Democratic Sentinel, Volume 10, Number 15, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 14 May 1886 — AGREEABLY DECEIVED. [ARTICLE]

AGREEABLY DECEIVED.

“She has got a story, I’m almost certain,” says Fanny Tullan. “I can see it in the expression of her face. I onlv wish I had courage to ask her about it” It was a dull, rainy day—one of the bleak premonitors of tfie equinoctial storm —and as there was not much doing in the post-office, the girls took longer than usual at their lunch. Fanny sat on a packing-box, turned upside down, under the stairway that led down to the sorting-room, slowly munching her cake; ana Ella Hay, her companion at the counter, was nestled at her feet, eating bread and butter and raspberry jam with the heartiest of appetites. At the same moment, Verona Gordon, the telegraphist, came lightly down the stairs in her dark-blue serge gown, and tier satin-brown braids of nair shining in the oblique light of the dust-dimmed window. She caught Fanny’s last sentences, and pausea abruptly. “To ask whom?” said she. “Who has got a story?” And Fanny, spurred on by a sudden upward blaze of courage, answered: “You!" Verona smiled. In repose, her face was cold and*grave; but when it lighted up with that rare smile, it was absolutely beautiful Instead of being offended, however, she sat cheerfully down on the other half of the packing-box. “You are right, Miss Tullan,” she. “I have got a story, else I never ehoold have been in this office. I wasn’t brought up to work, and I don’t like working the instrument from morning until night any better than other people do.’ r Fanny Tullan’s great grey eyes opened wide. “Oh, Verona,” said she, “won’t vou tell it to us?” “Of course I will,” said Verona. “Why shouldn’t I? You were very kind to me, Fanny Tullan, when first I came, lonely and inexperienced, to the office. It would be hard indeed if I couldn’t do as much to please and amuse you.” “Of course you have already surmised that lam a lady by birth,” said she. “That goes without saying. But you would scarcely have imagined that I was once an heiress. Westerndale Hall —that was the name of the place—a beautiful old house, down by the sea. Oh, I loved that house!—and now I never shall see it any more!” Her lip quivered; the tears came into her eyes for a second, and then she Went bravely on:

“But I didn’t know until quite lately that there was a lawsuit about Westerndale Hall; that some other branch of family believed that they had a better right to it than my mother and I. Mamma never told me about it; and, luckily it was not until after her death that tnat hateful lawyer’s letter came. The letter, I mean, that notified me, with a mock respect that was worse than any amount of downright insolence would have been, that Western dale Hall belonged to my fourth or fifth cousin, instead of me. There was something in it about my not being disturbed in the occupancy, if it suited me to remain; but I could listen to no such belittling proposition as that. I tore the letter into pieces, and packed my personal belongings into one little trunk and came away. I took refuge with a relative of my mother, who lives, in a very quiet way, in London, and it was she that helped me to go to the school, and get Jthis place; and there is my story.” “The beginning,” said Fanny Tullan, nibbling up the last crumb of her lunch; “but not the end!” “Why not the end?” “Oh, because you’ll see that the end will be that you’ll somehow go back to ‘Westerndale Hall, and the cousin will be a stately, dark-eyed aristocrat, who will fall headlong in love with you, at the very first sight,” nodded Fanny. Miss Verona laughed in spite of herself.

“Then he may fall out again,” said she. “There goes the clock! I must get back to work —and so must you, children. The fairy story is over; the work-a-day hour is beginning once more.” It was still raining hard when Verona came out into the dreary autumn night, where the wet pools glistened on the pavement, ana the gas-lamps shone sulkily through the mist. From the other side of the street a shadow-like figure approached, the ra4ius of an umbrella extended itself over

her head, and her arm was calmly pulled under that of a tall young man in a waterproof coat •Oh, Paul is it you?” said Verona. *«Yes, it is l” answered a firm, cheerful voice. “I knew you would forget your umbrella.” “Yesterday's wind turned it inside out and split the gingham into ribbons,” said Verona, laughing, as she hurried along by the side of her cousin, Paul Bothermel. “Well at all events, it was thoughtful of you to come for me, Paul. But you are always thoughtful.” Paul did not answer; it was his way to be silent and abstracted. “Well what luck have you had today,” asked Verona. “The best of luck,” he answered. “They have decided to accept my invention, and put it into immediate use. I am to have £I,OOO down, and £SOO a year royalty on my patent as long as they use it—which, ff it don’t turn out a poorer thing than I believe, will be for ever and ever.” “Oh, Paul!” cried Verona, breathlessly. “I am very glad of this, Verona,” he said. “Do you know why?”

