Jasper County Democrat, Volume 1, Number 32, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 November 1898 — A WOMANS ERROR [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A WOMANS ERROR

By Marion V.Hollis.

CHAPTER XXVII. It was not until the first bewilderment of his sorrow passed away that Lord Vivian Selwyn thought of asking how it happened. No one could tell him. The lady’s maid told him all that Lady Beatrice had said, and he could not understand why his wife had been so determined upon visiting Redruth—what could have induced her to brave his annoyance and anger, to disobey his commands, to disregard his wishes? There must be some reason Why, but he never discovered it. The secret of that journey, for which she had been willing to risk her life, perished with her. Deepest gloom seemed that day to have fallen on Selwyn Castle. Every one was stunned and bewildered. By the doctor’s advice all knowledge of the accident was carefully concealed from Rupert. Whatever Lord*Selwyn thought or felt, he was obliged, in his son’s presence, to carefully conceal all emotion. That same day his lordship visited the groom’s cottage. The man left a wife and three little Children to lament his loss. Lord Vivian did all he could for the woman; He gave her the cottage, and settled upon her a pension that would forever keep grim want from her door. There was an inquest, but no one had anything to say, and the verdict was, as a matter of course, “accidental death.” On Mrs. Rivers the sad, sudden -death produced a strange effect. It gave her time for thought. She had dreaded the revelation of her secret; she had dreaded the terrible scene that must have ensued when it became known; and now it was once more her own. She deplored Beatrice's sad death more, perhaps, than any one, for she alone knew the secret of the terrible crime the dead woman had planned. She mourned not only for the lost life, but for the sin-laden soul so swiftly, so suddenly summoned before its Judge. She was miserably undecided what to do. There were times when it seemed to her the only atonement she could make for her error was to confess her fault to her husband, to tell him every motive which had actuated her and let him punish her as he would. That idea would take possession of her until she was nearly throwing herself at his feet and telling him all. Then came the reaction. The same motives that had led her to make the sacrifice existed still. They were rather deepened by the thought of how her son would listen to such a story and how it would affect him. She resolved at last upon keeping silent a short time longer. The day came when Rupert was able to ! leave the room in which he had fought so fierce a battle with the grim King Death and go down stairs. Soon as he was able to travel his father asked him if he would like to go to Scotland, and the boy was delighted with the idea. Lord Selwyn and Rupert went to Scotland. There in the clear, bracing northern air, health and strength came back to the young heir of Selwyn. He grew rapidly; his father’s eyes rested upon him in admiring love. Rupert was a noble, princely boy, and his father gloried in him. There, in the long walks by mountain and glen, they spoke of Violante, and the boy day by day loved more dearly the memory of his gentle mother. Mrs. Rivers went to Brighton with little Lancet his nurse accompanied her. A pretty house was taken for them on the Parade, and the patient, gentle lady, who had repented so bitterly of her error, sat herself to work bravely to fill a mother’s place to the motherless child. She lavished care and tenderness upon him; she taught him all night and all day—she never liked him one moment out of her sight, and it seemed to her that by this devotion to the boy she made some slight atonement to the mother for the wrong she had unwittingly done to her. What she should do in the future, Violante did not know. The summer and autumn wore away, winter and spring came round, and as yet no news had been heard from Lord Selwyn. The month of June came, with the red roses all in warm bloom. The% Lord Selwyn wrote to say that he was returning with Rupert to Selwyn Castle, and would be glad to have little Lance at home again. So, when the chestnuts were all in bloom and the limes in blossom, Mrs. Rivers returned with the little child to the home that had been desolate so long. It seemed, that evening when Lord Selwyn returned, as though every memory of his former .life came over him. He thought of the fair-haired boy who had died in his arms —his last word a message of love to his sister; he thought of his journey to Woodeaves, and the sweet face of Violante Temple as it first dawned upon him; he remembered his marriage, and the glorious golden time that had followed it—had ever man been loved as Violante loved him? Then he began to wonder if Beatrice had really been unkind to Violante, or whetherit was but a jealous fancy. The memory .of Violante seemed to possess him this evening. How well he remembered the graceful, gentle, half-timid manner, the sheen of the golden hair, the light of the violet eyes, the sweet lips whose smile warmed and gladdened his heart—his gentle, beautiful, lost love. He said her name aloud —“Violante!”— and it seemed to him that the wind took it up and the birds repeated it Ah, if he could but live his life over again, how differently he would act; how he would love and fcherish his first, his only love, Violante. And Lord Vivian Selwyn, master of Selwyn Castle, lord of that splendid domain, head.of a gallant race, sat down upon one of the iron seats, perhaps more desolate and lonely in heart than any man in England. ■ . Then, elear, sweet and soft on the warm evening air he heard his own name, “Vivian?’ and the voice that uttered it was that of the fair-haired girl he had loved so tenderly. “Vivian!" > \- Never ,was sigh of the wind so soft or ao sweet. He did not stir or move. He

