Democratic Sentinel, Volume 16, Number 11, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 1 April 1892 — Pair of Jrcks. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

Pair of Jrcks.

BYLVIV Jamisgn

CHAPTER Vl—Continued. “Look, grandpa, at my lovely flower,” said Mary, showing him a really beautiful wild flower. “It is very fine, my dear. Where did you get it?” . "About three miles from here.” “Have you been three miles this morning? I thought -” Mary bit her lip at her mistake. "I did not say I had gotten it this morning, grandpa,” was her rather lame explanation. “No; I thought you had not had your ride. Toby told me last night that he had forgotten your saddle. The poor old fellow was really distressed about it.” “He need not have felt so bad,” rejoined Mary, looking up to And Jack’s eyes upon her. Something in their glace was a revelation to her. The hot blood mounted to her brow, and an overmastering sense of shame swept over her. In the first bitter rush of this feeling, she left the table precipitately. “Grandpa, I’m not hungry, and not well. Please excuse me." These declarations, delivered in decidedly jerky tones, caused Mr. Millard to glance up in some surprise. “Not well?” he repeated, fixing his eyes upon her face; “my dearest, you make me anxious.” “So like you, grandpa, to be anxious for nothing. Upon reflection, I feel wonderfully well, and have a very great appetite.” With which assertion the contradictory Mary returned to her place and reveled in the’ highest spirits during the rest of tlie meal. Only occasionally, yhen by some chance she encountered Jack’s glances, she colored warmly, and dropped her eyes in painful embarrassment. Her grandfather watched her gravely. “I fear Mary is somewhat feverish, ” he observed, with much anxiety, to Jeannette, after breakfast; “the child is always so well that her slightest indisposition alarms me.” “Indisposition,” repeated the practical Jeannette, “I call it temper, sir. Don’t you worry about Miss Mary; I haven’t known her all these years for nothing;” The gentleman appeared unconvinced, but he said no more upon the subject. Meanwhile, the object of this mingled blame and solicitude was crouched in the depths of her grandfather’s chair. Hearing Jack’s step she snatched up the book closest at hand, and, without seeing a word before her, pretended to read. “Is it interesting?” he asked, crossing the room with the air of one not quite certain of his reception. Mary made no answer, and Jack approaching more closely, read the title over her shoulders. “So you read Homer in the original?” he said, very quietly. Closing her book with a snap, she turned upon him; “I want to ask you a questipn,” she said in a voioe of suppressed anger. “Not Greek, but plain English, and I wish a plain answer. What did you mean by the look you gave me at breakfast? No evasion please. You know I took a ride this morning?” An inclination of his head gave an almost imperceptible assent to her question. She understood it, however. “You know,” she repeated, biting her lips fiercely. “How did you know? Did you—see me?” She brought out her words with difllculity, and again Jack assented. “Where?” came more sharply than before. “Starting or —on the way?” “On the way, since you will know the truth.” Her eyes fell, and once more the hot color burned in her cheeks. “Thank you, Mr. Boverly,” she cried, starting up with a passionate gesture, “I have another remark to make. It is plain English, too. I hate you.” “Don’t go,” he pleaded, as she tided to pass him. “You forced me to tell you. You really did. I’m awfully sorry. I ” “Sorry for what?” “Why, for being there, and—and seeing you,” he returned, taken at a slight •disadvantage. “Sorry for being there and seeing me,” she repeated in a voice suspiciously near tears, and with her face persistently lowered. “ What a kindly way to put it. To spare my feelings, I suppose. Don’t try. I have none to spare. I like unladylike actions. I take to them quite naturally. I’m not ready to have lessons in deportment from you yet, and I wish to gracious you would go where I can’t be meeting you at every turn.” “I will, by all means,” he responded as she concluded her half-choked utterances. “I don’t believe you mean a word of what you have said, though, not a word. I know ” At this point Jack found himself addressing empty air, Mary had departed and for the rest of the morning remained invisible. At dinner time she insisted on remaining in her room, claiming a headache as an excuse, but when her grandfa'ther, considerably worried, came to inquire for himself, she told him she had never felt better, insisting, notwithstanding, on having dinner in her room. Jeannette thought this a most reprehensible exhibition of self-will, and expressed her views quite strongly to the delinquent. “And your grandpa worried nearly out of his wits,” she concluded, “and wanting to send for a doctor. ” “Why will grandpa be so foolish,” said Mary in a slightly vexed tone. “I hope you won’t let him do it, Jeannette.” “Of course I won’t. You need a shak-ing-up much more than you do a doctor, my dear. And I’m thinking you’d better come to supper.” At supper Mary duly appeared, arrayed in a dress Jack had taken pains to say he disliked. Neither she nor Jack was especially talkative, and h r grandfather, who was quite unobservant, was forced to keep up the somewhat flagging conversation. As the evening was cool they went immediately to the parlor, where Mary, in an unusual fit of industry, got out some crocheting and began wcuking on it, as though her very life depenaed upon what she accomplished. “My dear,” said Mr. Millard, breaking the rather heavy silemce, “Jack is thinking of leaving us. You must help me to persuade him to prolong his visit.” “Doffl’t you think we should consider Mr. Beverly, grandpa? Think how long he has been bored by us already and spare him further infliction.” Jack bit his lips, and turning from the window, where his fingers bad been playing an idle tattoo, he addressed himself to Mr. Millard: “I have already imported too long on Four kind hospitality. My visit has been

