Jasper County Democrat, Volume 2, Number 25, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 30 September 1899 — Worth the Winning [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

Worth the Winning

By--The Duchess.

aHi CHAPTER XVl.—(Continued.) ||lHniat nirbt is still as death itself, and |||H* sparking brilliance of the slow movltlHf_ craters contrasts with it in tender IjjHHiton. Strangely attracted by it, Vera IgjHez forward, moves down the stone UjHepe that lead to the garden, and with Is|Bfsr footsteps gains the little pathway, fjjHeep and sodden, that leads to the beach. §§!■ Suddenly she draws in her arms, and lllgßshiver runs through her; she turns her f||H n 3 — 10 se® Dysart. |i|H M Yoa are going to marry Lord Shelhe says, his tone more assertive Han questioning. ■“lt is an impertinent question,” says Hiss Dysart, calmly. HH*Yoa are disingenuous. If he has not j||H)t asked you, you know he only waits opportunity to do so. When he IgHoes ” He checks himself abruptly, he has gone too far. little flame leaps into .Vera’s eyes. |||9 M Has it occurred to you that I am very Hrbearing?” she asks, with a curious Hnile. “Does it not strike you as very Hnarkable that I do not on my part Hiestion you back again? that I do not yoi^whom you are going to marry?” He looks as if he was about to make |j|H*r an angry rejoinder, but she checks don’t be afraid, I am not going i§H> put the question,” she says, coldly; Hand after all, why should I?” •tffW “Do you mean,” he goes on, “that yon Hnow of someone I want to marry?” gIM “Let there be an end to this hateful ||Hypocrisy,” cries she, turning to him with HH burst of passionate anger. “You acted ■Hour part for Griselda this morning most ggHtoirably” BH “Vera!” cries he, hoarsely. HjHShe tarns as if startled by that impasIgHoned cry, and then, he hardly knows pHow it la, he hardly dares remember afjj&Hrward, but somehow she is in his arms, i|Hnd he is looking down iuto her frighten|Hd eyes with a terrible entreaty in his * HH “Do you know what you are doing?" SHe says, his miserable voice scarcely |lHbove a whisper. “My darling, my soul. |HITe pity!” More closely his arms bind Bp. He bends his face to hers—nearer, ■ Hearer still, and then, suddenly, a great ||jH>athing of himself fills him. He draws ■Hack with a sharp shudder, and almost ■Hushes her from him. “Go!” he says, veand in another moment she ■Hu turned the corner of the winding HHtaira, and is gone. H| Gene! HB-With a heavy groan he flings himself downward on the cool, sweet, shiftHH>g sands, that moon-smitten lie tremfeHttng. waiting for the dawn.

■ CHAPTER XVII. HBjks Mr. Dysart takes his way slowly |Bround the house, the sound of running SBootsteps coming toward him from a |HHe walk attracts his attention. It is wild-eyed, haggard, her thin ■ray locks, unbound through her unusual ■He, flying at each side of her lean, for■png face. H “More haste, worse speed," says he, BBarcastically. "Is the house afire, or my SKredons nieces dead, that you rush upon ISae with such indecorous abandon?" &Sm "Hush," says she, sternly, with a behind her, “this is no time for jHrlMp like those. Think only of this. §■37*l rt,’’ pausing and panting for breath, BMt I hare setobva ghost." Wm The old man laughs. H “Be silent!” hisses the woman savageBi; “cease your gibes, I tell you. The ■■host I hare seen is—is ” WM “My worthy father, for example," sughe, with a sneer. “No? Well, ;Bome. who, then?” ■ “Michael Sedley!” The words fall from iflpr as though they burn her lips in pass--9 The sneer dies from Mr. Dysarfs lips; dark flush suffuses his face, turning it fSdmost black for the moment, to fade ■>resently beneath the ashen hue that |Bnakes him look like a corpse—a corpse |Btith eyes of fire! He staggers back a tree, and his hands catch con* ■nlsively at the bark of it mM *You are mad, woman!” he says, in a (■errible voice. ■•“Ay, may be. So I say. Mad I am, ISf tt was his ghost I saw. But if I saw {■im in the flesh, how then, Dysart? Why, ■ftne. Well,” with growing excitement, «*ahall it be mad or sane?” §§§:‘*Mad, mad, mad!” shrieks he, furious■T- “All my life you have been my bane, Hay corse, and now, now .what is this ■ews you would tell me? Sedley! Why. !■• is dead, woman—dead, I tell you! ISWhere have you seen him? Speak, I ■»mmand you.” cries he, seizing her arm ■ud shaking her violently. the avenue. I was there watching Bliss Griselda, as you told me to, lest she Hhould go into the woods again, when he ■same slowly toward me through the Bpees, prowling about. He’s changed. Ba’s gone to bone a deal; but I’d know 9>im still among a thousand. Ay, and HjMi’n know him, too.” g|EJt is characteristic of the iron nature Bf man—that rose above all petty Bfjtegidgs to a miserly fear—that as he ■paters the presence of the one creature ■rhom on earth he dreads, he does so ■vith a calm visage and one expression- ■—■ HI« step is slow, methodical as ■pjmal; his face, gray in its pallor, a very ■ftMh- His brilliant eyes alone betray ||lbi keen life that still lingers in the MPSPt old frame, and they look through Bnd through the unwelcome visitor with ■» unblinking gase. “Tpar he says, softly, nay -smilingly, ■xtyding a graceful hand, with a good I “Just that,” says Sedley, in a tone so ipwff common as to contrast painfully gw Ith the polished accent that had gone ■fore. “Years since we met, mate.” ■‘Many,” says Mr. Dysart, sinking care Dt tTt riCk * ty '®j|| <A<lir DGar him-r-sK'u*.it .w. .

