Democratic Sentinel, Volume 20, Number 19, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 15 May 1896 — WORTH WINING [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

WORTH WINING

CHAPTER XI. What is going on this same Saturday afternoon at Silvermead? Lady Prendergast sits erect in her favorite high-backed chair in the state drawing room. Camilla stands a few feet off, and Cyril Acton is taking leave, hat in hand, after an afternoon call. What had passed between these three is apparently of a momentous and exciting nature, for the two young people seemed flushed and anxious, while Lady Prendergast has a deeper line than usual between her brows, and steadies her voice with difficulty as she says: “No, Mr. Acton, I am not angry —not angry with you at least. l am sorry that you should have taken so much trouble in vain.” “I am very sorry to have failed, of course.” Here he glanced at Camilla, from whose eyes there shot flames of fire as they met Acton’s without a gleam of shame or confusion. They seemed to say—- “ Heed her not, she shall never subdue me.” “I do not wish you," pursued the old lady, “to leave this house with any lingering misapprehensions on your mind. Have I made myself quite clear?” “I—l think so.” “My conclusions are two, not hard to remember, if you separate them from all the discussions we have had to go into. First, then, your request is refused once and for all. Secondly, in consequence of that refusal, as, also on account of the new circumstances in which my grandchild now finds herself, I must beg, nay, I insist, that you meet her no more.” “Yes, Lady Prendergast, there is no danger of my forgetting either of those points.” This Mr. Acton said with unconcealed bitterness. “As for Camilla, I have expressly forbidden her to see you or communicate with you again, and she is bound by every law, human and divine, to show me obedience. For yourself, I know you well enough to feel sure that you will make it a point of honor not to tempt this misguided girl to disobey me. Personally, I need hardly tell you that I am very, very sorry that for a long time at least we shall meet no more.” Lady Prendergast here extended her hand, which he took, and they exchanged a mutual “Good-by ”

“Grandma, I don’t think this bell rings. I will try the one in the hall,” and despite a stern “Camilla!” from her relative, which she affected not to hear, she and Cyril Acton disappeared from the room together. “I dare not walk around with you,” she said, in a hurried whisper. “Oh! how 6liall I ever thank you?” “Lilia, when you know I am more than repaid by-—” “Oh, bless you!” she went on, wringing his hand, her head half turned back lest they should unawares be watched. “Oh, I am ashamed to ask the question, but — you will be there?” “I swear it!” he said, pressing to his lips the little white hand which still held his. And he was gone, while Camilla flew hack to her grandmother. “Camilla,” began the old lady, “I feel convinced that in spite of the awful sin •Which it involves, you have asked Acton to meet you again.” “N—no.” “Camilla,” she said, in a very low and solemn voice, “I have ever found you •truth itself. Still, I sea know that you are keeping something back from me. Child,” she went on, and her voice lost its sternness and became on a sudden so piteous that even Camilla, who loved her not, and who had especially hardened her •heart against her on this occasion, seemed sensibly moved by it. “Child, you know I am miserable; a word from you can set me at rest. What was your object in leaving the room just now? Oh, lam no longer commanding—l entreat.” Camilla may have felt this now, for a slight thrill of emotion ran through her, and she had a certain pity for Lady Prendergast. But she never moved from where she was.

