Democratic Sentinel, Volume 21, Number 22, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 28 May 1897 — LIVING IT DOWN [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

LIVING IT DOWN

By Rita

CHAPTER XIII. Two years have dragged their slow length away. Two years! I have but brief records of them here and there—so brief and so far between that it seems to me they must have been very unprolific of events. I have had two seasons in London, and • winter in the South of France. I know that the boys are flourishing, and that Moorlands is still our own; that Darby is my shadow as »f yore, a sweeter, gentler and more tender shadow than even in her childish days. I know, too, that my husband is devotion itself to us both; thut every good and beautiful gift of life is showered upon me, and that Joan, Lady Ferrers, is a personage of no small dignity and importance in the county. It is night, and late night too. Monk’s Hall has been gay with guests and festivities, but they have all departed now. It is the first night of the new year, and I have been sittiug alone in my dressing room, gazing into the fire—alone, yet not alone, for a host of memories peopled my solitude and gazed at me from out the flickering flames. As 1 so looked back and thought, a knock came at the door, and, In answer to my “Come in!” n pretty girl figure advanced and dropped into the chair beside my own. “I thought you would not mind,” she says, apologetically; “uii/3 it is my last night.” She is very pretty, and she is the only girl I have ever called friend, though many bestow that name on me. She is no other, in fact, than that same Nettie Croft of whom 1 wus once so jealous. She has been staying with us for thU Christmas week, but to-morrow she has to go home—to a very dreary home, poor girl! with the soured, embittered old woman who is her only living relative, and whose tongue and temper are proverbs in the neighborhood. "I am glad you have come,” I said, theerfully; “I thought you would.” “I am sorry to go home,” she said, with a plaintive accent in her rich young voice; *■o very, very sorry. I think you spoil me, Joan; every time I come it is harder to go away. But are you tired —you look so pale to-night!” “Not more tired than usual,” I answer-

ed; “this has been a very fatiguing week.” “I envy you,” she said suddenly; “oh, I envy you! What would you do if you had the empty days, the dreary round of commonplace events, the wretched beaten track to tread that I have?” “You will have other chances,” I suid. “You are young yet. I—l think it is a mistake to marry young.” “I shall never marry at all,” she said, paling to the hue of her white wrapper. “I—l put that idea aside long ago.” “You mean,” I said, looking gravely at the sad young face, “that you have cared for some one too well —to forget.” “Yes,” she said, very low and with a pained, drawn look of the pretty brows; “I suppose most girls have had an experience of that sort before they are twenty. I can’t help it if mine bag taken e deeper root than most. You don’t mind mj speaking to you?—it is a relief at last” “Mind?—no. The experience of one season, was it not? And you think it will laatr "It will last,” she said solemnly, “all my life.” The Are flames died down for a moment. I think I was glad of the sudden gloom. I bent a little nearer to the flames, a shiver esemed to chill my veins. “Did he —did ha love you?” I asked. "He made me believe so,” she answered, the faint color Bpringing into her face. “And then he forgot.” “Suppose he returns?” “He will never return to me,” she said, t&e slow tears rising to her eyes; “even If he did ” “I know,” I said, in that broken pause, “It Is never the same thing. One may Join the thread, but there is always the knot to mar it.”

She looked at me quickly. “You have not escaped either,” she said tenderly. I 1 feared it. But it is over la It not?” “Oh, yeal” I answered. “It was over long, long ago.” “I wish I could say the same,” she said brokenly. -“It is so hard—so terribly hard to beat Sometimes I think, if we meet •gain suddenly, face to face, without wanting, or preparation, I—l should betray myself. That”—with a sudden shud-der-—"that would be terrible. I should die •f shame.” '“You think he does not love you, then?” “I am sure of it.” She covered her face with her hands, and for a moment we were both silent Then she rose slowly to her feet, and leaned her arm on the mantelshelf, and bsnt her head down on it.

