Jasper County Democrat, Volume 2, Number 20, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 26 August 1899 — Worth the Winning [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

Worth the Winning

By--The Duchess.

CHAPTER VI. The last stroke of eight (lies out from titeofal efock in the hall as Seaton Dysart ewtwrs the drawing room. The extreme Ateginwss ami gloom of that melancholy . apartment sinks into him as he moves ■Briber dfeeontentedly, but with a man’s ■BflHling instinct, toward the hearth-rug. ht* i« not all gloom, however, as he pres•nrily dfscovvrs, in this dreary place. Some ■nw rises languidly from a low chair —a gjxt, a Ibvely girt, as he instantly admits anil advances about the eighth part of ■* ordinary foot toward him. They are wonderfully alike, the father amfi sou, and vet how wonderfully unl&r. It seems impossible that with ex(BßMions so utterly at variance so strong a resemblance can exist, yet it is there. The one, the old face, mean, cringing, ■mspieious. Wicked; the other, cold, honor■K&a. earnest and beautiful. The girl, wawdung him with distrust in her eyes, ■ritetantly acknowledged this last fact. ‘‘Tin. extremely sorry if I've kept you Wateuxg for dinner,” he says, advancing w g (jjaicker puce, once he sees the pretty in white, and holding out his hand. Tht the fact is 1 was dreadfully tired wrfhra 1 arrived, and I'm rather afraid 1 Ml asleep,” “The day is warm.” says she, coldly. The likeness to his father seems clearer • •»> War- as- he speaks, ami kills for her all tike charm, of his face. “Very; but I don’t fancy my absurd fit *ff Ihainess arose from that. Rather from tfbr fflu.-r that I haven’t had a wink of ■teep fbr the last two nights.” “Two nights!” says she with a faint ■niiwi "• of interest, “Toothache? Sick fcrenii?” “OU. no. Bail - cards,” returns he, con“■Ah.’“~ says she. this time rather <F“You. are Griselda, I suppose i ’ says hh. pteasantly., “Why should you suppose it?” asks she, Wdrib a faint smile. “Thue. Why should 1?” returns he, teigltintr “Perhaps because,” with a •wuiiy took at her, “I have been told that ■gy flwusin Griselda is a person possessed *f ■ wmsiderable amount of—of character..”' . «. “ffy. that you. mean that you have heard Gnselila is self willed.” says she, calmly. “•Ami as it is evident you think I look the gKt toso. E am afraid you must prepare juorself meet two self-willed cousins—--1 am not Griselda." iff she hndi fancied that this annotince■serot would have put him out, she is undkeei wed in. a moment, “Sb'*' says he. looking distinctly amus«dL “There is comfort in the thought that 1 cannot again full into error, because you ■oust be Vera.” “Tes». 1 am Vera.” slowly. “1 finer you will find it very dull down Ibbw.” “Tour father has been very good to us; ■tunv- than kind.” interrupts she, gently, Witt with, decision. “He has given us a ImmiT

“1 should think he would be very glad ta ®»C j«Mt here.” says he. At thia moBhoc Grise+da. enters the room. A channihgtklniselilh. in white, like her sister, and wdidh ar thiwer in her sunny hair. She toip» tip tw Seaton and gives him her hand and a frank smile, that has just the cor* teuU unuuiat of coquettish shyness in it. A man,, he Griselda. no matter out of" whar obnoxious tribe he may have sprung, is always a creature to be gently tseufset snole.l upon and encouraged. ~tSi votive come at last to this Castle •ff Ikispuir-,”' says she. saucily. "I must saty,. you took time to look us up. But 1 dhti’h blame you ; life down her is too lively 9ur most. It has Quite dune up Vera aanfa me.” Tie dismal sound of a cracked old din■wgjtng breaks in at this instant on GriMttes speech; They all rise and cross •ftw tail to the dining room, but just insuin i£ a; momentary hesitation takes gih/’e. Dysart going to the foot of the LkMv. V era stops short, as if in some surprise. &i look at him, Question in her ♦yus. “•Tout wilt take the head of the table, 1 ib/pe.'* 1 soys he, in a low tone, divining ter perplexity. — Quickly, and then- a-pause. "Uynii wish it. of course." she says, with a swift uplifting of the brows and an ab mrtsr imperceptible shrug. Her manner somehow irritates him. **4 wisfii it, certainly.”' says he, coldly. **®tr I wish still more to see you do only tihut which, you like.” “t Have-few likes and dislikes,” replies ate.. still in that utterly emotionless tone; and sweeping past him. she seats herself ■tt tdta- head of the table. As flue Grsdda. the little jar in the soeual! atmosphere around her goes by un■BCfewi.. an overcome is she by the unwtumoed; magnificence of the sight before Ink. a i&eeat dinner table at Grvycourt. Stta- looks round her and loses herself a fefito- Ch» touch of fairyland the room geeeents. It is. as it were, an echo from Mte past, a glimpse into the old life when tec- teeter still lived, that she hardly teewr was <buir to ter until she had lost BL. Tte glitter of the silver, the glass, Mte intense-perfume of the glowing flow■te, «te aurih tint of the fruits, all seem gaatt a* a flhiaru; a sweet one, too. Me Dysart is wondering why both girls ritanfit have- taken so instantaneous • dis■te te ten.. As a rule, women were civil ■Bitegib:; yet tear were two to whom he ante an wttee stranger, aad aggressive Wtaaflte only word te could apply to their tasks and wreedk. though both were studihnaiy polite. **®a> yon stay tong?* asks Griselda pres atfflfc, Brateag at ter cousin. **l dteT know how you may view it. I Mteaa te tsmus tte day after to-mor-—te way early an that day. Whether I antae er ante not work for my living V WB tel UMJmIG wIMHB JCttik. WulTiU Ul“. A vwmfc-you. will hardly teteve it in this laaadr age 'Mt 1 actually seek after tan 1 ihnuM Kte to get on in my proStetten; te te wot titan a stere trifier.” **T«at see charming,” says Griselda, fc... ■ '

