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WILD WORK.
A PHASE OF MODERN CIVILIZATION.
Based on Startling Incidents which have Transpired
in the RED RIYER Region of Louisiana, since the War.
33.
CHAPTER HI.
‘ Captain Witehell,’ she said, her hand held
oat, her eyes fall of eager light. He bowed and
took her hand, bnt his look was still puzzled
and unrecognizing.
"* I know you now. Remember we only met
once. I hope you have had no ill fortune since
that night’
•When I was so sorely beset and you saved
me? No; my enemies have not found me out
They really thought me drowned. Thanks to
you. I have not forgotten you. I have thought
of you daily, hourly. But for you I might now
be in the cell of a mad-house, or in my grave,
more likely; for that man—my guardian—has
no conscience.’
A curious look passed over Capt. Witchell’s
face. Floyd’s quick eye caught the incredulous,
half-sneering expression, and her hopes sank.
The Texans had told him, then, she thought,
and he believed their story and not hers.
4 1 did you a servioe at no cost to myself,’he
said; ‘you owe me no thanks.’
be taken. My God! I hear them coming. They
shall not takr me. 1 will drown myself in the
river.’
Distractedly she tried to urge the horse down
i the bank.
‘Stop,’ he cried springing to the ground. ‘You
' shall ride my horse He knows the ford, and ;
! will take you over safe. Now go at once.’
He had put her in the saddle while he was j
■peaking.
‘Off with you, Zep.’he cried to the horse. The
tall, strong animal took the water with long
strides, while the mare stooping her head drank
as if famished with thirst. As Capt. Witch ell ran
back up the bank, the sound of approaching
horses reached his ear. Far down the lane lead
ing up from the woods he saw four men coming
at a slack gallop as if their horses were badly
, blown. A glance across the river showed him
| the woman safely landed on the opposite bank,
; and making for the covert of the woods. In the
same glance he saw, to his surprise, that the
tried to speak, it died on her lips. He was i mare had followed her mistress, and was nearly
silent, and she went on hurriedly, dropping j half way across. Already the water was running
her eves under his searching look. j over her back.
‘You don’t know what I am or anything of j ’She will have to swim, and the current will
w hm uauu, uu» m«i» " — '■— i m y past - that matters little. It is unfair to I be too strong for her, he thought.
id unrecognizing. judge any human being by their past. As to The next moment the meu had caught sight of
‘You do not know me. You have forgotten j '^at I am I will prove that. Try me.’ him, and riding up, the foremost asked:
me.’ Her voice had a pained thrill, and the J . you make a strange request,’ he said at last. ‘Have you seen a woman on horsebaok pass
light died in her eyes. ^ < t j > To be what you ask. would require that you
should be near me all the time, and I have no
home for yon. And if I had, it would not look
right for you to be there.’
‘Look right? I thought you disregarded
looks. I thought you defied these people. ’
‘ You thought wrongly. I want to conciliate
them, and gain their confidence and esteem. I
want them to feel that I am one of them; that I
have their interests at heart, as I have.’
‘ Verv likely,’ she retorted, stung by his cold
ness. ‘ All tyrants and extortionists have ex
pressed the same exalted sentiments, from Na
poleon down—'
• To myself. Quite a descending scale. So
be it. If you have done, I will say good-by.
That old darkey yonder has smoked his pipe j ease. , , .. ,
out, sitting in the flat waiting for me. I thank j ‘No harm done, muttered another. She s
you for the interest you have expressed in my j cheated a rope, thats all. Its a better end tnan
r — r -„ — , . - -i welfare, but I think I can manage to steer my she deserved.'
for me. If I could only do something to prove : boa t jf „ oes pieces, nobody will j ‘ Why ? asked >\ itchell.
mv gratitude. If I were a man I would give you j gn ff er bnt me s ° tay> here j g something of! ‘Why? Because she’s been the death of as
ny life-service; I would follow your fortunes, fg j ht to re8 tore. I picked this up on j good a man as ever a woman fooled—her own
vatch out for the dangers you despise, the eDe- j ^ r:
Lilit AllU Wt" U/ICUiUot on&uU .
