Democratic Sentinel, Volume 21, Number 16, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 16 April 1897 — LIVING IT DOWN [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

LIVING IT DOWN

By Rita

CHAPTER I. “And, indeed!” says Nurse Crotty from her seat by the fire, “though I’m not one of those as holds with cossettin' and fussin’, yet I do say. Miss Joan, as you oughtn't to be excitin’ of your mother so much. She’s that flushed and feverish, and not a wink has she slept these two nights, and this blessed infant a-wantin’ all the attention it can get.” “Oh, for goodness’ sake, nurse, shut up, and don’t bother!” It was I who said that —I, Joan, the eldest of that family of six of whom Nurse Crotty had been discoursing. I lay there on the bed beside that quiet figure with the flushed face and feverish eyes—lay there with an aching henrt and passionate. resentful thoughts, for I hated the Interloper whose fretful cries sonnded ever and anon in the quiet of the fire-lit room—hated her with jealous, resentful pain for breaking in upon the completeness of the circle —for disturbing its usages and arrangements, for being of the same sex as myself, the eldest and the spoilt darling of this gentle, fragile mother, whom I had at once loved, and idolized and tyrannized over for fourteen years. “I don’t disturb yon, do IV” I asked my mother softly, laying my cheek beside the dear changed face, that for months and months had been growing so pale and wan. “No, my darling,” she answered tenderly. “But lam so sorry you are not pleased about it, Joan,” she went on presently. “I thought you would have liked a little sister —something to pet, and protect, and play with.” “I had the boys, and I had you,” I answered rebelliously. “That was quite enough.” “It was God’s will, my child—you should try and remember that."

But I was silent. I could not and would not remember anything except that the interloper was an interloper; that none of us had wanted her; that none of us cared for her; that m.v mother was ill. my father more stern and aggressive than his wont; that Nurse Crotty was a nuisance; that the whole arrangements of the house were upset and disorganized; that I was in a ▼ile temper, and altogether an ill-used and suffering individual. “Don’t talk about it,” I said at length. “Nurse says you are feverish, aft 4 Oiight to rest and sleep —Do -ti'y'" and get well you oDly knew how " e With a swelling heart and clouded brow I descended the stairs from my mother’s room, and proceeding along the hall, opened a swing door at the end of it, and in another moment found myself in me midst of the noise and hubbub wldch generally associated itself in my jimd, and every one else’s, as part and parcel of “the boys.” Here they were, the whole four, making noise enough for eight. Teddy and Toddy were playing leapfrog. Hughie was jumping over the forms —those notched, and inked, and long suffering pieces of furniture that we had dubbed “seats of learning”—aud Alfred, ths eldest of the four, was kneeling on the rug, a bpok in one hand and a toasting fork in the other. “Enter the tragic muse!” cried Ted, pausing in the act of accepting Toddy's “back,” and waving his hand towards me •s I entered. “Doesn’t Bhe look like it? What’s the news, Jo, and how’s the kid?” “Jo’s nose is out of joint,” cried Hughie, vaulting on to the table instead of the forms, and facing me with a broad grin, which by no means beaufified a naturally wide mouth, “or she’s had a tussle with the nurse. Did you get the best of it, Jo? Have you seen the mater?” “Yes,” I answered curtly; “I’ve just left her. Is the tea ready? It’s five o’clock.” “King Alfred is doing his best to burn the toast as per usual,” said Ted. “And Trotter brought in the teapot some time ago, so I suppose it’s ready. I know I’m jolly hungry, and quite ready for it.” I walked to the fireplace. “Here, I’ll help with the toast,” I said, taking up another fork aud quietly dislodging the book from the student’s hand. “Ally, I do wish you’d give up trying to do two things at once.” “Does nurse say it’s ‘the beautifulest child as ever she nussed?’” asked King Alfred; “you know she’s told each of us that in turn.” “I don’t know,” I said, rising from my knees and carrying the huge pile of toast to the table, “and don’t enre,” I added, illtemperedly. “Our sweet sister’s usually placid nature is ruffled,” remarked King Alfred, following me and taking his seat at the well-spread board. “Don’t you mind,” he added, patting me on the back, a process I hated; “we’ll stand by you to a man. The intruder shall be relegated to the nursery, her musical voice will not penetrate these sacred regions, and we’ll promise you to forget we ever had another sister.” “It doesn’t matter to me,” I said; “I shall be grown up while she’s still a baby in the nursery.” “And married and settled. Who knows?” chimed in King Alfred. “Pass the toast to Toddy,” I said with dignity, waving aside these kindly suggestions. “The child hasn’t had half enough. How greedy you and Hughie are!” “He’s younger and smaller; he ought not to eat as much as we do,” said Teddy loftily. “We’re only acting for his digestive welfare.” “Hush!” cried King Alfred warningly. '“I hear the tramp of feet. Listen! They come nearer. It is—it is ” “Be quiet!” I cried, raising a white, scared face from the tea tray, and springing involuntarily to my feet as the door opened. “Father!” came in a muttered chorus, as the four laughing boyish faces followed the direction of my own. “Joan!” said the parental voice, which had never been over and above welcome to our ears in that upward passage from chil<||hood to indiscretion—“ Joan, nurse says your mother is asking for you, and—-and-the boys.” “Asking for us T’ There was no mirth now on the young There was nothing in my heart save one •harp pang of agonised dread, as, without another word or look, I rushed from the room, and up the stairs to the dear loved presence, which, alas—alas, dear heaven!

