Democratic Sentinel, Volume 21, Number 29, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 16 July 1897 — LIVING IT DOWN [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

LIVING IT DOWN

By "Rita"

CHAPTER XXX. I rose very early next morning and went out. But even the fresh, sweet, misty air could not cool the fever in my veins. » When I reached the villa grounds I was still far from being as calm as I wished to be. The subtle sense of association hung about the place. Wherever I moved or looked. I seemed to see Joan as I had been used to see her. Every bush was like a ghostly figure: every path a landmark of some scene or word. When at last I turned a corner, and came face to face with Joan 'herself, I could hardly believe it was reality. She wore a white dress. and had a little lace handkerchief tied under her chin. As she saw me she started. Perhaps the morning light showed us the changes that time had wrought, as the previous night had failed |o do. ■ , She came up to me and put out her hand. “Darby is not well," she said, hurriedly; “she seems to have taken a chill. I have just sent a man for the doctor. She has fallen asleep now, but I don't like her looks.” “I was afraid she would be ill,” I answered, as I turned round and walked beside her to the house. "Did site te!i you about coming to my room last night V’ “No!” she exclaimed in wonder. “To your room! What for?” “She evidently thinks,” I said, “that we are not quite on good terms —you and l—and she wished to help me to a better understanding; so she came to me with your journal, and begged me to read it.” “With my journal!” she cried, her face growing suddenly scarlet. “Oh, she had no right—she should not have done that! It was very wrong of her.” “Do not agitate yourself,” I said coldly. "You surely do not suppose I would read one word of it without your knowledge!” She stopped and looked up in my face. "You-have not?” she said tremulously. "Of course not,” I answered. “Your confidence is sacred. I should never think of violating it.” A strange little smile came to her lips. “I might have known,” she said. "1 might have trusted; yon are so different to others.” “I hope,” I said, “that any one who knows the meaning of honor would behave in a similar manner. I will give you back your book if you will come to my room.”

“Very well,” she said, softly, and followed me across the vestibule. I went in and took her journal from the drawer where I had placed it. She stood on the threshold and watched me. I came up to her and placed the book in her hands. As I did so she turned very pale, then looked up in my face. “1 ought to have no secrets from you,” she said slowly. “And I don’t know why I should mind your reading this. There is nothing wrong—only—only it is very foolish.” “My dear,” I said gravely, “I have no wish to learn anything about you that your own lips cannot tell me. Some day, perhaps, you will understand me better than you have yet done. But lam content to wait.” She put her hand to her head with that touch of perplexity. “To wait!” she said slowly; “that is very hard. I know I ought to have told you long ago, only I think I was afraid. But I am not afraid now.” 1 drew her into the room and closed the door. “Joan,” I said quietly, “tell me the endtire truth. Between us there should be nothing to conceal or to avoid. Is there nothing you remember?” Her hands nervously clasped and unclasped the fastening of the book she held. “It is all—here,” she said faintly; “only —I have not dared to look since I recovered.” The color wavered in her cheek; her eyes met mine slowly, in questioning appeal. “If you would read it for me,” she said, and held the book toward me. I saw her hand tremble. I took it and held it in my own. “Are you quite sure,” I asked, “that you mean this? Do you think there is anything here you would rather I did not read? say you cannot remember; you may have written things down that were meant only for your eyes.” She shook her head. She looked at me with the trust and simplicity of a child. “I will never deceive you again,” she said. “When you know me as I am, you may act as you please. It is all there, I think; all except that time when my memory failed. Perhaps,” she added sorrowfully, “you may hate me—or despise me. There may be things written down there that I never meant any one to know; but you are so good, I —l do not think you will be hard on me. I am sorry I did not trust you from the first.” “And so am I, heaven knows!” I answered below my breath. “I will give you all the day to read it,” she went on presently. “Then to-night I will meet you in the garden—where—where I to!»l you I would be your wife five years ago. Do you remember?” “Yes,” 1 answered gravely. “I will be there.” How I lived out that day I hardly know. I shut myself up with that book, and devoured its pages with hungry eyes. Every detail of that young, brave life was now before me —its tenderness, its wrecked hopes, its broken faith, its struggles with temptation, its long hidden sorrow, its gradual awakening to a new happiness, and the awful death-blow that my own hand had struck at that happiness. “If I had but known!” I said to my aching heart. “Oh. if I had but known!” The hours waned, the sunset faded; the faint, chill wind came np from the sea, and swayed the leaves beyond my casement, and fanned my face as i leant 1 there, longing for the dusk of nightfall as never lover longed for his beloved. I went into the quiet night, humble and weak, but glad at heart as never yet had I been glad through many weary years of life. She fell down on her knees beside me when she came. I drew her to my heart. I murmured every word of love and comfort I could, think of. Suddenly the moved and stirred. Her I eyes opened. I bent down and met their | it jr««, Ralph?” she said dreamily.

