Democratic Sentinel, Volume 20, Number 6, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 14 February 1896 — A GOLDEN DREAM [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

A GOLDEN DREAM

j ' CHAPTER XXIII. —(Continued.) ' A wild and piercing scream reached them at that moment, echoed by Chern%ine, who raised her head and let it fall itearily again, striking the table before iier as if her brow were of wood. Paul staggered as the wail rose again :from outside, recovered himself and followed Bart who had dashed through the door, and following his footsteps he staggered into the white draped room which iNousie had prepared with such loving care for the advent of her child. Paul clutched at the door as he grasped the scene in the shaded room. Nousie on &er knees frantically clasping the white form of her child extended on the bed, lier face buried in her white bosom, while all around over the pillow and coverlet the poor girl’s long black hair lay tossed, fihe had evidently been seized by some terribly agonizing pain in whose tlntchcs she had writhed and tossed, for her bared arms lay apart, and her head and shoulders were half over the side of the bed, where Xousie knelt. Bart was on the other side rapidly making his examination, at the end of which he went round and whispered to the stricken mother, who rose obediently, and like one in a dream helped him to compose the cramped and distorted limbs, before, with a despairing gesture, he signed to Paul to approach. Paul reeled like a drunken man, and stared wildly at his friend, then at the beautiful face upon the pillow, from which the distortion of pain had passed, leaving it already calm and peaceful aa if she slept. “Bart —no, no, not that —not that?' whispered Paul at last, bonrsely. I “God help you, old fellow”’ whispered Bart with a deprecating gesture, “I can do nothing. It is too late.” “What?” cried Paul, fiercely. “And ia this your boasted knowledge. Helpless, miserable pretender! Aube, Aube, :tiy darling!—gone—gone. God help me, what shall I do?” He flung himself on his knees by the bedside, and passionately kissed the soft, cold lips again and again, heedless of everything, as by -all the terms of endearment he could command, he called Opon her to come back to him, for he could not live alone, till his passionately uttered words grew faint and husky, and he turned round fiercely, for £ hand was laid upon his head. He laughed bitterly, then, as he gazed up in Nousie’s wild face, i “Well,” he cried, “you have killed her. Are you happy now? You fetched her awav from all who loved her, and for this.” “But I loved her, too,” groaned Xousie, “my darling, whom I could have died to save. Have some pity on me,” she wailed, as she held up her clasped hands to her accuser. “Yes, I loved her, too.” Paul uttered a low hoarse cry and clasped the suffering woman in liis arms. “Yes,” he said. “I am mad. Ido not blame you—her mother—for you loved her, too.” At that moment in regular dirge-like mourning cadence came the wailing •chorus of the blacks, sending a thrill through Bart, as he bent over Aube once more, touching her bands which he felt It a sacrilege to lay upon the fast chilling form, and ending by taking those of the mother and his friend, leading them to either side of the conch, and joining them so that they lay theirs upon the halfclosed eyes once so full of sadness and loving tenderness, to close them in the darkness until the coming light. And once more the low moaning wail rose from without for the death of Xousie’s child.