“Why,” she asked herself, “if I am all Jn all to her, would she not listen to Cyril’s prayer? Unbounded Jove means unbounded sacrifice. I will not be deceived by her. She may not know she is speaking falsely, but I know it. She would rather see me dead at her feet, with all her boasted love for me, than bend where I want her to bend. That is loving herself first, not me, as she pretends.” Then aloud: “Grandma, ask me nothing more to-day. I have spoken the truth to you. I will answer or tell you nothing more, either because there is nothing more to tell or because I cannot tell it. Why pain jne by making me repeat this thing again and again?” “Ah!” said her ladyship, between two moods, “in one thing, at least, you are :my very own child! When you do say, i'l won’t,’ there’s an end of it.” It is. easier to surround a fortress than ,to get inside, and poor Lady Prenderjgast thought of this as she sat there today encircling the fair young being with her aged arms, whose heart she knew only too well that she could not enter. “And now, gran’ma, dear,” said the girl, “I feel tired and worn out by all this —this piece of work we have had. I want to be alone. I think I could sleep, for I had a bad night. Please let me go to my room and lie down till dinner time.” And without waiting for formal permission she gave her relative a kiss and fled away to the solitude she yearned for. Perhaps we shall find that Camilla Harding had still more need of a good sound afternoon’s sleep, with a view to the night of this particular day, than was ever shadowed forth in the above exit speech of hers. “Ha!” thought the old lady, as she took refuge from the hard things of life in the pleasant ones of fiction, and resumed the half-finished novel at her side, “what a blessing that Heaven still spares me vigorous eyes! By their help I am independent of all the world. Heigho! though, I wdsh I 1 could find out how to make my little Lilia love me!” CHAPTER XII. The accident to Lady Caulfield had no serious consequence. It was, indeed, alarming; arising as it did in the highly Undignified maneuver on her part of catching a crab, and thus upsetting the very •small boat in which she and Jack Forbes "were. They were no sooner in the water —a fact which, as neither of them could «wim a yard, terrified them beyond measure—than they found themselves, to their intense delight, on land; land, that is, at we bottom of the water—the lake, which

BY JEAN MIDDLEMAS

was for the most part deep, bring fortunately but about three feet six in depth at that particular part. As Horace and Lady Susan reached the brink on one side, Sir Howard and Lord Caulfield did so on tne other; and the only wonder is, how these four well-bred personages managed to keep their risible faculties within any reasonable bounds. There, at some twenty yards from the shore, stood the drowners, who had called so lustily for help, clinging to each other in a fashion which looked like nothing but the most tremendous hugging. A room had been prepared for her ladyship, and when they had got her comfortably to bed, such a quantity of hot grog was poured by different hands down her throat, that besides being horribly scalded about that region and her mouth, the poor lady was made—well —most suspiciously talkative, of course all with the best intentions in the world. Jack Forbes, not being so illustrious an individual, was suffered to content himself with such attentions as he might choose to bestow upon himself, which were almost nil. As to Sir Howard, when he found that the little contretemps was likely to have no serious consequences, he began to look upon it quite as a providential blessing. He insisted upon the Caulfields sending off for such baggage as they might require for a couple of nights, and was uncommonly proud of the dash and generalship exhibited by his beloved nephew under Lady Susan’s eye, and for the deliverance from her awful position of that rich young lady’s mamma. But no sooner had the general good night been given than Horace sought the old butler, and telling him he was certain he should never close an eye all night unless he went out first for a ramble, arranged that one of the back doors should remain unbarred, he being provided with the keys thereof. And what is his errand and whither is he bent? In sooth he knows not. Yet not more surely does the homing pigeon wing its flight to the parent dovecot than a lover instinctively wends his way toward that particular spot of earth where his lady dwells. He was just emerging from a little copse, at not much more than a mile from Silvermead, when even his brave young heart was startled from all its self-pos-session by a loud sound which, of all possible ones, was the last to be expected in that place, and at that time. This was the shrill and prolonged neighing of a horse; there was nothing but deer in Silvermead Park, and Horace, on following the sound and turning a dense corner of the plantation to his right—which shut off the animal from view at the moment he heard it —now beheld, full in the moonlight, and tied by the bridle to a tree, a white-stockinged chestnut hack, which he instantly recognized as a recent purchase of his friend Mr. de Basle. “Wlmt in the name of all that’s conceivable can our worthy M. P. be doing all these miles away, in the middle of the night?” exclaimed Horace under his breath. Then, like a flash of lightning that kills you even while it dispels the darkness, the thought struck him—- “ Acton!” Yes, Acton was the guest of de Basle's still, and now it was doubtless he who, under some specious pretext of riding in another direction, had borrowed the blooded hack, and galloped over to Silvermead.