‘Have yon seen a woman on horsebaok pass
this way?’
A thought seized him.
‘Yes,’ he said, and wavAd his hand carelessly
towards the river. All eves turned in that di
rection. There was the mare struggling gallant
ly with the current. i
* ‘But there’s nobody on her,’ cried the man. j
‘Nobody ? There was a woman just now.
‘The current swept her off, and she’s drowned i
then. There’s nothing to be seen of her.’
The eyes of the group were strained for a j
breathless interval upon the river, then the j
first speaker looked round on the others.
‘She’s drownded. boys for a fact,’ he said, j
‘There’s an end of her, and he loosened his feet :
from the stirrup and seated himself more at
mies you are too busy to guard against. You
need such a friend.’
• Do you think so?’
* I know it. I know what you aim at. I
know what your ambition would compass: and
I know the difficulties, the dangers in the way.
You have a strong will, and circumstances give
you a power outside your own strength; bnt
other circumstances are working against you—
growing stronger every day. The people have
been crushed, paralyzed, but they are recover
ing; opposition is waking up; hatred is growing
active; the people are getting furious at seeing
the negro used as a tool to keep them down, and
at seeing all the money and privileges of the
country going into the hands of men that are
not of them—men like you. They bold them
selves imposed upon; over-taxed, swindled; and
they will not endure it long—not here, at least,
in this seotion of the country, where law has
never pressed hard, and restraints of any kind
have been few. Already there have been secret
meetings —’
•At which you were the ohief-spokesman ?
Witehell asked, with quiet sarcasm. ‘Judging
from the speech you have just made, you might
have been the leading spirit—the exponent of
the people’s rights.’
‘ No, I have no leaning that way. I am not
that evening. I forgot to speak of it in our hur
ried interview afterward. Indeed, I was not
sure it was yours. I had not looked at it /iici.
If he had been in doubt as to whether the let
ter was hers, he could be so no longer. A sight
of her face was enough. It turned ghastly
white in an instant. She stretched out her hand
mechanically for the bit of crumpled paper; her
fingers closed convulsively over it.
‘ You said you had not read it Uim,' she gasp
ed. * You did read it afterwards ?’
‘ I did, but no one else saw it; no one else
knows or shall know from me. Good morn-
ing.’
• One moment!’ she cried, in a stifled voied!
‘ Let me explain; let me ’
‘No,’ was the cold answer, accompanied by
an impatient wave of the hand. * No explana
tion from you is needed. I have lost too muoh
time already.’ He tightened the reigns he had
been holding. ‘ Come Zep,’ he said to his horse,
that had been chafing the bit and pawing the
ground for the last five minutes.
The woman made a quick step towards him,
a malignant, snaky gleam springing into her
eyes.
* You prefer to believe the lies against me,
she cried. ‘I understand new why you re
sold do as you are doing ii j. uau : von w ju y onr mi«tak«- You to«.*. ‘ 0 "Tn
bfouW makr the rrost of znj ©pp^rtmisiitw [injure yon; you will 6nd that my band shall
ke all I could get—knowing that money ; ^ a storm that 8 hall sweep you from this
•ings power. I have spoken of the opposition ) countr y or into your grave.’
;ainst you because I don’t think you teal it this is woman’s gratitude,’ he ejaculated,
Dough; you don’t see the difficulties you must
ieet. Yon think you have everything in your
wn hands; your mind is full of your own
ohemes; you do not see wh it pit-falls are being
ug in vonr path. You think too little of per-
onal danger. For instance, you are going to
ravel alone to-day, and there is a party of men
jllowing you to do you harm.’
‘Harm! what! that handful of harem-scarem
,oys, who don’t know what they want? I have
io fear they will do anything—not the least,
s it only to tell about them you have stopped
ae?’
‘No, there may be nothing to fear from them,
b you say, but such demonstrations are fore-
unners of something more serious. They be-
oken the opposition that is gathering—that may
iut short your career before you get the fortune
md the power you aim at. You have need to
>e watchful, and to have devoted friends; and
rou stand alone.’
