Democratic Sentinel, Volume 20, Number 2, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 17 January 1896 — A GOLDEN DREAM [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A GOLDEN DREAM

CHAPTER XlX—(Continued.) Paul’* first movement was toward Aube with extended hands, but she shrank from him as if mistrusting her own powers, and giving her a reproachful look, Paul turned to Nousie. “Madame Dulau,” he said, quietly, “I owe you an apology for my behavior yesterday. Believe me I was so overcome by surprise that I hardly knew what I said. You forgive me?” “I have nothing to forgive,” replied Nousie. “Your surprise was natural.” “Then let me be brief and speak out as a man should under these circumstances. Madame Dulau, your daughter has been my sister's friend and companion for years.” “I know,” * “And almost from a boy, though I rarely saw her, I grew up to love your child. Of the proof of that love for her, which she knows well, I need say nothing more than that I have followed her across the sea to ask your consent to our marriage. Give it to me; it is for her happiness and mine.” Nousie looked at him pityingly, and then at her child, who was deadly pale. “Aube, dearest,” she said, softly, “you are vour own mistress; what shall I •ay?” Aube fixed her eyes on Nousie. “Tell him, mother, that it is impossible; that he must think of me no more, and that I pray him for my happiness and yours to bid me, as dear Lucie's friend and sister, good-by forever—now, at once, and go.” She kept her eyes fixed upon her mother, and there was not a tremor in her voice as she spoke. Nousie did not speak, but turned to Paul, whose face was set and hard. “There is no need to repeat the words, madame,” he said, “for I will not take them as being the true utterances of my sister's friend. She could not be so cruel to one who loves her as I do. Well, if it is to be like this, I shall stay somewhere near to watch over her and wait.” “No,” cried Nousie excitedly, “you must not stay. Go back! Leave this place. Your life is not safe!” “I can protect myself,” said Paul, scornfully. “I am not afraid, and I can and will protect your child. An unfair influence has been brought to bear upon her. I cannot, I will not believe those words are from her heart.” “Tell him, mother.” said Aube, faintly, “it is true, and that I implore him to leave us in peace.” “Never,” cried Paul. “You do not know me. Aube. I will stay in spite of everything, and win you yet. You foolish girl,” he continued, “you think because I find you in a home like this you ought to resign me. It is the greater reason why we should be one.” Aube shook her head. “I know you better,” he said half laughingly. “Then, Madame Dulau, we will not take this seriously. I am refused, but if it is a hundred times I shall come again—always till I know that Aube loves another better than I hope and believe she loves me.” “No, no,” cried Nousie, “for Aube’s sake, for mine, you must go back. I tell you,” she whispered, “your life is not safe if you stay.” “I am not to be frightened away,” said Paul, coldly. “It would take far more than a threat of injury to send me back — alone,” be added with a meaning look at Aube; and then he flushed and bit his lip, for there were horse’s paces outside, and Bart laid his hand upon his friend’s arm. “Steady,” he whispered; “be cool. Recollect where we are.” “Cool, man; who is to be cool?” whispered back Paul, as Saintone entered, carelessly glanced at him, and then passed them, going over to Aube, smiling at her as if hey were the most intimate friends, and then to Nouise. “You had my mother’s note?” he said. “I know you will make no excuses this time. Mademoiselle Dulau, the carriage is coming along the road, and I am to be your escort back.” “If I say no,” thought Nousie, with an excited look from one to the other, “I should not have time, and it would kill her. too. If I say yes, I may have time.” “Keeping me in suspense,” said Saintone, merrily. “Well, how long will mademoiselle be?”

“I will ask her,” said Nousie, striving hard to be calm; and Paul saw, to his rage and agony, that a meaning look passed between them. “Aube, my child, will you trust me, and do what I ask?” whispered Nousie. Aube’s eyes said “Yes.” “Go to Madame Saintone's to-day; for my sake.” “Go?” said Aube, with her eyes dilat- : - “I repeatit— for my sake.”’ “Yes, mother,” she said, slowly. “I will go.” She spoke aloud, and Saintone gave Paul a half-contemptuous look, and turned away. “Aube,” whispered Paul, going to her bide, “is this of your own free will?” “Of my own free will, Mr. Lowther,” she said, slowly, and as if speaking in her sleep. “Good-by.” Paul stepped back, as if he had been struck some violent blow, and before he could recover Nousie and Aube had left the room. CHAPTER XX. Nousie sat in Aube’s room watching through the open window. There were three or four people by the buffet where Cherubine was installed, but their voices only came in a low murmur, and the darkness was intense without, as it was in the mother’s heart. For again and again, as she watched for her child’s return, she had been reviewing her position and trying to see the light—the clear bright sunshine beyond the present trouble —which should irradiate her child’s life. The complication was terrible. She had brought Aube over there, thinking in her ignorance more of her own happiness than her child’s, and yet it had all seemed so simple. She had saved; she was comparatively rich; and she had intended to devote herself to making her child's life glide onward in peace, whereas she was face to face with the fact that, by a terrible accident of fate, Aube had been thrown into intimacy with the family she most abhorred; and, crowning horror of all, Etienne Saintone, son of the man who had slain her husband, evidently passionately loved her «Uld.

