Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 34, Number 50, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 21 February 1902 — IRENE’S VOW [ARTICLE]

IRENE’S VOW

By CHARLOTTE M. BRAEME.

' CHAPTER HI. It was * new life to Irene Darcy; she never thought to ask herself if it were right or wrong, whether she was keeping a secret from those who loved her best or not. She soon ceased to think or remember anything else except that she was to see Sir Hulbert every day, and seeing him had grown dearer than life to her. She made no positive appointments with him, she never said, “I shall be by the brookside at such an hour;*’, but it was understood between them. Irene rose early that every duty might be performed, that no one would be able to say she neglected anything. Everything intrusted to her was most carefully attended to, in order that she might have more time for herself; and so it came to pass that in the early morning, before the others were awake, she spent long, happy hours by (he brookside with Sir Hulbert, then hastened home, waited on her father with such loving attention, and was so thoroughly kind to Mrs. Cotrel that they could see no flaw in her. Then in the long sunset hours she was free again; and no one ever asked where she went or what she did. The artist was in his studio, the mistress of the house resting, as old age loves to rest. There was no one to hold out a hand" to save her. Sir Hulbert accustomed her to his presence as the flowers grew accustomed to the sunlight; it had become a necessity to her before she realized it. She might never have understood how it became part of her life but for his absence during one day. The sun was setting, and the waters of the pretty brook were crimson in the red glow of the sun. They •were sitting under the drooping boughs of the willow tree; and he, looking up from the pagss of the book, said; “This time to-morrow evening I shall be in London.” He knew, for the first time, how much she cared for him when he saw the lovely young face grow white as death and the shadow of unutterable pain dim the Vright, sweet eyes. “In London?” she repeated. “Are you going away?” “Only for a day,” he hastened to reply. *’l could not remain longer if I would.” “I shall not see you all day, then?” she •aid, plaintively. “It is rather I who will not see you,” he replied. “The day will seem longer to me than it possibly can to you.” “I am not sure,” she said, gravely. “You will have a thousand distractions. 1 shall hare nothing to do but think.” “What shall you think of, Irene?” he asked, gently. Her fair young face drooped from his as she answered: “You know that I will thiuk of you.” And the silence that fell upon them both was far more eloquent than words. When the sun rose on the morrow she realized all that he had become to her. The bright sun shone in vain, and in vain did the birds sing; her heart was heavy as lead; there was no light in her eyes, no spring in her step, no singing over her work as she went through her duties; no delight in hurrying to the brookside; all life seemed blank and dreary. “What is the matter this morning, Irene?” asked Mrs. Cotrel. “You seem to have lost all life.” “What is the matter, Irene?” asked the artist. “Why, child, all the brightness has gone from your face; what ails your “What is the matte® with Irene today?” asked the old servant, Jacqueline. “These jellies will not set, and the cakes will not rise; nothing seems right that she does.” Ah! what ailed her? that she, so light of heart, so brilliant, so beautiful, had no words —no smiles. “What ails me?” she asked herself; and her heart gave her no answer. Without him she was like a flower without sun to warm or rain to nourish it. He had become part of her life—the best part of it —and what she could do she could not tell. On the morrow they stood together in the clear morning light, each one changed. He read in her face that the time had come in which he might safely say that he loved her. And she knew that she had learned with her whole heart to love him. “Did you miss me, Irene?" he said, looking with passionate eyes into the lovely, drooping face. “Tell me. Do not be afraid that 1 shall grow vain; tell me, did you miss me?” “More than I thought I should miss you.” she answered. “And you?” “I,” he replied. “I will tell you; London looked very bright and full of life. I saw many friends and many friendly faces, but I was so anxious to be back here with you I did not stop to exchange one word except with the solicitor I went to meet. Do you know what this is a sign of, Irene?" She made no answer. The golden morning light quivered on the leaves and in the water of the brook; a little bird from the alder tree sang sweetly. He bent his dark, handsome face over hers, as ho whispered; “Irene, does not your own heart whisper to you what this means? Why should I miss you? Why should you miss me?” “Because we are friends,” she answered, gently. “No, not that; we are now in the land where friends never stand; the light, my lading, that never shone on land or sea, shines for ns, the golden gate of the golden land opens to us; there can be no going back to the calm regions of friendship. Irene, my darling, look up at mt do not turn that sweet face from me; it is that we love one another. Ob, my darling, do yon bear the words? we love cue another”’ \ The little brook plight become a big ocean, and its mighty tide would become ss nothing before the mightier sweep of love that rushed through the girl’s heart when she heard her lover’s words. * * CHAPTER IV. There was no more question of friendship betweeh them; that was forgotten. Sir Hulbert was able to smile at himself when be remembered how cautiously he had made all his advances under the corer of friendship. Nothing coaid hare