• You mistake—I have friends.
‘You have a few men you have yourself put in
iffice and made them all they are. They will
ook out for themselves—serve themselves, and
zott-perhaps—as long as they can make it pay
veil; no longer. Larger pay on the other side
would make them desert and betray you- You
leed one about you devoted to your interests,
Heart and soul, capable of sympathizing in
pour plans, of encouraging, of inspiring them;
>f being watchful and argus-eyed in your be
half looking out for possible small dangers,
ind’plots and treacheries, while you are busy
prith your schemes.’
He looked at her with keen, curious inquiry.
She was beautiful, with that heightened color,
that lifted eye, standing under the old oak tree
with the shadows and sifted sunbeams quiver
ing over her. The audacity of the venture she
was making gave her an eager, vivid grace.
‘It is hardly possible to find a man so devo
ted,’ he answered, at last
•But a woman! Only a woman can be so,
truly, unselfishly devoted to a man, can so
watch over his interests, enter into his plans,
scent danger with woman’s keen instinct, and
help guard against it with woman a tact and
Where will you find such a woman ?’ he ask
ed, curiosity conquering his impatience to be
^I*could be such a one—to you!’ she said,
onfriv earnestly. Her voioe faltered, blushes
dye/her face, for womanly shame was not dead
in her and the band she laid on his arm, the
look she raised to him, was in deprecation as
W He! R to a o P , P “ddened with embarrassment and
Burnrise perhaps with passing gratification, for
ZXSZ waa be.ati(al aud her worda „d
look, wore foil of intoiioatioB ^ittory.
‘ What can you mean ? he half stammered.
“That I am as ambitions as you are-thatl
too have a genius for ruling me “
fortune with bold measures,-only unfortu
nately, I am a woman. I can act on y 8
some man. I understand y°° r _ a “ ,’Jin vour
ciate your powers; I see the difficu
way; I could help you if I might; I would dj
vote myself to that purpose, I would b y
ear and hand to you.’ . , .
Her earnestness confused him. He
put her offer in the light of a jest. , .
‘The days of page and squire are over, he
said. ‘You don’t mean to make me out a
knight, and put on male clothes and ride y
my Bide as my armor-bearer ?’
•That would be infinitely better than drag
ging out the days in woman’s drudgery sew-
ing seams, teaching brats to spell, she 88,(1
bitterly. ‘ No, I don’t care for the male clothes.
I would not need to lay aside my woman s dress
and nature to be all I have said to you—devoted
[friend, helper ;’ if »ci/e was the word she
IUUJ V* iunw JVM* # . ,
So this is woman’s gratitude,’ he ejaculated,
turning round with a coolly sardonic smile, as
he walked away leading his horse.
But a strange uneasy feeling (prophetic,
though he knew it not ) shivered through him,
as he caught the baleful look in her eyes—the
look full of the rage and hate of a woman, who
finds she is known at her worst. Who feels she
has humbled herself uselessly, that her game
has been seen through and despised, as more
contemptible even than it was, for there might
have been some real earnestness and honesty in
that offer of devoted service to Capt. Witehell.
The woman had a strong thirst for power and
a passionate admiration for any who had won it.
She had a restless desire to be or do something
out of the commonplace, and she was shrewd
and daring. Moreover, she had a grateful
rememberance of what Capt. Witehell had done
for her. He might have found such a woman a
valuable ally. He would have hesitated before
he turned her into an enemy, had his been a
nature to take cognizance of minor causes and
influences. But preoccupied with big schemes,
he lost sight of smaller policies. He had but
little hypocrisy in his nature, and but little
softness or flexibility. Having heard her story
from the Texans who had pursued her to the
river’s brink, and having had the story con
firmed by that picked-up letter, and her looks
at receiving it, he thought of this beautiful
woman as a sort of human leopard. He shook
her from him as such, and went on his way,
thinking he had done with her forever, lore-
seeing not that, with more of the wolf than the
leopard’s nature, she would track him with her
revenge. It was not only because he had met
her overtures with scorn that she hated him, but
because he Knew her secret—he alone. To all
others, the woman, Mabel Waters was dead.