saucily. “You talk like a book —a blue book. But you have not told me why your father will not let us see anyone, why——” “Griselda!” says Miss Dysart, a little sharply. She rises as she speaks, and Dysart opens the door for her. As Griselda passes him he says, easily: “I cannot tell you everything at once, you see; but I dare say there will be time given me. As for my father, he is eccentric, and, I fear, hard to live with. But if ever I can help you, call on me.” Griselda gives him a smile for this, and follows her sister into the drawing room. “After all, he isn’t half bad,” she says, with a little nod. “I was right, however. Did you ever see a father and son so like?” asks Vera, coldly. CHAPTER VII. “Well, I'm off,” says Griselda, poking her pretty head into the summer house, where Vera sits reading. It is next day, and a very lovely day, too.” “For your ramble,” says Vera, laying down her book. “So you won't take my advice? Very good. Go on, and you’ll see that you won’t prosper.” Her tone is half gay, half serious. “And don’t be long,” entreats Vera, with a sudden rush of anxiety. “Don’t, now. Yes, I’m in deadly earnest. There is that man all over the place, let loose, as it were, for my discomfiture, and if he turns up in this part of the world I suppose I shall have to talk to him.” "What a calamity!” says Griselda, with a little feigned drooping of her mouth. “In this barren wilderness even manna may be regarded with raptune—even Seaton! Better any man than no man, say I,” • “So say not I, then,” with great spirit. She has leaned forward upon her elbow, and her eyes are brilliant with a little suspicion of anger. “Give me a desert Island rather than the society of a man whom I know it will require only time to teach me to detest. And how you can call him so familiarly ‘Seaton,’ passes my ” A pause! An awful pause. Who is it that has turned the corner of the summer house, and is looking in at them with a curious expression round his mouth? Griselda is the first to recover. "Isn’t it absurd?” she says, smiling rather lamely. “But I assure you, Seaton, your sudden appearance quite took away my breath. You should stamp when you come to a house like this. The grass all round is so thick.” "Too thick!” says Dysart, with a swift glance at Vera, who has lost all her color. "For the future I shall try to remember. lam very sorry I startled you.” He has addressed himself entirely to Griselda, unless that one lightning glance of contemptuous reproach cast at Vera could be counted. "But I was on my way to one of the farms, and this is the lowest, the nearest path to it. 1 shall never cease to regret”—here he stops dead short, and turns his eyes unreservedly on Vera — “that I did not take the upper one.” He makes both girls a slight bow, and walks swiftly onward on the unlucky path he had chosen. “Oh, Vera, do something!” cries Griselda, in a small agony of consternation, clasping her hands. Vera, thus admonished. springs to her feet, and, driven half by honest shame and half by impulse. rushes out of the summer house and runs after Dysart as he is fast disappearing through the shrubs. Reaching him, panting and pale with agitation, she lays her band timidly upon his arm. "1 am so grieved,” she says, her charming face very pained, her lips white. “There are moments when one hardly knows what one says, and ” "There are such moments, certainly,” says he, interrupting her femdroelessly. "But they can hardly be classed with those in which the calm confidences of one sister are exchanged with the other. And why should you apologize? I assure you, you need hot. I do not seek for or desire anything of the kind.” It almost seems to her that he has Shaken her hand from his arm. Drawing back, she sees him proceed upon his way, and then returns to Griselda. “I really think I hate him,” says Vera, vehemently; The recollection of his contemptuous glance, the way in which he had disdained her apology—above all, that slight he had offered her when he had displaced her hand from his arm—all rankle in her breast, and a hot flow of shame renders her usually pale face brilliant. “There, never mind him,” she says, with a little frown. "He is not staying long, fortunately, and this episode "will bear good fruit of one sort at least. He will not trouble me with his society while you are away. Now hurry, Griselda, do.” Griselda, with a light laugh, drawn irresistibly by the gorgeous loveliness of the lights and shadows of the land below, runs down the pathway aud is soon lost to view. When she returns over an hour later she discovers to her amazement, that Vera is still in it. “You are miserable about that wretched affair of the morning,” cries Griselda. “Never mind it. If you will come to dinner I promise you to do all the talking, and as it has to be endured I do entreat you to keep up your spirits.” “Oh, yes. There isn't a decent chance of escape,” says Vera, wearily. “’Sh!” cries Griselda, softly, putting up her band; the sound of coming footsteps, slow, deliberate footsteps purposely made heavier, smites upon their ears. “oGod heavens! Here he is,” says Griselda, and indeed they have barely time to put on a carefully unconscious demeanor, when Seaton Dysart darkens the door of the summer house, and looks coldly down on them. “'They told me I should find you here,” he says, speaking to Vera. “I have come to say good-by.” “But surely you are not going so soon —not before dinner, not to-night!” cries Griselda, thunderstruck by this solution of their difficulty, and a little sorry, too.

