Jasper County Democrat, Volume 2, Number 21, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 2 September 1899 — Worth the Winning [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

Worth the Winning

By The Duchess.

CHAPTER VIII.

July reigns, vice June, dethroned, but ■till the roses hold full sway. Seaton Dysart has come and gone many a time to and from Greycourt, and Sy degrees a little of the constraint that ad characterized his early visits has Worn away. He has even so far advanced as to be almost on friendly terms with Griselda. But between him and Vera that first dark veil of distrust still hangs heavily—distrust that, on Vera’s side, has taken a blacker hue and merged itself into dislike. Seaton Dysart's arrivals being only looked for by the girls at about seven o'clock in the evening—just an heur or so before dinner—gave them plenty of time to prepare for his coming. Any day on which he was expected, Mrs. Grunch brought a formal message to Vera from her uncle to that effect. Never yet had their cousin come without the announcement being made; and so thoroughly understood was it that he would not put in an unexpected appearance, that when, after a rather longer absence than usual, an absence extending over all last week ■nd part of this, he turns up at half past two in the afternoon, his coming causes distinct embarrassment in several quarters. “What can have brought him at this hour? London must be reduced to ashes,” hazards Griselda, her tone now «s genial as usual. For one instant a sickening fear that it might be Mr. Peyton’s knock had made her blood run cold. There had been a short but sharp encounter between him and her the day before yesterday, and a wild fear that he had come up to have it out with her now, and here, had taken possession of her. At such a moment the advent of Seaton is hailed by her, at least, with rapture. “Why, what happy wind drove you down at this hour?’’ cries she. with the friendliest air, beaming on him as he comes into the room. “It is gqod of you to call it happy,” ■ays he, casting a really grateful look at her as he shakes hands silently with Vera. “In time for luncheon, too, I see, though,” with a rather surprised glance at the table, “you don't seem in a very hospitable mood. Nothing to spare, eh?” “We didn’t know you were coming, you see,” says Griselda, mildly. "And it isn’t lunch you see, or rather you don’t see, before you; it is dinner.” “What?” says Seaton, flushing a dark red. He has got up from his seat and is regarding her almost sternly. “Is it true?” asked Seaton, turning to Vera. It is a rather rude question, but there is so much shame and anxiety in his tone that Griselda forgives him. “Why should it not be true?” says Vera, coldly. “As a rule, we dine early.” “She means that we always dine early except when we know’ you are coming,” supplements Griselda, even more mildly than before. “And this—” With a hurried glance at the scanty meal, “do you moan to tell me that—that this is your dinner every day?” “Literally,” says Griselda, cheerfully. “This is the chop that changeth not. It is not all that one could desire, of course, but if sometimes it might be altered for ” “Griselda!” interrupts Vera, rising to her feet. “Why should I not speak?” asks Griselda, in a meekly injured tone. “I was merely going to add that a fowl occasionally would be a good deal of moral use to us. I have always heard that to keep the temper ia a healthy state, change of food is neeefcSJi “I feel as if I ought to apologize to you for all this,” says Dysart, with a heavy sigh, addressing Vera exclusively, “and as if. too, no apology could be accepted. But I shall see that it does not occur again.” “I beg you will do nothing,” says Vera, quickly. “Nothing. I will not have my uncle spoken to on this subject. Griselda is only in jest; she speaks like a foolish child. I,” folding her hands tightly together. “I forbid you to say anything about it-”