“It is Yorke Ferrers you love,” she said In a low, hard voice, “Yorke Ferrers. And you are his uncle’s wife.” “It is a complication, is it not?” I said bitterly. “But you should have put it in the past tense.. It was Yorke Ferrers I—loved. That was two years ago. Ah,” with a sudden outburst of unreasoning passion, “why did you speak of it? Why recall the dead? It is over-buried—crush-ed out —stamped out!” “Where is he?” she interposed calmly. “I do not know. I have not seen him for two years. He—he went abroad.” “And when he returns?” “He will not return here. He—he dare BOt.” She raised her white face and looked at me in a strange, dazed way. “Yorke Ferrers .dares anything,” she said. “He will return.” CHAPTER XIV. The next morning while I was sitting la the morning room listening to Darby playing on the piano the door opened and my husband entered. He came straight over to me where I sat by the bright wood fire. I noticed he had some letters in his hand. “Go on, child,” he said, as Darby steppe and moved round. She turned and resumed her playing, only keeping it soft and subdued, so as not to drown his voice. “Joan, my dear," he said, “you remember the new housekeeper is coming today r “Yea" I answered; “the woman you engaged in London." - “Woman! She thinks herself qnite a MR" bo said, laughing. “She Is a very

dignified and imposing personage indeed. But I thought I would remind you, for you must see her when she comes. 1 suppose her rooms are ready?” “Oh, yes,” I answered; “I saw about them this morning. I am so sorry to lose Mrs. Birket She was such a dear old thing.” “But she is really too old for so responsible a post," said Sir Ralph. “I thought it best to pension her off, poor old body! You see, my dear, you are so young, and we are away so often, that it is necessary to have some one trustworthy and capable to look after the place and the servants." “1 took N'ettie safe home,” he went on presently. “Poor little thing! I wish she were happier. She is such a sweet, good girl. I have always been fond of Nettie. I used to think at one time that she and Yorke would make a match. He seeiuod very fond of her.” "Yes,” I said quietly. “By-the-by, I have had a letter from him at last; he is tired of roving—he is coming home.” “Home!” I cried sharply; “do you mean hero?” I had the letter in my hands. I was looking at the superscription. How well I had known that writing once! How my heart used to beat at sight of it. Even now a faint tremor shook me as I held it. This was the letter: “San Francisco, Dec. 187 — “My Dear Uncle—“l am sick of roving. I have been to silver mines, and lead mines, and oil pits, and across deserts, and mountains, and rivers, and seas, until I am yearning for a breath of the old pine woods, and a look at the old house. You may expect me back almost on the heels of uiy letter. Compliments to my aunt. I trust she can give me a corner at' the Hall for a little while, till I can look about and see what I had best do. lam afraid the Bur was a failure. I couldn’t stand the dryness and the doubtful honesty of legal complications. But I suppose there are other things. However, we will talk that over when we meet. Kind regards to all. "Your affectionate nephew’, “YORKE.” “He has got over it,” I said to myself, as I folded the letter, and replaced it in its envelope. “He would not call me aunt, or wish to come back here, if he had not. Oh, lam glad—l am very, very glad!” A weight seemed lifted off my heart. I looked up at Sir Ralph, cool and unembarrassed. “Of course lie must have his old room,” I said. “I had better give orders for it. He may return at any moment.” “Thank you, dear,” Sir Ralph said heartily. “I am glad you dou’t mind. I —I was a little afraid you might not like it. I don’t think Yorke behaved very politely that time we met him at Salzburg—going off in that abrupt manner, and throwing up his profession aud starting off to America. He was always a strange hoy. I do hope he has quieted down a Tittle.” "I have no doubt he has,” I said calmly.

