Below is the OCR text representation for this newspapers page.

(For The Sunny South.] THE SOI TIIKOIV’S DREAM —1875. BY CORIOLA. My sweet, sad South! I see her now, Just as she seemed last night—her brow Again invested with the signs Of sovereignty; and in the lines By sorrow printed, not a trace Of shame was left to mar her face. The garments of the grave were gone. And in their place a glory shone. Surpassing far the* gaudy blooms Produced by antique Eastern looms. One hand enclosed the record page, Immortal made by poet aud sage; The other, sceptred, pointed straight Beyond, to some unknown estate. Then did the distant dark divide. Revealing full a country side:— A land where Art in beauty blent The mortal with the Heaven-sent; A realm where all the tickled hills Made music with their laughing rills; A broad domain whose bended skies Enshrined the deeds of high emprise; A State where head and heart and hand United wrought for all the land. • One glimpse* was all,—a mellow tide Of splendor bathed the prospect wide,— But, last to disappear, my fair, Sweet South a moment lingered there; She beckoned to the coming day, Aud then departed on her way. Only a dream!—but full of cheer It gilds for me* each coming year. [Written for The Sunny South.] TWICE CONDEMNED; OR, The Border Mystery. BV MARY E. BRYAN. CHAI>TER VIII. THE HAUNTED U LOCK-HOUSE AS A HIDING PLACE— j A ('LITE TO T4E .“ttKF.T, AT THE BOTTOM OF A FISH-BASKET. True to his word, Munch found his way to Melicent’s room next morning, with the curios ities packed in one of Ishmael’s neatest baskets. “I bring bad news,” he said, as he put his burden down upon the table; “Ishmael’s sick j to-day.” “Sick!" exclaimed Meliqent, with much con- ; cem. “Yes; you know it turned to raining yester day towards evenin’, and I had to go home in it, * or I’d catch it from granny. Ishmael would take off his coat and wrap me in it, and so he took cold. That's how it come, I reckon. He has 1 pains in his limbs and the cramp in his right j leg. It's the same old complaint that takes him : every now and then ever since it fastened on ; him that time he come nigh freezin’ to death in 1 the mountains—trapped up there by the Ingins, ! you know.” “Iam very sorry,” Melicent said. “Has he | a doctor, Manch ?” “Save us! no; he doctors himself, what doc torin' he gits. He never complains nor says a I word; only turns white about the gills when the pain's on him. He says he will be well in a day or two, and he told me to bring you these; he’d promised to send ’em, and to tell you to do what you liked with ’em; they wasn’t worth much.” Melicent took them out of the basket and ranged them on the table before her. There were some beautiful crystals, a few Indian relies that looked as though they would be valuable to an antiquarian; some petrified curiosities and geological specimens, among them two small but remarkable pieces of fossil. Manch, with his hands in his jacket-pockets, surveyed them as I they were arranged on the table, and then, let ting his eye rove around the room, seemed to compare them with the pretty ornaments of sil ver filagree, Bohemian glass and Sevres china that were scattered about over the toilet-stand and the mantle. “They’re a mean-looking lot,” he said at last; “beneath your notice that has so many prettier things. I don't s’pose they're worth gnat heels to you.” “ I am not learned enough to know their value. They may be worth a great deal more than I can give. We will see what is the best I can do.” She took out her purse from a bottom com partment of her pearl-inlaid work-box, and emp tied its contents on the table before her. She counted it carefully, and found seventy dollars in gold and two bank-notes of ten dollars each. “It is not as much as I thought,” she said re gretfully. as she returned the money to the purse and put it into Mancli's hands. His big eyes opened wide. “You give all this to Ishmael!” he exclaimed: “ all this for that rubbish?" “The rubbish, as you call it, may be worth more for aught I can tell. I only buy it for Ish- mael’s sake; he would not take the money with out some return. I wish it was more, but it is all I have; I trust it may be enough to get him away” “ But he can't go now. He's not able to move about; and then I think he’s lost heart a'ready by his looks. Your talk yesterday helped him up mightily: but he’s dropped back again like a squirrel with a broken leg. I've known ’em to peep out a little way and then lose heart and drop back in their hollow and starve and die there." The child-like comparison touched Melicent. Her voice trembled as she said: “ We must try to put heart in him again.” “I tell you what I think." said Manch. com ing close to Melicent and speaking earnestly: “it's the thought of goin' out among people and having them stare at him, and of mixin' with the noise and bustle at the depot that scares Ish- Imael kinder makes him want to draw back in his gray old hole among the moss and trees. You see, people ain’t been overly good to him. They’ve crippled liis life, as you may say, so he dreads 'em as the wounded squirrel does the hawks and varmints.” “ He need not mix with the people on the cars,” said Melicent. “He might get a horse and ride away in what direction he pleased.” “That’s the very idee !” cried the boy. “ Ish mael would like that better’n anything. I know where I can buy him a pony for fifty dollars, and that’d leave enough of the money to get him to some safe place, where he might settle down and feel like he was at home.” He stopped abruptly, and his eager face clouded. “ Oh ! poor Ishmael !’’ he burst out. “ How can he ever feel at home anywhere ? He’ll be always hearin’ the hounds after him, and what’ll he do for somebody to care for him and make him laugh sometimes, like me and Constant and Bunch ? Oh ! poor Ishmael ! he’ll pine to death. He says right—there’s no rest for him this side the grave.” His little chest heaved, and the tears ran over his cheeks in spite of himself. Melicent drew his head to her knee and wept with him—tears of sympathy that were somehow mixed with the bitterer drops of remorseful tenderness. She wiped them away after a Jittle while, and said gently, as she stroked the boy’s head: “This is helping Ishmael, is it ?” “No,” said Manch, rising; “I must go back and tell him about the horse we are to get, and [iack his old wallet for him. But, then. I'm afeard he won't be able to stand the travel yet awhile.” “If he could only get away from where he is ! Don’t you know of any out-of-the-way place, Manch. where he might be better hid, and still be tolerably comfortable, until he is well enough to ride ?” Manch thought a moment. “There’s one place,” he said, '‘where nobody ever goes. The boldest and mischievest boys dassent climb into it: and the rats, the bats, and the gliostesses has it all to theirselves, that's the old haunted block-hotise at the cross-roads, up the river a piece, where there’s been murders, and liangin's. and killin' by Ingin tomahawks, and all kind of bloody doin's. If Ishmael could git into that old den. they'd hardly look for him there." Melicent shuddered involuntarily. It was near that house that the murder was committed of which he was accused: it was there she had seen him hanging—gasping, struggling in death: it was there that people pointed out his grave— there, on that fatal hill. Would he meet his death there at last—tracked by the hounds of the law. sick and unable to escape? Would he be caught like a rat in a trap in that dreary, half- rotten old building—the haunted block-house? “You don't think it a good hiding place?” asked Manch. noticing the expression on Meli- cent’s face. “Yes, I do," she answered: “it was not that made me hesitate. How shall we get him there ? Let me think a moment.” She dropped her forehead on her hand and re flected. “Has Ishmael a skiff’?" she asked at length. “ He's got a good little dug-out.” “Can you paddle it?” “Like an Ingin.” “ Might yon not get Ishmael into it at night, even if he has the fever on him, and take him down the bayou into the river, and then paddle up stream to a point nearest the block-house, where you might have a horse fastened ready for him? He could manage to ride as far as the block-house; it’s not more than a mile from the river, is it?” “Not so far, I don’t think.” “But you ougli‘ to have some one to help you.” “I can get Gabriel, maybe; but ” “No, don't apply to Gabriel—don’t give him any hint of what you are about,” said Melicent, remembering what she had seen at the cottage of the French woman. “All right; I was goin' to say Gabriel's curus of late. He's had a failin’ out with granny and quit cornin’ to our house. He wanted her to give him a five-dollar gold piece that she’s sav ing, she says, for a nest-egg; and he got mad as blazes when, she wouldn't, and said he’d soon have gold a-plenty and he able to say good-bye to these diggin’s. No, I can manage the dug-out myself, and Ishmael maybe’ll be able to help paddle up stream." “ Can you go to-night ?” “If Ishmael ain’t too bad off.” “You can get my horse. Come for it late— about twilight. I will tell my husband I lent it to you to move a sick man. Fasten it under the bank of the river where you intend to land. And yon will have to take provisions with you, Manch. ” “I'll have to go there first and fix some con trivance to get up into the block-house. It’s pretty high up off the ground, you know, and no sign of steps. I’ll make a ladder; take a hatchet and a pocket full of nails along, and cut two poles and tack pieces across. I'll do that to-day, and I’ll come for the horse, if Ishmael’s well enough to go, to-night. If not, I'll come to-morrow and let you know. I’ll go now; I reckon Ishmael's wanted a gourd of fresh water from the spring before this.” “Stop a moment: here is something to put in your empty basket.” Melicent took off a napkin from a waiter that stood on the table and displayed its tempting contents. “I had no appetite for breakfast this morning, and my old cook sent up an early lunch, think ing to tempt me with dainties. I thought of your coming and let it stay; but I know you had rather take it to your sick friend than eat it yourself.” “Oh ! a heap rather!" said the boy, watching her with pleased eyes as she transferred the broiled chicken, the amber jelly, the slices of sponge-cake and the delicate rolls from the waiter into his basket. “There,” she