Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 20, Number 6, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 23 September 1898 — DOUBLY WEDDED [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

DOUBLY WEDDED

BY-CHARLOTTE M. BRAEME.

CHAPTER XVl.—(Continned.) Willie Macdonald saw a dark young ha the tight Italian dress of the middle ages, with the short cloak, seated -carelessly upon a stone bench under laurel ticeg. The trees were greenly black against a vivid sunset, and the dark rapt ftce shone in the refraction of this in--fensely golden light. Tfce colonel noticed the face first, with * sensation of recognition. Most people know the feeling—“l have seen that face before.” This was an oval, dark face, with eyes almost thrilling in their black totensity under straight-marked brows, the nose slender, but pronounced, the corsets of the curved lfps drooping—scarcely with fear—rather with a passionate discontent or yearning. “It is more like a woman than a man,” said the colonel somewhat sharply, because he was annoyed that he could not mt the moment remember whose face so strongly resembled this. “May I ask who nrats your model? I believe you artists generally paint from models.” “I have seen some one like that,” said Macdonald musingly. The more he gazed nt the expressive face the stronger grew his recognition. The young man smiled. Then, in his careless way, he said there was no secret about the impersonation. The picture would be called “Day-dreams”—a young Italian poet dreaming poetry, with some beautiful heroine as its theme. But the face was a woman’s. Then he related bow, one autumn day in Rome, he had seen a beautiful young Marchessa seated a stone near a fountain, with her little brown bambino and its nurse. “The group was so delightful that I hid myself behind a tree and sketched it, he mud. “The nurse you have seen—-that girl feeding the doves. The bambino well, all bambini are much alike. The marchessa I have painted here. He took the canvas and put it aside. Then he showed them sketches of the far B&st—temples, palm-trees, arid sands, with camels as frontispiece; then jungles, with the magnificent overgrowth of '.plants in the moist red haze. Then there came a sharp knock, and a withered little old Frenchman, a mum-my-like mannikin, announced, in very French-English, that breakfast was served to the gentlemen, and Druce led the way down stairs. “It is like a chapter out of some old French romance—that house,” said Macdonald as they left.

“The young man is a genius—there is little doubt of that,” remarked the colonel. Me was about to add something about Xitith, when he stopped short; he had suddenly recognized that the face of the young Italian poet had reminded him of .Lilith.

His thoughts came so quick and fast -that be hardly know what he thought. Bat, as they drove rapidly through the • onburhs toward the village on the river where the villa was, he began to arrange frl«« impressions. Supposing that Lilith had been attached to Macdonald before be proposed to her mother, it might be •uly a childish affair. The colonel was ao match-maker. But it struck him as carious that young Druce’s ideal of beauty should remind him of Lilith, who was considered ugly. Before he left his friend it was agreed that Druee should be invited to the wedding. h CHAPTER XVII. The wedding day was an affair of the past. Yet the breakfast and the speeches, the departure of the newly married couple, the tea and ices and croquet and flirting afterward, nud the dance in the big marquee in the park at night, made pleasant talk for the young people of the neighborhood for weeks after. The colonel, in fulfillment of a promise given to the bridegroom just before he atarted, left the Ilall, accompanied by Michael Druee, next day. “I don’t say that by and by I should bare any objection to the young fellow," Macdonald had said. “But I do not think It advisable to have him hanging about here now. Lilith is too young. “You are quite right,” the colonel had •agreed. 0 So, on the dny after the wedding, .gaests. flowers, festal decorations, enr*iagos and white horses vanished. Lilith was alone with her grandfather and .grandmother in the silent old Hall; and, bat for the confusion in her mother's room, where Mary was struggling with aaasscs of tissue paper and piles of cardboard boxes of all shapes and sizes, all that remained of the new-made Mrs. Mae•4onald’s trousseau, but for the half-dis-mantled arch and the trodden gravel and ■the cart before the door which was being died with dead flowers and withered evergreens, the wedding might have been a 4ream.

