answer it. There stood the butler with a white, terrified face. “Will you please come out, my lord?” he said. “I want to speak to you.” He went, with a heavy foreboding as of some coming sorrow at his heart. “What is it, Hewson?” he asked. “la anything wrong?” “My lord," said the man, turning abruptly, “I do not know how to tell you. I cannot find words.” “I do not like suspense,” said Lord Selwyn. “My lady went out this morning, my lord,” said the man;,"! cannot say whose fault it was, bnt she took the chestnut ponies—and ” “Oh, heaven!” cried the unhappy husband. “What has happened?—tell me the worst.” “There has been an accident, and my lady has been brought home in Dr. Argent’s carriage from Shilton.” “Is she—is she ” then Lord Selwyn stopped short, his white lips could not form the word. “No,” was the reply; “the groom was killed on the spot; my lady still lives.” “Where have they laid her?’ ’he asked, in low, hoarse tones. “In her own room. Let me tell you the worst, my lord; she will never leave it again." With a cry that resembled no human sound, Lord Selwyn hastened away. He met strange men and weeping servants in the corridor and on the broad staircase! they made way in silence for him. He entered the room where she layproud, beautiful, imperial Beatrice, proud no longer—the color and flush of health and strength all gone. They had laid her upon the sumptuous bed, and the two doctors stood on either side. They made way for him as he entered. He knew by the expression on both grave faces that for the hapless lady lying there hope had vanished. He went up to her, but for the first time her lips were mute when he called her name. “It is useless, Lord Selwyn,” said Dr. Danvers. “Lady Beatrice will never see you or hear you again.” “Is there no hope?" he asked. “None,” was the grave reply. “Her ladyship has sustained two injuries, either of which would be fatal. Her spine is terribly injured, and there is concussion of the brain. It is merely a matter of a few minutes; but she will never know you i again. She may continue in this state one hour or two—no longer; nor can we render any assistance by remaining.” His distress was terrible to witness. He knelt down by her side, and took the white, helpless hands in his. It was not that he loved her so dearly; but the manner, the suddenness of her death bewildered him. He had been so happy a few minutes since, because Rupert was better, and now he stood by his wife’s deathbed. The shock seemed too much for him. One by one the servants came, all anxious to render some assistance, but he waved them away. Nothing could be done for the doomed lady whose life was so nearly over. “Will she not know me? Will she never be able to speak to me again?” he cried; and the reply was, “Never in this worldnewer again." Some one—he never knew who it was—brought in little Lance, the beautiful, blooming boy, who cried with joy at the sight of his cried again, because he was at the stillness of her White, death-like face. But neither joy, nor sorrow—not even the voice of the child she loved so dearly, and for whom she had sinned so terribly—had power to move her. They laid the child by her side. Its little w’arm hands touched her; but never again would a mother's kiss soothe it, and Lord Selwyn, unable to bear the sight, motioned the child away. A few minutes more, and the solemn silence of that death chamber was broken by the entrance of Mrs. Rivers. She made no apology, but went up to Lord Selwyn. “Is there anything I can do?” she asked gently; and when he shook his head—for all words failed him—instead of leaving the room, she went round to the other side of the bed, and looked earnestly at the changed face. Then Dr. Danvers came up to the bed and looked at the white face. He laid his hand gently on Mrs. Rivers. “You canjjray no longer for the living," he said; “she is dead.” She was dead. When the soul passed to its judgment none of the three kneeling there ever knew! There was little change in the face, save that the gray shades deepened. Lord Selwyn’s grief was pitiful to witness. “I could almost believe,” he said, “that a curse rests on me and mine. My first wife died a terrible death. What have I done that I am so terribly punished?” A gentle voice whispered in his ear: “Heaven’s decrees are not always ordained in punishment; they are always wise, and always merciful.” (To be continued.)