said; “you will not have to cook dinner for Ishmael to-day. "When you come to-morrow, I will have a basketful ready for you to take to the block-house. I will sit down right away and think over what necessary things I can put up in small parcels.” But this she was not permitted to do, for as Manch finished putting back the grape leaves over the top of the basket. Flora entered with the cards of some visitors, strangers to her but friends of her husband. “Mighty fine-dressed folks.” commented the girl; “and come in a carriage most as fine as de mayor's. Come along with you, little boy; lem me show you out de back way,” she continued, looking scornfully at Manch," and wondering at her lady’s penchant for ragged urchins. The day was drawing to a close, the guests had taken their departure, and Melicent sat alone in the drawing-room with the shadows of the deepening twilight. She had been walking the gallery with restless steps, anxiously impa tient for the appearance of Manch. But he did not come: and with an effort at self-control, she sat down to the piano, and musinglv touching the keys, recalled the air she had heard Ishmael whistle. It seemed a familiar one. She felt she must have known it in that other life when she i was mistress of a cabin home and sang at her work as happy as a soulless bird. She was wan- I dering in that bewildering past when, lifting i her eyes by some sudden impulse, she saw in the dim light a tall figure beside her. That brought her back to the present with a disagree able shock. “Colonel Archer,” she said coldly, as she rose and stood before him, “ I was not aware of your | presence; I did not hear you announced.” “I beg pardon, v he said, bowing with his mocking grace; “I announce myself—in this instance. I could not make myself heard at your hall door. Do not let me interrupt you; finish j’our song.” “Is it a song?” asked Melicent, curious to know. “ I do not remember the words. I heard it somewhere, and it impressed me singularly.” “If it impressed you, it must have been in some previous stage of existence, before your heart had petrified into cold, calm marble as it now has, for the song is a tender and mournful little love ballad, old as the hills. ” He leaned over as he stood, struck the chords of the piano with his firm, well-shaped hand, and sang,— “ Oh ! take me to your arms, my love, For keen the wind doth blow: Oh ! take me to your arms, love. For bitter is my woe.” Instantly, Melicent remembered the whole ballad—remembered Neil and herself singing it when they sat in their door-way at sunset, or when they rested in the woods. The rush of recollection confused her. She turned cold and pale. “It is late,” she said; “I will ring for lights.” j “No; I beg you will not spoil this soft twi light. Here,” he said, sweeping back the cur- i tain, “come and see how light it is still—and what a delicate purple radiance is reflected from that host of amethyst clouds that while ago were so gorgeous with gold and crimson. What a grand sunset it was !—suggestive of St. John’s apocalyptic vision of the New Jerusalem. It quite solemnized me.” “You?” queried Melicent, incredulously. “Certainly. Don’t fancy me altogether a pagan or a boor. I read a little in the Bible as well as everything else.” “But you skipped the sentence, ‘Vengeance is mine—I will repay, saith the Lord,’” replied Melicent, softly. “I understand you; but I think that sentence, like the one telling us ‘ The Lord will provide, ’ is to be taken provisionally, at least. For in stance, when you have waited eight years for the Lord to repay with vengeance and he has not done it, the interest rolls up considerably, and you had better take matters into your own hand, and settle the score at once.” “Is there a prospect of your settling the score at once ?’’ asked Melicent, playing with the tassel of the curtain. “I—think—so,” he said slowly, nodding his head and watching her. “Any new developments ?” inquired Melicent, with assumed carelessness; but her color came and went, and she leaned against the window- frame and bent her beautiful head and neck a little forward in her eagerness. She made a lovely picture in that soft, tinted light, which was the rosy shadow of sunset. Colonel Archer thought so, and he bent nearer her and looked at her with his eyes of bold ad miration. “Iam a little afraid to tell you,” he said; “you might play traitress.” “You distrust me?” returned Melicent, color ing with a sense of duplicity. MELICENTS VISIT TO THE FOKTUNE-TELLEK. “Women are unaccountable creatures: and you especially are an enigma, as I told you once— an engima that, by the way, I swore to solve. What is one to think, for instance, of a suddenly- developed proclivity for the society of old hags, and half-witted girls, and ragged boys ? And when we consider that this fancy is taken up by a high-bred beauty whose face might belong to a princess? And the face can set itself hard enough against some people—your humble slave, for instance. No: I am afraid your heart is not with me in my detective scheme.” “Indeed, I am deeply interested in it, and you will remember you promised to keep me in formed of any new phases of it or any further discoveries,” “I have not