Rensselaer Republican, Volume 25, Number 16, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 15 December 1892 — A LITTLE MASQUERADE. [ARTICLE]

A LITTLE MASQUERADE.

•Übert Parker In the Speaker. “Oh, nothing said, with a sQft r 4Th>aicat smile, as she - toaswl abit of sugar to the cockatoo. “Quite so,” was his replj-, and he carefully gathered in a loose leaf of his cigar.-There after a pause: “And why so? It's a very pretty world, one way and another." “Yes. it’s a pretty world at times. ” At that moment they were both 4he world knowu as the Nindobar Plains, and it was handsome to the eye. As far as could be seen was a carpet of Cowers under a soft sunset. The homestead by which they sat was in a wilderness of blossoms. To the left was a high, rose colored hill, solemn and mysterious; to the right —far off—a forest of gum trees, pink and purple against the horizon. At their feet, beyond the veranda, was a garden joyously brilliant, and and forth. The two looked out for a iong time, then, as if by a mutual impulse, suddenly tinned their eyes on each other. They smiled, and somehow that smile was not delightful to see. The girl said presently: “It is all on the surface.” ' —•=== —= —= — “You mean that the beautiful birds have dreadful voices; that the flowers are sceutlcss; that the leaves no shade, that where that beautiful carpet of blossoms is there was a blazing quartz plain six months agg/ and that there’s likely to be the same again—that; in brief, it’s pretty, but hollow.” He madeu slight, fantastic gesture, as though mocking himself for so long a speech, and added: “finally. I didn’t prepare this little ■oration. ” zrrr'--——"-- • She nodded, and then said: “Oh. it's not so hollow—you wouldn't call it that exactly—but unsatisfactory.” “You have lost your illusions, Miss Asb forth.” i “And before that occurred you had lost yours. Mr. Tom Sherman.” “Do I betray it, then?” He laughed not at all bitterly, yet not with singular cheerfulness; “Aud do 3’ou think, then, that you are possessed of such acuteness. aud. that paused, elevated her eyebrows a little coldly, and let the cockato bite her finger. “I did not mean to be egotistical, believe me. The fact is I live my life alone, aud I never hear any remarks , upon myself. I was interested for ' the moment in knowing something i of how I appeared to others. You I and I have been tolerably candid I with each other since we met, for the , firot time, three day § ago; I know . you would not hesitate to say what was in your iniud, and I ask" out of i honest curiosity. One fancies one] hides one’s self, and yet—you see!” “You are forgiven, of course. Do you find it pleasant, then, to be can . did and free with some one?” I ... “Why with me?” She looked Elm: frankly'iu the eyes. I “Well, to be more candid. You n«d I know the world very well, I ; l>» ey. You were educated in Europe, • traveled, enjoyed and suffered’ (The girl did not even blink, but went on looking at him steadily.) “We have both had our hour with the world: have learned many sides •of the game. We haven't come out ■of it without sears of one kind or an- ; other. Knowledge of the kind is e.x- I pensive." “You wanted so sav alt ttrat to metlieffirst evening we met, did'nt ybn?”~ There was a smile of gentle amusement on her face. “I did. From the moment I saw r you I knew that we could sav many things to each other ‘without preliminaries.’ And to be able to do that is a great deal.” '“And it is a relief to say things, isn't it?” “It is better than writing them, though that is pleasant, after its kind.” “1 have never tried writing—as we talk. There's a good deal of vanity at the bottom ot it, though, I believe; " “Of course. But vanity is a kind of virtue, too.” He leaned over toward her, dropping his arms on his knees ant]! holding her look. “I am very glad that I met you. I intended bnlv staving here over night, but-”" “But I interested you in a way—you see. l am Vain enough to think that,. Well, yAu a'so interested me, and I urged m v aunt to press you to ata3'. You did It has been very pleasant, and when you go it will be very humdrum again; our conversation mustering, rounding up, oultoelcs and rabbits. Which is inter -esting in a wa3', but not for long at a time.” He did not stir, but went on looking at her. “Yes, I believe it has been pleasant for you, else it had not been so pleasant for me. Honestly, I don’t believe I shall ever get you out of my mind,” “That is either slightly rude or badly expressed,” she said. “Do you •wish, then, to get me out of vour .mind?” "No, no—you are very keen. I wish to remember you always. Bui what l felt at the moment was this. - There are memories which are always passive and delightful. We have no wish to live the scenes bf which they ■are over again; the reflection is enough. There are others which ■causo us to wish the scenes back again, with a kind of hunger, and yet they can’t or won t come back. I wondered o| what class this memory would be," The girl flushed ever so slightly, And her fingers clasped a little uerv■oudly, but she was calm. Her voice ■wsmK ybfld, Jittle wSdJfullfaariag,” “to Inb: . • • -

