Democratic Sentinel, Volume 19, Number 48, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 6 December 1895 — A COLDEN DREAM [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A COLDEN DREAM

CHAFTHK XV—("Continued.) She had not long to wait before she caught sight of'Cherubine tolling along in the hot sunshine with a great basket oa her head. She was -singing merrily as she came, and from time to time raised and smelt a great bunch of flowers, smiling with satisfaction, and then she began singing again. ■She was in perfect ignorance of the presence of any one else till she was abreast of the dump of thick foliage where Genie was standing, and then she started so violently that she disarranged her flowers by clapping both hands to her basket, whieh nearly fell. “You, GenieV” she said. “You frightened me.” “I want to talk to you.” “Yes,” said Cherubine, beginning to look uneasy,, and trying to hide her perturbation with a curious laugh. “You have stopped away from us,” said Genie, sternly. “Why?” “Oh, been so busy with young missus,” she said, hastily; “but coming again soon.” The mulatto girl fixed her with her eyes, and said in a low whisper: “The serpent grows angry with his children who do not come; and if they stay away too much they grow sick and die.” “Oh, I come soon,” cried Cherubine, trembling visibly now, and her black shiny skin seemed to turn dull and strange, as white rings appeared round the pupils of her dark eyes. "You tell him I’m not going to stay away any more.” “Take care then,” said the mulatto girl, keeping her eyes fixed on the trembling woman. “You have not been since the two new white brothers came to us.” “No, no, not once,” said Cherubine, trembling, “but I come next time.” “Yes. When did you see him last?” “Yesterday,” said Cherubine eagerly. “Where?” “He came to Nousie’s.” “I thought so,” said Genie, in a low voice. Then added, “Hotv many times has he been ?” Cherubine balanced her basket carefully on her head, and counted rapidly on her fingers. “Eight times.” “What for?” Cherubine smiled, then looked horrified. “Don’t look at me like that,” she said, hastily, as she tried to take her eyes off her questioner, but stared at her again as if fascinated. “I am not looking at you,” said Genie, slowly; “it is the serpent looking out of my eyes. He is everywhere. He is asking with my lips why Etienne Saintone conies to Nousie’s house.” “I—l don’t know,” said Cherubine, shuddering, and the about her pupils grew more defined.

“Mind what you are saying,” said Genie, sternly. “I only think,” said Cherubine, hurriedly—“l think he fall in love with little missus. An’ it’s very dreadful,” she said, in a whimpering tone, as she stood shivering in the hot sunshine, and watching Genie, who as soon as she had spoken turned suddenly, and went up the narrow path taken by her black companion. “Wish sometimes I never went to Voudoux. Frightens me.” For the next few minutes as she continued her journey back, the flowers scorned to have lost their sweetness, and she remained perfectly mute, but with the natural carelessness of her race, all was forgotten again in a short time, and she reached the house singing, to go straight to the window of Aube’s room, call her by name, and laughing merrily she thrust in the bunch of flowers, kissed the little white hand which took them, and then went into the front room behind the veranda, where, in the dim light, she saw her mistress hastily put away a handkerchief, and on going closer with her basket, which she now held under her arm. she said, sharply: “What missus cry about?” the sight of Nousie’s red eyes completely chasing away all thoughts of her late encounter. “Oh, I don’t know,” said Nousie, sadly. “I’m not happy, Cherub.” “Nousie ought to be happy, then,’’-cried the woman. “Got lots of money, big house, and Beauty once again.” “But she is not huppy,” cried Nousie, passionately. “Oh, Cherub, it is killing me to see her look so quiet and sad.” “Ah. nonsense!” cried Cherubine sharply. “She laughed just now when I took her flowers.” “Laughed ?” cried Nousie, eager. Then, with a sigh, “she only tries to smile when I take her anything.” She looked wistfully at her faithful old servant, for the revelation was coming fast with its painful enlightenment, and the making clear to her of complications of which she had never dreamed. Cherubine looked at her WQnderiagiy, for she could not comprehend her mistress’ troublq, and setting it down to one of her old fits of sadness, such as had often come to her since the terrible day when she had seen her husband shot down before her eyes, the woman took her basket into the house as horses' hoofs were heard, a shadow was cast across the veranda, and Saintone dismounted, threw his bridle across a hook, and entered the place. Nousie looked at him sharply, as at a fresh source of trouble at a time when her spirit was very low, but the young man came up to her with so smiling and friendly a look that she was disarmed. “What a morning,” he said, cheerily; “and how well you look, Madame Dulau.” She winced, for his words and tones brought back compliments paid her by her husband’s friend. He noticed her manner and became serious directly, as he said in a half-re-proachful tone; “I thought that when a man joined you, he found help and friendship, but you always look at me as if I were an enemy.” “Ah, no,” said Nousie, forcing a smile, “you are mistaken. What do you want me to do? You ,can help yourself now without going to anyone.” “Don’t play with me, Nousie,” he said, leaning over the counter » nd catching her hand, which she tried to snatch away, but he retained. “You know why I camp. You must see that my mother approves of it, and though I am not good enough for her, still I would indeed be to her the best of husbands, and it would be for her good. There, lam very poor at this sort of thing, but you know I love her, and I ask you humbly now for your help.” She looked at him wildly, for his prayer to her seemed horrible, bringing back as it did the past, and she shook her head. “Oh, come,” he said, “you say to be-

