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JOHN H RTP A T R l editor an»*
J W L± X k --L/O, | PROPRIETOR
{For The Sunny South.
IN MEMORIAL, APRIL 26.
bt iserlohn.
We bring flower*, only flower* to deck our dead;
Vo sculptured urn for each noble head,
Though bronze and marble were not too grand
For the humbleat that died for our own sweet land.
Bring a violet wreath for the young and brave.
Tearfully place it upon hie grave;
Youth and love, like a royal wine.
He freely poured on his country's shrine.
A red rose cross for the General's rest—
Grand old warrior, such emblem is best;
Each patriot heart holds his honored name.
And a nation's memory enshrines his fame.
Forget-me-nots for this grave, grass-grown,
And tenderly wreathe the •• Name Unknown.••
"Who was he in life?'' our sad hearta say;
Vo matter,—he wore the "jacket of gray.”
Fair flowers you breathe out your swaetuess there, J
Over onr dead, like a silent prayer;
And our sighs go out with your soft perfume,
For those who are shut out from the epring's sweet :
bloom —
For our loved and lost in their soldier tomb.
(
rWritten lor The Bunny South.’
FIGHTING AGAINST FATE; j
OR,
Alone in the World. I
BY MARY E. BRYAN.
ATLANTA, GA., SATURDAY, APRIL 22. 1870.
TERMS -'*? PER annum.
IN ADVANCE.
NO. 48.
CHAPTER XXX.
Esther, sitting by the window of her little
tbX’nt!, t d nP f D c garuieDt for Crowe, her
thoughts straying far from the needle that flew
»o briskly in and out the fresh pink fabric. In
her absorption she failed to hear a soft knock at
;\ g ■ r >|°or until it was repeated.
-Come in,” she said, without lifting her head,
nking.it was V he messenger from the Orescent
•Qr t ' e - ' , ”ng’ > uz her ,, n ~* .or rP P»;.„ .m„.
>.\ f the sonryi of a light, gliding step she turned
jo?.'round and saw with amazement the shadowy
face, the slight, black-draped figure of the mys-
0 terious lady who had attempted self-destruction
! on board the steamer.
Paler even than before was the delicate face,
the large eyes larger and more mournful, though
less wild. They gazed appealingly into Esther’s
face, her thin fingers clasped themselves around
Esther’s hand as she said:
“Forgive me for intruding. Since Norman
told me you were here, I have been restless
with craving to see you. At last, I stole away
and came. I have thought of you often, your
look, your voice, so full of sympathy, so deep
and sad, I know you must have suffered. I
thought I should never want to hear a human
voice again, but it grows dreadful to sit day af
ter day alone with memories that you cannot
drive away. The Italian poet said well that the
fiercest torture in the Inferno was the remem
brance of past happiness. And 1 have been so
happy in my life to he now so desolate, so
wretched ! May I tell von my story V"
Esther saw the restless gleam gather in her
eyes, and a hectic glow begin to stain her trans
parent cheek, while the fingers that clutched
hers were dry and hot.
“Perhaps you had better not; it might excite
you too much,” she said, gently drawing her to
a seat upon the lounge and arranging the pillows
so that she could recline upon them.
“No it will relieve me; it will lighten the
load here,” pressing her hand upon her heart.
“I do nothing hut remember, until the memories
seeiu to stifle me. I am but little past twenty,
yet 1 am like one very old. All my life lies be
hind me. Even if my days were not numbered,
love and happiness and hope-all that makes
life—lie behind me. There is nothing for me
hut to do like the aged,—sit and remember.
But it is maddening to remember, and I have no
oue lo speak to. I dare not speak of the past to
Norman -it excites him so painfully, and I have
caused him pain enough. I have seen his hands
clench and his brow darken when he looked at
me and remembered my wrongs.”
“ What is he to yon V”
“He is brother, father, mother—all to me.
My parents died before I could remember—my
mother of consumption, my father swept away
in an epidemic of yellow fever. I have no mem
ory of any one who took care of me as a child,
but my brother Norman. A great, rough, over
grown hoy, quick-tempered and curt of speech,
hut he was all patience and tenderness to me.
