Democratic Sentinel, Volume 16, Number 14, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 22 April 1892 — pair of Jacks. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

pair of Jacks.

BYLVIV Jamisin

CHAPTER Continued. ’Humph,” commented the bewildered Mrs. Shrimp, “I have my idea of that young man. He’s boginn’ng mighty young, but he’ll end up like John, sure’s my name’s Matilda.” Meanwhile Jack had been literally pulled up the stairs and into Mr. Beverly’s room. “Now,” said the latter, closing the dcor, “are you really Jack Beverly?” “Positively. I wish I was sure of everything as I am of that. ” “Well, then, all I have to remark is that we are a fin# pair of Jacks. I ■dare say it was a fellow feeling that drew me toward you when you came in tonight. I would have offered my room sooner, but my feelings were really so worked upon by the pathetic s'ory of Mr. Miller that speech was impossible. Suppose I bad not spoken at all? This revelation would not have been brought about. I’m beginning to see now. You are me. But who in the devil am I?” Beverly looked so perplexed over this problem that Jack was forced to laugh. “I don’t'believe I put that straight,” remarked the former. “Let me see. I’ll get it right presently. Sit down, and I’ll follow suit. I’m upset, like the worthy John. Now, you are Jack Beverly, and I’m Jack Beverly. That point seems to be firmly established. But somehow we don’t progress. Oh, I have it. You’ve been staying —where?" “South Weston.”

“Precisely. Just the place I started for. It isn’t quite as clear as daylight, but mighty near it. I suppose you have been staying with Mrs. Millard?” “No; Mr. Millard." Beverly jumped up and sat down again. “Just as I said. You are me, and hang me if I don’t believe I’m you. You have a friend Frank and another John, and you' had an idea of marrying Mrs. John, and Miss Harly is pining for you; and you bought an eveninjg suit and a pair of gray trousers from Thomas Bailly, tailor, and haven’t paid for the same?”

These questions were put with a rapidity that was ludicrous, and Jack, slightly unnerved by what he had lately discovered, could only pass his hand over his brow in a perplexed way. “I know the people you mention,” he .answered, “and I have patronized Mr. Bailly, but I ca-n’t understand ” “That’s just it. I’m getting it, however. All that’s clear just yet is that you’ve been visiting my friends and I’ve beeh dancing attendance on yours. Now we’ll go at it again. I’ll tell you a few facts which may help to unravel the tangle. To begin, then, I live in New York, where I practice law. I’m a lone orphan, with no memory of either father or mouier. About three months ago I received a letter from a gentleman signing himself James Millard. According to his statement, he had been a warm friend of my father’s, and, having heard through another friend of my existence, he was anxious to make my acquaintance, and so on. Well, the upshot of it was he invited me visit him at his home in South Weston. I had the name of the place pat enough at the time, but, being a thoughtless fellow, as my friends have often kindly told me, I was scarcely surprised when I met a gentleman on the train who told me Mr. Millard lived in Weston. I naturally thought I had made the mistake, and there I was. I confess I found my welcome much less cordial than I«expected, and I have been rather surprised at Mr. Millard’s silence regarding my father and our letters. Lately I have suspected something, but for certain reasons I did not feel anxious to investigate. That’s my side of the story. Yours, I know, will enlighten us ■still further.”

Jack looked his thorough bewilderment, and it was some seconds before he could gather his thoughts. “Well,” he said at last;” how plain it all seems now. You see, I left New York with the intention of vacating for a month or so. One of my friends suggested Weston as a delightful place to rusticate. He had some friends there, he told me, and he would write to them immediately. He assured me I would like them, and that they would make my visit pleasant. “Under the circumstances I set out for Weston, but through inattention when the station was called I left the train at South Weston. Imagine my surprise upon finding Mr. Millard’s carriage waiting for me. I could not understand it, and I could only conclude that Frank’s letter had brought about this unexpected welcome. I confess I have been surprised at a number of things, but I usually found, or thought I found, a reasonable explanation.” “It is curious, to say the least,” re-

marked Beverly. “I don’t regret the mistake, however. I have had some fault-finding letters, and been threatened with a lawsuit, but J forgive all, as, I don’t mind telling you, I have found the happiness of my life.” Jack sighed. “Why that sigh?” inquired Beverly, slapping him on the shoulder. “It strikes me you are rather down in the mouth. Now I am a thoroughly jolly fellow. I can’t stand the ‘blues’ in my presence. Out with the trouble if you have any.” Jack was about to sigh again, when his face suddenly brightened. “Tell me,” he said eagerly, “is your engagement known here?" “My dear fellow, Weston is a village. Need I say more? My affairs are probably canvassed from one end of the town to the other. I don’t say this is the result of greatness. It is merely a nat "What’s the matter now?”

