Jasper County Democrat, Volume 2, Number 18, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 12 August 1899 — Worth he by the Duchess. Winning. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

Worth he by the Duchess. Winning.

By The Ducbess.

B CHAPTER I. fc Below, a great broad stretch of ocean, j calm aa death, slumbering placidly bei aeath the sun’s hot rays; above, a sky of - palest azure, flecked here and there by ! dainty masses of soft, fleecy clouds;‘and, tar inland, a background of high hills, clothed with a tender foliage, a very baby I leafdom, Just bursting into the fuller life. Toward the west the trees give way a little, letting a road be seen, that like a ; Straight pale ribbon runs between the greenery for the space of quite a mile or so, and then reaches the small fishing yillage where the simple folk of Glowring | Destley toil from one year's end to the other, some in careless joy, some in ceaseless labor, some, alas! in cruel weeping, because of those "who will never come back to the town.” jg! Along the white road, that gleams | thirstily in the burning sunshine of this | hot midday in June, a carriage is crawling with quite an aggravating slowness—- . an antiquated vehicle of a type now almost unknown, but which once l>eyond doubt "cost money.” The carriage, being an open one, enables the people as it passes through the village to see without undue trouble that the occupants of it are two girls; both very young, both singularly alike, though in distinctly different

styles. “It is charming!” says the younger girl, with a little quick motion of the hand toward the sweeping bay, and the awakening trees, and the other glories of the landscape. “All charming, far better than I ever dared hope for; and yet my mind misgives me, Vera.” She turns a brilliant glance on her sister, full of terrible insinuations, and then laughs a little. Thus animated, she is a very pretty girl, half child, half woman, as fresh as the morning, and with eyes like stars. She lifts one slender blackgloved hand, and placing It beneath her sigjer’s chin, turns her face gently to her. Such a beautiful face! Very like the riante one beside it, yet unlike, too. There is a touch of sadness round the lovely Ups, a mournful curve; indeed, a thoughtfulness too great for her years is stamped bn every feature. A tender, loving, yet Strong soul shines through the earnest •yes, and when she smiles it is reluctantly, as if smiles all her life had been forbidden to her. “Oh! that reminds me,” said Miss Dysart. “I quite forgot to tell you of it, but the day before we left Nice, Nell Stewart said that this cousin you speak of, if .he does exist at all, at all events does not do it here.” “Which means?” “That either he won’t, or can’t, life with his father. Can’t, Nell rather led me to believe.” “Can’t It is, you may be sure,” says the younger girl, restlessly. “Fancy a father whose son can’t live with him! And yet, after all, virtuous astonishment on that score is rather out of place with us. I can imagine just such a father.” “Well, never mind that,” says Miss Dysart, hastily. “Yes. Very good; let us then go from sire to uncle,” says her sister with a little shrug. “Do you think we shall gain much by the change? This old relative of ours is, perhaps, as delightful as we could wish him, and yet I wish father had not left us to his tender mercies.” “Do not dwell on that,” says Vera, with nervous haste; “do not seek for faults in the inevitable. He is all that is left us. You know the sudden decision •rose out of a letter received by father from Uncle Gregory about a year ago. When father, was—was—dying ” She pauses abruptly, and a tremor shakes her last words. The younger girl turns quickly to look at her. There is infinite love and compassion in her glance, but perhaps a little contempt, and certainly a little impatience. “Do you know,” she says, “it may seem heartless—positively coarse, if you will—but I do not think our father was a man to excite respect, much less love or regret, or ” “Oh! it is better not to speak like that,” interrupts Miss Dysart, in a low, shocked tone. “Don’t do it, darling. I know what you mean, but ” “And I know that I shall never forgive or forget The life he led you,” says Griselda, with a certain angry excitement. “Well, that is over!” says Miss Dysart, With a quick sigh, heavily indrawn. . “What was this vendetta, this terrible lifelong quarrel that was kept up between him and father with such monotonous persistency?” “That had to do with our grandfather’s * will. Papa was the eldest son, yet the property was left to Uncle Gregory; and that for no reason at all. Naturally, papa was very angry about it, and accused Gregory of using undue influence." “Just so, and of course there is a good deal behind that you don't know. There always is; nobody ever tells quite everything. And besides— Oh! Oh, Vera! Oh! what has happened?” Griselda clutches In ah agonized fashion at the leather side of the crazy old chariot, which has toppled over to the left side and stands in a decidedly dissipated position. The ancient driver, presumably asleep, had let the horses wander at their own sweet will, and they being old and sleepy, too, the result was that they had dragged two of the wheels up bn a steep bank and nearly capsized the carriage. “Oh, thank you,” says Miss Dysart, leaning forward and addressing with earnest glance and heightened color the young man who had risen—descended, perhaps, soonda pleasanter and more orthodoxdike a good angel from somewhere—the wood on their right, no doubt. A fishing rod, lying on the road where he had flung It when preparing for his ignoble battle with those poor old horses, proclaims the fact that be has been whipping the stream that gtenms and Jhere* brilliantly “Oh, no,” sajThe/hfting his'hlt “you

