Litchfield enquirer., 1881-07-28
COUSIN FELIX.
By the Author of sMiss Moly, 'Dekcia,' etc.
 CHAPTER I.

CHAPTER I.
 Charity Warburton was seated over the school room fire in Silverdale Hall, her feet on the fender, her elbows on her knees, her two hands ruff1ing the brown locks, her eyes the while staring forlornly now at the blazing fire, now at an open letter lying in her lap.
 Only six months ago, when for the last time Miss Warburton bade adieu to Elmslie House, and those who had been school friends for many year, she had felt that life full of unknown joy was opening out before her, that now the season of trouble was over with school-and To, already life was proving It. self not to be entirely bed of roses l That morning. the 10th of December, day forever to be marked in the calendar of fate with black mark, the first downfall of her 1 light, and in the deserted schoolroom, for | Poilie was out, she was considering this trouble that had overtakeD her. 1 | She was little bewidered still. could even yet scarcely comprehend the tale that her father had related to her..
 l You are grown up now, dear," he had commenced by saying, land there are others who remember it, even if had forgotten. for you are eight years younger than Felix, and here comes the letter telling me he IS twenty l i've"
 And after this preamble, Mr. Warburton had proceeded to tell his story to his wonder ing, startled daughter.
 My brother-your uncle Edwardr my dear my elder brother, you understand? So the property should have been his, but it was not | entailed, and my father made most unjust will, cutting him off from everything he should have had, because he married, as was thought, beneath him. Thus everything came to me. He, Edward, sad it was better so. I No o1x T-;4 d., loved each other so well that even this did not divide us.
 "For of course, as was blind-that was what he meant.-No. dc not cry, Charity. Was not that tear felt? I could not have worked for my living, and-he could Such great, strong fellow he always was,-net in the least like me-
 ''So we parted good friends, and when you were eight years old, and your mother died, then we agreed that when Felix should be twenty five he should come to England, and if you should both be willing, he should mar " you, and heal this breach that has lasted for so long and having no son, was glad to think that thus the old place would return to it's rightful owner"
 "But, father, supposing when he comes l." I-hesitating-'' should not like him ?''
 "But you must not think that possible" |" And then, with quick turn of his head, | '1 Ou care TOT no one else 7!
 'No, mo-"
 ''That is all right. We'll. if he is like his father, as hear he is, he will be good hus- band for you. And," passing his hand over her brown head caressingly, "when go, shall like to know have left my motherless | daughter with some one to take care of her. You can read your uncle's letter." putting an envelope with an American postmark into her hand. Cousin Sarah read it to me this mor- ming"
 Cousin Sarah was the elderly lady who looked after widowed MT. Warburton's house for him. Charity spread the letter out on her lap, and read every word it contained care fully. Not much to be made out of it.
 A pleasant, friendly letter, such as any man might write to his brother. Full of fam | lily details, which all fell unmeaningly on | Charity's ears, only at the end came the one | little sentence which rivited her attention ''I 1 suppose Charity is grown up now? Felix's | twenty fifth birthday will be next week. Does l the old compact still hold good? If you are l willing, and what is more important, tor | young men are not always tractable m mat rmonial matters-who should know this bet ter than !-he might go over to England and pay you visit"
 | And this was the sentence on which Miss Warburton's eyes were still fixed, as she sat that same evening in the empty schoolroom. But she was not fated to sit there alone long. Enter to her the young sister whom she was already beginning to envy as safe at least from one evil, that of having 8 husband forced upon her. and it was not very long before that l same sister was made aware of the dark shad ow that had fallen across Charity's happy | life.
 ''It is too cruel" she cried in the fashion of | impetuous youth to whom the removing of mountains seems naught. ''It IS impossible you should be so sacrificed. Why, dear Char ity, you, who can do anything with father, must tell him It is absurd. Why, darling D throwing tender arm about her, "you have only to say you will not permit it, and father 1 would agree"
 'If you had heard him, Pollie, you would have said yes just as did He told me he had planned, and hoped it ever since mother died, and that he would be- oh, 80 terribly disappointed. if it did net come to pass'" l Charity was walking up and down the room now with hands clasped behind her head, in pretty fashion she had; but there was no thought of pretty movements at present. Everything was too terribly real with that fa- tai letter lying on the hearth rug, where it had fallen when she rose, to admit of any light thoughts.
 "Oh, Pollie, dear, I wish were back at 1 school wish 1 were au old, old woman !" l in. 1 could not really oppose the dear old father, and at last" coloring little, ''I had with my own hand to sit down and write, beg l ging him to come"
 1 ''Oh. poor Charity" !" cried awe.struck Pol. lie, "what did you say?"
 ''As little as possible
 l "What did you call him3"
 ''There was not much choice," remarked Charity grimly. But I was not going to l itlm mt fhp iox T so I said, Dear Mir. Warburton"-' 1 "Oh, am so glad!" interrupted Pollie, breathlessly. ''I was so afraid you might have said, Dear Felix"
 ''No, indeed" cried Charity, pausing in her pacing up and down and drawing her sister toward her; and they stood thus together in the window, pretty picture enough, and for a moment her sore young heart felt at rest, for these sisters were all in all to each other. l Well, go on. What did you say next ?" "Just what father told me. That we should be glad to see him, if he would come and spend fortnight with us, and that we hoped he would arrange it.
 Nothing else ?"
 | Charity reddened little. stJust one little thing more did not think it was wrong, though did not tell father. I said it was father hoped he would come. Mo-" as Polie would have interrupted her, '.you will under Stduu why Sdsu IL, Wucu UGH you something else, for there is something worse to tell you even than that which you have heard"
 "What ?" inquired Pollie anxiously, and creeping yet nearer to her sister as she spoke, and clasping her arms yet more tightly about her. "Oh, Charity, you are crying I felt tear fall. Charity, dear, don't cry!''
 Only those two tears fell, and then Miss l Warburton lifted her hands and brushed them away. ''No, will not cry," she said, rais- ing her head proudly, 'I have done nothing to be ashamed of. But, Polhe, he does not want it either. Uncle Edward says in his letter: "Felix will. hope, go," but ah, Pol lie, it was evident from the letter that he was not anxious himself to come-only his father has persuaded him, just as mine has persuad- ed me-"
 "Never mind. Charity darling; don't mind