had loved her so fondly, he had thought of her so continually, that he may be pardoned for the superstitious fancy that overpowered him. He had loved her so well that, even should her sweet, pure spirit return to comfort him he would feel no surprise. “Vivian!” cried the sweet voice again, and he buried his face in his hands with a low moan. “Vivian, do not be frightened; look up—look at me!” CHAPTER XXVIII. The wonder and mercy were that he did not fall dead in that moment. He sprang from his seat with a cry of terror on his lips; and there, standing under the limes, with the sunlight on her hair4md dress, was Violante, his loved, lost wife. Was it Violante, or was it the restless spirit of the girl he had loved? “Vivian, do not be frightened. May I come to you?” He stood rooted to the spot. Had it been to save his life he could not have uttered one word. Remember, he believed he had seen her buried —and —she stood there! “May I come to you?” she repeated. “Say only one word.” But that one word he could not utter; he opened his arms, and the next moment she was kneeling, clasping his knees with passionate tears, with passionate cries, with passionate prayers for pardon. He could not realize it—could not understand it. He was like a man stricken blind, deaf and dumb. He only felt the clinging touch of the white hands —he only saw the golden head bowed in deepest humility at his feet. Then he recovered himself; he bent over her, he raised her from the ground, he took her white hands in his. “Violante!” he cried, looking at her. “In the name of heaven, what does this mean —is—is it you? Speak to me. Have you risen from the dead or did you not die?” She stretched out her hands imploringly to him. “Will you ever forgive me, Vivian?” she asked; “will you forgive me, if I tell you all the truth?” His half-formed superstitious fancy died away. He put her at some little distance from him and looked earnestly at her. “Violante!” he cried. “Have you been Mrs. Rivers in disguise?” “Yes,” she replied. “I hungered and thirsted so for one look at you and my son. I could not help it, Vivian; do not be angry with me.” Seated by him in the warm, sweet evening light, she told him her story, word for word, sparing Beatrice where and when it was possible, but telling her husband the plain, unvarnished truth. She concealed nothing but the wrong that Beatrice had intended to her son. An hour passed, and still the clear, sweet voice never tired nor faltered. She told him of her love for Rupert, and of the boy’s passionate affection for her. She laid her whole life bare before him. He only spoke once, and then it was to cry out: “Could all this be, and I not know it?” When she had finished, Violante, Lady Selwyn, knelt again at her husband’s feet. “Judge me," she said; “I have told you the plain, unvarnished truth. I can see the great wrong I did. At the time I only thought of sacrificing myself; now I see that I wronged others. Only believe me, Vivian,” she cried passionately, “I did it for your sake and for my son’s.” He stooped over her and kissed her with tears in his eyes. “It was an error, Violante,” he cried; “but, my darling, it was a woman’s error, after all, and I pardon it.” “You forgive me?” she said. “Yes,” he replied; “for I, too, need your pardon. If I had not been so careless and negligent, you could not have suffered so, Violante. Oh, my darling, thank heaven for sending you back to me; my heart lay in what I thought to be your grave.” The last of the golden sunbeams died away, the moon rose, the stars came out, and still they lingered among the flowers. Hand in hand they walked back to the Castle, and there Lord Selwyn assembled the whole household, and told them of the sudden and bewildering event. There was nt first some alarm; then, when the sweet face smiled upon them once more, there was nothing but joy. Rupert had always declared that Mrs. Rivers had his mother’s soul. How he caressed her, and hung over her, and could not bear to leave her; how he teased her about the black hair, and the blue glasses; how he cried and laughed! For once the world was fairly astonished. Nothing so romantic had happened for a long time.,. The story went the rounds of all the English and continental papers. There was no use in attempting any disguise. The plain truth was told. People wondered at it, then forgot. The last news heard from Selwyn Castle —the happiest home in England—was that Rupert, the heir of Selwyn, who distinguished himself so greatly at Oxford, and afterward in Parliament, was about to marry the beautiful daughter of the Countess Sitani. For Vivian and Violante peace has come at last. There is no happier or more prosperous man In England than the master of Selwyn Castle; and his fair, gentle wife only sighs when she remembers the single error of her life. (The end.)