Democratic Sentinel, Volume 19, Number 39, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 4 October 1895 — A GOLDEN DREAM [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A GOLDEN DREAM

BY GEO-M-FENN.

CHAPTER IV.—(Continued.) “Ah!” exclaimed Aube, raisin? her face at this revelation, and looking wonderingly in the old lady’s face. “It was this necessity which kept her from coming to see you again and again. If she had done so, she says, she could not have kept you here.” “My mother!” sighed Aube, with her eyes dilating; and the Superior went on in the same low, sweet voice: “She says now. Aube, that you are a woman grown, and that she can bear the , separation no longer—that her heart yearns for you—that she cannot rest until she clasps to her breast all that is left to her of that dear husband who was to her as a god—l give you her own words, my child: and I ought to utter words of reproof on the vanity—the wickedness of a woman giving herself up so wholly to such a love —but—but—but, my .darling, I cannot scy them now. For it touches me to the heart, Aube, and I can only see the sweet, loving widowed mother there, all those thousands of miles away —stretching out her trembling hands, my darling, her longing eyes strained yearningly to me, as she says, ‘I have done my duty,—l have worked, and watched, and waited—lhavedoneall that he would have had me do, and now that my long penance is fulfilled, give me back my child.’ ” The solemn silence was broken now by Luce’s sobs, as she sank into a chair, and laid her head upon its arm. “Yes, my dearest one,” continued the Superior, “we poor women here, devoted as we are, have never known a mother’s love; but as I read that letter, Aube, I seemed to realize it all. Between its Hues there stand forth in burning words all that yon poor, patient woman tried to express, and suffer as I may at having to part from you, I know it is your duty to go to her—to go, as she says, at once, for life is short, and I can send you to her, glad in my heart, with the blessings of all here, and say we now send you back the infant you confided to us, a woman now, and as sweet and true and pure as ever knelt before God.” “Sister Elise! Mother!” sobbed Aube. “My child!” There was another long pause, and then smiling on her pupil the Superior took the letter, and placed it in Aube’s hands. “Take it and read it, dear,” she said calmly now—“it is the letter of a mother, of whom you may say, . ‘Thank heaven, I am her child!’ It is a terrible experience, for it is a long voyage, aud to a land of which till now I have heard naught but evil. Now I know that there is one there whom I should be glad to call sister, and now there will be one whom I am glad to call my spiritual daughter. Hayti cannot be all bad, Aube, so now wipe away those tears, for the pangs are past, and it is a day of joy—the day on which the first steps are taken Jto rejoin two such hearts as yours.” “But, mother, am I to go soon?” “In a day or two at most. The Consul brought me the letter. He had received one as well, and his orders were to find some good family returning to the island in whose charge you could make the voyage. This might have been months, Aube, but heaven smiles upon the project, and the Consul tells me of a widow lady who has been in Paris a year with her daughter about your age. She, too, lost her husband, it seems, in the war when your father died. This Madame Saintone will be glad to be your chaperon, my child, her daughter your companion, but ” “But, what, mother?” whispered Aube, who seemed half stunned. “The mail steamer leaves Havre within a day or two, I hear, and our parting will be very soon.” Aube gazed at her wildly. “No, no,” my darling, no more tears,” whispered the Snperior, kissing her. “Go to your room now, and rest and pray. Thhn read your letter as I would have you read i£. Go, my child. Your true, loving mother, who mus( liuve passed through a martyrdom for your sake, waits to press you to her heart. Luce, my child.”

Luce started faom the chair, to run forward with her face swollen and convulsed with weeping, to lead her companion to the room they shared. As the door closed Aube flung her arms about her friend and sobbed out: “Luce! Luce! is it all true?” Luce was silent, only gazed at her wildly as Aube raised the folded letter to her lips and kissed it passionately. “Yes, mother,” she said, gazing before her. with a wild, far-off look, “yes, mother, I come!” “Aube!” rang out in a wild cry. ‘'Luce, darling, what are you thinking?” cried Aube, startled by the agony in her friend’s eyes. “I was thinking you must not, shall not go.” Aube shrank from her with the letter pressed to her lips once more, and she stood blanched, hard and strange-looking as if she had been turned to stone. “Aube, darling, what will poor Faul say?’

