Democratic Sentinel, Volume 20, Number 21, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 29 May 1896 — WORTH WINNING [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

WORTH WINNING

BY JEAN MIDDLEMAS.

CHAPTER XVL—(Continued.) If it is a platitude to say that, once abandon the right path, we know not whither we may stray, it is one that cannot be repeated too often. Here waa a fearful case in point Not only did this youth grow up utterly dead to all moral principle, but, some ten years after the first evil step had been taken, the perpetrators found themselves in the following appalling situation: Hammersley is a female title. It so happened that when Cyril was seventeen, and at Eton —no doubt having been ever cast upon his genuineness—the poor idiot cripple, who had hardly ever known a day's health, breathed his last. Lord and Lady Hammersley'had no more children after he was born. Unless then her ladyship betook herself to another world, and my lord were to marry again, it was evident that the title and estates ought, at his death, to devolve upon the next legitimate heir, who was no other than our plain friend Jack Forbes, his father’s mother having been an Acton, daughter of the eighth Viscount and fourteenth Baron Hammersley. Here, then, was the fearful dilemma, as it did not fail to present itself to the unhappy present bearer of the title. Either he must proclaim himself a cheat or he must do his cousin Forbes a monstrous wrong. To do the viscount justice, he not only hesitated long and sorely over the momentous questions, but he actually arrived at the very brink of taking the right and honorable course. Unhappily his wife talked him over. Perhaps that was just what he wanted. Needless to say that the young Etonian was not consulted under the new light—which his brother’s death threw upon the question, nor is there a doubt as to what his advice would have been. But he saw the whole bearings of the case perfectly well without anybody to point them out, and chiefly with the result of conceiving a fixed hatred for his kinsman Jack, whom at that time he had never seen. Notwithstanding all precautions taken, Cyril lived in constant dread of the whole fraud being discovered, and be told himself that the only way to palliate the blow, if it should fall, was to feather his nest while the sun shone. Having now given this somewhat curious key to the young man’s character, it is time to return to him and his doings on the morning in question. From his apparent inability to settle down to anything it is evident he expects somebody. Nor is he kept long waiting. After a rather languid knock at the street door, Mr. Harding is announced, and the friends give a cordial hand-shake.

CHAPTER XVII. “Well,” asked Acton, “have you decided?” “Well, really the thing is so sudden, I hardly know what to say. Why should you be in such a hurry?” “A lover’s impatience.” “In the old days, I own, I used sometimes to think—but dear me, it is hardly three weeks since she told me with her own lips ” “I know, about Brudenell. He, at any rate, is out of the question. The announcement of his engagement to Lady Susan Graye is hourly expected. I met them at the Duke’s last night, and he was most assiduous.” “Then you think poor Lilia ” “Hasn’t a chance. Not that she’ll care for the butterfly even a week. Not she. She’s too much sense, too much pride. Now, I truly love her. When she was a child I loved her as a brother, though even then I indulged at times in future dreams. But it was enough to see her once more—grown into the prettiest and most attractive girl in all England—to conceive for her a love that is as loyal as it is passionate.” “And did you tell her so?” “How could I? Scarcely had the first warm words of greeting been spoken by each of us, after years of separation, than she began to confide to me as many a real sister would have done, all about Brudenell.” “So you held your hand and waited to be played to?” “Just so; but my love grew deeper every hour. Now, listen to be. Fortunately, ‘Camilla wrote to me the other day—oh. a mere nothing, a commission from Lady Prendergast about some glass, but it gives me the privilege of writing to her in return, which her grandmother might otherwise have demurred at.” “Well?” “Well, trust me, the correspondence once begun, to conduct it to my own perfectly honorable ends. All I ask of you is this—and—well, there is nothing, nothing, mind, you shall net ask me in return—may I tell her—not yet, you know, but when the right time comes—may I tell her that I have your authority and support, that you accept me for a son-in-law ?” “My dear boy, you know how fond I have always been of you. As far as I am concerned, I had naturally much rather have you for Lilia’s husband than,a fellow like —that other fellow whom I never saw.” “I am delighted.” It may be remembered that on the occasion of Acton’s last call upon Lady Prendergast, that lady, while giving him credit for the best intentions, yet firmly informed him that he and her niece must meet no more. The cause of this was that he had then come as the avowed companion of Mr. Harding, for it had been settled among the three that this last effort should be tried upon the bitter old lady before resorting to the desperate measure which followed its failure. When the dowager discovered upon what close terms Acton and Cave Harding must necessarily be, she would have abandoned the whole policy of years had she not strenuously forbidden any further personal intercourse between the former and her pet dove. It was to soften the asperity with which she treated him on that occasion that she afterward deputed Camilla to write about the stained glass. Since that memorable Saturday afternoon Camilla and he had never met; and until the letter she wrote to him inclosing that long one which she charged him to forward to Horace, no correspondence had passed between them. When Acton received that double mission one morning at his early breakfast and ran his eye eagerly over the few lines addressed to himself, his first feeling was one of satisfaction that he was alone alone to do exactly as he might choose. The hissing urn was before him. The envelope to Horace was simply stuck down with no precautionary seal. In the coolest way in the world, without even a •light inward struggle, Acton intended