cause you think of that Youdoux business. I tell you frankly, I got you to take me up that I might join tliern solely to help me in my election. You must not think about that. And yet,” he said, with a peculiar look, “I might say to yon, do think about it, for I want your help.” “No,” she cried hastily. “I am not one of them. lam their friend, aud I help them and they trust me, but I do not belong.” “They think you do. aud treat you as one of them,” said Saintone, dryly, "but I am not going to put pressure ou you in that way, Nousie—Mtidnine Dulau, if you like —I believe my father and your husband were friends once.” “Oh!” she exclaimed, excitedly. “Ah, yes; I’ve’heard they became enemies, but what of that. They would have made it up again, so what is that to us. Let me speak plainly. I love Mademoiselle Dulau. My mother has tried again and again to make us all friends, but without avail. Now I have come myself; first of all as her messenger, to ask if she may send the carriage for Mademoiselle this afternoon.” “She would not come,” said Nousie, quietly. “You have not asked her, I am not going to press my suit I’ll be as patient as you like, but let her «ome. The packet came in this morning and we are to have the Captain and a few friends. It would be cheerful and pleasant for her. and she would meet some of our best i>eople. You will let her come?” Nousie’s hand contracted, and she shook her head. “Ah, but you are hard,” he cried. “You are jealous of me. You think I am going to take her from you, but listen, Nousie; she is the dearest, sweetest lady I ever saw. Are you going to keep her among these blacks, and condemn her to such a life as this?”