they— It is hot, isn’t it?” This last he says hastily, as if ashamed of his animadversion on the age of the sorry cattle in question—their horses, no doubt; and there is something wonderfully charming in the faint apologetic color that springs into his cheeks. As he finishes speaking he looks at Griselda so hard that she feels it incumbent on her to return his glance and to say something. “We thought our last hour had come,” she says, laughing softly, and looking at him a little shyly, but so prettily. “But for you, one cannot say where we should be now.” She bows to him, and so does her sister quite as graciously, and then the horses once more commence their snaillike progress, grinding through the dusty road at the rate of three miles an hour. The little episode is over; the young man settles his soft hat more firmly on his head, picks up his rod, regards it anxiously to see that no harm has come to it, and disappears once more into the shelter of the cool wood. Half an hour later they are at the entrance gate of Greycourt, and practically at their journey’s end. Both girls, with an involuntary movement, crane their necks out of the carriage to get a first glimpse at their future home, and then turn a dismayed glance on each other. Anything more dreary, more unfriendly, yet withal grand in its desolation, could hardly be seen. “How dark it is,” says Griselda, a nervous thrill running through her, as they move onward beneath the shade of the mighty trees that clasp their arms between her and the glorious sky—thus blotting it out. 1 A sudden turn brings them within view of the house. A beautiful old house apparently, of red brick, toned by age to a duller shade, with many gables, and overgrown in parts by trailing ivy, the leaves of which now glisten brightly in the evening sunshine. The coachman, scrambling to the ground, bids them in a surly tone to alight. He is tired and cross, no doubt, by the unusual work of the day. And presently they find themselves on the threshold of the open hall door, hardly knowing what to do next. The shambling figure of a man about seventy, appeared presently from some dusky doorway, he waves to them to enter the room, and, shutting the door again behind them with a sharp haste, leaves them alone with their new relative, Gregory Dysart. CHAPTER 11. Vera, going quickly forward, moves toward an armchair at the upper end of the room in which a figure is seated. She sees an old man, shrunken, enfeebled, with a face that is positively ghastly, because of its excessive pallor; a living corpse, save for two eyes that burn and gleam and glitter with an almost devilish brilliancy. “So you’ve come,” he says, without making any attempt to rise from his chair. "Shut that door, will you? What a vile draught! And don't stand staring like that, it makes'me nervous.” His voice is cold, clear, freezing. It seems to the tired girls standing before him as if a breath of icy air had suddenly fallen into the hot and stifling room. “Vera, I presume,” says Mr. Dysart, holding out his lithe white hand to permit her to press it. "And you are Griselda? I need not ask what lunatic chose your names, as I was well acquainted with your mother many years ago.” "I feel that I must think you at once. Uncle Gregory, for your kindness to us,” says Miss Dysart, gravely, still standing. “Ay, ay. You acknowledge that,” says he, quickly. “I have been your best friend, after all, eh?” “You have given us a home,” continues Miss Dysart, in tones that tremble a little., “But for you ” "Yes, yes—go on.” He thrusts out his old miserly face as if athirst for further words. "But for me you would both have been cast upon the world’s highway, to live or die as chance dictated. To me, to me you are indebted for everything. You owe me much. Each day you live you shall owe me more. I have befrteaded you; I have been the means of saving you from starvation.” If so corpse-like a face could show signs of excitement it shows it now, as he seeks to prove by word and gegture that he is their benefactor to an unlimited extent. The hateful emotion he betrays raises ta Griselda's breast feelifigs of repugnantw and disgust. “I have consented to adopt you,” be goes on presently, his cold voice now cutting like a knife. “But do not expect much from me. It is well to come to a proper understanding at the start, and so save future argument. Honesty has made me poor. You have been, I hear, accustomed to lead a useless, luxurious existence. Your father all his life kept up a most extravagant menage, and, dying, l?ft you paupers.” He almost hisses out the last.cruel word. Griselda starts to her feet. “The honesty of which you boast is not everything,” she says, in a burning tone. “Let me remind you that courtesy, tOB, has its claims upon you.” “Hah! The word pauper is unpleasing, it seems,” says he, unmoved. “Before we quit this point, however, one last word. You are beneath my roof; I shall expect you to conform to my rules. I see no one. I permit no one to enter my doors save my son. I will not have people spying out the nakedness of the land, and speculating over what they are-pleased to call my eccentricities. They will have me rich, but lam poor, poor, I tell you. Always remember that,” Griselda’s features having settled themselves into • rather alarming expression. Miss Dysart hurriedly breaks into the conversation. , . “If yon will permit us,” she says, faintly, “We should like to go to our rooms* to rest * little. It has been a long ■ ‘ Her .uncle turns and touches, the. beß near him, and

