Jasper County Democrat, Volume 1, Number 35, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 10 December 1898 — A LIVING LIE [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A LIVING LIE

CHAPTER V_ When a corner near the rholodcnftrfuff has concealed them from view. USesaaX rises from his seat and frees fleliheratdlF seer to where Lady Swansdown is sininp6he is an old friend of his. and he has therefore no qualms about being a Ifttfo brusque with her where eceasMin a email dll’- i “Have a game?" says he. His suggestion is full of playfulness; his tone, tear--ever, is stem. “Dear Felix. why?" says she. sniffing UP at him beautifully. There is even a suspicion of amusement in her smile. “A change!*’ says he. His words this time might mean something. his Tune-any-thing. She can read either as -she queases. “True!" says she. laughing “There is nothing like change. Ton have awakete-u me to a delightful fact. Lord Balfraiurc." turning languidly to her companion, who has been a little distrait since his wife anc «on passed by him. “"What do you say ah trying a change for just we two?” “If you will." says Raitimnre. still a Effie vaguely. He gets up. however, land etretches his arms indolently above his head as one might who is flinging from him The remembrance of an aupleasirui dream. “The sun here is intolerable." says Lady Swansdown. rising, too. “More than -one can endure. Thanks, dear Felix, for your suggestion. I should never have ihougm cf the glade if you hadn't asked w la ytiuy that game." She smiles a little maliciously st Dy sart and. accompanied l<y Lord Rahnnor*. moves away from the assembled gnnn«s upon the lawn to the dim recesses off tinleafy glade. p-y... > “Sold!" says Mr. Browne to Dysart. la Is always impossible for Dioktw Id hold his tongue. “But you nwdn't look «r- cm up about it. ’Tisn't good enough, my dear fellow. 1 know 'em terth ly heart. Baltimore is as much in love with her as he is with his Irish tenants, but his imagmation is his strong point, and it pleases him to think he has found at last for the Twentieth time a solace for all his woes in the disinterested love of someltody. it really Ttever matters who." "These is more in it than yon Th.nik," cays Dysart, gloomily. “Not a fraction!" airily. “And what of her? Lady Swansdcwn?” “Of her! Her heart has been in such constant use for years that iff this time it must be in tatters. G.ve up Thtrikme about that. Ah! here is my beloved girl, •gain!” He makes an elaborate gesture sff delight as he sees Joyce advancing in his direction. “Dear Joyce!" Steaming «n her. “who shah say there is nothing in animal magnetism. Here 1 have been just talking about you to Itysart. and telling him what a lost soul I feel when you're away, and instantly, as if in answer to my keen desire, you before me." “Why aren't you playing Tenuis?" demands Miss Kavanagh, with a cruel disregard of this flowery speech. “Because I was waiting fur you." “Well. I'll beat you," says she. “fl always do."

