Jasper County Democrat, Volume 1, Number 44, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 11 February 1899 — A LIVING LIE [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A LIVING LIE

By The Duchess.

CHAPTER XXII. Lady Baltimore, too, bnd been Tery pleased by the news when Felix told her the next morning of his good luck. In all her own great unhappiness she had still a kindly word and thought for her cousin and his fiancee. "One of the nicest girls," she says, pressing his hands warmly. "I often think, indeed, the nicest girl I know. You are fortunate, Felix, but,” very kindly, “she is fortunate, too.” "Oh, no, the luck is all on my side,” says he. "It will be a blow to Norman,” she says, presently. ~.q “I think not,” with an irrepressible touch of scorn. "Of course, I can quite understand that you do not like him,” says she, with a quick sigh. "But believe me, any heart he has was really given to Joyce. Well, he must devote himself to ambition now.” "Miss Maliphant can help him to that.” “No, no. That is all knocked on the head. It appears—this is in strict confidence, Felix—but it appears he asked her to marry him last evening, and she refused.” Felix turns to her as if to give utterance to some vehement words, and then checks himself. After all. why add to her unhappiness? Why tell her of that cur’s baseness? Her own brother, too! It would be but another grief. » To think he should have gone from her to Miss Maliphant! What a pitiful creature! Beneath contempt! Well, if his pride survives those two downfalls —both In one day—it must be made of leather. It does Felix good to think of how Miss Maliphant must have worded her refusal She is not famous for grace of speech. He must have had a really bnd time of it. "Ah, she refused?" says he, hardly knowing what to say. “Yes, ahd not very graciously, I’m afraid. He gave me the mere fact of the refusal—no more, and only that because he had to give a reason for his abrupt departure. You know he is going this evening?” “No, I did not know it. Of eourse, under the circumstances ” ‘‘Yes, he could hardly stay here. Margaret came to me and said she would go, but I would not allow that. After all, every woman has a right to refuse or accept as she will.” “True." His heart gives an exultant leap as he remembers how his love had willed. “I only wish she had not hurt him in the refusal. He was not in his usual careless spirits. He struck me as being a little—well, you know, a little” she hesitates. “Out of temper?” suggests Felix. “Well, yes. Disappointment takes that course with some people.. After all, it might have been worse if he had set his heart on Joyce and been refused.” “Much worse,” says Felix, his eyes on the ground. “She would hare been a severe loss.” “Severe, indeed.” By this time Felix is beginning to feel like an advanced hypocrite. “As for Margaret Maliphant, I am afraid he was more concerned about the loss of her bonds and scrips than of herself. It is a terrible world, Felix, when all is told,” says she, suddenly, crossing her beautiful, long, white hands over her kiiees, aud leaning toward him. There is a touch of misery so sharp in her voice that he starts as he looks at her. It is a momentary fit of emotion, however, and passes before he dare comment on it. With a heart nigh to breaking she still retains her composure, and talks calmly to Felix, and lets him talk to her, as though the fact that she is soon to lose forever the man who once had'gained her heart—that fatal “once” that means for always, in spite of everything that has come and gone—is as little or nothiug to her. Seeing her sitting there, strangely pale, indeed, but so cellected, it would be impossible to guess at the tempest of passion and grief and terror that reigns within her breast. Women are not so strong to bear as men, and therefore in the world’s storm suffer most. “It is a lovely world.” says he, smiling, thinking of Joyce; and then, remembering her sad lot, his smile fades. “One might make—perhaps—a bad world—better.” “Ah! teach me how,” says she, with a melancholy glance. “There is such a thing as forgiveness. Forgive him!” blurts he out in a frightened sort of way. He is horrified at himself—at his own teperity—a second later, and rises to his feet as if to meet the indignation ho has certainly courted. Rut to his surprise no such indignation betrays Itself. “Is that your advice?" says she, still with the thin white hands clasped over the knees and the earnest gaxc on him. “Well, well, well!” Her eyes droop. She seems to be thinking, and he, gazing at her, refrains from speech vrith his heart sad with pity. Presently sht lifts her head and looks at him. “Therj! Go back to your love,” she says, wi h a glance that thrills him. “Tell her froia me that if you had the whole world t< choose from, 1 should still select her as your wife. 1 like her; 1 love her! There, us!" She seems to grow all at ones very tired. Are those tears that are rising is her eyes? She holds out to him her hand. Felix, taking it, bolds it closely for a noment, and presently, as if moved to di it, be stoops and presses a warm bias ep *.Jt. . ShM» so unhappy, and so kind, and to true. Heaven deliver her out of her sor- ' row! •

