Democratic Sentinel, Volume 21, Number 20, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 14 May 1897 — LIVING IT DOWN [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

LIVING IT DOWN

By Rita

CHAPTER IX. My jea’ous disposition at once took fire. At Sir Ralph's statement the old fierce, resentful anger against Yorke seized me. The latter s silence aggravated my feelings against him. 1 did not write to him; 1 could not. even if I had felt s > inclined. Of what use would it have been, since he had loft my last two letters unanswered and I did not even know his address? A week later Darby and 1 and (ho nurse, with Sir Ralph ns courier, started for Nice. There Sir Ralph rented a pretty villa for us, while he took up his quarters at the neighboring hotel. There we remained for weeks and months, while Darby grew well nnd strong again.* And all this while I did not hear a word from Yorke. Oue summer day Sir Ralph took us all out for a sail and while we were drifting along over the blue waters of the Mediterranean confessed his love for me and asked me whether I could not return it. His maimer in making the proposal was so delicate, so gentle, 1 fairly began to long that I could find it iu my heart to respond in the way he desired. But I could do no more than he silent, nnd he rightly interpreted that to mean that I had no love to give him. ‘tl might have known it,” he said bitterly. “I never meant to tell you; only just now the feeling grew too /strong for me. Do not think of it any more. Let us nt least be friends.” “Yes,” I said eagerly, and finding voice at the same moment ns 1 found relief. “We can always be that. I should lie so —so sorry if we could not.” After that Sir Ralph busied himself in the management of the boat. Suddenly a storm bore down upon us, one of those tierce, sudden squalls which spring up on the Mediterranean, and 1 firmly believe but for Sir Ralph’s able seamanship the vessel would have foundered nnd we should have all been drowned. As it was we weathered the storm, though we landed in a drenched condition. Sir Ralph hurried us to the villa, while he went, to the hotel to change his dripping garments. When we hnd changed our clothing and I had found, to tny great Joy, that Darby had suffered no harm from the exposure to the storm, I went down to tlie parlor, where, to my surprise, I found my father, who had just nrrived. He had time not only to pay us a visit, but to inform me that Sir Ralph had taken up all hi* debts, nud that it was Sir Ralph’s money which had enabled us to go 4? Nice, which kept us there, which had oeen the means of restoring Darby’s health. “It is his money,” said my father, “and I never knew it—as there is a heaveu above me, I never knew it, till—a week ago.” I rose from my chair, pale as a culprit, frightened, trembling, heart-sick. “Perhaps,” I said in an odd, suffocated voice, after the sileuee had lasted some •ixty or seventy seconds, “perhaps you can pay back the money soon?” He looked at me with a sort of pitying compussion for my ignornnee. “I never can,” he suid. “I should be ruined, or Moorlands would have to be sold.” I felt as if all the blood in my veins had turned to ice. Ruin! The full seuse and misery of the word could only reach me in a dim nnd far-off way; but still the horror of it seemed about me even then as I looked on the bright scene beyond the villa windows—as I sawYhe luxuries and comforts of the pretty, dainty room. Across my confused and tangled thoughts my fnther’s voice broke agaiu: “There is one way—but one—by which all these troubles might be averted; one way by which Sir Ralph might become my debtor instead of my being his. He —he spoke to me of it long ago, before you came here at all. I left it to him and to your—well, to your own good sense. Joan.”

I looked at him in a sort of stupor. My heart began to beat slowly, painfully, nervously. I knew what was coming now. I waited for the next words as I might have waited for the executioner’s ax. “I —I suppose he has not spoken yet?” my father continued. “He is diffident, because he thinks you are so much younger than himself. But he is a man wor.th fifty of the young, foolish dandies of the present day. And he loves you with all his great, honest, generous heart. Look at all he has done for your sake! I —l don’t want to force your inclinations, Joan, but I should like to know what you think of the subject. Give it due consideration, and then—then tell me what your answer would be if Ferrers asked you to be his wife.” “Would be?” 1 cried bitterly. “There is no chance of what it would be now. He has asked me. Oh, if I had only known all this yesterday—this morning—a little sooner! Now—it is too late!” "Too late?” echoed my father, stopping his pacing backward aud forward, and coming to a halt in front of me. “What do you mean? Has he asked you already?” “Yes.” “Aud you ” “I refused him,” I answered slowly. He turned very pale. He dropped into a chair, and, lenning his arms on the table, bent his face down on them, and groaned aloud. There came a slight sound at the door. A little white figure stood there—a golden hulo of damp and tumbled curls about her face. She came straight into the room, and, with tiuerring instinct, went up to hiiii. and laid her hand upon his knee. “Papa,” she said softly, “is it you, papa?” The hands dropped from his fnee. The child climbed up on his knee without further word, and leaned her soft cheek against his own. I stole out of the room. The child, perhaps, might comfort him. I could not. I CHAPTER X. I went straight up to my room and shut the door; then 1 fell down on my knees beside the bed and gave myself up to utter despair. Fur once I put my ill-fated love aside, and looked life and its attendant circumstances fully in the face. When I rose from my knees that day I said in my heart: “1 will marry Sir Ralph Ferrers to-morrow if onlyj he will ask me again"—and I meant it. The events of the day had unsettled and

