Rensselaer Republican, Volume 19, Number 17, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 December 1886 — A WOMAN’S STRATEGY. [ARTICLE]

A WOMAN’S STRATEGY.

BY H. M. L.

I am an onlyechild. At the lime of my birth my father was a man of 40 years of age, possessed of great wealth, large culture, and n fiuo intellectual mind; he had been married only a year, and welcomed my advent as fulfilling the second deareSt wish of his heart —the dearest had been to have a son. “And that may come in time,” he said, hopefully, as he kissed my mother’s white and smiling lips. “Meantime, thank God for all his good gifts, and especially this precious one —our little daughter.” My mother has repeated to me often his very words. He took his little daughter to his heart, from the very first, so fondly that before long she filled it wholly, and left no ■room there for vain regrets about the son who, in spite of all his hopes, never came. He educated me himself until I was 14, then sent me to an excellent school for two years. Before their expiration, he,.died. I pass over that time of bitter sorrow'. My father bad been all the world to me. I suppose the grief would have prostrated mo completely but for the necessity, which instantly arose, of taking care of poor, dear, little mother. Sho bad.been accustomed to be “taken eare of” ail her life. A gentle, clinging, helpless, loving creature, scarcely more than a child when she was married, and only 10—a golden-haired, sunny-tempered, childish girl—when I, her one baby, was born. Now, her baby was 16, and could take care of her; and she, although a trifle more matronly in figure, and self-possessed in manner, than in those earlier years, in all else was a girl still. My father’s will left all his wealth to me, save a yearly income to my mother for her lifetime; but he!expressly desired that this disposition of his property should be kept a secret between ourselves until nfter my marriage, and that the world should suppose his wife his heiress, rather than his child. His reason for this was a great fear, which had always troubled him, that I’ should be sought for my money, and so make nn unhappy marriage. It never seemed to have occurred* to him that the modo which he had qhosen of escaping this danger did but shift it from my shoulders to those of m.v dear mother, who was really much more likely to be imposed on than myself. There was no alternative hut to obey his dying wish, however, nor did the danger to mamma seem very great. She protested, in her grief, that for me to even suggest the possibility of her marrying again was most cruel; and I resolved to watch over her interests and protect her with jealous care. “Ho must be a smart man,"-1 thought, “who can win'my darling’s ear and touch her loving heart without my consent.” Nevertheless, such a man was found in the person of Mr. Job Ilardston, und within two years of my dear father’s death. He was a person for whom I had conceived an instinctive dislike at onr first meeting; a sallow, unhealthy-looking man, with a sinister expression on his otherwise handsome features, and shallow, sly, black eyes. Disliking him so much myself, it never occurred to me that dear, gentle, impressionable little mamma might form a different opinion; yet so it was; and when I found it out my interference came too late. “For he loves me very mudh,” said she, with tears and blushes; “and I love him, Constance. And think how lonely I shall be when you are married, as jou will be very soon, you know, to Paul.” I could 6ee no force in this argument. SheWrurtolive wittruivof cotrrse.-“Heither Paul nor myself had ever dreamt otherwise. Instead of being more lonely, she would really have more company than now. But I did not argue the matter. These very weak and gentle women can be the most obstinate of their sox nt times, I know. And, besides, I fondly thought I know a better way to part them than by argument. I quietly informed Mr. Job Hardston of the real conditions of my father’s will. “That will frighten him off, ” I thought, hopefully. To my consternation, it did nothing of the kind. His pale face flushed a little, it is true, and his shallow eyes shifted uneasily, and he kept silent for a little while; but when he did answer it was to dash my hopes. “I love your mother for her own sake, Miss Wayne," said he, “aud I have money enough, if necessary, for both.” After that, what could I do? Poor, dear, little mamma was enraptured. The end of it was that he agreed to keep our secret still (from which my love —my own devoted Paul —was excluded), and they were married. I had no intention of residing very long under Mr. Hurdston’s roof. I was expecting a visit from Paul, and I resolved (and told mamma my resolution) to name my wedding-day as soofi’iis he arrived. Of course, she told this to her husband—innocent, guileless creature that she was. I might have expected that. Nor did! think of objecting to her doing so, or cautioning her against it; for the idea that he would presume to interfere with my private business .and personal liberty of action never onoe occurred to me. Yet he did so. “Genstance was too young,” he told her. It wanted yet seven months of my eighteenth birthday. And he worked upon her Ufjid, as he well knew bow, until she—not b 6 ,ng the kind of mother who ever commands her children—implored me, with tearu to let the matter rest for those few until I should be legally of age. I cong.’ntcd for her sake. For myself, my hemp.,* was fairly roused, and I should willingly have made a good fight against Mr. Hardston ’interference; but, for her sake, I refrained And this was but the beginning of troubles, lire loug I saw plainly that my stop-fat her had formed plana concerning