CHAPTER XXIII. She is still sitting silent, lost in thought, after Felix’s departure, when the door opens once again to admit her husband. I£s hands are full of papers. you at liberty?” says he. “Have you a moment? These,” pointing to the papers, “want signing. Can you give your attention to them now?” “What are they?” asks she, rising. “Mere law papers. You need not look so terrified.” His tone is bitter. “There are certain matters that must be arranged before my departure—matters that concern your welfare and the boy’s. Here,” laying the papers upon the davenport and spreading them out, “you sign your name here.” “But,” recoiling, “what is it? What does it all mean?” “It is not your death warrant, I assure you,” says he, with a sneer. “Come, sign!” Seeing her still hesitate, he turns upon her savagely. Who shall say what hidden storms of grief and regret lie within that burst of anger? “Do you want your son to Uve and die a poor man?” says he. “Come! there is yourself to be considered, too! Once lam out of your way, you will be able to begin life again with a light heart; and this,” tapping the paper heavily, “will enable you to do it. I make over to you and the boy everything—at least, as nearly everything as will enable me to live.” “It should be the other way," says she. “Take everything and leave us enough to live on.” “Why?” says he, facing round, something in her voice that resembles remorse striking him. “We—shall have each other,” says she. “Having happily got rid of such useless lumber as the father and husband. Well, you will be the happier so,” rejoins he, with a laugh that hurts him more than it hurts her, though she cannot know that. “ ‘Two is company,’ you know, according to the good old proverb, ‘three, trumpery.’ You and he will get on very well without me. no doubt.” “It is your arrangement,” says she. “If that thought is a salve to your conscience, pray think so,” rejoins he. “It isn't worth an argument. We are only wasting time.” He hands her the pen; she takes it mechanically, but makes no use of it. -. “You will, at least, tell me where you are going?” says she. “Certainly I should if I only knew myself. To America first, but that is a big direction, and I am afraid the tenderest love letter would not reach me through it. When your friends ask you, say I have gone to the north pole; it is as likely a destination as another.”

“But not to know!” says she, lifting her dark eyes to his—dark eyes that seem to glow like fire in her white face. “That would be terrible. It is unfair. You should think —think ” Her voice grows husky and uncertain. She stops abruptly. “Don’t be uneasy about that,” says he. “I shall take care that my death, when it occurs, is made known to you as soon as possible. Your mind shall be relieved on that score with as little delay as I can manage. The welcome news shall be brought by a swift messenger.” She flings the pen upon the writing table and turns away. “Irjult me to the last if you will,” she says; “but consider your son. He loves you. He will desire news of you from time to time. It is impossible that you can put him out of your life as you have put me.” “It appears yon can be unjust to the last,” says he, flinging her own accusation back at her. “Have I put you out of my life?” “Ah! was I ever in it?” says she. “But —you will write?’ “No. Not a line. Once for all, I break with you. Should my death occur you will hear of it. And I "Save arranged so that now and after that event you and the boy will have your positions clearly defined. That is all you can possibly require of me. Even it you marry again your jointure will be secured to you.” “Baltimore!’ exclaims she, turning upon him passionately. She seems to struggle with herself for words. “Has marriage proved so sweet a thing,” cries she, presently, “that 1 should care to try it again? There! Go! I shall sign none of these things!” She makes a disdainful gesture toward the loose papers lying on the table, and moves angrily away. "You have your son to consider.” “Your son will inherit the title and the property without those papers.” “There are complications, however, that perhaps you do not understand.” “Let them lie there. I shall sign nothing." “In that case you will probably find yourself immersed in troubles of the meaner kind after my departure. The child cannot inherit until after my death, and ” “I don’t care,” says she, sullenly. “Go if yon will. I refuse to be benefited by iL” “What a stubborn woman you are!” cries he, in great wrath. “You have for years decliued to acknowledge me as your husband. You have by yonr manner almost commanded my absence from yonr side; yet now when I bring you the joyful news that in a short time you will actually be rid of me, you throw a thousand difficulties in my path. Is it that you desire to keep me near yon for the purpose of torture? It ia too late for that. You have gone a trifle too far. The hope yon have so clearly expressed in many ways, that time would take me out of your path, is at last about to be fulfilled.” “I have had no such hope.” “No! You can look me in the face and say that! Saintly lips never lie, however, do they? Well, I’m aick of this life; you are not. I have borne a good deal from you, as I told yon before. I’ll bear no more. I give in. Fate has been too strong for me.” “You have created your own fath.” “You are my fate! Yon are inexorable!” The sound of running, childish, pattering footsteps can bo heard outside the

