Democratic Sentinel, Volume 19, Number 35, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 6 September 1895 — A GOLDEN DREAM [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A GOLDEN DREAM

BY GEO-M-FENN.

CHAPTER I. “Help’ Help!" “Call louder, Nousie. There is no one to hear.” But all the same, the speaker, as he seized a handsome mulatto girl round the waist, clapped his hand over her lips and pressed it there in spite of her struggles. “You foolish girl!” he whispered; “the women have gone down to the'tpwn to see what is going on. Why do you treat me like this?” “How dare you!” cried the girl, wrenching her head free. “My husband shall “Be silent, you silly little bird. You know 1 loved you long before he ever spoke to you, and that I love you now more than ever.” “Mr. Saintone, it is an insult. Help! Help!” There was a quick short struggle in the creeper-hung verandah. A little worktable was overturned, and, flushed and excited, the girl wrested herself free, and darted through the open door into the shadowy inner room of the cottage, closely pursued by her assailant; but, before he could fling his arms round her again, she had caught a sleeping child from the cradle in which it lay, and held it before her as a shield, while she stood panting, the blood coloring her creamy cheeks, and her full lips drawn back from her white teeth—at bay. “Yes, you look handsomer than ever now, Nousie,” said her assailant, a handsome man of five and thirty, with but a very slight crispness in his black hair to tell of a faint mingling of another blood in his veins. “But this is acting. How can you be so foolish? Come, listen to reason.”

The girl’s handsome dark eyes flashed as she drew back, pressing the child more closely to her breast, and watching every ■act of her assailant, lest he should take her unawares. “I shall tell my husband everything when he comes back,” she panted. “What will he say to his friend when he knows. What have I ever done that you should treat me so?” She burst into a passion of tears, sobbing violently. “Hush, you foolish woman,” he whispered; and he looked sharply toward the -door. “Yes. he will come soon, and I will tell him all.” “No, you will qot, dear. If you told him, he would come to me, and I should -shoot him.” The girl's jaw dropped, and she gazed at the speaker wildly. “Yes,” he said, seeing his advantage, “I should shoot him. I never miss. Tell him, Nousie. He is in my way.” The girl grew a deep, sobbing breath, and gazed at the speaker as if fascinated, And he saw it and laughed. “There!” he said, “I am going now. Next time I come you will be more sensible and ” “Ah!” cried the girl, joyously. “George —George. He is coming.” She darted to the door with the child dn her arms, passed through from the cool darkness into the hot sunshine, and he saw her dart in and out among the great vivid green leaves of the bananas, and out into the road, down which she hurried toward, where, a quarter of a mile away, a white figure could be seen approaching. Jules Saintone stood in the doorway for a few moments watching the hurrying figure of the girl, with her white muslin dress fluttering in the breeze off the -sea. “No; she will not tell him,” he said, through his compressed teeth. “She will not dare.” Thfen passing into the broad verandah he bent down and hurried to the end, passed out into the lovely, half-natifral garden, and made his way to the shelter •of the edge of the forest behind, among whose heavily foliaged branches he disappeared. By this time the girl was some distance Along the road, hurrying ■on with her drowsy child clasped close to her heaving bosom, her lips parted and her eyes Attained toward the approaching figure. “Oh, George, George,” she panted, "“make haste, make haste!” Then a cold shiver ran through her and she checked her headlong pace. “He said he would shoot him.” She nearly stopped, for her brain reeled as she recalled different bloody affrays which had taken place in their unhappy island, where the hate of race was sufficient cause for the frequent use of pistols or knife, and the laws were so lax that the offender was rarely brought to justice. “And he would kill him if I told,” she aaid despairingly, as she gazed wildly at the approaching figure, which waved a hand to her and then took off his straw hat and waved that. “And we were so happy,” she added after a pause, as she walked slowly on mow, trying to recover her breath and quell the agitation which made her tremble in -every limb. “Oh, if I only dared!” she panted, as a flash of rage darted from her dark eyes. “If I went to the papaloi and asked him, he would be stricken and would die.” “No, no, no," she cried, as she strained the child to her breast; “they would poison him, and it is too horrible. I—l must not speak.” The figure was fast approaching, now ■standing out clear in the dazzling tropic apnshine, now half hidden by the dark shadow of the heavy leafage which hung ■over the road, till with a sigh of relief, as a strong arm was passed round her Supple waist, the girl let herself rest upon the support, and her troubled face grew calm as that of one who has found sanctuary at last. “My darling! Impatient? Have I been eo long?” “Yes, yes; so long, George—so long,” “But—why you are overdone with the heat and carrying that child. You foolish little thing to come out in this roasting sun.” She looked at him wildly. “No, no, no,” he cried, kissing her fondly. “I’m not cross, little one, but yon should not have come to meet me. And then to bring the poor pet. Ah!” he cried, as he tenderly took the sleeping child from her arms, and kissed its closed eyelids and tiny pouting lips in a way that sent a thrill of joy through its mother. “Why, Nousie, darling, were you afraid the Vaudoux people would come and steal it for their next feast?” . “Hush!” she whispered excitedly, and