Hotter and hotter jn-ow-s the fnm. ato evening cranes on apace; a lew jwnjde from neighbor.ng bosses have dropped in Mrs. Mention among others. with Tummy in tow. The latter, who is supposed tej entertain a strong affection for Lady Baltimore’s little -son, no oooner, h<»w <w-et, sees Dicky Browne than he gives himself op to his keeping. What The attracxioxi to that Mr. Browne has fur children has never yet been clearly defined. “TH stay with Dicky," says Tammy, flinging himself broadcast on M-r Browne's reluctant chest, that gives larth a compulsory "WaughT’ as he does sb. "He’ll tell me a story." "Don’t be unhappy. Mrs. Manktun," says the latter, when he has recßvered a little from the shock; Tammy is a WBeHgrown boy with a sufficient amount afaffipose matter about him to make his descent felt. ’Til promise to be careful. Nothing French. I assure you. Nothing that «b&M ■hock the young mind or teach it how to shoot in the wrong direction. My tales are always strictly maraL” "Wefl, Tommy, toe goofC" srys Mrs. Monkton, with a last imploring glanee at her son, who has already forgotten her existence, being lost in a wild wistlmg match with his new friend. Wtffi deq> forebodings his mother leaves him amd goes upon her way. Passing Jtyoe, she says in a low whisper; "Keep an eye on Tommy?’ "Yes, Til look after him." And so perhaps she might have done had sot a light step sounding just htfito* tor chair at this moment caused tor to stars —to look round—to forget aS hst what she now sees. He is a very aristocratic looking mam, tall, with large limbs, and Mg indeed to every way. His eyes are light. has amse a handsome Boman, his fnrr liißd massive, and if not grand in the distinctly inter lectnal way, still a fine farchend and jmpressi ve. His hands are off a goodly wan. but exquisitely piopailiuued. and very white, the ftkta almost delicate. Be as rather like his sister. Lady MsVimiivr, amd yet so different from her in every way-ffisS the rrsrmlili nee that is there torments the observer. "Why!" says Joyce. It is toe most devilish exclamation, and means nothing, ton ahe finds herself a little taken ass tonguard. "1 didn't know you w-ere heteT* She has half risen. "Neither did I haw d'ye da. Dywrriyuntil half aa hour ago. W soft you tosbr hands Y* He holds oat Ms own total to tor as to speaks. There is a ffßi—irsl lijto an Bus

une can -few- ®o£ te* ffinfo amusement in the Sam rias rite gjz£ hms been so mueh -injjc—swA By te unexpected: appearsm-e That ssht- tes ecem f- nagwren. the small gets •off ■countsw xcirft wh-eh we greet our ftremfis. She Bind. im&edL been dead to everything Bug hi* ™;no. 'T«s <*nnr ■" threes she. stammering a Mt-_ as dhe mmes her mtstake. ~®-F rite amhSgy rruihr I gave myself jnst rihw u>. sun.--It a sandwich, say a wind -ar tea »*. ny sister, whom. I found ’ in rite geedhm. and titeni eame ou here to I asic yon ue 2<gy rite nesr game with me." ' -xdi! Inm. so sorry. Bag 1 have promised ;3t ao “ . Tte toms rare m: of her mouth before : -ste lets awnteeti rifo feiet that Dyssrt is liidtnimg who i* lying nt her feet, wcwviknir ewagy expressimt in. her mobile Ifcre She eofiics and looks down at him, '.•onSusfd. "TbfflrtC" says Dysart, not fondly, not curty. yen ih. su strange and decided a wiy üßjk: 3i remfiurs her silent. “To a musenh mind an*.’ say* hi*, a sevontf later, jin his rnwucl emm. 3<ee. “1 know you and K-nnchrk sre- wmuferfuf players. You I <atn gwt- m»- a gtaie inter mt." I “A eugiitul aeramgimenr?" says BeanI tiieA. eoorfiumthiy. uniting- into a chair F‘ lesude 3mst_ whli- *ll the lazy manner of a mm ac perii'e wirih almseif and his world. : "esgifwOgly as 1 slialL have go in pres-we-jh some letters- fior the evenI air post." Hr Beams agahu and foofcs boldly into Mies K.Evuam£h*s- ey-s. She btashes hotiy. gnd. -arsppuug Ber fltn. makes a Utile atTenpn »pikfc ig up-again. Mr. Bfeauelerk makes jaother aerie attempt, and so man- ■ ixg's rihK hits Band meets her. There is a -Bigm-.. ;el ahnoK? Bene«ufour pressure. Hue they fooih'd at I>c*art a.s they both ris-unwG rih-urahivrs. they eoaid have- seen tfaaa Bus taoe was white a* death. Miss Kawnwrih. 