Democratic Sentinel, Volume 19, Number 46, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 22 November 1895 — A COLDEN DREAM [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A COLDEN DREAM

CHAPTER XII.

Only the other day leading the calm and peaceful life of the convent, pacing its shady walks with Lucie, caressed by the sweet, placid Superior, petted by the Sisters, the days had glided by with so easy and gentle a flow. There had been thoughts of Paul Lowther, happy and fluttering thoughts, such as will disturb a maiden’s breast when she has always at her side a dearest companion and friend, ready to make suggestions and sing the praises of a brother who is a perfect hero in her eyes. Then, too, there was the unsatisfied longing to see the loving mother, whose letters came so regularly across the sen, full of eager inquiry respecting her child’s health and happiness, full of delight, too, at the progress made. And then like a thunderbolt had come the change, event succeeding event with bewildering rapidity, till Aube found herself half-stunned by her position at the house which stood upon the ruins of the cottage where she was born. 1 Again and again she had asked herself if it was a dream, but the reality was there before her, and she strove hard to hide the disgust she felt at her surroundings and the people by whom the place was besieged. During the first day or two her surprises were constant, and she awakened rapidly to the fact that while her mother’s home was nothing more than a cabaret and store whose customers were almost without exception the blacks of the neighborhood, this mother, who idolized her, was treated by the people in their rough way as if she were their queen. A word, even a look, was sufficient, and she was obeyed on the instant, while in their most boisterous moments Nousie’s presence silenced them at once. Aube heard Madame Saintone call her mother Madame Dulau, but there the name did not seem to be recognized, for the Madame had been softened into Mahme, generally made into two syllables, and her old fantastic name of Venus —Venousie, as her husband had loved to call his beautiful wife —had, for years past, become Nousie, almost from the day when, recovering from the prostration consequent upon the assassination of her husband, who had in his dying moment avenged himself upon his enemy, she had found herself the owner of some land and a pile of ashes to mark the spot where her happy home had stood. This was after a long, long illness passed in a rough shelter in the forest at the back, where Cherubine had dragged half-burnt boardß, and cut leaves and bushes to help form a lean-to hut. Here the black girl had passed her time nursing the sick and delirious woman, and playing with and tending the pretty child she worshiped. It was a long, slow recovery, Nousie’s doctor being an old black woman, a priestess of the Voudoux, whose herb decoctions allayed the fever, so that she struggled back to life. For months Cherubine tended her, and though the black people scattered here and there brought her fruit, and occasionally a chicken or a few eggs, it was her girlish nurse who was the mainstay of her existence, keeping her and the child by the sale of the fruit and the flowers she collected daily and carried into town.

It was Cherubine, too, who from these small beginnings, gradually originated the business which had sprung up. It was the work of many years, but first one addition was made, then another, all of them suggestions from the keen, clever girl, till, face to face as she was with poverty, Nousie had at last roused herself for her child’s sake to actual participation in the girl’s work, the old pleasant life of a colonist’s lady had rapidly dropped away, and rapt in her love for her child, whom she had quietly sent to France, she had toiled on and on till she had arrived at the pitch she occupied at Aube’s return. This was literally that of queen among the half-civilized people; and Aube’s first inkling of the fact was the morning after her arrival when after—with heavy heart —trying to partake of the breakfast pressed upon her by Cherubine, and suffering keenly from the feelings she strove hard to keep down, she was quite startled by the buzz of voices outside the verandaed house, and she shrank from the shaded window trembling, and tried to occupy herself by looking about the room, which had evidently been prepared for her with loving care. To her surprise she found endless tokens of refined taste, relies they were of Nousie’s recollections of her past life. For she had taken Cherubine into her counsel and regardless of the cost, had the rough ordinary furniture which had contented her during years of solid toil, replaced by the best Port au Prince could supply. There was a piano, too, perfectly new, with the slightly rusted key in the lock, and a pile of new music in a canterbury by the side. It struck Aube as being strangely incongruous to the surroundings of the place; but everything was so, even her presence there, and as she stood beside the instrument, her brow wrinkled, and she shrank from trying to gaze into the future—a future which was full of blank despair. As she stood there the bustle and noise outside increased, a shrill woman’s voice struck up a weird, strange song, whose peculiarity struck Aube at once, and made her turn her face towards the window just as the strain was repeated in chorus and was accompanied by the wiry chords of a native guitar and the thrumming of some kind of drum. Then the one voice sang another strain, so weird and strange that Aube felt thrilled by the tones. It was not beautiful, but, like the air of some old country ballads, possessed those elemepts which appeal to every nature and never pall. The chorus was rising again, accompanied now by the stamping of feet and the regular beat of hands, when the door was flung open, and Cherubine in, to literally fling herself at Aube’s feet, seize her hands and hold them to her cheeks, before kissing them with wild, hysterical delight, her eyes flashing, her teeth glistening, and her bosom heaving with delight. “Oh, you beautiful, you beautiful!” she whispered hoarsely. “Kiss poor Cherub once more, like you did when a tiny little girl.” . Aube bent down and pressed her ruddy lips on the broad, black brow, with the result that as she knelt there Cherubine flung her arms about the girl’s waist and burst into a fit of hysterical sobbing. She checked it directly and showed her* teeth.