“I regret that I must disobey you/’ nays Seatoil. courteously, but with determination. “.My father’s house js in part mine, and I will suffer no guest to endure discomfort iu it.” “There is no discomfort now. There will be if you try to alter matters in our favor.” “You mean that you will accept nothing at my hands; is that it?” exclaims he, passion that will not be repressed in his tone; the coldness seems broken up, there is fire in his eyes and a distinct anger. “You have had that ’time’ you spoke of; has it fulfilled its missions—has it taught you to detest me? No!” detaining her deliberately as she seeks to leave the room. “Don't go; you should give me a real reason for your studied discourtesy, tor I won't believe that I am naturally Abhorrent to you. There must be something else.” “If you must know.” says she, looking back defiantly at him, her blood a little hot, “you are too like your father for me to pretend friendship with you.” “Oh, Vera, I think you shouldn't say that!” cries Griselda, now honestly frightened at the storm she has raised, but neither of the others hear her. Vera, with one little slender white hand grasp !ng the back of a chair near her, is looking fixedly at Seaton, whose face has changed. An expression of keen pain crosses it. ■ “Has he been so bad to you as that?" he says: and then, with a profound sigh: “My poor father!” There is something so honestly grieved in his whole air that Vera’s heart smites her. “Why will you bring up this discussion again and again?” she says, with remorseful impatience. “Why not let me . go my way unquestioned, and you yours? What am I to you when all is told? I hm outside your life—l aver shall be— EL *

yet it seems to me as if you were bent on compelling my likes and dislikes.” “You are right,” says he, going closer to her, bis face very pale, “I would compel you to—to more than like me.” “Compel!” She has drawn back from him, and her eyes, now uplifted, look defiance into his. “If I could,” supplements he, gently. He turns and leaves the room.

CHAPTER IX. While the two girls were discussing, in a frightened way, the result of Griselda’s imprudence, Seaton was having a tussle, sharp and severe, with his father. “They are all alone in the world,’ ’he says. “Yes, yes,” acknowledges the old man with a frown. “Except for me,” hastily; “I—l alone came to their rescue.” “That is true. It was quite what I should have expected of you!” “Why should you expect it? There was no reason," says the old man, sharply. “It was of my own free will that I took them. Do you question my kindness to them? What more am Ito do for them? Would you have me kneel at their feet and do them homage? Have I not explained to you how desirous I am of making one of them my daughter? Ha! I have you there, I think! Is not that affection? Am I not willing to receive her? Y'ou should best know.” “Yes,” says the young man, stonily, his eyes on the ground. “Why, look you; I would give her even you! You! My son! My one possession that has any good in it!” “You must put that idea out of your head once for all. I coujd not combat a dislike active as hers." “Her dislike? Hers? That beggar!” his face working. “What d’ye mean, sir? I tell you it shall be! Shall!" “Talking like that will not mend matters. It certainly will not alter the fact that I myself personally am objectionable to her. I can see that it is almost as much as she cad do to lie civil to me —to ait at the same table with mo. I entreat you not to set your heart upon this thing, for it can never be.” “1 tell you again that it shall!” shrieks the old man, violently. “What! is the cherished dream of a lifetime to be set aside to suit the whim of a girl, a penniless creature? She shall be your wife, I swear it, though I have to crush the consent out of her.” He falls back clumsily into his chair, a huddled heap. Seaton in an agony of remorse and fear hangs over him, compelling him to swallow a cordial lying on the table near. “Here, sir. Be patient. All shall be as you wish. I implore you to think no more of this matter. Yes,” In answer to the fiery eyes now more ghastly than ever in the pallid, powerless face, “I shall try my best to fulfill your desire.” He feels sick at heart as he says thi-. and almost despicable; but can he let tin old man die for want of a word to appease the consuming rage that has brought death hovering with outstretched wings above him? And yet, of what avail is it all? A momentary appeasement. Even as he comforts and restores his father, there rises before his mental vision that pale, proud, sorrowful face, that is all the world to him, and yet, alas! little.

