Democratic Sentinel, Volume 19, Number 50, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 December 1895 — A GOLDEN DREAM [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A GOLDEN DREAM

CHAPTER XVIII. That night was the bitterest of all to Aube. Her heart had been full of regrets for the past, she had felt a cruel pang at the thought of losing so true a friend as Lucie, and the color had mounted to her cheeks as she had recalled her last meeting with Paul, and she had asked herself whether she loved him, as she knew he must love her. But she had shrunk from this inquisition, not daring to look into her heart of hearts lest she should find the truth and suffer more bitterly than she suffered now. By a strong effort of will she had again that day to thrust the past further away from her, to forget all in her career, and strive to be the loving daughter for whom Nousie had looked so long. Saintone had come there, had had that interview with her mother, in which with its warm glow reflected to her own she had seen her mother’s love for her expand, she had realized her self-denial and willingness to sacrifice herself that her child might rise to a different grade; and in those moments she had felt that it would be easy to return her love as a devoted daughter, and that happinness was not impossible even there. Then Saintone had received his rebuff, and in spite of the pain and excitement of the scene, Aube had felt her heart glow and a new light breaking in upon her life when the clouds bad once more gathered round her. Paul had come, and she had seen the hope and love which beamed in her mother's eyes darken in . despair. Paul, the man she knew now that she loved, the man who had followed her even there, had looked with horror upon her home and treated her longsuffering mother with bitter, cruel contempt. How that evening passed she could not tell. Paul and his friend had been there all that time, and they had gone at last, after Paul had said words to her which she could not recall; leaving her. as it were, stunned by her position, and Nousie gaziug at her from time to time with a mournful, despairing look in her eyes which cut her to the heart. But she could not speak, she could not even try to comfort her, and with her breast overburdened with the chained-up \<ving words she longed to speak, their parting that night was constrained and cold.

Cherubine had gone also to her room, and the place was silent as Nousie stole into the nest she had prepared with such loving hands for her child. A bitter resentment filled her heart, and she looked angrily around in the darkness. But this passed away, and was succeeded by a painful sadness which she did nothing to combat, and she slowly and silently crept about the room with her tears falling fast, to lay her hand softly and lovingly upon the book Aube had been reading, upon her work, which she raised and kissed, and then upon the keys of the piano, one of which gave out a low, faint note. “My darling! My own husband’s very own’!” she sighed as she stood at last with her hands presed to her brow. Then sinking on her knees and closing her hands she uttered a low wail. “George, dearest,” she eried in a low, painful voice; “she loves him and he loves her, there is no room in her breast for me. I have done all you wished, and the world is empty to me now. Take me to you, darling, and let me die.” There was silence hand in hand with the darkness now in the little room, and misery and despair seemed to combine to crush the wretched woman down. “It would be so easy,” she said—“like sleeping to wake no more, and she would be happy then. He could take her back with him to the other land. All I have is hers! She would soon forget me —the servant who stands between her and her love. So easy!” She started to her feet full of energy once more “No, not yet,” she whispered. "What did his son say? —‘send those men away, while their lives are safe.’ With me gone he might come, and she would be so helpless.” She stood gazing away into the darkness, picturing her child’s future, and realizing how her help was needed for her protection. “Not yet, George,” she said, at last, in a low, sweet voice. “Not yet. Yes, she shall go with him, for she loves him—back to the other land. It will only be another parting, as I sent her once before. And then ” She drew a long breath, and there was firmness and decision in her next movements, as she went to the door, but paused with her hand resting on the side. “Like his father,” she said. “He might kill him or—the Voudoux ” “Ah,” she ejaculated, with her lips apart. Then with a sigh of relief, “Perhaps I am as strong there as he. Yes, she loves him. Back to the other land, and then —and then —George, dearest, I am weary now; take me to you. I want to see you once again.” She crept to her room, but turned and listened by that which had been prepared with loving care for Aube; and after a little hesitation she opened the door silently, and a faint light illumined her sad face, as at a glance she saw that the bed was untenanted, and that Aube was kneeling by a chair with her face buried in her hands. Nousie crept in silently till she could stand with her hands extended over her child’s head as if longing to rest them there, but not caring to disturb her, and she stood in this attitude for some minutes, even her lips pouting as she bent forward with the gesture of kissing the glossy head so near. “Asleep, dearest?” she whispered at last. Aube sprang to her feet, startled by the interruption, and flung her arms about Nousie’s neck, pestling on her breast as if to find rest and protection there. “Not in bed, dear?” said Nousie, softly stroking back the girl’s disheveled hair. “No, I could not sleep.” “Praying?” said Nousie, softly. “Yes, mother, for strength. The pain is so hard to bear.” “So hard to bear,” said Nousie, echoing her words, as she raised her face and gazed tenderly in her eyes, “so hard to bear,” she said again. “And you love him, Aube—you love him, Lucie’s brother, who had followed you across the sea?” “Mother!” cried Aube. “Yes,” said Nousie, softly. “You love him and he loves you.” “He told me he loved me.” "And you?”