me and nw fortune, to which ho would at least endeaVor to force me to submit. My mother—my tender darling, who had never known unkindness in her life—was his powerful instrument for the enforcement of his will. He played ns, as it were, against each olber? If I were refractory, she was made to plead to me. Well he knew that her tears could win what would Be denied to hfs commands. Bnt it I refused to yield even to her, he tortured .her to punish me, aud made me wretched by Ibe knowledge of her misery. Her misery? Yes. It come to that before throe months wore over. She grew pale, silent, nervous, sorrowfnl. One day, laying her hand upon my shonlder, with a burst of weeping, “It is not so much the ruin of my own hnppiness that I mourn,” she sobbed. “It is the destruction of yours. He is a hard, bad man—alas, alas! And he will never let you marry Paul.” I did my best to cheer and comfort her. “What use would it bo for him to interfere with that?” said I. “He can’t hope lo keep me unmarried; anjd any one else will deprive him of Control of my fortune just the same as Paul." She was very much agitated; her pale lips quivered, and her poor little hundß beat each other nervously. “Not everybody else,” said she. “There is one who would not. Oh, my dear, my dear, you don’t know all!" And sho broke into sobs again. A vague alarm took hold of me. I began to fear I knew not whut. “All what?” I cried. “Dear mamma, try to be calm and tell me.” She checked her tears, and made a piteous effort to be composed. “You remember,” sho said, “when I persuaded you (at his command), to write to Paul, telling him to put off his visit? YVell —that was the beginning of his work. He has deceived me, Connie —deceived us both. He has been married before; he is a widower with one son.” “A son!” I said no more, only looked into her eyes, and saw there the confirmation of my fears. “He intends you to marry his son, Connie, and thus keep your fortune under his own control. I found this out a month ago, but had not the heart to tell yon. And, my dear, I suspect that his journey to town today is made for the purpose of bringing his son back with him.” But that seemed unnecessary, and I suspected a deeper motive. Even when the soa—the very copy of the father —did indeed arrive in his company a few hours later, I still felt assured, by some unaccountable instinct, that he had been working mischief to my peace in town. “Would to heaven that you had never seen him!” I cried, to which poor mamma replied, only with silent tears. And now my life began to be burdensome, indeed, the house being to me little better than a prison. Meanwhile poor mamma grew paler and more sorrowful every day. I tried to cheer her, and concealed my own uneasiness for her sake. She needed love and comfort, poor thing, for Mr. Hardston had made a mere nonentity of her in the house, by placing over it a housekeeper who Went to him for all her orders—ah elderly woman, with a hard, stern face; silent, sly, and acting (I was convinced) as a spy upon both of us. And now, as if to cap the climax of jny anxieties and griefs, something went wrong with Paul’s letters, so that, during a whole month, though I had written him again and again, not a line reached me. I never doubted Paul. I was as certain that my step-father was to blame as if he had confessed it to me. No restriction had he ever ventured to place upon my correspondence. I suspected him all the more for that. The trouble dated from the time of his visit to town. Mv instincts had not warned me without cause! He was in the habit of opening the past bag—of which he kept the key—at the breakfast-table, and distributing the letters to their owners; I believe that when letters came for me he kept them. I resolved to test it. One morning, as he laid a certain familiar-looking envelope beside his plate, I suddenly arose and boldly seized it. A glnnce sufficed. “This is mine!” I said, sternly. “You have made a mistake, sir; and I doubt if this is the first time!” Ho stood, white and rod by turns, baffled, yet raging. I opened and rend Paul’s letter before bis face. “So,” I said, “this was your plan, was it? You have written him that I am to marry your son there, and he refuses to believe it unless under my own hand! He does well. My hand will never write him such a lie! And he has had no line from me for a month; yet I have written him repeatedly. Your plots have failed, sir, and I shall go to town at once, to repair the mischief you have made!” Then he let fall the mask. “1 should never leave that house,” he told me, “until I consented to break with Paul." He asked no more at the time. Doubtless he thought that, that much gained, the £asy«„-_g.» I defied him, and went to my room £6" dross for town —he followed.and locked me in. “ Then I saw that fair and open warfare with this villian was impossible. He evidently relied on brutal force. I resolved to oppose it by stratagem. “Ail’s,fair in love and war," I thought. “If ever deceit was pardonable in any case, surely it is so in this!” Toward evening I sent for him to my room. “You have the power in your hands,” I said. “I am not beaten yet, but let me see my mother.” He smiled, mockingly. * “You will find no ally in her,” he said, “but yon Bhall see her;” —and ho brought her to my room, and left us alone. She was quite broken down, and could do nothing-but weep and tremble. I knelt down, and put my arms around her. “Hush!" I whispered. “Be brave, and help me, and when Paul and I are married you shall come to us, and we will make you happy again. I have a plan; if I can carry it out I will be free, and his , wife speedily.” Then I told her my plan, aud ifi spite of her fears, filled her with hope and courageShe promised to do all I wished, and I sat down and wrote a note to Paul. It ran thns: “My Dearest—Pay no attention to any note but thit. I am in the power of a scoundrel, who compels me to write the falsehood yon will find enclosed. On receipt of this come instantly to Fairfield, a village five miles from here, procure a special license, and marry me. “Your own, as ever, ~—~—- —~~ “Constance:." I wrote this on very thin paper, and slipped it into an envelope in my desk; then I sent for my step-father. When he came I pointed to my mother. “This trouble is killing her,” I said. “Since yon have no mercy, / must save her. For her sake 1 will write the letter yon wish—on one condition." “What condition?” be demanded. “That as soon as I have written —from your dictation, if you will—you allow me io laivca thiq hnnfift. to tftlrft tny lOU»u 1111“ uwuoo) ftirvi urtono u*J nsulliOA with me, for she needs change.” He considered a little. “Where would yon go?" he said, suspiciously. I answered scornfully; “Anywhere, away from you, sir! The nearest village or the