“It’s because she’s so glad. Everybody glad Mahme Nousie’s beautiful babe come back. Hark! how they sing and shout!” “Is that because I have come?” whispered Aube, who felt startled. “Yes, and the flowers and the fruit.” Cherubine was checked at that moment by the coming of Nousie, looking proud, flushed and excited. Her heavy, inert ways seemed to have departed as she crossed the room to Aube, and took her hand, to hold it in both of hers for a few moments before kissing it tenderly. “My dearest,” she whispered; and Aube felt that in their eyes sixteen years of the past were as nothing—that she was still that idolized child. “Th t letter,” she whispered to herself, and she looked gently at her mother, through the medium of its words, and leaned forward and kissed her. “My beautiful one!” she whispered fondly, as she pressed her child to her breast. Then drawing herself up proudly —“They are all collecting from miles away. The news has gone round that you have come back, and they are asking to see you.” “These people?” cried Aube excitedly—“to see me?” “Don’t be afraid, little one,” said Nousie, fondly. “It is to see my darling. Aube, dearest, they are my people. Come.” Once more trembling, and as if in a dream, Aube resigned herself to her position, and, passing her arm round her, Nousie led her proudly from the room — the tall, slight figure, draped in white, beside the heavy-looking woman in her garish attire—out through the veranda to where in the broad sunshine stood the crowd of blacks, at that moment in full chorus of the wild, weird song. As the white figure was led out the chorus stopped as if at the beat of a conductor’s wand; there was a pause of some moments, during which Nousie drew herself up, looking proudly round, and once more her heavy features were illumined by animation, and she displayed something of the beauty of the young wife of old. Then there burst forth a wild cry of delight, the crowd rushed forward, and through the mist of < giddy excitement Aube saw that every one bore flowers of gorgeous colors and rough baskets of tropic fruit which they were pressing on her; but at that moment her gaze was riveted by the fierce dark eyes of a tall mulatto girl behind whom stood a herculean black with curiously knotted hair. Aube did not flinch, but she was fascicinated by the lurid eyes of the great black; and as she turned slightly aside it was to meet the half envious, half mocking gaze of the handsome mulatto girl, who held out to her a wreath of creamy, strongly-scented flowers. “From Genie,” she said aloud, “for Mahme Nousie’s girl.” There had been silence while the mulatto, who seemed in authority there, spoke. Then there was a shout of delight. Aube’s lips moved as she tried to express her thanks, and she took the wreath to raise it to her lips. But her hands stopped half way, and a slight shiver as of cold passed through her, while her eyes remained fixed, fascinated now by those of the giver of the wreath.

