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VOL. lx
Wind of the Southland
! T
l
i Wind of the Southland, murmuring un
’ dor moon,
Thou the stolen soul of all things
sweet—
Sea-scents that languish upon idle seas,
Fumes that on shadowy shorelands swoon,
or swell,
Balm burning, and blown languors of
briery blooms
From isles beyond a thousand brims of
sea,
Wind of the Southland, wand’ring
through the night. *
11.
Wind of the Southland, memory burns
in me,
For thou hast come through portals of
the Past.
I knew thy whispering in youth’s dream
ing-time
That shrined the sweetest weathers ot
the world;
Thy breathing moves like a forgotten
voice,
And thy touch thrills like a remembered :
hand,
Wind of the Southland, tender as of old. I
111. I
Wind of the Southland, singing from the '
j South, .
As though thou led’st a revel of the j
Junes,
W here late has passed the funeral of the :
year,
Our wreaths are ruined, and our nets are i
bare,
There lies the moulted feather on sad !
mould,
j But here’s a life outrisiug clay for thee, !
! ind of the Southlaud, singing from the j
South !
! 1V - |
Wind ot the Southland, singing from the '
South,
We long have lost all music of our own, I
Warm thou the starry heart of even with j
! song,
Waken the green delaying in the ground,
And call the leaf that slumbers in the
bud,
O minstrels of the prophecies of Spring, :
Wind of the Southland, breathing song
and scent.
V.
w ind of the Southland, wilt thou bring
my broods ”;
inat flying* took the heart of my desire i
And left me fain to follow and lind rest ?
1 o night my dream discerns returning I
i wings, j
I And hears good cheer ring out of alien '
skies
And far away—but is my dream a dream, i
U ind of the Southland, wandering our
ways ?
VI.
u:d of the Southland, murmuring tin- I
der moon,
Ihou bringest snore than 1 can sing or |
- say,
i And contest as a covenant to our clime;
M v hopes come back like doves from o’er
the sea,
dy heart forgets the Winter-world that i
| , ' lie ?> . , :
*-'an> o er its tires and nods and dreams
of Spring,
” >nd of the Southland, siDging from the j
South !
j The Two Mrs. Traffords.
BY A. E. LANCASTER.
I here was only one reason for not pro-1
reeding to the ceremony that was to!
; Rosaltha Haworth and EllerayJ
*fa fiord man and wife. That reason was I
j, Juat Dick Trafford, Elleray’s younger!
and *'-"tuer, a youth of about sixteen, had
ATJGTTSTgX, GHA., MARCH 5, 1870.
not yet arrived from the city, where he
was attending boarding-school. The
day had come, however, and almost the
hoiir, and whatever the cause that delay
ed him, since it was Christmas week, it
was not, of course, thought sufficient to
postpone the marriage.
The Traffords were a remarkably hand
some family—so handsome that the
family group would at once have riveted
the eye of even the unobserved. Mrs.
Traflord was one of those few genuine
blondes who do not fade early and look
| like washed ribbons before twenty years
jof married life. Mr. Trafford might
have been mistaken fora Southern gentle
man, so bronzed was his complexion, so
chivalric his manner. Os the three chil
dren, Elleray, the eldest resembled the
; father. The two others were a daughter
! about eighteen, named Lucy, and Dick,
j the school-boy of sixteen, just mentioned.
I Both favored their mother, being blondes
of the purest hue. Lucy was just as
fresh and tender as an apricot, and Dick
was hardly one whit less handsome. He
was one of those beautiful, girlish-looking
boys, who not unfrequentiy make the
most masculine men, but who, during the
first years of adolescence, have the hair
and eyes, the lips and complexion of
girls.
Little did Rosaltha Haworth dream
what was in store for her when it was
proposed that the bridal trip should be
modified so that Elleray might call in the
morning at the school which Dick was
attending, and learn the reason of his
delay. If she had known, would she
have consented ? We will not stop to
answer a question which, after all, is
foolish and futile, and involves a contra
diction from the very nature of things.