then sat up and leaned her head against my shoulder. “I have Keen asleep a long, long time,” she said, “but I have had a beautiful dream. I think you are sorry for me. Will you try and love me a little again? You did once, I know.” I saw the tears gather in her eyes. I heard her voice quiver and break in its soft appeal. My arms closed round her with all the garnered passion and remorse of tlreir starved and empty past. “Love you!” I cried. "Oh, my darling —my darling, there are no words to tell how 1 love you! Whi n I think of how I have misjudged you, wronged you, tried you,' I hate myself for the folly and suspicion that have cost us both so much. I —I wonder you do not hate me, too!” “Hate you!” she cried. “You ” Then her head nestled back on my shoulder; she trembled like a leaf. "I —I forgot," she whispered. "Have you read i it?” “Every word,” I said. “And was I very wicked?” I could have laughed aloud in my triumph and my joy. “Very,” 1 said, “for not telling me at once what was in your heart. 1 thought it was Yorke.” Suddenly she drew herself away, and hid her face in her hands. “Oh!” she moaned, "I remember now— I remember now. It has all come back. He was —he was murdered!” "Murdered!” 1 cried aghast. “No, no. ■ Joan, don't say that. It was an accident.” “Tell me all!” she cried wildly. "I can never know a happy moment till that mystery is cleared up. You followed me. did you not?”

“Y’es,” I said. “But I think I missed the way when I heard the shot that guided me back.” "When you heard the shot!” she cried, raising her ghastly face to mine. “You were not there at the time?” “Certainly not," I answered. “Oh, thank God!” she cried; “thank God!” and threw her arms round me with a burst of hysterical weeping. For long I could not soothe her; for long I could gather nothing from her incoherent words; but at last the truth dawned upon me. She feared that I had taken vengeance into my oWn hands—that the long feud between Yorke and myself had culminated in this act of revenge for the dishonor he had sought to east upon my life. This shock it was that had acted so terribly upon her feeble strength, and for a time overthrown its mental balance. And now, for the first time, she learned the truth, and, learning it, was like one mad with joy and relief. The revulsion of feeling was so strong, it almost frightened me. “Oh,” she cried amidst wild sobs, “you have been so good—so good—so good! You must never leave me again! Indeed indeed I will try to be all you wish. I will never hold a thought back from your knowledge. Only trust me again—take me back to your heart—for, oh, my husband, I love you so! All these years I have loved you, and you would not believe it, though I tried to show it you. There is nothing I would not do for you to make you happy or give you peace. I would die for you this moment if ” “No,” I interrupted, “for that would be foolish, Joan. You shall do better—you shall live for me.” "I 1 rom this very hour,” she said solemnly. I bent and kissed the quivering lips. “From this very hour,” I answered.

CHAPTER XXXI. It is the late afternoon of a mild February day, when, leaving Joan in her boudoir with Nettie Croft and Darby, I stroll out of the house, and, scarce thinking of what I am doing, take the path to the old summer house—the tragic scene of Yorke’s death. I have not been there since that awful day when the body was discovered. I cannot tell what impulse prompts me to go there now, unless it is a hint dropped by Mrs. Birket that a rumor has been circulated saying that the place is haunted—that a shadowy figure has been seen coming out of the summer house in the dusk, that it stands there meaning and wringing its hands for a brief space, and . then vanishes.