downy nest you're been lyin’ In,” says the large, coarse-looking man, with a distinctly aggrieved air. “There’s the injustice of it. You've as much right to this place as I have, when all’s told. And if I can’t get my share ” “ ’Sh—!” breathes Mr. Dysart, softly, lifting one hand. “And—well, so you have come back? Pining for the old country, eh?” “To look you up,” doggedly. ‘To see whether you were in the grave or out of it, partner.” “Partner?” repea to Dysart, as if in gentle interrogation. “In crime!” roughly, as if angered by the other’s tone. “That’s what they’d call it, Dysart, at the Old Bailey, or whatever court it might come before. I’m not particular.” “No—no,” assents Mr. Dysart, with gentle encouragement. “I never blamed you, mind you that. But a lawyer’s a worriting sort o’ varmint. A man should stick to his word, sea I, and when the old gov-ner refused to stick to his, after all his promises to you, why, if you kept him to it, in spite of him, when he bad no longer power to kick—well, who’s to say you were wrong, eh?” 1 “You are very good; very—sustaining,” says Mr. Dysart, slowly. His tone is, perhaps, a little fainter. “Ay, that’s what I am to them as stands by me. And you and I are in the same boat, Dysart; never lose sight of that. I don’t. I’ll back you up as fresh as though it was only yesterday we’d agreed on —on—you know what. Ha, ha, ha!” The old man suddenly stiffens himself, and looks straight at Sedley. “And now what is it you want?” he asks, tersely, his tone'ringing cold and clear through the room, though very low. “Now, I like that. I want part o' the swag. Five thousand pounds,” says the other, coolly. “Five thousand pounds! You must be mad.” “Not one penny less. My silence is worth that—and more. Gome, don't imagine you can impose on me. I tell you, I would think as little of going Into that room out there and telling your nieces of that first will, as ”

“Hush—hush!” says Dysart, in a sharp tone, wild with fear. “Not another word, not a breath on that subject here. Walls have ears. Yotf know the old ruin at the end of the far garden? Meet me there to-night, and I shall see if we can come to terms.” With a last word or two he succeeded in getting Sedley to the door, and there summons Granch, who in truth is marvelously handy. “Crunch! Will you see to Sedley? He is as old a friend of yours as of mine, I think,” says Mr. Dysart, in so genial a tone for him that Grunch involuntarily glances at him. “He is tired, and no doubt hungry. Make him comfortable in every way.” “Yea, sir,” says Grunch, respectfully. She leads Sedley down the passage, and then, with a muttered word to him that ■he should get the keys of the cellar, runs back to Dysart, who stands staring after them with an unfathomable expression in his eyes. “Your will—-quick!” she says, in a low tone. “Keep him out of sight. Let no one see him, or guess at his presence in this house,” whispers Dysart, fiercely, after which he steps back into his room and slams the door, and locks it behind him in a frenzied fashion.

