Democratic Sentinel, Volume 21, Number 18, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 April 1897 — LIVING IT DOWN [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

LIVING IT DOWN

By Rita

CHATTER V. After that visit to Monk’s Hail—n visit commemorated by a champagne luncheon in the great oak-paneled dining room and a present of magnificent hot house flowers from Sir Ralph to me at parting, we seemed to develop into rapid intimacy with our neighbors. Hardly a day passed without nncie or nephew coming over to see us—sometimes both. As for Yorko Ferrers, we had taken him into our joint fellowship without further demur, and he was as much at home in the school room as ourselves. He and Alfy became-great friends; they were constantly together—walked, talked, rode, raced, confided in and fell out with cadi other in regular boyish fashion, nnd for the space of those Christmas holidays were well-nigh inseparable. But all things must come to an end, and the holidays achieved that resnlt in due course. The hoys went back to school, including Toddy, and Alfred entered upon liis first term nt college, and Darby and I were left without even the governess to keep us company, for my father considered I no longer needed one, nnd I would never hear of any one but myself teaching tile child. “May I come over now nnd then to see you nnd enliven your solitude?” Yorke Ferrers had asked the day the hoys were leaving. “If I am lonely,” I exclaimed, with sudden indignation, as I looked at the four bright, rosy, boyish faces, a little grave and downcast as the moment of parting approached, "if I am lonely you won’t make nny difference—it is the boys I want. You could never be the same.” “I don’t doubt that,” lie said, with some of that old liuffiiiess of air and voice that I had always the knack of rousing. “I never meant to enter into rivalry witii them. I only thought you might lie dull.’,’ “I am sure to be that," I answered dejectedly. “But I don’t suppose you would enliven me very much. On the whole, I would rather have your uncle. He is more sympathetic." He flashed one of his thunderous looks at me. "I will send him, then,” he said, icily; and stalked off to where Alfy stood, by the head of the impatient chestnut. I took no notice. I was used to his short temper, and I knew his anger never lasted very long. The boys were bidding farewell to Darby. Toddy was in tears, ami Ted nnd Huglile almost in the same condition. Tile child herself was very pale, and large drops rolled down her cheeks ns she clung to her favorite Toddy. Then there came a moment of throttling as the strong, warm young arms were round m.v neck, and Toddy cried out to Darby: “Be sure you don’t forget me, ducksy,” and the child uttered her usual formula: “No, i won’t,” and with a final flow of tears and bood-bys they were off. I went hack into the hall with Darby in my arms. 1 had forgotten all about Yorke Ferrers. He does not come near me for a week. During that week his uncle drops in twice to share the school room tea, and we indulge in desultory talk and friendly confidences, and 1 begin to think him even kinder, cleverer and more companionable than I did at first. But I miss Yorke. I miss him greatly. His fun, his little fits of pique, his gay sallies, even our quarrels and disagreements—l miss them all. 1 ask Sir Ralph after him at last, and lie says he is always out—mostly with the Crofts. The information gives me a little pang, but I say nothing. One afternoon I start out for n solitary walk. Darby lias a cold, and I leave her asleep in my own room under the care of tho nurse. 1 have not been out of tile house for several days, and certainly this one is not particularly inviting. The sky is steel-colored and dim; a cold wind blows over tho heath, nnd I turn aside npd enter the long stretch of wood that borders it in the hope of escaping its boisterous attentions. There, in the heart of the wood, loitering, I see tlie well-known figure of Yorke Ferrers. For n moment a little pleasurable thrill of gladness runs through ray veins, and involuntarily I quicken my steps. He hears me, I suppose, for he suddenly turns round, and then stops, and awaits my approach. “’Well,” I say, nnd hold out my hand, “you are a stranger! I—l have been wondering whether you had not started for the Antipodes, or—or elsewhere.” “I should have thought you were too well employed to miss me,” he answers loftily. “Well employed!" I echo. “I have only had my usual employments. You know pretty well what they are.” “Only lately they include a guest nt afternoon ten every day.” “Every day!” Then I break off into sudden laughter. "How absurdly touchy you arc! Why, you will never get on ill life if you take offense nt every imagined trifle. All the same,” I add demurely, “I am very much obliged to you for so faithfully delivering my message to votir nude.” “He acted upon your invitation very readily. I must say.” “Why did you uot come, too?” I ask, glancing at the moody face. “It was so likely!” he says with scorn. “I, at least, don’t give my company where it is not wanted.” “And so von took offense again!” I say. “Well, at least you have been amusing yourself very successfully, from all accounts. If your uncle took afternoon ten with me, you took yours with Miss Nettie Croft.” “Did he tell you that?” he Queries eagerly. “I suppose,’ with a little harsh laugh, “lie wanted to make you jealous.” “Jealous!” I repeat angrily. .“What absurd nonsense you are talking! Why should I be jealous?” “Ah, why?” he echoes ironically. “It is only fools like myself who suffer from that complaint. And, after all, I suppose you never gave a thought to me ail this week.” “I gave a great many,” I answer grnveiy. “Your uncle and I talked about you very often.” “Thank you for nothing,” he says angrily. “I don’t care to be discussed in that manner.” “Why are you so bitter nguinst Sir Ralph?” I a6k. “It is so foolish of you to set yourself against him as you do, and I am sure he feels it.” “I don’t care if he does,” answers Y’orke doggedly. “I hate him, and I always

