Democratic Sentinel, Volume 21, Number 25, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 18 June 1897 — LIVING IT DOWN [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

LIVING IT DOWN

BY Rilu

CHAPTER XXII. One week replaced another, one month followed another, and through each and all I followed out the line of conduct I had set myself. There was nothing else to be done; and I hated to think. Physical fatigue prevented that; and I grew thankful for the weariness that left me so pale and listless and worn, since my brain grew less active by reason of that very weariness. In the warm summer days the feelings of lassitude and fatigue grew greater—the hours for-which Darby served as excuse were generally spent by me lying on the sofa in utter prostration of mind and body. Now and then Sir Ralph lookea at me anxiously. "Are you not doing too much?” he would say; but I only laughed, and affirmed afresh my enjoyment and my strength. It seemed to me that I could not give up now. Bad as this life was, the other would be ten thousand times worse. In August we went back to Monk’s Hall. I was glad to be home once more, glad to see the old familiar places, glad to run over to Templeton and hear of my father’s literary successes; glad, but yet with little of the old gladness, to gather the boys around me once again, from school and college, and hear the merry voices, and listen to the chaff and bullying and tormenting that still were part and parcel of themselves. They left at last, and then some male visitors came, and among them Yorke Ferrers. Sir Ralph had suggested It, and I had listlessly agreed. Nettie, of course, came over, too, and the September days brought the unfailing dogs and guns and game-bags. I had opportunity for rest then. The strain and tax of entertaining were lifted off my mind, and no one, even Nettie, knew that half my days were passed lying passively in my dressing room, too weary even to read or speak. I am wrong, though. Some one else knew. It was Mrs. March. She had found me in this listless fashion so many times that at last she remarked it, and I excused myself by saying that the fatigues of the season had been too much for me, and that I only wanted rest. The very day afterwards I was surprised by Nettie bringing her visit to an abrupt end. The usual plea was given—her grandmother’s wish. I did not combat it. I remembered afterwards that Mrs. March had been in the room when Nettie spoke, and as I made that remark she half turned and flashed a strange, eager look in her direction. When I was once more alone, she fidgeted the room on one excuse or another, asking me perfectly unnecessary questions, arranging things that wanted no arrangement, until I grew somewhat impatient.

“Will you excuse me, my lady,” she said abruptly, “if—if I venture to ask you a question? Is Miss Croft engaged ?” “I don’t see how Miss Croft’s affairs can possibly interest you,” I said coldly, and took up a book to show that I did not mean to discuss the subject. She said no more, hut left the room. “Joan,” said Darby, a few moments afterward, creeping up to my side, “I don’t like Mrs. March. I have always had a feeling that She is not safe.” “Not safe, dear?” I said in surprise. “What do you mean?” She shook her head. “I—l can’t tell more than that. She doesn’t like you, and she is so often with Sir Ralph. I have heard the servants say so.” “You mustn’t listen to servants’ gossip,” I said coldly. “And what does it matter whether she likes me or not as long as she does her duty?” “I wish,” the child persisted, “you could send her away, Jo. I have been thinking that, ever since she came, you have Changed. And why does Sir Ralph never come to us as he used to do? And oh, Jo —dear Jo! why are you always so unhappy?” “Unhappy!” I said. “What makes you fancy that? Only low-spirited and tired, dear. I think lam not as—as strong as I used to be.” “You used to be strong,” she said wistfully; “nothing ever tired you once. Don’t you,” she added suddenly, “don’t you like being married?” I tried to laugh. I think it surprised me a little that the laugh ended in a sob, and that the incisive question brought tears to my eyes. “I am very weak and foolish,” I said hurriedly. “It is my own fault that I am not as—as happy as I might be.” There came a knock at my door at that moment, and the next instant it opened at my permission and admitted Yorke Ferrers. “Is—is Nettie here?” he asked. Then his eyes rested on my agitated face, and his own changed suddenly. He closed the door and came into the room. “Nettie is packing,” I said, calmly. “You know she is leaving this morning?” “Yes,” he said. “I am going to drive her over. I wanted to know what time she would want the carriage.” “I will ask her," said Darby, eagerly, and slipped away from my side, and was out of the room in a moment. Yorke stood by the fireplace, idly fingering the ornaments and figures on the mantelboard. I had risen from the couch, hut now reseated myself. It was a long, long time since we had had a tete-a-tete. Wo had'' been conventional and friendly for so long that I felt no dread or embarrassment in his presence. Presently he raised his head. He did not look at me, but straight into the glass before him. He could see my face there. “Joan,” he said, abruptly, “how did you come to engage that woman as housekeeper?” CHAPTER XXIII. I was so staggered by the unexpected question that I could find for a moment no words to answer it, “I did not engage her at all,” I said at last. “It was Sir Ralph.” Then he turned and looked at me, and something in his face sent the blood flying to my own. “Ohl” he said significantly. “Perhaps that accounts for ft!” “Accounts for what?” I faltered. “For her familiarity,” he Mid, “and the correspondence.”

