Jasper County Democrat, Volume 2, Number 19, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 August 1899 — Worth the Winning [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

Worth the Winning

By--The Duchess.

CHAPTER 111.—(Continued.) j Standing upon a mound near her, she yiaces her hands to her pretty mouth, •nd, with a simple eloquence that cannot .he too highly commended, cries “Hi!” to Aim, at the top of her fresh young voice. Whether the breeze has played traitor, •r whether the bending figure is of so (gross material as to be deaf to this brilIKant appeal, who can say. At all events, he never stirs or lifts himself from his task, whatever it may be. Nothing daunted, Griselda returns to the attack. “Hi!” cries she again, with a sharper, ireer intonation. And still nothing comes «f It. The bending figure refuses to straighten his back, and things remain as before. It is really too bad. Getting down from her mound she clambers up on a higher bank, and once more sends out ■her voice upon the world: “Hi, my good man!” This does it. As W compelled to acknowledge this tribute to his virtues, “my good man” uprears himself, looks vacantly round him—at every point but the right one first, and at last sees Griselda. The effect produced is not only instantaneous but marvelous. Down goes his rod, his cast, his choicest •y—an admirable orange grouse—and he tomes steaming toward her nt about twenty knots an hour. His eyes, ever since they first lighted upon Griselda, have seemed to grow to ’her, and now, as he draws nearer, she too sees and recognizes him. The knowledge thus gained so surprises her that •he very nearly falls off her high bank, •nd then grows very charmingly rosy, and as charmingly confused. It is none other than the young man who had helped to restore the carriage to its legitimate B«dtion.

CHAPTER IV. “It is really you?” cries he, with unaffected delight, coloring warmly. “It is you, too,” replies she, reflectively, and as though it is a little unfair to throw all the personalities at her. “So it is,” says he, smiling gayly. “You wanted me? I hope you had not to call often?” “Very often,” smiling, too, and jumping Sown off her pedestal. “I thought I should never make you hear. Do you know the road to Greycourt? I don't.” “I do. It is a tedious way, and complicated. But if you will permit me to go with you and show it to you, Miss Dysart?' “Oh, no. No, indeed. It is giving you quite too much trouble, and how do you know my name?” asks she, with a shy glance at him from under her long lashes. “I asked somebody in the village,” eonflfases he, honestly, “and ho told me you were Mr. Dysart’s niece. You don’t mind that, do you?” “No. I, too, heard of you," she says, “bat then I didn’t take for granted everything that was told me." “What did you hear of me?” “That you were a young man ‘down from Lunnon town, an’ as full o* tricks as a egg’s full o’ mate,'" replies she, demurely, evidently quoting somebody, and with a glance so “full o’ tricks” on her •wa account that he laughs in spite of himself. “Well,” says he, “I’m not from ‘Lnn■oa town,’ certainly, and I hope l*m not a greater wretch than my fellows. As to my ‘tricks,’ I don’t believe I’ve one.” “If not from London, from where?” “Rather close to you. My sister lives »Mt over the border of this county, a ■natter of twenty miles or so; and I spend moat of my time with her.” “It was a very good thing for my sister aad me that you came fishing," says Griselda; “or I suppose we should both be <mw either dead or dying.” Here she Iboks round her. “Have we very much farther to go?” “About a mile." “I wish it was less,” nervously. “I am afraid Vera will be frightened at my long absence, and—and that my uncle will be angry.” “Perhaps he won’t hear of it,” says Mr. Peyton, hopefully. Griselda shakes her head. “He looks just like a person who would hear everything,” she says. “I’ve heard a good deal about him off amt ma. People will talk, you know', and —he’s eccentric, isn’t, he?” “If you mean weak in mind you were wrver further out in your life,” says Griselda, mournfully. “He is all mind. In ■ay opinion. There isn’t a weak spot in Mm. By the by, have you ever been to Oreycourt?” “No. I’ve often thought I should like bo go on some Wednesday or other.” Some Wednesday! What Wednesday? And why Wednesday? Griselda is distiaetly puzzled, but hardly likes to ask a qiMStion on the subject. “It’s a quaint old house,” she says, “ood might be lovely, I think, if the trees mere cut away and some sunlight let into R, and—a little furniture. It’s empty, •osHively empty.” “Surely you forget the galleries?” says «e. “Is it indeed possible that you do Mt know that those pictures of your anoraters are absolutely priceless? Pure tLeiya and Knellers, Gainsboroughs and ■Reynolds. Why, those galleries at Greyeourt, I’ve often heard my father say, are •bent the finest in England. Your unde lb good enough to open them to the pub■e every first Wednesday in the month at the very trifling charge of half a •m.” “Why!” cries Griselda, flushing so hot ■ rotor that the teara grow within her •yes. “Oh, yon can’t mean that.” “Well, why not?’ says the young man, ■faUßy, preparing with a stout courage fa defend a vile cause. “It is to improve far tastes of the multitude that he does nf course. And if he chooses to repay fciassclf for the' wear and tear of his car.‘Rcts, who shall say he has not common i/gMaa ob his side?” [/. 4<ous moment the chimneys of Grey.gMKtidbqpe through the interstices of the fataßsa her left, and, with the knowiThat she had gained her home, «MNK :tao, the sound of running water,

