Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 34, Number 48, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 14 February 1902 — IRENE’S VOW [ARTICLE]

IRENE’S VOW

By CHARLOTTE M. BRAEME.

/■ v ' T-" • J CHAPTER I. ■ “What will my life be like, I wonder? 1 am almost tired of waiting to see what the future holds for me,” said a sweet, blithe voice. “Tired of waiting,” was the grave, slow reply; “tired of waiting. How old are yon, Irene?” *’ , “Seventeen and a half. I have been wondering ever since I was fifteen what fate had in store for me," The grave voice asked: “Did I see you running after a whitewinged butterfly this morning, and did you not spend an hour yesterday in teaching a starling to say sotnething that sounded like a word?” “Yea,” and n ripple of laughter came with the reply. “Last night you dressed a doll for tho miller's little daughter, did you not?” “Yes; I ” “Yes, and much pleased she was when I took it to her this morning. She put tt in a little boat, and sent it sailing down the mill stream. I heard you tell Susan that if she forgot everything else in the world she was tq remember to purchase a blue ribbon for your white kitten—was ft not so?” “Yes; Minnie is just as fond of blue ribbon as I am. Why do you ask me all these questions?” “It comforts me. I might feel frightened at your ardent longing for life if I did not remember that you had the loves, likes, dislikes and pursuits of a child. If you were wise, Irene, you would keep to the butterflies, kittens and dolls. (Life holds so much; but, ‘child, it holds Snore pain than pleasure.” » “Old people say so, not young^bnes.'”' was the reply. "And who should know so well as old people—who know what aFbattle lifelras been so well as Che person who has Bought it? Which can tell best what the battle is—the young soldier, or thtroldItrarrior, Irene?” r---The two speaking were Irene Darcy *nd Mrs. Cotrel, her grandmother —Irene la the first flush of lovely girlhood—Mrs. Cotrel on whose worn face the light Of boa ven was already shining. A pretty group, the elder lady in her easy chair, sitting where the lime trees threw a light, half green, half golden, near a great | •Leaf of white lilies, over which the (White-winged butterflies hovered; and the girl, more beautiful than a poet’s dream, •at on the grass at her feet. The shining sun, the fram-ant flowers, the song •f birds, were altfso many sweet sources •f delight to her. Mrs. Cotrel went over again the one passionate sorrow of her life. She had But loved her husband' Very dearly, although he was one of nature’s gentle--, gien—a scholar, and a noble, kindly hearted man. For many years he had been Vicar of Branlea, and ified, leaving bis wife and only child, Alice, fairly provided for. On his death Mrs. Cotrel went to live nt a pretty.^villa called. Fernside, where ■he devoted herself so the one great love •f her daughter. Some women empty their hearts and lavish all their love on their husbands, others on their -- -children. Mrs, Cotrel W.as.:.one of the latter. They lived happily enough, mother and daughter, their simple lives filled with simple pleasures, until the shadow that falls over the lives of all women tell over theirs, and she who, in her mother's eyes was a child, fell in love with a young artist who came to Branlea in search of the picturesque. Bauton Darcy camb'like other artists came, but, unlike them, he remained; for, one evening, as he was sketching a glorious mass of golden cloud, that, seemed to rest on the green hilltop, there came to him what he thought at first a vision. A fair-faced, fair-haired girl, who, deeceajling the hill, looked as though she had just left the gulden cloudland. He said to himself if she would but stand stilly and he could in sketchflig her add a pair of white wings, she would look like an tingel. It seemed as though she understood his thoughts, for half w.ay down the hill, with the light of the goldfb cloudhind round her, she stood quite still, shading her eyes with one white hand, and as she stood there, he remembered her until the tragedy was ended. Years afterward he was at an evening party and someone sang Gounod's bcaittiful song. “There is a green hill far away.” and his thoughts went back to the beautiful cloudlund, to the golden light ♦n the green hillside, to the tall, slender figure, to the fair face shtided with cue white hand, and he rose with a cry of bitter pain, unable even to hear the words. Someone asked what was wrong with the gifted artist, and the answer was that he had never been the same since his young wife died. For that was the tragedy that darkened his life—the death of the fair-haired, fair-faced girl, who had seemed to him on that summer evening to come out of the golden cloudland. They were very happy for one brief year; Alice was always blithe and gay. She laughed the sweetest, silvery laughter when her husband told her how he had first seen her coming out of the golden cloudland. “Those same golden clouds may open •nd take me back again. Santon,” she said, and without the least consciousness of'the prophecy of her own words. The prophecy came true one year later, when Irene was born. They laid the new born babe in its mother's arms just as she was breathing her last. “Santon,” she whispered, “you wi'l bring my baby to heaven.” And when they looked next the spiile on the white lips was the smile of a soul who was with the angels in heaven. There are no words in which such grief as theirs could be told. ( Tp the artist husband life was never the same again. No other love came to him, no woman's face charmed him;- be was true to his wife dead as he had beeu to her living. As time wore on the hot, quick passion •f his grief gave way to settled melancholy. He lived In the world, but not of ft, M that be could take Alice's baby to heavan. He kept himself pure and staintaae as a child, so that one day he might eater tho beautiful cloudland, bolding the little one by the hand, and place her in the outstretched arms of his wife. No Mse or light words, no mean actions, tarnished thaVlanocent life; if a temptu-