Nousie’* brow grew wet aud cold as she recalled the terrible night when, by the light of her burning house, she saw George Dulau shot down, and in his dying agony turn upon his murderer —the would-be destroyer of his wife's honor — and deal his enemy his death-blow even as he himself passed away. The idea of a union between the children of two such deadly enemies was fearful to her. She felt that after all these years she could bury her own hatred against Saintone's son, but to consent to such a fate for her child was too much. And yet by her own aet she was crushed. For years past for the sake of the gain it brought her she had been connected with the Voudoux sect, never sharing in their terrible ceremonies, but acknowledged as one of them and familiar with their proceedings. Their power was enormous, and it was under the protection of these people that she had lived and prospered. In a weak moment and tempted by the money Saintone had offered—money to hoard up for her child—she had listened to the young man's importunities, and taken him and his friend to a meeting, and left them after the introduction to be initiated in the signs and mysteries of the sect, little dreaming how soon Saintone would, on the strength of his brotherhood, and grown powerful by the claim he had on those to whom he was joined, make a demand upon her for her assistance, and literally force her to listen to his suit She had been almost dazed by this turn in the affair, seeing as she did, upon the opening up of a new complication by the arrival of Paul, that Aube loved this young Englishman, but was ready to sacrifice herself, and be devoted to the mother who had suffered so for her sake. “If they would only leave us to ourselves,” thought Nousie, as she racked her brain for a way out of the difficulty, and pondered on her position. Aube loved Paul, but he evidently scorned the mother who bore her, and the surroundings of the girl’s home. To force Aube to listen to her lover and the dictates of her own heart was to give her up forever—and die. On the other hand, to yield to Saintone, as she felt that she must, unless by some help from her Voudoux friends she could set him at defiance, was to see her child among the highest set in the place, beautitpl, wealthy and powerful; ami even if they separated, that separation would not be so great. It seemed the lesser evil, and it was the termination toward which she was being almost insensibly forced. Still she was balanced between the two, when the scale was forced dowm by Saintone, who whispered to her (hat if she did not consent to Aube’s acceptance of Madame Saintone’s invitation he would call on Certain of the Voudoux to help him, and the two young Englishmen would not see the light of another day. “And it would kill her, too,” thought Nousie, with a pang at her heart, as she hesitated no longer, but surrendered to the position, and astounded Aube by her demand. And now, closed in still by the darkness which yet oppressed her, Nousie sat watching for her, child’s return, trying to satisfy herself that the course she had chosen was for the best. “Chosen!” she said, bitterly; “into which I am forced. But he loves her, and she may forget.” Shrinking from the union ns she did, there was that intense feeling of love for her child that was so hard to combat, and she drew herself up with a sigh of relief at last as she said, despairingly: “If they did not kill him he would take her away and I could not bear that, even to see her happy—it is too much—too much to bear.” She had hardly come to this conclusion when there was the sound of wheels, and she hurried to the door in time to see, in the light cast from the long room window, Saintone helping Aube to alight from his vehicle, and with a degree of reverence which strengthened the mother’s willingness to let herself be carried away by what seemed inevitable, bend down and kiss Aube’s hand

