Democratic Sentinel, Volume 19, Number 44, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 8 November 1895 — A COLDEN DREAM [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A COLDEN DREAM

CHAPTER IX. —(Continued.) Saintone had time to catch and kiss Aube’s hand before he was led away. “Oh, but mother!” he cried. “I’m not going far,” she whispered. “Leave it to me, my boy. We will stand here and see the meeting. Well, am I right?” “Mother,” he whispered, in a voice which told how he had been moved, “why, she is the most beautiful girl I ever saw—a goddess.” She laughed at him mockingly. “And she is rich, Etienne, and in every act a finished lady. In a case like that what does it matter about birth. There, no foolish impatience to spoil all. Wait, my son, leave it to me. She is a goddess as you say, and you shall be her god.” Saintone listened to her words, but his eyes were fixed upon the watching figure that was now scanning eagerly every boat which put off from the wharf, and trying to guess which among the figures there was the mother waiting to pronounce the welcome home. At that moment Saintone made an impatient gesture, for his arm was pressed; but he allowed himself to be led aside to where the gangway and the spot where Aube had taken her stand could be seen, and they could watch her unobserved. “Why are you doing this?” said Saintone, roughly. “The poor girl is alone. We ought to help her, and see her ashore.’ .

“Did I not say, ‘Leave it to me?’ ” whispered Madame Saintone. “Wait a few ipinutes. I want to see the meeting between them.” She smiled with satisfaction as she cast a quick glance at her son’s flushed face, and then drew him a little more behind a stack of luggage which had been piled on the deck, not realizing how history was repeating itself, and the old proverb, "Like father, like son,” being once more exemplified. Madame Saintone need not have troubled herself to draw back, for, during the next few minutes, she and her son might have placed themselves by Aube’s elbow. She had her eyes for nothing but the boats from the shore, which arrived rapidly, as the great steamer slowed and then stopped, giving them an opportunity to come alongside, and their occupants to hurry on board, till the deck began to grow crowded. The tears rose to the lonely girl’s eyes as she listened to the eager words of welcome and saw the embraces of relatives and friends; but though she scanned group after group, and gazed wonderingly at the many well-dressed ladies who mounted the gangway ladder, each spon found the object she sought, and the girl’s heart sank again and again, till at last she said to herself despairingly, “She has not come.” It was chilling in spite of the beauty of the scene, and the eager animation of the group on deck, where all was chatting and excitement, the giving and hearing of news, and the preparations for going ashore. Only a few hours back, and Aube’s every look had been watched, and her wish anticipated by willing courtiers. Now every one was engaged upon his own business; and the feeling that she was alone and forgotten made the tears flood her eyes, so that the crowded deck grew misty and those about her indistinct. Then, just at her most despondent time, the dimness of sight passed away, for close at hand the familiar voice of one of the officers said: “Oh, here she is. Mademoiselle Dulau; some one for you.” Aube turned eagerly, to see approaching her a, stout, eager-looking woman, flushed of face, and looking the more florid for the bright scarlet and yellow kerchief bound about her dark grizzled hair. The dress she wore, too, was of gay colors, and her neck, arms and hands were gay with showy, common jewelry. Aube saw all this at a glance, and felt repelled by the vulgar aspect of the breathless, panting woman, who was suffering from the exertion of mounting the side. At the same moment Aube became conscious of the presence of Madame Saintone and her daughter, both refined and graceful as they seemed to be approaching her. A peculiar feeling of annoyance made itself felt; but it was only momentary, and Aube said sweetly: “You were asking for me? Mamma has sent you ” There was a sob, a strange cry, ahd Aube was snatched to the new arrival’s breast, as, in a low husky, panting voice she whispered: “I am your mother. My darling. Oh, at last! At last!”

