Jasper County Democrat, Volume 1, Number 40, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 14 January 1899 — A LIVING LIE [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A LIVING LIE

By The . Duchess.

... CHAPTER XlV.—(Continued.) This afternoon, one of many that Barbara has given up to duty, finds her as lusual in Lady Monkton’s drawing room listening to her mother-in-law’s comments pn this and that, and trying to keep her temper, for Frederick's sake, when the old lady finds fault with her management of the children. She has one compensation for the visit. Dicky Browne and Felix Dysart drop in and are both surprised and glad to see her •nd to learn that Joyce, too, Is in town to stay for the winter. Before Barbara returns home she has confided to Dysart the fact that Joyce will visit the art gallery in Broad street the next day. i “Well, did you like the gallery?” asks Monkton, throwing aside her book to (greet Joyce as she returns from Dope’s the next day. Barbara had let the girl go to see the pictures without telling her of the meeting with Felix. She had been afraid to say anything about him lest that guilty secret of hers might transpire — that deliberate betrayal of Joyce’s intended visit to Broad street on the morrow. “Very much. So did Tommy. He is ▼cry graphic in his remarks,” says Joyce, sinking listlessly into a chair, and taking off her hat. She leans back in her chair, the troubled look on her face growing intensified. She seems glad to be silent, and with downcast eyes plays with the gloves lying In her lap. “Something has happened, Joyce,” says her sister, going over to her. “Something is happening always,” returned Joyce, with a rather impatient ■mile.: “Yes, but to you just now.” “You are sure to make me tell you sooner or later,” says Miss Kavanagh, “and even If I didn’t, Tommy would. I met Mr. Dysart at that gallery to-day.” “Felix?” says Mrs. Monkton, feeling herself an abominable hypocrite, yet afraid to confess the truth. Something in the girl’s whole attitude forbids n confession, at this moment at all events. “Yes.” “He was glad to see you?” very tenderly- “ Was he? I don’t know. He looked very ill. He said he had had a bad cough, lie is coming to see you.” “You were kind to him, Joyce?” “I didn’t insult him, if you mean that.” “Oh, no. I don’t mean that; you know what I mean. He was ill, unhappy; you did not make him more unhappy?” “It is always for him!” cries the girl, with jealous anger. “Is there never to be n thought for me? Am I nothing to you? Am I never unhappy? Why don’t you ask if he was kind to me?” “Was he ever unkind?” “Well, you can forget! He said dreadful things to me —dreadful. I am not likely to forget them if you are. After all, they did not hurt you.” “Joyce 1” ... “Do you mean to tell me, that for all that, you didn’t know he would be at that place to-day?" turning flashing eyes upon her sister. “How could I know? unless a person says a thing right out, how is one to be sure what he Is going to do?” “Oh! that is unlike you. It is unworthy of you,” says Joyce, turning from her scornfully. “You did know. And it Is not,” turning back again and confronting the now thoroughly frightened Barbara with a glance full of pathos, “it is not that—your insincerity that hurts me so much, it is ” “I didn’t mean to be insincere; you are very cruel—you do not measure your words.” “You will tell me next that you meant It all for the best,” with a bitter smile. “That is the usual formula, isn’t it? Well, never mind; perhaps you did. What Ido object to is that you didn't tell me. That 1 was kept designedly in the dark both by him and you. Am I,” with sudden fire, “a child or a fool, that you should seek to guide me so blindly? Well,” drawing a long breath. “I won’t keep you in the dark. When I left the gallery, and your protege, I met—Mr, Beauclerk.” Mrs. Monkton, stunned by this intelligence, remains silent for a full minute. It Is death to her hopes. If she has met that man again, it is Impossible to know how things have gone. His fatal influence—her unfortunate infatuation—all will be ruinous to poor Felix's hopes. “You spoke to him?” asks she at last, in •n emotionless tone. “Yes.” “Was Felix with you?” “When?” “When you met that odious man.” “Mr. Beaucbirk? No; I dismissed Mr. Dysart as soon as ever I could.” “No doubt. And Mr. Beauclerk, did you dismiss him as promptly?" “Certainly not. There was no occasion.” “No Inclination, either. You were kind |o him, at all events.' It is only to the man •who is honest and sincere that you are deliberately uncivil.” “I hope I waa uncivil to neither of them.” “There is no use In giving yourself that •ir with me, Joyce. You are angry with me; but why? Only because I am anxious for your happiness. ph! that hateful tnaa, bow I detest him! He has made you unhappy once—he will certainly make you unhappy again.” “I don’t think so,” says Joyce, taking up oer hat and furs with the evident intention of leaving the room, and thus putting «n end to the discussion. “You will never think so, until it ia too late. You haren’t the strength of mind |o throw him over, once and for all, and give your thoughts to one who U really Srortby you. On the contrary, you

