Jasper County Democrat, Volume 2, Number 27, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 14 October 1899 — Worth the Winning. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

Worth the Winning.

By The Duchess.

CHAPTER XXII. Night has quite closed in, a night exceptionally wild and violent, when once more the sound of wheels upon the gravel without catches Vera’s ear. Perhaps ehe had been listening for it —is even in a measure prepared for it, but even if so, this does not prevent the sudden agitated change that overspreads her face aa she hears it. Her pulses quicken unpleasantly and slhe half rises to her feet. An hour, two hours, pass, and she is in her room dressing for dinner, when a servant brings her a note. “I have to thank you for the kind invitation which Qriaelda gave me. Business matters have compelled me to come here again—for the last time—to-night; to trespass, for the last time, upon your hospitality. I beg you will not let my presence disturb you; my stay will be so short that I dare to hope you will not mark the coming or going.” A quick wave of color dyes Vera’s face; she lays the letter with studied slowness upon the table near. *‘My compliments to Mr. Dysart, and I hope he will dine with me to-night," she says, calmly, but with an unconscious touch of hauteur. How does he dare to treat her like this, to persist in believing —or rather, to pretend to believe —that his presence is so distasteful to her? What is he to her, one way or the other, that die should care whether he was in her house or out of it? At dinner, however, she will have an opportunity of widening his knowledge somewhat. It will be the simplest thing to let him see how utterly unimportant an item he is in the scheme of her existence. There is a brilliant light in her eyes as she turns to receive the woman who has now come back with an answer to her message to Dysnrt. i There is a timidity in the woman’s air that warns her. “Mr. Dysart’s compliments and thanks, madame, but he has already dined in town.”

“Fasten this bracelet,*’ says Vera, holdins: out her arm. She is aware that the woman is watching bpr, curiously if nervously, and she so moves that the sudden pallor of her face, the sole thing that shows her indignation, shall not betray her. “That will do; you can go,” she cays after nwhile. She sweeps down stairs almost in the servant’s footsteps, and into the green drawing room, a smaller apartment than the usual reception roomß, and now looking delicately cozy beneath the touches of lamps and firelight, and with the perfume of many flowers hanging around it. The wind, the thunder, the lightning, ■till rage, but the rain has ceased, and In the murky heavens above, a pale, sickly moon is striving feebly to break a way through the dense clouds. Suddenly the door is thrown open by an agitated hand, and the woman who had attended her upstairs comes hurriedly, without ceremony, into the room. “Oh, madame, I thought you would like to know —that you should be told—” she (stops, frightened by the expression on jVera’s face. “Well?” says Vera, going a step nearer jto her.

! “There is a ship in great distress, ma- ' dame —somewhere out there,” pointing Vaguely in the direction of the ocean, “upon the rocks, they say! There is Scarcely any hope ” “But the life-boat?” Tried Vera, sharpfr, forgetting everything now but the aw|ul thought of death*—and death so near '—out there upon those cruel rocks, with she boiling, murderous waves leaping to deceive their prey. "Yes, madame, but that accident yesterday—you will remember it?—they say it has disabled six of the men, and it is almost certain death to go at all, and the bands being short, there must be volunteers, and who will risk their lives ” (he townbred girl stops short with a quiver, and covers her face with her hands. “Volunteer*! Wfiere is Mr. Dysart?” cries Vera, suddenly, with prophetic instinct. “Speak, girl!” turning fiercely on her maid. ■ “Gone down to the beach, madame, to aee what can be done.” “Gone!” says Vera, slowly, as if dazed, and then again, “gone!” A little conclusive shiver runs through her —it is the final breaking up of any lingering de- » celts, any last illusions, that she may , v still have clung to. “Order the carriage,” she says, after a minute or two, during which mistress and maid have remained silent. This sudden vraking-up has been so far a shock that it has killed all immediate nervousness. She feels chilled, calmed, strengthened. The moon has in a measure conquered the clouds, and now shines out with a pale, watery luster, that rather adds to than takes from the weird wildness of the night. The thunder still rattles overhead, and vivid flashes light the blackness. Here and there, as the carriage passes by the outskirts of the wood, these intermittent bursts of light show where a tree has been felled, or the road ripped up, or a small bridge carried bodily away by the force of the swollen current underneath. All through the deadly crashing of the storm a booming sound may be heard at long intervals. Half maddened by it, and by that other greater fear, Vera lies back in the carriage, pressing her fingers now to her ears, now to her throbbing brow, that feels as if it were bursting. Arrived at the entrance to the village, a drive of about a mile from Greycourt, she stops the carriage, and opening the door springs to the ground. A sudden gust of wind passing by almost dashes her to the earth, but by a superhuman effort she defies it, and half blinded by the flashing lightning, and bewildered by the raging storm, she turns aside, and ■ runs panting, struggling, down a side pathway that she knows leads to the Leach below.