CHAPTER 11. It is three years since my dear mother’s death. How well I remember when father called us out of the school room to her bedside, where she lay so still, so pallid. Only once did she speak, and then her words were addressed to me in a faint whisper. “For my sake, Joan!” I knew what she meant. I was to be good to the babe whom I had determined to hate, whose coming was costing her her life. I pressed her hand in token that I had heard and understood her —that was ail I could do. Then came her death, my swooning, followed by an illness which prevented me from attending the funeral of my beloved dead mother and kept me in my room for nearly three months. When I was well enough to join the boys in their play they recalled to my mind the babe, whose very existence I -had almost forgotten. I had, in fact, not seen her since the occasion I mentioned in my previous chapter. I went to the nursery to fetch her, and as I looked upon her little white face, and saw her golden hair and dark eyes so like my mother’s, all the resentment and jealousy I had felt against the child passed away, and then and there there came into my heart a deep, abiding love which nothing could replace. I took the tender mite from Nurse Crotty’s arms and carried her in triumph to my brothers, followed by the nurse, and then and there, at Teddy’s suggestion, we named her Darby, although father had had her christened Dorothea, his mother’s name. "You are Joan,” said Teddy. “Let her be Darby; then it will be Darby and Joan."

And Darby and Joan it has been ever since. We noticed now for the first time that the babe’s eyes maintained a fixed stare, which did not change when brought into the brightest light or near the flame of a candle, and Nurse Crotty finally confessed that she had had for some time a suspicion that the babe had been born blind. And such it proved to be. The motherless little mite had come into the world wanting the sense of sight. As I made this discovery the memory of my dying mother’s dying words, “For my sake, Joan,” rushed over me, and I unconsciously repeated them as I hugged the little one to my breast. “I am glad mother did not know,” murmured Teddy, “for how she would have grieved.” “I am glad mother did not know.” Those were Teddy’s words, and at first I hud echoed them thankfully, seeing only desolation and martyrdom in the darkened life of my little sister; but as time went ou I found that she needed little of the pity and compassion that overflowed in our hearts. A brighter, sweeter little nature never developed itself. The child seemed quite unconscious es her Tomb, aud when she began to .walk, would toddle about, and feeV- her way from place to place in » oiaid little fashion of her own .that caused us all to wonder.

All this time I have said little about my father; but, indeed, since mother’s death, he had withdrawn himself from us more and more. We rarely saw him, except at the formal dinner at which I and the two elder boys were in duty bound to appear; but in course of time Alfred and Ted and Hughie were sent to a boarding school, and Toddy and 1 shared the instructions of Miss Cray, a somewhat antiquated governess, to whom, however, I was indebted for my limited stock of accomplishments, as it never seemed to enter my father’s head that I needed more varied teaching. The misfortune of his youngest born won but a brief wonder nnd compassion from him. He called in eminent doctors, paid them their fees, and beard their decision stoically. And after that he seemed to trouble himself in no way about her, and rarely looked at her even when he saw her in my arms, or clinging to my side. She slept in my arms, and was ministered to by me alone; and now, as I take up the thread of my story again, she was three years old—a little sunny haired, fairy like creature, who seemed to me the very embodiment of infantine loveliness. It was nearly Christmas again, the snow lay thick upon the moors, nnd in the glow of the firelight I and Darby were sitting waiting for the boys. They were coming home for the holidays, anil Toddy had gone in the dog cart to meet them, for the station was four miles off from our house—the old, grim, batteredlooking building that had come to us from some remote ancestor in the reign of William the Conqueror, nnd lay amidst moors and forests, in a wild district of Hampshire. The child was sitting quietly on my lap, listening for the first sound of wheels. Long before I heard them the little voice calmly announced, “They's tummin’!” and she was quite right. A few moments, and there was a rush of feet, a shout of eager voices, aud the schoolroom door burst open to admit the troop. They kissed and hugged me first, then lifted the little one on to the table and began to criticise her. “How she’s grown! And how much prettier! Isn’t she a ducksey?” and then they fondled her gently aud tenderly, and King Alfred lifted her on to his shoulder, and marched about the room in that fashion, in order, so he said, to exhibit her to the best advantage. “Isn’t she a swell?” asked Toddy, admiringly, as the firelight danced on the bright crimson frock, with its knots and sash of black velvet, that I had made for her. “She is so!” agreed Ted. “Who dressed you up like that, little Darby?” “Jo made my pitty sock,” answered the little one; “and me’s dot a coat, and a musf —me has.”

"How, much plainer she speaks!” said Hughie. “Does she still say ‘Yes, I do; yes, I will,’ like she used to?” “Yes, I do!” answered the child, with an emphatic nod. There was a shout of laughter from the boys. Then they brought the child back, and placed her on my knee, and grouped themselves around the fire, and for full ten minutes there was a babel of questioning, chaffing and nonsense that was well-nigh deafening. "I suppose you know Monk’s Hall is occupied at last,” said King Alfred, rising and ringing the bell for tea. "I noticed the blinds were up and smoke coming out of the chimneys as we passed, and Croft told me the people had been back a week.” ( “I didn’t know,” I answered carelessly; “I haven’t been out at all since the snow fell.” "Wonder if both uncle and nephew are there went on Ted the loquacious. “I say, what a sell for the young chap, w^ n '* ** —uncle turning up after everjr one had given him up for dead? it should think he felt rather savage.” “Who —the uncle or nephew?” I asked quietly. “Nephew, of course. I wonder what the old fellow is like.” “You’ll be able to see him on Sunday if ydu go to church,” I remarked, smoothing the soft loose curls from Darby’s pretty brew. (Te be continoedjt