Democratic Sentinel, Volume 19, Number 38, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 27 September 1895 — A COLDEN DREAM [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A COLDEN DREAM

CHAPTER IV. The sun shone down through the delicate rounded green leaves of the great lindens, and lay in golden patches on the gravel and velvet lawn, just as the moon scattered its light in silver in the soft summer nights. Beyond the trees, hidden by laurel and dense thickets of lilac and maythorn, was the tall old brick wall, with quiet street and lane, and beyond them gay, brilliant, noisy Paris, whose voices only came within that garden in a faint, soft murmur. All within there was a grave, quiet calm, amid which the flowers bloomed to perfection, and the great dark green leaves of the lilies seemed to sleep on the surface of the broad grass-margined pond, where the carp and gold fish sailed here and there, and came up for a moment to form a ring as they sucked down a scrap of white bread or well-soaked biscuit. Half hidden by the trees was the old picturesque chateau, with its fastened back louvres to every window —blinds so seldom used that the creepers and vines had wreathed themselves in and out, holding them back, and hanging over the windows to form natural sunshades, which waved here and there in the summer breeze. At one time the courtly beauties and gay cavaliers may have paced that garden. but for a hundred years it had been held by the Sisters of St. Ceeile, forming their convent now, where the Superior and her daughters in the faith received en pension a few young ladies to educate nud share the peaceful calm of the dreamy old place. There were some half-dozen of the Sisters about the grounds that soft summer morning, tending flowers, reading, working, or seated here and there in dreamy thought, their quaint garb forming a picturesque addition to the general picture of calm and peace. But all was not silence, for from an open window, pleasantly subdued, came the sparkling notes of a fine-toned piano, evidently touched by a brilliant player, whose performance had taken the attention of a fair, prettily-featured girl of about eighteen, who sat with a drawing upon which she had been engaged, being a sketch of a couple of Sisters in a nook between two great tufts of lilac, one reading to the other, whose fingers were busy over a piece of needlework. As the girl sat in the shade of one of the lindens listening dreamily to the grand old sonata, whose notes floated to her ear, a quiet, grave-looking lady, pleasantly plump and smooth of face, though there were marks suggesting sixty years at the corners of her eyes and lips, and one tiny streak of gray hair just peeping beneath the pure white headdress, which covered her brow, came silently up behind the chair, and stood looking down at the sketch. She nodded her head as if satisfied, and then bent down and lightly touched the girl’s arm. “Oh!” she cried, starting. “I did not hear you come.” “\yell, have you finished?” “Not yet,” said the girl, quickly. “I was listening to Aube. I wish i'could play as well.” “Try,” said the Sister, smiling. As she spoke the music ceased, and directly after a tall, graceful figure in white appeared at the open door, held one hand over two dark eyes for a moment, to screen them from the sun, and then catching sight of the group beneath the lindens, she came quickly over the grass to join them. There was a sad and pensive smile on the old Sister’s face as the pianist approached; and as she came up, her hand was taken and held for a few moments and her face scanned. “Excellent, my child, excellent. We have been listening to your playing.” “Oh, no,” said the girl, with her soft, dreamy-looking face lighting up; “I made so many mistakes. Ah, Luce, how is the drawing?” she continued, as the old Sister nodded, smiled, and walked gravely ou toward the open door.

“Screaming out for the' india-rubber,” was the reply. “Oh, Aube, dear, I shall never draw. Brother Paul will roar with laughter at my work again.” “But Hr. Durham would not,” said Aube, smiling, and showing her regular white teeth. “Hush! Don’t!” said Luce, with 9 look of mock alarm, as she gave a quick glance around. “You shouldn’t, Aube. It’s too dreadful to think of gentlemen in this place. What would Sister Elise think, and the Sisters generally.” “What nonsense!” “Isn’t it, dear? Since I’ve been able to think for myself about such things, I’ve .felt sure that the word man or gentleman ought not to be mentioned in the hearing of any of the Sisters.” “Luce, what trivial things you do say!” ‘Trivial in some cases, perhaps, but what is all very well for us who at any time may be called upon to give up the school-girl life, would be very serious for Sister Elizabeth and Sister Marie, and the rest. They are not so very old yet. But I say: sit down, dear; I've had another letter from Paul,” Aube was silent, but there was a slight tinge of color in her cheeks which was duly noted by her companion, as she walked slowly to the edge of the pond, took out a biscuit, and began to throw tiny crumbs to feed the fish. Luce Lowther, with a mischievous smile on her lips, rose too, and went silently behind her companion. “Poor Paul!” she said, with mock sorrow in her tones, “he will be so grieved.’* “Why,” said Aube quickly, and her soft dreamy eyes flashed a little. “I shall have to tell him that as soon as I mentioned his name you got up and walked away.” There was a faint splash as a fish rose at a crumb and took it under the clear wafer. “It does seem hard on the poor fellow,” continued Lucie. “Now, how can it be! I suppose it must be caused by you, a girl of French parents, being born in the West Indies.” “I don’t understand you,” said Aube, gravely. “No! Well, I mean this inherent coquetry of your nature. Poor Paul! I know he loves you very much.” “Lucie, dear, you hurt me,” said Aube, sadly. “Why will you be' so frivolous about so serious a matter? Your brother has hardly seen me, and then it was only for a few moments.” “Quite long enough to make a hole in his heart, Aube, dear,” whispered Luce. ‘tHe does nothing but rave about you In his letters, and he has painted your portrait again and again.”

