Democratic Sentinel, Volume 21, Number 23, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 4 June 1897 — LIGING IT DOWN [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

LIGING IT DOWN

BY Rilu

CHAPTER XVI. That I should be entertaining Yorke Ferrera in my own house as a guest—that he should be simply polite, and friendly, and conventional, would have once seemed to me an astounding and impossible fact But it was a fact nevertheless, and one to which I grew accustomed as days passed by. With each day the feeling of a change—a strange, indescribable, but most complete change—dawned upon me. Never by one word or look did he recur to the past—never by the faintest allusion recall that scene of our last parting. “It is over—safely over,” I would tell myself, drawing in a deep breath of thankfulness. “Perhaps, after all, he will marry Nettie Croft.” But Nettie had not ye tappeared on the scene. I had written twice, but without avail. I made up my mind at last that I would go and fetch her myself, refusing all excuse. I had a sort of longing to see Yorke Ferrers with her, to see if he would take up that broken thread again, knotting it with new admiration and regard, for indeed Nettie was worth both. So, ready for battle, and armed at all points, I was ushered into the little dingy, shabby drawing room of the Crofts, and there, sitting calmly at his ease, and apparently on the best of terms with grandmother and granddaughter, was Yorke Ferrers himself. I was so amazed that I could not even offer any conventional greeting. “You here!” I exclaimed. “You never told me you were coming.” “And you favored me with equal confidence,” he said, sarcastically. “I never expected to meet you here.” Then I remembered myself, and went over to greet Mrs. Croft, who was glowering at us both in malicious and most sinister fashion. "It is not always prearranged things that are as easy as accidents,” she said, and something in her voice and look made me color hotly as 1 turned to Nettie. We kissed each other as usual, but for a second a flash of eager curiosity shot from her eyes to mine. The memory of that evening was present with us both. We had not met since, and we met now in the presence of the man we had then discussed.

At last I remembered my errand, and told Nettie that I had come with an invitation to which I would hear no refusal. She looked at her grandmother, but the old lady nodded a gracious assent. “Go, child—go!” she said quickly, “and stay as long as you like.” “I in the afternoon, and stay the day after,” Nettie said quietly. “That will be long enough. Ido not like to leave grandmamma so much alone.” “Very well,” I answered, rising to take my leave. “1 will send the carriage for you, or,” glancing at Yorke, who had also risen, “perhaps Mr. Ferrers will call and drive you over?” “I shall be delighted,” answered Yorke quickly, “if Nettie will trust herself to me.” “Thank you,” said Nettie coldly. “I will not trouble you. Joan always arranges matters for me, and my box would not go in the pony carriage.” “As you please,” said Yorke huflsly. Then he turned to me. “Will you give me a lift home—or is it inconvenient?” “Not at all,” I said; “I shall be glad to be saved the trouble of driving. lam always nervous about that hill.” So we all shook hands, and I had only just an to Whisper to Nettie: “It is all right now; he has got over it.” Then I went out into the cold, frosty air, and Yorke assisted me into the carriage, and took his place beside me, and we drove off. So, he said, after a few moments’ silence —“so you have formed a friendship. Are you and Nettie inseparable?” "Does that follow?” I asked quietly. "I am very fond of her.. I—l think, she is fond of me; but we are not necessarily inseparable.” “When I knew .you,” he said abruptly, “you had not even a bowing acquaintance with her.”

“True," I said. “It was you and she who were inseparable then. It is odd how things change.” “And people, too,” he said gloomily. “Yes, I believe I was fond of Nettie once'” “There is no reason,” I said tranquilly, why you should not be fond of her again. She, at least, is not changed.” “You talk,” he said, savagely, “as if it were the easiest thing in the world to be fond of anybody.” I was silent. The sharp, cold air whirled by, the bare trees and hedgerows seemed running a wild, mad race. In silence we drove on, in silence we reached the lodge-gates and passed into the park. Then, half way up the drive, Yorke suddenly drew the ponies to a standstill. “Joan,” he said, abruptly, “you have changed, and so have I; it mayn’t be—quite—in the same way. But that matters not. The change is there. Now for one moment drop your mask. Let us go back to Konigssee.” “No,” I cried, fiercely, “not for one moment —not for one second even! I will not go back. I will not even think of that time. Oh, shame—shame on you to ask me!” “I asked you,” he said, in a strange, husky voice, "to try you, Joan. You have not—forgotten. No; well as you play your part, you have uot forgotten.” He lashed the ponies, they sprang forward —forward, and almost over a figure coming towards us down the dark and winding drive. "Take care!” I cry in terror, but the figure turned aside and passed shadowlike into the brushwood and shrubberies. It was a woman’s figure, tall and dark, and with a gleam of silvery hair under dusky draperies. “I suppose Mrs. March is taking a walk, ’ I said to myself. “But what an odd time!” Then the ponies reached the hall door, and I sprang from the carriage and passed in, without another word or look at Yorke Ferrers.