I was walking steadily on, when, just as the light grew dim and shadowy, I fancied I saw something moving in the open space beyond. I stopped abruptly; my footsteps had made no sound on the wet, soft moss, and, in the shadows of the trees, I could see without being seen. As my eyes grew accustomed to the light 1 saw that something certainly was there —a figure crouching close to the ground and uttering from time to time a low, strange moan. I crept a little nearer, keeping well under the shadow of the trees. Then suddenly I sprang out into the open space and confronted the creature. At first I could not be quite sure what it was. A heap of rags, a grimed and wasted face, where the dark eyes flamed like lamps, a mass of wild, disheveled hair, black as night, hanging loose and disordered over the shoulders; this was the sight that greeted my eyes. ‘•What are you doing here?” I demanded, as the wild eyes met my own. The only answer was a low chuckle. The wretched creature drew her rags closer round her, seeming to hug something to her bosom. I repeated my question, coming a little nearer as I did so. This time she burst into a volley of incoherent exclamations mingled with abuse. I saw she was hopelessly intoxicated; the soddened, brutalized intoxication of an habitual drunkard. “No —no,” she kept repeating; “don’t come near me! I did not mean it—you know I did not mean it! Oh!” she suddenly shrieked, ‘‘take the gun from him! He will shoot me—he is coming! Keep back, I tell you—keep back!” I went up to her, and seized her by the shoulders. She was too weak for resistance, and presently stood there passive and cowering. “Now,” I said, “follow me to the house. I am a magistrate, and you must give an account of yourself. She looked at me in bewilderment. I wondered what it was in her eyes that reminded me of some one I had once seen —some fugitive resemblance I could not catch or trace. She stumbled after me with weak, unsteady steps. When we reached the Hall, I took her round to the servants’ entrance and gave her in charge of a good-natured scullery maid. “Get her washed and give her some decent clothing,” I said; “I will speak to her after dinner.” The woman went meekly enough away, and I returned to Joan’s boudoir. Nettie and Alfy were there talking quietly together. I wondered as I looked at them whether Joan’s hopes would ever be realized—whether the time would come when Nettie would reward her young lover’s devotion? When dinner was over that evening I made some excuse to get away, leaving them together in Joan’s favorite room.. I sent word that the woman waa to be brought to my study, but a few momenta afterward the footman returned, aayfog

the was to Ilf that they bid bees obH<»4 to put her to bed. “She talks aM theiltr.e, sir.” be went on. “It is a sort of raving. Mrs. Birket is with her now. She thinks a doctor should be sent for.” I went straight to the room. The old housekeeper met me at the door, then closed it after ua. I saw she was trembling greatly. "Sir Ralph,” she whispered, "don't yon know who it is?” I glanced at the bed. but I could recognize nothing familiar in that awful face, those wild eyes, and muttering lips. “No, ’ I said. “Do you?” “Yes,” she answered, in the same low key; "I recognized her at once, but I have said nothing to the other servants. She is Mrs. March. That white hair must have been a disguise.” I started. “Mrs. March!” I cried. My voice reached the wretched creature. She half ruse in the bed and stared wildly at me. "\V ho calls?” she said. "Is it Lady Ferrers?” Then she burst into a peal of wild laughter. “Lady Ferrers —where is Lady Ferrers? She thought to have him, did she? No —no, my lady; he is my lover, not yours. He shall never be yours; I will kill him first!” “That is how she goes on'all the time,” said Mrs. Birket. “I think you had better not tell my lady, sir; it might upset her.’ “I did not kill him,” muttered the woman on the couch. “It was only a threat. Why did he taunt me —I who loved him as that pale-faced girl could never have done? I, who was his slave, his toy, his fancy for an idle hour? I told him —I warned him—but he would not believe.” I bent eloser to the restless head. “Did you take his life?” I said, slowly and distinctly. A gray, sickly hue crept over her face. She stopped as one in the attitude of listening. "They met,” she said. “I saw them meet. I spoke to him; I taunted him. Look—look!” and she shuddered, and pointed with one trembling hand to a corner of the room. “There he stands! Why does he point that gun at me? Tell him to go away! TUI him—tell him—tell him!” Her voice rose almost to a shriek. “There is no one there,” I said sternly. "Try to collect your thoughts. Do you know that death is near?” “Yes,” she said, and laughed a harsh, weak laugh. “I know. There are strange things about. The room is full of them. They have been with me a long, long time. That is what they said —Death! I did not mind. Only, why does he stand there? I—l did not kill him. I tell you I did not kill him!” “Hush!” I said soothingly. “If you wore there tell me all about it. Did the gun go off in his hands?” “He was desperate,” she panted, “and so —-so was I. I bade him forget the pale, cold girl whose heart had never for one moment held for him the passion of my own. I told him I would follow him to the world's end—and he cursed me. Then I grew mad. I —l snatched at the gun. I said my wretched life should end. He seized it from me. We struggled—a second, and he fell face downwards on the ground. Then terror seized me. I—l could not stay there. I fled like a hunted thing. No one had seen me come; no one saw me go.” So low, so broken, those last words, I scarce could hear them even in the silence of that quiet room. But as they ceased I heard Joan’s voice, so sweet and solemn, murmuring the prayer that in childhood and manhood, in age and trouble, in sickness and death, seems to spring naturally to all lips. She had entered the room unknown to me. The woman listened. Her face grew calm, a shadow swept over her face, her eyes closed. “She is at rest now,” I said, and turned to my wife, and, w*h gladness solemn and unspeakable, folded her to my heart. “The last doubt is cleared away,” I murmured passionately; “oh, thank heaven for that!” (The end.)