Aube looked at her wildly, and then with a passionate burst of sobbing she buried her face in her mother’s breast. Nousie caressed her gently for a few minutes, and then said softly: “Well—he loves you—and he has come to take you back.” She uttered a low sigh, which seemed torn in agony from her heart, and then said gently: “I am rich, dearest, and it is Fate. He shall take you back. You will be happy, and I can go on and wait.” Aube raised her face, and shook back her long loose hair as, with dilating eyes, she gazed in her mother’s face, and for a few moments there was silence. “Go!” faltered Aube, at last, “back to Paris—leave yon?” “Yes, dearest—he loves you—you promised him your love once there?” “No, no, no!” cried Aube, wildly. “But you love him. my own?” “Mother, I do not know,” cried Aube, wildly. “But go with him—leave you? It is impossible. I could not go.” “Yes; you could go,” said Nousie, softly, and with smiling, loving face, though every word she uttered gave her an agonizing pain. “It is to make you happy, dearest, that 1 have lived all these years alone, and worked for tjiat.” “Yes,” cried Aube, excitedly! “I did not see it all at first. I know it now. Leave you, mother, knowing all this; what you have done for me —you think I would go. Have I not knelt and prayed for strength —for forgetfulness—that all this might be past? Mother, it is cruel of him. Why has he come to step between us now?” “He loves you.” “No, no,” cried Aube, frantically, “he cannot love me, or ho would love yon, too, my own patient, long-suffering mother. He love me and dare to speak of you as he did to-day! Mother, do you think my heart did not bleed for you—that I did not suffer as I saw you suffer then?” “Aube! My child!” panted Nousie, hoarsely. “Mother, yes, I love him; but it cannot be. Leave you? I would sooner die!” “Don’t—don’t tempt me, Aube,” whispered Nousie, as she tightened her grasp and her fingers enlaced as i,f to struggle with some one who was trying to tear her child away. “I will give everything, and you shall go back with him, while I stay and think of my own child, who came to me for awhile in answer to my prayer. Yes, dear, you shall go back —go back soon. But don’t tempt me. I cannot bear it, I am so weak.” “Tempt you, mother?” “With words like those again—those words you spoke to-day before he came. It is to make you happy. You shall go.” Aube uttered a low, piteous sigh, and tightened her arms about her mother’s neck, as for some minutes they remained clasped in a loving embrace. Nousie broke the silence, and there was a curious excitement in her utterance as she exclaimed: “Soon; you shall go soon, you could never be happy here. I did not know before. But I did it in my love for you, my own.” “And you did well,” said Aube, tenderly, as she now led her mother to a couch. “It would break my heart and I should die.” “Aube,” panted Nousie. “Yes. Paul will go back and forget me. I could not love him now. It is all past. Mother, dearest, I say again all that 1 said to-day. I love you, and you alone. No one shall come between us now.” “Aube, my darling,” eried Nousie, as with a fierce strength she dragged her child across her breast and held her tightly there as if she were a babe once more. “I cannot bear it. Don't leave me, or I shall die.”

