Jasper County Democrat, Volume 3, Number 11, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 June 1900 — Captain Brabazon [ARTICLE]

Captain Brabazon

BY B. M. CROKER

fl ./Aili tapy • gou fi»iea

CHAPTER XIX.-(Continued.) | Poor Mias Jane had felt her nephew’* death acutely, more than anyone would Aare believed. The few daye he had spent with her had entirely reinstated him fa her good grace*. She liked him for jhlmaelf; he was gentler, more consider ate, and more manly, than the old, trou-, ibleaome Teddy; and he evoked a memjory which endeared him to her especially, lor he seemed to link old memories of the fast to realities of the present. A memory, notably, of a smart young officer of tight dragoons, whose presence she recalled by his soldierly figure, his clinkSapor* and his off-hand manners and handsome face. This officer's epistlea, on large letter paper, written in faded ink, were treasured up, along with a wriniatnre, in the most secret recesses of Mia* Jane’s bureau ; also a lock of brown (hair, the very self-same shade as Teddy’s. The smart young dragoon might have been a burly, stout, red-faced squire by this time, discussing shorthorns and turnips, addicted to snubbing his wife, had he lived. But be had not; he had died, saber in hand, on a far-away Sikh battlefield, and a halo of romance and regret forever enshrined his memory. Time works wonders. Who can stand him? Esme baa bowed to fate at last. She has even, in a way, become to Teddy's death. She can .speak of it now quite calmly; for have I** three months elapsed since the day of that fatal foray, and as yet no letter has come from Captain Brabazon, and she - feels more drawn to him than ever now —for her dead brother is a bond between them. Did not Teddy die in Miles’ arms, with him alone beside him? She makes every excuse that a fertile brain can contrive for his unlooked-for silence. How (eagerly does she scan the mail news. How early she is down the morning the South African post is due, and she is always disappointed. Even ruthless Mrs. Braba®on herself feels a little pang of remorse* aa, la answer to an unspoken appeal, she say*. with a smile, “Nothing for you, my dear, this morning,” and then there is another long week to get through; “but it will come, will surely come,” she tells herself, bravely. There are so many things that may have happened. The mails have ’been lost, stolen or seized by the Boers. The camp may be now beyond postal communication. She reads with blanched cheeks of the battles. Miles was there; (but Miles is safe, his name is not among the killed or wounded. Still he may — Kt ill And with thoughts and speeulaona of a more or less gloomy complexion does she torture herself through seven days more.

Then the house is full of a subdued, ihot busy, bustle, for Gussie is going to Ibe married: It is to be a very quiet wedding, she tells everybody, apologetically, land “Fred is so anxious to be back for the cab-hunting.” The.trousseau.is uiagjsitieent, though man) of ti. dresses are •f a mourning type—the pretty lavenders and grays, and black and white tnlle*. The presents are numerous and costly, as has been previously stated. The wedding takes place without the smallest hitch in the program, one lovely Septeinber morning. There was no waiting .bride, no missing bridegroom, this time. Mr. Vashon, looking very red, and very ■ervous, was awaiting his extremely selftpouesaed little bride for fully a quarter •f an hour. She came at last, escorted (by Flo, and followed by Esme, who was >early as white as her dress—Esme, who should have stood at that altar herself just one year ago. Her face was thin, haggard and woe-begone, her eyes bad lost their brilliancy, there were dork marks under them, and her lovely color had entirely faded from her cheeks. Truly people were beginning to whisper that the beautiful Miss Brabazon was now u positive wreck, and almost plain—being nothing more than a very thin, pale, dejected looking girl. Augusta made a charmfag bride and beamed and smiled graciously on all her friends, as she walked down the aisle on the bridegroom's arm. She drove away from the church to Bydord, and traveled by the mail up to London. Mr. Vashon, who had a shrinking horror of being recognized us a bridegroom, indignantly rejected the coupe which was tendered by an obsequious guard, and plunged, along with his Augusta, into a Pullman car full of other passengers. Alas, poor ostrich! little did your off-hand manner, or a newspaper, avail you. At the next station the beaming Miss Clipperions were in waiting, with an enormous white bridal bouquet. Qaaale saw them eagerly searching the carriages, and shuddered; she closed her eye*, to shut out, if possible, what was coming. It was this: Hatty Clipperion's •milmg face at the window, saying, “Oh, (there you are, Mr*. Vashon. We brought you this bouquet with our best, best nrisbes Be sure you send as a piece of Over Mr. Vashon's face and the faces •f the other passengers, permit us to drop k kindly veil.