CHAPTER XV. A few moments later and the door opened to admit the “lady in reduced circumstances,” ns Sir Ralph had described the new housekeeper. As I looked up with some curiosity, I saw a dark face somewhat rich in the coloring of cheek and lip—a tall and very beautiful figure, and surmounting the whole, a head of snowwhite hair. So white aud silky and beautiful was it, that the dainty lace cap seemed almost an affront to its beauty, and yet it teemed to me the face looked too young for its framework. The fire so darkly glowing in the heavy-lidded eyes was altogether out of keeping with such signs of age. A strange-looking women; hut, after all, her looks didn’t signify much, and her manners were irreproachable. I tgld her of her duties, and she expressed herself quite satisfied with her rooms and the arrangements. “I don’t think I shall like her,” was my reflection as I sat gazing down on a blank sheet of paper—blank, save for the "Dearest Nettie,’ that I had scrawled in my untidy handwriting. "I suppose she Is a lady; she has the manners aud appearance of one. But she gives me the impression of something covert —underhand—watchful. Her eyes look too young for her face, aud her voice seems forced into those low, even tones." Then I dashed into my letter. “Dearest Nettie: “I have some news that will surprise you. Yorke Ferrers is coming here. He may grrive to-day—to-morrow— next week, i cannot say decidedly when. Tell me if you will come over and dihe and sleep here, the day after to-morrow. ‘‘Yours, JOAN,”

I scaled it up and addressed it, fhen left it on the table till the letters should bp collected for the post-bag. This done, l turned once more to my favorite chair by the tire. The flames leaped merrily u*f; the dark, glowing colors in and about tl’«i room stood out in rich relief. “It all looks very comfortable,” I siAl to myself. “I wonder Darby has tot come. It must be nearly time for tea.” I leaned forward towards the flowers, and smothered a little yawn. Just than I heard the door behind me softly open. “Is that you, child?” I said lazily. “Where have you been all this time?” The flames died down and left the room in sudden darkness. Wondering at the silence, I looked round. A figure stood there outlined against the pale light from the windows, and the faint glow of the wavering fire. For a second my heart stood still. I did not rise. I felt as if turned to stone. Then suddenly the light leaped up, and the figure came forward from the shadows, and the deep tones of a remembered voice spoke to me: “I fear I startled you. I told them not to announce me. I have come sooner than I expected.” I rose then. The calm, measured tones, the absence of any formal greeting, nerved me to play my own part. We clasped hands, coolly and conventionally, as friends might have done. But platitudes did not come easily yet. “We—we expected you,” I said, “but not so soon. Your letter only arrived this morning.” “Did it?” he said in the same quiet, even tones. “I hope I have not put you to inconvenience. How are you all?” looking round the room, bright now with treacherous glow from the flaming logs. “How is my uncle —and Darby? You took me for her, did you not?” “Yes, for a moment. We always have tea here together about this time. I will ring for it,” I added mechanically. “Do,” he said. “It will be like the old days in the school room. Poor old days! How far back they look now!” The lights were brought, and the tea, and with their entrance came Darby, flitting. pure and spirit-like, into the room, pausing as if some prescience warned her of an intruder ou its dear loved solitude. “Who is there?” she asked quickly. “Yorke?”

I led her up, and placed her hand is his. “She at least is not changed,” I said as our eyes met. “Except to look more like an angel," he said very softly, and bis lips touched her brow. A great peace and calm seemed to settle upon us with the child’s presence. She took off the restraint and hardness that we had both betrayed. I looked at Yorke’s changed face with a sense of wonder, for it was changed, and something seemed to tell me not for the better. And I, looking at him, felt that I had changed too. A sort of numbness was upon my heart. It thrilled no longer with the old vivid joys, and hopes, and fears. It beat on quiescent, and at peace. I could not have gone back now to the old foolish times, or stretched out quick arms, crying; "Come back! Oh, fill my life again!” for, suddenly, without warning, or reason, or preparation of any sort, a truth shot home to me, barbed and sharp, hut wholesome in its pain—a feeling that lie never had filled it; that I had only dreamt he did. In the uuuttered consolation of that thought, I grew at ease with him. When last we had parted, there had been a lover’s plea in eyes and voice; hut now, by might of two cold, barren years, it was changed and silenced. I looked life and its necessities in the face from a calmer standpoint, and he — I almost thought he must have forgotten altogether. Ilis composure accomplished my own. Not one traee was there in voice or look of the old love, or the old sorrow. We had fought the battle in our respective ways; we met, and claimed victory. When I went to my room that evening to dress for dinner, 1 said gladly, wonderingly: “He is cured, and I—l have conquered. Heaven has been kinder to me than I~de. served!” (To he continued. )