disturbed me, and every time I thought of the generosity and kindness I bad so ill requited I grew hot with shame and dismay. Sir Ralph was just the same as ever, to all appearances—courteous, frank, genial—so true u gentleman, so kind a friend. I said this to myself again and again as the meal went on; as 1 watched the looks, or heard the tones I knew so well, and had valued so little. Some stupid constraint had fallen upon me, and I was very taciturn; but Sir Italph and father did not appear to notice it. When dinner was over I left them, and went out into the grounds. was dark with shadows here in the qWiet walks I paced; the stars glittered in myriads over the viofet waters, and everywhere came the scents of roses and orange blossoms, steeping the air with languid, dreamy odors. It seemed to me as if 1 bad never been so keenly conscious of the beauty of the scene before. The very breath of the wind, the sway of the leaves, and murmur of the sea, touched me in a way altogether new and strange. 1 felt as if they were parts of n dream, not actual realities. Presently a figure stole out from amoug the shadows, paused, then came toward me. “Is the child asleep?” he said abruptly. “I wished to bid her good-bye, for I must be off early in the morning.” I turned my face to his. I saw how pale he was, and what a harassed look the kind gray eyes held in their depths. “You are going—to-morrow?” I echoed stupidly. “Why?” “It is better I should be,” he answered slowly. “Your father’s affairs—l must see to them. They—they can’t be as bad as he says, and he must not be allowed to sell Moorlands —he must not!” My lips began to quiver. I looked up at him. “Oh, Sir Ralph,” I cried, “how good you have been! How much you have done for us! Father only told me to-day about — about Darby.” “I did nothing—nothing,” be said impatiently. “What is the use of money if one can’t help a friend who’s in a scrape? And what's the use of my money to me? It can’t buy me the affection of a single creature —it can’t give me a home ” His voice ceased abruptly, then grew gentler. “Forgive me, Joan,” he said; “I did not mean to reproach you.” “But I am fond of you,” I burst forth with sudden courage*-“and grateful. Oh, you don’t know how grateful I am! Your generosity shames me. I seem to have been so selfish, so exacting ” “Hush!” lie said, “ft I have been of any use or comfort to you, that is all I want. I am a lonely man. I wanted something to occupy my thoughts and affection. I found it. If there is a little pain behind, that is only my fault; you are not to blame—or —or the child.” “The child ?” I faltered. “Yes, I know it was for her sake. And she loves you so. Don’t say there is no one ” “Did I say that?” he asked gently. “It was wrong and ungrateful, was it not? Perhaps I should have said^—” “No, do not say it,” I cried eagerly. “I know what you mean. Oh, if I had only known it before!” “Do you think I wanted to buy your love?” he said sternly. “Oh, Joan, how little you know me! You would make any sacrifice for their sakes. lam sure of it, child; but I don’t want a sacrifice. Since you have learnt the truth, I must leave you; so my own sake, perhaps, as well as yours. I know it is hopeless to expect you to love me—even a little—and I am foolish enough to care only for your love.”