CHAPTER Y. “You're a fool, Jules Deffrard.” “You’re a gentleman, Etienne Saiutone.” “There, I beg your pardon, man, but you make me angry. Have you no ambition ?” “Of coure I have; to become your broth-er-in-law. What day will the steamer arrive?” “How should I know? I’m in no hurry; place has been right enough without the old lady.” “Dull enough without Antoinette.” “Rubbish! What a sentimental lover you are,” cried the first speaker, as he lazily tilted back the cane chair in which he balanced himself so as to reach a cigar from a little table, placing one in his lijje and throwing another to his vis-a-vis. They were two well enough looking young men—dark, sallow, and well-dress-ed, after the fashion of the creole of the South. They were seated in the broad veranda es a good house, slightly elevated and overlooking the town of Port an Prince, and over it, away to sea, with its waters of deep and dazzling blue. “Now, then, light up. I want to talk to you. Have some’rack?” “No; had enough. Talk away.” ’ “Well, look here, then,” said Saintone, lowering his voice, after a glance round to see that they were not likely to be overheard. “I’ve quite made up my mind to join the Vaudoux.” “And I’ve made up my mind not to,” Replied Deffrard, tilting back his chair; “I’m going to be very good now, and marry your sister.” “Tchahl”

“Ah, you may talk and sneer, but what would she say ?” “That you are, as I say. a fool. Who's going to tell her what we do. Suppose 1 should go and tell my mother as soon as she gets back?” “But what do you want to join them for—to go to their feasts and dances? l’ah! 1 fancy I can smell the niggers here.” “To go to their feasts, man? Where are your brains?” cried Saintone, beniN iu* toward his friend. “Can’t you see, boy, that I mean to take a big place in the Government?” “Yes; you are always talking about it.” “Well, to get there, 1 must have votes.” “Of- course.” “Black votes are as good as colored, man.” "You’ll get yourself mixed up with some political rising, and be shot as your father was.” "Well, that’s my business. Now, look here; if I belonged to the Vaudoux sect, and came out pretty liberally to the Papaloi ” “Papaloi?” interrupted Deffrard. “How did they get that word?” “Papa, roi, stupid. Father King,” said Saintone, impatiently. “Ah! I see; their way of sounding the r —roi —loi.” “These priests will influence the people on my behalf, and I am safe to be elected.” “Well, yes, I suppose so; but—” “Hang your buts! Don’t hesitate so. Look here, Duff, you want to marry Antoinette.’’ "Of course.”

“Well, then, I expect my brother to support me in everything, so you’ll have to join once for all with me.” “What, the Vaudoux?” “Yes, and I mean to be initiated at once.” “And you want me to be initiated, too?” “Of course.” “Oh, very well—that is. if you wiil back me up with your sister and mother.” “Trust me for that; you shall have her.” “I'm ready, then; but I 'don’t like it. Hang it all, one hears all kinds of horrors about them.” “Old women’s tales. There, I’m going through the town. You can walk with me part of the way.” “Going over to the priest to see—ahem!” “Mind your own business. I’m going to take the first steps toward our initiation, so be ready to go any night I warn you.” “But ” “No hanging back; you have promised.” “Yes, and so have you,” said the young man, getting up languidly; “but I say, Fill there be anything to pay. Isn’t it something like the foreigners' freemasonry?”

“Nothing to pay, but some bottles of rum, and I'll see to them. Now come along.” They strolled off together down the shaded road leading to the town, passing plenty of suiky. defiant-looking mulattos and heavy-jawed, independent, full-blood-ed negroes, who generally favored them with a broad grin; but no sooner had they reached the far side of the town, and Deffrard had taken off his straw hat to wipe his streaming brow, than Saintone said in a laughing, contemptuous way: “There! Go home and cool yourself. Be a good boy aud the steamer will soon be here and you can go courting to your heart’s content.” “I don't like this Vaudoux business," grumbled Deffrard to himself, as he went one way. “I can make the fool useful,” said Saintone, with a sneering laugh, and he went in the other direction, away toward where the slovenly plantations and the country began with its luxuriant growth, among which hidden here and there peeped out the cottages of the blacks, with their overgrown gardens full of melons running wild, yams, and broad flap-leaved bananas, looking like gigantic hart's tongue ferns.

Etienne Saintone was so devoted to the object he had in view that he paid no heed to a gigantic-looking black whom he had encountered in the narrow track or lane running in and out among squalid cottages, in front of which nearly nude black children basked in the sunshine. But the black turned and looked after him curiously, and taking up an old and battered straw hat, frowned, and slowly followed in the young man’s steps as he went on for quite a quarter of a mile, the cottages growing less frequent and superior in aspect, more bidden, too, among the trees. All at once Saintone looked sharply round, as if to see whether he was observed; but as if expecting this, the black had thrown himself down beneath a rough fence, and if in his hasty glance Saintone saw anything, it was that common object of the country, a black basking in the sun. His glance round satisfied him, and he turned otf sharply to the left; and, as he disappeared among the trees, the black rolled over three or four times, by this means crossing the track and reaching the shelter of the over-hanging foliage, among which hq, too, plunged and disappeared.