‘ He might not have believed what he heard, had
he not seen that note,’ she thought. ‘ Why did
I not destroy it ? Because it was poor Morris
last words, I must thrust it in my bosom in
stead of tearing it to pieces.’
She oruahed it in her hand as she spoke.
Then she opened her fingers and looked down
at the bit of soiled paper, with the blurred pen
cilled lines upon it. Her mood changed, a
shadow of remorsefnl agony swept over her
face, and she sank down at the foot of the tree,
pressed her hand, still holding the crushed let
ter, over her face and shook with an inward
storm. . . ,. .
If Capt Witehell had seen her then, his heart
might have softed to her in some slight degree,
he might have felt some of that pity that had
made him ready to help her that August day
eight months ago, when preparing to ford the
shrunken river, he had heard the gallop of a
horse behind him, and turning saw a woman,
wild-eyed and dust-stained, urging towards
him a horse covered with foam and panting as if
its sides would burst.
‘I am pursued,’ she gasped, ‘men are follow
ing me to take me, imprison me, kill me. They
are close behind and my horse can go no longer.
I am innocent. Help me, hide me for the love
of God.’ , .
He sent a hurried glance around. All about
were broad fields, not a house, not a tree nearer
than the swamp that stretched back of the fields
—nearly a mile away. Yes, there, just across
the river, were the woods—a belt of thick growth
—and farther back, the cabin of a negro.
‘Your only chance is to cross the river,’ he
said. ‘It is low —can be forded here, but the
water is deep in places; you must follow the
shallowest. I will go first, it may swim your
horse as she’s not tall. Come —
But looking down at the panting, trembling
mare, he saw this would not do.
•She caif never carry you over,’ he said, ‘she
will not hold out.’
•Then let me drown, it will be better than to
Yes, Waters was a good fellow— ;
paid his debts, lived bonest, a splendid shot, j
and free-handed as could be—too free-handed |
for his own good; it kept him poor. He wasn’t j
as young as a wife might like, nor as neat-look
ing maybe, but ho just ioved the ground that j
woman walked on. He took her up out of the
dirt—married her when id: e was a slip of a girl, [
and sent her to school aiijl made a lady of her. |
AH went smooth, till jes’ before the war ended, j
Then a rich fellow—Morris,his name—was from ■
Louisiana here— refugeed out to our part of the [
country, and Waters give him house-room and
pasture, and let him have provisions. When
the fight was over, he kept a sayin’ he war goin’
back to his farm on the Bayou Teche or his
property in New Orleans, but he kept puttin’ it j
off, and bimeby we found out why. He was ,
waitin’ to take Waters’ wife with him, and they
made up to put the husband out of the way. j
The overseer was hired to do the job. Morris i
got Waters’ to go out huntin’ one day and the i
overseer shot him, and he and Morris buried j
him. It was found out, and the overseer got j
away, and Morris dodged us for three days. We j
caught him at last, as ho was sayin’ good-by ;
to his lady at night, not far from her house. He j
had hung around to see her agin, and it cost him j
his life. He danced a jig with no floor under
his feet, next mornin’. He made his will before
hand, and left her all he khd. Then when he
hnn-t'A. - leave t<-> writ? v
note and send it by’a wfl!E>ah tnat was cryin
and takin’ on over him—he was jes’ the kind o’
chap that women are soft upon. We told him
to go ahead, and down he sat on a log with the
rope round his neck and writ the note and gave
it to the woman, whisperin’ something in her
ear. We all thought afterwards that it was Wa
ters’ wife he sent it So, and that he wrote her
word to get away as fast as she could, as he had
heard us swearin’ vengeance on her, for, when
his job was done and we went for her, she had
gone—run off on Morris’ fast little mare. We
give chase, and would er got her ef ithat ther
accident hadn’t bappeied.’
‘It’s well enough asit is,’ said another of the
men, laying his leg confortably over the saddle
bow and refreshing Hmself with a chew ot to
bacco. ‘ I’d hate morally to slip a noose ronnd
a woman’s neck, deserin’ of it as she might be.’