so thoroughly enjoyable that I cut it short with regret, and if any one has been bored, Miss Mary has been the sufferer, I fear.” His glance sought the brown eyes, bending over the worsted, but Mary’s work was evidently all-absorbing. “We will not discuss your departure any further to-night," responded Mr. Miilard, slightly pained at his granddaughter’s manner. “To-morrow, I hope, will find you willing to give us at least a few days more of your company. I believe neither Mary nor myself is quite willing to let you go yet. Mary, why will you spoil your eyes over that work? Put it aside, my dear, and give us some music. Jack has never heard you sing. ” “And he never will, grandpa. You know perfectly well that I don’t pretend to sing, and that I never, under any circumstances, sing for any one but you.” “Nonsense, my dear; you have an excellent natural voice. Jack will agree wfth me, I am sure, if you will give' him an opportunity to judge. I fear he may think you have no accomplishments. ” “He knows better,” she answered, with slightly darkening eyes. “He knows I can swim, and row, and ride” —she half paused after naming this last a«complishment, and, giving Jack a decidedly defiant glance, added, calmly—“two ways.” The next second she caught her grandfathor’s eyes fixed up.ou her in perplexed surprise, and with a remorseful air and a painful blush, she said, rather penitently: “When you look at me in that way I feel like a > savage. lam a savage, anyway, and plenty of others would be, too, if they dared. I hate people who won’t do things simply because the world condemns them. They are nothing but hypocrites. They’d break a commandment of God sooner than commit a breach of etiquette. They are bound by such a wall of trusts and mistrust, that they lose every grain of individuality, and become such insufferable prigs that I should find it tiresome to look at them.”

Mary concluded this somewhat forcible expression of her views with flashing eyes and a gesture of the hand that gave her words an impassioned emphasis. Then settling back in her chair she once more bent over her work. Jack did not attempt' to conceal the' admiration her attitude aroused in him, but her grandfather watched her more gravely. “Don’t mind Jack,” he said at last; “I understand my little girl thoroughly.” “So do I,” responded Jack much to Mary’s chagrin. When Mr. Willard left them a half hour later Jack brought his chair and placed it close by Mary’s. “Let me have that,” ho said, taking the work from her hand and putting it on the mantel. “Now please tell we whether I am to stay. ’’ “Stay, of course,’’returned Mmry,feeling that he had taken some of her spirit with her woTk. “I have some idea of politeness.” “The last part of your sentence rather spoils tho first. Do you find politeness so hard to practice? You have almost turned your back upon me. That is really not good manners. Is it?” “I’m not capable of judging. I know nothing of good manners. I pride myself' an having particularly bad ones. You need not concern yours;.lf in either event.” He elevated his brows very slightly. “Needn’t I?” he asked. “May I tell you just why and how far I should like to concern myself in your regard?” Ho asked this last question pointedly, and with a new earnestness upon his lace. Her eyes drooped. Something in his glance warned her, and rather precipitately she left her chair and walked to the window. Yet even in the dim light he saw the vivid color that dyed her face, and made a mental note of the fact. In the moment that followed he had time to think. He was not a man given to impulse. Never before had he boon conscious of a feeling stronger than simple admiration for any woman. But for this unconventional, self-willed little country girl he felt something deeper. Just what he scarcely paused to analyze. He was content to wait until time should make him surer. These reflections passed through his mind with the rapidity of light, and the next minute he had joined Mary at the window. “Let us have a light,” he said briskly. “This twilight is melancholy. Do you think I can manage those lamps without blowing up the house?” “I think you had better not try,” answered Mary turning from her contemplation of the landscape outside. “I will light them, if you will close the blinds/ When Mary ran in to kiss her grandfather good-night, she placed her arms about his neck with unusual affection, whispering as she did so: “I pained you to-night, grandpa; I know I did. lam sorry for it. So very sorry. I don’t know why I should have been in such an ill-humor, but I was, and I do find it so hard to feel one way and act another. I intend to do better after this. Indeed I do. Npw, kiss me and say you forgive me.” CHAPTER VII. Meanwhile Jack was wondering what had become of his friends. "Haven’t heard a word from one of them,” he told himself, when nearly three weeks had passed, and even voluble Frank had not sent a line. “I suppose I am entirely forgotton. It is rather trying to one’s vanity to drop out of his friends’ remembrance so soon. I never thought I could be content away from civilization, as it were. If I stay here much longer I’ll begin to like these mid-day dinners and going to bed with the chickens and rising with the same.” Perhaps Jack would have been less surprised regarding his dilatory correspondents had he been able to read the letters Mr. Jack Beverly No. 2 had been receiving, and which puzzled that young man sorely. On the day Jack had especially anathematized his friends, two letters, addressed to Mr. Jack Beverly, reached the Weston postofflee, and were handed to the young gontleman of that name. The first was short and to the point: “Deab Jack: What in the deuce is the matter with you? Why don’t you let us know whether you are dead or alive? Frank’s written and I’ve written, and not a word in answer. “Miss Harly has taken Newport by storm, but sho pines for you, I am told on competent authority. For her sake, if not for ours, let us know if you have succumbed to the stagnating influence of that wretched place. Yours as usual, “Willis.” The second epistle was equally short. “Mr. Jack Beverly: Dear Sir,” It ran, “inclosed please find the little account, which pressure of circumstances forces me to present. I am obliged to meet a heavy note in a few days, otherwise my claim would not be urged. Hoping you appreciate my position, and find it convenient to relieve me, I remain, dear sir, yours very truly, Thomas Bailly.” “The devil,” muttered the young man regarding in some perplexity the letters