CHAPTER XVIII. It is ten o’clock, and night, like a heavy shroud, lies over wood and garden. Tom Peyton is treading with cautious steps the upper part of the garden on his way to the ruin. Safely he makes his way to the old house, to get the letter he knows will await him there. Poor darling, what will be in it? Further vexations? With a desire to avoid all risks, he elects to enter by the back, where a large rent in the dilapidated walls will enable him to squeeze through the room where the letter from Griselda will be. Voices decidedly, and in the next room. The speaker at this instant is Mr. Dysart. The second voice is strange to him —coarse, vulgar and dictatorial, and very threatening. The voices grow in wrath; the unknown one being loud in vituperation*., And now, all suddenly as it were, the voices cease; there is a strained silence, as if each man waits with drawn sword for the other’s next word, and then—a sickening sound. A dull, awful blow, as of oak meeting flesh and blood, a ghastly groan, and then —silence. Great heaven! What has happened? Has he killed that old man? Peyton springs forward, looks upon the inner room, he stops short, as if shot, to stare aghast upon the scene before him. Upon the earthen floor lies a huge figure, apparently dead, while standing over it is Mr. Dysart, bis face alight with a ghastly hope, his wild eyes gleaming. A heavy oaken stick is in his hand. The murderous bludgeon is uplifted to complete crime already begun—to finish his work, to make sure of the helpless victim at his feet, when Peyton, uttering a loud cry, rushes from the spot where until now he lay concealed. There is an instant’s hush,, a strange hush, and then a convulsive shiver runs through the old man. An ashen grayness has risen from chin to brow. He flings up his arms, for a second or two, dutches foolishly at the air, and then falls with a dull thud across the body of his enemy. Peyton runs through the garden, never pausing or drawing breath until the house la reached. Knocking impatiently with his knuckles and receiving no answer, he so far gives way to- the agitation that is consuming him as to smash a pane with a stone. This brings Seaton in * mblot * or two * pai "

“It is I, Dysart—Tom Peyton, Coma out, come out quickly. Your father,” panting, “Is hurt—is very ill!” “My father!” says Seaton, as if not believing. “But where—how?” “In the garden—up there in the old ruin. Oh, hurry, man, hurry; you can hear all afterward!” Seaton hardly dares to venture a remark, but, having with trembling fingers clothed himself, follows Peyton out through the window in the chill night air, and soon the two young men are tearing like hunted things through the gardens to that fatal old ruin at the end of them. , Here everything is just as Peyton left it. The old man lying dead, with a more peaceful expression on his face than had ever been there while he lived—the other, the stranger, almost as motionless as his enemy, save for a faint quiver of the lips and nostrils every now and then. Who was he? What had # brought him here? Peyton turns to Seaton with these questions on his lips. It is imperative that something about the stranger be discovered—and at once. Seaton is. still holding his father’s body in his arms, inexpressible grief upon his countenance. The old man had been stern, hard, begrudging, but he bad loved his son well, and the son knew it. Peyton touches him lightly on the shoulder. “Rouse yourself,” he says, in a low, earnest tone. “You know this man?” “No—not at all. I never saw him before.” “What! you can tell me nothing? Oh, think, Dysart!” says Peyton, with increasing anxiety. “If you know nothing we shall scarcely be able to see how to act. Exert your memory, man.” “It is useless. I swear I never saw him before.” He compels himself to look again at Sedley, and a shiver of disgust shakes him. “I know only this—that he has killed my father.” “You forget,” says Peyton, very quietly. He would have been thankful, glad, to be able to leave his friend in this belief, but he knew it would be impossible. “I saw the whole thing. There was a quarrel, about what I did not hear, but it was your father who knocked that fellow down.” “Well, it killed him,” says Seaton, excitedly. “The excitement of that quarrel was too much for him. I still maintain that that man caused his death.” He covers his face with his hands. “Nevertheless, we cannot leave him here to die. Come, Seaton, take your courage in your hands. Think if there be no way to avoid the scandal that must necessarily arise out of all this. For—for the sake of your poor father’s mem l ory, bestir yourself.” It is a potent argument. Seaton flushes hotly, and the old touch of power returns to bis face.

Together they carry the two bodies into the house, under cover of the silent night. Mr. Dysart to his own room, and then up the stairs, and through the endless corridors, that other groaning, scarcely living burden; up always until a disused chamber in a remote corner of the old tower is reached, where it is beyond probability that any one in the house save these three who know, will ever seek to penetrate. (To be continued.)