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The sunny South. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1875-1907, June 24, 1876, Image 1

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1 omaiice . i EDITOR AND >, [PROPRIETOR. I $3 PER ANNUM. 1 IN ADVANCE. TERMS, I stood. It was all the work of a second, though it seemed to me ages, the frantic snort and plunge of the high-spirited animal, as my tall, white figure arose before him, the low cry of the white-lipped, horror-stricken rider, as he reined up on his haunches his mighty steed with a grasp of iron. “For heaven’s sake, Gipsy, spring aside!” called out a voice, so shrill and terse I might not have recognized it, had I not already seen by the moonlight that the wan face was that of Mr. Inglesby. I obeyed instantly; the rider’s grasp slack ened; the horse sprang forward, but with such force that the tall, manly figure which had backed him so proudly a moment before, was hurled from the saddle, dashed against a tree, to re- : bound, a motionless figure at my feet. “ I have killed him ! I have killed him !” I remember, as though it were the voice and J cry of another, how my heart rushed from my { lips in this passionate outbreak, how the cry pierced the silence and solemnity of the mid night and the deep forest. Then I kneeled down and lifted the gray, drawn face on my lap. pushed back the loose hair from the face, and under the soft chestnut locks upon the temple found—a little red mark ! PART THIRD. I have heard Mrs. Apricot tell how the rider less horse dashed up to the door that starry April night; how she guessed immediately what had happened to her cousin; how in less than five minutes Worth (our most trusted servant) was speeding into the woods in search, with a quar tette at his heels to bear back what they should find—Ralph Inglesby, or that terrible, sad “ something ” which he would be had his soul fled. Mrs. Apricot says it could scarcely have been an hour before help reached us; I could never gainsay her, having reached that state of mind where we lose count of time. I only know that no year in my life ever seemed so long as that space of time when I sat there with that pale, death-like face upon my knee, feeling as if the brand of Cain was being burnt, not upon my brow, but into my soul, longing to fly as on wings for help, yet fearing to leave him there alone. I have but very misty recollections of the rest _ of that night: how Worth and the other servants fCn^he4-^->ai^t-(riried him home: of the. floe- t tors coming; 01 Mrs. Apricot’s amazement at my being out at thilt hour of the night. I only know INSTINCT PRINT rFor The Sunny South.) AT THE GRAVE OF HENRY TIAIROD. EASTER, 1876. BY M. 8. WABING. [The poem on Henry Timrod, the Carolina poet, in our iB8ue of to-day, is from the pen of one of the most accom plished ladies of that State. She resides in Columbia, and the poem was suggested by a visit to the poet’s I grave at that place. ^ Softly speak and lightly tread!—trouble not his rest; Wreathe in garlands rare the cross just above his head; , ’Tie not marble—rude and poor, only wood at best, Like the cross his Savior bore, when bound he was led I To die in his stead! Surely, costly shaft of stone, better than this cross, Could not, on our pilgrim hearts, hither mournful led, Holier influence yield or sense of heavier loss Than this moBS-covered wood at the low-laid head Of the poet dead! One, a poet like himself, who did love him well, Fitly told the mournful story of his lot— How he sang of woody wilds, and briars, and flowery dells. But wanted bread. Alas! by all the world forgot, Even Heaven helped him not 1 And so tho end came. On a day—sad and fateful day— Disappointment to his heart cut keenly like a knife; Crimson life-blood stained his lips, and the poet lay Crush’d by the sorrows of his waning life And its hopeless strife. Not all the joy or pain of all the passing years— Not all the gladness of this merry Easter bell Can dim the memory of that hour of tears When hero I stood and heard that solemn bell Peal forth his funeral knell! Oh, in that Autumn day of direst sadness, Yon grand old walls the fading sun caressed! Spring again has come with its new-born gladness, And sky, earth, flower—even the grass is blest Where he taketh his rest! The grass will die, flowers fade and this calm Bky Darken with storms and weep its gushing rain. But be shall hi ed them not! Death-glazed his eye; tc^_»»rs wmut, pangs—ah! not jiaain onall he know