Jasper County Democrat, Volume 1, Number 37, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 24 December 1898 — A LIVING LIE [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A LIVING LIE

By The Duchess.

CHAPTER VlH—(Continued.) “Sim*- mumen. are- like that,” - says he, Cffiiranliy- “T&ejr easa. open wide their hrrantt 0* Oifaffir fffiiilifrefl. yet close it against the Sanfbtcs off thenu. Isabel's whole life Is Chmm uqi t»> her tr&sM;. she regards it as hew enrireiy-,: site allitws me no. share in Hum. Site.* eaigHirfy,. “that 1 grudge him wnr iiuch tthe affeetUMii site gif es him. He huts m ffamltec worthless enough. Let his mwchiHr umJtif ■ hh «©■ te him-"" “Trit he Iteites. the father best,”' says la>% tiiricftay. “1 huge auc.”" with a suspicion. of viofcnrr. “He ifiie*. fteffijw me- One can see it. Thun sautetrl** nutter off his has not half the iantnaetLoni ®nr him that you hare. Why. !1m& you. ih is the way of the world, why (fisgmtw* is? Well, well.’" her trinmphnsC wiire tßwpeaimg to a we*it whisper. •“When! (me thinks- off it ail. she is not too Eaggy.”’ She draws her hand in a little tewiMwodl way across her white brow. “•Tow Jbufb uanlerstamf her."" says Bultiihr. fflriipjfly. “SSe Uses in. • world of lew usm. Xoi one womkt dare penetrate it. E«eui I—her husband*. a» yen call me in muifftHny— turn ontsiifij iff. I don't believe sdii‘ kw •mired ff»c me. Iff she had, do you •ftimlt she* wrm£d have- given a thought to Bhara hnfnmuns story?.'”' “AftMtut Madtenae-Istray?”’ “Tit!S. Tom. Eeov heard off it .then?” “W?b*> linssaft Bi*trn£? Violet Waldron was nuC t£te ooe t«» spare you.” She pauses ami thefts at Brim with, all her heart in her —Was niters- no- truth in that story ?” iajfts she- an hurt, her words coming with a Khfftf- mnrik. —X‘in»-_ I sweanr iff! Tom believe me?” Hr Bits <e«nw- nearer to her and taken her nmmf ism rii»- e-ntrwniiffy '*ff this desire to be heiiiffed im by somebody. —I BeSieve- yew.” says site, gently. Her •wtfinr isw hew tdiste he *au catch the words i«i|f- rite- grief and misery in them is imftnwnra to Man Mecerffaily. too. the moon V&t jjtny. behind a cliiqd.. a tender preparagam] ffwan aftdnratnoa presently, so that he eannite see- Bite- two- iteatf-broken tears that mtetO sflowhy i)fn Iter cheeks. “This is mure- than. Isabel does.” says Im. wish a iittigSi that bus something of ■fffasguLjr iin iff. “Turn toll me-, thun,” says Lady Swansdtewm. "Tthum yww never sa w Madame Istray sifter- par marriage ?” “Jioiw. uriaingiy.”' “vifc. wflisteayr" “Tten"tt me. Hear the whole so ray ttftuw—iff yum nutstr” cries he. passim::] to!? —-“Inhuasrhi iff you dov. you will be «*te- font nw hear- iff. 1 am tired of being -fftMughn a ITujrT" tiGo says she. in a kwv. shocked “Weffl. «w dty. one off the many days Jhsf'ny mftiiftti I went up- Co- town, after a Dffuc aftemmou with. ft Smale, an the «mrc off whtes. they bad told me they wwmhff probably require me to call aa niter a- to- meet one of the most innfinmtTii«C tmtauuns at nine the next morning; 1 ante, ou braving their office, hffarchmont —SftanuhaiDiaff off the Tenth, you know.” -Ten. I k»«w.--He> ami a eoupfe- off other feSevrs be* hrnar'ngr to he* negimeui; were going down to Eeftnarod to tfcnf. Would I come? It was -mg on town, no-ward the close of the semen*, ami 1 was sdad off any invitation niton pertmisud a dtonge off program—any■ftiimg nh—n would take ate away from * dMSI cvewngr an my cDste. 1 made no in* -qpuresc I aceepted the invitation, got dtewm in tese Sit dinner. %ad found Madame fauna®- was one off the guests.” “KSo* <nn_”* “Tam ane a woman off the world. Besffniiws you w3S bte me cooffess t» you that Utere Bxafl been old passages between me ai Xaiimr lstray at oae time. Nothing yern I bud severs® much as thought of her sinwmtr maimtoge—nay. roue my engagement! to Xss&beft. From that hour my life lud tan rdeour aw a sheet off blank paper. I had fltatgfrtffleiß betr. 1 verily believe she hud SingjrtTtwn one. tost. At that dinner I draft do exchanged a dozen words write so. teny sow!” pushing back his Earn write a shew, troubled gesture from Aw Ihnew. “Hw is the tswtte.”' “Toub- wiiSr baw pm-aged you. terribly.” says Lady Bwansdtewn in a Sow tone. Tha*k yen.’*' cried be. a passion of jgrsKfftnte m. Mm tor. “To- be bebeved in by seme one mi thoroughly as you believe ever fatma*. I earn roouff ou you as my firkud.”’ a ... “Twwr fflrjrnd. aSmuysw"* says she. to a 'T3*m*iT she usys*. »nwug suddenly and waOktoc ttewaud tee distant lights to the Htamtouto her silently. Very smMtmQr she ton* to- him. and Saps her load ugom bw aim. “He nw ftieudr says she. with a %uiek CHATTEK IA “Wed?” says EysantL -Joyce.” he an* 1«to my wnrar. taiubf beam pawpmred toe this apeeeh, bid aggbt* steHtodw