‘ How do you know hat she deserved it? Are
you sure she knew ttey were going to murder
her husband ?’ asked <apt. Witehell.
• Didn't she meet Iorris in the woods after
her husband was killd? There was, evidence,
too, in plenty to sho' she’d put ’em up to it,
though Morris sworeto the last she was inno
cent as the babe unbon, and took all the blame
on himself. That comts for nothin’. He was
so mad over her, he’< done anything to clear
her skirts.’
‘Come boys,’ said aother, ‘the game’s over;
let’s get down and char up, and rest our horses
a^spell before we turrback.’
They got down, th horses began to crop the
grass, the men drew or a ‘ tickler, ’ and * oheered
up’ all around, proffeng the cheer to the stran
ger, who declining i left them, and crossing
the river in a ‘ dug-oi,’ at a point lower down,
made his way to the cbin at the ford, being a
little apprehensive abut his horse and curious
to know what had borne of the woman. He
found his horse quiey grazing in the little
yard, and in the reaiof the house, hid by a
clump of young treesae found the woman he
had heard called Mab Waters. She had been
feeding the mare whosopeed had saved her life,
and wits standing wit an arm about the ani
mal’s neck, and her iead dropped upon it.
When she looked uphe saw her black eyes
were swimming in tea.
‘You are safe,’ he gd. ‘They have gone
back. They saw you horse swimming over
without a rider, and fought you were drown
ed.’
She brought her hamjtogethericonvulsively,
her eyes glistened.
‘ That is good! that igood!’ she said, under
her breath, and began thank him eagerly for
his timely help. Seeg his grave^face, she
broke off with a suddequestion.
• You Baw them and ©ke to them—they told
you—what ?’
He was silent.
‘It does not matter.I do not care to hear
what they told you. Itras some lie of course—
a trumped-up story toicuse their pursuit of
me. They were my g^rdian, his brother and
bis sons. They want r money between them.
They pretended I was ftd; they locked me up
and 1 made my escap I will yet have my
rights. In a little wlB, I shall be of age. I
will go back, and theyiall suffer punishment
for the wrong they haidone me.’
She spoke with suchlear-toned, steady-eyed
assurance that he almnbelieved her story.
An hour afterward#hen he was pursuing
his journey miles awake chanced to put his
hands in his pocket,id felt there the fold
ed paper he had pickeap from the river bank
when he saw the Texa»pproaching. Opening
it, he deciphered the Stated, scarcely legible
handwriting. It was (Cite Morris had written
to Mabel Waters a femoments before he was
hung. It implored he» fly the country at once
—to ride his Mexican are, and get out of the
State. It expressed uifing love, and bade her
an impassioned farewi
Summer was abroadVer the land—a sum
mer unusually hot and humid—unusually rich
in leaf, and flower, and fruit, especially was
this the case in the swamps and the rich, level
linds lying along the river Find bayous.^ Here
vegetation ran riot Corn stood in solid dark
green phalanxes—the great ears pushing,against
each other, the thick stalks matted with convo-
loolus and coral berry vines. Cotton, overtop
ping the tallest man, interlocked its heavy-boil
ed branohes across rows; weeds sprang up
thick and rank everywhere, trumpet vines and
poison oak embowered every stump and tree,
and grass, and wild clover and parsley spread a
matted carpet over the ground.
Yet the summer that was so kind to the plant
world, was nojfriend to man. The atmosphere
so stimulating to vegetal forces, held germs
and exhalations noxious to human life. The
season had been unusually sickly. Fevers had
grown gradually more malignant as the summer
advanced, until the deadly swamp fever made
its appearance, chilling and burning its victims
bv turns, and tinging them a saffron, deep as
that of the helianthus, whose bloomy mass
burned like a flame beside the bayous. Swamp
fever, near akin to, and often the prelude of
that yellow scourge, so much dreaded along
those western water courses, that empty near
seaport towns, in which the yellow fever is al
ways lurking—a snake ‘scotched but not kill
ed’ by frost.