“Leave you, no,” whispered Aube, as she clasped her neck and nestled nearer and nearer still. “Yes—like that,” whispered Nousie. “Like you lay that day when, wild with despair, I was dying. They had taken your father from tne. they had kilhal him before my eyes, and I was dying, too. I tried hard to die that I might go to him; and Cherubine, as 1 was gliding fast away into the silent land, came and laid you in my arms. The touch made me start, and your little hands caught at me and played about my face, and your tiny lips kissed my cheek, and then you uttered a cry to me, and that cry told me that I must live —for you, dearest.” “Mother!” sighed Aube: and her lips were pressed upon the trembling woman’s cheek. “And I lived—for you. Aube, my darling, 1 see all now so plainly; but love me as I love you, my own—my owtn.” “Mother!” whispered Aube, and her voice thrilled her to whom she clung. “It was to make you happy that I sent you away; and all through those years I waited, wondering whether I could live the time through till you came back to me—those years, those long, weary years. Yes, I know,” she continued, with energy, “I am not worthy of you, for I have grown coarse and common; I, darling, who was once nearly as beautiful as you, and he loved me—your father, who gave you life. But I never thought of that—how plain I grew—for I worked and worked to get money—for you, dearest—to make you what you are. And—Aube my child, you will stay?” “Mother, I will never leave you.” “Hah!” cried Nousie, hysterically, “and you will stay. Aube, my child. I can work for you, and I will try so hard to make you happy. That woman, Madame Saintone, and her daughter, with their scorn and pity. They shall envy you—you, my child. And you will stay?” “Give me your dear love,” said Aube, softly, “and help me to forget the past." “And you will b'e happy then?" “And I shall be happy then.” whispered Aube. “Mother, dearest, I am happy now." The hours glided by as they sat upon that couch, locked in each other’s arms, the bright sun filling the room at last as if with hope and strength in answer to Aube's prayer. CHAPTER XIX. Aube was sleeping peacefully a little later on, and Nousie stole away with a look of pride and content upon her countenance, till she heard voices outside, and looking out, saw Cherubine in eager conversation with a couple of the blacks living near. Their talk was very earnest, and Nousie trembled slightly, but she drew herself up and waited till the woman entered. “What is it?” she asked.

The answer she received mad* her change color and glance toward Aube’s room. “Don’t let them, mistress,” whispered Cherubine. with her face looking leaden more than black, and she hurst into tears. “Are you sure?” said Nousie. “Yes; they were waiting for them.” “And followed them home?” “Yes, mistress, but don't let them, pray, pray.” “Hush, hush!” whispered Nousie. “Don’t speak—don’t look. I shall do something to stop it. It shall not bs done,” she added, energetically. Cherubine's face assumed its wonted aspect directly, and Nousie stood thinking for a few moments wondering how it would be best to proceed to avert a danger which she felt was grave, and which she saw would call for all the influence she possessed. She had fonrted no plans when Aube came down a couple of hours later to find her looking abstracted and troubled, for Saintone's threat seemed to ring in her ears, and she knew that he had an influence to back him which was not his a month or two before. Breakfast was hardly 'over, and the trouble was almost forgotten in her new-ly-found happiness when a fresh complication arose in the shape of a messenger bearing a letter. Nousie took it and read it hastily, her countenance changing as she found a ppstcript in a man’s hand whose import she grasped at once. The words were: “Remember what I said. She must come.” “Mother, dearest,” cried Aube, “why do you look like that? Are you ill?” “Hl? No, dear; only a little vexed. It is a letter from Madame Saintone, begging that we will not refuse her this time, and that you will go up there to-day.” “No, no; it is impossible,” said Aube. Then hastily, “Mother dear, you must be ill.” “No —oh, no; I was only thinking that perhaps ” She stopped after speaking in a hesitating way. “Perhaps what, dear?” “It might be right to be friendly with Madame Saintone, and go there for an hour or two.” Aube was startled by this change of front, and gazed wouderingly at her mother, whose lips parted to falter forth some explanation, when Aube turned crimson and then white, for Paul’s voice was heard inquiring for Madame Dulau, and directly after he and Bart were shown in. (To be continued.)