Lilith had not danced. Michael did not Aanec. They hud sat apart in u corner of the marquee talking. Michael lmd much to tell —of his travels, hi* adventures, and tapni the talk he drifted into confidences. He told Lilith of his first childish longings and dreams of the future, of his disappointments when he first began to draw sand (mint. His experiences had been harder than hers. Her heart throbbed with sympathy. She understood it all no well. Lillian went out. She had to go to the village to see some bedridden old people peculiarly protected and cured for by Madam Ware. The village wns quiet, all the neat cottages seemingly deserted. The men—-and wntne of the women, too —were out working in the fields; the elder children were Wft school. As she was looking about for ■Abe materials for a picture which the young enthusiast had urged her to find, she heard a faint cry. A baby bad stray- ' «d from a cottage and had tumbled over. An older child rushed out and picked up the chubby urchin, who hud only his little white shirt on. Here was her group. Uhe sketched it in pencil, went home and Arew it on a canvas, then worked on •tesdily during the next few weeks from At children themselves. If complete happiness In her work wns « convincing proof of Lilith's genius, it

was there. During those weeks she was perfectly content. When she thought of her mother and Willie, it was with pleasure that they w.ere as happy together as their letters home unmistakably showed. When she thought of Druce, it was with interest and gratitude; but she did not wish to see him till she had finished her picture to her own satisfaction. With Druce it was otherwise. He hda gone home wildly, madly in love for the first time in his life. He had met his ideal —not only on external appearance, but in natural character. He told himself that Lilith’s brusqueness was truth and simplicity combined. She was open as the day, innocent as a baby; there were depths in her heart and soul which would be known only when the great day of her life came—when she loved. He had vague hopes that, while he was restlessly chafing and yearning to see her again, she was longing to see him. “Such love as mine cannot exist unreturned, ’’ he told himself, with one of those delusive arguments bred of unreasoning passion. “Surely she must feel something—however little —of all this! Distance is nothing between souls.” Then he watched eagerly for a letter; but no letter came. He grow pale, and looked gloomy. Mrs. Druce feared that he was bored with London, that his wandering fit was on him, and that, as had been his wont, he would come into her room early some morning, say that he was “off,” embrace her affectionately, and remain away for months. She tried to find out if he was in love, and with whom; but he evaded all her little ruses to betray him into a confession. “If it is love this time, it is serious,” the old lady said to herself. She could not understand “Michel’s” preference for the society of those old ladies at Prince’s Square and the elderly colonel. “Michel” was always inviting the colonel to breakfast. She crossquestioned the colonel with much deftness, but learned—nothing. Meanwhile Michael was trying to get a second invitation to the Hall. This was transparent to Colonel Ware. He was under a promise, so he took upon himself to warn Mrs. Macdonald not to be an unconscious postilion d’amour. So Michael Druce found Lilith’s friends and relatives above being cajoled, although perfectly amiable and glad to see him. Another month passed—no letter from Lilith, no news of her. He grew desperate, and took a somewhat desperate step. One morniqg he went down to Heathside, and boldly presented himself at the Hall. He was taken into the drawing room, where Madnm Ware and Lillian, just returned home for a short visit, were sitting. They seemed surprised, but were kind. He was asked to stay for luncheon. He saw Lilith’s picture, which made him more in love with her than ever. But Lilith herself w-as “out”—they did not say where. He tried to find some excuse for lingering “to see Macdonald,” who had gone to the market town. But he could not stay without the Invitation which the ladies were evidently disinclined to give. He took leave, and went with a heavy heart toward the station.

Lilitfc had been to lunch with Mrs. Fyres, the good-humored doctor’s wife, with whom she was very friendly. She had tried hard since her mother’s return to settle down to the new relations, the different position; and to a certain extent Bhe had succeeded. But she was in turns low spirited and querulous. This afternoon she was returning slowly and wearily to the Hall. She was in a humor when she saw no beauty, no goodness, in anything. Nature, human beings, all seemed persistently to show her the worst aspect. The poor child, who was making a brave struggle, felt herself a hopeless pessimist. Then in the shrubbery she suddenly came upon Michael Druce. At first startled, she received him somewhat coldly. He seemed out of place there, as she then felt. At first he talked vaguely, wide of the mark. Then he suddenly changed. They had come nearly to an end of the shrubbery; he had turned back and accompanied her. In a minute the Hall would be in sight, and separation inevitable. If he spoke at all to-day, it must be now. Agitated, pale, he plunged into the subject.