“I am going now. Good-by,” holding out his hand to her with a determination not to be changed. Griselda takes it and shakes it genially, nay, warmly. His humor is decidedly hostile, and if he acquaints the old father of their incivility— Anything to propitiate him, she tells herself, will be the correct thing, and she grows positively friendly toward him, and beams upon him with gentle entreaty in her eye. “If you must go, do us one service first,” she says. “Do you see that rose?” —a rather unkempt and straggling specimen of its kind that trails in unadmired disorder just outside the door. “It has baffled me many a time, but you are tall, oh, taller than most; will you lift these awkward tendrils, and press them back into shape?” She is smiling divinely at him, a smile that Tom Peyton would have given several years of his life to possess; but Dysart is disgracefully unmoved by it, and, refusing to return it, steps outside, and, with a decidedly unwilling air, proceeds to lift the drooping tendrils and reduce them to order. Griselda, naturally a girl of great resource, seizes the opportunity she has herself provided. Catching Vera’s arm, she draws her back out of sight. “Now’s your time!” she says. “Say something. Do something. It doesn't matter what, but for heaven’s sake smooth him down one way or another! If you don’t you’ll have the old man down upon us like ” “I can’t,” gasps Vera, fearfully. “You must,” insists Griselda, sternly. “It’s impossible to know what sort of man he is. If revengeful, he can play old Harry with us!” Without waiting to explain what particular game this may mean, or the full significance thereof, she steps lightly outside and gazes with undisguised rapture upon Dysart’s work. Dysart returns to the summer house with all the manner of one in mad haste to be gone. It is merely a part of an unpleasant whole, he tells himself, that he must first say a chillingly courteous word or two of farewell to the girl who has openly declared toward him such an undying animosity. “I am afraid,” says Vera, speaking with cold precision, as one delivering herself of an unloved lesson, “that you are going away thus abruptly because of what you heard me say this morning.” “You are right. is why 1 am going,” replies Dysart, calmly. "Yes?” in a chilling tone, and with faintly lifted brows. “I regret exceedingly that I should have so unfortunately offend you, but to go for that—it all sounds a little trivial, don’t you think?” “Not by going, I think. I don’t see how I can do otherwise. Why should I make you uncomfortable? But you may call it trivial if you like, to talk of detesting a man you have only seen for an hour or two, and who in those hours ” He pauses. “Did I make myself so specially objectionable?” demands he, abruptly, turning to her with something that is surely anger, but as surely entreaty, in his eyes. “As I told you before,” indifferently, "one says foolish things now and then.” "Would you ha've me believe you did not really mean what you said?” "I would not have you believe anything,” returns she, haughtily. "I only think it a pity that you should curtail your visit to your father because a chance remark of mine that cannot possibly affect you in any way.” “Is that how you look at it?” "Is there any other way? Why should you care whether or not I detest you—l, whom you saw for the first time yesterday?” “Why, indeed!” He regards her absently, as if trying to work out in his own mind the answer to this question, and then, suddenly: "Nevertheless, 1 do care,” he says, with a touch of vehemence. “It is the injustice of it to which I object. You had evidently determined beforehand to show me no grace. I defy you to deny it! Come, can you?” Miss Dysart is silent. The very impetuosity of his accusation has deadened her power to reply, rmd besides, is there not truth in it? Had she not prejudged? “By the bye,” he says, “I am afraid you will have to put up with me for a few hours every week. I shall promise to make them as short as I possibly can. But my father likes to see me every seven days or so, and I like to see him. Do you think,” a slight smile crossing his face, "you will be able to live through it?” "I have Jived through a good many things,” says Vera, her dark eyes aflame. "That gives you a chance here; prac-,. tice makes perfect. I am sorry to be obliged to inconvenience you so far, but if 1 stayed away, lam afraid my father might want to know why. He might even be so absurd as to miss me.” "Why should you take it for granted that 1 desire your absence?” cries Vera, her voice vibrating with anger. “Come, remain, or stay away forever—what is it to me?” And it was thus that they parted. (To be continued.)