“Correspondence!” I gasped, turning cold and faint. “Yes,” he said. “A few moments ago she passed me in one of the corridors. She constantly is passing me in one of the corridors. For a housekeeper she seems a singularly übiquitous person. But to return. As she passed me her dress brushed against me; she hurried into one of the rooms, and I —half curiously—looked back. As I did so, I saw lying on the carpet a white square packet. I walked back and picked it up. Here” —and he took wtue thing from his pocket and handed it to me —“here it is.” I looked at it It was a letter, directed to Sir Ralph. For a moment I stared stupidly at the packet, turning it round and round. Then I looked up. "This,” I said, “is not her writing.” “She dropped it—that I swear!" he cried, impetuously. “Even if it is not, what busiuess has she with your husband’s letter?” "I will ask him,” I said, calmly, rising and putting the letter on a table close beside me. “I can't say," I continued, “that I ever liked Mrs. March; but Sir Ralph spoke of her as a lady in distress, and well connected, I believe. As far as the performance of her duties goes, she is admirable, and it seems foolish to harbor prejudices.” “I think,” he said, dryly, “in this case prejudices are excusable.” I was silent. I felt deeply annoyed that Yorke, of all people, should discover a flaw in my husband’s perfections, but, even at this time, my trust refused to be shaken. I felt convinced that explanation would be easy to him, however impossible it might look to me. Yorke made a little impatient movement as Darby returned. I rose and brought out the child's lesson books. “I must ask you to leave us now,” 1 said. "Duty has to be attended to sometimes.” He left the room silently. The child took her books and sat down on her own low stool, and began to read the strange raised letters as fluently as if she could see the characters she had learned to trace by touch. I paid no heed to her. My eyes turned persistently to that letter, and I wondered if Sir Ralph would tell me its contents. I kept Darby with me till close upon luncheon time. I knew Sir Ralph would be home then, and at last I sent her with a message, requesting him to come to me in the boudoir. He came soon after. I saw how surprised he looked, but I merely rose, and took the letter and handed it to him. “It dropped out of the housekeeper's pocket,” I said, “It does not look to me like her writing. If—if it is, I should like to know what she has to write to you that she cannot say to me.” He looked perplexed. He turned the letter over and over as I had done. Then he tore its envelope and began to read. It was a very brief communication, so brief that one rapid glance seemed to take it in; but a dark flush rose to his brow, and he crushed the paper in his strong grasp. Then he turned to me, as, pale and trembling, I stood there. “I will do you the justice,” he said, “to suppose you were ignorant of the contents of this —production. But at all events, you shall judge for yourself of the result.” He rang the bell. The footman answered it. “Ask Mrs. March to come here,” he said. I clasped my hands with sudden joy. “Oh,” I cried, “I hope you are going to send her away. I have always disliked her.”