and the thought that all through her return walk through the leafy woods that music had rushed as a chorus to her words. “Ah! now I know!” cries she, stopping abruptly, and looking full at her companion, who grows somewhat guilty in appearance. “That noise of running water!—that is the river that flows beneath Greycourt. If I had only followed it I need not have given you all this trouble." “It is no trouble,” says he, plainly. She holds out to him her hand. “Goodby,” she says, gently. “Oh, not good-by, I hope,” returns he, anxiously, taking the slim little hand and holding it as warmly as he dares, perhaps more closely than he is quite aware. “I shall see you again?” “Oh, no. No, indeed,” softly. “You must not think that. Uncle Gregory does not permit us to know our neighbors.” He lifts his hat and Griselda, giving him a rather solemn little salute, turns away from him. A second later, however, she finds him again beside her. “It—there is all the appearance of coming rain in the sky,” he says, gravely. “Don’t you think so? I fear we shall have a perfect storm before long. I thought I’d tell you, so that you might get as much good out of these woods as possible before—the deluge. This week, now, might be fine, but I should not answer for the next; and, indeed, if you will permit me to advise you, I should recommend you to take a walk to-morrow. Who shall say that rain might not fall the day after?”

Who, indeed? It seems the soundest reasoning. So Griselda, having shown herself impressed by it, inclines her head to him once more, and, a turn in the path hiding him at last from view, takes to her heels, and hardly draws breath until, having found the small iron gate that admits to the garden at its lowest end, she enters by it and feels herself at last at home. On the hall doorsteps, as if lying in wait for her, stands Mrs. Grunch, the housekeeper. “Dear me, miss, and so you have returned,” * says she. “Dear! but master will be main glad to hear of it, He was that upset by your absence that we daren’t so much as approach him.” Griselda's blood grows cold. "But now he’ll bo sure to tell you himself how glad he is to see you back safe and sound.” CHAPTER V. Mrs. Grunch, as Griselda left her, turned aside, and with darkened brow made for the library, Mr. Dysart’s usual abiding place. Not finding him here, she hurries onward down the hall, until she comes to a heavy curtain, once handsome, now moth-eaten and dingy, and pushing it aside, reveals a long flagged passage, with a high, narrow door at the extreme end. Stooping as she comes to it, she peers through the keyhole, and finding it empty, tries, with a cautious, quiet grasp, the handle of the door to find the latter locked. Still very cautiously she slips her hand into her pocket, draws out a key, well oiled, and inserting it in the keyhole, softly opens the door. A grim smile overspreads her face as she looks toward the further end of the room. There, on his knees beside a cabinet, kneels Mr. Dysart. It is open, and Mr. Dysart, in his worn and shabby old coat, is kneeling before the secret opening, gloating openly upon its contents. Piles upon piles of yellow sovereigns are so built one on the top of the other that , they reach from one narrow resting place to the other above, and so on. Dull, heavy gold that scarcely glitters, save in the eyes of the wretched miser bending over them. Yet it is not so much on the money as on a paper he holds in his hand that his attention is concentrated. He is so bent on the perusal of it that he hears neither the turn of the key in the lock nor the woman’s entrance. And now, as a malicious chuckle breaks from her, it so startles him that he springs 'to his feet as if shot, and a Sharp, horrid cry, that is almost a shriek, escapes him. His face has grown deadly white, great drops of sweat stand out upon his brow. “Comforting yourself with a look at it,” says she, with a malignant leer. As she speaks she points not at the gold, but at the paper be has tightly clutched in his hand. “How did you come here, woman?” demands he, in a shrill tone. He is trembling, and with nervous fingers presses the paper into the secret recess in the cabinet, and shuts to the oaken woodwork. “Why, through the door,” retorts she, sullenly. “How else? You should remember to lock it when engaged on work like this.” “I could have sworn I locked it,” says he, still shaking. “See! here is the key in my pocket. I tell you,” with increasing agitation, “I did lock it. Are you a fiend that you can follow me through bolted doors?” “Hush! Don’t give way to foolish fancies. And after all, why need my coming fluster you? Surely,” with a mocking air, “your occupation was an innocent one; you were but refreshing yourself with a glimpse of ” • “Be silent, woman! Are you mad?” cries he, lifting his arms like o'ne in mortal fear. "You’re but a poor sort after all," she says, contemptuously. “Too poor for faith or trust of any sort. What! can you not even believe in me, who has served you and yours long and faithful for forty years? Is it likely I’d betray you now for his children?’ “Ay, he served yon falsely once,” says Gregory Dysart, a savor of pleasure in his tone. “He tqok my best—my life, my soul—the heart of everything,” says she, slowly beating one withered hand upon the other. “Though years have rolled by 1 have not forgotten; I shall not forget at all. When first I mw them I felt as though, if power were given me, I could have blasted as they stood those insolent hussies upstairs.”