At the end of about a hundred yards Saintone stepped over the rough fence of a solitary cottage, at whose door a mulatto girl was seated, idly twisting together some thin shavings of cane, to form a plait. She had seen the white jacket of the young man approaching, and had uttered a slight laugh, as her eyes closed till only a glimpse of her dark pupils could be seen, as she watched the track in a sidelong way, aiid begun to hum over a wild, weird ditty, one well known among the Haytian blacks, an air probably brought by some of their race from their native Africa. “Ah, Genie, dear,” cried Saintone, as he caught sight of the woman in the dark, shadowy interior. “Mass’ Saintone?” she replied, with an affected start and look of wonder. “Yes,” he said, laying his hand upon her shoulder. “How pretty you look today. Didn’t you see me coming?” “No, sab. I was busy here. What do you want?” “What dp I want? Why, I’ve come to see you, dear’” I a*.,.,. “Oh,” said the girl, coldly. “Mass’ Saintone could have come last week —two weeks —three weeks ago—but he never came. Thought you never come again.” “Oh, nonsense! I’ve been too busy.” “Yes,” said the woman, quietly, “Mass’ Saintone’s always very busy; but h* came every day.”

“Yes, and I’m coming every day again, dear,” be said, as he threw his arm round her and tried to draw her to him. As he did so there was a faint sound as of a hissing breath at the back of the place, and Saintone looked sharply round. "What’s that?” he said. “Snake or little lizard.” said the woman, coldly, freeing herself from his arm. “Oh. come, don’t do that,” said Saintoue. laughing, as he tried again to catch her in his arms; but she eluded him, and her eyes opened wildly now. “No; go and make love to the new lady.” she said, spitefully. “What new lady?” he cried. “Why, you silly, jealous girl, I never loved anyone but you.” “Lies!” said the woman, vindictively. "It’s true!” he cried angrily. “Come, Genie, don’t be so foolish.” “It is not foolish. That is all over. Go to her.” “Why, you silly thing, 1 tell you I have been too busy to come.” “Yes, too busy to send a boy to say mass’ eau't. All lies.” “Geuie!” “I know. I am not a fool,” she said, scornfully. “Sit down, silly girl,” he cried. “There, I will not try to touch you: I’ll smoke a cigar. Look here,” he continued, as he lit the little roll of tobacco, “I’ll now prove to yon how true I am. Do you kaow why I came to-day?” “Because you said Genie is a fool, and will believe all I say.” “No,” he said in a low voice, as he leaned toward her. “I came up because I wanted you to help me, dear. I want to be more as if I were one pf you.”

The woman shook her head, and half closed her eyes; but he had moved her, and she watched him intently, as she stood shaking her head. “Yon understand me,” he whispered. “The Vaudoux, 1 want to join—to be one of you. There, do you believe I love you now ?” “No.” she said, panting. “Don’t know what you mean.” “Y’ou do,” he whispered. “You need not try and hold me off. I know you are one of them.” “One of the Vaudoux—you?” “Yes. You can take me to one of your priests, and let me join at the first meeting.” “The Vaudoux?” she said, opening her eyes widely now. “Ah, yes, I know what you mean. Oh, no; you conld not join them. They say it is all very dreadful and secret. No one knows who they are or what they do.” “Yes,” he said, laughing, “you do for one, for you could take me to join them.” “Oh, no.” she cried, with an eager movement of her hands, as if she disclaimed all such knowledge. “It is only the blacks who know of that.” “You are trifling with me,” he “You are offended because I have been away so long. Now I have come and want to be nearer to you than ever, you refuse.” “What can I do?” “Take me to one of their meetings tonight.” ' “I?” *ried the woman, shaking her head. “You play me with now. How could I know?” “You mean you will not,” he said, fuming. “Eugenie will not do what she cannot,” replied the woman, coldly. “All-very well,” he said in a cavalier way. “I daresay I can find some one else who will take me to a meeting; or, I don’t know! it does not matter. I daresay I shall give it up. Well, I must be off back.” “Going?” suid the woman, coldly. “Yes, I am going now. A bit disappointed, of course, but it does not matter. Good-by.” (To be continued.)