been more successful. The girl .had lost all her dainty, pretty shyness,, she was quite at her ease with him; she had lost all her nervous constraint and indifference. With eloquence he had persuaded her that she was doing no wrong in keeping these clandestine meetings secret from her friends, but that she was doing something brave and heroic, trampling the prejudice of the world under foot. So, day after day, the love between them grew deeper and dearer, day after day the girl’s face grew more and more lovely, until Sir Hulbert, accustomed as he was to the fairest faces in Europe, was dazzled by her beauty. It happened that one most beautiful evening, when the sunlight seemed fairer than ever, Sir Hulbert, hating the hour which would part them, walked with her some little distance home. They had not gone very far before a dark shadow fell across their path ,and looking up, Irene saw the kindly, shrewd old face of Dr. Kean, the doctor who had introduced her to the world, and who had closed her mother's eyes. “I did not think to meet you here, child,” he said. “How are you?” The lovely, flower-like face drooped from his, the sweet eyes fell, the little, white hands trembled. She had no words in which to answer him. He looked from the delicate, lovely face to the dark, handsome one, and something like a frown came over his. “I have not seen you once for the last fortnight, Irene,” he said; “whenever I have called, you have been out. I began to wonder when I should see you again. Will you introduce me to your friend, Irene?” She blushed crimson. Sir Hulbert came to the rescue; he could noth endure to see her in distress. “I shall be much pleased, Dr. Kean,” Ju* said, “to make your acquaintance. I have heard wonders of your skill. I- am visiting Lord Arundale, and you stand very high in his lordship's good graces.” It did so happen that there was no person on earth for whom the good doctor had so much respect as for Lord Arundale; the very name was a passport to his esteem; his face relaxed, the last frown disappeared, as he said: “You are a visitor of Lord Arundale’s? I am most happy to make your acquaintance.” It did not occur to the good doctor how cleverly the handsome young aristocrat had evaded the introduction, and how completely he had forgotten to ask his name. Sir Hulbert smiled his frankest smile. “It is through Lord Arundale that I first had the pleasure of seeing Miss Darcy,” he continued, “and a very great pleasure it was. I met Miss Darcy just now in the woods here, and begged to have the pleasure of seeing her home,” added Sir Hulbert. Dr. Kean was the last man in the world to tell tales or to make mischief; but in some way he considered himself responsible for this motherless child. He knew how unprotected she was; the dreamy artist father and the old grandmere were no protectors for her; he was haunted by the memory of those beautiful faces, the girl’s so fair and tender, the man’s so dark, so full of fire. Certainly the young stranger had spoken but in the most frank and candid manner; yet it would be just as well to know if the artist knew of the friends his daughter made. When the doctor met Santon Darcy he said to him: "Did Irene tell you that I met her in the woods lately?” ‘‘Na, I do not remember it," was the reply. "1 met her with one of the very handsomest young men I ever saw, walking in the woods. I say nothing, I insinuate nothing; but if it were my daughter I should like to know something of it,” said Dr. Kean. “Whatever I ask Irene will tell me,” said the artist, proudly. And the doctor, with an expressive shrug of his shoulders, walked away. Although he was habitually a dreamer, Santou Darcy roused himself to think over the old doctor's words. He met Irene as she came in from a long, pleasant hour spent watching the sunset “Irene," he asked, in that gentle voice of his, which had in it always a suggestion of tears, “Irene, where have you been?” "Watching the sunset in the woods,” she replied. "Have you been alone?” ho asked. “No, I was not alone, papa,” she replied. “With whom were you, Irene?” he asked, gravely, and she answered, frankly: "I told you that I had met Lord Arundale, papa, and this gentleman is visiting him; a friend of his. I have seen him often since, and he brings me part of the way home.” To this simple-mindtd man, who lived in his visions, this seemed natural and frank enough. No warning of a terrible tragedy came to him, no revelation that the beginning of the crisis of Irene’s life was at hand. He thought it was merely a question of the politeness of a stranger, who believed it an act of kindness to see his daughter home. “It is very kind of him, but you must not accept such acts of attention, Irene; you are not a child now; indeed, it fills me with wonder to find you are almost a woman, my dear. You must not speak to strangers or walk with them, no matter who they may be, and I advise you strongly not to go where you are likely to meet this person again.” ' “I will do as you wish, papa,” she sqid, gently. As she uttered the words all the brightness of life died away from her. For the first time, she realized the intensity of her love. The artist went back to hie pictures, Irene went to.the pretty little drawing room where she could think at leisure over whet had happened. “I will not be unhappy;” she thought. “I will not be unhappy.” She decided in her own mind that she would see Sir Hulbert as usual on the day following, and tell him what her father had said. It was a fatal sunrise for her, though the birds woke her with their singing and the flowers Were all rejoicing in the morning air. She stood before him, tall, slen-

der and stately as a lily, so loving that any man might have laid down his life for her. ' _ “You look fresh and fair as the morning, sweet; and yet there is a shadow over you,” he said. “All shadows,” she said, “vanish in the sun. If I had a trouble, it has gone, now that I see you.” “Have you a trouble?” he asked. “Either let me share it, darling, or give it to me.” “My trouble is about you,” she said. “About me, Irene? Ah, then I shall soon end iti There would be no way in which -I would allow myself to trouble you. Tell me what it is.” He drew the slender figure nearer to himself with a loving clasp. Ah, what a haven of rest was this bread breast and loving heart of her lover—what a haven of rest the clasp of these arms! It could not be that she was to lose them? “Tell me what has troubled you, Irene,” he said, and she told him. His face darkeend. “I knew there would be mischief when I saw that tiresome old doctor,” he said. She looked up at him in sudden alarm. “Shall we be parted?” she asked, while the beautiful face grew white as death. With passionate words he answered: “Never in this world. You love me, Irene, do you not?” ■ '■' “Better than my life; better than all the world besides; but I must obey my father,” she answered. “Leave it all to me; I will not ask you to disobey him; I only ask one favor, Irene. Meet me here again this evening, and I will tell you what I have decided. Will you do this?” The last hope of her good angel, the last chance of her life died as she said: “Yes.”