his hand and held the sacred trust in the steam. As he read, at each fresh evidence of the depth of her love he came to, he felt a twinge—a sort of pang, not of remorse, far from it, but of a sort of cruel rage mixed with sarcasm; he almost grinned as he perused, a sardonic exultation mingling with his jealousy. “Yes,” he inwardly muttered, “but I shall not be jealous long. The game is mine. What though she will never love me like this is she the less lovely on that account? Even should she hate me when I at last throw off the mask, why, what care I?” He read the letter twice through from end to end, and then quietly tore it up into the most carefully sflail bits. “Now, what shall I tell her,” he mused, “that I posted it? No. The post so seldom fails. I’ll write that I left it myself at his club, not knowing his private address.” He did know it, for he had returned Horace’s card, but she was not likely to hear of that. “It is quite useless,” he went on, “my making any decisive move at present beyond getting the old man’s consent. I shall write her charming letters, of course, but I must wait for that fellow Brudenell’s grand march to be blazed about before it will be any good to go down to the neighborhood. De Basle told me to come down and stay a fortnight or longer any time I chose. Yes, I think the game is altogether very decidedly in my favor, but pshaw! the clever are always lucky.”

CHAPTER XVIII. Horace Brudenell was having his first London season in the fullest sense of the word. Was he enjoying it? Was he happy? That is another thing. His engagement to Lady Susan was over nnd done. What his uncle had begun his own reckless desperation had concluded. Camilla was false; what mattered his happiness now? Rather like a surgical operation, perhaps; and had there been a looked-on when he proposed, somewhat wanting in true ring, at least on the part of one of the actors; but, under the circumstances, really the little scene had been very creditably got through. One evening he promised to join the ladies at the opera, but when the time came the last act was well on ere he entered their box. Both mother and daughter were highly indignant at this seeming negligence. He announced to them that hia friend Forbes was very ill; in fact, in a raging fever, already quite delirious, and with two eminent doctors attending him. Horace had spent the whole evening at his bedside. “Dear, dear,” said Lady Caulfield, glancing at her daughter’s fine form apologetically, “it seems so selfish to ask, but it is nothing contagious?” “I should say not,” replied Horace, “at any rate not to the extent of my endangering you.” “Oh, but do take care on your own account, Horace,” said Lady Susan, asserting for the first time her new position of a promised bride by using his first name alone.