door and a merry little shout of laughter uncottyentionaJ style, and Gertie cashes into the room, a fox-terrier .at big heels. The dog la evidently quite as up to "the game as the boy, and both race t»mpcstu : ously up the room and precipitate themselves against Lady Baltimore’s skirts. Rpnnd and round her the chase continues, until the boy, bursting assay from his mother, dashes toward his father, the terrier after Mm. There isn’t so much scope for talent in a pair of trousers as in a mass of dainty petticoats, and presently Bertie grows tired, flings himself down upon the ground and lets the dog tumble over him there. The joust is virtually at an end.

CHAPTER XXIV. Lady Baltimore, who has stood immovable during the attack upon bet, always with that cold, white, beautiful look upon her face, now points to the stricken child lying panting, laughing and playing with the dog at his father’s feet. “Bertie,” says his mother, turning to the child, “do yon know this, that yonr father ia going to leave you?” “Going?" says the boy, vaguely, forgetting the dog for a moment and glancing upward. “Where?’ “Away. Forever.” “Where?” says the boy again. He rises to his feet now, and looks anxiously at his father; then he smiles and flings himself into his arms. “Oh, no!” says he, in a little soft, happy, sure sort of a way. “Forever! Forever!” repeats Isabel, in a curious monotone. “Take me up,” says the child, tugging at his father’s arms. “What does mamma mean? Where are yon going?’ “To America, to shoot bear*,” returns Baltimore, with an embarrassed langh. How near to tears it is! “Real Uve bears?’ “Yes.” “Take me?’ says the child, excitedly. “And leave mamma?” “Oh, she’ll come, too,” says Bertie, confidently. “She’ll come where I go.” Where he would go—the child! But would she go where the father went? Baltimore’s brow darkened. “I am afraid it is ont of the question,” be sflys, patting Bertie back again upon the carpet, where the fox-terrier is barking furiously and jumping np and down in a frensied fashion as if desirous of devouring the child’s legs. “The bears might eat you. When yon are big and strong ” “You will come back for me?’ cries Bertie, eagerly. “Perhaps.” V “He will not,” breaks in Lady Baltimore, violently. “He will come back no more. When he goes yon will never see him again. He has said so. He is going forever!” These last terrible words seem to have sank into her soul. She cannot cease from repeating them. “Let the boy alone,” says Baltimore, angrily. The child is looking from one parent to the other. He seems puzzled, expectant, but scarcely unhappy. Childhood can grasp a great deal, but not all. The more unhappy the childhood, the more it can understand of the sadden and larger ways of life. But children deticately brought up and clothed in love from their cradle find it hard to realize that an end to their happiness can ever come. “Tell me, papa,” says he at last, in a vague, sweet little way. “What is there to tell?’ repties his father. with a most meager laugh, “except that I saw Beecher bringing in some fresh oranges half an hour ago. Perhaps be hasn't eaten them all yet. If you were to ask him for one ”

