Democratic Sentinel, Volume 21, Number 19, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 7 May 1897 — LIVING IT DOWN [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

LIVING IT DOWN

By Rita

CHAPTER VII. Sir Ralph returned from London; but, true to my promise to Yorke, I rather avoided him now. There were no more friendly chats by the school room fire — no more afternoon teas. As the spring time grew more beautiful, and the young leaves clothed the trees, and all the dark and frozen calm of winter was displaced, so did I, in my turn, seem to breathe new life, and tread the earth with lighter step, and grow glnd with a chastened, gentle gladness that such things as beauty, and love, and immortality had been given to mortals, making so fair a world, promising so holy n future. I kept my secret still to myself. Perhaps I kept it all the more closely because some vague uueasiuess was in my mind; a doubt that, even to myself, I scarcely .whispered, as to whether Yorke’s letters were quite as frank, and long, and confidential as they had used to be. This doubt in time grew into trouble, as one day Alfred came from Monk's Hall with the news that Sir Ralph had gone to London on business connected with his nephew. ' “To tell the truth,” he added, “I think Master Yorke is going the pace a little too fast, and Sir Ralph wants to bring him to book.” The words gave me a dreadful shock. I dared not ask for an explanation. That week I had no letter at all from Yorke. I began to consider whether I should tell Yorke what I had heard or trust to his candor to confess it. He wrote at last. A letter full of apologies, excuses and tender little phrases, but with no word of what I had expected to hear and just a brief mention of his uncle’s visit. I felt disappointed, but I could' not press for an unoffered confidence, and I told myself that, after all, there might only have been some business iffair to take Sir Ralph to town. The next time he called I ventured to »sk him timidly how Yorke was getting Dn, but he looked very stern indeed and answered: “Idling, as usual! When a young man goes to bed at two or three in the morning, and rises at noon, he hasn't much time or inclination for work.”

I was silent and grievously disappointed. I thought of the three years that were to work such wonders; one was more than half over, but the results did not aeem promising. I ventured to write a gentle remonstrance to Yorke. In reply I received a passionate, wrathful outburst that almost frightened me. “So my uncle has been nt work trying to undermine me in your opinion?” fie wrote. “Is this your love—to listen to tales of me behind my back? If I have been a little unfortunate, it is not quite my own fault. You have no idea what expenses are constantly arising, and a fellow must live like a gentleman. Sir Ralph is a regular miser. He actually refused me a paltry twenty pounds to pay my tailor, and has put me in a nice hole. Said my allowance was ample, and I must make'it do. I always told you I hated him. Oh, Joan, I am an unfortunate wretch! But don’t you turn against me. Remember, whatever my faults are, I love you, and I look to you to keep me straight —a sort of sheet-anchor for my own wavering temperament. I hope you don't discuss me with Sir Ralph. I distinctly object to that, and I hate even to think of your lending an ear to his malicious accounts of me; anyone could see why he tells you them—it is just jealousy.” This letter fell darkly upon my idealized picture of my lover, blotting out its bright eolors and showing to me the plain, faulty and by no means perfect reality. It seemed to tear my soul with a lightning flash of pain, for all that I tried to see it in its best aspect, or excuse it by my own knowledge of Yorke’s short and uncertain temper. For long I could not bring myself to answer it. But then pity and softness broke down the barriers I had raised, and led me to plead against my own convictions. “We are all weak, erring, faulty, more or less,” I said to myself, and schooled myself to write tenderly, encouragingly as ever. With the letter I inclosed a cheek for twenty pounds, the quarterly allowance for my dress and Darby’s. “I do not need it,” I iold him, “and I have a horror of debt. Take it, and say nothing about it, or I shall never forgive you.” He obeyed me. CHAPTER VIII. The summer faded away darkly amid storms of wind and rain, but the autumn days were mild and bright, and full of sunshine, and I should have fieen very happy and content but for the deepening uneasiness I felt regarding Yorke Ferrers. His letters seemed to me colder in tone, and more uncertain in dispatch. Sometimes for a whole week he' would not write. Then would come excuses and apologies, and fervid expressions of love mingled with increasing complaints as to “worries” and “bothers,” the nature of which I could not comprehend, and he never attempted to explain. I tried to be patient, but it was very hard, and when one day Sir Ralph started hurriedly off to London on “business,” I grew very uneasy, and resolved to ask him point-blank on his return what were these troubles of his nephew. While he was away I observed to my great surprise that father took to paying us visits in our quiet room, dropping in for a few moments at a time, sitting by Darby’s side, and chatting to her in a ponderous but would-be friendly fashion. I noticed, too, that at times a look of trouble and anxiety would steal over his hard, stern features, and that he would roam restlessly from room to room, as if unable to settle to his usual pursuits. One night, as 1 sat with Darby by the fire, my father entered the room. 1 was so used to his presence now that I only looked an invitation to the vacant chair opposite, and he seated himself in it without more ado. “Is she asleep?” he asked presently. “Yes,” I said iu a whisper, for it was not often the child had rest. “I—l wanted to talk to you,” he said in a subdued voice. “Cau you lay her oa the bed for a while?” Wondering« litfcle at the unwonted gravity of his face and voice, I took the child over to the bed and gently laid her there and covered her with shawls. “I—l hardly knotv how to telkyou,” he v*ld nt last, as 1 sat awaiting the oom-