CHAPTER XXIY. i “I dare not tell him,” muttered Bart a few hours after, as he walked up and down the room, Aube’s little nest; for Paul had sternly refused to leave the chamber, and was now seated with his head bowed down and buried in his hands, just as he had been led there tenderly by Xousie, for only to her would he yield when it was whispered to him that he must go. “I dare not tell him,” said Bart again to himself, “but if ever poor girl was poisoned that was her death. I must get him away from here, for the tragedy is at an end." “Poor lad!” he mused. “The knot has been cut indeed. But in what a way! Whose cursed hand. gave her that? May it rot from the owner’s limbs.” He started, for there was a ghastly face looking up at him—a countenance that in its distortion he hardly knew. . “Paul, old fellow,” he said, gently, “had we not better go?” “Bart!” came in a hoarse, fierce whisper, “they must have poisoned her.” “What? Oh, who would have had the heart to do that?” “Poisoned her,” continued Paul, “and yen know it, but you will not tell me. Who could have/ done this where all neemed to love her? Oh, it is too hard' to bear.” “Ypu may be wrong in this,” said Bart, quietly, feeling startled, though at the way in which his friend had seemed to read his thoughts. , “No, I am not wrong. She was poisoned. I feel it. This cursed land. Some one must have been envious and hated her.” : '“That we shall never know. But, Paul, old fellow, we can do no good here. Come away new. Let us go back.” . Paul shook his head sadly. < “No,” he said. “You forget. ‘We are in this strange land where one lives today and is forgotten to-morrow. Not yet, Bart. I am going to see them lay my darting, my sweet, innocent darling, In her bridal bed. I’m not jealous, old fellow— not jealous of him. Death’s own. To-night— to-night ?” I “Ah, yes,” said Bart, sadly. “I had almost forgotten w here we will be "'to-night.” ■ . I “Yes; her mother whispered it to me as she brought me from the room. We fcnow each other now it is too late.” | Paul’s words were correct, for just at ftamdown, amid wailing and tears, Aube’s (flower-covered bier was borne by half a dozen of the neighboring blacks, the white, statuesque figure, with its marble face upon the waning sunshine, to the burying ground, where a shallow grave Was waiting, a priest standing close by. Paul followed, hand in hand with Nou•Se, and as they reached the grave he raised his eyes, w-hich looked to his friend pa if they blazed, for they had suddenly ancountered those of Saintone, standing there with hit mother. 1 Sat Paul’s anger died out directly, for pe could see the man’s face working with opt hysterical passion of his Southern

nature, and as he stepped forward to take a last farewell of her who lay there he utterly broke down, and Paul gave a sigh of relief as Saintone was led away. “It was not he,” thought Paul. “He loved her, too. It was not he.” Then, as in a dream, he listened to the priest, and stood there, stunned, till the last sad rites were at an end. and it seemed to him as he saw the earth cover her from sight that his own life was at an end as well. The wails of the blacks rang in his ear*, and the sun sauk. the darkness was coming on fast as Bart whispered to him: “Come.” In a dreamy way still, as if he would wake from it all soon, he was about to follow, but a cold hand touched his, and a piteous voice said to him in almost a whisper: “Don’t leave me yet, dear. I am so lonely now.” Bart drew back and gave up his idea of taking Paul back to their place as he saw him gravely bend over X'ousie. draw her arm through his, and, followed by a group of weeping people, lead her to her home, the young doctor coming almost last. CHAPTER XXV. Paul Eowther looked so wild and strained that his friend trembled for the result. There was something in the bereaved lover’s eyes which told of a despair beyond words to portray; and longing for this terrible day to end. Bart endeavored to keep near his old companion, trying to find something to say to him from time to time, but owning to himself after any such effort that he had far better have left the sufferer to his silent grief. It was strange how the great sorrow had brought Xousie and Paul together. The cabaret had soon grown deserted, for the blacks had stolen one by one away, till all was dark and silent without, while within hardly a word was spoken, and Paul sat holding Xousie s hand in his, their figures dimly visible to Bart, as they sat close by the open window, at which, only a few hours before, Aube had stood tending the flowers the people around loved to bring for her acceptance. From time to time a groan or a sigh would come front the outer room, where Cherubine was alone with her grief, unheeded