CHAPTER XX. • What doe* thia picture convey to the Blind of even the most obtuse in such famttrrs? The acene before u* represent* tduli December afternoon, a leaden gray y, brown hedges, bare trees and damp aountry lane. The only bit of color in hhe landscape fa the scarlet coat of the hoong gentleman who, in splashy top Wools and.leathers, Is standing at the side jef the road with his horse's bridle over Jhia arm, while with the. other he cndeav■rs to" seise the band of a tall girl in Black. whose face is turned away in an •ppoaite direction. i Emboldened by a wedding in the famfay, Mr. Hepburn thought that surely he ■night sow come forward and urge hie ■■it, hia courage permitting. He was very ■nach in love, .and had more than once fares on the point of asking the all-im-■ortaat question, when his courage failed sass; and all the way home subsequently, ■nd until the next occasion when .he met |he object of bis adoration, be would rate

himself soundly for his cowardice, and pass valiant new resolutions “to do better next time!” But Miss Esme was so unaffected, so ready to accept him as a friend, and she looked him in the face so frankly and yet so innocently with her dark blue eyes, that his tongue remained tied. This particular afternoon fate had favored him. He was returning from hunting when, in turning the corner of a road, he suddenly came upon a girl in mourning. Now was his time. Now or never! he said to himself imperatively, and trotting hastily forward before his courage had time to cool, he jumped off his horse and accosted her warmly. She looked, as she always did, pleased to see him, and questioned him eagerly about the run, about the people who were out; but he quickly cut short all her queries by an abrupt question of his own. “Never mind the hunt now, I want to ask you something,” he said, becoming exceedingly red and miserable looking, “and I’m shot if I know how to put it. Do you know why I have been so much over at your place lately?” beating his boot' with his hunting-crop as he spoke. "Oh, yes,” she replied, unhesitatingly. “Of course I do,” her mind at curring to his friendship for Teddy, and* his sympathy in their trouble. “Of course I know, and it has been very kind of you.” Mr. Hepburn stared at her in silence for nearly a minute, and then said, “I don't believe you understand what 1 mean; though. I think might have noticed it. I’ve been going to see you all along, and no one else. The more 1 see of you the more I like you. And — and—my father and mother and I—want to know—if you will marry me. I’m not a bud fellow, and I’m awfully fond of you.” It was now Esme's turn to stare at him in blank amazement. “Don’t talk to me in this way,” she said Impatiently. “You are making fan; you are not in earnest.” j “I should think I was in earnest. And I hope you like me, even a little, Esme,” venturing her name rather shyly. “I do, I always did, as Teddy’s friend, but now—now—you have spoiled it all.” “Can’t you like me as something more than a friend of Teddy’s?” appealing to her with a wistful face, and endeavoring ; to possess himself of her hand. “No, I can be nothing more than a friend to you always,” she replied, ignoring his hand, and stepping back two paces, perilously near the edge of a ditch. I “And why? why? Tell me the reaj son.” “You know the reason,” she returned, now averting her face, which had borrowI ed its complexion from his scarlet coat, j “You have heard,” she proceeded, in a : still lower voice, “of my cousin Miles?” I “Yes, but I don’t mind a bit,” very ' eagerly, and quite niiaund s tanding her ' meaning. "He treated you vilely. He was a confounded—-” “Stop, stop, before you say anything more,” cried'Esme, “and listen to what 1 have to tell you.” And thereupon, with rapid, almost incoherent, utterances, and faltering breathless sentences, she told the whole story of Teddy's secret and of Miles' mistake—a tale which the young man beside her heard with sinking heart and remarkable and various changes of countenance. When she brought her story to a close he put this one abrupt and crucial question: “And you like him still?” “Yes,” in a very low voice. “And would marry him after all?” ‘“Yes,” in a whisper. “Then there is no more to be said,” giving his innocent horse an angry chuck of the bridle. “Of course, if I had known I wouldn’t have made such an awful fool of myself," turning away with ill-assumed dignity. "You are angry with me,” said Esme, tearfully, "and I don’t know what I am to say to you,” detaining him by a gesture. “If I had known or dreamed of this, of course 1 would have told you; but I never dreamed of it, and now I suppose,” with trembling lips, “you will hate me, and never be friends with me again?” Mr. Hepburu was very much ent up; but at the same time he had a soft heart, and to see a very pretty girl with large tears in her eyes, deploring the less of his friendship, considerably cooled his indignation, and he hastened to assure her that when he had got over it a bit he would still be her friend. Of course it was a facer. But he was not such a dog in the manger as to grudge the other fellow what he could not have himself. “I don't understand it, you know, not a bit; for Mrs. Brabazon told the mater that you never had cared a straw for him, nor be for you. It was all a question of money, and you know, Esme, 1 can give you heaps of that. The governor said he'd let us start with five thousand a year. He is very much taken with you himself ” “I don’t care for money,” said the young lady, hastily. “Mrs. Brabazon was quite wrong. I was not going to marry Mlles foC’money, nor he me, and I would be proud to marry him without a shilling.” “And live on love," suggested Mr. Hepburn, whose heart was still very sore Indeed, and could not refrain from this one gibe. Esme colored painfully, and was about to make some angry retort when he added: "Forgive me. I cannot help it. I envy that Miles of yours. He Is a lucky fellow. It s not every pretty girl in these days that says she doesn't core for thousands a year, and will take a chap without a penny. Well,” with one foot now in the stirrup, holding out«his hand, wringing her fingers in a vlselike grasp. “What can't be cured must be t-ndured,” taking off his hat to her as he truism; afid in another moment he was trotting away down the road on his brown hunter, leaving Esme alone. 'There ar* some things cannot be hid,