pain! And if that be true what his own hand hath writ— That brows most seamed with scars the noblest are. And that of all Heaven's host, they highest sit Who wept most on earth—then his soul afar Shineth like a star! [Written for The Sunny South.) “How I Was Tamed.” BY GRACE RAYMOND. PART SECOND. ^ * “ Then I kneeled down and lifted the pale gray fare in mg hip,” Then ho took his hand from my arm, and I flashed through the long parlor, andupintomy room, to weep, securely hidden behind the locked door, as I had never wept before. Pride had triumphed, but in the long, still hours roof of your providing, becomes more intolera- i ringing vbice, the sweetest mnsic beneath the ble. If I am unwomanly’, it is because your stars. Not for your beauty have I loved you— unmanliness has forced me to it.” j though that is sweet as rare—bat for yourself, I bad roused him at last. Ere I had uttered ! for your sweet, frank, scornful Gipsy-self. I a dozen words he sprang to his feet, and now j have hidden all this, maybe, under the studied confronted me with crimsoned cheek and com- 1 carelessness, the quiet reserve one learns to I after, my heart woke and cried, and would not pressed lip. Slowly, as we stood thus facing wear in a world full of cn^tius eyes and shallow be gainsayed. Mr. iDglesby had a stronger ally each other, some gentler emotion swept the pas- 1 hearts—something, my forest-queen, you have j than he dreamed of, in that same vacillating girl- “ Mr. Inglesby, this cannot go on any longer.” j sion from his face. j not learnt. This is my confession, Gipsy. Do ; ish heart. Occasionally, the thought would I was standing in one of the deep-recessed | “Gipsy,” he said, with a sad gentleness in | you say, as before, that is impossible to learn to j thrust itself up amid all thetumultof mymind, windows of the parlor, facing my guardian, with j his voice, as he looked earnestly into my face, j care for me?" j that perhaps my guardian’s professed love for the angry eyes; he lying luxuriously back in an ; “am I then so repugnant to you that you cannot i This was terrible! There I stood with my , wild, willful girl, who had given him so much easy chair with his finger still between the pages take even so little from me ?” j burning face buried in my hands, wishing, oh ! , trouble, was only a last desperate ruse to win me of the book he had been reading when I inter- | “I want to be free,” I said more quietly, ! so fervently, that I had run away, as I had been ; over; but the swift sting the idea brought proved rupted him. It was a week after his arrival, and touched against my will by something in his tempted to do, instead of making this appeal to that the truth of the suspicion would pain me the “this" I referred to so indignantly was no j manner that stemmed my wrath. “ The bread ! him. No one who has not known what it is to ! more than I could care to own, while something harsh tyranny, persecution or persistent bring- of dependence is a bitter dose. Would to God lead a life unlinked to any other by bonds of deep in my heart dumbly denied bis falsity, ing forward of the object of his visit. His tac- ' I had starved before I ever tasted it.” love can know the thrill with which the first j Then I grew crimson to think how I had asked tics had been something quite different; neither “Is it so impossible for you to think of me : “I love you !”—be it from the impassioned lips j his assistance in search of work, after I had re word or look bore reference to the proposal he j kindly?” he asked. “I do not ask for love—not °f a lover or innocent, untaught heart of a ; jected him. Sitting there in my room, I heard had made, or my rejection of it; his manner ! yet. I have no right to expect it, seeing that I ekild—stirs the inmost soul. No one who has j them bring his horse to the door, and saw a mo- was grave, gentle and courteons; his conversa- am nearly a stranger to you, and that the little not a woman’s nature can understand ju6t why ' ment later, rider and steed flash down the avenue tion entertaining, witty, sparkling with inci- intercourse we have had. however well-intended i it w as that as my heart grew weaker my pride ! and disappear in the forest. The afternoon dents of travel, sometimes dashed with a touch : on my part, has appeared to you in a false light, grew stronger until it trampled out the first [ slipped by. Fainter and fainter grew my fool- of cynicism; his treatment of me the courtesy ^ I do not plead for myself now, Gipsy. I have : sparks of awakening affection, and enabled me | ish heart; greater and greater its longing fosthe he might have offered any lady, with occasion- lived a lonely life so long ’twill be no new ex- I to lift n pale but proud-still face for the scrutiny sweet thing pride had put out of its reach. To ally something like half-vailed admiration in , perience for me to go back to my lonely fireside I knew it must meet. Mr. IDglesby had not j remain there longer was to dally with tempta- eyes and voice; or, if the witness of some girl- J and unhome-like home. But you are young known me well when he said I was not learned : tion. I hastily determined ere another day had ish ebullition of spirit or temper, there would and warm-hearted and proud; the world has Id the lesson of hiding my heart. No lady in ; dawned to put miles between Ralph Inglesby the sad-hearted, brightly-smiling world in j and myself—I resolved to run away. creep up around the finely-ont, sarcastio mouth i hard discipline for such. Cannot you learn to such a half-corn passionate, lialf-amused smileas ; think more favorably of linking your life with be might have worn in looking down upon the mine? I will shield you from every rough vagaries and fitful storms of a wayward child, i wind; I will carpet your path with flowers; you I had armed myself for a hot contest, a fierce ! shall have all that gold can procure of happi- will-battle, resolved that neither threats should , ness; and yet you shall be free. I will fence storm, arguments undermine, or entreaties win j you in with no calls or claims of mine.” which he moved ever baffled searching glances j Just between the “dark and daylight” of that with a prouder-masked heart and face than I. j golden April day, the hour when I knew Mrs. Yet, the sorrowful, yearning, eager eyes I en- | Apricot and her cousin were used to sit chat- countered came nearer rending the vail than ting in the tea-room, in the other wing of the they ever knew. j house, I took my last look around my pretty “My answer is the same as before, Mr. In- | room, and with a little bundle of clothes under over the strong citadel within which I had en- j “ It does not make your offer any more tempt- j glesby—it must always be the same, I thank : my arm, a slender purse in my pocket, I glided trenched mysell. But I soon found myself out- ] ing to know that pity prompts it,” I retorted, ; you for your love, a far richer gift than all the j silently down stairs out of the house, and generaled; there had been no opportunity | flushing to my brow. | benefits you have bestowed on me in the past. \ plunged into the woods. offered for the -launching out of the thunder- i Had I made this last desperate move only to But of this, too, I am unworthy, and for it I can \ I smile now to think of the dark, lonely walk, bolts of my indignation. And to my dismay, I j be brought down to this degradation? make no return.” j whose end was wrapt in still deeper darkness began to And my guardian less repulsive; I “Mr. Inglesby, cannot you understand that I remember drawing myself up to my full j and loneliness, upon which I entered so boldly, could not but acknowledge that he was a pol-j this marriage is utterly impossible? I would height, and speaking with flashing eyes. Mr. 1 Fear had no home in my soul; neither the dusky ished and courtly gentleman, the finest type of sooner cut off my right" hand than marry yon. Inglesby touched my hand slightly as it rested ■ shadows, as the woods grew thicker and the manhood I had yet seen; I began actually to ; I thought perchance you might have some ad- on the ohair-back, then said sadly: night deeper, alarmed me; the eerie forest voices think over his words and glances when alone; vice to give me before I entered on the‘battle “Is it indeed so? I had scarcely any hope were too familiar to be awesome; the silver stars then suddenly I wakened to the fact that the for bread ’ so many fight in vain. We had best in opening my heart to you; and yet, I could heart I had so carefully guarded was going over part now, without sowing any more bitter words. not but think it might at least make you feel less to the enemy. Silence and studied indifference As I told you. I am grateful "for your kindness, hardly to me. You said once—you remember— had been his best weapons. I determined, how- I pray you let your generosity cancel the debt I that yon could give love for love.” ever, to break through the barriers he had cannot pay.” " The last words were almost