CHAPTER X. For a few moments after the encounter Aube felt as if she had received some sudden shock. She could neither speak nor return the embrace, but stood there inert, as Madame Dulaq—familiarly known to all in the town as Mahme Nousie, the keeper of the cabaret and store frequented by the blacks of the district—sobbed over her and kissed her again and again. It was to Aube like some strange bewildering dream, and it was some minutes before the paralyzed feeling began to give place to a poignant sensation of agony. She had pictured to herself that her mother would be a beautiful, fash-ionable-looking, middle-aged woman, and . in keeping with the letters she had writVJten to the Superior, and to her child—a lady such as she had seen visit other people at the convent—while here she stood upon the deck of the packet in the embrace of a woman whose appearance begat a horrible sensation of shame in her; and in spite or herself she gave a hasty glance round and flushed hotly, as she saw that Madame Saintone was close at hand with Antoinette and her son. “What will they think?” It was impossible to keep back the thought, but the next moment Nousie’s words recalled the loving letter over which she had wept, for her mother strained her more tightly to her breast, and murmured again: “At last—at last. Ah, my child, it has been so long.” There was such an Intensity of pathos and suffering in the way in which these words were uttered, that the mist cleared a little from Aube’s brain, and as she gazed in Nousie’s face the love which beamed from her eyes touched her to the heart The surprise was forgotten, and in the homeliness of her mother there seemed to be a something beyond which she could not have explained. For the sympathetic chord had been touched, which made her raise her arms and kiss

Nousie's lips, drawing from the half hysterical woman a faint cry of joy, and making her draw Aube more tightly to her side, and face round with a fierce look of jealousy at the intruder upon her long looked-for hour of love. * It was Madame Saintone who had approached, smiling, “There, Madame Dulau.” she said, “I have brought yon back your sweet daughter, you see.” “You, madame—you?” said Nousie. in a low, fierce whisper, and her arm tightened round Aube’s waist. “Yes; the Consul was seeking for a chaperon, and as Fate had arranged that I should be returning here direct, he asked me to take charge of the dear child, and I have him to thank for the delightful voyage I have had. There, you two must have so much to say, so I will not intrude. Good-by, Aube, my darling; don’t forget. We must see n great deal of one another, so once more good-by.” She took Aube's hand, Nousie holding the other tightly, and breathing hard as she looked wildly on, her brow lowering and her dark eyes seeming to flash as Madame Saintone kissed her child on the brow.

“Adieu, Madame Dulau.* But one moment; the carriage is at the wharf; can I take you two home?” “No, no,” said Nousie, hoarsely. “Adieu, then. Aube, my child, au revoir.” Nousie stood glaring after the fashion-ably-dressed woman, who formed so strong a contrast to her, and watched her till she had landed, holding Aube's hand so tightly that she gave her pain. “Aube, my child,” muttered Nousie, “how dare she call you that?” she cried fiercely. “That woman with you all the way home?” “Yes,” said Aube, shrinking and gazing with a strange feeling of dread at the lowering countenance before her. “Madame Saintone took charge of me. I was placed in her hands by the Superior.” “How dare she, how dare she! Oh, it is an infamy! She! To have charge of you!” The feeling of repulsion was fast returning to Aube, and with it the icy sensation of despair, and longing to be back with those in whose society the years had passed so peacefully away. “Are—are you angry because I came like this?” she faltered at last, for the eyes fixed upon her seemed to be dragging forth some answer—some .excuse. “Angry?” cried Nousie, with her eyes flashing; “it makes me mad!” “I—l did not know,” said Aube, simply, and her eyes filled with tears as she looked appealingly in her mother’s face. The change was instantaneous. A yearning look of tenderness overspread Nousie’s face, her old girlish beauty seemed to return and soften down the coarseness begotten by years of hard struggling, sorrow and toil in uncongenial surroundings, and, raising Aube’s hand to her cheek, she pressed it there, fondled it and kissed it as her voice became soft and cooing as that of a young mother with her babe.