CHAPTER XIII. Horace’s almost certain suspicion that Cyril Acton was either now at Silvermead House, or lurking in the neighborhood, was destined to receive immediate confirmation. Not two hundred yards from where the horse was tied he saw something shining in the grass. This proved to be a silver shield upon a Russia leather cigar case, and on it was clearly engraved in bold characters, the monogram of C. and A. He flung it down where he had found it and hurried on. Suddenly the great tower clock began to toll forth into the mystic silence, the witching hour of twelve. Exactly as its last stroke ceased to vibrate, the glass doors on the terrace slowly opened, and Camilla, clad in some loose robe of dark material, cautiously came forth. Within three steps of the ground, she stops with the air of one who says, “I’ll go no further, come what may.” This was apparently the preconcerted signal, or at all events Horace felt it to be. The unfortunate boy’s heart now beat to that degree, and his temples throbbed so, that he believed in another moment something must break, give way, or burst, and he must die. To be sure, he little knew what man can bear and live! The sound in his head can be likened only to the beating of a drum. Suddenly, from out a clump of evergreens to the right, and still protected by their deep shade to within three paces from where she stood, the form of a young man rapidly emerged, and lightly bounding with the elasticity of youth and love to where Camilla stood—with eager outstretched arms—he clasped her passionately to his breast. No sooner had Horace Brudenell, struck to the heart by what he saw, realized that his presence at Silvermead was certainly not required than he proceeded to beat a retreat, for he felt sure that it was Cyril Acton who was happy in the arms of that Camilla Harding, whom, in a moment before, Horace had not ceased to worship, even if he had begun to doubt her. “Since,” he told himself, “she was worthless, better a thousand times that I should have found her out. Hence I rejoice infinitely in having obeyed the impulse which took me to Silvermead tonight. But am I any the less wretched on that account? lam not now mourning her as she is, but as I believed her to be. was a delusion, but what of that? Why, to my misfortune, has my goddess proved of clay ? Why, in a word, was it not ordained that this girl should turn out all I so fondly thought her, all that she so completely seemed?” The next day, after church had been duly attended, Sir Howard summoned his nephew to the library, and, having carefully shut the door, delivered himself as follows: “Howard, our guests, the Caulfields, leave us to-morrow, and, as you are aware, proceed to town in a very few days. When lately I laid before you my views concerning a possible marriage between you and the daughter of my old friend and neighbor, you pleaded surprise, and asked for time to consult your feelings and think the matter over.” “Yes, uncle, and I assure you I have done so very carefully.”

“Well, nephew, I suppose yon can only have arrived at one result?” Although Sir Howard said this with much show of confidence, a careful observer could not fail to detect a certain amount of doubt and anxiety both in his manner and tone. These were destined, however, to be speedily set at rest. “Yes, uncle. If you still think that Lady Susan and her parents hold me worthy of so great an honor, I have quite made up my mind to propose to her.” This was explicit at any rate. No opposition on Horace’s part need any further be feared. Yet, now a new discontent arose in the baronet’s mind. Horace spoke like a dutiful nephew, certainly, but yet not the least as a lover. Lady Susan was exactly the sort of statuesque woman whom Sir Howard himself admired, and this utter indifference to her charms in his young kinsman at once bred suspicion and uneasiness in the uncle’s mind. He did not know what to say next, and there was an awkward pause, Horace half suspecting the truth. At last Sir Howard asked: “Do you not greatly admire Lady Susan?” “I do, indeed; she is undeniably handsome.” “I am sure you ought to consider yourself a most fortunate young man.” “And so I do, uncle. Have you any doubt on the subject?” “No, no—only neither at this moment, nor in what I have noticed when you were together, do I detect that—that empressement—those, in short—those symptoms which denote the lover. “I should think not, indeed,” said Horace to himself. Then aloud—- “ Uncle, in the first place we are not a demonstrative family, and then, to be quite frank with you, I doubt if I shall ever be”—and he nearly said “again”— “what is called ‘in love!’ But surely that condition is hardly necessary to constitute a happy marriage. If Ido not yet exactly love Lady Susan, remember how very little I have seen of her, and take into consideration one great point in my favor —I certainly love no one else.” (To be continued.)