Democratic Sentinel, Volume 8, Number 38, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 17 October 1884 — ETHEL'S TEST. [ARTICLE]

ETHEL'S TEST.

BY JENNIE S. JUDSON.

“Cyril, you stupid old book-worm, get up this instant 1 Here it is 4 o’clock; the Henrys are expected in half an hour, and you have made no rgove to meet them. Auntie is depending on me to see that you are ready, and she will be so provoked.” “When ‘auntie’ assigned you that commission, my dear, did its possible magnitude occur to you?” asked Cyril, provokingly, as he turned a pair of handsome eyes on the sweet young face at his side. “You know even a woman will turn at last. What then if I should boldly declare my independence and assert that I will not prepare to meet the Henrys ?” “Oh! Cyril, how utterly provoking you can be,” cried Ethel, as the young man coolly resumed his reading. “Now, do be good, won’t you?” she asked, coaxingly. “Auntie is sure you’ll like Miss Henry, she is so altogether nice.” “What’s Hecuba to me, or I to Hecuba?” he answered, lazily. “I’m very well satisfied with the company I now have.” “Does that remark apply to the book or to me?” “I will be good, Ethel,” was the irrelevant reply, as he left the swinging hammock and took a seat at her side, "provided my concession meets with due reward.”

“Virtue is always its own reward. What more can you wish?” “Something you’ve never given me yet,” gazing down intently into the beautiful, upturned eyes. “Something I ask not only as a reward, but that you must give m> as good-by. ” “Good-by!” in a startled voice, “why good-by?” “Because the coming of all these gay young people will mean nothing but separation for us, Ethel. There will be no more quiet strolls by the brook, no more readings in the afternoons, no more home music in the twilight.” “I knQw,” said Ethel, quietly; “but I thought it would be so much pleasanter for you that I tried not to care. ” “Oh! don’t you wish,” she added, impulsively, “that auntie had no school friends whose children might come to visit her ?” “Hardly,” was the terse reply, given with a quizzical glance. “How stupid of nfe!” she laughed, "for I should not have had this lovely home myself, nor my dear brother Cyril, if mamma and auntie had not been such friends at school. “Now, brother mine,” she continued, never noting the young man’s paling lips nor darkened brow, “what is the reward you wish ?” “Only a few of those violets at your throat,” he answered, m a repressed tone. “But, Ethel,” mastered at last by some strange excitement, “I beg of you never again to call me brother. I cannot bear that title from you. ” “Forgive me. It was a liberty. I had. no right.” “No. You have no right. I-—” And then he. nqw pressed his lips as ’though no othw yord should pass them. “Would you not be willing to have me for your sister, Cyril?” she asked, raising lovely, deprecating eyes to his. She little knew the wild thrill her beauty and innocence gave him, nor with what an effort he turned away. “No,” he answered, almost sternly. "I would never regard you as a sister.” A glance of honest pain was his answer, and Ethel rose and walked away. “The struggle is a sore one,” he •cried, as she disappeared among the shrubbery, “but lam conqueror yet. I dared not ask the kiss she would in her childish innocence have givdn. My heart would have lingered on my lips and told the story I have so long suppressed, that I have vowed she shall not hear until her heart has stood some test. She shall see the gay world about her first this summer, and when she knows better what to choose, I will lay my heart at her feet.”

Gayety reigned supreme at “High Oaks” in the days that followed, for Mrs. Grafton, Ethel’s guardian, was endeavoring to make her young ward’s first experience in society a happy one. And Ethel’s bright face gave no betrayal but that her attempt was a j success. “Where is Miss Ethel?” asked Clarence Henry one morning, as he stepped on the piazza, where his sister and Cyril were holding an animated conversation. “You will find her in the shrubbery likely," was Cyril’s careless reply. And yet he felt a jealous thrill that Clarence had supplanted him in seeking her. He noted Ethel’s blush and swift upward glance as Mr. Henry spoke, and the fate that had caused him to meet Miss Henry on the piazza. Two weeks had passed without one 'quiet talk between the two who, previous to the coming of their had been almost inseparable, and Cyril chafed at the constant separation. “How jolly May and Mr. Gray ton are together,” observed Clarence as his sister’s merry laugh broke on the air. “The old family arrangement may be happily consummated yet; who knows ?” “Was there an arrangement?” asked £thel, quietly. “Yes; made years ago when they were ‘children. They were very congenial even then, but Cyril went away five years ago to Germany, and May has never seen him since until now. The course of true love will run smooth in this case, I imagine.” “It certainly seems to run smooth