mnnication; “but I have had a serious loss lately—a money loss. 1 cannot say any one is to blame. It was an investment —” “Yes?” I said interrogatively. “An unfortunate investment,'” he went on, looking gloomily nt the fire. “I—l never understood much about money matters. I trusted to my lawyer, a sharp, clever fellow, so Ijjymght. Well, be was sharp enough to feather his owu uest. He has decam|>ed, and my affairs are iu nu awful state, so Ferrers tays.” “Ferrers!” I echoed iu surprise. “Do you mean Sir Ralph?” “Of course I do. He has been in London looking into things for me, but it’s not much use. I —l shall have to go myself. If," brightening suddenly, "1 could find a publisher for my (took, that would be a help up the hill, but you see the subject ” “Is not exactly popular, perhnps,” I suggested. He looked at me sharply. “It is a great work,” he said coldly. “No doubt,” I answered with due meekness; “but it is the great works, is it not, that are so difficult to publish ? The little, insignificant ones go off easily enough.” “Yes, that is so,” he agreed. “Well, Joan, what I specially wanted to say is this. The doctor tells me that the child ought to spend this winter out of England—Nice, Mentone, some of those places, if it had not been for this—this most unfortunate affair, 1 should have sent you both away at once. As it is, I really have not-the means. The boys are a great expense. In fact, as it is, Alfred will have to leave college, and it is a question of three or four hundred pounds to send yon nnd the child and nurse away for six or eight months. At present, and indeed for the next quarter, 1 can’t lay my hands upon fifty.” I felt a sudden tightening at'niy throat. I looked up, scared aud anxious. “Is she—is she in danger?” I naked, breathlessly.