an entreaty. I erected. Desperation lent me oonrage; pride: “ Zore has canceled it already.” smiled, but it was a smile like the earth wears leaped to arms to shield my treacherous heart. A sudden passion glowed into his face and lit when the frost touches it. A finger of ice This was why I stood thus confronting him his eyes. He caught my hands and went on seemed to chill my heart, that breezy April afternoon; and this was why I rapidly; “Mr. Inglesby, if you really loved me, you spoke those words with a quick heat of ind’ig- “Gipsy,'hear my confession—one I did not would press me no further. I have told you nation flushing my face. think to "have made until, by long and patient that our union is impossible. I am doubly des- | I thought I detected stealthy footsteps following hat do you mean by this?" he asked quietly, waiting, I had taught you to care for me. Here olate now !” I exclaimed with sudden vehemence, j me, and turned sharply round, to see only the with that slight-amused smile touching his lips, is your triumph, if you want one; That I, a “Had you only cared for me in the matter-of- j ghostly, moon-lit pines and the peaceful heav- while he regarded me as he might have done a j cynic, whothonght love but youth’s brief dream, fact way you professed at first, you might have : ens folded down upon them—to hear nothing wayward baby. His quietness and the careless i life’s shadowy El Dorado, love you as I did not overcome the disappointment enough to be a j but the wind rustling softly by, and the weird indifference of the question stung me. even love the' frail idol of my early manhood— friend to me, and advise me what to do. But voices of innumerable and unseen forest-crea- “ This cool ignoring of the past,” I burst love you with a passion men of matured years now I cannot hope that you will forgive me.” ; tures. My destination was the town of C., some out —“ this placidly taking for granted that I and sobered pulses are not thought to feel. Ay, “ Is that all you know of love, poor child?” ; fifteen miles from Mrs. Apricot’s home. I fol- ean await your lordship’s pleasure to speak, even though I knew you hated, that you chafed detaining me, as I turned to go. “You are like lowed not the broad country road thither, but \ou sent me word to wait, and having promised even at the light shackles my care fastened on a baby who has not learned the alphabet, trying a narrow path, which was shorter and more to obey you in all that I conld, I did so; but for | you, that ’twas a hopeless passion, in the face of to read. My love for yon will make me more secluded. Plan or purpose, I had none, save to what? Only that I might have to endure your it all, love sprang up fresh and strong! I do a friend to you than ever. Nay, do not go. I go away where neither Mr. Inglesby nor Mrs. presence and your companionship as I would not wonder that my pitiful, calmly-worded let- have said my say on that subject; let us bury it that of any gentleman, a mockery my soul frets ter struck fire from your heart; the poor, cold here, and the tomahawk with it. Think of me at. Only that I might bide quietly yonr chosen words mock me now. Your answer was the first only as your guardian, not as lover or suitor, time while you spun the snare that was to en- thing that made the love hidden away’ in my Will you mind giving me a little time to con- trap me unawares. Perhaps you counted on a heart pnt out its hands dumbly in the dark, sider what will be best for you? You want to certain degree of girlish timidity or reserve to just as the sunshine falling on the grave of a help yourself, is not that it?” _ keep me silent. If I am lacking'in it, you are bulb will make the seemingly-dead thing feel a “Yes; I do not care how hard I will have to I feared, some one in pursuit of me. But the to blame. You might at least have done" me the pulse of life, and begin to stretch its little green work,” I answered eagerly, “if only I can eat echo had deceived me. The rider was coming slight favor to speak first, seeing you cannot be sword-blades toward the warmth and light I bread of my own earning, not of dependence, toward me, not following me. As the nearer ignorant of how it chafes me to meet you every determined to learn more of this fresh, warm, Y'ou will be my true friend if yon will only help approach convinced me of this, I turned quickly, day: how’ galling to me is this debt of gratitude indignant heart. I came, Gipsy, to learn to love me to do this.” but not quick enough