He looked at me with such a flame of anger in his eyes as I had never dreamed could light their kindly depths. “Have you?” he said. “Perhaps you had good cause.” Then the door opened, and Mrs. March entered. As her eyes fell on us both she started, and the color left her cheeks. Sir Ralph motioned to her to close the door and come forward. Then he drew himself up. Not even the anger of his face could detract from its dignity. “Mrs. March,” he said, “I received you into this house less as a dependent than a friend. I had learned the circumstances which had weighted your life with trouble, and when you pleaded with me I listened only too readily. Since you have been here I can safely aflirm that you have met with nothing but kindness and consideration from Lady Ferrers as well as from myself. I simply put the facts to you as they stand. Now I will ask you how you have repaid me? I could see from the first that you did not like my wife, but I did not see also that the hints and insinuations and misrepresentations so often made ‘to me were based upon dislike. I am not a clever man where women are concerned. I don’t pretend to understand them. But now things have reached a climax. What do you mean by writing me this letter?” He held it out as he spoke—held it so that she could see for herself the writing and contents. As I watched her, I saw her whole face change, her lips draw themselves into a thin, white line; the look in her eyes was the look of a tigerish and relentless spirit “It is not my writing,” she hissed; “though”—with a short laugh—“no doubt what it says is true enough!” “Anonymous letters,” said Sir Ralph scornfully, “should be treated like the ugly reptiles they are.” He tossed the paper Into the flame as he spoke, then once again turned to the white-faced woman, whose flaming eyes had watched his movements. “You have made an enemy of me,” he said, I ‘instead of a friend. You won your way hither by false pretenses, and you have for all these months worked and schemed for but one end. You appear to forget that in questioning my wife’s honor you also question mine, and I know perfectly well how to preserve that. I think,” he went on hotly, “it is unnecessary to say any more. You will make your arrangements to leave my house this evening, and you will receive your salary up to date, or, if you insist upon it, for the quarier’due in place of the usual notice.” She drew herself up; the color came slowly back to her face. As a lady, she said, “I repudiate any such course. I don’t want your money. And permit me to tell you that you have no proof that I wrote that letter, no right to accuse me of doing so. If I choose, I can make you prove your assertion, and drag your own and your wife’s name through the mire of a worse scandal than you suspect.” “I think,” he said calmly, “you may do your worst. But as Ido not care to listen to threats, allow me to conclude this interview. You will leave here td-night.” He opened the door. She turned away, flashing one viperish, malignant glance at me.“Your time is coming, my lady,” she said. “Your lover will cost you as dear as he has cost others, brave it how you may.” 7 White as death, panting like a hunted

hare, I task back la my seat, my oyoa turned in faint appeal to Sir Ralph’s fact. He came and stood a short distance from me; but I shuddered as I met that stern, rebuking look. “I hare done this,” he said, "for your sake; but do not fancy 1 am deceived. A hundred things have sprung to light and recollection. Had you been honest with me from the first, I would never have married you. I thought you came to me heart-whole, and all the time—all these years—it has been a lie —a lie you have acted more or less indifferently. I loved you so, and not once—not once —have you been my wife in heart. Do not speak,” as I uttered some faint disclaimer. "For heaven's sake, do not perjure yourself more! I have tried to believe in you, even through all this last most miserable year, but from to-day it seems impossible. It is no longer a thing I know and hold to myself; it has passed into the keeping of others.” "Indeed,” I said, weeping, “you wrong me! It is hard to visit a girlish error upon me now. I have'done my to you in every sense of the word. Long, long ago I repented that folly.” “You may have repented it,” he said, sternly, “but that did not prevent your indulging in it still. Your blushes, your agitation, your very looks and health, all speak to me now as so many proofs of what I have been blind to so long." "Why do you blame me?” I cried, in momentary indignation at his injustice. “Why, if you suspected all this, did you throw us together—invite him here, make it so—so much harder? And why don't you speak to him? It is not fair to lay the blame on my shoulders. It is" —breaking down again with a Childish sob—"it is too much for me to bear.” "Would you have me put my shame into words?” he asked passionately. “Maae myself the butt of his ridicule? Do you know me so little, that you ask it? Good heaven, don’t you know —can’t you feel there are things that if a man were to speak of, he could not live by his wife’s side another hour? Could I be guilty of the dishonor of hinting to your—your lover —that I know him to be so unless proof and confirmation were at hand?— and that," turning away, with a short, bitter laugh, “that you have managed to hide very skillfully.” His words stung me to the quick. Fierce, wrathful, desperate, I rose to my feet, and said such words as even to my own ears sounded terrible. I had broken down at last; the struggle had been too severe; but even amidst the fury of the tempest something seemed rising and surging and fighting its way upward, closing my throat in a spasm of pain, struggling like a living creature with my life, and flinging me at last exhausted and almost senseless to the ground, on which I lay like a dead and senselee* thing. (To be continued.)