now,” said Ethel, hiding her trembling lips in the heart of a dewy rose. “Another link to draw us nearer to each other, Ethel,” whispered the enamored young man. “Oh! I have torn my hand on this mischievous thorn,” cried Ethel, glad to listen no longer. “Cruel, cruel thorn to wound so charming a little hand,” exclaimed Clarence as he raised the injured member to his lips. “There is the luncheon bell, Mr. Honry. Let us surprise auntie by being on time,” and Ethel started hastily toward the house. She stooped, however, as she passed the library window to pick up a pice of paper that fluttered to her feet. A little later, when about to don her riding-habit, this same piece of paper fell from her pocket, and she looked to see what it might contain. The handwriting was Cyril’s, and she read, “I may as well confess Fred, that my heart is my own no longer. I have met one this summer to whom even you would yield homage. I’ll not weary you with rhapsodies upon her beauty, winsomeness and intelligence; for it is enough to say that she is the one woman of the world for me, and—” Here the letter closed abruptly, and Ethel, lifting sad eyes from its perusal, looked hopelessly out into the summer radiance that mocked her from the window. “Cyril told me once,” she cried, “that I had woman’s deepest lesson yet to learn, and this is it; it must be it.” “Why have you deserted me so entirely since the arrival of our guests, Ethel?” asked Cyril, reproachfully, as the two chanced to ride side by side in the gay equestrian party. “Have I deserted you ? I didn’t consider it in that light. I supposed we were both happier as things were, ” she returned, indifferently. The look of pain in Cyril’s face would the day before have brought quick, remorseful words to her lips, but the letter had done its work, and she only thought with scorn, “Cyril’s vanity requires more to feed upon than I had supposed. One acknowledged captive seems to afford it insufficient gratification. ”

Chance threw the two together again that night in the changes of a waltzquadrille, and they danced together for the first time. Cyril forgetting as he clasped the pliant, lissome figure in his arms, her cruel words of the morning, forgetting all save that the sad, languishing music was carrying them on and on in a blissful dream of delight. His eyes almost told the secret his pale lips refused to betray, as he looked down at her when the dance was done. “Bather stupid for us to be thrown so long together, wasn’t it?” laughed Ethel, carelessly, “but I must say that yon are a splendid waltzer, Cyril. ” “And that is all it was to her!” thought Cyril, as with a pale face he turned away. “Fool that I have been,” he muttered vehemently, “to let matters drift. I might have won her love if I had bound her with a vow, but now it is too late, too late. ” “Grafton, may I see you a moment in private?” asked Clarence Henry next morning, as he stepped into the library. “You may,” was the stiff reply. “Is there anything that I can do for you ?” “A great deal, if you see fit. You know my character, Grafton, my prospects, my situation in life, and so forth. Now,” with boyish impetuosity, “have have you anything to say against them?. Or, in other words, is there any valid reason why I may not pay my addresses to your mother’s ward, Miss Wheaton ?” ‘Why do you come tome?” asked Cyril, haughtily. “You must be aware that my mother is £he proper person to address.” “Your mother has given her consent?” was the eager reply. “In coming to you I only desired to make matters agreeable all around. “Miss Ethel has expressed a wish for your happiness,” he continued, “why should you be reluctant to do the same for her?”

“Ethel’s happiness!” exclaimed Cyril, in a low, hoarse voice; “does Ethel’s happiness depend upon my consent to your suit? If so, Mr. Henry ” aster a moment’s bitter struggle, “be assured that her happiness is so dear to me I shall place no obstacle in the way. ” And with a hurried “Excuse me,” he left the room. “What a strange method of procedure!” commented Clarence; “if he were not so infatuated with May, I might think he was in love with Ethel himself.” “Ah, well!” straightening up his stalwart young figure, “I will no longer delay, but ‘ put it to the touch, and win or lose it all.’ ” Two hours later, as Cyril strayed, alone and wretched, through the distant shrubbery, a suppressed sob drew his attention, andj cast down on the green sward in an abandon of sorrow, who should he see but Ethel, dear I little, sunshiny Ethel, who was never known to shed a tear.

“Ethel!” he cried, in quick surprise, “what is it? Why are you here alone?” She sprang suddenly to her feet, exclaiming, with startled vehemence; “You, Cyril! Is it you?” “Yes, Ethel, it is I. Is my presence so very unwelcome?” “Not at all,” with an attempt at proud unconcern; “I had intended soon to see you of my own accord.” “Well,” he answered, coldly, “lam at your service; what is it you desire ?” For a moment she paused, then, flushed and trembling, she said, “I am very sorry, Cyril, that I cannot accede to your and auntie’s wishes. I have never opposed you before, have I?” with a forlorn attempt at a smile; “but indeed in so vital a matter to me I cannot yield entirely to your choice.” How the pale lips quivered. “What do you mean?” “I mean,” passionately, “that much as you and auntie wish it I cannot engage myself to Clarence Henry. I know you will think me blind and wayward, but after all, Cyril,” falteringly, “my heart is my own, and cannot be made to obey the dictates of another.” “Is your heart your own, my darling, ” he whispered with passionate tenderness as he drew her suddenly toward him. One startled glance she gave into the

love-illumined face above her, then hid her happy eyes upon his breast. “Oh! Ethel,” he cried, “how could you for one moment fancy that I wanted you to marry Clarence Henry? My heart was broken at the thought. Has nothing whispered to you the torture I have endured in the past two weeks in seeing him, as I feared, slowly but surely winning your heart from me ?” “I was suffering, too, Cyril,” she answered, in a low, sweet voice. “I thought you cared far more for Miss May than for me. Are you sure,” she added, wistfully, “that you do not?” “Am I sure ?” he mocked her, with a happy laugh. “Look up, my Ethel, my flower, my little queen; take one Ring look into my eyes, and read there whom the love is for.” So Ethel did as she was bid, read, and was satisfied.