say that tome. To a school girl it might mean so much; to me-!" She shook her head at him as if ctompassiouatelv. He was not In the least piqued. “I was absolutely honest in that. I said nothing but what I felt—l would give very much to feel confident one wa3 r or the other—forgive me for what seems incredible egotism. If I were five years younger I should have said instantly that the memory would have been one—” “ r which would disturb you. make you restless, cause you to neglect your work, fill you with regret; and yet all too late—isn't that it?” “You read me accurately. But wh\' touch your tones with satire?” “I believe I read 3’ou better ,than you read me. 1 didn’t mean to be 'satirical.' Don’t you know that what often seems irony directed towards j others is in reality dealt out to ourselves. Such 4rony as was in my voice was for myself.” “And why for yourself?’.’ he asked qniet!y T -Ins"eves full of interest. He was cutting the end of a fresh cigar, “Was jt” (he was about to strike a match, but paused suddenly) “because you had thought the same thing?” . She looked for a moment as though she would read him through and through; as though, in spite oTatt their candor, there was some linger - ing uncertainty as to his perfect straight or wardness; then, as if satisfied! she said at last, “Yes, but with a difference. I have no doubt which memory it will be. You will not wish tto be again on the p ains of Nindobar.” “And you,” he said musingly, ‘ c 3’ou will not wish me here?” There was' no vanity in the question. He .was wandering how little we shall feel to-movro.v from what we feel to-day. Besides, lie knew that a wise woman is wiser than a wise matt. “I really don’t think I shall care particularly." Probably, if we met again here, there would be some jar to our comradeship—l may call it that. I suppose?” “Which is equivalent to saying that good-lye in most cases, and always iu cases such as ours, is a little tragical, because we can never meet quite the same again.” She bowed her head, but did not reply. Presently she glanced up at him kindly: “What would 3 r ongive to have the past back before you were disillusionized? Before you had trouble?” “I do not want it back. lam not really disillusionized. I think that we should not take our own personal experience and make it a law unto the world. I believe in the world in spite—of trouble. You might have said trouble with a woman —I should not have minded.” He' was smoking now, and the clouds twisted about his face so that only his eyes looked through earnestly. “A woman always makes laws from her personal experience—She has not the faculty of generalization I fancy that’s the word to use.” Tins was her reply. She rose now with a little shaking | motion, one hand at her belt, and j rested a shoulder against a pillar of j the verandah. He rose also at once, I and said, touching her hand respectfully with his finger tips; “We may be sorry one day that we did not believe in ourselves more.” “Oh, no,” she said, turning and j smiling at him,., “I think not. ! You will be in England j “hard at hard'-nl. lMlfgri our interests will lie far apart. I am certain about it all. We might have been what my cousin calls ‘trusty pals’—no more, “I wish to God I felt sure of that, Nellie Ashforth.” She held out her hand to him. “I believe you aYe honest in this. I expect both of us have played hide-and-seek with sentiment in our time: but

it would be useless for us to masquerade with each other; we are of the world, very worldly.” “Quite useless—here comes your cousiu! Now for the actor's game. I hope I don’t look as disturbed as 1 feel.” “You look perfectly cool, and I know I do. What an art this living is! That cousiu of mine comes about the boar hunt to-morrow. lean see it in his eye.” “Shall you join us?" “Of course. I can handle a ride as well as any of you. Besides, it is your last day here." “Who can tell what to-morrow may bring forth?” he said. She smiled strangely, and then greeted her cousin. The next day the boar-hunt occurred. They rode severat miles to a little lake and a scrub of brigolow, and dismounting, soon had exciting sport. Miss Ashforth was a capital shot, and was, without loss of any womanliness, a thorough sportsmau. To day, however, there was something on her mind, and she was not as alert and successful as usual I Sherman kept with her as much us possible—the more so because he saw that her cousins, believing she was quite well able to take care of her- ; self, allowed her to go her own resources, Presently, however, following an animal, he left her a short distance behind. On the edge of a little billabong she camo upon a truculent looking boar. It turned on her, but she fired and’it fell. Seeing another ahead she pushed on quickly to secure it, too. As shfi went she half cocked her rifle. Had her mind been absolutely intent on the sport, slid, had full-cocked it. All at once she heard the thud of feet her, She turned swiftly and saw the boar she had shot bearing ilptm her. its long yellow tusks standing up like daggers. A sweep iog thrust from oue of them loaves titUe chenap, of lifer— • - -*<?— - \ She dropped upon a knee, swung

her rifle lo her shoulder and nulled the trigger. The rifle would not go off. For an instant she did not Understand what was the trouble. But = with singuiarpresenec of mind, she never lowered her rifle or took her eve from the beast, but remained unmovable. It was all the matter of seconds. Evidently cowed, the animal, when within a few feet of her, swerved to the right, then made as though to come down on her again. But meanwhile she had discovered her mistake and cocked her rifle. She swiftly trained it on the i>oar and fired. It was hit but, did not fall; and came on. Then another shot rang out from behind her, and the boar fell so near her that its tusk caught her dress. Tom Sherman had saved her. She was ver3 r white when she faced him. She could not speak. That 'night she spoke, very greatfully and tenderly. To something that he said gently to her then about a memory, she replied: “Tell trie now as candidly as if to your own soul, did you feel at the critical moment that life would be horrible and empty without me?” “I thought only of saving you,” he said. “Then I was quite right; you will never have any regret," she said. ‘ T wonder,” Tie added sorrowfully. But the girl was sure. The regret was hers: though he never knew that. It Is a lonely life on the dry plains of Nindobar.