“But I don’t know that it is—hopeless,” I cried suddenly, with a courage born of desperation, I fear, for I could not* bear the idea of losing him out of my life now. He seized my hands and drew me out of the shadows into the pale, sweet glow of moonlight, nnd looked down at my face with earnest, searching eyes. “Child,” he said, “if I know you at all, I know you would not trifle with any man’s honest love. Do you know what your words imply? If it is not folly to you, is it—anything else?” “Yes,” I said, gravely, “a great and noble gift, of which I am not worthy.” “But which you will accept; is that it, Joan?” “Yes,” I answered, lifting my eyes to his, and wondering not a little at the rapture and the joy that lit his face, and swept away every line of age by the magic of happiness, “and value as I have never valued anything in all my life before.” “May heaven bless you for those words,” he said, and bent and kissed my brow with reverent and most tender touch. “And the love —will that come, too?” “If I were not sure of that I would never be your wife,” I answered. “I believe you,” he said. “And remember, Joan,” he added, solemnly, “I trust you with all my heart—with all my soul.” “I will remember,” I said. And afar off, like a sob, the waters seemed to echo my words, as they rose and fell in the quiet night, against the quiet shore. A month later we were married. CHAPTER XI. “I never saw anything so lovely in the whole course of my life!” “You have made that remark a good many times, my dear,” says my husband’s voice. “But I pardon its repetition here. This place is an earthly paradise.” I am standing, or rather we are both standing, on the platform of the railway station at Salzburg. There is a pile of baggage beside us; tkere are polite officials suggesting the various excellences of their respective hotels; there is my particular maid a little distance off, and there is Darby, with meek and wondering face, listening to my raptures. For Darby, who could not ben r. to be separated from me, had at my husband’s own request, accompanied us. Presently we were at the hotel, and I am shown into a room all white lace, and dainty furniture, and with a balcony beyond the window, from which I behold a perfect panorama of loveliness. The sun is just sinking behind the highest of the mountain peaks—it is the Gaisberg, I learn afterwards. The rich, soft air seems like a breath of purer life, aud as I stand and gaze, the river and valley fade into paler tints, and the trees stand black as shadows against the rose hues of the sky. “One is glad of life at such a time,” I say at last, and I draw the child closer to my side, and tell her in low, hushed tones of those wonderful heights with their crowns of snow that reach far, far up to heaven, of how the clear stars leap into the violet dusk of the sky, of the waters that grow so dark as the spell of night creeps onward, and how one by one the distant lamps gleam out through trees and avenues, and shine down into the river. “I can see it all,’’ says the child, as I ' cease speaking, “flew beautiful it must,

to, Jo! I can fatar tto m«r quit* di» tibctly about the whole place.” "It seems the only thing that has file or motion,” I answer dreamily. “There is such a sence of stillness and restfulness about the whole place.” "How accurately you have described it,” says a voice close at hands* voice that makes me start as if, indeed, she dead bad found me here in this faint dusk, a voice remembered as only pain remembers; and cold, and sick, and trembling, I turn, and beside me, on the adjoining balcony, I see —Yorke Ferrers. For a moment Ido not speak. No word —not even the commonest form of greeting will my lips frame. I only stand as if turned to stone, and gaze at the face before me with eyes that must surely speak the terror of my heart. He bends a little nearer. I have some dim, confused idea that he puts out his hand, but Ido not touch it. I draw further aud further away—a sort of horror seizes me. I feel as if I hated him—Bated him because he stands there, calm, smiling, composed; and I—what agony has me in its gnp as I lean against the cold stone balustrade, tongue-tied, paralyzed, by the shock of this strange meeting! Darby’s voice rouses me. Darby it is who runs forward and clasps the hands that to me are as the hands of a murderer. “It is Yorke,” she cries gladly. “It is Yorke, and here, too! How funny! Did you know we were here?” “No,” he says; “I did not know.” “Why don't you speak to him, Joan?” the child goes on. "Are you not glad to see him? You were so fond of him once. Was she not, Yorke?” “Yes,” he says, in an odd, cold voice; “I think she was fond of me once. But that was a long time ago, Darby—a long time ago!” Then something gives me strength, and I stand up calm and straight, though pain seems draining the very life-blood from my heart. “I was too surprised to speak to you,” I say in a voice that is no more like my own than these failing evening shadows are like the radiant sunset I have watched. “How—how did you come here?” “By train, from Vienna,” he answers. “May I ask the same question of you? Or shall I waive ceremony, and say at once, why have you never answered my letters?” “Your letters? I gasp. “What letters?” “Those I wrote before leaving London, and again from ‘Boulogne,” he tfhys. “I grew sick of it at last. A one-sided correspondence has few charms at the best of times. It certainly possessed none for me.” “Your—letters?” I repeat. “Why, I never had one after last July. Never, though I wrote to you again and again, though I begged and prayed for one word to say you had not forgotten.” “I never forget,” he says in the same hard, strange way—“never. It is my mis-i fortune to have a fatal memory. There is something odd about this. I can’t understand it.” “But I can,” I cry with a sudden passion of wrath and indignation. “Yon are not telling me the truth—you can’t be. Why did you go away with that woman? If—if you had loved me as you said, you could never have done that—never! And as for letters, I had none. And all these months I have waited and waited in vain I Oh,” I cry in sudden despair, as I wring my hands together, “what does it all mean?” (To be continued.)