She gave him an agonized look, for he had struck the chord which thrilled through her; and as she stood there suffering she felt that his words were right, and, growing weaker beneath the pressure put upon her, she withdrew her hand to stand with brow knit, thinking: Ought she not to forget the past aud accept her fate? She knew now that by her own act she had raised Aube far above her, and with her heart bleeding in its agony she acknowledged that she was dragging her child down. “You do not speak,” said Saintone. “I was thrnking,” she replied, dreamily. “You say Madame Saintone sent you?” “Yes,” he cried, eagerly. “I will ask her.” “No, no, let me ask her; let me plead to her,” cried Saintone, fearing to lose the slight hold he had gained. “No; I will ask her myself. You need not fear,” she added, with a sad smile. “She shall go if she likes. I will be fair.” She left the buffet, and went thoughtfully into Aube’s room, the place that was sacred to her, and pressing her lips together and trying hard to force down the agony within her, she closed the door behind her. Aube had started to her feet and was looking pale and strange. “He has come again, my dearest,” said Nousie, softly. “He says he loves you, and Madame Saintone asks if she may send a carriage for you this afternoon. What shall I say?” “That I will not go,” said Aube, firmly. “Stop,” said Nousie now, fighting down her exultation as she struggled, as she told herself that her child might be happy. “He said to me what I have just begun to think, that I had made you a lady, and asked me if I was going to keep you down to such a home as this, here among these wretched people. Aube, darling, I feel as if I could not lose you! but would it not be best for you to go among these people?” “No,” said Aube, firmly. "I will not leave you—l will not go.” Nousie’s fingers worked, and her lips trembled, but she mastered herself again. “You must think of what you are saying, my child. His mother wishes you to go—she would love you for her son's sake. He asks for you to be his wife.” “Mother!” “Listen, my child; he will make you rich—a lady—the best people in the place who mock at me will welcome you, and as his wife —if you would love him ■” “Mother!” said Aube, “are you going to be cruel to me now?” “I, my darling,” she cried, catching Aube to her breast, “who would die for you?” “Then why do you talk like this? You do not wish it?” “I wish to make you happy dearest, and to try and mend my poor mistake.” “Mistake? What are you saying. I could not love that man. His mother frightens ma She seems false and strange to me, and her daughter hates me in her heart. You wish me to leave you and go among those people. No. no; send me back to the peaceful old convent once again.” Nousre started, but controlled herself still, and after an effort: “What am I to say, then, to this man?” “That it is impossible. That I cannot go—that he is to leave us in peace.” “Is this from your heart, Aube? Look at me before you send me with such a message as that.” “Look at you?” said Aube, tenderly, as she softly threw her arms about her mother’s neck. “Do you think Ido not consider all that you have done. Mother, dearest, your letter rests here upon my heart. I look at that sometimes, and kneel down and pray that I may learn to repay you for all your suffering in the past. What are these people to us that they should try to come between us when we are so happy as we are?” “But you are not happy, Aube.” “I try to be,” she said, with the tears flooding her eyes, “but you make me sad sometimes when you look troubled, and as if you were not content with me. Mother, I do love yon with all my heart.” “Aube —my darling!” She clasped her passionately to her heart, and Aube drew her face closer to her own. “Yes; love me clways like that, mother,” she whispered, “I am happy now. Tell this man to go and trouble us uo more. We have been parted so long, and I have come back again. Mother, dearest; nobody must come between us now.” They stood locked in each other’s arms, heart beating against heart, till, as if waking from a dream, Nousie slowly drew herself away. There was a look of pride and peace in her eyes; her face, too, seemed almost beautiful once more, illumined as it was by her mother love, and as she reached the door, she turned, ran back and kissed her child again be-

fore hurrying out to where Sainton# was impatiently waiting. He stared as she came toward him, erect and proud-lookiug. and as if some sudden change had taken place in the brief-time since they parted. “Ah.” he cried, joyously, “she will come ?” “No.” Monsieur Saintone." said Nousie, firmly. “Mv child refuses, and asks you and your mother to leave us in peace.” A look of rage convulsed his face, and he turned upon her fiercely. “It is not true," he said. “You have been setting her against me. I'll speak to her myself." He made for the door, but Nousie interposed— at bay now to spare her child. But her manner changed, and it seemed to Saintone no longer Nousie. the keeper of the cabaret, but Madame Dulau. wife of his father’s old friend, who said firmly, and with a dignity of mien which startled him: “Stop, sir!" Then after a pause: "You shall have it from her own lips.*' She went through the door, leaving him pacing the room, ami in a minute she cams back, leading Aube, no longer the shrinking. timid girl, but calm and self-pos-sessed, and looking more beautiful in hil eyes than ever. “Ah, Mademoiselle Aube.” he cried, as he stepped forward and tried to take her hand. "You wished to hear from me,” said Aube, gravely, "the words my mother said. Let me then say, monsieur, that I thank Madame Saintone for her kindness, that I cannot accept her invitations, and that all you wish is impossible.” “No!" he cried, hotly, "it is not impossible.” “Impossible.” repeated Aube, and she turned from him to whisper, as she clung to her mother’s arm: "No one must ever come between us now.” . And the door was darkened as a man appeared dark against the sunshine which hindered him for a moment from seeing the group before him. “Is this Madame Dulau’s?” he said, sharply. Aube uttered a wild cry, while Saintone’s eyes half closed, and his lips tightened, as he looked from one to the other, saying beneath his breath: “Who is this?” (To be continued.)