shall. It is not only that he has stepped between me and fortune; but now he chooses to thrust himself between me and my—my friends. It is Tery hard.” “I—l do not think you should say that,” I faller. “He has not thrust us away from you. The boys are just the same.” “The boys!” he bursts out wratbfully. “Who was talking about the boys? I was not even thinking of them. I meant —yon.” “Me!” I err, amazed, then stand there in absolute silence, looking at him as he looks at me. A sudden light (lashes across me —something that is both pain and pleasure thrills my heart and sets my pulses wildly beating; but, for the life of me, I can speak no word, and my eyes fall beneath his own as I see something leap into their gaze that never yet has kindled with so hot and fierce an earnestness. “les, Joan—you!” he answers, coming a little nearer. “If you hare not seen I cared for you, you must have been very blind indeed. What else brought me to your side every day? What else has maddened me with jealousy—knowing as I know that I have nothing to offer—that he has everything?” I cannot speak. Dizzy and faint, I lean against the straight, slim stem of the pine tree, and all the scene whirls madly before my eyes. Then he holds out his arms, and still with no word, only a faint and sobbing sigh, I creep into their glad embrace, as one who finds home and shelter, after long wandering tears. For one week I seemed to myself to have traced my way hack to the golden gates of Eden. For one week I lived, moved, spoke, slept, ns one in a dream. I saw but one face in earth or sky. I heard but one voice in the winds of twilight. Life paused and stood for me in silent, full completeness, and heart and soul were wrapped in a living ecstasy of joy. Day by day he came to me. Evening after evening we sat by the school room fire, and talked soft and low of a happy future —a future we believed in and expected to realize with nil the sublime audacity of youth. Sir Ralph had gone to London. Yorke had decided upon his career; it was to be the Bur, and his uncle had run up to town, so he told me, to make the necessary arrangements. We were left to ourselves, my lover and I. There was no need to tell any one of our happy secret, and we told no one. My father never troubled himself about me. To him, doubtless, I was still a child, and with no such thoughts ns love or marriage in my head. And one night, through the rain and mist of the wintry dusk, I strained my eyes to catch the last glimpse of the tall young figure I knew so well and loved so dearly, then turned back to (he lonely room with streaming eyes and sad and achiug heart.