CHAPTER XXIII. The wild scene that meets her sight strikes terror to her heart. The mad roaring of the waves that, mountains high, rush impetuously inland to dash themselves to pieces against the granite rocks; the cries of the women; the hoarse calls of the men; the flaming, restless torches that fling a weird light upon the picture; all serve to unnerve her. And now a shout from the beach! A dark object being dragged forward, a valiant cheer, perhaps meant to reach those miserable souls hovering on death’s brink, and so give courage to their failing hearts; it is the life-boat, and now A tall figure has suddenly become prominent; he seems to tower above all those around him. He is evidently addressing them with passionate words, and now be springs into the boat, and with renewed eloquence seems to compel those present to follow him. His voice, in its vehemence, rises even abpve the storm. Not that the stricken girl crouching within the shelter of her rock needs that testimony to know that it is he whom her soul loveth. Vera staggers to her feet and stares blindly into the semi-darkneso. A hearty cry goes up from those crowded together on the beach. The mists have cleared away from the moon, and she can see as well as those eager watchers that the five black spots that were upon the rigging are no longer there. They have been successful, then, so far. They have taken those five halfdead creatures into the blessed lifeboat. Surely, if the rescuers could go through such a sea In safety, they can return. A blessed relief comes to her, so sharply, so unpreparedly, that she almost gives way beneath it. The good ship, indeed, is gone! Where the black, indistinct mass stood a minute since, now all is bare—there is but sea and sky, and the memory of it! But the lifeboat still lives. Every onward dash of the tempestuous waves drives the lifeboat the more surely into shelter, until at last it touches ground. A hund?ed eager hands are stretchqd out to prevent the returning wave from carrying it backward, some of the men, more adventurous than the rest, rush into the surging tide up to their waists and seize the boat and drag it forcibly into safety. Dysart, springing to land, helps out the rescued men, now exhausted by fear and exposure—one of them, indeed, has fainted —but there are kindly arms open to receive them and kindly voices to bid them welcome—and to praise the God of sea and land for their delivery from death this night. With a hurried wave of the hand he turns abruptly away from the cheering crowd and the dancing torchlights, and makes his way through the heavy darkness toward the small pathway that will lead to the road above. Stumbling, uncertain, and feeling altogether exhausted, he nevertheless finds It, and puts out his hand to grope for the rock that he knows stands at the right side of it, where the beach commences.

“Good heavens, what is this? He starts violently, and then his fingers fasten with almost convulsive energy over the small cold hand that has been thrust into his. A sharp little cry breaks through the darkness, and then the cold hand Is hurriedly withdrawn, and two arms are thrown round him, and cling to him with passionate vehemence. “It is you—you! And you are safe! Oh, Seaton! Oh, thank heaven, thank heaven!”

Whose voice is it? Not Vera’s? Vent! and yet the clinging arms are warm, living, and genuine; the sobbing voice is real; a small disheveled head is very close to him—very! What has happened? Has he gone mad?

He is ghastly pale, white as the death from which he has but just now so narrowly escaped, and across his right temple there is a slight streak of blood, still wet. This adds to his pallor. Vera, seeing it, shudders violently, and involuntarily, almost unconsciously, lifts her hand, and presses her handkerchief to tlie wound. “Speak!”'says he, and now the word is a command. It rings sharply. There is a very anguish of doubt in his tone, and his eyes, burning into hers, are so full of desperate question, that they utterly unnerve her. The strain of the past terrible hours has been too severe, and now she sinks beneath it. She bursts into tears. "Oh, yes, yes, yes!” she cries, giving him thus vaguely the answer he requires. In a moment his arms are round her, crushing her against his heart. To him those incoherent words are full of sweetest meaning. Yes, she loves him. Who shall tell the joy this knowledge brings him—joy that is almost pain? “Darling, darling!” whispers he, softly. And then after a little while, “I am too happy. Ido not know what to say. I cannot speak.” And then again, “May I kiss you?” He does not wait for permission, but presses his lips to hers—dear lips, that kiss him back again, with honest, heartfelt gladness. (The end.) The British marquis working before tbe mast has turned up iu St. Helena on a sailing vessel plying between England and Australia, according to tbe St. Helena Guardian. It is the Marquis of Graham, eldest son and heir of the Duke of Montrose, 21 years of age. He wants to find out all about the merchant marine and to earn a master’s certificate.