“Why should I answer?” says she at last, stammering a little and feeling somewhat disingenuous. She had known, yet now she is trying to pretend that she did not know! “Because when a man’s last chance of happiness lies in the balance he will throw his very soul inta the weighing of it —and, knowing this, you may have pity on me.” As though pressed down by some insupportable weight, the girl rises and makes a little curious gesture as if to free herself from it. Her face, still pale, betrays an inward struggle. After all, why cannot she give herself to him? Why can’t she love him? He loves her; love, as some poor old fool says, begets love. And he is honest. Yes, honest! A pang shoots through her breast. That, when all is told, is the principal thing. He is not uncertain—untrustworthy double-faced, as some men are. Again that cruel pain contracts her heart. To be able to believe in a person, to be able to trust implicitly in each lightest word, to read the real meaning in every sentence, to see the truth shining in the clear eyes, this is to know peace and happiness; and yet—- “ You know all,” says she, looking np at him, her eyes compressed, her brow frowning; “I am uncertain of myself, nothing seems sure to me, but if you wish it ” “Wish it!” clasping her hands closer. “There is this to be said, then. I will promise to answer you this day twelve month.” “Twelve months,” says he, with consternation; his grasp on her hands loosens. “If the prospect frightens or displeases you, there is nothing more to be said,” rejoins she, coldly. It is she who is calm and composed, he who is nervous and anxious. “But a whole year!” “That or -bathing.” says she, releasing her hands, with a little determined show of strength, from his. “It is for you to decide. I don't care!” Perhaps she hardly grasps the cruelty that lies in this half-impatient speech, until she sees Dysart’s face flush painfully. “You need not have said that,” says he, “I knew it. I am nothing to you really.” He pauses, and then says again in a low tone, ‘‘Nothing.” “Oh, you mustn’t feel so much!” cries she. as if tortured. “It is folly to feel at all in this world. Wbat’s the good of it? And to feel about me, I am not worth it. If you would only bear that in mind, it might help yo«.” “If I bore that in mind I should not want to make you my wife!” returns he, steadily, gravely. “Think as you will of yourself, you do not shake my faith in you. Well,” with a deep breath, “I accept your terms. For a year I shall feel myself bound to you, while you shajl hold yourself free, and try too ” “No, no. We must both be equal—both free while I ” she stops short, coloring warmly, and laughing. “What is it lam to try to do?” “To love me!” replies he, with infinite .sadness in look and tone. “Tsb>” says Joyce, slowly, and then again meditatively, “yes.” She lifts her eyes presently and regards him strangely. “And if all my trying should not succeed? If I never learn to love you.” “Why, then it is all over. This hope of mine is at an end,” says be. so calmly, yet with such deep melancholy, such sad foreboding, that her heart is touched. “Oh, it is a hope of mine, too,” says she, quickly. “If it were not, would I listen to yon to-day? But you must not be so downhearted; let the worst come to the worst, you will be as well off as you are this instant.” He shakes his head. “I>oes hope count for nothing, then?” “You would compel me to love you,” says she. growing the more vexed as she grows the more sorry for him. “Would you have me marry you even if I did not love you ?” Her soft eyes have filled with tears, there is a suspicion of reproach tn her voice. “No, I suppose not.” He half turns away from her. At this moment a sense of despair falls on him. “Joyce,” he then says, quickly, turning to her and grasping her hands, “give me my chance. Give me those twelve months; give me your thoughts now and then while they last. I brought you here to-day to say all this, knowing we should be alone. But you, Joyce—twelve months is a long time. You may see others—if not Beauelerk—others—and ” “Money would not tempt me,” says the girl, slowly. “If money were your rival, you would Indeed be safe. You ought to know that.” “Still—Joyce——” He stops suddenly. “May I think of you as Joyce? I have called you so once or twice, but ” “You may always call mb so,” says she, gently, if indifferently. “All my friends call me so, and you—are my friend, surety!” The very sweetness of her manner, cold as ice as it is, drives him to desperation. “Net- your friend—your lover!” says he with sudden passion. “Joyce, think of all that I have said—all you have promised. A small matter to you, perhaps—the whole world to me. You will wait for me for twelve mouths. You will try to love me. “Tea, but there is something more to be said,” cries the girl, -springing to her feet as if in violent protest, and confronting him with a curious look—set—determined —a little frightened, perhaps. “More?” says Dysart, startled by her expression, and prowled as well. “Yes!” hurriedly. “This!” The very nervousness that iff consuming her throws fir* into her eyes and speech. “During all these long twelve months I shall be free. Quite free. You forget to put that In! You mast remember that! If—if I should, after all this thinking, decide on not having anything to do with yon—yon,” vehemently, “will have no right to reproach me. Remember,” says she, going np to him and laying her hand npon his arm, while the blood receding from her face leaves her very white; “remember, should such a thing occur—and it is very likely,” I slowly* “X won you of that—you ar« not |