by all there, till, growing startled by the woman’s evident suffering. Bart softly rose and crept out into the large, dark, deserted saloon, to where the black servant half lay, apparently mad with grief and agony. He said a few words to her and tried to induce her to converse with him. but it was in vain, and feeling that nothing but time would avail aught, he turned away with a sigh, and was going back to Aube’s little room when he caught sight of a misty lookiug figure passing out of the door into the veranda. “Paul!” he said to himself, “going without me.” His suspicions were aroused, and he followed him quickly to stand in the veranda trying to penetrate the darkness, and make out w hether Paul had gone dow n the road toward the town. Ho was not kept in suspense many moments for, all at once, a piercing shriek rang out as if from behind him. and simultaneously there was a flash of light and the report of a pistol. Bart rushed to the spot not half-a-dozen yards away and just opposite one of the end window s of the long common room. “I was afraid of that,” muttered Bart, as he rushed on, hearing the sharp click of the pistol as it was being cocked, and springing upon the indistinctly sem figure before him, he wrenched the pistol away. *

“Y'ou madman!” he cried, furiously. “Is this my friend—the brother of that poor girl who is waiting in all love and trust for his return?” “For my return!” said Paul, quietly; “why should I return? Why have you taken that away?” “Because you are not fit to be trusted with it. Here! be a man and come and see what is wrong;" for a series of agonizing screams came front within the house, each more piercing than that which had made Paul Lowther start as he drew the trigger to end his weary life. Weak as a child now in his despair, he yielded to the firm grip upon his arm. and suffered himself to be led quickly into the long room, where a light now gleamed, and as they entered it lit up the pallid, startled face of Xousie, who was hurrying toward the end. There was no need to ask what was wrong, for there, just as she had fallen from her seat, lay Cherubine, writhing and groveling on the floor, still uttering shrieks which rang through the place and sent a shudder through Paul. “Good heavens!” panted Bart. “What have you done? Your bullet must have struck the poor creature.” “X T o, no,” cried Paul, excitedly, and he clung uow to his companion; “she shrieked as I fired, and my shot was aimed the other way.” Nousie had gone down on her knees speaking wildly to her old servant and friend, and she looked up appealingly at the two young men for help. “Isn’t there trouble enough, man,” whispered Bart, as the shrieks continued; “are you no better than this poor hysterical savage?” Paul looked at him hopelessly, and then his eyea fell upon the writhing woman. “Let lae come, Madame Dulau,” said Bart, quickly, after carefully placing the pistol in 411 s own pocket. “Have you ever seen her like this before?” “No, ay,” said Nousie, this new trouble rousing ner from her despondent state. “What qjlall I get you—water—brandy?” “Wait a moment, let’s see. Hysterical fit, 1 suppose,” said Bart, trying with all a doctors calmness to examine the woman’s eyttfu “I don’t know. Here, Paul, man,” lift continued, as the poor creature writhed and shrieked horribly, “hold that hand for me. Kneel down. That’s right. Bestir yourself, or we shall have some fresh catastrophe.” “It is aot hysteria. She has been drinking herself mad to drown her sorrow, I suppose. What would it he, madam—arrack?'’ “Oh, no, no,” cried Npusie. “She would not touch anything of the kind.” “In aa ordinary way—no, madam; but now —pah! you can smell her breath. Hold hgr firmly, Paul, man, or she will half kill herself.” “Cherubine, speak to me,” cried Nousie. The answer was a wild shriek of agony, and the poor wretch heaved herself up, so that it required all the strength of the two men during the terrible paroxysm to hold her down. “It is spirit!” muttered Bart to Paul. “A woman not used to it Ah!” he cried,