The wedding was over, the congratula
tions were said, the breakfast was eaten,
the speeches were made, the good-bys
were bidden, and the new Mr. and Mrs.
Tafford, gettiug rnto their carriage, com
menced that life the first year of which
is said to be so tantalizing and rugged.
They took their places in the train, ac
complished their journey in safety, and in
due time anived in the quiet old-fash
ioned city of P , where Dick’s board
ing-school was established. They took
possession of the rooms which had been
engaged for them at the hotel, and the
next morning Elleray set off to see his
young brother, leaving Rosaltha alone.
If he had had the dimmest suspicion,
the faintest foreboding of what was to
take place, f hardly think he would have
left Rosaltha’s side for one moment. Just
as they were setting out for P , Lucy
had laughingly warned him not to go
there, and had reminded him o 1 a cer
tain former attachment'of his—a Miss
Dorathy Dil worth—-who still resided there
and who might be disposed to be revenge
ful, and Medea-like toward C reus a—
meaning Rosaltha—now that she had
lost her Jason. Elleray had colored
violently, remembering indeed when lie
had fancied himself in love with one of
the prettiest young Quakeresses that
P could boast; but he laughed it
off, and apparently the whole affair was
forgotten
But.cculd he have guessed who would
have entered the private parlor where his
wife was sitting, a few moments after his
back was turned, I hardly think he would
have risked that walk to Dick’s board
ing school, and the anxious inquiries he
made after him.
Dr. Stedman, the head-master, a pom
pously common-place man, explained that
Dick had left the school two days before
and appeared as much perplexed as El
leray, at the fact ol his not having been
heard from, lie was an intensely garru
lous man, anu Elleray Sound it impossi
ble to escape Iruin him. He inanely
garbled on, until finally Elleray tore
himself away in the middle of a sentence.
Arriving at the hotel, he found that he
had been absent two hours. lie also
found a letter awaiting him, opening it he
fouud it dated from uis recent home. It
was written by Dick, was a hasty scrawl,
and ran thus :
‘Til fix you off—you see if I don’t—
for not waiting for me. I got too late
for the train, aud had to wait for the next
one, and I think you all behaved real
mean. Your affectionate brother,
Dick.
Smiling at the boyish terms in which
this note was couched, he put it in his
pocket, and preferred to go up stairs to
Rosaltha.
Meanwhile how had Rosaltha spent
the time ?
Listen.
Elleray had been gone about five
minutes, when, without tap or knock, or
any other intimation, the door of the
private parlor opened, and a lady, enter
ing, stood hesitating just inside the
threshold.
Rosaltha looked up. Her visitor was
what'is called a gay Quakeress. Iler
toilette was expensive, but extremely 7 neat,
and was pervaded, through all its taste
ful interchange of color, wiih one quiet
neutral hue, which blent it into a rich,
yet simple whole. Her face was so
sweet, so modest, so candid, that it put
you in mind of a magnolia blossom. She
was apparently about twenty years of
age, well formed and decidedly stylish.
“is this Mrs. Trafford ?” she asked.
Rosaltha looked more steadily at. the
new comer, and an unquiet feeling took
possession of her bosom.
“Yes,” she said, “won’t you be seat
ed ?” and rising, she offered her visitor
a chair.
The pretty Quakeress sat down and
gazed \*ith undisguised curiosity at
Rosaltha.
“So,” she said, “you are Elleray Traf
ford’s wif'o ?”
“Yes,” assented Rosaltha once more,
hardly knowing how to accept her visitor’s
manner.
There was a moment’s embarrassed
pause.
“May I ask,” said Rosaltha, then, “to
what I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
“Oh, yes, certainly,” replied the
Quakeress, with emphasis. “My name—
my maiden name, that is—is Dorothy
Dilworth.”
Rosaltha half rose from her chair, the
blood starting to her cheek. Then she
checked the impulse, with a half smile at
her jealous credulity, and reseating her
self quickly, said :
“I have heard the name before.”
“From Elleray, perhaps ?”