3fo<. fooft* * Errfo- pule, a little • moxsrixii. Snr. a* a whoso. nervously d?Twlm &*i» tt the- triii place of mine." pses es Mr. “Terrible dscwgisjr—mde timrtsan<ils tu pur it in any i«®t -ht&e. And where's one to get them? Thue's the sue that has : g«* mo answer nowadays. Eh, Dysart?" “There- is am oniswer. hewever." says Dystcrt. irarriy. mic iiHiking at him. “Am. wdL. I suppose so. Eat I haven't leturfl hr yec." “XTh. ye*. I thinlE yea have." says Dy■sErt. ■qutJe Bur grmJy. neverthe1 JSVCTjTTTh. “Tnesr Sqjfow. h»»w? where? unless ons ■dHeewta a mine <sr an African, diamond h-isl?" “Mr am meres*." says Dysart, tneidentol- ¥- “HdE In'fty tfing. that eonies home to you." stays BesDcforfc. giving him a playful pwc 'f® his- shoaTifor Mil stooping from hi* <fluar asefi*- ir. os- Dy sart still sits upon The gras*. ~X«t ab m»-_" “Xu? Yen wiH Be-motfest? Well well! Snt. Urkny <>< that eld place. 1 assure won. Mists Kavuaagft. ft worries me—it ■floes, anflesd. It sounds- like one's duty to resnsre it. *m£ still " “There- are- Better thins* than even an rilfl min'-*" says pwssrt. “ABj! yon Baven't one. you: see." cries BeranbiA. wist the utmost geniality. “If you Brafl—l nestly think, if yow had yotr wnulfl -imforsctmf rintt ft requires a sacrifice ae g-vo- ft off a*- much* and rust and thih. *T srnifl tfhflre were Better things than xflfl pirate*." sajys Dweart. never footing in -AneettHm. “And! if there are, make a '♦ill f ’’’ifif’fu*" “Tb«uf! Larky Biflhws Efce yon—gay wuflier hafe—wftft Besets- as light as sunrbesmsi. tarn easily pwaeft; bur sacrifices ace m«c » eatsiy nmabt. There ft that hnrrafl wnsfl. Day! And a man must MBoromßH shuvft! Chore- on. Miss Kavamagh. Bee ms grt «ror scalp*. Dysart, will you us?" gayly.. “Off ywn—hmu" -gmirngx the- smile is adaniaiblF Aim. am£ wn»ufd Be taken os the Jfes Kiranuet then.?' Far a teitff msemr. and evulently ypa°"* Ks wiiA. Dysart's eyes met these “The m«B game- v ear*. Mr. Dysart. rewrafteg." says s&r. jpanving at Dysart «s«ar ter dbtau&rt a oeaeft of anxiety in ter T aDways n»memfier." soys hr, with a natter amdigneas saw Tr. What is he reanewterhic aw? Jeyer's mnorh takes a grave tew » rite Sd&ews Boaoeierk .fleam rite- mnsthbr steps that lead ts the 'ind io:o w_.

CHAFTEM VL "MriE. aftK- a«L Bto tos ffia —i pinta ««■ lb- MWrlWrl, CTktaff wpos toe skua lnnigr tosdr Mis» Kavanagh, ssfl snator way toaßfCurws si«&. kßasßkhaxntttebdpwaky Itafiteol La* BnactaM* is na NX swine. ■n—ffiril to IhiLw ««T Mr and very tomflMtae. Hto efiww-erwppetL eminently wWtewri- tomi to ttewn a Qttto task, to Ctow fid |Mf to «to «nta£to smile ha to fiimata* at Jasve. “T total#* I atoafil .never to aHe to gut a fiaaae wtoh >wn; jwa see"—smainy—"wtow «ar to itto toffir es tto esentoc owe StamwdHffira&. Batt yon tow tope ■ fififfi on-srfiCwa yw tmifiti Ito me. Aa «M fittoafi. tan.” KJM fitamto tol amaat aft a tonte. Fm ■MlttoT anffw sto wicb a ode as genial » Loa mam. “thiauA tar tto amftter of Aat yw aafll tone tod tto fast; na onetowS as to mar to to anato yaw tefieve to—tod adted tto tato ass tto ewninc fee atoL” "KMfhS Hat fcsfiT" says to. wtofi a gesture |at anoaSoßßte. “T stoat focpve Isabel to a Imiiii atao* Itos, sto ramadl my ctote ing afftotfifix. HtManrecT ttewwto* odL m at «vw. ■mniaiaaa memories by a dutootflto tomLTtaA tot mespoft my lone gpodl ifimr Iff toaflfa* apam a bad one. Bare 1 ata saw aft afi iTtnta; tore !m eaaStoit. tone to penre. Tto toar 1 j tome Bm totfaff Ata is aame aft laaft.’*