“Luce!” “From memory and your photograph.'* “What? Oh. how could he get one?” “I told him the name of the photographer who took you when those two were obtained on purpose to send to Madame Dulau as she wished, and he pursunded the man to let him have one.” “Luce!” cried Aube, and her soft, creamy complexion began to glow with the rich warm color beneath. “It was very shocking of course: but Aube, darling, we are not going to be nuns. We shall soon have finished all this life, and then of course I shall be Mrs. Doctor Durham and you will be ” “Luce, dear, you hurt me,” said Aube, excitedly. "Don’t talk like that, dear.” “Very well, then, 1 will not; but I do hope some day, Aube, that you and I will be really sisters. No, no; don’t stop me. Paul is the dearest and best of brothers.” “I’m sure he is,” said Aube. “And some day when your mamma leaves that terrible hot island, and comes to live in Paris, I ani sure she will like the dear old boy and love him as 1 do, though we do seem to have seen so little of each other with my being shut up here.” “Where you have been very happy, dear.” “Happy? Yes, of course. Why, the dear old Sisters have pelted us as if we had been their dolls.” “They have always been most kind,'' said Aube. “I -shall be very sorry to leave them.” “Of course; and so shall I; but it must come some day. Madame Dulau is sure to fetch you before long, and then —oh. Aube, dear, it’s very sad to be like no one to fetch me home.” “You must come and make your home with me,” said Aube, passing her arm about the slight merry-looking little thing. “Yes,” said Luce with a mischievous look, “I do hope you and Puul will often want me.” “Luce!” “Oh, 1 beg your pardon. My thoughts do pop out so. Well, then. I urn not like you; I will speak plainly. Some day when I am Mrs. Doctor Durham you will come and stay with me.”

“I hope we shall never be parted, Luce,” said Aube gravely, and her beautiful eyes grew dreamy with a far-off look. "But is it not idle to make all these plans? As Sister Elise says, our future will be planned for us. But come what may, no future can be more happy and peaceful than our life has been here.” “N—o,” said Luce; “but haven’t you felt it very dull sometimes?” "I think not. No.” “Now come, confess; haven’t you ever longed to go out and see Paris?” “Never.” “Never thought how nice it would be to go to parties and balls?” “No,” said Aube, smiling, “The only longing I have had has been to see mamma again.” * “Again. You do recollect her, then?”. “As one recalls a dream,” said Aube thoughtfully. “It is all misty and indistinct. I was so very young.” “I wonder you remember anything.” said Luce, looking wonderingly at the beautiful, thoughtful face before her. “But I do remember just faintly a face bent over me, and long dark hair brushing against my cheeks as I was kissed. It was a face as beautiful as the face of St. Agnes in the large room.” “Yes, your mother,” said Luce, resting her hand upon her friend’s arm. “She must be very beautiful.” “I suppose so,” continued Aube, dreamily. Then, with her face growing suddenly animated, “I can recollect a black face’with white teeth. Whoever it was, used to sing to me. I can almost remember the air she sang.” “That must have been your black nurse,” said Luce. “Yes, and there were flowers, great scarlet and yellow flowers, with which I used to play. Ah, Luce, dear, when I talk to you like this how it all seems to come back; but somehow I can’t recall coming here. There seems to be something black like a dark curtain coming down, and I can see nothing more.” “That must have been when yon were ill,” cried Luce. “I remember Sister Elisa telling me that you nearly died on the voyage over, and that you were quite a year growing strong.” “Yes,” said Aube, thoughtfully, once more; “ that must have been when I was ill, for the next thing I recollect is playing about here, and being led up and down, holding Sister JOlisc’s hand, or standing watching her feeding the fish. - ’ “The Superior wishes to speak to you,” said a quiet, subdued voice, and the two girls faced round to see one of the Sisters standing behind them, with her hands crossed and her eyes red as if with weeping.