CHAPTER VI. It was some two hours later. Darby was in bed and asleep, and 1 had excused myself from dinner on the plea of a bad headache. Lonely and heart-sick, I had wandered into the school room, and stood by the window, listening to the wind as it sighed through the shrubberies. As I so stood and listened, I heard the tramp of horses’ feet, and a moment later the door was flung open, and Yorke entered. His hair was wet with- the rnin, and his faca looked net and pale in the gloom of the tire-lit 4pom. “Has anything happened?” I cried, alarmet, at his sudden appearance. “No,’" he said, “but my uncle telegraphed that he would wait my arrival in Loudon, so I did not see the fun of spending my evening alone, and I took Firefly and rode ov.-<r. The truth is Oh. my darling!” a id his voice broke, and he drew me suddenly into his arras, "I didn’t half know what it would be to say good-by to you, and I have so many things left untold.” “Cony' and sit down by the fire,” I said- “ Your coat is quite wet. Oh. how could you eoue out in such a terrible night?” “I aw repaid for it,” he said, touching my lips, with passionate fondness. “There, sweetheart, that will prevent a chill.” I.augking and blushing, I led him to his old place. We plied logs on the halfdying f.re, and sat down side by side. “Nov, what is it you have forgotten to tell mo?” I asked. “Oh, Yorke,” nestling closer to his side, “it was good of you to conus again, only I am afraid I shall he still more miserable when you leave really 'for good.” “Dear old room!” he said, looking round' at the shabby, familiar walls nnd benches. "How often I shall think of it when I am away! Joan,” nnd he grasped my hand almost fiercely, “you must promise me faithfully that you will not have my uncle here any more. I want to think of this room as ours, sacred to these evenings—to our Jove. I should hate to picture you sitting here with anyone else.” “I promise,” I answered gently. “But, dear, why have you this foolish jealousy of your uncle? 1 know he only thinks of me as a little girl—a child to talk to, and amuse himself with; and it will he hard if I must show myself rude and ungracious to him, for he has been very kind, and he is so fond of Darby. Yorke, once, long ago, you promised to tell me the story of that other Yorke Ferrers. You never have yet. Tell it me now.” “I wish yon hadn’t asked me,” he said gloomily, “to-night of all nights. I told you he was a bad man—vindictive, passionate, headstrong. He loved the girl who was to be his elder brother's wife. There had been bad blood between them always, ami this made matters worse. The girl seemed to love him best, but he was uot the eldest son, and her people were mercenary, nnd forced her to accept the other. They had been married some two or three years when Yorke Ferrers turned up again in Monk’s Hall, apparently quite friendly and with the old passion forgotten. One day there was terrible grief at the Hall. Lady Ferrers had fled, leaving her year-old son behind, and Yorke was her companion. His brother followed them from place to place, but for a long time they managed to elude him, and at last he died of a fever caught in Italy. Years afterwards Yorke came to Monk’s Hall alone. The child wns young, nnd there had been no guardian appointed. He took the boy under his charge, but the lad hated him, and one day ran to sea. He was never heard of again. The property lapsed into the bauds of Yorke Ferrers and his heirs, and so revnniued until ”

“Until when?” I asked as he suddenly paused, “l ntil my uncle claimed it,” be said in a low, hard voice. “History repeats itself, you know. Again a Yorke Ferrers and a Ralph Ferrers dwell nt Monk's Hall, apd again they both love —the same girl." "Oh, no—no!” I exclaimed, terrified at his gloomy tone. “Don’t say that, Yorke! It is not true, and eveu if it were ” “Well?” he asked as I paused. - “Oh, but it could not be,” I cried vehemently, and clinging more closely to his side. “Y'ou are not wicked and vindictive like—like that other man.” “ ‘Men are as circumstances make them,’ ” he auoted, with a little bitter

l«ogb; “and I have often told yon I am no saint, and certainly between my uncle and me there is no love lost.” “Oh, Yorke. Yorke,” I cried, half weeping, half afraid; “yon must not let aucb thoughts gain hold of yon.” f “No, I will not,” he said, suddenly. “There, kiss me, love, and exorcise the evil spirit. Yon should not have asked for the story —it is not a creditable one, and I bate to hear it or tell it. Let us talk of ourselves.” I listened to bis earnest promise, hia vows of faithfulness. I made none myself, nor did he ask for them. Perhaps he knew well enough that I should be true —that 1 could not help being true; and so, with his young face white and set and sorrowful, he kissed away my tears and loosed ray clinging arms, and left me to the silence of long nights and days whose cold pauses would be filled with echoes of words he had spoken, of vows he had vowed, of bitter weeping that never eased my pain, and futile longings that lessened even hope. (To be continued.)