tion came to him he baffled it with these words: “No, I must take the baby to Alice in heaven.” Ah, happy man, with such a guerdon. Baby grew strong and beautiful; she had her mother’s dainty loveliness, with fire and spirit that gentle lady had never known. To say she was worshiped in that little household would be to express But lightly the place she held —father, grandmother and servants vied with each other as to who should be the first to carry out her wishes, whims and caprices. Her beauty and grace grew.with her as did the love of those who loved hey. It was only when she reached the age of seventeen and he found that her beauty was wondrous and exceeding that of most women, that the dreamy, melancholy artist realized it would not be so easy as he thought to take baby to Alice in heaven.

There was one spot above all others where Irene loved to dream, and that was a leafy, lonely corner, where a pretty brook sang of all the pleasantest spots it has wandered through; a laughing brook, whose clear waters showed the pebbles and weeds, and ran between two green banks, kissing them as it ran. Irene left her grandmother’s side and came here to dream, and the dreams were all of the future, that was to her full of music as the bird's song. She laughed aloud when she reached the pretty brook side. She looked down into the clear, bright waters.

“The brook is not a Jiving thing,” she said —“at least, it is not living as'we are; but I believe honestly that it knows me better than granmere does. lam seventeen, and that is not quite young, not as young, at least, as fifteen or sixteen; and she really thinks that I care for buttcrtlies and kittens. —Ah, if she knew how intensely F long for real life —life that has love and lovers in it. ,How old “was Juliet I wonder, when she saw Romeo? And, ah, little brook, you have heard my thoughts ever since I had any thoughts, tell me what has life in store for me?”

The bright, laughing water sang on through the grass, and it seemed to her that it whispered: “Love, love, nothing but love.” The sound was so pleasant to her, she laughed aloud in her glee. “Love, love, nothing but love,” she repeated. “What a pretty story for any laughing brook to tell.” The song of a bird took her attentiou from the rippling water. ■ ’ “Little bird,” «he asked, raising her charming golden head, “little birds tell the truth, they say—what does life hold in store for me? I know what it holds in store for you—a summer’s love, dew to driuk, a warm nest, and the sun to warm you; then flight over .the 'blue sea, and another summer in a fairer land.'But what is there for me?” The little bird looked down with infinite wisdom in its bright blue.eyes, apd it seemed to her that the burden, ,of its sang was: “Title and gold, title and gold.” “That would be very pleasant,” she said, gravely, as though the little bird had spoken as an eravlc; “but,l dike lure, the best.” The brook sang, the leaves rippled, the birds poured out rich, -clear melody, the golden sun shone, the flowers shook their tiny blossoms, the wind danced over the shining grass, while the girl sat by the waterreide dreaming of the lover to come. The singing waters gave her no warning, they did not'say that true love Was a rose surrounded by sharp thorns, that love brought more pain than pleasure, that love was a tragedy. The brighteyed birds did not tell her how often women's hearts were broken, and that love was often the crown of sorrow.

CHAPTER H. The lengthening shadows of the willow tree told Irene that she had been here long enough. She luughed aloud to herself as she thought what the grandmere would sty if she knew that for one whole hour she had been lingering by the brookside, dreaming of the lover to come. Then she started abruptly and arose from her pretty seat, for a dog racing a squirrel and barking furiously rushed past her aud two gentlemen followed the dog. w "Where is my lover?” was the last thought she remembered before the noise and confusion of the frightened squirrel, the barking dog, the hurried footsteps. "He is here,” was the next thought that occurred to her mind, for looking up sho saw the sunlight falling on the very hero of her dreams.

She saw two gentlemen, one tall and stately, with the dignified, easy grace and bearing that distinguishes a soldier, with broad shoulders, with a grand, well-knit frame, with a face handsome in its dark beauty. The brow was broad and ideal, with eyebrows that almost met; the eyes were dark gray with indescribable color and beauty of expression; eyes that no woman could resist: she saw a proud mouth, yet it had in it the grace and sweetness of a woman's.

"He is here,” she thought to herself; “he is jWRt as I have pictured him in my dreams.” 1

“I am afraid we startled you," said a deep voice. “It is my fault,” said another voice. "Dido is a terrible dog for squirrels, and I ought to have left him at home." "I am not startled now,” said Irene. - “But you were/ protested the gentleman to whom the dog belonged. Looking up she saw him, and half wondered in that one moment whether he belonged to the same world as this—the hero of hex dreams. “I know that you were frightened,” he persisted, “all the color left your face and you are trembling even now.”