CHAPTER V. “We need never part, if you will consent to one thing, Irene, and that is a Secret marriage. In time we can make it known, but at first, and for the present, we must keep it a dead secret. What do you say?” With these words Sir Hulbert announced his decision. _ Slowly enough the rose bloom died from Irene's face and a white look of pain came into it; slowly the love-light died from the beautiful eyes, and the shadow of despair took its place. She spoke no word, but the golden head drooped more heavily on her breast. “You do not answer me, Irene,” he cried. She broke from the clasp of his arm with a little shudder as of cold or pain. “A secret marriage,” she said; “that means unknown to my father or grandmere. I—l cannot, Sir Hulbert; it would not be right.” He understood the delicacy of her nature far too well to attempt just then to argue with her, but in the far distance he already saw his triumph. “Not right, my darling. I have never heard that a secret marriage was not right. It may not always be wise; but I will not persuade you; it shall be as you will; I will not urge you to consent to anything in the world you thought not right.” She looked at him through a mist of tears. “You know. Sir Hulbert,” she said gently, “that I have not been brought up quite as other girls. My father has held but one Idea up to me, and it is that one day I must go to my mother in heaven. She loved me so much, yet she hardly saw me before she died. Now, Sir Hulbert, you are so much wiser, so much better than I, will you tell me if I could go to my mother if I should consent to a secret marriage? Her face, they tell me, is full of light, but she would turn it from me. I fear she would say, ‘This is not my baby girl, whom I left so young; this is a girl with a great, dark secret over her soul; and she would not love me, would she now, Sir Hulbert?” For shame and for pity’s sake he should have fallen on the long grass and buried his face there. He should have trembled as be stood there, bold, defiant and handsome. As it was, the question ‘startled him with a keen, sharp pain. This dead mother in heaven was like an enemy i him. He did not dare, reckless as _ J was, to answer her. The girl went on in a low, plaintive voice. “It is not long since someone said to me that ‘where there is secrecy there is guilt.’ If that be true of ordinary marriage, what must it be of a secret marriage?” “You are too much of a philosopher, Irene, to love very much,” he said in a tone of bitter disappointment. “How foolish I was to think you would do anything in the world for me.” She answered him only by bitter tears and sobs. He might have had mercy on her, she was so young and so fair. “Irene,” he said, gently, “do not weep so bitterly. One word at any time will bring nu> to your side again; you have but to say ‘come’ and I will fly to you. Perhaps when you have thought it well over, a secret marriage may not appear so dreadful to you.” She answered him only by bitter tears, and something like remorse did come over him when he saw the beautiful face all wet with tears; still he said to himself if he were to conquer in the end he must be firm now. “Irene,” said Sir Hulbert, "let us try, before we decide, let us try if we can live without each other. We need not part just yet.- I can remain at Arundale’s. «,It is Ttfesday now! take a whole week to think it over, and let us meet here next Tuesday, just one week from to-day, to decide whether we shall part forever or never part more. What do you say, my darling?" “I will do anything you wish," she said, glad of any pretext that delayed the fatal parting. “Then it shall be so,” he said. "Next week shall decide our fate —next Tuesday. We shall meet here, and it shall be for weal or for woe. Forever to love each other, or forever to part. Next Tuesday, Irene, bow shall I live until the day comes?” He kissed the tears from her eyes and left her the most miserable and desolate girl under the summer sun. The following Tuesday she was at the trysting place, fully determined to tell him that while she could not bear to part with him, neither could she consent to a secret marriage. "My darling,” he cried, “how could we fancy we could ever part?” She clung to him weeping and sobbing. The pretty, coquettish hat had fallen on ths grass, the golden hair lay in rich, shining waves ojer her shoulders, her little white hand* clung to him. “I do not know how I have lived," she said. with a shudder. “Sir Hulbert, another such week would kill me.”

“How did we ever dream that we could live away from each other, Irene?" he said. “This one week has been like a long year to me." And then, looking into her face, he said: “I was to come for my answer to-day, Irene, What is It?” He kissed the silent lips. “You have no words for me. You know the old proverb, darling, that silence gives consent. May I take your silence for the sweetest consent ever given?” Then she found courage to speak. “I cannot bear the parting," she said, hurriedly, “and I cannot bear a secret marriage. Yoff, who are so clever, you must find some other course for us.” (To be continued.)