forgotten. Indeed, there have been no further discoveries. We have been dis appointed and baffled, but I do not despair. Just now I have a new' clue—a slender thread, but it may lead to the truth. It is but a sentence, in fact—mysterious as the Delphic oracles.” “Let me have it; I am good at interpreting. Say, was your oracle delivered with a French accent from a shrine w’here a parrot and a poodle were the ‘Familiars,’ instead of the owl and the raven, or the black cat of more modern witch craft ?” He gave her one of his keen glances. “Why do you ask that?” he queried sharply. “You know then. How the devil did you find out ? That is mysterious again. ” “I hate mysteries,” said Melicent. “I have not found out anything. I recognized you yes terday w'hen I rode by. Yon w'ere talking to a dark little lady in a pink wrapper.” “Mademoiselle Maline, the pretty French for tune-teller, astrologist, spiritualist —heaven only j knows what beside !—humbuggist, most likely. I remember, I was talking to her as you passed.” “Yes, I heard ” “Heard!” he exclaimed quickly, as Melicent paused; “what did you hear?” “Oh! nothing; a fragment of conversation without connection. What information did she give you about the murderer ?” “I did not say she gave me any.” “Pardon me; you did not. I merely meant to ask what was that enigmatical clue you spoke of just now.” “It was simply this,—that the truth I wanted to know lay no deeper than a fish-basket.” “That is mysterious indeed,” returned Meli cent, well concealing her alarm; “mysterious and unmeaning.” ? “Not altogether unmeaning; and I am prom-, ised an interpretation to-morrow, or the next day at latest. Let me tell you how it came to he spoken—or rather,” he corrected himself, hesita ting and speaking more cautiously, “let me give you a skeleton sketch of the way it came up. I won’t give you the details at present; I will wait to see how the plot works. Getting at even that bit of clue was the result of magic—sorcery of the old, old sort that Delilah and Cleopatra un derstood—the magic of bright eyes and sweet, deceitful lips, weaving a net soft as spider-webs, but strong as fate. When champagne and witch ing smiles had wrought the preliminary charms, my sorceress recounts her accomplishments and mentions among them the art of finding out lost or buried treasures—under certain circum stances. She has been told that there is a great treasure hid hereabout—robbed from a murdered miner years ago. She has reason to know that it was buried or hid near the place of the murder, and that the murderer forgot to mark the spot and could not identify it afterwards, or he would have done so in order to save his life when it was offered him by the hangmen on the condi tion that he disclosed where the money was. Ah ! it was a great treasure of gold and diamonds, and her art could show where it was hid but for one thing.” “ And what was that ?” was eagerly questioned. “ ‘ It took truth to bring forth truth,’ says my sorceress, oracularly. She must know the truth of the whole proceeding, else her art is vain. Some say the murderer, or the man accused of the murder, was hanged, but not till he was dead, and that he still lives. She must know the truth about this. If he is still alive, she must know where he is and must have a bit of his hair or a piece of his clothing ‘ to set the charm;’ if he is dead, a handful of dirt from his grave will answer the purpose. Oh ! if she only knew and could find the treasure how happy it would make her ! She could then be rich enough to marry the man of her choice, and fly with him to her native land across the sea, where hearts are warmer, and where malice and prejudice and scandal would not come. You see the bait, madame.” “Yes,” said Melicent; “ but nothing yet about the fisherman’s basket.” “Ah ! I am coming to that. When my sorcer ess lifts her black eyes to her—victim, we will say, for want of a word—and cries melodramat ically, ‘The truth, the truth !—how shall I find the truth of the matter. Shall I find it by look- into your eyes, Monsieur? They are deep and dark as wells, and they say cruth lies at the bot tom of a well. ’ “ ‘Perhaps this truth does not lie so deep,’ was the reply. “ ‘Not so deep ? How deep, then ?’ “ ‘At the bottom of a fish-basket,’ was the an swer. And then ” “What then?” “Why, then there was an unlucky interrup tion, and the spell was broken off for the time. But to-morrow it shall be renewed, and it is odd if champagne and female arts do not wile the secret from the bottom of the fish-basket, or wherever it is.” “At the bottom of a fish-basket!” repeated Melicent, scornfully. “There is not much to be made of that.” “Do you think so? I will tell you what I make of it. I take it to mean that the man Neil Griffin is hanging about here as a fisherman—- disguised, perhaps, as a negro or an Indian. There are several of that kind living here, sell ing fish and turtle that they catch in their nets and traps. I have an eye of suspicion upon three different individuals in and around town. One of them may prove the right coon. If I don’t succeed in getting that interpretation by to-morrow, I shall go promptly to work and low up the clue of the fish-basket.”