Beverly broke off - thus abruptly as Jack, rising hurriedly from his chair, began to pace the floor. ’ ■' “It is possible,” was the answer, as Jack came to a standstill in the center ■of the room, “it is very possible that you have done me a great injury.” “That sounds ominous,” was the grave reply. “Under the circumstances there is nothing for you to do but to tell me the whole story. There is a story, I see. I hope you are mistaken as to my agency.” “I may be,” replied Jack, leaning against the window frame, “but in my present condition, I am glad to grasp the least straw of hope. The simple fact is, that I, like you, came to a little village to find the woman I would make my wife. Until to-day I cherished a possible realization of my hopes, but now ” “Wait one moment. Does she know •of your feelings?” “Yes, two days ago I asked her to be my wife.” “Well?” “Her answer was all that I could wish. At that time her heart was mine. Her lips, as well as her eyes, confessed it.

To-day I returned from a short visit to New York, to find a note, in which, without further explanation, she denounced my conducted, and hoped in the bitterest terms, that I would never bring myself into her presence again. After her attitude of two days before, I was staggered. ” “Did you allow it to stop there?” “No, I forced myself upon her, and demanded an explanation. ■ Her answer was: ‘Ask your conscience.’ I tried to see her again, and failed. Now you have heard all. Perhaps you will give me the benefit of your opinion. For myself, I am too utterly miserable to think. Can you see the drift of my suspicions?” “ Clearly—Miss ” “Millard.” “Ah, you don’t say. Well, Miss Millard has heard of my engagement, and imagines you to be the recreant. Perfectly natural, my dear fellow.” “Natural!” echoed Jack. “Good heavens! What do you think it means for me?” “I know what it means for me,” was the imperturbable answer. “It means a trip to South Weston, and a call upon Mr. and Miss Millard. I’ll inform the old gentleman that I am the sen of his old friend, etc., etc. See! It will all come right, and we’ll both be benedicts before we are a year older.” Jack looked slightly dubious, but he tried to emulate his companion’s sanguine spirits. After more conversation, during which the young men became like old friends, Beverly proposed lhat they should turn in, cautioning Jack, however, to move with as little force as possible in bed, as he had not yet tested the full strength of that article of furniture.

CHAPTER XL Mary was lying in her hammock the next morning, when a shadow fell across the porch, and, starting up with a hasty exclamation, she found herself face to face with a young man. “I beg your pardon,” he said in a pleasant voice; “I fear I startled you. ” “Only very slightly,” she returned, trying to regain her self-possession. “Do you wish to see grandpa?” “If grandpa is Mr. Miliard, that is my wish.” “He is Mr. Millard. Walk in, please. I will tell him.” Opening the door, she led the way to the parlor. “Will you give me your name, please?” There was a second’s hesitation on the young man’s part. Then in a peculiar voice he answered, "Beverly.’’ Her face changed visibly, and a low exclamation escaped her. “Did you say Beverly?” she asked, ! with a disturbed air. “Yes, miss. Jack Beverly.” Without a word Mary stepped out of the room, repeating the words: “Jack Beverly. His name is Jack Beverly.” “Grandpa, his name is Jack Beverly.” “What, my dear?” questioned Mr. Millard, with decided surprise, as Mary came upon him -with this announcement. “A gentleman who wishes to see you, grandpa, and ” “A strange gentleman, Mary?” “Yes, a strange gentleman, and his name is Jack Bev ” “So you have said, my dear. You are very nervous, Mary. What is it, my child?”“I am afraid to think,” she answered, as he laid his hand upon her head. “There are a thousand questions in my mind now. I—l cannot dare to answer them. You had better go, grandpa. He is waiting.” “It is strange,” she heard him murmur, as he left the room. “It is more than strange," she repeated, throwing herself on a chair and leaning her head upon the desk. She was in this position a half hour later, when her grandfather returned. “There has been a very curious mistake,” he said as Mary looked up questioningly. “The Mr. Beverly I have just been talking with is the son of my old friend. He has been staying with another Mr. Millard, whom he has been taking for me, and ” “How did he discover all this?” “He has seen Jack,.'and they have been comparing notes. Each has found out that the other has made a similar mistake. ” “Where is he?" “Gone to look about the village. I have in ”

“I don’t mean this Mr. Beverly,” interrupted Mary with a quick frown. “Oh, Jack. He is in South Weston." “Did Ja —the other Mr. Beverly know this one was coming here?” “Really, I did not ask, ,my dear; though it is very likely.” “You said you invited him to dinner, did you not? I must let Jeannette know. ” A minute later, she entered the kitchen, with the abrupt announcement: “Jeannette, Mr. Beverly will be here to dinner.” Jeannette dropped the potato she was peeling. “You don’t mean ” she exclaimed. "Nd, I don’t mean that one,'’ returned Mary, with a gulp in her throat. “This is quite another one entirely.” “Another one!” repeated the surprised Jeannette. “Mercy, save us. There ain’t another one of them Mr. Beverlys a-coming. ” “Another one of them Mr. Beverlys, Jeannette? What a peculiar expression. I only know there’s a man coming to dinner named Beverly— and—and that’s all I want to know. ” And fearing a further exhibition of feeling, Mary rushed from the room. “Queer,” commented Jeannette, apostrophizing the potatoes. “I wonder how this one’ll turn cut?” Bererly returned shortly before dinner, and Mary followed her grandfather to the parlor. . She did not feel in humor for conversation. So she contented herself with quietly observing their visitor, conscious that he. in his turn, was likewise observing her. “Miss Millard,”he said at last, so suddenly as to almost make her start, “I have been telling your grandfather what a beautiful place Weston is. ’ I dare say, however, you are mpre familiar with its charms, as no doubt you go there quite frequently.” “I haven’t lately,” she responded. “That is, not until the other day. I—l went there then.”