CHAPTER XIII. “You have not been to see her?” “No; I promised you I would not; but I am going to break my word if something is not done at once.” “Don’t be foolish, boy. I told you to leave it to me. She has only been home a week.” “A week. Long enough for me to lose my chance.” “There, you must confess that it is a chance, Etienne?” “Chance? Yes. There, don’t strike me when I am down. I huve told you 1 loved her, and as soon as you have won that concession you do nothing.” “Indeed!” said Madame Saintone. “Do you hear this, ’Toinette?” “Yes, I hear,” said the girl, contemptuously. “You people have gone mad about the wretched girl.” “Wretched girl!” cried Saintone, angrily. “You talk like that, who are favoring the advances of the greatest idiot in Port au Prince.” “There, there,” said Madame Saintone, “no quarreling, children; and you, Etienne, be at rest. I have waited so long because I thought it wisdom. To-day, for your sake, I am going to call at that wretched place. Poor child! She will have had time to realize her surroundings, and be ready to jump at my offer.” “Your offer?” said Saintone. “Yes, my dear. I propose to bring her away from her miserable home at once.” Saintone kissed her eagerly. “Don’t be too sure that I shall succeed. I never knew the rights of the matter, but there was a great quarrel between that poor girl's father and yours, Etienne, and Nousie has never treated me cordially. “Oh, but that’s a matter of years ago.” “Yes, and she will of course be dazzled by the proposal that Aube should come and stay with us. There, as I have said before, leave it to me. If I cannot succeed you cannot.” “If that girl is to be brought here I shall certainly leave the house,” said Antoinette, hotly. “Indeed, you will not, madame,” said her mother, calmly. “No,” said Saintone, fiercely, “and I tell you this, for every unkind look or word you give Mademoiselle Dulau I’ll keep account, and visit it heavily on that fool, Deffrard.” Antoinette turned white, and a dark shadow came under her eyes, as she whispered through her closed teeth: “I’m not afraid of you, Etienne. You're only a coward. Visit it on Jules, and I’ll kill your miserable negro girl." “My dear children,” said Madame Saintone, plaintively, “I cannot have you quarrel. ’Toinette, such words as these are shocking.” “Then let him hold his tongue, and not threaten me, mamma. I’m not going to bow down and worship Nousie’s girl because she has money. Oh! it is too absurd!” « She left the room, and Madame Saintone turned to her son. “Don’t threaten her again, my dear,” she said; “and do, pray, leave this business to me. I can manage ’Toinette.” An hour later Madame Saintone was being driven to the house at the outskirts of the town, feeling a slight shrinking as she approached the place and* saw the number of blacks idling about the, veranda and sleeping in the sunshine.

“They will not dare l» tLfcleat me,” she ■aid to herself, proudly; but all the same she could not help recalling the various troubles consequent upon the independent position taken up by the black race. To her surprise, however, instead of being received by the people in sullen silence and with furtive looks, there were smiles and salutations, and one woman went so for as to offer her a few flowers. Madame Saintone received these graciously as she was stepping out of he# carriage, listening the while with some surprise to the tones of a piano, a few chords upon which were being struck carelessly. But the next moment she was face to face with the difficulty of her task, Nousie having left her child to hurry out to meet what seemed to her a danger. “Ah, Madame Dulau,” said Madame Saintone, smiling, but without offering her hand, “I have called. to see your charming daughter. I I have beeu most patient in waiting all these days before renewing our delightful acquaintance." “What do you want?” said Nousie, suspiciously. "Why have you come?” She spoke in a loud tone, and was evidently suffering from great excitement. Madame Saintone smiled. “Oh, come,” she said playfully, “you must not want to keep tbe poor child all to yourself, Madame Dulau. Y'ou forget what friends my daughter and Aube had become. I want you to let her go for a drive and then spend a few hours with us up at Beau Rivage. You will not say no.” It was on Nousie’s lips to say no, never trouble us again, but it was beginning to dawn upon her that she had brought her child to a very unsuitable home. She had been startled at the difference between them. Forgetful of self, the mother had had this one thought—her child; and it had not occurred to her that this child would return to her an accomplished lady, whose every word and act would stand in strange contrast to her own. And now in this brief interview she had to battle with two ideas. Would she be standing in her child’s light in checking all further intercouse? On the other hand, if she allowed Aube to accept the invitation, would she be doing that which sent an agonizing pang through her, widening the gulf between her and her child? (To be continued.)