He taught me all I know of hooks. I was sickly,
and never went to school; I was shy, and made
no friends. Norman was my all. As I grew
older, my health became more delicate, and my
brother took me across the gulf to Cuba. There
we had two beautiful rooms in a quaint old
Spanish mansion, within sight of Havana. The
sweet, salt breeze made me strong again, my
cheeks gathered color, so that my brother’s ar
tist friend gave me the name of Wild Rose. He
himself was beautiful -this youngartist student
that we came to know so well. He had come of
old Spanish blood; its pride and fire were in
his rich, dark face. He had been educated in
the United States at the Catholic school of St.
Marys; be had been wild and idle for a few
years, had wasted his fortune, and now, sud
denly roused to the necessity of exertion, he
studied art as a profession. He was with us
constantly in these golden days, strolling over
the hills, sailing on the smooth, bright hay, or
sitting in the balcony in the perfumed dusk of
the delicious nights that glowed with the flaah-
ing of the great fire-flies and was murmurous
with the wings of the flower-feeding night-
moths. Once he kissed me as he bent over me to
imprison a fire-fly in my cnrls, and when the
time came for ns to quit this enchanted life and
return home, bo said he conld not live without
me; and my brother, when he saw that my life
was wrapped in Sylvestre s, gave his consent to
our marriage.
Norman went alone to our little home on ihe
Screened behind their brond leaves. I too stopped and watched them.
Ohio. I came with my husband here to this
fatal city, where he studied portrait-painting
under the artist Powers. In the suburbs of the
city we had the loveliest, tiniest home. It is all
destroyed by fire now,—a blackened ruin like
my life. I am glad that is. I could not hear to
see the window, all hung with purple-blossomed
traveler's joy, where I used to sit and watch for
his coming; the little violet-bordered walk and
the gate, where I met him every evening (after a
while with baby in my artuH), prouder than
any queen. Oh, God ! how happy I was !
“ We were poor; I saw no society; I did nearly
all my simple house-work with my own hands;
hut 1 had my two darlings. They were all the
world to me.
“ After a while there came a change. Gradu
ally a shadow darkened over my Louie and shut
out all its sun. For a time, it did not seem a
shadow, hut a rising star of fortune. Sylvestre
had made rapid progress in his art. Many said
he had more talent than his master—that he had
a more ideal touch. He was full of hope and
energy; his aim was high, his life was pure and
simple. In an evil hour, his talent and his sin
gular beauty caught the fancy of one who visited
his master’s studio—a beautiful and wealthy
lady who promised to he his patroness. She
engaged him to paint her portrait; it was his
first important work, and my heart as well as
his own was in its success. She gave him fre
quent siftings at her own house. He described
it as an Eden of beauty, filled with all that
could feed the imagination of poet or artist.
She had a caprice for art, and would have him
give her lessons in painting. I rejoiced for his
sake at this marked notice from so rich and
great a lady, yet it filled me with unutterable
dread. I saw that it was withdrawing all liis
heart from me. He spent evening after
evening in her society, while I sat alone and
watched my sleeping babe. When he came, he
was moody and silent, or he sneered bitterly at
the simple plainness of onr home. He no lon
ger found a charm in my songs or in liis child's
sweet prattle, or in onr simple evening repasts
of fruit and milk and fragrant tea that I spread
in vain, laying a bunch of bis favorite violets
by his plate, while he was away tasting the in
toxication of wine and music and beauty in the
home of his lovely patroness. He was painting
some scenery, he said, for a play which she
would have performed on a stage fitted up in
her house, and thrown open to the public for a
price, for the sake of a pet charity. One day he
came home flushed with triumph. She had se
lected the play of “Sardanapalus” for her stage.
She herself would be Myrrha, and for Myrrha's
lover, the Assyrian King, she had chosen him.
Then followed daily, nightly rehearsals, per
fumed notes, carriages sent for him, when the
sky lowered. He wholly neglected bis art; he
came home, flushed, restless, petulant. I saw
that the simple peace of home, the love of wife
and child, had palled upon him. He drank
a feverish joy from a more intoxicating cup.