spend your time comparing him favorably with that good and faithful Felix.” “You should put that down. It will do for his tombstone," says Miss Kavanagh, with a rather uncertain little laugh. CHAPTER XV. It is Bix weeks later, “spring has come np this way,” and all the earth is glad with a fresh birth. March has indeed come; boisterous, wild, terrible, iu many ways, but lovely in others. Mr. Monkton had come back from a sad journey to Nice some weeks ago, to bury his dissolute brother. He had very little to tell on his return, and that of the saddest. It had all been only too true about certain iniquitous debts, and the old people were in great distress. The two town houses should be let at once, and the old place in Warwickshire —the home, as he bad called it—well! there was no hope now that it would ever be redeemed from the hands of Manchester people who held it; and Sir George had been so sure that this spring he would have been in a position to get back his own, and have the old place once more in his possession. It was aii very sad. “There is no hope now. He will have to let the place to Barton for the next ten years,” said Monkton to his wife when he got home. Barton was the Manchester man. “He is still holding off about doing it, but he knows it must be done, and at all events the reality won’t be a bit worse than the thinking about it. Poor old governor! You wouldn’t know him, Barbara. He has gone to skin and bone, and such a frightened sort of look in his eyes.” “Oh, poor, poor old man!” cried Barbara, who could forget everything of past unkindness where her sympathies were enlisted. Toward the end of February the guests bad begun to arrive at the Court. Lady Baltimore hnd returned there daring January with her little son, but Baltimore had not put in au appearance for some weeks later. A good many new people unknown to the Monktous had arrived there with others whom they did not know, and after awhile Dicky Browne bad come and Miss Malipbant and the Brabazons, and some others with whom Joyce was on friendly terms, but even though Lady Baltimore bad made rather a point of the girls being with her, Joyce had gone to her but sparingly, and always in fear and trembling. It was so impossible to know who might not have arrived last night, or was gong to arrive this night! That, up to this, neither Dysart nor Beauclerk had come to the Court, had been a comfort to her; but that they might come at any moment kept her watchful and uneasy. Indeed, only yesterday she had heard from Lady Baltimore that both were expected during the week. That news leaves licr rather unstrung and nervous to-day. After luncheon, having successfully eluded Tommy, the lynxeyed, she decides upon going for a long walk, with a view to working off the depression to which she had become a prey. This is how she happens to be out of the way when the letter comec -.fir Barbara that changes the teno: of their lives. The afternoon post brings it. The delicious spring day has worn itself almost to a close when Monkton. entering his wife’s room, where she is busy at a sewing machine altering a frcck for Mabel, drops a letter over her shoulder into her lap. “Wbnt a queer-looking letter!” says she, staring in amazement at the big official envelope. Mrs. Monkton has broken open the envelope, and is now scannfng hurriedly the contents of the important looking document within. There is a pause—a lengthened one. Presently Barbara rises from her seat mechanically, as it were, always with her eyes fixed on the letter in her hand. She has grown a little pale —a little frown is contracting her forehead. “Freddy!” says she, in a rather strange tone. “What?” says he, quickly. “No more bad news, I hope?” “Oh, no! Oh, yes! I can’t quite make it out—but—l’m afraid my poor uncle is dead.” “Ybur uncle?” “Yes, yes. My father’s brother. I think I told you about him. He went abroad years ago. and we —Joyce and I, believed him dead a long time ago, long before 1 married you even—but now— Come here and read it. It is worded so oddly that it puzzles me.” “Let me see it,” says Moukton. He sinks into an easychair and drags her down on to his knees the better to