“And where is he?” pursued the mamma. “I made him come home to dinner with me. We were alone. He ate next to nothing, and just as I was proposing to join you, he grew suddenly worse, complained of violent pain in the head, and began to shiver. He sent for his doctor, Sir Ewing Crofton, and I for mine. Meanwhile, having plenty of room, I insisted on his staying in Chapel street, as I thought he would be more comfortable, and besides, he seemed too bad to be moved needlessly.” “At your house?” said his fiancee. “Oh, how very imprudent. I admire you for it, of course, but had you not better yourself go elsewhere till we know what is the matter?” “No;” said Horace, simply but firmly. “I haven’t many friends, and I intend to stand by Jack and see him through. At the same time if you are at all afraid I will do myself the cruelty of keeping away from your most valued society. I should be miserable to cause you any unnecessary alarm. Even now, if you fancy there is danger ” And he half rose from his seat. However, of course, the ladies would not allow him to go. When Horace got home an hour later, the doctors had sent in an experienced nurse—a woman of mature years, and left word they would return at nine next morning, that no sort of improvement could be looked for for some days. CHAPTER XIX. A little more than a week later, Cyril Acton received a letter from the unhappy girl at Silvermead. Her father chanced to be with him when it arrived, but the young tactician slipped the missive into his pocket, that he might deliberate before saying anything about it to his dear Cave. The latter is radiant to-day, and wears a carnation in his buttonhole. “Well, well, dear boy, I must be off to Newmarket Think I can show my nose at last. Squared most of the Implacable ones, thanks to you, and my recent little winnings.” Acton was bored and longed to read his letters. He pulled out his watch under the pretense of comparing its time with that of the clock on the mantelpiece, but really to hurry Mr. Harding away. The latter, who had plenty of tact, thereupon withdrew, and Acton, taking the nearest chair, broke open the letter with the Silvermead postmark, and read as follows: “My Dear Friend—Whatever my trials, and however disinclined I may be to put pen to paper in any way,'l feel that I have no right to defer thanking you for all your trouble. Mr. Brudenell has never answered my letter. “A hundred loves to dearest papa. I am so glad his affairs are in a better state. Say I would write under cover to you, but for a promise I have made. “Your grateful friend, “CAMILLA HARDING.” “Confound it,” muttered Acton, as he crushed the sheet and pitched it into his open desk, “she loves the fellow still! Time, time alone can change her. My precious cousin is worse, I hear. Let me see, how many days has he been ill? I think—yes, five to-day. They don’t seem to know what kind of fever it is. Yes, it’s a week to-dey since he dined here. Well, appearances must be respected in this respectable world, so I’ll inquire how my dear Jack is. I must compose a countenance and go round to Chapel street”

BrudeoelTa servant open* the door. “How is Mr. Forbear “Same, sir,” said the boy, gravely. “Would you like to step in, sir? Master is at home, sir, he’s in the drawing room.” “Yes, I will come in for a moment” He found Brudenell just returned from a morning ride with his betrothed. “Ah, Acton, I’m so sorry never to have been in. You want to see your cousin?” “Well, just as yon think best. If it would be any use, or any comfort to him.” “No, poor fellow, when conscious, he is quite torpid. I believe now he is asleep. The doctors say the fewer the visitors the better, so if you don't insist—” “By no means. Poor Jock, although he is my second cousin, and may possibly one day be my heir, I have only known him six or seven weeks. Allow me, os one of his few relatives, to thank you for all you are doing. There are not many men who Vould put up with all the nnnoyances of sheltering a sick guest, even in the case of a relation.” “Oh, don’t name it. You are too goes!. Jack and I were not, only fast chums at school, but we have been like brothers ever since. “Well, let us talk of more cheerful subjects. I hear I. may congratulate you on your betrothal. Is that so?” “Quite true, lam happy to say.” Acton extended his hand, which the other took rather awkwardly. “You will have the handsomest wits in England,” said Cyril, with a shake and much show of heartiness. “I wish you joy.” “Thank you. Forgive me for asking," said Horace, with a peculiar smile, “but —well, if I am indiscreet stop me at once —may I not nlso congratulate you? Are not you, too, engaged to be married?” “To whom, in the name of wonder?" asked Acton. “Nay, I must not say. Will you believe me when I tell you it is impossible, under the circumstances, that I can name her? Evidently my suspicions were wrong.” Meanwhile, the host had been folding up and directing two or three previously written notes. Merely for something to say, he asked Acton, as he set the superscription to the last: “Do you know old Sir Ewing Crofton?” “Eh?” replied the other, not without a slight start; for it must be known that Sir Ewing had been his mother’s physician. “He is attending poor Forbes.” “Oh, yes, he is our family physician,” but the moment the words were uttered he regretted them. "Indeed!” said Horace. “Ah, that accounts for it. I have heard Jack say Sir Ewing had always attended his people, and they very probably originally consulted him at Lord Hammersley’s recommendation.” (To be continued.)