“ I had never seen the Circe who had worked
this change. Her dainty notes that came with a
summons to her presence, and gifts of fruit or
flowers, had sometimes a careless reference to
•the blue-eyed queen of your heart,’ or ‘your
retiring home fairy,’ as she would choose to
call me, and sometimes include me in her in
vitations to a * home dinner,’ or a ‘quiet tea.’
But I never went. I could not have left my
child, even if I had wished to shame my hus
band by putting my faded dress in contrast to the
velvets and jewels cf the ladies who flattered
him. I had spent many a weary night mending
and turning my own and my child’s garments,
that he might dress as befitted his talent, his
beauty, and the name 1 still dreamed he would
win.
‘•So I had never gone with him to the house
of his elegant patroness, and he did not even ask
mo to go when the night arrived for the ‘Sar
danapalus' to be performed. But nevertheless
I went. A fever raged in my blood. Outwardly
calm, I watched him depart. I rocked my child
to sleep, singing over her », wild chant of death
and vengeance. 1 bent ovijr her crib and kissed
her sleeping eyes, and lef j.fier with a murmured
prayer for her safety in ‘je midst of my wild
tumult of heart and brain f-Wrapped and hooded
in a dark cloak, I found at last the palace home
of this lovely patroness of all the arts, whom in
my soul I named Aspasui. It was ablaze with
light and echoing with music; ranks of carriages
were drawn up before it. I forced my way
through all, through the throng in the outer
hall, and into the wide and lofty hall of perform
ance, with its flower-wreathed pillars and tall
archway that opened into a lighted garden.
These things caught my eye one instant; after
wards I saw only the two figures, upon the
stage. The play was midway its performance;
the two figures were Sylvestre as the Assyrian
King, his robes disordered, the red stain of bat
tle upon his brow, unhelmeted, still hound
with the garland of the gay banquet of an hour
ago, upon which had broken the wild alarm of
revolt and danger; and beside him, in jeweled
tunic and flower-wreathed hair, she, the Circe, as
Myrrha, the Greek captive, for whom Sardanapa
lus had forgotten his sceptre and forsaken his
queen. Oh, God ! how beautiful she was ! how
she dazzled me with her eyes, her lips, the bared
glory of her arms and bosom and ivory shoul
ders that gleamed through the cloud of dishev
eled tresses. I shut the sight from my eyes; it
blinded me like a blov ' * voice went through
mo like a silver dagger, as she cried in sudden
admiration of the king's valor:
“ ‘ How I do love thee ”
“The first look I sfuy^ylih give her, the first
word I heard him speak to her, sealed my doom.
His eyes clung to her form, his tones caressed
her; he seemed scarce able to restrain himself
from falling at her feet; and in the final scene,
ere 6he fires the costly pile of sacrifice and leaps
upon it beside him, as he cried, ‘ Farewell! one
last embrace,’ he clasped her with such wild
fervor of passion that she grew white and terror-
stricken, and tried to withdraw from his arms.
When the play was ended and those two were
recalled to the stage, she looked pale and fright
ened still, in the midst of the plaudits and the
rain of flowers, and when the crowd had thinned,
she managed to steal away alone throngh the
archway into the garden. I saw Ijim follow her,
and drawing my hood about roy face, I followed
them both. He came up to where she stood in
the shadow of the palm trees.
“Screened behind their broad leaves, I too
stopped and watched them., I saw him approach
her eagerly, till her hStuyhty look checked his
steps and her voice colc y Iy questioned why he
had followed her, and wh’ he had so far forgot
ten himself in the play. *?L»en he came close to
her; carried away by passion and by wine, he
poured out a torrent of wild love mixed with
bitter reproaches. She trembled under it, but
when she spoke at last, it was to command him
to leave her and to come into her presence no
more until he had rid himself of this sadden
madness, or this unseemly intoxication.
“ ‘Madness !’ he cried at that, and seized her
fiercely by the arm. ‘If I am mad, it is you
who have drawn me into it. Day after day, your
flatteries, your smiles, the sorcery of your looks
and tones have intoxicated me more than the
wine I drank at your table.’
“ ‘Were you so foolish as not to know that
these were only given in encouragement of your
talent—that they meant nothing hut admiration
for the artist ?’
