Jasper County Democrat, Volume 1, Number 36, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 17 December 1898 — A LIVING LIE [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A LIVING LIE

CHAPTER Vl—(Continued.) An intense feeling of admiration for her aways Beauclerk. How new a thing to find a girl so beautiful with so much intelligence! Surety instinct is the great lever that moves humanity. Why has not this girl the thousands that render Miss Maliphant so very desirable? What a mistake on the part of Mother Nature! Alas! it would be too much to expect from that niggardly dame. Beauty, intelligence, wealth, all rolled into one personality. Impossible! “You are candid,” says he. “You are too stern a judge; that is what one should always be,” says she, in turn. ' “How shall I convince you?’ exclaims he, of what he leaves open. “If I were to •wear ” “Do not,” says she, quickly. “Well, I won’t. But, Joyce!” He pauses purposely. It is the first time he has ever called her by her Christian name, and a little soft color springs into the girl’s cheeks as she hears him. “You know,” says he; “you do know?” It is a question; but again, what? What does she know? He has accredited her with remarkable intelligence a moment ago, but the girl’s knowledge of life is but a poor thing in comparison with that of the man of the world. She belies her intelligence on the spot. “Yes, I think I do,” says she, shyly. In fact, she is longing to believe, to know this thing, that to her is so plain that she has omitted to notice that he has never put it into words. “You will.trust in me?” says he. “Yes, I trust you,” says she, simply. Her pretty gloved hand is lying on her lap. Raising it, he presses it passionately to his lips. Joyce, with a little nervous movement, withdraws it quickly. The color dies away even from her lips. Even at this moment does doubt hold her in thrall! Her face is marvelously bright and happy, however, as she rises precipitately to her feet, much to Beauelerk’s relief. It has gone quite far enough, he tells himself—five minutes more and he would have found himself in a rather embarrassing position. Really these pretty girls are very dangerous. “Come, we must go back to the ball room,” says she, gayly. “We have been here an unconscionable time. lam afraid my partner for this dance has been looking for me, and will scarcely forgive my treating him so badly. If I had only told him I wouldn’t dance with him he might have got another partner and enjoyed himself.” “Better to have loved and lost,” quotes Beaudlerk, in his airiest manner. It is so airy that it strikes Joyce unpleasantly. Surely after all—after She pulls herself together angrily. Is she always to find fault with him? Must she have his nature altered to suit her? CHAPTER VII. “Did you forget?” asks Dysart, looking at Joyce. “Forget?”

I “That the last dance was mine?” I “Oh, was it? I’m so sorry. You must [forgive me,” with a feverish attempt at feayety. “I will try to make amends. You shall have this one instead, no matter to Whom it may belong. Come. It is only just begun, I think.” “Never mind,” says Dysart, gently. “We won’t dance this, I think. It is cool and quiet here, and you are tired.” “Oh, so tired,” returns she with a little sudden pathetic cry, so impulsive, so inexpressible that it goes to his heart. “Joyce! What is it?” says he, quickly. “Here, come and sit down. No, I don’t want an answer. It was an absurd question. You have overdone it a little, that “ is all.” * “Yes, that is all!” She sinks heavily Into the seat he has pointed out to her, and : lets her head fall back against the cushions. “However, when you come to think of it, that means a great deal,” says she, smiling languidly. ■ “There, don’t talk,” says he. “'What Is (the good of having a friend if you can’t be silent with him when it so pleases you. That,” laughing, and arranging the cushions behind her head, “is one for you and two for myself. I, too, pine for a moment When even the meager ‘yes’ and ‘no’ will not be required of me.” He presses the hand resting on his arm very gently, and then replaces it in her lap. To take advantage of any little kindness she may show him now, when it is plain that she is suffering from some mental excitement, grief, or anger, or both, iwould seem base to him. She has evidently accepted his offer of silence, and lying back in her soft couch stares with unseeing eyes at the bank of 'flowers before her. The atmosphere is .'warm, drowsy, a little jnetancholy. It 'seems to seize upon the two sitting within its seductive influence, and threaten to waft them from day dreams into dreams bom of idle slumber. The rustle of a coming skirt, however, a low voice, a voice ntill lower whispering a reply, recalls them both to the fact that rest, complete and 'perfect, is impossible under the circumstances. A little opening among the tall evergreens upon their right shows them Lord Baltimore. Lady Swansdown is with him. She is looking rather lovelier than usual, with that soft tinge of red upon her cheeks iborn of her last waltz, and her lips parted in a happy smile. The subdued lights of the many lamps falling on her satin gown rest there as if in love with its beauty. The radiant smile that illumines her beautiful face as she glances up at Baltimore—who is- bending over her in more lover-like fashion than should be—la still

