Democratic Sentinel, Volume 20, Number 20, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 22 May 1896 — WORTH WINNING [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

WORTH WINNING

BY JEAN MIDDLEMAS.

CHAPTER XIV. Very different was the anxiety with which Camilla Harding looked forward to the promised visit of her Horace on the day which followed the above interview between uncle and nephew. She longed for it with a feverish joy which prevented her sitting still or settling down to any sort of occupation for three consecutive minutes, from the time she rose from breakfast. But, if waiting for three o’clock to come was an excitement more painful than pleasurable, what shall be said of the change for the worse as that hour, then the quarter, then the half hour struck, and no Horace appeared ? It seems like a work of supererogation to explain the events of that eventful night more clearly than has already been done, and to say, in so many words, why sweet Lilia’s conscience, as regarded Horace, was light and at rest. No one will of course have doubted her tor a moment, nor fail to recognize in the seeming Romeo her erratic, erring, but still affectionate, and in face and above all, in figure, admirably preserved father. Neither were you puzzled to know that Cyril Acton had a connection with the affair, and without such a guide and gobetween, that nocturnal conspiracy of a man and his daughter—separated for more than a whole year—to meet for a few brief minutes, could certainly not have been successfully carried out, in a Country and on premises quite unknown to the chief actor in the scene. Acton had simply ridden over to a certain signpost, as arranged between them by correspondence; had there met Cave Harding, who had walked by the side of the Chestnut hack, as far as the spot where •Horace found the animal tied to a railing. Thence the friends had walked together Within a stone’s throw of Camilla’s windows. As has been seen, Cave advanced clone to his child immediately on the •troke of twelve, while Acton, whom Camilla never even saw on that night, kept Watch around, being equally on the alert for any movement from within the house, nay, more so, than out of it. Thanks, however, for Horace’s caution and previous acquaintance with the ground, he tecaped Cyril’s vigilance. Well, the nocturnal interview had endid by their both agreeing that it was very delightful, but very wrong and foolish, and must on no account be risked again. Acton was to contrive an occasional correspondence until such time as this model parent's “little speculations” should bear sufficient fruit to enable him and his daughter to “snap their fingers at the old eat,” as Cave irreverently put it, at which remark Lilia, I am afraid, laughed. Thus it will be seen that the ill-fated girl could have no suspicion that she had incurred her lover’s displeasure, and that thought, at least, was not added to her other miseries on this dreadful Monday afternoon. For the hundredth time Camilla strays to one of the windows which look on the approach, and pressing her forehead against the rain-beaten pane to cool it, strains her eyes through the wet and foggy distance in vain. Tuesday morning broke somber and rainy, like the day before. The post-bag contained a letter from Massing, but it was not from the right person, being merely a line from Sir Howard, saying that he should be passing the Silvermead lodge gates on his way to a political meeting at the other side of the eoifnty, and fnild stop and ask for luneon on his way. Camilla’s face began to resume much of its wonted brightness as the luncheon hour drew near. No doubt Sir Howard’s announced descent upon them, albeit that he Baid he should be passing, was susceptible of a very favorable interpretation indeed. What more natural than that, on Horace telling him of the course he had taken, his uncle should have given a qualified consent, stipulating that no further step be taken until he had himself seen I*dy Prendergast, and made his own conditions; and in such a case Sir Howard would very likely have undertaken to verbally excuse Horace for not having kept his appointment of the previous day. Sir Howard’s visit was probably not •o completely a matter of chance as he would have it appear. True, he owed Lady Prendergast a visit and was not at all loath to break a dreary drive of over a dozen miles through a soaking country by stopping at Silvermead for a snack and a chat. But, as we have seen, the tales he had been told about his nephew and this young girl had exercised his spirit in no common degree, and now that Horace had acceded to all his wishes, never even hinting at any attachment for Camilla, and had gone off to London for the express purpose of pushing his suit with Lady Susan, there was no doubt *«me feeling of curiosity at work in the uncle, which prompted him to come and judge for himself of the state of affairs. As for the did lady—time had somewhat dulled her mortal vision, and, to a less extent, her general perceptions. She was, therefore, at the moment the least disturbed of the three. It was in her most ordinary manner and tone that she •aid, after hands had been shaken; “This is a kindly thought of yours, Sir Howard, to take pity upon two lone women. Come and sit down near the fire.” “I assure you, Lady Prendergast, the gain is mine. Besides, lam a lone man now. My nephew has gone off to his first London season.” “Already!” said the dowager, surprised. “Yes; he went yesterday. Well, there is a good deal for him to do, one way and another. I have just put him into the yeomanry, and there is his uniform to get. Then Lord Caulfield is to present him—a horse or two to buy—and ” “Then we shall see him no more for the present V put in Camilla, who had not yet spoken. “Why, no; not unless you are going up to adorn some of the London balls, Miss Harding; he will be at them all, I promise you.” "‘Oh, I am not going up, but if I did,” •he added, with a proud smile and a secret effort, “I do not know that I should dance with Mr. Brudenell.” “Indeed! Is he so bad a performer?” “Oh, dear, no, a very good waltzer, but — “Why, then?” “Well, Sir Howard, he —he asked particularly if I—if we should be at hime yesterday, Monday; I said we should be very happy to see him, and —he never came.” Daring this speech Camilla kept np an Attempt at laughter and a bantering tone. “Reallyr exclaimed Sir Howard, with Mfeigned surprise, “I was not aware ”

