Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 34, Number 61, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 1 April 1902 — IRENE’S VOW [ARTICLE]

IRENE’S VOW

By CHARLOTTE M. BRAEME.

CHAPTER Xlll.—(Continued.) It was n beautiful day in June, and the grand old city of Rome lay resting in the •un, its gorgeous palaces and castles, its glorious ruins all shining in the rays, of the fairest sun that eves-shines. The old palace stood outside the walls of Rome, at some little distance from the city where the Tiber runs wide and clear; it is almost hidden by magnificent trees. At( that day, as he traveled toward Rome, the duke had been thinking of Beatrice; he had a confused idea that Beatrice was waiting for him, and yet he repeated to himself, again hnd again, that Beatrice had been dead many years. It happened that when th.e carriage ■topped, and the duke said he could walk through the garden and reach the house by the grand entrance, the first thing he ■aw in the beautiful walk that led to the ilex trees was the sweeping train Of .a. long, Mack dress; he saw the figure of a woman, tall, slender and graceful as of -the world-famed statues, a -face ■o magnificently beautiful that no man ,who saw it could ever forget it, yet a face .with a story in it. ■ A figure, the curves and lines of which were all harmony. He stood quite silent for a few moments. Was this what big dream meant? was this Beatrice? Quite involuntarily he uttered the name. . 1 ‘’Beatrice,” he cried, and the tall, stately ligure turned to him at once. Ah, no, It was not Beatrice. With all her beauty the young duchess had not been one-half •o fair. This was a golden-haired woman with a face like a flower. “I beg your pardon,” he said; “I—l called you Beatrice.” She came toward him, and he said to himself that grace itself was centered in •very movement. “It is I who should beg pardon,” she •aid in a low', clear voice; "I am intruding here.” 1 “Who are you?” he asked, with perfect courtesy, yet with the manner of one who expects an answer. Blie had heard nothing of the duke’s coining, but it was very evident to her that he was someone who had a right to ask the question. “I am Irene Darcy, the daughter of Bantou Darcy, the artist,” she replied. And then the duke held out his haqd. “I must introduce myself,” he said. “I •m the Duke of Bayard.” Irene bowed. All the dukes in the world would not have lessened her selfpossession. He admired her well-bred calm. ") our father knows I am expected,” he said. “Has he not told you?” She smiled, and the smile made her so beautiful that the duke gazed at her in silent wonder. “To toll your grace the truth,” she said, “m.v father and myself seldom speak of anything but art. Sometimes we sit together for hours and do not speak. My father is not an ordinary human being, and he never remembers to tell me anything. no matter how interesting it may be.” “I quite understand,” said the duke, gently; and Irene continued: “Since we huve lived in this beautiful old palace, he has been more silent, more given to dreams than ever.” “1 remember now,” said the duke, suddenly ; “vout fattier wrote to ask my permission for his daughter to accompany him. And are you that daughter?” “Yes. 1 am my father’s only child,” said Irene. The duke walked by her side dow'n the windiug path. | “I hope,” he said gallantly, “that you have enjoyed your visit here, and that! everyone in the place has been most attentive to you.” “I huve been happy and well cared for,” she replied. If l.ord Waldo, the duke's nephew', had been, there to see the lingering glance of admiration that the duke gave to the beautiful woman he would have called out, ''Danger.” Irene was a little puzzled; she had never been vain, and in all her recent distress the fact that she was exceedingly beautiful had escaped her thoughts. She wondered at the duke's kindness and his evident determination to see more of her, but she did not, us many wovld have done, tliluk that it was owing to her own charms. That same afternoon the duke found his way to the artist’s quarters, and overwhelmed him with kindness. He would Insist artist and his daughter •hould dine with him. Long after that dinner party was over, long after the sun hail set and the moon had riseii over the broad river, Irene sat watching the blue night skies. “M.v vengeance," she snhl; “oh, heaven, my vengeance, and now it seams near ■ t hand.” CHAPTER XIV. The moon shone us it shines only in an Italian sky, and the pale, pure stars, all bright and calm, studded the heavens. The duke had asked Irene and her father to go with him to see the Coliseum by mooulight. They had enjoyed the weird, beautiful scene of their hearts’- content. Snnton Darcy was carried out of himself; he looked from the starry skies to the moonlit earth —the grand ruin that has no equal, and bowed his head, as he ■aid; “Verily, the great Clod is the great artist; we are but shadows.” One or two mute pictures haunted him, ■nd he felt that he must immortalize them while they lived in his mind; and the moment the carriage stopped in the oourt yard where the olives grew, he, With a half-murmured apology, hastened to his studio. “Shall I come with you, papa?” asked Irene. But he answered hastily: “No, I want to be alone.” The fire of genina and imagination had been lighted In his soul, and he felt that he must beJtlone. Then the Duke of Bayard turned to her. “I wonder if I dare aak a favor from you. Miss Darcy?” be said. “There can be nothing your grace would ask that I would not do,” she replied. “It is a small favor, but it will lead te a greater one,” he aaid, courteously. “The noon is ao bright and the stars so clear.