“ ‘Did you forget that the artist had a man’s
heart? Did yon think he was a bloodless ma
chine, to he unmoved by the wiles and charms
of a woman? No, you did not forget. Your
work was deliberate. You have wrecked me at
the outset of my career. I have lost sight of
art, of honor, of wife and child; I have fallen
into the clutches of a hardly vanquished habit —
through this madness as you call it, the madness
you have so artfully wrought. Now go back to
your world, and smile in triumph when you re
member tliut you have ruined a man s life, de
stroyed a woman's happiness, broken up the
peace of a home.’
“ He flung the last words hack to her fiercely,
as he turned off. She stretched out her arms,
crying with a tremor of remorseful terror in her
voice:
“‘Oh! surely, surely I have not done this!
As God shall judge me, I never meant it!’
“But he was gone. I ran after him, calling
his name aloud; he did not heed me. At home,
I watched for him till dawn; he did not come. I
waited while the hours crept on to noon; then
able no longer to sit passive, while racked with
this terrible dread, 1 rushed out and wandered
through the streets in the glaring, blinding mid
day heat, scarcely knowing where I went. I saw
a crowd collected around the door of a drinking
shop. I saw their horrified faces, heard their
startled exclamations, and a swift presentiment
smote me like a thunderbolt. 1 brok“ throngh
the crowd; I made my way into the stifling room,
reeking with the smell of rum, filled with gaping
men and wild-eyed women; there stretched upon
the floor in the dust, and blood, and streams of
spilled liquor, lay the sight my heart had lore-
boded—the ghastly, blood-stained face of my
husband. He had shot himself in the delirium
of drink. Shame, debt, passion, remorse, had
crowded upon him, till he had striven to drown
their tfutings in the maddening nepenthe of
liquor. was the culmination of the evil that
one fair luce had wrought.”
She stopped, breathless throngh the feverish
eagerness with which she had spoken, and over
come by the recollections that thronged her
brain.
“Rest now; try to calm yourself,” Esther said.
She shook her head.
“No; there are more dregs in the bitter cup;
bear with me; let me pour them all out before
you. Day after day, in my solitude, do I drink
that cup to its bitterest lees. I had a child still
left me, yon thiuk; yes, but the curse of that fair
face had descended even upon her innocent
form. That day, when I rushed out into the
street, wild with dread, to search for niy hus
band, I left my child to the care of one who
proved unmindful of the trust. I returned, to
And my babe fatally injured by a fall. Three
years she lingered; for three years she hardly
left my arms one moment; last summer, at a
quiet health resort, she died—died, just as the
hope that she would recover had grown up in
my heart. I was wild after they took her from
my clinging arms to hurv her out of my sight
forever; I do not know what mad act I might
have committed had not Norman been with me.
He watched me all the time; bis kindness and
care knew no remittance, lie took me with him
to this city where his work wur. The iournev
was like a fever dream to me- full of diin, reel
ing pain. I remember nothing of it only vour
‘hat your hand held me back from
commit ing a de?d which they say would ha ”
shut out all hope of meeting with mv loved and
! ’TV D S 7?' e bettcr life than this ! Oh ! surely I
i s ® e ‘.hem again ! Oh, surely all my love, all
my suffering, has not been in vain !”
kn 1 <- r if ° 1U i’ t,mt b ? d heen Rawing fainter and
had faltered many times, died away in a gurgling
sound. She signed towards the pitcher of wafer
Esther caught it up m haste, poured out a draught
and brought it to her, hut she did notstTr nor
°P? 1 l !', er C 0Ke, l eyes, nor remove the handker-
chief that she held to her mouth. Esther saw
I with horror that a small stream of blood trickled
down the arm that held the cambric to her lips
She called aloud to Crowe, whose head had half
an hour ago peeped in at the door and been
quickly withdrawn when she saw that there was
some one wjdh Esther. She came now. and with
but httlec ifficuity the two lifted the slight figure
and laid her upon the bed. Then Esther sent
j , rowe . *' th 11 message to Berrien, that soon
I brou 8 ht hl “ with a physician to the bedside of
j llfcr . stra nge visitor. By this time, tlie liem-
| orrhage had yielded to simple remedies, hut
the physician declared that the patient must be
hf? .r rfW ‘ ] ' V q,uet ’ t,ml she must not be allowed
1 w Vl’ aQ<1 , on “°. account must she be moved.