Vera having made up her mind to go to her uncle and fully explain to him that neither she nor Griselda desire any change in their way of living, waits patiently for Seaton’s departure from his father's den, and now, at last, seeing the coe*t clear, goes quickly forward. “Uncle Gregory,- I wish to say something to you,” she is beginning, hurriedly, hating her task and hating her hearer, when suddenly she is interrupted. “Hah! For the first time, let me say, I am glad to see you," says the old man, grimly. "Hitherto I have been remiss, I fear, in such minor matters of etiquette. Sit down. I, too, have something to say to you.” He fixes his piercing eyes on her and says, sharply: "You have met my son several times?" "Yes,” says Vera. "You like him?” with a watchful glance. z . “I can hardly say so much,” coldly. “He is neither more nor less than a complete stranger to me.” “As yet. Time will cure that; and 1 speak thus early to you, because it is well that you should make up your mind beforehand to like hinu” "Why?” she asks. "Because in him you see your future husband.” There is a dead pause. The old man sits with bright unblinking eyes fixed upon the girl, who has risen to her feet and is staring back at him as if hardly daring to understand. From red to white, from white to red she grows; her breath fails her, passionate indignation burns hot within her breast. “Absurd!” she says, contemptuously. "Call it so if you will,” with an offended flash from his dark eyes, "but regard it as a fact for all that. You will marry your cousin, let me assure you.” “That I certainly shall not,” ly“That you certainly shall. Did you not know that your marriage with my son was the last wish, the last command of your father?” He is lying well, so well that at first the girl forgets to doubt him. “My father?” she says, with much amazement. “He never so much as mentioned my cousin's name to me.” “To me, however, he did. Do you wish to see the letter?” This is a bold stroke. Vera hesitates—then, “No,” says she, steadily. "Even if my father did express such a wish, 1 should not for a moment accede to it, I shall uot marry to please any one, dead or living, except myself.” “So you now think. We shall tee,” returns he. in an icy tone. “May I ask if—if your son is aware of thia arrangement?”

•“My son to wining," says Mr. Dysart, slowly. At this moment the door is thrown ope*’and Seaton himself enter*. “You know!” she cries. Her tone is low, but each word rings clear as • bell. “You know! Oh, coward!” she breathes very low, her slender bands clinched. Roused from his lethargy and stung by her contempt, be would now have made his defense, but with a scornful gesture she waves him aside and leaves the room. “Great heaven! how did you dare so to insult her?" cries the young man, in terrible agitation, addressing his father. He casts a burning glance at him. Dysart cowers before it. “Out of evil comes good,” he says, sullenly, “and I did it for the best.” He stretches out his hand to his son. “See, then,” he cries, entreatingly, “I did it for you—for you!” “For me! You ruin the one hope 1 had, which meant silence —time—and you say it was for my good!” “I thought to compel her, to frighten her into a consent, and I will yet,” cries he, eagerly. "Nay, Seaton, do not look thus upon me. I have not betrayed you without meaning, and all for the fulfill ment ETAOIN NU PNUP NUP NUP ing of your desire—and mine.” “You misunderstand me,” says Seaton, curbing his passion with difficulty. “1 would not have her as a gift on such terms. Is it a slave I want, think you? No, not another word! I cannot stand it to-night. Forgive me, father, if 1 seem abrupt, but ” He seems heartbroken as he turns aside and disappears through the doorway. Long after he has gone the old man sits motionless, his head bowed upon his breast. “Curse her!” he says ,at last; “the same blood all through, and always to iny undoing! Cursed be her lot indeed if she comes between him and me! But that shall never be.” Presently he passes through a door on his right hand, gropes his way along the unlighted passage. Unlocking and entering an apartment here—where the strange old cabinet stands —he fastens the door securely behind him, and goes quickly up to it. Kneeling down beside it he unlocks the secret door, and taking out the withered parchment opens and reads it with a feverish haste. It seems as though he hopes thus to slake the raging thirst for revenge that is tormenting him. Long he kneels thus, conning each word with curious care, gloating over the contents of that mysterious document. So lost is he in his perusal of it that he fails to hear the approach of Mrs. Grunch until she lays her hand upon his shoulder. “What, don’t you know it by heart yet?” asks she, derisively. (To be. continued.)