he had Just read. “This rather caps the climax. First Willis, whom 1 nover heard of, berating me for not writing to other people I never heard of, and then Thomas Bailly firing his.little account on me. By the way, where is the little account? Ah, this, I suppose.” This was a piece of white paper folded lengthwise, which, when opened, proved to be a bill for sixty dollars, for articles bought by Jack Beverly of Thomas Bailly, tailor. “Well, Mr. Bailly, you have quite an imposing establishment,” mused Beverly, looking at the pictured house at tho head of the bill. “And you writes quite a fine hand. But I’m inclined to think you’ve selected the wrong individual to spring your little joke on. Let me see. One evening suit. Haven’t had a now evening suit in an age. Must really get one this winter. One pair of gray trousers. Never wore gray trousers in my life. I utterly abominate them. A mistake, certainly. The man must be crazy. He’s got my name down fine, though. Where is the addres. Ah! ‘Thomas Bailly, No. —, Broadway, N. Y.’ ’’ “All right, Mr. Thomas Bailly. You’ll hear from me, but not quite as you expect. Without further reflection Beverly drew a small table toward him and in a momen't had written the following: “Mr. Thomas Bailly: Dear Sir—Your note and little account duly to hand. Both surprised me, tho littlo account more especially. I feel obliged to confess that I lmvo not the pleasure of your acquaintance, never had an article of dress out of your establishment, and never, under any provocation, wear gray trousers. “I herewith return you tho aforementioned account; for, while quite sympathizing with you in your present embarrassed condition, I have not yet reached that degree of prosperity which admits of my paying for other people’s clothes. Yours, otc., “Jack Beverly.” “Short, sweet, and, I hope, convincing, ’’ commented Beverly as ho read this effusion. “People talk of the difficulty of writing letters. I never found any. The next thing in order is to mail this, and to do so I must run the gauntlet of those young brats in' tho hall. I wonder what possesses’pcople to have so many children. The law really should fix a limit. lamh df inclined to draw up a bill for Congress to consider.” Two days later another oommu ioation from Mr. Thomas Bailly arrived. “Confound the man,” muttered Beverly, recognizing tho writing. “What under heaven has be to say for himself now?” A glance ait tho written page enlightened him: “Deab Sir. —I am at a loss to understand your action in returning the bill I sent you. It is Impossible that you have forgotten the articles ordered from my house in April last, I once more assure you of my regreat in being obliged to press my claim. But if you still refuse to recognize it, I must tako steps to recover. I await your answer. Yours truly, Thomas Bailly.” “There is but one way to look at this thing,” mused Boverly, tapping his boot thoughtfully. “This fellow is either a lunatic or a scoundrel, more probably the latter. Perhaps he will find this convincing.” This was merely three lines: “Mb. Thomas Bailly —Youarcoither ad— fool or ad— scoundrel. In either case, you and your little account may go to the devil. Jack Bevebly.” “I hope that is the end of it.” TO BE CONTINUED.