This summer, everything along the river was
favorable to the propagation of the pestilence—
the atmosphere, the human system, deterioted
by malaria, were ripe for it, only the seeds were
wanting. But not long: in September, a boat,
with a yellow fever case on board, stopped at a
near landing; the germs escaped, fastened them
selves upon their human food, and propagated
and spread witl^terrible rapidity. A number
of the dwellers upon the river and the fertile
swamp fell victims to the scourge, and then the
planters and their families made a hurried ex-
dus, refngeeing to the hills, carrying a portion
of their household effects, and getting into out
houses, or stretching tents along the lakes,
where the fish and game were abundant. Crops
were left to the care of the negro laborers, who
seemed to enjoy an immunity from the disease
in its fatal form. Of the whites, there remain
ed on the river only a few old veterans, who
considered themselves fever proof, and enthu
siastic young planters, too full of life and youth
to fear death, and too eager for big harvests and
heavy money returns, to leave their farms at
this critical time, when those indigenous rebels
—weeds and grass, were fighting for the maste
ry over alien king cotton.
There was on sickness the Hills at the same
time, but not. of the malignant type that raged
in the alluvial regions. It was severe enough,
however, to occasion no little uneasiness. It
broke up, for the time, the prosperous little
school in the town of Ylalta, in which Adelle
Holman was teacher. Very unexpected to her
self and her friends, had Miss Holman oome
into this position. The cherished daughter of
the well-to-do Mossy Valley planter, had no
need to leave her parents and her pretty home,
to teach grammer "and rhetoric in a country
town. Adelle could hardly have analyzed the
motives that induced her to accept the post
urged upon her by the Principal, her warm
admirer and her father’s old friend. She knew
that the unrest, which had lately taken posses
sion of her, had something to do with this de
sire for change and for absorbing work; as had
also an increasing repugnance to the marriage
her parents seemed to expect and desire her to
make; but the cause of this unrest and of this
dislike to a union, she had not before actually
opposed, she could not herself understand.
She only knew that the old home pleasures and
pursuits had grown tame and wearisome—her
£41 lciiliif;. hoi 0» w «l eD HinH. h«r ifairv work,
he:. - walks and rides through the summer woods,
her evening readings aloud to the household,
or singing to her father the sweet old fashion
ed ballads he loved—all these that had filled up
her young life satisfyingly enough before, fail
ed to do so now.
Lanier found her moods very puzzling, but
her increEised reserve, dreamy indifference and
sometimes haughty repellance, only served to
fan his passion into more eager flame. His
farm joined her father’s, and his chestnut stal
lion, prancing impatiently under the great oak
in front of the Holman gate was an every-day
sight. Adelle had grown to dread seeing that
slim figure spring from the saddle and come
hastily up the avenue, followed by two or
three hounds, the swarthy face lighting up as
he caught sight of her sitting at her sewing in
the shaded piazza, or at the window behind her
geraniums with her pet orioles chirping in the
swinging cage over her head.
She always found some household task that
called suddenly for her attention in time to
break up the tete-a-tet ■ she hated. But even in
these self-imposed tasks he would insist upon
helping her, following her about the garden,
among the pea rows and raspberry vines, or in
the poultry yard among the pigeons and ban
tams with the assurance of an accepted suitor.
His passionate love-talk exasperated her some
times. She could not respond to it, but neither
dared she silence it, for she had a^reproving
consciousness that she had listened to and tac
itly encouraged it in da^s gone by. To her
parents everything seemed to go on smoothly.
Age is seldom keenly observant. Col. Holman
thought this young man—the son of an old war
comrade as well as of a friend and neighbor—
quite well suited, in spite of a little wildness
and a rather fierce temper, to be the husband of
his beautiful daughter, with her fine, pure, yet
passionate nature.
‘ When are you and Lanier going to make it
up, Dell?’ he would ask her sometimes, and her
brother, in one of his last visits (he was farm
ing to himself this year as an experiment,) took
her to task.
‘ Seems to me you are treating Lanier rather
coolly, of late,’ said the young fellow. ‘I don’t
know much about such matters, but I’m sure I
would like my betrothed to be a little more af
fectionate.’
