Democratic Sentinel, Volume 21, Number 26, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 25 June 1897 — LIVING IT DOWN [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

LIVING IT DOWN

BY Rilu

CHAPTER XXIV. All that day and the next I was too ill to move. The faithful Mavis attended me, and Darby, like a tender sentinel, was ever by my side. From them I learned that the party had been roughly broken up and that Sir Ralph had gone to London on “urgent business.” Mrs. March had left also that same evening, and amazement was rife in the servants’ hall at her sudden departure. “And Yorke?” I asked Darby, faintly. "Where is he?” “He left last night,” she said. “But he said good-by to me. and begged me to give you this letter.” I lay there weak and faint, and read that letter. It began without prelude or formal address. “I hear you are ill. I am not surprised. I know, too, that this illness has been hastened by what occurred yesterday on account of that letter. Sir Ralph as good as told me to leave here, and I have done so, but I am not far off. I mean to see you again before Igo back to London. I will see you. I have no intention of calling at the Hall while your husband is away, but I shall be in the plantation by the old summer house every afternoon from 4 to 6 till I see you. Joan, you must meet me, or it will be worse for you—for us both. I ask you from no idle motive or unworthy one, but I think you will regret it to the last hour you live if you refuse my request. “Ever yours, YORKE.” I read the mad, impulsive words with an ever-increasing sense of indignation. I tore the letter in half, and was just about to bid Darby throw it into the fife, when some strange, inexplicable fancy prompted me to preserve it. I put the two halves together, and replaced the letter in its envelope, then turned to the child’s wistful face. “Did Yorke say anything to you about his uncle?” I asked. “Do you think they have quarreled?” “I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. “But Yorke seemed very, very sad. He told me he would like to shoot himself.” I shivered.

“Poor Nettie!” I thought, with a passionate revulsion of feeling. “She is walking along blindfold on her path; I, at least, see mine, black and dreary as it is.” The day passed; the night came. Though wearied and worn in mind and body, I slept but little. Towards morning I fell into a deep sleep. When I awoke it was ten o’clock —ten o’clock, and a chill, damp, misty day. As thcoliours passed a strange excitement took possession of me; a feverish flush burned in my cheeks; a new and vivid strength 'seemed to bear up my limbs, and inaction grew more and more irksome. After lunch, Darby lay down on the couch and presently fell asleep. I sat by the fire, and read again and again that strange, wild letter; and, as I read it, stronger grew the impulse to meet Yorke Ferrers. “He shall not persecute me any more,” I said to myself passionately. “I will tell him the truth without disguise to-day —tell him that I hate him; that to his selfishness I owe all my misery; that I never, never wish to see his face again!” Desperation nerved me with its reckless courage, and I remember I went to my room and dressed myself in a thick furlined cloak, whose long straight folds fell to my feet, and fastened my hat with cold and trembling fingers, and, like a thief or culprit, crept out of the warm, bright room, past the sleeping child, and then out by the library door, on to the terrace and through the shrubberies, unseen by living soul. In a quarter of an [hour I was at the plantation. Outlined {against the dreariness, and the darkness, and the mist, the old summer house stood in melancholy isolation; and close beside it, leaning on his gun, and with strained and eager eyes fixed on the path I trod, stood Yorke Ferrers.