suddenly, “what’s this she has fO% clenched in her hand?” He dragged open the fingers which were contracted round a small glass phial, started up, held it to the light, and smelt it. “Poison.'* he said quickly, “without a doubt. Here. Madame Dulau, help me.” He gave her his instructions; the simplest of remedies was given, and the agonized cries and struggles at last grew less terrible, and by degrees ceased, the woman lying utterly prostrate, apparently too weak even to breathe. She was sensible, though, and her eyes opened from time to time, to gaze imploringly at her mistress, who knelt by her holding her band. •‘Will she live'/” said Xousie, at last. Bart was silent, for he was in doubt, the pulse was so feeble and intermittent. "Don't let her die, too.” cried Nousie, piteously. “She nursed my darling when a babe. Cherubine, my old friend, don't leave me now.” The woman ottered a low cry of agony, and feebly clutched at her mistress' hand, to lift it to her breast. "She loved you too," whispered Xousie, "and you loved her. She could not bear it. sir,” she continued. "It was to die, and be with my darling who has gone.” "Xu!” thundered Paul, whose whole manner had changed since the discovery of the little phial, and who had been struggling with the horrible suspicion which had come like a flash to his darkened brain, and then brightened till all seemed clear as day. "Xo. it was from remorse. Wretch! it was you who poisoned Aube.” “Hush, man; she's dying, I'm afraid. Don't charge “her with that.” "It is true!" cried Paul, fiercely. “Cherubine!" shrieked Xousie: and she l>ent over the wretched woman's paindrawn face. “Yes.” said the woman, in a strange, hoarse whisper, "1 gave it to her—my darling babe —I loved so, and took it, and I am going to die." "You, Cherubine!" cried Xousie. “Xo, no; you could not kill our child.” “Yes.” she whispered, “I gave it to her. I was obliged: they made me." “What? Ah!” cried Xousie, her eyea starting with horror. "I’apaloi—Mamnuloi—told me— the serpent's will —obliged—obliged " "Genie —gave you that?" cried Xousie, with frantic energy. "Yes—Genie—Jacaine—they made me— I'll tell you—gave it to our darliug.” **You killed my child,” said Xousie, in a voice that sounded unnaturally calm. “Xo; not to kill, (lenie said; to do her good—save her —Ab-h-h!” She shrieked aloud in her agony once more, but Bart's simple remedy gave her relief, and she lay still again, her voice sounding weaker and more hoarse as she spoke again, and now in a curious drowsy way. “It was Genie, missus,” she whispered as she gazed up piteously, “said it would do her good—save her: but it was poison; it killed her, and I said it should kill me, too.”

“Do you understand all this?” said Paul, sharply, to Nousie, who was standing with her hands pressed to her brow, and she made an impatient gesture. “What!” she said quickly. “Let me think—my head —so strange.” She staggered as if about to swoon, and Paul hastily placed a chair into which ahe sank. “Water,” she said, faintly, and she drank with avidity. “The trouble —my head—l can't think.” She swallowed it without a word, and there was a terrible silence in the dimlylit room, till from outside there came the aound of whispering and hurrying feet. Nousie started from her chair again, stood listening‘intently, and then ran to the open door and listened again as fresh voices were heard as of people passing. She hurried back with her face wild is If from some fresh horror, and stood with her hands clasped to her forehead. Then dropping on her knees she caught Cherubine’s arm and shook her. The woman’s eyes unclosed, and she appeared to be awakened from a deep sleep. “Do you hear me?” said Nousie, sharply. “I cannot think; the trouble has dazed me. The meeting—it was to-mor-row, night?” Cherubine closed her eyes As if sinking into her deep sleep again, but her lips moved, and she said in a faint whisper: “No—to-night—great meeting—the goat without horns—to-night.” “She is wandering,” said Bart, feeling her pulse. “Dying,” said Paul, hoarsely. “I think not. The poison seems to be narcotic. Sleep.” Nousie had risen, and stood with her hands pressed to her brow. Then she uttered a'iow, strange cry as she caught at Paul’s arms, and literally dragged him to the door. “Quick!” she gasped; “it is too horrible, but—God help me—my brain seems turned. Here, quick! You are young and strong. Run—run fa'st as man can go, and ” She dragged him down so that she could whisper a few words in his ear. “What!” he cried, starting from her, and gazing at her as if he thought her mad. “You are wasting time,” she cried, piteously. “Go—l, her mother, ask you. It is for Aube’s sake. Go!” Paul turned from her and darted out Into the darkness, while Nousie stood panting with excitement a>s she listened to his footsteps till they died away. Then she turned back into the room with her breath coming and going with a hoarse sound. “She is sleeping,” said Bart as he approached her. “Tell me what all this means?” “Wait, wait,” she replied, as she pressed her hands to her head again, and then hurried to a cupboard, whose door she threw,open. “But where have you sent my friend?” “Wait-.till he returns. I cannot speak to you now. Yes,” she said. “I must speak. I must think of something else, or I shall go mad. Tell me —will she live?” “I hope so. I cannot say. But tell me this —it was an error then? She would not purposely have given poison to your child?”