The question of the money passed tne by; I only thought of Darby. “Danger?” be said, vaguely. “Well, 1 don’t know if there is danger. Site is a fragile little thing. But we must hope for the best. That is nil.” “All?” 1 said, and rose and stood before him, trembling in every limb. “No, it is not all. Do you know what she is to me? More than my life —my mother’s last charge. There is nothiug—nothing 1 would not do for her. if it is to save her life —the money mußt be found.” “Then,” he said, rising, too, and facing me with that new, troubled look iu his eyes, “I must trust to you to find it—l cannot.” There came a little cry from the bedlow, faint, exceeding weak. I was by my child's side in a moment; her head was resting on my heart. “Me can’t sleep, Jo," she said, piteously, “and me’s so tired. Tell me a story.” And so, with eyes that slow tears scorched with pain, and voice that trembled in unsteady modulations, 1 put my grief and terror on one side, and told her one of those fairy legends that she loved. It was ■Andersen’s story of “The Little Mermnid.” “Why, Jo,” she said, wonderingly, as she touched my face when the story drew to its end, “you are crying! Is you so very sorry for her?” “Yes, darling.” I said, struggling against my weukness. “Are not you? Think of all tile cruel pain she bore, and how she loved the I’rinee, and then It was all for nothing. He married the Princess.” “But he did not know," said Darby, thoughtfully. “Why did she not tell him how she loved him, und all about the fiss’ tail?” “Because,” I said, “no woman must tell n man she loves him until he asks her.” There came a faint sigh nt those words from some one standing behind me, nnd suddenly I looked up nnd saw Sir Ralph Ferrers. He had entered so noiselessly we had not heard him. I sprang to my feet. I felt so glad to see that kind, familiar face once more. “When did you come back?” 1 cried, delightedly. “Have you been standing there long? I never heard you.” “Not very long,” he answered, holding my hands in his warm, strong clasp. “Just long enough to hear the little mermaid's tragic end. Now, little one, what does this mean? Didn’t you promise me you were going to get better?” Darby nestled closely to him, her face radiant. “I is better,” she said, emphatically. “Would my little girl like to go where there is no cold and damp, only blue sky, and beautiful flowers, and warm, bright sunshine all the day?” he asked, gently. “Oh, yes,” cried Darby, eagerly-. “Does you lneau heaven?” “No, no!” he ejaculated, sharply. “No, no, child! If it is heaven, it is nn earthly one. But you would get well and strong there—so the doctors say; and we must see about taking you.” “Why did you tell her?” I broke in, bitterly. “You know it is impossible!” “I know nothing of the sort,” be said, cheerfully. “We shall summon the fairy godmother—eh, Darby? and she will bring chariots and horses, nnd all the rest of it, and whir) you off before you’ve time to think of it.” “And Jo?” questioned the child eagerly. “Will Jo come—and you?” “Certainly Jo will come,” he said, looking humorously at me. “And I—if lam permitted.” The color came and went in my face. I could not understand whether he was jesting or in earnest. “Yon—you have brought some good news back,” I cried, trembling. “Falher’s affairs are not so bad as he thought?” “No,” he said gently; “not half so bad,' “And we cau go to Nice?” I said, clasping my bands and looking nt him as if lie were the saviour of my life, as, indeed,' I thought him then. “As soon as you please,” he unswered, smiling at my rapturous face. “Oh!” I cried, and bent my head to hide my glad relief—relief so great that it threatened to overwhelm me with emotion. He laid his hand gently on my bowed head. “Do not fret any more,” he said’ “it will be all right now.” “Fret?” I cried, and raised my head and dashed away the sudden mist of tears. “Oh, it is not that! It is the hope, the joy, when all seemed darkest.” “yes," he said in the same gentle way. “Were you afraid it could not be managed ?” “Indeed I was. Do you remember,” I went on gaily, “once before I called you n magician? I think I was right!” “Do you? It is very nice of you to say so. It makes me happy to thiuk I have ever been of a little use to you.” “A little!” I cried. “You are the best and kindest friend I have ever had. At least ” and I broke into a Httle happy laugh. “I have never lmd any friend at all before; but that doesn’t matter—l can’t imagine a better.” “Don’t praise me too much,” he said, a little sadly, I thought. “I may not be so disinterested as you imagine.” “Gome hers,” said Darby’s little voles

ImpeMtlre!.* j "me wntns !o hear a boat the beautiful place.” As my jcy sobered down I remembered Yorke, and my resolve to question his nuele about him. It needed a great deal of courage io speak naturally aud lightly on .the subject. The friendly dusk crept on apace,. The voices by the bed grew softer and more silent: at last they ceased. Theu Sir italpb came over and sat dowu by the lire. 1 gathered up tuy uerves for an effort. and burst out suddenly: “Is—is your nephew quite well?” There was a little pause; then, to my great surprise, ho said calmly: “1 did not see him.” "You did not see him!” I faltered. “How was that?” "He was not iu 1-ondon." “Where has he gone?" I exclaimed, anxietyr sweeping away all prudence. 1 hat 1 could uot ascertain,” he answered gravely, but not seeraiug surprised at my curiosity. “But I fauey to Boulogne." I was silent. My heart beat slowly, painfully a strange singing uoise was in my t'ors. “There is something more!" I cried out suddenly, and a little tongue of tiame leaped up in the grate at that moment, and showed uie a pale face, sternly set, that looked up to uiy own. "What has he done? ’ And doubt strove within me and struck jarringly tlie keynote of my trust. "Is it only—debt?” It is worse," said Sir Ralph slowly, nnd a whole history seemed to be written in the grave lines of his face, and the dnrk gleam in his troubled eyes. “I enn’t tell you the story—it is uot one for a young girl’s ears. Besides, he was your brother’s friend." I answered mechanically, keeping my hands tightly clasped as if to repress the cry of longing that would fain have burst from heart to lip; “he was my brother’s friend. That,” with a saddeu burst of courage, "is why I must ask yon for the truth. What concerns the boys concerns me. you know. Will you tell me n little more?" “I hardly know how to put It,” he said doubtfully. “Do not put it at all," I said, with momentary desperation. “I dare say I can guess. It is—lt Is—about n woman.” The little tiame died down, n sudden dimness shrouded him, nnd to my enrs his voice came low and stern as I had never heard it yet. "Yes," he said; “it is about a womnu." (To be cmitiuued.)