making all her face a lovely fire as she passes out of sight down the steps that lead to the lighted gardens—the steps that Joyce but just now had ascended. The latter is still a little wrapped in wonder and admiration, and some other thought that is akin to trouble, when Dysart breaks in upon her fancies. “I am sorry about that,” says he, bluntly, Indicating with a nod of his head the departing shadows of the two who have just passed out. There are no fancies about i)ysart. Nothing vague. “Yes; it is a pity,” says Joyce, hurriedly. “More than that, I think.” “Something ought to be done,” nervously. “Yes,” flushing hotly; “I know —I know what you mean”—she had meant nothing —“but it is so difficult to know what to do, and—l am only a cousin.” “Oh, I wasn't thinking of you. I wasn’t, really,” says she, a good deal shocked. “As you say, why should you speak, when ” “There is Beauclerk,” says Dysart, quickly, as if a little angry with somebody, but certainly not with her. “How can he stand by and see it?” “Perhaps he doesn’t see it," says she in a strange tone, her eyes on the marble flooring. “Perhaps not,” says Dysart, dryly. In his secret heart this defense of his rival is detestable to her. Something in her whole manner when she came in from the garden had suggested to him the possibility that she had at last found him out. Dysart would have been puzzled to explain how Beauclerk was supposed to be “found out” or for what, but that he was liable to discovery at any moment on some count or counts unknown, was one of his Christian beliefs. “Perhaps not,”' says he. “And yet I cannot help thinking that a matter so open to all must be patent to him.” “But,” anxiously, “is it so open?” “I leave that to your own judgment,” a little warmly. “You,” with rather sharp question, “are a friend of Isabel’s?” “Yes, yes,” quibkly. “You know that. But ”

“But?” sternly. “I like Lady Swansdown, too.” says she, with some determination. “I find it hard to believe that she can—can ” “Be false to her friend,” supplements he. “Have you yet to learn that friendship ends where love begins?” ‘‘You think—‘That she is in love with Baltimore.” “And he?” “Oh!” contemptuously; “who shall gauge the depth of his heart?” What can he mean? he has risen and is now pacing angrily up and down the small space before her. “He used to be such a good fellow, and now Is he dead to all sense of honor, of honesty?” “He is a man,” says Joyce, coldly. “No. I deny that. Not a true man, surely.” “Is there a true man?” says she. “Is there any truth, any honesty to be found in the whole wide world?” She too has risen now, and is standing with her large, dark eyes fixed almost defiantly on his. There is something so strange, so wild, so unlike her usual joyous, happy self in this outburst, in her whole attitude, that Dysart regards her with an astonishment that is largely tinctured with fear. “I don’t know what is in your mind,” says he, calmly; “something out of the common has occurred to disturb you so much. I can guess, but,” looking at her earnestly, “whatever it may be, I entreat you to beat it under. Conquer it; do not let it conquer you. There must be evil in the world, but never lose sight of the good; that must be there, just as surely. Truth, honor, honesty, are no fables; they are to be found everywhere. If not in this one, then in that. Do not lose faith in them.”

“You think me evidently in a bad way,” says she, smiling faintly. She has recovered herself in part, but though she tries to turn his earnest words into a jest, one can see that she is perilously near to tears. “You mean that I am preaching to you,” says he, smiling, too. “Well, so I am. ■What right has a girl like you to disbelieve in anything? Why,” laughing, “it can‘t be so very long ago since you believed in fairies, in pixies, and the fierce dragons of our childhood.” “You would have me believe In good only,” says she. “You assure me very positively that all the best virtues are still riding to and fro, redeeming the world with lances couched and hearts on fire. But where to find them? In you?” It is a very gentle smile she gives him as she says this. “Yes; so far, at least, as you are concerned,” says he, stoutly. “I shall be true and honest to you so long as my breath lives in my body. So much I can swear to.” CHAPTER VIII. ‘ Night is waning. Now and again a first call from the birds startles the drowsy air. The wood doves coo, melancholy sweet—the cheep-cheep of the robin—the hoarse cry of the sturdy crow.