farthest town will snit me for that purpose equally well." Then mamma spoke, timidly: “It ii too late to prepare for a long journey—” “Oh, well,” I interrupted, “a short ono for to-night, then. Let s go to Fairfield,! and to-morrow have our luggage sent sites ns. I will not write the letter else.” Bnt he was still suspicious. “I must eee yoq write it then,” he said. I agreed lo that; and, sitting down at my desk, wrote, before his eyes, ns he directed. v “Does that satisfy yon?” I demanded. “Y'es,” he said. “Y'ou hope to cheat me in some way. You will write-him another letter from Fairfield. Well, do so; so as he gets this, 1 am satisfied.” Of course; for, as I afterward learned, he hnd bribed a seirant at the hotel where! Paul stqpped, so that my letters never reached him. “This must go by band,” ho said, while I quietly drew forth an envelope— the envelope with my note in it —nnd enclosed the letter, and addressed it before his eyes. “My son shall take it, leaving you at Fairfield first. I give you leave to stay there for a week.” •, ’ So we went to Fairfield, and James Hardston earned my double letter to Paul. I learned afterward that he delivered it into his own hands. Paul stepped aside to read it. “Sir,” said he, coming back presently, “I require time to answer this. Will you do me the favor to remain here to-night?— it is now quite late. To-morrow, when my answ'er is ready, I will give it into your keeping.” James Hardston consented to that, engaged a room at the hotel, and went to bed. By the midnight train Paul stalted for Fairfield. I expected him, and had a messenger waiting for him at the station. A special license was procured, nnd a message flushed to James Ilardston in town a few days later: “Have married Cons tance. Accept thanks for bringing mo her letter. “Patti, Gray." Then we all three went up to town. Presently my step-father followed us, furious. He threatened to take tny dear little mother away, but changed his miud, and concluded to leave her ..with me—as she wished—when Paul threatened him with a prosecution at law for conspiring to defraud me of my fortune, for my -husband had, ofcourse, learned, what my lover had never even suspected, that I was my father’s heiress.