"You and I are not like other people,” he began. "1 believe you know nlrendy—” Then, in vehement, passionate words, he told her how he loved her—how he had thought of nothing else since he saw her last —how he was wearing away his mental and physical strength because he could not see her—how he would hnve her for his love and his wife, and would defy every obstacle existent or to be created between them—in fact, he spoke with the strong will and burning pnssion which are irresistible to an unappropriated heart wanting an owner. But Lilith's heart was not empty, not untouched. So the more furious he grew, the less site liked him, till she even felt a species of disgust and aversion for a man whose talent she lmd utmost worshiped. She tried to he kind. She would promise any friendship, any liking; but beyond that she wns obdurate. The more he pleaded the colder she grew. At last, in despair, he saw his mistake. He begged her forgiveness, accepted her sisterly friendship, and went away sorrowing. And she returned home at once, chilled to the very core of her soul ami in the fiercest passion. For she knew the truth. , She knew that she had loved Willie Muc--1 dona Id, although she loved him no longer; ml she felt that he at one time had nearly loved her—therefore that in some way lie was guilty; punishable. Love and marriage seemed an epidemic just then, lint a few days later the colonel came down and announced his ongngement to Mary llawson. There was a quiet wedding; then Colonel and Mrs. Ware and Mr. and Mrs. William Macdonald went abroad for the winter. They asked Lilith to Accompany them, promising that Mrs. Macdonald would take her place at the Hall. But she refused. Then came a lull, a dead calm, while the whirlwind was nt hand that would scatter hopes, intentions, poor petty human

plans, as the hungry north wind scattered the dry snow that covered Heathside park the greater part of that quiet, uneventful winter.