Something out of the goodly part, some vague touch of decency belonging to the days when he was young and happy, and when honor was rtill a word to which he dung with all his might, render* this coarse epithet, as applied to the pretty orphans committed to his care, insupportable. “Ton hardly remember, perhaps, that you are speaking of my nieces,” he says with an angry frown. “Hoity toity! None of your airs with me,” says she, sternly. She advances a step nearer to him. "Remember, Dysart, that I can either make or mar you. I, and I only.” "I would I were sure of that,” says he, moodily. “But— Have you forgotten Sedley? He knew.” “Pish! He’s dead; let him rest. What a one you are to worrit! Twenty years and more, and no sign of him, and I ask you was he the one to remain quiet, if he saw a way to forcing a sovereign out of you?” "True, true,” says Dysart, eagerly catching at this suggestion. “And yet I would give much to know that he was in the grave.” “Ay, and I in mine! I know you,” says she, with an evil look. “You fear me.” .' ' “I fear nothing,” says he, coldly. “What,” says she, slowly, regarding him closely; “not even that your son should know?” She pauses, pleased with her work. All at once, as it were, on hearing this question, the old man quails before her like a beaten hound. The life goes out of him, he seems to shrink into himself, and puts out his hands as though to ward off some fatal blow. “Not that. Anything but that,” he mutters, feebly. “Well, don’t drive me to it,” says she, sulkily. “Remember, it was for him I did it,” cries he, sharply. “After all my love, my care, my secrecy, to have it now laid bare to him! I tell you”—his fingers working convulsively—“rather than that he should know, it seems to me that it would be a sweet and simple thing to murder him who would betray me.” “Um not going to betray you,” says she. “And as for saying ’twas for him you did it, why ” “For him. For his sake only.” “Partly, I think,” says she, dryly.

“Entirely; altogether. What other creature had I to love me—to love? His mother, as you know, hated me; and when she died 1 was glad,” says he, crushing his fingers together. “Yet the deed was scarcely necessary if done for him,” says Gruneh, holding her ground. “That old aunt of his —the mother’s sister-put want out of the question for him.” “I knew nothing of her desire to make him her heir—then.” “You know it now, anyway,” says she, with a nasty sneer. “And it is never too late to mend—to find by accident that paper you have just locked up.” “I have thought of it,” says he, with lowered brow and eyes bent upon the ground, “dreamed of it; and all my dreaming has but convinced me that things had better stay as they now are. Into what better hands could they have fallen? Who would have husbanded it all like me? You know the care, the trouble, the sleepless days and nights I have devoted to the management of—of it. You know whether it has ever been a joy to me—rather a grief, a wearying of the flesh, a curse!” The word conies from between his lips with a little hissing sound. “But it is all for him, for him,” he says, in n dying tone. With restless, feeble steps he begins to pace the room. “He believes in me. He trusts me; he alone—now! But if ever he were to learn the truth he would spurn me from him. I swear to you”—he turns and fixes his burning eyes on hers —“I’d strangle you with these hands,” holding them out before her, trembling with passion, yet strong and lithe, “before the words could pass your lips.” “I’m liot going to play traitor. I’ve told you that,” says she, frowning. “I’ve had a chance before this if I wished to do it; and I’m not going to help his children, whatever happens.” Her brow grows black and her eyes lighten. “May curses follow him wherever he be, even through the gates of death!” “Amen,” says Dysart, carelessly. Then, in a different tone:- “Seaton is coming home to-morrow.” “You have a design," says she, fixing her sharp eyes on him with a searching regard. “True; and I think well of mentioning it to you,” says Dysart, slowly. "After long and careful thought I have decided on abandoning more ambitions schemes and wedding him to my elder niece, Vera.” (To be continued.)