“From Mr. Trafford ?” asked Rosaltha,
with spirit.” “No; from his sister, Miss
Dilworth.”
The uext moment she regretted hav
ing spoken in a harsh tone, for her
visitor began to show very evident marks
of agitation. Her fine blue eyes filled
with tears, her exquisite red lips trem
bled, and pulling forth her pocket hand
kerchief, she hid her face therein for a
few moments.
A wild, indefinite suspicion sprang into
Rosaltha’s heart, and she trembled with
the violence of her feelings. She con
strained herself to rise, however, to bend
over her weeping visitor, and inquire,
with some appearance of sympathy, what
was the matter. For some time the
young girl refused to be comforted. At
length she raised her nead—and she
looked more lovely through her tears,
Rosaltha thought, than when her features
had been composed—and looking with
great effort into Rosaltha’s face ex
claimed:
“How can I tell you ?”
“Tell me what?” exclaimed Rosaltha.
“For Heaven’s sake don't torture me.
Anything is better than this suspense.
What is there, Miss Dilworth that you
have got to tell me that I ought to
know ?”
“You ought to know that that’s not my
name anv longer. You bear the name
CD
that I have the better right to and that
is
“What ?” exclaimed Rosaltha, in hor
rified tones.
“Trafford.”
Rosaltha withdrew the hand she had
laid upon the girl’s shoulder. The con
tact seemed to sting her with fire. She
reflected intensely for a moment or two,
and then her courage returned.
“You must be insane,” said she. “Why
do you come here when my husband is
out ? Why do you bring me such a tale
as this ? You dare not confront him
with it. It is all a falsehood.”
“Do I look as though I was acting a
falsehood ?” asked the pretty Quakeress,
raising her tear-stained eyes to Rosaltha’s
face. “No, Mrs. Trafford,” and her ex
quisite lips trembled again, “what I say
is too true. I had no opportunity to
warn you before, or I should have warned
you. I saw your arrival in the morning
papers, and l came to you at once at the
risk of meeting him. Forgive me if I
render you miserable; but, perhaps, my
grief has made me selfish. I have been
miserable myself for the last year—ever
since he made me his wife ”
“His wife ! repeated Rosaltha. It
seemed as though the heavens would
burst or the ground open at her feet.
“I swear to you I am his wife, his true
and lawful wife,” continued the visitor.
“It is nearly one year ago since we were
married. IJo believe that once, when I
was once innocent Dorothy Dilworth,
he really loved me. After our marriage
we lived together happily just one week.
From that hour to this I have never laid
eyes upon Elleray Trafford, but I should
kn )w him anywhere, anywhere at all.”
She stopped, noticing the change that
had overspread Rosaltha’s face. It had
become very pale, and she swayed back
ward as though she would have fallen.
In an instant the arms of the other were
around her, and the visitor would have
touched her lips to her cheek. But
Rosaltha, recovering herself, pushed her
coldly away.
“You have had your satisfaction,” said
Rosaltha. “You have taken your re
venge. Leave me. If it is any satis
faction for you to know that you have
ruined my peace forever, enjoy that
satisfaction; but leave me; that is all I
ask.”
A moment’s compunction overshadowed
the fair face of Dorothy.
“Do not let us part as enemies,” she
said, stretching forth her hand. “See, I
would even have kissed you, if you
would have let me. 1 bear you no ill
will. I owe you no grudge. 1 have
taken no revenge. Only 1 wou’d not
bear my load of misery any longer alone,
and, wrong as it was, in order to make
you a sharer in it, I have made you
miserable. Forgive me. Let us part as
friends never to see each other more.
Let us be as sisters. But as for that
man ”
“Ilush 1” said Rosaltha, raising her
hand, “not a word against him, though he
has treated u.s both so shamefully, lie is
your husband. You have the best right
to him.' Do you think I could live with
him after this? Never. lie is to me
no more from this moment, so far as any
thing more than remembering him goes,
than if be had never been. To love him
and live with him longer would be a
crime in the sight ol' heaven and man
Do not go ! You must stay until he
returns. Then, together we will con
front him !”