\\ ith her hand in her brother’s, calmed by his
soothing voice and look, she lay until her eyes
closed, her fingers relaxed and she fell into a
quiet sleep. Berrien sat watching her some
moments; then he rose, and while tl.e doctor
laid his fingers on the pulse of the patient he
went out on the little verandah where Esther
stood in the cool of the declining day.
ir* * th&t this should have happened here
Miss Bernard/ he M id with a softer tone in his
usually harsh, cold voice. “I am afraid it will
inconvenience you greatly. The old nurse in
whose charge I have been leaving my sister is
not to be trusted, it seems.” 3
After a pause, lie asked abruptly:
“Did she tell you who the woman wus that
did her this wrong? ’
“No,” answered Esther, “yeti ”
“Yet you recognized her- i's it not so’”
ahdm 'SY^l/‘ Wa ’ ****
acquaintance with no thougnt m
did it rather with a vague hope of revenge. I
felt for her only scorn ami hatred, and a wish
that some just punishment could be meted out
to her. There was hut one way to punish her —
a woman, and a heartless one, us I thought her -
and that was to sting her where her self-conse
quence was concerned. I would know her and
watch her well. In spite of her rare not to openly
compromise herself, as it is called, there would
be some acts that, if held up to pnliiic view,
would bring upon her the scorn she deserved,
and might burl her from the social throne she
occupied. I thought this would not be harsh
punishment enough for oue who turned her
grace and beauty into a snare for men. It was
only gradually that I came to lu-lieve I had done
Madeleine wrong. I doubted if she ever delib
erately injured human being. She steals into
men’s'hearts and robs them of strength anil will
with as little thought of wrong as bees rifle
flowers. She has no more moral perception than
a child or a savage. She sets herself to please
through a feverish eagerness for excitement, or
a restless passion for beauty. Circumstances
made her turn to me for counsel. She gave me
her fullest confidence. She bestowed on me the
sacred name of friend. From that hour my wild
scheme of revenge was no more. I have been a
true friend to her since. I have watched her
from a different motive, and often interposed
censure and counsel between her and the brink
of some thoughtless folly. She receives my
harshest blame with patience and sweet temper.
Sometimes, she follows my counsel; when she
does not, she repents with sharp but short-lived
remorse. She is a child in most respects, though
a woman in years and in some phases of intel
lect. She trusts me fully; she does not suspect
my relation to the woman she lias injured. 1 had
never lived in New Orleans at the time of Sylves-
tre’s death. When I came first, it was to take my
sister away. I shall have to request you to con
trive to guard this secret still. I do not wish
my sister to see Madeleine, for more reasons
than one.”
CHAPTER XXXI.
It was a week before Norman’s ill-fated sister
was strong enough to be carried home a week,
that was not without benefit to Esther. The
care she gave to the poor patient drew her out of
herself. Her sympathies were tenderly enlisted
for this fair wreck of beauty and intellect, and
a loving, sensitive, intense nature. She upon
her part seemed to cling to Esther. Her large
eyes followed her wistfully as she moved about
the room, and a smile flitted over her sad face
when Esther sat down beside her and took her
hand in hers.
To one other individual, the presence of the
sick woman in the house seemed productive of
good results. Mrs. Dodd forgot her hypochnn-
driacism, and developed real womanly sympa
thies. Moved by the romantic mystery that
seemed to attach to the sick stranger, she
mounted the rickety stairs, and to Esther’s sur
prise appenred in the sick room in her broad-
flowered wrapper and slip-shod slippers, and
proved a very attentive nurse, tl.e only objection
being that she would insist upon soothing the
patient by recounting the mixed plots of half a
dozen of the most thrilling stories in her reper
toire.
Crowe—light-footed, quick and wakeful as a
cat -made a capital hand to sit up at night, and
there was small need for the hired nurse that
Berrien sent, who took her meals at a neighbor
ing eating-house and had a share of the iced
wines anil jellies and fruits which Berrien sup
plied in profusion. He came every day himself
at a stated hour in the afternoon, for which Ce
cilia eagerly watched. She took her exercise at
that time, supported by his strong, tender arm.
Esther usually left them together. One day, as{
* \