“Now, was not that detestably rude for a new acquaintance?” pursued the poor child, more lightly still “Rudeness is not one of Horace’s faults,” said the baronet, half to himself, and lapsing suddenly into a brown study. “I am as puzzled as you are — hum ” The topic continued to absorb him, and during a short conversation which followed between himself and his hostess, he was so absent that he twice had to ask her to repeat some remark. This was a small thing, the talk being only of a new gardener and some flowers that cheered the rooms, but to Camilla it was a feather which showed how the wind blew. The anxious uncle was meanwhile asking himself why Horace had formally announced a visit to Silvermead; why, having done so, he failed to keep the appointment; why, failing, he had sent neither message nor note of excuse ? About half an hour after they quitted the dining room, and when the conservatory had been duly inspected and the usual little commonplaces of leave-taking all spoken by these three goodly personages, Sir Howard’s well-appointed brougham and pair came round, and bore him away externally serene; but, ail the same, with a strong suspicion on his mind that he was leaving two quite sorrowing hearts behind him.

CHAPTER XV. When three weeks had passed anp Camilla had received no word the spirit of self-preservation spoke at last in our little heroine, and she resolved, after infinite deliberation, to write a long letter to Horace. It was ns follows; “My Dear Horace—l am perhaps calling you so for the last time, yet I cannot begin my letter in any other "way, because, until I know more, I will not condemn you. “It is no use my telling you how you have behaved to me, because you know better than I do how badly it is. I have almost worn my brain out with trying to account for it, or explain it in any conceivable way. “By dint of pondering and pondering, and, indeed, praying hard for light, I have come to ask myself whether something I did between our last meeting and the Monday when you were to have come here, is not the key to the whole trouble. My grandmother will not nllow me to see my father. I have always loved him more than I think even other girls love theirs. He has had great misfortunes. We arranged and carried out a meeting at midnight on the Saturday after I saw you. It was here close to the house. Mr. Acton helped us. We were together for nearly half an hour and no one found us out. At least I ought to say not that I know of. “Now, supposing my meeting with my father was discovered by some prying servants, gamekeeper or other person, and that it thus from mouth to mouth reached your ear, I say I can imagine that you, after taking due measure for ascertaining that the information was trustworthy, should say to yourself—never dreaming that it was my own father that I had met; ‘Here is a girl who is utterly bad. No courtesy or consideration is due her.’ Oh my dear Horace, I hope that I am right! for I can bear my present anguish no more, indeed I cannot. “The thought strikes me that you will write at once, that I may be the happiest girl in England or out of it. "Ever till death, your own “CAMILLA.” There had been, some time before, much talk of getting from London a stained glass window for the conservatory. Lady Prendergast had spoken one day to Cyril Acton about it. Glass chanced to be rather a hobby of his, and he recommended a certain firm in Lambeth for executing the work. Subsequently two or three notes had passed between them relative to this. “Oh, by-the-bye, dearest,” said Lady Prendergast that day, “here are the measurements of the sash; I wish you would write to good, kind Mr. Acton "for me, and inclose them. Say I like the design particularly.” Here, then, was her opportunity. Acton, who moved in the same society, had probably met Horace several times already since she had introduced them to one another. At any rate, even if Acton did not know the latter’s address, nothing could be easier than for him to find it out. Needless to say she at once accepted the old lady’s commission, and having fulfilled it, added: “I have to bother you also with a favor I want you to do for me. If you do not happen to know Mr. Horace Brudenell’s address, will you kindly find it out and send him the inclosed letter from me? I shall perhaps some day tell you more upon the subject, but cannot do so at present. Neither can I explain to you now why you are to make no allusion to this matter in any letter you may write to my grandmother, or indeed in any way to any person. Your