Will you come into the gardens, and let us see how the water looks under the light of the moon?” “I will .go with pleasure, if you wish,” she said. It was a grand old fountain; many a handsome Roman prince had stood there in the moonlight, and many a lovely face had been reflected in'the shining waters. ■ “I lfke this better than the Coliseum. I believe,” said Irene. “I can breathe here; there I was lost in wonder; what a night this is!” The duke was smiling to himself. Her face, as the light fell on it, was marvelous to behold—it was like a beautiful white cameo; the duke took courage from its expression—so thoughtful, so gentle, the passion and tragedy seemed to die from it. h “Mjaa Darry.LLhe began. “I told yon the smaller favor you granted me would give me courage to ask for a greater; may I do so now?'" = —- “Ask what yon will,” said Irene. The stately old nobleman had a fashion, quite his own, of making every attention he paid to her seem like a favor that she had granted him. She was startled from her calm when he said, in a (one of deep emotion: “I can ask, and you can grant no greater favor, Miss Darcy. I—l loved you the first moment I saw you, and I want you to be my wife.” - Even in the moonlight he saw how pale her face grew, nnd how her lips trembled. “Your wife!” she repeated—“your wife!”’' “Yes, pardon me- if I have spoken abruptly; my most dear and honored wife. Will you listen to me one-minute, Miss Durey, before you decide? I know there is a great disparity between us. I am older than your father. I have not the hot-hended love of youth to offer you. I have the deepest and most reverential affection, that will make you as happy, perhaps, as the most passionate love. For heaven’s sake,” he cried, earnestly, “do* not say that you are going to refuse me. I—l could not bear it; I did not think that I cared so much for you—think before you refuse me.” “I am-very sorry—” she began. But he interrupted her. “Think of the power you would have —of the good you might do;” He had touched the right spring at last. The good she might do, the power she would have —ah, that was what she wanted—power. All at once a whole vista seemed to open out to her; she had wondered so much how, in their divided lives she would ever be able to influence the fate of Sir Hulbert Estmere. Quite suddenly a whole vista of ideas were opened out to her—if she were Duchess of Bayard, holding a position second to none, queen of the world of fashion, it would be comparatively easy—she would be his superior then. The duke wondered why all at once a strange, luminous smile seemed to creep from her eyes to her lips, why her white hands clinched themselves, as though they held Something between them. Oh, that she could tear from her heart the memory of that dark, handsome face she had loved with such passionate love. She turned to the duke, the expression of her face quite changed. “Will you try to think favorably?” he asked. “Yes, I think I may promise that," she answered. He kissed the white hand that lay on the marble stone of the fountain. “You make me very happy,” be said, simply. After that it was impossible to talk of more commonplace mutt ora. -"lrene shuddered as if she were cold, and the duke, with his usual politeness, immediately offered to go indoors. Irene went at once to her father's room. She opened the door and went in without bidding. “Papa, I know you want to be. alone,” she said, "and I know that you will feel annoyed with me. I shall disturb you, and perhaps spoil your inspiration. I cannot help it—l must tell you. Something so wonderful has happened to me. Ph pa, the duke—the Duke of Bayard has asked me to marry him,” she said; and then, indeed, the artist did spring to his feet, and gave one cry of unutterable surprise. “The duke has asked you to marry him, Irene? I can hardly believe it.” "It is perfectly true, papa,” she said. "What answer have you given him, Irene?” "None at all, papa. I have told him that I will think it over; and so I will. Oh, father," she cried, with passionate tears; “is it really true that I am no wife?” “My dear child,” he said, sadly, “you know that there is no use in going over that most miserable story aguiu—you know it.” “What answer shall I make him?” she asked; “shall I say ‘Yes' or ‘No’?” “You must say just what your henrt dictates, Irene,” he replied. “My heart,” cried the girl, scornfully; "what a mockery of words—my heart. It Is broken. Oh, heaven,” she_continued, with a cry; “I would give all—wealth, fortune, title, honors, all —my heart's core even, for one true word from the man I loved.” “There is one thing certain, Irene,” said the artist; “If you marry the duke you must tell him your story first.” CHAPTER XV. The following morning Irene sent a note to the duke by one of the attendants, skying that before she gave a decided answer to his question she would like an hour’s conversation with him. The duke sent a most rapturous reply, saying that he thanked her a thousand times. She found him Impatiently pacing up and down the velvet greenswnrd, where fountains played and the tame doves came to drink the pure water. He went to meet her, his face beaming with delight. How she managed to telbhim her sad story she conlr'; not afterword say. but tell him she did without hiding anything except the name of the man who bad def rived hei*. He Ueteaed to her with ■hocked attention and then followed al-