“You, my sweet one,” she whispered, “You? How could yon know? But come. Let us get home quickly. I have so much to say. No, no; let me have this little hand in mine.” “Yes,” said Aube, smiling sadly, for the tender tones of her mother’s voice had toucher the chord of sympathy again. It was painful—this woman, her mother! Could it be the same who had written those letters, that last which had moved her to tears? Her heart answered yes, for she felt how she was loved, and, resigning herself to the hand which held her with so jealous a grasp, she hastily pointed out her slight supply of luggage, and then accompanied her to the side, where another ordeal was in waiting. She was almost the last passenger to leave the vessel. Those who had paid her court were gone, but the officers were £here and many of the crew, forming a group through which she had to pass. She drew her breath hard, and tried to fight down the cruel feeling of shame which again attacked her, and clinging hard to her mother, she drew herself up proudly to walk calmly by. But it was not to be. Almost before she knew it the captain and the mates were there, cap in hand, eager to wish her good-by; and as her eyes filled with tears at the kindly, respectful greetings, she saw that her mother was looking proudly on, and more proudly still as the crew raised a cheer. Then for the next half-hour all seemed confused, and as if it were part of a dream of a strange city with its bright houses and gayly-dressed people loitering about in the hot evening glow. She had visions, too, of gorgeous clouds, of they were in, driven by a negro, stopped bright green foliage, and then the vehicle they were in, driven by a negro, stopped in front of a veranda about which a crowd of fifty blacks were gathered shouting and gesticulating, and waving hats and handkerchiefs. The greeting was so boisterous that Aube felt scared and wondering that it should be in her honor. The thought occurred to her that this must be her mother’s home by her plantation but she had no time to think, for the door of the carriage was dragged open by a tall, black woman, who was laughing anJ crying wildly, as she caught at Aube’s arms, then seized her by the waist, and lifted her out, and to the girl’s astonishment and discomposure, carried her into the house, and set her down on a couch. The next moment the woman was on her knees kissing Aube’s hands, sobbing and laughing together, as she went on talking incoherently. “I’m Cherubine. You don’t recollect Cherub, who carried you and rocked you to sleep? No, you were too little then. Oh, Mahme, Mahme,” she sobbed, as Nousie entered the room, “she don’t know me ’gain, but look at her, oh, look at her. My dear, my dear, my dear!” She was passionately kissing Aube’s hands again, and as Nousie good-humor-edly tried to stop her, she bent down to the girl’s feet, kissing them now, in her wild, hysterical joy. At last she consented to leave the room, and save for the eager hurried buzz and murmur of talking outside, there was silence in the well-furnished parlor whose door Nousie locked. It was rapidly growing dusk now, so gloomy in the room that Nousie’s features were indistinct, and she turned and approached the couch, from which Aube rose, trying to find words to say, struggling hard not to give way to the feeling of bewilderment and despair, which rob-

bed her of speech, almost of p&Me* to think. But the effort was needless, for as her hands were taken she was pressed back upon the couch, and she felt in the gathering gloom that Nousie had seated herself as welL Then there was a long drawn breath, and she felt herself softly, slowly and tenderly drawn nearer and nearer as a voice that sounded inexpressibly low and rich and sweet, murmured at her ear. “Yes. it was like that I used to touch you for fear you should wake—yes, like that. I was so jealous of Cherubine. She would keep you so long. Yes. like that with your head there upon my shoulder, and my cheek against your little forehead. Is it real once more, after all these year*, or shall I wake up as I have awakened thousands of times to find it all a dream?” “And shall I awaken soon and find all this a dream!” seemed to be echoed in the girl’s bewildered bcain. “No; it is no dream..” sighed Nousie. as she held her child to her heart and rocked her gently to and fro. “It was his wish and I-have done it. Aube—my child, my own!” As Aube listened to the sweet, rich tones of the voice so full of yearning love for her. the misery and despair grew faint once more, and in the darkness it was as if she must be dreaming, and this could not be the strange, fierce woman she had encountered on the deck. “All those years—long, lonely, weary years, Aube, 1 have waited and waited, and now I could die of joy—the fierce joy I feel to have yon once again. But no, I must live, for I have you, my own —my beautiful one. Aube,” she cried now with wild energy; “he was taken from me so cruelly one day—your father whom I loved—yes: I was young then—he said I was beautiful—but I lived on for you, and it seemed like torturing myself to death when I sent you out there. And now you are back once more. Oh, my darling, my darling, try to give me a little of your love.” Startled by the wild nppeal Aube raised her head, and felt that Nousie had slipped from the couch to her knees, and was before her with her hands extended to her as if in prayer. “Do you hear me, Aube, my child: You will, try and love me a little, dear?” The chord was struck again now, and as Nousie knelt there in the darkness before her child, her homely aspect, her strange garb, her home herepamid the rough-looking negroes, were all forgotten. The heart-string touched so passionately by the mother's hand gave forth its true, sweet sound, and Aube flung her arms about poor Nousie’s neck, sobbing wildly as she cried: “Mother, dearest mother, I do love you with all my heart.” (To be continued.)