CHAPTER xvn. Nettie Croft stayed with us for several days. A hard, frost has set in, and Yorke Ferrers, and Alfy, and herself pass most of their time skating. Ido not skate, and the n eather is too cold for Darby to go out, so Sir JtaJph has to chaperon Nettie. One afternoon, however down to the hond to watch them. . '

Midway between the plantation and the pond where I expect to find the skaters there is a little belt of trees, enclosing a tumble-down old summer honse. As I glanced casually in its direction I gave a little start of surprise. At the entrance of the summer house I see two figures. The one I cannot help recognizing. Its height and bearing proclaim It at once ae that of Sir Ralph. The other figure is that of Mrs. March, the new housekeeper. I may well be amazed—and I am amazed—to see my husband and this woman in deep and earnest conversation. An odd, uncomfortable feeling comes over me. I think of Sir Ralph's warm praise —of the stress he laid upon the fact that she was a lady—of hie engaging her without reference or inquiry; and I think, too, of certain little peculiarities in her manner to myself—a want of respect, a certain half-patronizing, half-condescending acceptance of my orders or directions, that I have hitherto placed to the score of my own youth and want of dignity. But now a new light seems to dawn upon me. If she Is on such terms with my husband that *’« can meet him in this unlikely spot, and walk and talk with him in this familiar fashion, it seems to say that they have strangely forgotten their relative positions. As I them in a puzzled and wholly bewildered fashion, they pass on and beyond the little belt of sheltering trees, and are lost to sight. Half indignant and resentful, I make my own fray to the pond, and there I come upon Yorke Ferrers, standing gloomily apart, watching Alfy Instruct Nettie Croft in some new figure. As I approach he lifts his hat and comes towards me. “Has Sir Ralph not been skating?” I ask, glancing quickly round. “Yes; but he left half an hour ago,” he answered. Half an hour! So for half an hour he has been walking In the plantation with Mrs. March, I think to myself. What can he have to say to her? We walked up and down on the bank, waiting until Nettie had perfected that lesson. I was in anything but an amiable mood. I was annoyed with Sir Ralph, annoyed with Nettie, and not at all pleased with Yorke’s company. “It is a dreary day,” he remarked at last, glancing round at the colorless landscape. “Has any one else been here?” I asked, abruptly. “Any one from the house, I mean, to look on?” “No,” he said, looking straight at me. “Why do you ask? Have any of your domestics been playing truant?" “Do not be absurd," I said pettishly. “I asked because—because—l fancied—” “That is lucid,” he Interposed, quietly. “I think you are not In a very good temper this afternoon. Something has put you out”

“You are mistaken,” I said, with dignity. "Nothing has put me out. I wish they would come. I wanted to talk to Alfy.” “You need not hint so plainly that you don’t want to talk to me,” he said>stormRy. “Do not be foolish,” I said with composure. “It is not more unnatural that 1 should wish to walk with Alfy than—than that you should wish to walk with Nettie Croft.” “Did I say that?” he asked in a low, suppressed voice. “Did I even hint it?” “No; but, of course, I knew it all the same,” I said, coolly. “Oh!” he said with an odd sort of composure; ‘‘there is a rival in the field!” “Nothing that need make you very uneasy,” I said quickly, “for I am almost sure you are first favorite.” He turned suddenly and faced me, and seized my hand and drew it tight against his breast. “Joan!” he said fiercely. I snatched the hand away. I made a rush past him. There—a few yards in advance I saw the figure of Sir Ralph. In a second I was beside him. “Oh,” I cried joyfully, “so there you are at last! Why did you not wait for me at the pond?” He turned and looked at me, his face strangely pale and cold in the frozen winter dusk. “I did not say I would wait,” he answered coldly; “and,” looking at Yorke, who was beside us now, “I had no doubt you would be well taken care of.” His tone and look were so strange and so unusual that a curious, uncomfortable feeling crept over me. He did not attempt to keep the hand I had placed in his own, so I let it drop by my side, and we walked on, a very gloomy and taciturn trio, till we reached the terrace. “Are you coming in to have some tea?” I asked Sir Ralph, as I entered the house. “No, not this afternoon,” he said curtly. “I have some letters to write, and some accounts to look into.” He left us in the hall, and went away to his own study. For a moment my eyes followed him in pained wonder. Then' 1 turned and met Yorke’s watchful gaze. “It is all your fault,” I burst out in sudden fury. “What business had you to seize my hand to —to —to make me look like a fool? Of course he saw us.” No doubt he saw us,” Yorke answered sneeringly. “But he won’t say anything. Is—ls he does,” sinking his voice and drawing nearer, “ask him with whom he walks every afternoon in the plantation.” Then, ere I could collect my amazed and indignant senses, he walked away, and left me standing there, but with something in my heart that was not there before—something that threatened destruction to the peace of mind I had assured myself was henceforth to be the best and sweetest possession of my life.