“I can guess.” “No, I don’t believe you can quite guess,” he said, gently. “It is because this has prompted me to speak out what has long been on my mind—to ask you to be my wife. You ate one of the women, dear, who should be a born princess, instead of a post-office clerk, drudging all the day long behind a desk. I want to put you on your throne again.” “Dear Paul!” she whispered, softly, and just for the fraction of a moment her little black straw bonnet crushed its cluster of scarlet poppies against his waterproof shoulder—“only put me on the throne of your heart and keep me there, and that is all I want As for my kingdom, why, Westerndale —” “What about Westerndale?” “Perhaps one day we may be rich enough to buy it back. Not just yet Paul, we are only beginning the world as yet; but some day. ’ “Westerndale then be it’’ said Paul, in his dreamy, far-off way. “Suppose, Verona, that you and I and my mother make a holiday of to-morrow, and go up and see what this imaginary place is like.”

“But it isn't imaginary; and 1 wouldn't (or the world hare the heir suppose that we are prying about the premises that are lawnilly his.” 'Oh, hang the fellow!’ r said Paul. “I suppose he can’t forbid us the privilege of looking, can he?” Paul Rothervel had his way. He always did have his way, in a soft, imperturbable fashion, which you never fully comprehended until it had got the better of you past all recovery. They took the train the next morning, all three of them —Verona having gone to the office and easily obtainea leave from her kind-hearted chief, and went up to Eastport, which was the little village about a mile from where the salt waves were curling in foamy fringes to the very foundations of Westemdale Hall. “Isn’t it a sweet old placeP” cried Verona. “Oh! how I long to be here once again—to be at home here!” “It isn’t bad,” said Paul, meditatively surveying its grey stone towers and casements of stained glass, the old sun-dial at the south end of the house, and the Soup of cedars opposite, while old Mrs. >thermel boldly assended the flight of stone steps and rang the bell. Out came Mr. Pepperton, the lawyer, smiling and bowing like an amiable Jack-in-the-box, “Happy to see you, Mr. Rothermel!” said he, “most happy, l am sure! Would you be so kind as to step in—yourself and these ladies? I’ve had fires lighted in all the rooms (a stone house like this is apt to be damp if it isn’t kept wellaired) and a lunch has been sent up from the hotel in the village. Pray walk in, Miss Gordon; your most obedient! lam exceedingly glad to see that you have been able to arrive at a satisfactory arrangement with your cousin, the heir.”

“My cousin, the heir? I think, Mr. Popperton, that you must have gone out of your mind!” said Verona, drawing herself up after a most stately manner. But Paul Rothermel turned to her with a smile. “His mind is all right, Verona,” said he. “I am your cousin, two or three times*removed, instead of your poor first cousin—am I not? As for being the heir, that isn’t my fault, is it? The lawsuit was begun before I was born.” “Paul, you have deceived me!” cried Verona, with flashing eyes. But the next instant they softened into liquid light; her color rose beneath his tender giance. “Have I, dearest?” he said. “Not when I told you that I loved you. That is the main thing—isn’t it, dearest? We were going to be happy without Westerndale Hall; cannot we be happier still with it?” And Fanny Tullan and Ella Hay came to the wedding, and helped the bride rejoice. “The story has ended exactly as it ought to,” said Fanny, “as 1 foretold it would.” “And now wo know that novels aren't a bit more romantic fhan in real life,” asserted Miss Ha v.

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The new display of Goods, selected and bought by such a combination of experience and taste as Mr. and Mrs. Ludd Hopkins may justly claim to have, will certainly sell at the prices offered. The business of W. J. Wrigl t deceased, will continue, under the management of Park Wright, who is authorized to settle all claims and collect all moneys due.

Park Wright.