• * . ; ’if - • to consider yourself wronged or aggrieved in any way.” / “Why should you talk to me in this way?” begins he, aggrieved now at all ' events. | “You must recollect,” feverishly, “that 1 , have made you no promise. Not one. I 1 refuse even to look npon this matter as a ’.serious thing, I tell you honestly,” hei dark eyes gleaming with nervous excitement. “I don’t believe I ever shall so look at it. After all,” pausing, “you will do well if you now put an end to this farce between us; and tell me to take myself and my dull life out of yours forever.” “I shall never tell you that,” in a low, tone. “The future —who can ever say what that great void will bring to us? I will trust to it; and if only loss and sorrow be my portion, still As for friendship, Joyce, whatever happens, I shall be your friend and lover.” !

CHAPTER X. “I hope I’m not dreadfully late,” cries Joyce, carelessly, taking off her cap, and giving her head a little light shake, as if to make her pretty soft hair fall into its usual charming order. “I have no idea what the time is.” “Broken your watch, Dysart?” asks JBeauclerk, in a rather nasty tone. “Come and sit here, dearest, and have your tea,” says Lady Baltimore, mnking room on the lounge beside her for Joyce, who has grown a little red. “It is so warm here,” says she, ner\ ously, that one remark of Beauclerk’s having somehow disconcerted her. “If—if I might ” “No, no; you mustn’t go upstairs for a little while,” says Lady Baltimore, with kindly decision. “But you may go into the conservatory if you like,” pointing to an open door off the library, that leads into a bower of sweets. “It is cooler there.” “Far cooler,” says Beauclerk, who has followed Joyce with a sort of deterniina* tion in his genial air. “Let me take you there, Miss Kavanagh.” It is impossible to refuse. Joyce, coldly, almost disdainfully, and with her head held higher than usual, skirts the groups that line the walls on the western side of the room and disappears with him into the conservatory. “A little foolish going for that walk, wasn’t it?” says he, leading her to a lowcushioned chair over which a gay magnolia bends its white blossoms. His manner is innocence itself; ignorance itself would perhaps better express it. He has do) ided on ignoring everything; though a shrewd guess that she saw something of his passages with Miss Maliphant last night has now become almost a certainty. “I thought you seemed rather played out last night—fatigued—done to death. I assure you I noticed it. I could hardly.” with deep and affectionate concern, “fail to notice anything that affected you.” “You are very good!” says Miss Kavanagh, icily. Mr. Beauclerk lets a full minute go by, and then: “What have I done to merit that tone from you?” asks he, not angrily, only sorrowfully. He has turned his handsome face full on hers, and is regarding her with proud, reproachful eyes. “It is idle to deny,” says he, with some emotion, half of which, to do him justice, is real, “that you are changed to me; something has happened to alter the feelings of—of—friendship—that I dared to hope you entertained for me. I had hoped still more —but—what has happened?” demands he, suddenly, with all the righteous strength of one who, free from guilt, resents accusation of it. J ■ “Have I accused you?” says she, coldly. “Yes. A thousand times, yes. Do you think your voice alone can condemn? Yonr eyes are even crueler judges.” “Well, I am sorry,” says she. faintly smiling. “My eyes must be deceivers then. I bear you no malice, believe me.” (To be continued.)