‘I am not his betrothed. You know, Der
rick, there never was any positive engagement
between us.
4 Wasn’t there ? Well, there was a promise
pretty well understood, if not made in form;
and I suppose you intend to marry him one day
—don’t you ?’
* Never! That is, I think not. I do not be
lieve I can.’
‘Dell, you don’t mean to say you've been
flirting with Lanier all this while? Y’ou can’t
deny you encouraged him.’
‘ I am afraid I did—once. I really thought I
liked him well enough to . But I know my
feelings better now. I seem much older, some
how. Like all foolish girls I found it pleasant
to be made love to. I was in love with love—
not with Lanier. I am very sorry. I don’t
kuow what to do about it’
•‘lam sorry, too. I hope you will get over
this nonsense, and behave to Lanier as you
ought to. He’ll make you a devoted husband,
but he's not a fellow to be fooled with, I can tell
you—gay and light as he seems.’
Adelle felt sure of that. Lanier had a care
less, silent, yet pleasant way about him, bnt she
had more than untie caught a flash of tbose
small, keen black eyes that told her there was a
lurking serpent under that surface-deep bon
hommie. Exacting and fierce in his love, she
was sure he would be jealous and revengeful, if
he iiud grounds to be so. Hitherto he had had
none. No other lover had been bold enough to
contend against him for the favor of the lovely
Mossy Valley belle—this girl whose shy smile
and dreamful eyes told of hidden sweetnesses
of heart and soul that had never yet been called
out.
• Don’t scold, Derrick,* she said, putting her
arm around his neck and laying her cheek
against bis shoulder. .‘Remember you are go
ing baok to-morrow, old fellow. T do wish,
though, you had never taken that river place.
You are looking thin and sallow already. Good
crops won’t make up for chills and fevers, Find
nobody to nurse and coddle you as I always
used to do. I know you miss me, bnt not as
much as I miss you. 1 get quite cross and be
side myself, sometimes. Yon need a change;
why don’t you pay that visit to Birdie Desd you
promised her? I’ll go through Malta and take
yon there to-morrow. I want an excuse to stop
and see Birdie, any how.’
‘ That would be nice. And they could spare
me now that aunt Mitt is here to help with the
housekeeping. Malta is always so pleasant in
the spring, and so many new people have come
in since I was there last summer.’
Her cheek flashed a pretty pink as she spoke.
Perhaps the presence in Malta of some one of
these ‘ new people’ gave a special secret attrac
tion to the place —an attraction she would not
have dared to confess to herself, much less to
that fond, but fierce, prejudiced and rather
reckless young fellow at her side.
The visit so suddenly planned was really
made. Adelle’s father, looking at her keenly,
declared she had been mopy and drooping of
late, and bade her go and stay as long as she
liked, so that she brought back the roses and
bright eyes he missed, which was self-denying
on his part, seeing that ‘daughter,’ as he loved
to call her, was the delight of bis heart
When Lanier came next day he found the pi
azza and the sitting room window unadorned
by the pretty figure in cool-tinted prints, whose
little hand he had been want to grasp so warm
ly as to make the red drop from her cheeks and
a shiver run through her frame. He was very
angry when he found she had gone, and though
Mama Holman improvised a little message of
farewell from the flown bird, he received it in
sullen silence and mounting his horse galloped
away in high disgust.
( TO UK CONTrNDKD. )
THE
OLD TABBY HOUSE.
BY GARY Eri’ Me IVOR
Major saw an opening upon his wight. A wall
of rock jutted out into the stream, and a series
of rude stone steps led up to the shore above.
In a few moments his boat had neared this rock
stairway, when a loud whistle, and the report of
fire-arms startled the frightened American.
His boat was seized by a large, strong hand:
the Majoi was fairly lifted out of it, and carried,
almost breathless, to the bank above. He had
almost lost the sense of feeling. He was nnu
ble to utter a word, and fora season everything
was in contusion around him. When he return
ed to consciousness, his hands were firmly
bound, his eyes were blindfolded, and he was
being dragged forward over stones and bram
bles. He was a prisoner—that was his first con
clusion, but who were his captors ? What did
they mean to do with him ?