He saw me. He came straight toward me, his eyes wild, his hand outstretched. I did not take it. I kept mine folded within my cloak. I read something in his face—a sort of shock. “Have you been very ill?” he asked, huskily. “Whatever I have been,” I said, beginning to tremble with excitement, “I owe to you. First jo last you have been the evil genius of my life. Now,” with an effort at calmness, “I have .come here for the last time of my own free will. What have you to say to me?” “Many things," he said; “but you put them all out of my head while you look at me like that.” “I will not look at you at all,” I said, turning my eyes away; but I think it struck me with a strange ,pang of pity that the bright young face', should have grown so lined and haggard. “Begin!” “It is hard to dash into a subject in cold blood like that,” he (said; “but Sir Ralph has found out thatil—that I love you.” “Tnat you did love me,-you mean,” I corrected quickly. “Do not deceive yourself,” hessaid, with passion. “I have never chamged\to you—in heart. I tried to play attit. I would not believe in myself. I —l engaged myself to Nettie Croft in one (of these desperate moods when you had stung and tortured me with your coldness.. I kept away from you; that was just I came, and was irritated to fresh; agony. The very touch of your hand ,is. like no other woman's. My life and days are haunted by you. Joan, let us-j recapture the old joys and live for each pother as—as once we vowed to do.” I had listened, rigid, dumbmute from sheer amazement. My eyes were on the damp leaves piled about my fleet. I could not lift them or meet his yet., “What do you—wish?” I risked at.last. “Wish!” he said. “Can ffou ask? I want you to live your life (for me, as I will mine for you. I want the tortureiaud the pain to end, and be no'donger a,foe to struggle with, but a friend? that blesses every hour we know.” I “And for this end,” I said, my voice shaken and unsteady, “I am to, leave my husband—you are to break faith-with the girl who loves you? That is your program?” “You put it harshly,” he said. “I put it,” 1 answered, “as itiis —an it will look to others—a life branided with undying dishonor.” “Words!” he said passionately.. “What are word®? Empty sound®—idle>breath!

Do you think they will quench this fire in my heart?” “I think,” I said icily, “that the woman who parted us did me a good service. I think that I never loved you, Yorke Ferrers, only my ideal of you—an ideal that every action of your life has falsified — that your words to-day have destroyed forever!” I raised my eyes, then I looked him fully, fearlessly in the face. The rage and shame that shook me to the core and center of my being robbed me of all softer feeling. I did not care that his face looked white as death, that an agony of appeal struggled with the disbelief in his eyes, that the words I had spoken might be like a knife thrust to his heart. In that moment I cared for nothing—nothing save the longing to repay the insult he had cast at me and the noble heart that once had been so surely mine. “You don’t mean it!” he said at last, in a hoarse, stifled voice. “You —you can’t mean it, Joan! You are acting again.” “Acting!” I cried furiously, scattering prudence to the winds—resolved that he should know the truth at last, even at the cost of my own self-respect. “You mistook the part I played. It was not that of a wife pining for the love of another man, but a wife who saw that day by day the husband she loved was drifting from her side for the sake of —that other man, who could not explain, and could not even be quite sure of the cause of this misery that had overtaken her life, and so, in desperation and in pain, set herself to hide it from all eyes—most of all the eyes of the man who would have gloated over her unhappiness, and misunderstood it. Now do you see —now do you understand, or have I not spoken plainly enough yet?” He drew back a step. He half raised his hand as If to ward off a blow that would strike him down—down into depths I had not meant to reach. “You have spoken—too plainly,” he said. I heard the faint wind rustling through the leaves like a spectral whisper, and afar off through the still, damp air came the sound of a clock—the stable clock striking the hour. Mechanically I counted them. One—two—three—four —five! “I must go home now,” I said. “This interview is useless, you see —only pain and shame to both of us. 'Bhe best thing we can do is to forget it —to go back to duty, however hard it is. Perhaps,” I added sorrowfully, “some time Sir Ralph will believe in me again.” Shivering, I drew the folds of my cloak more closely round me and hurried away in the direction of the hall. It was so dark that I could scarcely see a step before me. I groped along, feeling my way by the wet branches, till I reached the opening in the wood that led to the pathway. From there my way was easy. In fifteen minutes I knew I should be home once more. My limbs were trembling and unsteady, but the longing to be once more safe, and in the shelter and warmth of home, gave me strength. I staggered on. I passed the shrubberies, the terrace, I gained the window by which I had left the house. It was closed, and, as I tried it I found it had been locked on the inside. I must go round to the front door and ring. I felt annoyed. The whole household would know of my absence now, and wonder, and discuss it. As I hesitated, I remembered that Sir Ralph’s little study, where he saw his steward, received his accounts, and kept his guns, had a similar window opening on to the ground. It was just a chance that it might be unlocked, but I would try the chance before ringing. As I passed round the house, walking slowly and unsteadily, a sudden sharp report rang out on the still air. I started, listening to the echo dying away—slowly, strangely dying in the breathless silence of mist and darkness. What seized my heart then in a spasm of terror? What chilled like death the pulses that had leaped and thrilled with fear? I remember that I staggered up against the wall, that with one last effort of failing strength I tried to utter the cry that seemed stifling in my throat—that, as I uttered it, the darkness seemed to swoop down upon me like a black-winged giant, and then —then I remember nothing more.