CHAPTER XVIII. The day after this scene, Yorke Ferrers left Monk's Hall. Sir Ralph told me he was going to take up his old profession again; that he was going into chambers in one of those close and dreary courts surrounding the Temple; that he had announced his determination of going in steadily for work this time, and I had listened with wonder to the announcement, and marveled if I should ever understand Yorke. Nettie Croft, to whom I wrote this news, answered back that she was delighted; that no doubt he would do well. ’Y?}y. Bllould 110 not, with his talents and abilities? And there was nothing like work and occupation for young men. Once again we settled down into the old quiet routine of life. But there was a change. Sir Ralph was not so ready with excuses to join me at every opportunity. Aever by any chance did he wander into my boudoir or dressing room at those hours when he knew' I was suX to be alone. Day after day glided on monotonously, uneventfully, and, to me, most drearily, and still the shadow between us and the constraint weighed more and more heavily. lhe winter wanes, and in the spring we l< i k° u d° n , and for once I am glad o i glad of the promise of excitement, on ever false—of gaiety, however hollow ot the whirl, and bustle, and endless engagements and occupations which are about my London seasons, and promise me some distraction and forgetfulness.

Sir Ralph has suggested that I should bring Nettie with me, and I am aothlnj loth, and as Mrs. Croft is in better health, and gives a grudging consent, I bear my friend off in triumph, and tell her that I have now a double inducement to be gay and worldly. We take a furnished house for the season. Its arrangements do not please me, and I spend much time in altering and rearranging, in selecting other furniture and hangings, and in making what Sir Ralph terms a “picturesque litter.” But the result is satisfactory, and it gives me occupation during these early April days, when as yert the rush and whirl of gaiety are in embryo. “I have asked Yorke to dinner tonight,” my husband said one morning at breakfast. “I saw him last night; he did not know we were in town yet. He said something about calling.” “I hope,” I said, “you mentioned my days.” “No; but you can tell him yourself tonight I thought one more wouldn’t spoil our number, so I told him to look in.” I glanced at Nettie. Alfy was coming, and Alfy had stipulated that he was to take her in to dinner. I feared Yorke would be a disturbing element She had flushed rosy red, and smiled consciously as she met my glance. Sir Ralph’s eyes had followed mine. I don’t know what interpretation he put upon that exchange of looks. I was growing almost too'reckless to care. It seemed hard that he should so often willfully misunderstand me.

“Why does he ask him here?” I said to myself. “If he suspects anything, why does he ask him here?” The evening came. I was not quite dressed when Nettie knocked at my dressing room door. I turned and looked at her with wondering admiration. Her snowy arms, and throat, and neck shone satinsmooth from out faint clouds of tulle that draped the tall, beautiful figure. Her rich wealth of hair was twisted high up on her head, and fastened with a diamond arrow. “I never saw you look so lovely,” I said—“never! What have you done to yourself?” “Perhaps,” she whispered shyly, “It is happiness.” We entered the drawing room together, Nettie and I, and a few moments afterwards Yorke Ferrers was announced. Quick as lightning, I saw his eyes turn from me to Nettie, and read their look of admiration and wonder. I scarcely spoke to hipa. The feelings of resentment and indignation which ho had left with me as a legacy after our last interview seemed to spring up into renewed life at the very sight of his face. He was handsomer than ever. The pallor of his cheeks and the shadows under his eyes only gave a new charm to his face. As the room filled I saw women's eyes turn to him, and me also. I had again and again to repeat that formula, “My husband’s nephew, Mr. Ferrers,” in answer to inquiries, and I found myself debating as to whom I Should offer the felicity of his company. The hour for dinner arrived, passed, and still Alfy had not come. I began to grow uneasy. It was so unlike him to be unpunctual. Ten minutes —a quarter of an hour—then the footman entered with a telegram. Sir Ralph took it with an apology for opening it, then turned to me. “Alfy is detained at Aidershot,” he said. “We need not wait any longer." There was no help for it. Sir Ralph led off his appointed dowager; the others followed “two by two.” “You must take Nettie,” I said hurriedly to Yorke Ferrers. Then, as he offered her his arm, I found myself companionless. Mechanically I began to count. “Two four—six—eight— ten— twelve. Good gracious!" Nettie, catching that exclamation, turned round. “Why, you have no one,” she said. "Take Yorke’s other arm. How is it we'rs an odd number?” “Never mind,” I said hurriedly; “do not speak of it—perhaps no one will no< tice. We are thirteen!” (To be continued.)