see over her shoulder. Thus satisfactorily arranged, he begins to read rapidly the letter she holds before his eyes. ' “Yes, dead, indeed,” says he, sotto voce. “Go on, turn over: yon mustn’t fret about that, you know, Bnrbara—er—er—” reading. “What’s this? By Jove!” “What?” says his wife, anxiously. “What is the meauing of this horrid letter, Freddy?” “There are a few people who might not call it horrid,” says Monkton, placing bis arm round her and rising from the chair. He is looking very grave. “Even though it brings you news of your poor ancle’s death, still it brings you, too, the information that you are heiress to about a quarter of a million!" “What!” says Barbara, faintly. And then, “Oh, no! Oh, nonsense! there most be some mistake.” “Well, it sounds like*it, at all events. ‘Sad occurrence,’ h’m—h’m ” reading. “ ‘Co-heiresses. Very considerable fortune.’ " He looks to the signature of the letter. “’Hodgson & Fair.’ Very respectable firm! My father has had dealings with them. They say your uncle died, in Sydney, and has left behind him an immense sum of money. Half a million. In fact, to which you and Joyce are co-heir-esses.” ‘There must be some mistake,” repeats Barbara, in a low tone. “It seems too like a fairy tale.” “It does. And yet lawyers like HodgMB it Fair are no' MJulf to bo ted Into a

cal-de-sac. If"—be pauses sod looks earnestly at bis wife—“if it does prove true, Barbara, you will be a very rich woman.” “And yon will be rich with me,” she says, quickly, in an agitated tone. “Bat, but ” “Yes; it does seem difficult to believe,” interrupts‘be, slowly. “What a letter!” His eyes fall on it again, and she, drawing close to him, reads it once more carefully. i “I think there is some troth in it,” says she, at last. “It sounds mote like bring all right, more reasonable, when read a second time.” She steps a little bigaway from him and rests her beautiful eja full on his. “Have you thought,” says she, slowly, “that if there is truth in this story, how much we can do for your father and mother!” Monkton starts as if stung. For them. To do anything for them. For the two who had so wantonly offended and insulted her during all her married life. Is her first thought to be for them? “Yes, yes,” says she. eagerly. “We shall be able to help them out of all their difficulties. Oh! I didn't say much to you, but their grief, their troubles, have gone to my very heart. 1 couldn’t bear to think <*f their being obliged to give up their houses, their comforts, and in their old age, too! Now we shall be able to smooth matters for them!” Monkton had to ran across to London about the extraordinary legacy left to his wife and Joyce. But further investigation proved the story true. The money was, indeed, there, and they were the only heirs. From being distinctly poor they rose to the height of a very respectable income, and Monkton being in town, where the old Monktons still were, also was commanded by bis wife to go to them and pay off their largest liabilities—debts contracted by the dead son, and to so arrange that they should not be at the necessity of leaving themselves houseless. The Manchester people who had taken the old place in Warwickshire were now informed that they could not have it beyond the term agreed on, but about this the old people bad something to say, toot. They would not take back the family place. They had but one son now, and the sooner he went to live there the better. Lady Monkton, completely broken down and melted by Barbara’s generosity, went so far as to send her a long letter, telling her it would be the dearest wish of hero and Sir George's hearts that she should preside as mistress over the beautiful old homestead, and that it would give them great happiness to imagine the children — the grandchildren—running riot through the big wainscoted rooms. Barbara was not to wait for her —Lady Monkton's — death to take up her position as bead of the house. She was to go to Warwickshire at once, the moment those detestable Manchester people were out of it; and Lady Monkton, if Barbara would be so good as to make her welcome, would like to come to her for three months every year, to see the children, and her son. and her daughter. The last was the crowning touch. For the rest, Barbara was not to hesitate about accepting the Warwickshire place, as Lady Monkton and Sir George were devoted to town life, and never felt quite well when away from smoky Ixmdon. 3 This last was true. As a fact, the old people were thoroughly imbued with a desire for the turmoil of city life, and the three months of country Lady Monkton had stipulated for were quite as much as they desired of rustic felicity. (To be continued.)