“She? Poor Chernbine! See!” criad Nousie passionately, “has she not med to die?” “And narrowly escaped,” said Bart. “But why was this? Who is this Genie?” “Wait, man; wait till he comes back. You shall know nil soon. But quick, tell me—are you brave?”. “X* said Bart, bluntiy, “I don’t think I am.” Nousie groaned. “But you would fight—for him —your friend —to save him ?” “I should try to,” said Bart, grimly. “And you have pistols?” | “Yes.” “Oh, how long he is!” cried Nousie, running to the door again. “I am not sure,” she cried piteously, “or I would go alone.” “Look here!” said Bart, sharply. “We are your friends, Madame Dulau, and for that poor gill’s sake we will try to serve you in this new trouble if you will only tell me What it means; but it is all a riddle to me. Come, tell me, where have you sent Paul?” She held up her hands to him. “Hush, listen!” she cried, and she ran again to the door, but came back wringing her hands. “No, no; wait,” she said. “When he comes. It can’t be so. I am mad and wild, and think such horrors. Ah! at last!” For there were rapid steps in the road, and before she could reach the door Paul rushed in» ghastly-looking and wild, the sweat standing in great drops upon his face, his hair clinging to his temples and, foam upon his lips. “Paul, man!” cried Bart, running to him and drawing a pistol, “are you being hunted down?” “Speak! My child!” cried Nousie, who was clinging to Paul as he fought for his breath, which came and went with a rattling sound. “The grave,” he gasped at last; and his voice was like that of one in mortal agony, “rifled—my darling—she is not there.” Nousie uttered a low, strange moaning sound as she caught the two young men each by the wrist, and the woman’s manner and voice seemed changed as she dragged them toward the inner part of the room, close by where Cherubine lay now in a trance like that of death. “Do as I tell you,” she said, in a quick, strong voice, “we may be in time.” ' CHAPTER XXVI. Far away in the forest, where the darkness' was made more intense by the hot steamy air which rose from among the trees and floated on high in a dense cloud which blotted out the great golden stars. Here arid there in the openings cut by some hurricane, and where the great forest monarchs lay rapidly molding into dust, the fireflies flitted and danced. For a time all would be black, and then leaves and twigs flashed out with a bluish green phosphorescence, which died out again, save where some spark wjpged its way onward like a tiny wandering star. There was the hoarse croaking of frogs, the hollow shout of night birds, and strange, weird cries from far in the depths of the virgin forest, where the foot of man never trod. But heard above this, like the hum of a gathering crowd, came a low murmuring sound, 'which developed into the eager chattering of men and women, the rustling of bougks and the faiatlg beard tramp of feet, while noisea

came and died away as a narrow intricate path was followed, which terminated at last miles away from the nearest habitation in one of the abovenamed openings, a mere patch of a hundred shed-like buildings thatched with leaves, and whose sides were formed of densely interwoven brushwood. Only one opening war visible, made plain by a lurid light from within, the light of smoky lamps hung from the ridge pole, and also swinging pendent from the rough verandah just over the door. Beneath these lights dimly seen were the heads of those who had already reached the rough building; and as they turned and swayed and leaned towards each other in eager expectancy, gleams of opal eyes and white teeth flashed in the smoky red light, and shone from glistening fnces. As group after group came out of the devious path, reached the opening, and turned into the great hut-like building, as if in fear of being late, a burst of low buzzing talk arose, and there was a great deal of good-humored pushing and scuffling before the newcomers settleddown in their places. To one uniuitiated in the ways of the people, the place suggested that preparations were afoot for some dramatic performance, for at one end oc the building a low rough platform or stake had been erected, and this was shut off from the rest of the place by a large red curtain, behind which from time to time people moved, causing the curtain to bulge out and sway a little, so that dark shadows rippled across it. Everything in the place wore a lurid aspect, heightened as it was by the large display of red handkerchiefs worn by the congregation assembled, one seeming to have vied with the other in this kind of display, so that heads, necks, and waists were bound with "these tokens of initiation. For it was to