with a look of horror she gazed wildly round into the dark shadows of the forest, at whose edge their cottage stood. “Bah! little coward!” he said, smiling, as he passed his arm about his wife again, and they walked gently back, taking advantage of every bit of shade. “But, Nousie, dear, I must talk seriously to you about that.” “Not about the Vaudoux people, George," she said hurriedly. “Yes, dear; about the Vaudoux. My little wife must wean herself from all those beliefs.” Nousie hung more heavily on her husband’s arm, and the tears filled her dark eyes as she shook her head slowly, and despondency seemed to be clouding her soft creamy face. “Why, Nousie,” cried the man, a sunburnt French colonist, who years before had left gay Paris to try his fortune in Hayti, “you would not like our darling, my tiny dawn of a bright day, my precious Aube, to learn all their horrid fetish rites and degrading superstitions.” “Oh, no, no, no,” cried the girl excitedly. “Then why not forget them yourself? Can you not see, dearest, that this is the savage religion of the African, brought over here by the wretched slaves?” The color began to appear once more in the girl’s pallid cheeks, and she turned her eyes to his reproachfully. They were hidden among the trees, though at that hour not a soul was in sight; white, and indolent black, in the scattered dwellings were asleep, and he drew her closer to him, and kissed her tenderly. “Don’t look like that pet,” he said. “You don’t suppose it was meant for a reproach to you for what you cannot help? What is it to us? We love, and you might blame me because my ancestors were French. But promise me you will try and forget all that.” “I will try,” said Nousie, fixing her eyes on those of her husband with a look of yearning love. “But it is so hard, George. My grandmother used to believe so much, and she taught me, and she used to tell me that if I dared to forget them the people and the priests had such power—they were everywhere—and that if I forsook them I should die. And I could not die now and leave you.” He drew her to him again, and they walked more slowly as he looked from the sweet dreamy eyes, fixed so earnestly on. his, to the sleping child and back. “No darling, and you shall not die,” he said, half pitying her. “There, some day your faith in all the horrible old superstitions will grow weaker, and you will see the truth of all I say." “I do now, dearest,” she whispered, “for you are so wise and learned and good. I want to forget it all, but it is so hard, and it seems like a cloud over me sometimes, and fills me with fear for you and our little one.” “It is like a cloud over this beautiful unhappy land, Nousie,” cried the man, drawing himself up. “It is a curse to the country, and it is so hard to see peace. Oh, my wife,” he continued excitedly; “here is a land, blessed by the Creator with everything that should make it a paradise for man, but man curses it with his jealousies and passions till it is a perfect hell. Black against white—white against black, and the colored people hating both. And as if this was not enough, here is all this revolutionary trouble, and I do not know which side to take—which to help into peace to save the land.” “Side—help!” cried Nousie wildly. “You —you will not go and fight?" He gazed at her fondly for a few moments as they stood fast beneath the broad spreading leaves of a dwarf palm, “Fight?” he said sadly. “If I could help it, no, Nousie, darling. I came out here to seek a place where all would be peace, where I could have my home, and win land from savage nature to give me the richest fruits of the earth. I have done this, and I have my home made beautiful with the voice of the sweetest, truest woman upon earth, with our little one here; but it is of no use to hide it from you—there are great troubles coming again. We shall have bloodshed till one party has full power. Callet is the man I believe, but black La Grasse is making head, and he is not a bad fellow, he wishes well to the place. I hesitate sometimes which side to take.” “No, no, no,” cried Nousie passionately. “You shall not fight; they would kill you.” “No, not so bad as that,” said George Dulau, smiling. “But join one side I must, darling. Every man among us must make a stand for his position in the land.” A piteous sigh escaped from the girl’s breast. “Yes,” continued Dulau, “it is hard, love, but it is one’s fate. Harder, too, now, when I have you and the little one. There, don’t think of the coming troubles while we have the present. Look at her, how delicate and white she is,” he continued, as he gazed down fondly at the sleeping child. “Is she not beautiful, Nousie?—Venousie—Venus.” He laughed gently. “As beautiful as you are. They might well call you Venus.” “Don't.” said the girl' reproachfully, “you make me think you are mocking. I am not beautiful.” “No?” he said tenderly. “Then tell me our darling is not.” “Oh, no,” cried the girl ecstatically. “She is beautiful —and she is white.” “Yes, said Dulau fondly, “pale and beautiful and rosy as the dawn. Nousie, we will have no other name for her. She shall be Aube—the dawn, our darling, and some day she shall go to Paris. We will make a lady of her, Nousie. There, come along, I am tired with a morning’s talk.” “Yes, tell me,” cried Nousie. “What has been done—what has been said?” “Impossible! One voice drowned another. But the people are all for fighting, Nousie, I cannot conceal it from you. It must come.” They walked on in silence for a few moments, and then Dulau said gravely: “Let me see, it is ten years since I landed in Port au Prince, and there was a revolution. In those ten years there have been two more, and now we are on the brink of another. Saintone says I must stand for him and his party, and I am afraid I must—what is the matter?” The young wife had started violently, and her face was full of agitation consequent upon his mention of the name of his friend, one of the wealthiest Creole planters and merchants of the port “Matter?” she faltered, turning pale. “My darling,” he whispered, “I ought