old friend, “CAMILLA HARDING.” CHAPTER XVI. Cyril Acton inhabits a comfortable set of rooms in South Audley street. He is sitting there one May morning in a somewhat restless mood. Cyril Acton is ambitious —fiercely, unscrupulously so, and he is seldom ever tempted by such things as may clog his darling ends. Young as he is, he has already grown furious with fate, and regards all men and women as mere tools, so many chessmen to his hand. His position is, no doubt, somewhat cruel, and enough to sour a far better nature; indeed, the case is a singularly hard and strange, although not an unparalleled one. His father, now Viscount Hammersley, when traveling as a youth of three-and-twenty in the United States, chanced to meet a young Irish lady lately arrived there, and who, like most of her nation, was a Roman Catholic. The girl was of good family, and Cyril’s father had at that time not the faintest apparent chance of inheriting the family wealth and honors. The youthful pair became attached, and were married at a small town in Florida, little dreaming that the law of that State had certain clauses regarding mixed marriages, which, unless conformed with, would cast a fearful shade over their whole existence. It was not until three years afterward, when they had already a son and daughter, and when a number of Actons had happened to die off most - obligingly, that they discovered simultaneously with Mr. Acton's accession to the titles and estates of their illustrious house, that he had no "wife. The unhappy pair now heard for the

first time that in the place where their supposed marriage took place it is obligatory, when one of the parties is a Roman Catholic, the other a Protestant, to make declarations of the fact, or the ceremony is null and void. All that could be done was for a new marriage to be gone through, which step was of course taken, and the unfortunate mother became a wife and a viscountess, but, alas! nothing could be found to avail the children. Now, it befell that three months after the new marriage there came another son, but whether owing to the anguish its mother had gone through, or to some other cause, it proved from the first a complete cripple, and a few months revealed only too certainly that it was also weak of intellect. Lady Hammersley, although no reproach attached to her, was of a highly sensitive nature, so that with every right and opportunity for entering the most fashionable circles, she shrunk from showing herself where she knew her cruel and strange story must be forever whispered around her. Persuading her loving husband to emigrate once more, they henceforth took up their abode in a somewhat remote part of Canada, where at the period now reached they still continued to reside, Lord Hammersley occasionally coming over to England. It was there that little by little they framed and matured a plan which, if not to be defended, can at least claim mitigating circumstances in its favor. This was nothing less than the transposition of their two sons. Profiting by a journey of some two hundred miles to change all their servants, and also their headquarters from one town where they knew almost nobody, to another where they had never set foot, they simply interchanged the names and ages of the two boys and the trick was done. To halve their consciences, they told themselves that the poor rightful heir, Cyril, could never have been benefited in any way by his position, while their beloved Lucius, who now was made to drop that appellation forever, was only restored to what they called “his moral rights before heaven,” he being framed in every way to shine and enjoy, and alike to make up for their own obscurity and brilliantly carry on the ancient honors of their house. The surreptitiously legitimatized boy, being by this time seven years old—for the plot was not conceived and carried out with any rash haste—it became of course necessary to let him into the secret, and to explain to him, as fnr as possible, all the complex bearings of the strangely intricate case. Naturally a precocious youngster, especially where self-interest, was concerned, he henceforth appeared eyen more wonderfully developed, both in mind and body, than he really was, for he had to profess to be full two years younger than he actually was. It was truly wonderful how the little Lucius, henceforth Cyril, grasped and digested the whole situation! and even in time threw out many a valuable suggestion which had escaped the more limited acumen of the parental plotters. (To be continued.)