especially from a lynx-eyed lady, such as Mrs. Brabazon. Mr. Hepburn's Infatuation for her stepdaughter was one of them. She was alarmed about a week later to casually overhear at an afternoon tea that “young Hepburn had sent his hunters up to Tattersall's and was going abroad immediately, to Nice or Monte Carlo.” What did it mean? Had he proposed or not? She must see Esme about it at once, and her mind was in a perfect ferment of impatience till she reached home and rang for Nokes to send Mis* Brabazon to her in her own room as soon as possible. Esme was soon on the spot. “Shut, the door,” said her stepmother the instant she appeared, “and come over here. I wish to speak to you. I want to ask you a question,” she proceeded, looking fixedly at her stepdaughter. “I heard to-day that young Hepburn had suddenly sent all hie hunters up to Tattersall’s and gone abroad. Perhaps you know it means? Can you tell me the reason of this unaccountable conduct?” “I? I, Mrs. Brabazon?” stammered Esme, faintly. “Why should you ask me?” “Come, come, this fencing is no use. The man was bead over ears in love with you. Is it possible that he has gone away without speaking?" she asked in a tone of resentful wonder. To this she received no answer. Esme sat quite still, her eyes glued on one particular pattern in the carpet, and tnade no reply. However, she had become extremely and painfully red. “He proposed to you, 1 see. And when?” demanded Mrs. Brabazon, authoritatively. “Last week,” returned Esme, in a low voice, not daring to raise her eyes. “And what did you say, might 1 be permitted to ask?” proceeded Mrs. BrabaI zon in convulsive tones. |"1 said—no!" replied Esme, scarcely I daring to speak above her breath. “You said no!” almost screamed her stepmother, now rising to her feet. "Said no, to the heir to twenty-five thousand a year, to the finest emeralds in England! Oh!” casting her bonnet on the bed with ■ sueh furious impetus that it rolled off it at the other side, “I can’t believe it. You could not—not be so wicked. It is impossible.” To this harangue Esme made no reply, evidently she had been quite capable of, this outrageous deed. After glaring at her down-faced companion for some seconds Mrs. Brabazon said hoarsely: “I should like to know what you said to him, and why you refused him; in fact, I insist upon hearing your reasons,” demanded the lady, with a lurid gaze. Visions of her beautiful castle in the air, her stepdaughter’s high position in the county, and her own increased importance, were now dispersing like mists before the sun. “Your reason, miss, at once,” with an imperious gesture. “My reason was,” returned Esme, tremulously, “was—was-because of Miles!” “Because of Miles! Forsooth, and a pretty reason! Do you mean to say you would hold to your engagement still, and marry him if he would have you, you idiot?” "I would,” rejoined the victim, firmly, raising her eyes now for the first time. "And what would you say if Miles would not have anything to do with you? What would you say if you were told that, now the money was gone, Miles was not such a fool as to marry a girl without a penny? What would you say if Miles broke off the match?” “I would simply say nothing, for I would not believe it,” returned Esme, also rising, and casting a tall, pale reflection into a mirror in an opposite wardrobe. “I suppose If you saw it in his own handwriting you would believe it. Seeing is believing. Will that convince you?” taking a letter from her desk and handing It to Esme. (To be continued.)