not to have talked about it to you.** “Yee, yes; I Biust know all,” she cried wildly. “But George, dearest, if —if you must fight—don’t—don’t ” She stopped short, gazing at him with parted lips. “If I must fight—don’t,” he said, laughingly repeating her words. “Don’t —don’t take sides with Saiutone,” she cried desperately. “Eh? Not with the best friend I have in the world ?” “No, no,” she cried, clutching him by the breast as they stood now in the shade of their broad verandah. “He is not your friend—he hates you. Don’t trust him—don’t join with him—he—he ” “Why, Nonsie, darling, you are quite feverish and wild,” said Dulau wonderingly, as he laid his hand upon her burning forehead. “Come indoors, and let’s lay Aube down. She will be cooler. Ixwk at the little pearls all over her white forehead. There, little one,” he said, as he bent down and kissed the child, walking the while Into the shadowed room, where he laid the sleeping babe in its cradle, his wife following him with her hands clasped, and her teeth set for fear she should say more —tell her husband and risk his life. He turned to her smilingly, and stopped short, startled by her set countenace. “Why, Nousie, dear,” he said, catching her in his arms, “you are not going to be ill?” “Ill? No, no,” she said, shuddering as she closed her eyes. “But you are so strange. Why have you taken such a sudden dislike to Saintone? By the way, he was not at the meeting. I must go and see him as soon as it grows cool. But ” He looked round wonderingly. His eyes had caught sight of the overturned worktable, then of a chair lying on its side, and a curtain half dragged down from the rings which held it above the window. He gazed wildly at his wife, and a strange pallor came into his cheeks; while the girl’s eyes were wide open now, and staring at him, with a faintly-seen opal ring about the pupils. The volcanic passion of the Gaul burned in the man’s eyes, as thought after thought flashed through his brain, and he caught her clasped hands in his. “Nousie!” he cried, hoarsely, “tell me—what has happened—speak—what does all this mean?” The white circle between her eyelids grew larger as she gazed at him wildly. “Tell me —why do you not answer?” he cried. Her lips moved, but no words came. “Ah!” he cried, excitedly, “you were flushed and excited—you had been weeping. Nousie, wife—why do you not speak?” “I—dare not,” she faltered at last. “What! Have some of the Vaudoux people been here?” She shook her head. “Then tell me. What has happened?” “I —I dare not,” sjie moaned, and she sank upon her knees before him as he held her bands. “You —you dare not?” he cried, fiercely. “This instant—why not?” “He—§aid he would kill you if I did.” “What? Who—who said that?” roared Dulau furiously. "No, no—don’t nsk me,” she cried, and she would have grovelled at his feet, but he dragged her up and held her tightly, one arm about her waist, the other upon her brow, forcing her head back as he seemed to plunge his gaze into hers in search of the truth. (To be continued.)