to save myself. With al- I cannot pay, and which every day that I eat of j you, to thrill if your dress fluttered by me or “I will do it, my child. To-morrow morning most wind-like speed, a silver-gray horse dashed that after a while glanced down through the fretwork of leaves on my solitary pilgrimage were as welcome as the smile of friendly eyes. ’Twas a dark, tangled wood through which I threaded my way, and was not without its ghast ly stories of murders done in the dark, and graves dug over which no church rites were said, but on which the withered leaves were showered carefully, and trodden in; but I was in too des perate a mood to think of them. Once, indeed, Apricot could hear of me again. I had walked on thus for several hours, when suddenly down one of the forest aisles came the sound of horses’ bfiofs. I wheeled round, think ing them behind me, and having no idea of igno bly turning my back to the foe, should it be, as /the bread, and every night I sleep under the your fingers touched mine, to hold that clea r I think I may be able to tell you somethin out from the thicket into the narrow path where the marble-like face. How I induced Mrs. Apri- oot to let me share her vigils by his couch, I do not remember; doubtless my misery and re morse, and my white, sorrowful face pleaded for me better than words. Perchance she read my “heart’s sad secret in the depth of my sor row and regret. I only know that after that night, the place of nurse was tacitly yielded me as my right. For three long, terrible days we watched in vain for some other sign of life than that feeble, thread-like pulse; the doctor gave us but little encouragement, even hinted that the stupor might last until life had slipped into eternity. Did I learn to love him then, or had I begun to love before ? I cannot tell. I only know that when one quiet gloaming, just as the night-lamp was lit within the sick-room, the hol low eyes opened, and settled with wistful con tentment on my face, the quick throb of joy that stirred my heart was something sweeter, deeper, diviner than any pleasure I had ever known. My first impulse was to burst out with the full tide of penitence, gratitude and sorrow that had been so long pent up in my breast, but the phy sician had insisted upon perfect quiet. Instead of anything so wild as that, I poured out a spoonful of brandy and put it to his lips. He swallowed it; then pronounced my name feebly, but distinctly. “ You must not talk,” I said tremulously; for the doctor’s warnings on that subject had been very strict. But Mr. Inglesby put aside the hand I laid on his lips. “Were yon hurt?” he asked anxiouslv. “Not at all,” I began, but wasunableto finish, overcome by his forgetfulness of himself and his own injuries. “That is well!” The weary lids drooped over the shining eyes, but be put out bis band and took hold of mine. Then Mrs. Apricot came in, and I was glad of the opportunity to slip awav, where I could let my glad tears have their vent. Another night and day crept by. during which Mrs. Apricot and I watched tirelessly, while the brittle thread of life seemed wearing awav. rather than strengthening: and at the close of which, returning to the sick-room after a short absence, I met Mrs. Apricot in tears, and the doctor with a cloudy brow, at the chamber door. Mrs. Apricot divined the question that trem bled on my lips. , “ He is sinking,” Bhe whispered; “ go to him, Gipsy, he has asked for you.” “It cannot be! it cannot be!” T said, but when I bent over the bed and saw the strange, peaceful look in his face, my heart died within me. Mr. Inglesby smiled dimly, and put out his hand to grasp mine. “I am going, the doctor savs.”he murmured. “Gipsy, my patient, watchful nurse, will von grant me my selfish prayer because it is my last one?” There was nothing—I breathed, rather than spoke the words, as I knelt beside him—that I would not do for him. He smiled again faintly: then—looking into my face with eyes solemn and far-seeing—whis pered ; “Will yon, Gipsy, marry me now? I could meet death easier if my wife’s hand smoothed my pillow and my wife’s eyes smiled into mine, as I am going. I am selfish, darling: but the tie that binds you to a dying man cannot fetter you long.” With my face hidden, I said again—while with every word, my heart seemed breaking—I would do anything for him. There was a slight stir in the room, and some one went out. “Pray God to grant me strength to last until, ’tis done,” the low voice from the pillow whis.f