“A faint dawn breaks on yonder sedge, And broadens in that bed of weeds; A bright disk shows its radiant edge. All things bespeak the coming morn, Yet still it lingers.” As Lady Swansdown and Baltimore descend the stone steps that lead to the gardens beneath, only the swift rush of the tremulous breeze that stirs the branches betrays to them the fact that a new life is at hand. “You are cold?” says Baltimore, noticing the quick shiver that runs through her. “No; not cold. It was mere nervousness.” “I shouldn’t pave thought you nervous." “Or fanciful?” adds she. “You judged me rightly, and yet—coming all at once from the garish lights within into this cool, sweet darkness here, makes one feel In spite of one’s self.” “In spite! Would you never willingly feel?”

“Would you?’ demands she, very slowly. “Not willingly, I confess. But I have been made to feel, as you know. And you?” “Would you have a woman confess?’ says she, half playfully. “That is taking ap unfair advantage, is it not? See," pointing to a seat, “what a charming resting place. I will make one confession to you. I am tired." He paces to and fro before her in the dying light of the moon. Lady Swansdown leaning back gazes at him with eyes too sad for tears —eyes “wild with all regret.” Oh! if they two might but have met earlier. If this man—this one man in all the world, had been given to her, as her allotment. “Beatrice?’ says he, stopping short before her; “were you ever in love?’ There is a dead silence. Lady Swansdown, sinking still deeper into the arm of the chair, looks up at him with strange, curious eyes. What does he mean? To her—to put such a question to her of ail women! Is he deaf, blind, mad—or only cruel? A sort of recklessness seizes upon her. Well, if he doesn’t know, he shall know, though it be to the loss of her self-respect forever! “Never,” says she, leaning a little forward until the moonbeams gleam upon her snowy neck and arms. “Never —never —until ” The pause is premeditated. It is eloquence itself! The light of heaven playing on her beautiful face betrays the passion of it—the rich pallor! One hand, resting on the back of the seat, taps upon the iron work, the other—is now in Baltimore’s possession. “Until now?’ suggests he, boldly. He is leaning over her. She shakes her head. But in this negative there is only affirmation. His hand tightens more closely upon hers. The long, slender fingers yield to his pressure— ntfy, more—return it; they twine round his. “If I thought ” begins he in a low, stammering tone —he moves nearer to her, nearer still. Does she move toward him? There is a second’s hesitation on his part, "and then, his lips meet hers! It is but a momentary touch, a thing of an instant, but it includes a whole world of meaning. Lady Swansdown has sprung to her feet, and is looking at him with eyes that seem to burn through the mystic darkueks. She is trembling in every limb. Her nostrils are dilated. Her haughty mouth is quivering, and there—are these honest, real tears in those mocking eyes? Baltimore, too, has risen. His face is very white, very full of contrition. That he regrets his action toward her is unmistakable, but that there is a deeper contrition behind—a sense of self-loathing not to be appeased betrays itself in the anguish of his eyes. She had accused ham of falsity, most falsely up to this, but now —now! His mind has wandered away. There is something so wild in his expression that Lady Swansdown loses sight of herself in the contemplation of it. “What is it, Baltimore?” asks she, in a low, frightened tone. It rouses him. “I have offended you beyond pardon,” begins he, but more like one seeking for words to say than one afraid of using them. “I have angered you—” “Do not mistake me,” interrupts she, quickly, almost fiercely. “I am not angry, I feel no anger—nothing—but that 1 am a traitor.”

“And what am I?” “Work out your own condemnation for says she, still with that feverish self-disdain upon her. “Don’t ask me to help you. She was my friend, whatever she is now. She trusted me, believed in me. And after all And you,” turning passionately, “you are doubly a traitor, you are her husband.” “In name!” doggedly. He has quite recovered himself now. Whatever torture his secret soul may impress upon him in the future, no one but he shall know. “It doesn’t matter. You belong to her, and she to you.” “Pray don’t leave on Lady Baltimore's account,” says he, slowly; “she would be the last to care about this. lam nothing to her." “Is your wish father to that thought?” regarding him keenly. “No, I assure you. The failing I mention is plain to all the world, I should have thought.” “It is not plain to me,” still watching him. “Then learn it,” says he. “If ever she loved me, which I now disbelieve, “it was in a past that now is irretrievably dead. I suppose I wearied her—l confess”—with a meager smile —“I once loved her with all my soul, and heart, and strength—or else she is incapable of knowing an honest affection.” “That is not true,” says Lady Swansdown, some generous impulse forcing the words unwillingly through her white lips. “She can love! you must see that for yourself. The child is proof of it.” (To be continued.)