The next moment the girl had glided by her mother into the house, and after speaking sharply to his impatient horse, Saintone turned to Nousie, and laid his hand upon her shoulder. “Thank you, sister,” he said, half mockingly. “There, you see I have brought her safely back. She is an angel, Nousie,” he whispered, “and I love her to distraction.” “You love her?” said Nousie softly, for how, she thought, could she hate the man who loved her child. “Love her! Yes. Who could see her and not love her?” he whispered, eagerly. “My mother worships her, and you see now that it is for the best.” Nousie was silent. “Y’ou don’t speak. There, you are angry because I threatened. Well, I did; I swear it; I would. Do you think lam going to let this wretched, contemptible foreign dog stand in the way of my happiness? lam one of your people, and I joined for power. I have the power now, and they should remove him from my path as if he were a serpent. Well, why don’t you speak?” “I was thinking,” said Nousie, simply —“of my child.” He grasped her shoulder, and placed his lips close to her ear. “No shrinking,” he said, sternly. “I call upon you for help. You shall side with me, and keep those foreign dogs at a distance. It is to save their lives. Ido not want to go to extremities; but nothing shall move me now. You must help me. Why, Nousie, you ought to be proud that I ask you to give her to me for my wife. I shall be a leader soon, and your child will be one of the greatest ladies of the land. Do you want to see her taken away by this foreigner, never to meet her again?” He had struck the chord which vibrated most strongly in the mother’s breast, and, after a pause, she drew a long and painful breath. “Tell me—promise me not to hurt him — for Aube’s sake —and I will try.” “Try?” he said, scornfully. “I call upon you to help me. As for him. Bah! Let him keep out of my path. There—go to her—talk about me; make her tell you how happy we have made her at the house. She must soon come again. The horse is getting fidgety. Stand still, brute! Good-night, sister —mother,” he added, laughingly. “Here, give me a light for my cigar.” Nousie went in through the veranda and brought out a candle, whose flame did not even flicker in the hot, still night:

•nd •• Saintone lit his cigar the light waa thrown upon Aube’* white face as •he gased out of her window after unin-tentionally-being a witness and a hearer of all that had passed. “Good-night," said Saintone, exnltingly. “Take care of my treasure. There, I am quite satisfied with you now. Goodnight.” Nousie stood holding the eandle in the veranda as Saintone sprang into his carriage and drove away, and listening to the dying a way of the wheels in the dusty, ill-kept road. “It is fate,” she said, with a sigh. “My darling! Would it not be better if we both could die? Yes,” she muttered, after a pause, as she turned toward the window from which Aube had shrunk away, and the light cast curious shadows upon her stern face, "better if we could die and go to him. We would be happy then, for we should be at peace." CHAPTER XXL “Pah!” ejaculated Saintone, as he drove slowly along the dark road, “a snake—a worm in my path. Kill him? Not if he keeps out of piy way If he tries tq raise his head and sting" me, T can crush liim now under my heel. The Voudoux is a power stronger than I thought. “My darling! How beautiful she is! Safe and soon. Yes, the Voudoux is a force that shall help me in all my schemes. Get on, brute!” he cried to his horse, which had stoped so suddenly that Saintone was nearly thrown out. "What’s the mater? Hah!” He lashed at the horse sharply, for he had caught sight of a great black figure at its head, but the animal only plunged and shivered, for its bit was held fast. “Don’t hurry, Etienne,” said a voice; and a figure came from the side of the road and laid a hand upon his arm. “I want to speak to you.” “Genie!” cried Saintone, whose heart beat fast. , “Yes, Genie. Are you coming home?” “I home,” he said, sharply. “Tell that fellow to loose my horse's head, or something may happen. I am armed." “But you cannot turn against him,” said the woman, with a laugh; “he is a brother. You see I know.” “Know what?” “Pish!” she said contemptuously, “do you think I do not know you came to me to ask me to take you to a meeting, but I was not going to have you to join us. I did not want you.” “No,” said Saintone, meaningly. “But you are one of us I can talk freely. You see I know. r ’ ” “Yes,” said Saintone, “and I know, too.” “You wish to quarrel?” said the woman, softly, “but I'shall not—not yet,” she added to herself. Then aloud—“ Where have you been to-night?” “Where I pleased,” said Saintone, roughly. “Tell your man to loose my horse, or he may repent it.” “If you wish to die to-morrow, perhaps to-night,” said the woman quietly, “try to injure him. You cannot, but you may try. Why, Etienne, he could crush you with one hand, and he would at a word from me. I saw her,” she said, with a sudden change in her voice. “I am not blind. Do you think I do not know—everything. You did not know, but you can know now, I am a priestess among our people, and do you think I am going to let you throw me off as you have?” “Bah! I have no time to talk,” said Saintone, contemptuously. “Priestess? Pish! Genie, you are half mad.” “With jealousy—yes,” she said, viciously, “but you do not know me yet. I’ll tell you where you have been—baek with that white-faced girl. It is to be that creature, is it? I am to be thrown over for her?” “Yes,” he said as fiercely. “If you will have it. lam not afraid of you and your creed. I command, now that lam one of you, and I know, too. Go to him. Take him from my horse’s head. I saw you together to-day. He is your lover. Do you think I was going to accept a rival in a black? Stand away!” he roared, and he gave his horse so furious a lash that the great negro sprang aside to avoid a blow from the horse’s hoofs as the frightened beast bounded forward, and Saintone did not check its gallop till he was close home. (To be continued.)