‘ Couarge, Senor,’ said a voice in a low whis
per which lie recognized as that of the Creole.
‘Courage Senor, it is only a little way, aDd all
will be well. Take a little of this strong water,’
continued the Creole, ‘ and you will feel better.’
‘ What does this mean ?’ gasped the Major,
when he had taken a pull at the flask placed to
his lips, and felt the reviving influence of the
liquor. <
‘ Oh ! nothing, Senor, it is only a way we have
to keep secrets,’ said the Creole.
‘ In the name of heaven,’ answered Barton, ‘I
don’t want to know your secrets ! ’
‘ Perhaps not, Senor,’ said the Creole, ‘but
many others do, and we are only anxious to let
other people mind their own affairs, without
meddling with ours. We are brave men, Senor
Barton, and will not harm you.’
The Major did not feel very much assured by
this speech, notwithstanding the tone ot the
Creole was as kind as the outlaw knew how to
make it.
Presently the Major was required to stoop very
low, and then to crawl on his hands and knees,
no easy task to him with his wrists in irons, bui
after awhile he heard the sound of voices, and
the ringing of glasses. There was evidently a
considerable company assembled, and his ear
caught the words of the following
DRINKING SONG.
Drink, drink, drink ! for we have no time to Lhiuk.
Death to every care and sorrow !
Drink, drink, drink ! tho’ we’re on the very bri.k,
We shall never gee to-morrow.
Drink, drink, drink ! let the merry glasses clink.
Let the coward, courage borrow*!
Drink, drink, drink! tho’ we're on the very brink.
We shall never »ee to-morrow!
Drink, drink, drink ! let out every golden link,
That can bind the limbs of sorrow !
Drink, drink, drink ! for we’re on the very brink.
Yet we’ll never see to-morrow !
Drink, drink, drink ! for we have no time to think,
Let the coward’s conraire borrow !
Drink, i rink, drink ! for the vessel soon will sink—
We’il be dead and gone to-mor. ow 1
There was a wild and yet plaintive melody in
the music of this simple song, bnt the enthusi
asm of the company, and the rambling echoes
of the notes as they rang through the rocky sides
and arches of the cave, thrilled the poor Major
as he had never been stirred before by music.
‘ Ha ! whom have we here ?’ said the leader of
the band, as the three Creoles dragged their cap
tive into the room.
‘An American traveler, Senor Captain,’ re
plied one of the men.
‘By the Lord,’ said Gaston, for it was no other,
‘ it seems to me that I have seen that nose be
fore. Off with the bandage, Francisco—Oh, ho !
Major Barton ! Pardon ns, my friend, for rough
treatment. But really we have a select company
here, and are very careful about our visitors.
We have a cosy palace here, you perceive Major—
the front door opens on the mountain side, and
the back door faces the sea. But a pleasant
place, Major, a pleasant place, good company,
good wine, and an easy life. Gentlemen—noble
men of the Marine Republic ! a health to Major
Barton, guest and friend of the ever Faithful
Isle ! Take a glass of wine, Major—oh! I see -
you have the bracelets on him, eh? Francisco,
remove the irons from the bands of the Ameri-
ican General—fact, gentlemen, one of the bra
vest men in the United States Army—stormed a
fort of the Seminole Indians with a squad of
men, and captured three squaws and a papoose !
Eh, Major ? ’
The Major did not feel particularly compli
mented, by this statement of bis prowess, but
the rude and riotous company, not understand
ing the Captain’s phrases, evidently thought the
squaws and the papoose to be some formidable
species of warriors, and therefore they applaud
ed the Major, until the rock walls resounded
with their cries of bravo ! bravo !! When the
noise had subsided somewhat, and the hearty
welcomes of the band had ceased, the Major was
seated near the Captain, and joined readily in
tbeir libations of wine, and ventured, even to
sing them a song. The Major's voice was not
very musical, and bis song was in English,
which not a man among tbem understood, save
the singer and the Captain,so that the Spaniards
were not much the wiser of either song or senti
ment
(Continued on 6th page.)