been applying her ear to the keyhole, ■ woman enters. “You are singularly prompt,” he says, with a lowering glance and a sneer. “This is Mrs. Crunch," turning to Vera, “my housekeeper. She will see to your wants. Grunch, Stake these young ladies away. My nerves.” with a shudder, “are all unstrung to the last pitch." Thus unceremoniously dismissed. Miss Dysart follows the housekeeper from rhe room, Griselda having preceded her. Through the huge dark hall and up the wide, moldy staircase they follow tfieir guide, noting as they do so the decay that marks everything around. She flings wide a door for the girls to enter, and then abruptly departs without offering them word or glanee. They are thankful to be thus left alone, and involuntarily stand still and gaze at each other. Vera is very pale, and her breath is coming rather fitfully from between her parted lips. “He looks dying,” she says, at last, speaking with a heavy sigh, and going nearer to Griselda, as if unconsciously seeking a closer companionship. “Did you ever see such a face? Don’t you think he is dying?” “Who can tell?” says Griselda. “I might think it, perhaps, but for his eyes. They”—she shudders—“they look as if they couldn’t die. What terrible eyes they are! and what a vile old man altogether! Good heavens! how did he dare so to insult us! I told you, Vera" —with rising excitement —“I warned you that our coming here would be only for evil." A moment later a knock comes to the door. “Will you be pleased to come down stairs or to have your tea here?” demands the harsh voice of the housekeeper from the threshold. “Here” is on Vera’s lips, but Griselda, the bold, circumvents her. “Down stairs,” she says, coldly, “when we get some hot water, and when you send a maid to help us to unpack our trunks.” “There are no maids in this house," replies Mrs. Grunch, sullenly. “You must either attend to each other or let me help you.” “No maids!” says Griselda. “None,” briefly. “And my room? Oh—is this mine, or Miss Dysart’s?” “Both yours and Miss Dysart’s; sorry if it ain’t big enough,” with a derisive glance round the huge, bare chamber. “You mean, we are to have but one room between us?” “Just that, miss. Neither more nor less. And good enough, too, for those as -” “Leave the room,” says Griselda, with a sudden, sharp intonation, so unexpected, so withering, that the woman, after a surprised stare, turns and withdraws.

CHAPTER 111. A few days later the girls are sitting in the garden. It is a beautiful day. Even through the eternal shadows that encompass the garden, and past the thick yew hedge, the hot beams of the sun are stealing. “A day for gods and goddesses,” cries Griselda, springing suddenly to her feet, and flinging far from her on the greensward the musty volume she had purloined from the mustier library about an hour ago. “Perhaps I’ll never come back. The spirit of adventure is full upon me, and who knows what demons inhabit that unknown wood? So, fare-thee well, sweet, my love! and when you see me, expect me.” She presses a sentimental kiss upon her sister’s brow, averring that a “brow” is the only applicable part of her for such a solemn occasion, and runs lightly down toward the hedge. She runs through one of the openings in the hedge, crosses the graveled path, and, mounting the parapet, looks over to examine the other side of the wall on which she stands, after which she commences her descent. One little foot she slips into a convenient hole in it, and then the other into a hole lower down, and so on and on, until the six feet of wall are conquered and she reaches terra firms, and finds nothing between her and the desired cool of the lovely woods. With a merry heart she plunges into the dark, sweetly scented home of the giapt trees, with a green, soft pathway under her foot, and, though she knows It not, her world before her. It is an entrancing hour. She has stopped short in the middle of a broad, green space encompassed by high hills, though with an opening toward the west, when this uncomfortable conviction grows clear to her that she is lost. She is not of the nervous order, however, and keeping a good heart looks hopefully around her. Far away over there, in the distance, stands a figure lightly lined against the massive trunk of a sycamore, that most unmistakably declares itself to be a man. His back is turned to her, and he is bending over something, and, so far as she can judge thus remote from him, his clothing la considerably the worse for wear. A gamekeeper, perhaps, or a —well, something or other of that sort. At all events the sight ia welcome as the early dear. <To be continued.!