Democratic Sentinel, Volume 19, Number 35, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 6 September 1895 — THE GHOST'S EYES. [ARTICLE]

THE GHOST'S EYES.

Mrs. Robert Livingstone was * woman of superb dignity. Yet any one of her city friends would scarce- . ly have recognized her in the rather ' clumsy figure running and stumbling | up the rough canon road that led ! from the lower bean held to the ranch house. Her black skirts were not held up, but allowed to trail a little and catch the fine dust and tar weed stain as she hurried on. Nothing of trifling importance could have forced Mary Livingstone thus far to forget her elegant self, even alone in a canon.

The fog was coming up from the sea and slowly closing in and deepening the shadows of the gorge. It was already late twilight, and the Loneliness and gloom of the place tortured her over tense nerves. A little owl flew with a shrill scream over her head, and she screamed with ib. v A belated ground squirrel rustled in the underbrush up the bank, and she felt that all the terrors of the jungle were upon her. A sharp turn in the trail brought her at last in view of the house and the welcome glimmer of a light gave her a little courage. She quickened her steps still more in her eagerness, forgetting that the canon stream crossed the road at the bend, and, missing the board,,she stepped in ankle deep. Even this she scarcely noticed, but splashed on over the slippery stones. It was only when she reached the gate, breathless and disheveled, that she seemed to be able to think. “I can’t let Allen see me in this plight,” she said to hersef. “He would ask all manner of questions and not be put off, and I could not tell him that. Oh, no, no!” But just then a slight, youthful figure appeared at the veranda steps, standing on crutches. “What makes you so awfully late, mother?” he called out to her. “I thought you never would get here,” and the thin, complaining voice was even a little more impatient than usual. ‘‘Sing is on one of his worst rampages and is mad as hops because dinner is late. I was even afraid to ask him to light the lamp and I’ve been sitting out here in the dark for ages. If there’s a dish left out there it won’t be his fault. Listen to that! ’ and just then a tin pan seemed to go spinning across the kitchen. “I am very sorry, my dear,” said Mrs-Livingston, quietly? ‘‘but I was detained by the engineer. He says the thresher engine is broken, and he must go to Seco Grande to-mor-row for repairs. Some of the men were to be paid off. and I had their accounts to look over. I will be glad when your father gets home. Harvesting is too important a time for me to be left alone. Poor Allie. What a forlorn time you’ve had! Come in and we’ll make up for it,” and she preceded him into the dark little parlor. Quickly lighting the lamp, she said: “Turn it up more, dear, after it has burned a little, and tell Sing to have dinner in five minutes. I’ll be right out,” and she hurried to her room, leaving her son wondering vaguely that his mother’s hand should tremble as she held the match, and secretly wishing she had not left him to face the irate Sing alone. Allen Livingstone was 17, but long accustomed to having every wind tempered for him, he was naturally timid and not a little spoiled. Mrs. Livingston] lavished upon him that yearning and tenderness that a hopelessly crippled child calls forth from a mother’s pity. He was at once her idol and her sorrow and his slightest wish was law.

Dinner at the ranch house was even more quiet than usual that evening. Mrs. Livingstone appeared tired and preoccupied, while Allen fretted childishly over the rather warmed un flavor of things on the table. The offending Chinese came and ■went in sullen routine. After the coffee, Mrs. Livingstone put her arm lovingly over her son’s shoulders and they went out to the parlor thus. “I have a lovely scheme, dearest,” she said. “While father is away I think it would be nice for you to come over and sleep in your old room adjoining mine. It will be more sociable and we can play we are both young again. What do you think ? “I don’t mind it,"saidAUen,indifferently, lighting a delicate cigarita. The house was one of those primitive Spanish structures, built of adobe,one story and three sides facing an open square—very pleasant and artistic with the deep verandas, vinecovered and cool, and the little court always full of flowers and sunshine, but not so convenient and practical for everyday comforts as some more modern plans for homes. The main part of the house is taken up by the living rooms, leaving the sleeping rooms in the wings and far separated. . It had been a trying time for Mrs. Livingstone, when her husband had insisted that Allen should give up his little bedroom next to theirs, which he had always occupied, and go across the court. The boy was no longer a baby, he said, and he had always needed that room for his own private use. He wanted a place for his desk and books and the big safe which held the family valuables and often considerable sums of gold and •liver, as he preferred to pay his men in coin rather than by check in the But his wife had never been reconciled to having her delicate child out of th* sound of her voice at night,