“Ah!” he questioned, observing her nervous manner. “I dare say you have friends there?” “Only one very humble one—Mrs. Thomson. You know her—that is, you have spoken to her, maybe. She told me about Weston and about ” She paused in helple'ss embarrassment. “I suppose I’m making a fool of. myself.” was her inward comment, “but I cannot help it. I’ll die if I don't know. I shall have to ask him outright presently. Why won’t he say something? How can grandpa sit here and talk so coolly of other things? If I only had a chance?” She made her own chance after dinner. She was sitting alone with Beverly, her grandfather having left them, to find a book from which he had been quoting, when, without apparent reason, she dropped the subject they had been discussing, and, turning" to him, asked, with noticeable eagerness:

“Do you know Miss Ellie? You have been staying in South Weston,” she went on in explanation of her question, “and I dare say you have met her." “I have," he answered,” with a peculiar gleam in his eye.„ "Sheis Mr. Millard’s —my Mr. Miliard,” he added, with a laugh—“stepdaughter. Therefore, I have had unusual opportunities to cultivate her acquaintance. We are, I am happy to say, very excellent friends.” “And more,” added Mary, in a low voice. “I—l beg your pardon. I thought so.” With which ambiguous remark Mary gave him a questioning glance, and, reading her answer in his face, left her chair with the abrupt words: ' “Grandpa is coming. Please excuse me.” “Going, Mary?” asked Mr. Millard, meeting her at the door. “Please don’t speak to me," she cried, darting by him. The old gentleman looked surprised. Turning to Beverly he said, in some anxiety: "Pray excuse me a moment, sir. My granddaughter does not seem well.” In her own room he found Mary on her knees, and her face buried in the bed. Lifting her with gentle hand, he drew her toward him. “Since when have I lost the right to your confidence,” he asked, stroking her hair with a caressing i touch. “You have something to tell me, dearest.”

Mary buried her face on his breast with the passionate cry: “It is no use to hide it, grandpa. I cannot hide it from myself. I have ruined my own happiness. Three days ago,” she continued, with a half sob, “I was as happy as it is possible for anyone to be, and now ” Well?” he interrupted, with a gentle intonation, as seating himself in a chair, he drew her to his knee. “Tell me all that has happened since, Mary.” Then in a low and self-reprpachful voice, Mary repeated all that had passed between Jack and herself from the moment he had asked her to be his wife to the time he left Robin’s Rest. “It was a hard thing to believe of him, a very hard thing," was Mr. Millard’s answer, when Mary finished her recital. “Yet I must confess, you had great reason. If you had told me this before, we might have discover d the true state of affairs without all this heartache. I believe I should have had better faith in him.” “That is hard on me, grandpa. You cannot think of my feelings when you say it, I could not look at it coolly, or stop to consider a possible mistake. I felt myself wronged and outraged. I thought he had made a sport of my affections. For I had confessed my love for him. I had allowed him to kiss me, and, grandpa, it was humiliating, so bitterly humiliating, to remember that.” Mary covered her face with her hands as she uttered these words. “I understand that, Mary,” said her grandfather, kindly. “I don’t think you can quite understand, grandpa. No man could. And you don’t know how hard it was for me to believe him guilty. My whole heart rebelled against it. But what could I think?” “You could have told me, Mary.” She sighed “I don’t think I wanted even you to knowhow weak and foolish I had been; and I was afraid you might think I cared more than I did. Of course, while I believed what I did, I hated him.” “Of course, my dear,” was the quiet answer. “Now I hate myself for having been unjust. Still, I had rather a thousand times suffer through my own injustice than through his dishonor. Don’t scold mo any more, grandpa. I’ve been punished enough.” “My dearest,” he cried, pressing her to his heart. "I only wish to help you.” “It is too late for that." “No,” was the decisive answer. “You must not allow pride to interfere with the reparation you owe Jack, and the duty you owe yourself. This misunderstanding has not changed your feelings for him?” Her face drooped. “He cannot have forgotten what I said to him,” she replied in a low voice. “He may even have grown to hate me. I can’t ask him to come back to me, Grandpa; I can’t ask him to do that, I’d die first.” Mr. Millard regarded the unmanageable Mary with a slightly perplexed air. “You will tell him you misgudged him, Mary? That is simply justice you know.” “How am I to do it?” she asked, | anxiously. “If I should write it I should make a fool of myself, I know, and if ” “Let me write it. my dear; you can trust me.” “I am not so sure, still you may write. Don’t say too much. Tell him I misjudged him in a very grave particular, and that I am sorry, and—Oh, grandpa, you know how to express it. But please i don’t make it seem that I am so anxious, I should die of shame." “I will take care of your dignity,” he returned, with a smile. |TO BE CONTINUED. I