Even while she was speaking, steps
were heard in the corridor, and the
next moment Elleray Traflord entered
the room.
The sight he met there was a strange
one. Rosaltha stood facing him, stand
ing by the mantel-piece, her form erect,
and proud, her hands tightly clinched in
one another At the centre table sat
Dorothy, her face buried iu her pocket
handkerchief among the books and pic
tures, and her shoulders heaving con
vulsively, telling of the struggle within
her breast.
He looked from one to the other in
amazement, and an undefinable expression
passed over his face. To the day of her
death Rosaltha never forgot it. He
passed quickly over to her and would
have taken her hand, but she repulsed
him.
“Don’t touch me,” she said ; “you
v ’’
She tried to pronounce the harsh word,
but memories of the golden hours of her
courtship overwhelmed her, her lips trem
bled, and she burst into tears.
“For God’s sake, what does this mean?
Rosaltha, won’t you speak to me ? What
is this mystery ? What does this woman
want here ?”
He turned to confront Dorothy, but
her face was still hidden, and her sobs
filled the room. Rosaltha it was who
commanded herself and spoke first.
“Here is your wife—ask her,” she said,
pointing to Dorothy. “From this hour,
Elleray Traflord, you are no more to me
than if you had never crossed my path.”
As though by an inspiration, and with
out any process of logic, Elleray strode
up to where Dorothy was weeping.
“Who are you, woman ?” he cried,
and laid a strong arm upon her slender
shoulder.
The bead wa3 still bowed. Shame, or
fear, or anguish still caused that gentle
face to bo concealed, although the sobs
came fast and thick.
Elleray paused once more, looking first
at one woman and then at the other, in
what Rosaltha took to be the well-effect
ed • extremity of surprise. A second
time he laid his hand upon the woman’s
shoulder, and this time with a still
rougher baud.
“Whoare you?” he shouted. “Speak,
or ”
“Me? O, I’m Dick 1” exclaimed a
voice, almost inaudible, through its
smothered laughter, and the next moment
the visitor’s head was thrown back, and
peal after peal of utterly irresistible boy
ish laughter rang through the parlor.
Elleray and Rosaltha stood there like
people in a dream, utterly failing at first
to comprehend the situation. Meauwhile,
there sat their visitor, every moment ex
ploding in a fresh volley, aid pointing
and gesticulating at them in a most un
lady-like manner.
“Don’t speak to me !—don't come near
mol” he exclaimed, his face growing
scarlet with laughter. “I shall split ! 1
know l shall! Oh, what fun ! what
larks ! By jingo ! 1 said I’d make you
pay for disappointing me, and so I have !
Miss Dorothy Dilworth ! Elleray’s first
wife! Oh, you two simpletons! Don’t
interrupt ine, please. Let me have my
laugh out.”
Off he went again into auother series
of explosions, and Elleray and Rosaltha,
having nothing.else to do, followed him,
at length, understanding how matters
stood. Yes, it was Dick—his naturally
girlish features, completely disguised in
his borrowed feminine apparel. Ho had
missed the train which was to have
] taken him to the wedding; had arrived
I home some hours after it was over; had
| left home after sending his brother a let
ter calculated to deceive him as to his
! whereabouts; had stolen a quantity of his
sister Lucy’s disused clothes in order to
act his part, and stayed at the hotel ail
; night in order to watch his chance in Yue
j morning.
Half an hour afterwards he wen*" up
stairs and soon made his appearance in
' the attire of his sex.
, During the Peabody obsequies in Port
| land, one of the citizens made $1,500 liom
| the sale ol ginger-bread.
Ralph Waldo Emer on is ro lecture on
j the “Natural History jf the Intellect” to
the Harvard indents.
Yankee L u broke his jaw-bone some
■ months an , anil ns it failed to unite, he
; has recentlv submitted to an operation by
| which the fractured ends were sawed oil
and then wired together.
7s O. 51.