and many a time had she stolen out in the darkness to listen at his window to see that her darling was sleeping well, and to indulge in a long moment of adoring worship, as she strained her eyes to see the pale faoe on the pillow. “I will go around the veranda now, dear,” she «aid, as Allen smoked, “and bring your things for the».ight. The couch is very comfortable, and it will be lovely to have you back.” The chill air struck her unpleasantly as she opened the door. She shuddered a little and drew her shawl closer. "What a fog!” she exclaimed. ‘‘The beans will bp again delayed. Ws worse than the conflict of haymaking and showers in New England." Comjng out of her son’s room a few mbments later, with her arms full of his clothing she was startled by a slight noise across the court. It seemed like some heavy thing dropping with less sound than its weight would suggest. In the misty darkness she could see nothing. Mary Livingstone was known far and near as a woman of unbounded courage and self reliance. During her husband's frequent business trips to San Francisco she stayed and ruled the little kingdom like a queen. Not a man on the ranch but was glad when Mrs. Livingstone was boss. The house in the canon was her castle, where she and Allen, with the faithful Sing, abode in security which none dared to molest. If anyone had told her a week ago that this night she would be a haunted creature, trembling and unstrung, tormented by an evil presentiment and dreading she knew not what, she would have laughed the prophet to scorn. door had been left a little ajar, and she pushed through it and on to her own apartment. ‘‘Please shut the door, Allie. My hands are full. I’ll be ready for you soon.” Drawing the shades, she set resolutely to work about making her son’s room comfortable for the night. She dared not think, or she felt that she would scream from sheer nervousness. The dainty silver toilet articles, which were his pride, she arranged on the broad desk, and soon had the low lounging couch transformed into an inviting bed, with even a hot water bag tucked in at the foot. She took from her closet shelf his little toy like night lamp, which had been one of his childish idols, and lighted it, and, after one or two little final touches here and there, she called him. “It’s time small boys were asleep. Lock the front door, dear, and come. I have such a funny story to read to you.” Allen hobbled in, a slight frown on his delicate face at being babyed, and surveyed the little room. “It’s as cold as a barn here,” he said. ‘‘What makes it so cold? I don’t want to go to bed yet.” “Oh, yes, ’you do. It’s getting late. You’ll soon be nice and comfortable in your old nest. You will find it warmed.” “Oh, well, I suppose there’s nothing else to do,” he complained. “Where’s the story?” “I’ll begin it right now, while you’re getting ready,” and Mrs. Livingstone settled herself by her lamp to read. In less than half an hour she quietly peeped in to find her boy fast asleep. She wanted to stoop and kiss the white forehead, but she denied herself lest she waken him.

Nearly closing the door she walked restlessly about her room a few moments, aimlessly touching this and looking at that. She took her account book out of the draggled dress she had worn down the canon and looked it over a little, soon putting it aside. She tried to read, but the words followed each other under her eyes in an unknown tongue. She took up her Bible, and even that seemed to hold no word of peace. Something as people in great peril go over their past life, she fell to thinking of hers, but she was soon brought back face to face with the present. The thought that she was struggling so to keep in abeyance at last seemed to break its bounds and fill her soul with an irresistible fascination ; she dwelt upon it and did not try to put it aside. Three nights ago, at midnight, she had awakened suddenly, being conscious of a noxious presence near, and slowly there had grown from it two dark, glittering eyes close to her own, which held her gaze with terrible intentness. The evening in the canon they had been there before her all the way, and she had almost succumbed to their terror. For the first time she had noticed that the brows and corners of the eyes had been slightly upturned, like the Mongolian. What did it all mean? The end was not yet. What would it be? These thoughts seemed to enthrall her.