“It might have been yours considerablyj earlier,” says Miss Kavanagh, with very, noteworthy deliberation, humored by his lover-like glances, which, after all. have more truth in them than most of his declarations. She sits, playing, with her fan, and with a face immovable as any sphinx. “Do you know,” says Mr. Beauclerk, gently, “I think you are the one sweet character in the world.” There is a great amount of belief in his tone; perhaps half of it is honest. “I never met anyone like you. Women, as a rule, are willing to tear each other in pieces, but you—you condone all faults, that is why I ” A pause. He leans forward. His eyes are eloquent; his tongue alone refrains from finishing the declaration that he had begun. To the girl beside him, however, ignorant of subterfuge, unknowing of the wiles that run in and out of society like a thread, his words sound sweet —the sweeter for the very hesitation that accompanies them. "1 am not so perfect as you think me,” says she, a little sadly—her voice a little faint. “That is true,” says he, quickly, as though compelled against his will to find fault with her. “Awhile ago you were angry with me because I was driven to waste my time with people uncongenial to me. That was unfair, if you like.” He throws • her own accusations back at her in the gentlest fashion. “I danced with this, that and the other person, but do you know where my heart was all the time?” He pauses for a moment; just long enough to make more real his question, but hardly long enough to let her reply to it. To bring matters to a climax would not suit him at all. “Yes, you do know,” says he, seeing her about to speak. “And yet you misjudge me. If I were to tell you that I would rather be with you than with any other woman in the world, you would believe me. wouldn’t you?” He stoops over her, and taking her hand, presses it fondly, lingeringly. “Answer me." “Yes,” says Joyce, in a low tone. It has not occurred to her that his words are a question rather than an assertion. That he loves her seems to her certain. A soft glow illumines her cheeks; her eyes sink beneath his; the idea that she is happy, or, at all events, ought to be happy, fills her with a curious wonderment. Do people always feel so strange, so surprised, so unsure. when love comes? “Yet you did doubt,” says Beauclerk, giving her hand a last pressure, and now nestling back among his cushions with all the air of a man who has fought and conquered and has received his reward. “Well, don’t let us throw an unpleasant memory into this happy hour. As I have said." taking up her fan and idly, if gracefully, waving it to and fro, “after all this turmoil of the fight it is sweet to be at last in rhe haven where one would be.” He is smiling at gayest, the most candid smile in the world. Beauclerk indeed is enjoying himself immensely. To a man of his temperament to be able to play upon a nature as fine, as honest, as pure as Joyce’s, is to know a keen delight. That the girl is dissatisfied. vaguely, nervously dissatisfied, he can read as easily as though the workings of her soul lay before him in broad type, ami to assuage those half-defined misgivings of hers is a task that suits him. He attacks it cun amore. “How silent you are.” says he, very gently, when he has let quite a long pause occur. “I am tired, I think.” “Of me?’ i “No.” “Of what, then?” He has found that as a rule there is nothing a woman likes better than to be asked to define her own feelings. Joyce, however, disappoints him. “Sitting up so late, I suppose.” “Look here!” says he, in a voice so full of earnest emotion that Joyee involuntarily stares at him, “I know what is the matter with you. You are fighting against your better nature. You are trying to be ungenerous. You are trying to believe what you know is not true. Tell me—honestly, mind—are you not forcing yourself to regard me as a monster of insincerity?” “You are wrong,” says she, slowly. “I am forcing myself, on the contrary, to believe you a very giant of sincerity.” “And you find that difficult?” “Yes.” (To be continued.)