ienee, every moment of which seemed like an hour to Irene. He was the first to speak, and she hardly knew whether his words wero a burden or a relief, a pain .or a pleasure. "My dearest Irene,” he said, “I have listened to your story; need I say that I believe every word, and that I most honestly believe I express the opinion that everyone in this world would give when I say that you are as innocent as when you were a child at your father’s knee.” In surprise at the words, which she had not qnite expected, she raised his hand to her lips and kissed it. That kiss sealed her fate and his; tor after it the duke could no more have given her up than he could have flown. “I love, revere and respect you as much as I did before I heard your story; for I do not see how blame could be attached to you, Unwittingly, and through no fault of your own, you have lost your way in life; now let me help you to retract your steps, let my love shield you, let my name shelter you, let me give you a position unassailable. As for myself, the confidence you have Teposed in me will never be misplaced or abused; your secret will die with me, and it will never cross my lips. Now, Irene, will you be my wife?* She laid her hand in his as she answered : “From my heart I thank you for your ' love, your trust, yonr goodness; fr-om my heart, I say, ‘Yes, I will be your wife.’ ” —He. wa» silent for a few minutes,, and. then he said: “Before we close this subject forever, Irene, will you tell me the name of the man who practiced this fraud upon you?” Her face paled. “I could not do that,” she said. “I have made my vow concerning him, and I shall keep it; I could not tell you his name.” A hot flush rose to the fine old facer and the duke’s strong, white fingers were clinched, as he answered: “I should like to know his name, because I should like to find the man; and, having found him, I would crush his face with my heel. Now, you know, Irene, why I would like to hear his name.” “Vengeance is mine. I have sworn to pay it, and I will,” she replied. “No oue can do it for me, and no one^sSaHr^ The week that the Duke of Bayard spent at the palace was one long act of devotion to Irene. The grand old city was ransacked to find presents for her — the “most exquisite cameos, the finest pearls. The duke ordered velvet from Genoa, lace from Milan, silk from Lyons, furs from Russia. One huge packet after another arrived, until Santon Darcy was amused, and told his daughter that it was easy to see that she was the affianced of a millionaire. The duke urged that the marriage should take place at the British embassy at Paris; he could not endure that it should be in Rome, where he had married Beatrice, or in England, where Lord Waldo’s discontented face would make him wretched. The wedding took place with all the pomp and splendor imaginable. The only request that Irene made was that it should not be put in the papers, and for this request she had her own motives, and the principal one was that Sir HulbeTt Estmere should not hear of her marriage. He would know that the Duke of Bayard was married; the marriage of such a mighty person must be known to all the world; but no one need know whom :je had married. The fact that he was nurried in Paris would naturally lead to the conclusion that he had married a French lady. So, all that the English patters had to say about the marriage was thLs—that the Duke of Bayard and his beautiful young duchess were spending their honeymoon in Paris, and that the marriage ceremony had been solemnized at the British embassy with the greatest privacy: Lord Waldo’s anger was great, although iie was courteous enough not to show it. The tfuke wrote himself, telling him of the event a few days before it happened; but the auger of Lord Hurst himself was as nothing compared with the indignation of his wife. Lady Waldo Hurst wis a heartless, brilliant woman of fashion, who had married Lord Hurst entirely /or the reason that she should ultimately become Duchess of Bayard." She had ?;ever made any secret of it, and now her indignation was great. But, acting ujon the advice of her husband, she decided to conceal her indignation and disappointment from the duke. “Take njr advice, Ada,” said Lord Waldo; "instqjid of making the young duchess your onetiy, refusing to meet her, or any nonsense of that kind, make her your friend, and then, should (here be any possibility o t learning anything about her, you will probably find it out;*' and Lady Hurst sa'f at once how sensible that advice was.

CHAPTER XVI. The chi>f of the great ancestral homes of England, Saxonhurst, stands unrivaled for it( magniticenee and picturesque beauty. This September it presented a picture net often seed.' The elimatis was all in flower; the gardens were a mass of gorgeous blossom. In compliance with the wish of the beautiful young duchess, there was no rejoicing over the coming home. She had wished it to be so, and the duke had written to his agent, Mr. 3tretton, saying that he wished the time of his return, kept secret, and that the festivities given in honor of his marriage would t.ake place soon after his return. When Irene reached the luxurious suite Of rooms prepared for her, she sank on one of the couches quite overcome. In this magnificent room, her maid awaited her, and she was at length at home. It would be long to tell how, slowly and by degrees, she became accustomed to the splendor of her surroundings; grand as they were, they seemed only fitted for her. Santou Darcy had not come home with his daughter. Ho preferred returning to Rome, to finish the work on which he was engaged. After a few days the whole country rang with the fame of the young duchess; her wit, her glorious beauty, her wondrous grace, the silvery sweetness of her voice, the music of her laugh—all these made her the subject of conversation. Every one hastened to call upon her, and everyone came away charmed, delighted with her. The favorite room or the young duchess was her boudoir; a gem of a room, where exhausted itself; a room that ha* been built with an especial eye to light and sunshine. There, one bright September morning, sat the duchess alone. 'On her knees rested a book. Hhe was not reading; the book had fallen from her hands, and ahe was playing idly with the jeweled rings an her. fingers.

The door opens and the duke emtara the room. He stood in silence for one minute while he admired the beautiful picture; then ho went to his wife, and bending over her, with ajl the grace of an accomplished courtier he kissed her white jeweled hands. (To be continued.)