It was nearly 11 o’clock. Would it come to-night? Outside, the night was so deathly still, and so lonely. Why didn’t the wind blow! Anything that would break the spell upon her. She turned the light down, and threw herself wearily on the bed as she was. With the first stroke of the clock at midnight she woke from a troubled sleep. In a moment she became distinctly conscious of a smoky odor, the unmistakable scent of a Chinese's clothing. A slight noise on the floor caused her to sit up quickly. A man’s head and shoulders were slowly emerging from under the bed. One sickening moment she wavered, then sprang out upon him, holding him down for an instant; but he turned, and there glared up at her those same eyes—the fiend like eyes of her vision, and the man was Sing. She grappled with him in superhuman strength, how m»nj desperate, struggling moments she never knew. It seemed an eternity. Not a word was uttered. She saw that 1 his superior strength must gain in the end. He constantly tried to reach for a knife, which evidently was caught in some way, for he failed to get it in his hand. At last, Allen heard the noise and appeared at the door, almost fainting with fright

His mother spelled out to him: ”G-e-t t-h-e a-x q-u-i-c-k,” then added: “Goto bod. child.” The boy had presence of mind to go around, as there were many locked doors in the way through the house. The Chinese, afraid of some outside assistance, began to beg. “Me catchee money—me no kill. You gib key—me no kill. You no gib, me al lee same killee you, killee Allie, too. You gib key.” Mrs. Livingstone said nothing, and in an incredibly short time for him, Allen came in. panting and dragging the gleaming ax. The fiend saw it and became like a madman. He shrieked and bit at the strong white wrists that held him like a vise. He foamed at the mouth in his fit of rage and fear. “Allen,” she said, “get the trunk rope in the closet—be quick.” Aftv-r an almost hopeless struggle and a'little weak help from her son, she managed to tie one hand, then both together, and had Allen make the other end fast to the bedstead. The rope was old, and if it gave way they were lost, for it was the only thing of the kind available. Her knees were still on his chest. “ Allen,” she commanded, “go from this room and shut your door tight after you.” He was almost stupefied, but obeyed blindly. In another instant he heard an awful blow and a short shuffling round, then a long moment of silence, but he dared not goin again. Presently his mother appeared holding her wounded hand. She looked to him in the dim light like an old woman. Her face was ashen and drawn, and her dark hair had turned almost snow white. He looked at her mutely. “My dear,” she said, slowly. “God knows it was the only way. He gave me the power to save us, or you and I, Allen, would this moment have been in the traitor’s place." She gave an involuntary shudder, but turned and locked the door on the ghastly scene. Taking some antiseptic solution she bathed her hand thoroughly and bound it with some of Allen’s handkerchiefs. She then sipped a small glass of whisky and water and lay down beside her son. So the long night wore away. There have been few changes in Seco Valley. The lima beans grow on the broad, sunny lowlands, are harvested and grow again. The canon brook still sings its love song to the blossoming hillsides. The owls and mocking birds, the squirrels and the lizards, live as before, but the vines run rampant over the broad piazzas of the ranch house in Seco Canon. Only a few complaining doves have their home in the low garret. When Mr. and Mrs. Robert Livingstone returned to live in New York their friends welcomed them with open arms. It was hinted that, not being to the manor born, Mr. Livingstone had not covered himself with glory or lined his purse with gold in his ranching scheme; but it was the change in Mrs. Livingstone that excited the most comment. The snowy hair, the restless, hunted expression and absent manner spoke of some stupendous change from her old self. To only one trusted friend did she confide the mystery of her life. Every night at 12 o’clock there appeared to her two fierce, hard eyes, which would not turn till she was nearly beside herself with horror.