CHAPTER XVIII. Winter was over and forgotten. Spring had come and gone. The fresh breezes and green leaves which had brightened London had made way for sultry heat and foliage withering copper-colored blight on the black boughs. On one of the hottest days of late July a funeral started from the house in Prince’s Square—an oldfashioned funeral—black cloth, nodding plumes, great black chariots, mutes. All that was left on earth of old Mr. Law went to Highgate Cemetery with the full pomp of the ancient regime. Mrs. Law sternly resisted the proposal of her brother, Mr. Rawson, seconded by her nephew, Willie Macdonald, her husband’s heir, for maimed rites. She would have neither abridgement nor modification. It was a melancholy funeral. Mrs. Law, as she stood by the grave, was rigid, stony, self-possessed. Mrs. Macdonald was there, looking worn out after her exertions as night nurse. Mr. Rawson looked tired and sad. As "Willie gazed down into the yawning hole, a robin, perched on a tree close by, began to twitter mournfully. Willie’s spirits sank. His life had of late been flooded with sunshine. At this moment he seemed to see his Lillian and the beautiful babe, a fair little son, recently born to them, from across the grave. While he supported his aunt, the newmade widow, across the turf, while they made the silent journey home in the dun-geon-like black carriage, the words rang in his ears, “Man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain.” “He cometh up, and is cut down, like a flower; he fleeth as it w r ere a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.” These and the robin’s - song haunted him also throughout the luncheon, where the widow insisted on assuming her place at the table, and he sat opposite her, carving for the small party, who seemed unable to speak above a whisper, and throughout the reading of the will, in the gloomy library at the bnck of the house. “He heapeth up riches, and cannot tell who shall gather them,” he muttered to himself, as, the redding of the will over, he found himself possessed of a capital far in excess of that he expected his uncle would leave, a fortune tempered only by a charge of life-interest to be paid by him to the widow. He went to his aunt, who was sitting bolt upright, her black-bordered handkerchief to her eyes, and said a great many kind, dutiful things. Then, as he found he could not get her to listen, he ‘embraced his pale mother, and urged her to accept the general invitation issued by adl in authority at Heathside Hall for her to go to them as Soon and stay as long as possible. But, while he was trying to comfort, the women, while he was accepting the congratulations of the lawyer and the family physician thnt his affairs, through the wisdom of his late uncle, were placed on such a highly desirable footing, he felt that he was acting a part, that he was chilled, scared, miserable, that all this was unbearable to him, and that he had forgotten, almost suddenly, how to hope, how’ to be happy. He got the rector away as soon as he could. Taking his arm, he hurried him along the side of the square, and into the first hansom they mpt; then he drew a long breath. “You want all your brightness for dear Lillian, for the babe, for Lilith, too. By the w r ay, I asked the colonel to come for a night; I wanted to see him. Perhaps we shall find him at the station.” Willie leaned back, but partly reassured, and thought long and deeply ns they sped through the beautiful county now so dear and familiar to him. As the train drew r up at the station, he looked even more anxiously than did Mr. Rawson for the colonel’s stalwart figure. Colonel Ware was there, pacing the platform and looking bright and energetic. “You two look as if you had been to a funeral,” he began. “But what means this sudden summons. Rector? Mary was so disturbed by your telegram, in spite of your ‘all well’ at the end, that I have just wired to her to save her further anxiety.” Mr. Rawson said a word aside to him, aijd any one watching the colonel would hjtve seen n change of countenance in the gallant soldier with the empty sleeve. Then the rector turned to Willie. “Not one word of my affairs to Lillian,” he said, in an undertone. Then he asked if Willie would come round to the rectory, should he and the colonel require him. “We may want your advice,” he said. “Who is that in the pony chaise waiting for you?” "Lilith,” answered Willie. Then the three went down the steps and talked to the young girl, who was at home for a month to join in the baby-worship—-for no young Bacchus had more frantic followers making contortions and uttering strange cries than this young Geoffrey Macdonald, the colonel’s godson. Lilith was fast losing her ugliness, or rather her angularity and swarthiness were developing into n peculinr beauty which might be caviare to the multitude while being caviare to the epicure in art. Willie sprang into the carriage, took the reins, and, nodding to his uncle nnd the colonel, drove off rapidly. Then the colonel turned to Mr. Rawson. “What is this all about?” lie said. "Will these pests never leave us alone?” The colonel, although he had not won and married his Cousin Lillian, had not relinquished his interest in her affairs. As trustee with the rector to her marriage settlement he had acted in concert with him when the affairs of Captain Drew’s three children were to bo arranged. The boy wns at school; the girls with the lady who first agreed to take charge of them. A fortnight previously their actress mother had died a quiet, painless death in the house of n humane country doctor who lived near Ilfracombe. The doctor’s wife had nursed the unfortunate invalid —wl*ese death would lie a considerable pecuniary loss to the worthy couple—tenderly through her long illness to the end. “What is this fresh demnnd?" repeated the colonel, for the rector wns walking silently toward the fields lending to the rectory. “Demand! Would to heaven it were a demand!” said the rector, emphatically. “Ware, just ns I was starting this morning I received an anonymous letter to inform me thnt thnt woninn hoaxed us all, thnt Drew is not dead, but thnt he went mnd, nnd is alive at this moment in some lunatic nsylum in Italy. The colonel stopped short; this wns a shock—at first. Then he turned to the rector.

| “I don’t believe it!” he cried. “Absurd 1 —untenable! The woman was immoral and a fool; but she would not have died with a lie upon her conscience!” “She may have said this, and have sworn Doctor Hale and his wife to secrecy at the last moment,” said the rector. “Heaven knows! It is an awful blow; at first it unhinged me so that I conld scarcely meet it, lie or no lie.” “Well; it must be met—aye, and dealt with at once,” declared the colonel, sternly, striding along the path with a determined step. “Each moment lost is a wrong to Jdllian. Good heaven, till we have proved this thing a lie, what is she? What is her child?” The rector gave a faint groari. This anonymous statement of\ rumolr might be some malicious act of some enemy of Lillian’s or of Willie’s, or it might be what it professed to be —truth. He felt he ought not to be unmanned, timid; but he was not so young as he had been, and, disagreeable shocks generally manage to deal themselves at the worst moment for the recipients; so had this. “What are we to do?” asked the rector hopelessly. “How can one fence with an enemy in ambush ? Search all the asylums in Italy? Why, it will take months!” “Bah!” said the colonel. “The way is as plain as a pike-staff. Who received the news of his death?” “General Drew. But he died last January.” “Then we must find his executor. Of course he received some certificate , or trustworthy documentary evidence of hi* son’s death.”