CHAPTER XXV. I remember it was dark still when I awoke. A lamp burned low, a strange, faint odor of scents and aromatic essences filled the room. From out of the darkness shadowy forms stole and moved and passed back into obscurity. I tried to raise my head, but I could not lift it from the pillow. My hair as I touched it felt damp and moist, my hands even seemed to have grown feeble, and fell weakly back on the coverlet in defiance of my efforts. I lay quite still, trying to recall events, memories, thoughts, but I could recall nothing. Then I heard voices, and tried to catch the meaning of the words they uttered —the voices of Mrs. Birket and Mavis. “What has happened?” I cried. “Why am I here? Has there,” faltering, as my eyes turned from one to another of the faces —“has there been an accident?” "Well, yes,” said Mrs. Birket reluctantly; “there has. Mr. Yorke has hurt himself. We think his gun went off accidental like. He was found in the plantation badly wounded. Now, my lady, that’s all; and you really must think of yourself, and keep quiet, and try to sleep. Sir Ralph’s been pretty well out of his mind about you.” She laid me gently back. The effort had been too much for me. I fainted again. Long—long hours of deep, dreamless sleep. Then I woke again, weak, but with brain and thoughts clear once more. I asked for Darby. She glided forward from behind the curtains —white, spiritual as a ghost. “Darby,” I said, “tell me, “how is Yorke?” Involuntarily the slight arms quivered, betraying what could not be betrayed by the hidden face. “Oh, do not ask me, Jo!” she cried plaintively. “I dare not speak of it; it has all been so terrible! Sir Ralph says I must not speak. He will tell you when you are strong.” I sighed and turned away. The great dread at my heart lay there still. When —oh, when would they tell the truth to me? Presently I spoke again. “When did Sir Ralph return?” “It was that —that evening,” she said, and again I felt the tremor of fear run through her slight figure. “Is that'very long ago?” I asked. “Two days. Don’t you remember, Jo?” “No,” I said; “it is all dark and confused. I—l went out, did I not?” < “Yes,” she said. “I fell asleep, and when I woke Sir Ralph was in the room.” "Sir Ralph!” I gasped. “Yes,” she said faintly; “and he spoke so strangely and sternly. He asked where you were, and I said I did not know—perhaps in your room. Then he rose and went over to the fire, and I followed. As he reached the chair where

you had been sitting, he stooped and picked up something. I heard a rustle of, paper, then he said something—it sounded wicked and awful, Jo—and without another word, he rushed out of the room.” “Good heavens!” I faintly exclaimed. I remembered how I had been sitting in that chair reading Yorke’s letter. Had I dropped it? Had my husband read R and followed me? A deadly terror seized me. I put the child’s arms aside and rose to a sitting position. “Darby,” I whispered passionately, “you have never told me a lie —never in your life. Tell me the truth now, I must know it—is Yorke Ferrers dead?” She was silent Her little face grew bloodless, her little hands went out to mine in faint appeal. “Don’t ask me, Jo —you mustn’t ask me; they—they told me not to tell.” “You—you need not tell,” I said; “I know.” I sank back on the pillow faint and spent What tragedy of horror was this that had seized, red-handed, on my and turned it into shame, and treachery, and crime? What evil fate had delighted in making me its victim and its sport? Behind the child’s simple words I read a whole history of woe. The discovery of that letter, Sir Ralph’s immediate departure, the shot I had heard, and then — last and most terrible of all—Yorke Ferrers’ tragic end. My brain grew dizzy. I laid my hand on the child’s with a sudden nervous pressure. “Darby," I whispered, “go to Sir Ralph; ask him to come to me at once. Do yov hear? At once.” (To be continued.)