“I’ll find him,” cries Bertie, brightly, forgetting everything but the present moment. “Come, Trixy, come,” to his dog; “yon shall have some, too.” “Yon see. there won’t be much trouble with him,” says Baltimore, when the boy has run out of the room in pursuit of oranges. “It will take him a day, perhaps, and after that he will be quite your own. If you won't sign these papers to-day you will perhaps to-morrow. I had better go and tell Hansard that you would like to have a little time to look them over.” He walks quickly down the room, opens the door and closes it after him. He has not. however, gone three yards down the corridor when the door is again opened, and Lady Baltimore's voice calls after him: “Baltimore!” Her tone is sharp, highly agonised—the tone of one strung to the highest pitch of despair. It startles him. He turns to look at her. She is standing, framed in by the doorway and one hand is grasping the woodwork with a hold so firm that the knuckles are showing white. With the other hand she beckons him to approach her. He obeys her. He is even so frightened at the strange, gray look in her face that he draws her bodily into the room again, shutting the door with a pressure of the hand hecan best spare. “What is it?” says he, looking down at her. She has managed to so far overcome the faintness that has been threatening her as to shake him off and stand free, leaning against a chair behind her. “Don’t go,” says she, hoarsely. It is impossible to misunderstand her meaning. It has nothing whatever to do with his interview with the lawyer waiting so patiently down below, but with that, final wandering of his into regions unknown. She is as white as death. “How is this, Isabel?" asks he. He is as white as she is now. “Do you know what you are saying? This is a moment of excitement; you do not comprehend what your words mean.” “Btay! Stay for his sake!” “Is that all?” says he, his eyes searching hers. “For mine, then.” The words seem to scorch her. She covers her face with her hands and stands before him, stricken dumb, miserable — confessed. “For yours!” ' He goes closer to her. and ventures to take her hand. It is cold—cold as death. His is burning. “You have given a reason for my staying, indeed.” says he. “But what is the meaning of it?” “This!” cries she. throwing up her bead, and showing him her shamed and griefstricken face. “I am a coward! In spite of everything 1 would not have you go—so far!” “1 see. I understand,” he sighs, heavily. “And yet that story was a.foul lie! It is all that stands between us, Isabel. Is it not so? But yon will not believe.” There is a long silence, during which neither of them stirs. They seem wrapped In thought—ln silence—he still holding her band. ‘“lf It was a.lie,” says she.gt last, breaking the quiet around them by aa effort,

“Yes. Whit ia there I would not forgive yon?* says he. “And it wgi & fie!” “Cyril,” cries she, in greet agitation, “take care! It is a last moment! > Do you dare to tell me that jrtiU?” “You doubt?* says he. with a stem glance. “So be it; you shall see the letter she wrote me on her bed of death! Though how will that satisfy yon? For you can always gratify your desire for suspicion by regarding it as a forgery. The woman herself is dead, so, of course, there is no one to contradict. I will bring yon the letter,” moving toward the door. When he does bring it—when she had read it and satisfied herself of the loyalty so long doubted, where, he asks himself, will they two be then? Further apart than ever? He has forgiven a great deal—much more than this—and yet, strange human nature, be knows if he once leaves the room and her presence now, he will never return again. The letter she will see —but him—never! The door is open. He has almost crossed the threshold. Once again her voice recalls him, once again he looks back, she is holding ont her arms to him. “Cyril! Cyril!” she cried. “I believe yon.” She staggers toward him. Mercifully the fountain of her tears breaks fyose, she flings herseif into his willing arms, and sobs out a whole world of grief npon his bosom. __ It is a cruel moment, yet one fraught with joy as keen as the sorrow—a fire of auguish ont of which both emerge purified, calmed —gladdened. (The end.)