“It is not that,” she answered simply. So simply that the same thought of reverence went through the minds of both—this was a girl, half angel, half child. Both Involuntarily took off their bats and stood bareheaded before her. She, with wide open eyes, checked herself. It was not that—not so much tho noise of the dog that startled her as she was alarmed by the emotion aroused in her own heart by the sight of that dark, beautiful face. Her sensea were all awake and she

looked from one to the other, taking 1* t every detail of their appearance with a keen, comprehensive glance. From the dark, handsome face a’nd keen, gray eyea she looked to a fair Saxon face neither very handsome nor very plain. They were both gentlemen, shfe knew, from their dress and manner. The fair-faced stranger went on: | “I have liked my dog, Dido, all my life,” belaid; “and I am angry with him for the first time.” “It was not the dog’s fault,” she an-, swered. The dark face was turned to hers, and the deep, clear voice said: “I think we ought to be very grateful to Dido; but for her indiscretion in barking, we should not have enjoyed this pleasant meeting.” “I do not call it pleasantj when it has frightened a young lady,” said the fairhaired stranger. “I would rather have foregone the pleasure of seeing her than have caused her pain.” Irene looked at him; his face pleased’ her, although it lacked the dark beauty that seemed to her the most perfect; the expression was simple, honest and true; the eyes clear and candid, the mouth firm and gentle. He drew a card from his card case. “As Dido trespassed, and he belongs to me, allow me to introduce myself, and apologize for him.” Irene took the card and read the name; she looked at him with a simple reverence that touched him. “You are Lord Arundale,” she said; “I know your name so well; you bought some of my father's pictures.” “Your father?” said Arundale; “is ho an artist? Who is he? The only artist I know here is Santon Darcy.” . She looked at him with unutterable pride. “I am Santon Darcy’s daughter,” she &aid, and he could have smiled at the pride in her voice. • “I do not know where your father lives,” he’ said. “I purchased his pictures at the academy. It was only a few days since that I heard he resided in this neighborhood. I shall’be pleased to see iim.”

His reward for his kindly words was the sweet mist of tears tffht rose to her eyes, and then the one with the dark, handsome face said some fine words to her. Lord Arundale was impatient while they were uttered. “I shall hope to see you again when I call upon Mr. Darcy,” he said; “it will not be long until then.” “Durey,” said the young man. . “Why, that is the name of the ‘Melancholy Artist,’ they call him in town. All his pictures are sad and tragic.” She turned her lovely face, so full of light, to him. "That is because my mother died and left him,” she said. “He has never laughed since, and it is seventeen years since.” “I have heard something of his story,” said Lord Arundale; “and that which I have heard makes hie like him better.” Then, with a few kindly words, he went away, trying, as far as it was possible, that no word should be exchanged between the young people.

He with the dark eyes, she x°ard his uame afterward, Sir Hulbert looked at her as he went away.

"He is going,” she thought; “I have seen him, and now he is going.” Her face grew white as death and a shadow came over her eyes. She had seen him, met him, the hero of her dreams, the king who was to crown her life with his love had come, and was going. Would she ever see him again? What had it been for, this swift, sudden emotion, if all was to die away at otice, and he was to pass out-Qf her sight?,. When, finally, he vanished under the shade of the green trees it seemed to her that her heart ceased beating and life was standing still. For many minutes she was incapable of moving, then she rallied herself with a sigh. How foolish it was; it was but a fancy. What could the face of a stranger be to her that she should weave all these romances about it? Yet the song of the little brook had changed, the flowers had grown fairer, the bird’s song had deeper meaning, the light was brighter. The girl tried to rouse herself, a spell had fallen over her. “What is wrong with me?” she said. “I have seen a face, nothing more.” She lingered by the waterside, dreaming always of the dark, handsome face, and suddenly a footstep came quickly over the bracken aud ferns. There was no time to look, the sudden beating of her heart, the sudden brightness that fell over her, the sudden music that seemed to leap and quiver in the air, all told the same Story —he was there —he had come back again for oue word with her. Thq dark, handsome face, flusned with exertion, was bending over her, and he spoke in hurried tones.

“Lord Arundale did not introduce me,” he said, “he best knows why. Let me introduce niyscelf; I am Sir Hulbert Estmere; I am staying at Arundale Hall, and a very dull place I find it. I grew quite tired of it until to-day.” She was looking at him with a strange mixture of pleasure, wonder and fear. “I saw that Lord Arundale did not wish me to speak to you,” he said; “he is absurdly particular in some things, so is Lady Arvice, his wife. I could not help returning. I longed for one word with you." Her face was covered with a burning flush; her hands trembled. She would fain have made him some indifferent answer, but the gvords died away on her lips, leaving her mute and dumb. “Have I displeased you by returning?” he asked gently. “If so, I will go at once.”

“No, I am not displeased,” sho answered. “You startled me.”

And the lovely eyes seemed to droop from his with the burden of tlaeir own light and secret. She thought of what he would say or think if he knew her thoughts bad made her heart beat, and sho looked so shy. so sweet in her dainty, delicate lovelidcss that Sir Hulbert lost his heart to her. "Tell me.” he cried, in a passionate whisper, “will you be here by the brookside at this same hour to-morrow? J must see you again.” She sealed her own fate, she wrote the first line of a tragedy, she began th#dream of life when she answered, slowly and quietly; “Yes.” (To be cnntlntied.l