“Sister Martha,” cried Aube quickly; “is anything wrong?” “Yes, yes, dear; very, very wrong," cried the sister, covering her face with her hands and bursting into a passionate fit of sobbing. “Don’t—don’t speak to me. She is in her room. Go quickly. I—I—” She turned and ran across the lawn to where the others were seated, and as Aube hurried up to the door, followed by Luce, their minds coujuring up some sudden seizure and illness of one who had played the part of mother to them ever since they were little children, they glanced back, and could see that the bad news was being communicated to the other occupants of the garden, who were gathering excitedly, in a little group. “Sister Elsie is waiting for you,” said another of the sisters, meeting them in the great hall. “Is she very ill ?” cried Aube. A sweet, pensive face was turned to her wonderingly; then there was a quick shake of the head, Aube was warmly clasped to the nun's breast, and tears were left upon her cheek as the sister hurried away. “Luce, what is the matter?’ whispered Aube, with her heart sinking. All this was so strange in that peaceful home. Lucie did not reply, but looked at her wildly, and the next minute they were in a somber-looking room, with its subdued green lights, the windows being screened by the trees which grew close up to the panes. -The old lady was seated by a table, on which lay a letter; and, dim as the room appeared to those who had just come out of the bright sunshine, both Luce and Aube could see that the Superior had been weeping. She drew herself up, though, with a display of calm dignity, as the door was

closed, and signed to Aube to approach, .motiordng Luce to stay; bat before Aube had half crossed the intervening space, the old lady had risen, advanced hurriedly to meet her, clasped the girl to her breast, and sobbed aloud. “Oh. my efiild, my child. It has come at last.” A sensation of giddiness assailed Aube for the moment, but .recovering herself by an effort she clung to the old Superior. "Mamma! My mother! Sister Elise; she is dead?” “No, no, no. my child,” cried the old lady, excitedly. “No, no; don’t think that. There is her letter. She is alive and well. But do you not see, my child? It is what 1 have been dreading so long.” “She has sent for me —to come?” cried Aube, joyously. “Yes,” said the old lady, gazing at her sadly; and there was a suggestion of pain and reproach in the tone. “Yes, and you are glad to set* her once again—after all j these years—after all these years.” The tears were coursing down Aube’s cheeks, and the eagerness had gone out of her voice as her arms stole round the old lady’s nock, and her warm soft lips were pressed passionately to her brow, her eyes, her cheeks. "No, no, you have been my mother so long,” she cried. "Don’t think me un- | grateful and glad to leave you—you—all ‘ here. Sister Elsie, I have been so happy. It will break my heart.”

She burst iuto a passion of sobbing now, and clung wildly to the ol?l lady, growing moment by moment more hysterical till the Superior half drew, half carried her to the couch, where they sat down. Aube sinking on her knees beside her, to cling to her still, and hide her convulsed face in the old lady’s breast. Then silence once more reigned in the dim. peaceful room, and Luce stood near the door, the tears stealing silcrffty down her cheeks ns she group where Aube's bosom still heaved and fell, and a sob escaped from time to time as, scarcely less agitated. Sister Elsie held the weeping girl tightly to her. and rested her pale old cheek upon her rich, dark clustering hair. "Hush, hush, my darling.” she seemed to coo over Aube. “It will be a bitter parting for us all; but we must not murmur. It is quite right, and I am glad now you have sent a sweet feeling of joy through my heart, for I know how dearly you love us all. There will be many tears slied to-day, Aube; but my joy will be theirs as well. For it is right and good and holy. There have been times when, in spite of the ample funds your dearest mother has sent so regularly all these long years. I have dared to think lliat she could not love you very much, but now 1 know. She teller me in her letter, in which all a mother’s passionate love stands out, how she has borne and wept and mourned to be separated so long, but that it was your father's wish, almost his dying command, that yon. Aube, should be sent to his native land to be educated and taught, as you could not be in that half snvnge place. She says, too, something that from her generous payments I could never have imagined, that she is comparatively poor, and she has been compelled to work and struggle for the income to make you the lady of whom her dear husband would have been proud.” (To be continued.)