no secular play the people had come from afar, but in secret and in the dead of night to one of the mystic celebrations of the Voudoux worship—of the old religion brought by the savage slaves from their far homes in the interior of the dark continent—a worship which, in spite of missionary enterprise and the teachings of the French fathers, was still in force, and practiced widely—a kind of idolatrous fetichism, fostered by the Voudoux priests, and reveled in by their followers for the sake of its horrors, its mysticism,- revelry, and debauch. Group after group had come through the forest till all seemed to have gathered, and a growing excitement thrilled the crowd, whose faces, for the greater part black, but dotted here and there by those of the mulatto and nearly white, turned from one to the other, each scanning his or her neighbor curiously, while an eager murmur arose, and the yellow light, aided by the glow of the red ornamentation of the gathered worshipers, and dashed and glowed from a hundred eyes, made the place seem like some pandemonium such as poets have described. The murmurs of impatience rose and fell and the red curtain swayed, but no sign was made from beyond it till an excited voice shrieked the word “Papaloi!” and this seemed to be the cue for a burst of other cries—“Mamanloi!—Papaloi!” followed by a suppressed murmur of excitement, and the rolling of opal eyeballs as the great red curtain suddenly divided in two from top to bottom, and was drawn quickly back by invisible hands. A low “Ah!” rippled through the assembly as, dimly seen at the back of the stage or platform, rose a rough kind of altar, upon which stood a large dark box, which was either stained or appeared to be in the lurid glow of a darkened red. As the curtain was drawn aside by the invisible hands the box moved slightly, when a faint cry of horror rose from some of the women, and the gathering swayed slightly toward the doorway; but low murmurs arose, and whispers, followed by hysterical laughs, and then there was the rapt silence of awe—every eye being fixed on the box. For, with measured steps, two figures, decked with scarlet handkerchiefs, advanced toward the altar from behind the curtain on either side, stopped as they reached the middle, and turned and faced the people, displaying the faces of Genie, the mulatto woman, and Jacaine, the gigantic black. Their hair was knotted in a peculiar way, and the half-nude form of the black was girdled by a scarf of vivid blue, in which glistened- a knife, while as they stood in statuesque attitudes, on either side of the altar with its box, the people uttered a triumphant shout for the Papaloi and Mamanloi, the high priest and priestess of their diabolical rites.

The pair stood unmoved, gazing straight before them till the cries had ceased, and then, turning to face each other, a low murmur ran through the place, and the people swayed and undulated as the lid of the box, with a great deal of ceremony, was slowly lifed. Jacaine raised his hands above his head, and then plunged them deeply into the coffer, from which he slowly drew a heavy-looking serpent of some six feet long, but unusually thick and distended, its sluggish undulations as it raised its head proving that it had only lately been gorged. The black raised the reptile higher, and Genie raised her hands and passed them beneath the curves formed by the creature’s body as it hung from .Tacaine’s hands, supporting it altogether in a picturesque group, while additional effect was given to the strange sceae by the serpent slowly raising its head between the pair, swaying it to and fro for a few moments, and then uttering a loud hiss, before lowering its crest and striving to reach the box, above which it was being held. The actors in the scene slowly lowered their hands, and the serpent glided back into the ark amid the low excited murmur of the people; while Genie drew a knife from her girdle, waved it, replaced it, took a step forward, raised her hands, and spoke angrily in one of the West African dialects, with the result that a wail of despair came from the people. “The serpent is angry," she said. “His children fall away from him, nnd there will be sickness and death if they are not forgiven. Come.” A shudder ran through the little gathering, but they passed forward to take their priestess’ hands, and renew their oaths of fidelity to the serpent, and make promises for the future, bringing, too, offerings of all kinds—fruit, flowers, money, food, and spirits, gay articles of attire—which were laid about and around the altar, at whose side the great black stood like an ebony statue, gazing scor» fully before him. | (To be continued.)