The sunny South. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1875-1907, May 04, 1878, Image 1

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rf,£ fuw ERS cooectio/v VOL..III. J. H. & W. 13. SEALS, [proprietors. ATLANTA, GA., SATURDAY, MAY 4, 1878. mn-nifci it 3 PER ANNUM TERMS, i lN ADVANCE. THE BRIDGE OF ASPHODELS. BY GILLAVMO. A dream-Fpirit bent o'er my conch last night. And stole, with 1 ts witchery, my soul away, Through my lips, half parted, it took its flight. As a bee escapes from a blossom of May. Away, past the fields of cerulean space. Where the starry blossoms like lilies shine, Went that airy dream with the radiant face, Hand in hand with this soul of mine, 'Till we paused on the archway of bright asphodel?, That the darksome gulf of mortality spans. Where onr spirits are carried by siumber"s spells To grasp in brief visions the angels' hands. There we meet for a While with the loved and the lost On that shadowy, twilighted bridge of dreams, Where the asphodels bloom, and each mist shrouded ghost Silently Hits o’er the dark flowing stream. Bnt I heard not the music that faint, and afar, Came iike the audible fragrance from Heaven's fair shore: And I saw not the halo, iike mist ronnd a star, That was wrealhing and floating around and before. For my spirit met thfne on that far away spot; My hand thrilled in thine as in meetings of yore; I knew by thy smile that I was not forgot, And what asked I, or hoped I, or cared I for more? The glory of Paradise lay on thy brow— Its am’ranths were shining amid thy dark hair, JIow I dared to look on thee is marvellous now, Or breathe, save with language ol praise or of prayer. But thy perfume-wet tresses fell low on my cheek; Thy warm lips pressed mine as they may never more, And no bliss-freighted word could my tranced lips speak, Tho’ never was moiVal so happy before, THE FARMER’S CITY BOARDERS; — Or, — What Happened in- Florida. ■Every body takes winter bonders in Florida,’ writes one of the birds of passage, bnt there was one plain little farm boose on the St. John's, which bad never yet permitted its quiet to be invaded by boarders. But its day came. One day early this spring, just when orange trees were in blossom, farmer Ellison froitift little trio to Jacksonville where he bad c.u.-eu with tuo now,, -li.u. lie hua agreed to take three boarders for two months. It was Judge Carlisle, who used to be a school mate of his before the Judge, then a young law yer, went to live in New York, and his daugh ter and a young man—whose name farmer El lison had forgotten. They had been spending the winter in Jacksonville, and w’ere a little tired of their boarding house there. But the young lady declared she would not consent to leave Florida now, just when it was putting on ail its beauty; when strawberries and green peas were coming on, and orange blossoms were per fuming the air, and the weather was getting delicious for fishing and riding and boating. So the Judge having met bis old friend and found where he was living, begged him to make room for the three of them until the middle of May, that his Sybil might eDjoy a spring in Florida, and get the full pleasure of the woods and river. Mrs. Ellison was a little ‘taken back,’ to use her own words, at this prospective advent of rich, stylish city people in her plain old coun try house, and she worried a good deal about not having rooms fit for them to occupy, and about the fare that would seem so common to their dainty palates. But farmer Ellison said: ‘Just put up clean muslin curtains, and have the beds white and tidy, as yon always do, and stick a lot of roses in the old china vases—the >oung lady is death on flowers. And as for the fare, we have fresh cream and butter, and fish and chickens; yes, and the strawberries and all yonr jellies and marmalade; what better do you want ?’ Nat, the farmer’s only son, was ‘put out’ even worse than his mother. He had traveled some and knew just how dainty and elegant the sur roundings of rich people were, and he felt mor tified to have these fastidious city folks be come inmates of the old brown farm house he loved so well, because it was home. He was young, educated, and sensitive, and knew just enough about people of wealth and station to despise the whole lot of them as a supercilious, purse-proud class, who regarded poverty as one of the unpardonable crimes. In spite of all this, however, the boarders came. They arrived at an nnexpected hour, and Nat was working in the field. — That was a good haul, Miss Carlisle,” said Xat, as he baited her hook afresh. nently successful, lor Nat was really a handsome man, and could look quite the gentleman when he tried; so, after arraying himself in his best suit, and giving his dark, silky moustache a ‘holiday twist,’ as he called it, he went down to the parlor, and was presented to the guests came back j with a grand flourish by bis proud mother. If he had thought Sybil Carlisle a queen ’n .llC K . .dell, tlv UOUhJ'. hvX .. ...j night in the light of the parlor lamps; she was so sparkling and vivacious, so witty, so dis- tractingly lovely ! Her father, the Judge, was a jovial, talkative old gentleman, with an inex- hausible fund of knowledge, which he seemed to take great pleasure in airing for the edifica tion of his hearers. Then there was Mr. Clarke Vincent. About this latter personage there was something to attract more than a passing glance from any one. Tall and well proportioned, with the easy, unforced politeness of a man of the world, there was that in every detail of his per sonal appearance, from the cool white cravat down to the low-cut shoes and silk stockings, that bespoke him a gentleman of taste and re finement. He had evidently turned thirty, and wore a full, flowing beard, which was one of his chief attractions, as it was dark and wavy, and soft as plush silk. ‘A friend of Judge Carlisle,’ Nat concluded; ‘a professional friend, no doubt—a well-to-do law yer.’ The evening passed pleasantly to all, though Farmer Ellison, with his usnal disregard for courtesy, retired at his customary hour, leaving his amiable spouse to chat with the Judge about old times. Nat, of course, devoted himself to the young lady and Mr. Vincent, and the ioe once broken, he enjoyed it exceedingly. Miss Carlilse was possessed of that gift of making even diffident men feel perfectly at ease in her society, and in the intoxication of the hour, Nat utterly forgot the difference in their stations. He gossiped with her about city-life, country-life, nature, art, and above all, books, and was delighted to discover that her favorite authors were the very ones he most admired. She had brought her guitar, too— her favorite insirument^and at Mr. Vincent’s request, played a series of Span ish airs. Then she sang one or two songs, in a rich, contralto voice, that displayed such a marvel of musical power and sweetness that Nat felt as if he could listen to it forever with out tiring. When at last they were about to retire to their several apartments, Nat said: ‘Do you enjoy horseback riding, Miss Car lisle ?’ He had ful- j ‘Oh, y es > indeed ■’ was the enthusiastic reply, ly intended to act upon his mother's surges- i and th° se blue eyes _ were turned upon him tion and ‘spruce up a bit’ in honor of the ""am- j almost eagerly. ‘It is my favorite amusement, val, hut being taken completely by surprise, his i 1 used to ride eve ?y “ ornin g whe ? we lived in Miss Carlisle had ijot yet appeared; but he had | the river, whistling as gleefuly as if he wereihe not long to wait. The opening of the door her- ' happiest mortal on earth, and the disappointed aided her approach, and she came out on the i pang at his heart was utterly ignored, piazza in her graceful ridir-g-habit, looking as : He rode with Sybil nearly every morning after fresh and blooming as a Ijoqjjet of roses and that, when the weather was fine. On a few occa- lilies. j ec \' i s i° ns Vincent was induced to take his place, but Nat bowed. Jtht' j that gentleman was not fond of sport, and gen- ‘ Via are punctual, AU-aV ‘ O’e.’ «•* j eraliv preferred to let the young devotee take the - a:' .. . . ■ * j replied with a dulcet li •fn. v Oh, what splen- j were both pleasant and painful to Nat, though did horses ! I am sure wa'ii ha\ e a grand ride !’ j why there should be any pain in the affair, was a Clarke Vincent came out behind her. He had I mystery which Nat himself could not, or would come down to see them ofl'. As he followed her D0 *'’ understand. out to the horses, he said to Nat, half seriously, j One ot the sports resorted to for amusement half in sport. was that °f fishing. The broad, beautiful St. ‘Be careful of my little girl, Mr. Ellison. I John’s flowed by the rear of the house, plenti- can’t afford to lose her just Vet, and that animal ! fully inhabited by the finny tribe, and Farmer looks as if he would like to break some one's neck. And yon, Sybil—don’t presume too much on your former skill. Kemember you are out of practice.’ Nat felt as if a bullet had struck his heart; but without for a moment losing his composure, he assured the gentleman there was not the slightest danger, and then stood at the horse’s head while Vincent helped ‘ his little girl,’ into the saddle. ‘ His little girl !’ ‘ Can’t afford to lose her just I yet !’ What did such remarks mean ? No need I of the question—there could be hut one answer to it, and the dullest might guess that. Some- ' how, the thought that C\ark Vincent was the j accepted lover of Miss Carlisle, had not once j occurred to Nat, hut he saw now that it must he 1 so. He spoke of her as though she belonged to ; him; he addressed her by her first name, de- i noting the closest intimacy; an l thea, the mere fact that he was here with her and her father, ; Ellison had a Ipug, shallow flat-bottomed boat, j which he used for his own private navigation. Often, of an evenirg, the old farmer and the judge, with Clarke Vincent, Sybil, and Nat | would go out to the middle of the river, and : there making it stationary, by means of long ! poles, would become ardent disciples of Izaak j Walton for an hour or two. On one of these occasions, Sybil made herself famous by capturing a fine, large perch—the ; largest that had been taken by auy of the party. ‘That was a good haul, Miss Carlisle,’ said I Nat, as he baited her hook afresh. ‘I think it is because you bait my hook so nicely, that I am so successful,’ she replied. ‘It’s nothing else, of course,’said Clarke Vin cent, in a significant tone, without removing his eyes from his float. ‘You will find Sybil a most expert angler, Mr. Ellison, whether she casts her line for bona file fish, or human ones.’ He said it in the light,bantering manner char- to spend the summer— Fskaw ! there could be j acteristicof him, hut Nat saw a tinge of color but one solution to all fhis. Clarke Vincent ! stream into the girl’s face*, and was conscious ol blushing hotly himself. He thought of Vincent’s plans were upset. That is how it happened that just after sunset, as Mrs. Ellison was picking strawberries for Miss Carlise in the garden, Nat suddenly burst into view round the corner of an arbor, whistling gleefully and carrying a hoe on his shoulder. He came to a standstill and stared in open-mouthed amazement at the sight that met his gaze, while his hand involuntarily sought the tattered brim of his old straw hat. He saw a tall, graceful figure in a blue silk princesse en\eloped in a veil of blue gauze; he saw a pair of wonderiul blue eyes, and the fairest, sweetest face he had ever beheld, with a mass of golden hair arranged a la mode on the shapely head, lhen he suddenly became aware that his moth- er was introducing him. i servant ma’am,’ he stammered with a low bow; and then he strode blindly on toward the house stumbling over everything that lay in his way, and making as much noise as a drnnk- en man as he went blundering up stairs to his room. LJ didn t e *pect to see such a beauty,’ muttered Nat beginning to breathe again. ‘Why shes a regular—a yes, a regular queen! A regular out and outer,’ as father would say. Just my luck to meet her in this plight, looking my very worst I suppose I acted like a con founded fool, too. He made all haste to remove the offensive ex- i • enor t assume a more presentable appear ance for the evening. In this he waa emi- the country, but I seldom get a chance in the city.’ ‘I supposed as much. I have two good sad dle-horses, and a lady’s saddle, which are at yonr disposal. I hope you will do me the honor of using them as often as you wish to ride. If you would like a gallop to-morrow morning before breakfast, I will have the horses ready for you at an early hour.’ ‘Oh thank you. You are very kind. But do you expect me to ride both horses, Mr. Ellison ?’ she added, with a rougish smile. •No—of course not,’ a trifle embarrassed. ‘I meant you and Mr. Vincent.’ ‘As for me,’ said Mr. Vincent, stroking his beard, ‘I am no horseman. Besides, I have some letters to write which will occupy every moment of my time until noon. Therefore, if you have the leisure and inclination, I will ask you to take my place, Mr. Ellison?’ Nat’s heart throbbed violently. • It Miss Carlisle has no objections—’ • None in the least 1 It is very kind of you, I am snre. I am an early riser, Mr. Ellison, and will not keep yon waiting. Good-night!’ Nat’s sonl was too full of a new sensation to allow him any vast amount of sleep that night, and when tho cocks crowed in the dawn of another day, he was np and dressed, and out at the stables giving directions to the astonished groom. When he led the hones ronnd to the door, and Sybil Carlisle were engaged •And, of course, it is nothing to me if they are a thousand times engaged,’ thought Nat. But for all that, he did not erijoy that ride quite so much as he had thought he would. To be sure, Sybil was in her best spirits, and look ing her lovliest; the birds in the trees by the roadside were almost bursting their throats with exuberance of joy; the atmosphere was pure and bracing, and the morning especially fine for equestrian exercise; but Nat Ellison had dropped a tithe of his enthusiasm, and all the brightness and beauty around him, could not restore it. He was not a fool, however, and so far from betraying to Lis companion anything like a change in his feelings, he even tried to conceal it from himself He surpassed himself in the brilliance and variety of his conversational wit, and proved himself a mq- t entertaining and gal lant cavalier, very much kV V.'3 c-wr. surprise. They rode for miles a:iM miles along the level road, and across open fielus, anon racing their steeds till the violent exercise deepened the rich glow on Sybil’s pretty cheeks, and made her blue eyes sparkle with excitement. ‘Mr. Vincent was evidently much concerned for your welfare,’ ventured Nat, when after a sharp gallop, they were permitting their horses to move at a slow walk. •Yes,’she replied ‘he is always afraid I am going to break my neck, or do something equal ly horrible, whenever I mount a horse. He dosen’t admire horses as I do. But Clarke is so good to me tLat I wouldn’t disobey him for the world. Everybody likes him; I am sure you will, Mr. Ellison.’ Our hero was not quite so sure, but he simply said, in answer: * No doubt of it, Miss Carlisle.’ And there the subject was dropped. That afternoon, when Nat found an oppor tunity to speak to his mother alone he said to her: ‘Do you know anything about this Clarke Vin cent?’ ‘Nothing, except he ’pears to be a mighty nice sort of a young man,’ replied Mrs. Ellison, busy with her house-plants. ‘Isn’t he engaged to be married to Miss Car lisle.’ ‘Like as not. I notice they seem kinder famil iar like. Yes, I reckon they’re engaged.’ Aad Nat went out of the house, and down to careless remark many times afterward, and won dered if there could he auy truth in what they implied. But the weeks continued to slip by, and there came a time when our hero no longer cared to struggle against the inevitable. Why these fee- *hle efforts to hide from himself the truth—it made the truth no less palpable—he was in love! For the first time in his life he had ceased to be master of his own heart. He was wholly, com pletely in Sybil Carlisle’s power. In vain he cursed himself for an idiot; in vain he drew merciless comparisons between his own sphere of life and hers, compelling himself to stand forth as a poor farmer, and a ‘court bumpkin.’ The fact was unalterable, and he gave up the 1 battle. i Love is blind. Now that that the state of his | heart was no longer covered from his own in- | spection, Nat began to wonder if he might not ■ have arrived too early at conclusions, in decid- i ing that Vincent and Miss Carlisle were engaged. | His first and coolest reflections had not left the | shadow of a doubt in his mind as to the actual i state of affairs; but now he began lo grope des- i perately for evidence to support the theory that 1 lie might have been mistaken. Perhaps some other relationship than an engagement existed between these two. Perhaps they were cousins —though that could hardly be, for he had never heard them address eacn other by that title. Perhaps— But no matter. It was absolutely necessary for him to conjure up these bare possibilities, or brand Sybil Carlisle as a flirt. For she had undoubtedly encouraged his attentions, and convinced him, in many seemingly artless ways, that his society was especially pleasant to her. Was slie trifling with him ? Did she seek to wring a confession from his lips, and then laugh at his presumption ? He would not, could not, believe her so cruel. How passive Mr. Vincent was through all! It was a dull, rainy day. Net was pacing restlessly to and fro in the narrow oonfines of his room, looking far more wretched than the mere condition of the elements warranted. ‘I’ll do it!’ he exclaimed, at length, with an air of settled determination. ‘I oan no more than fail, and even that is preferable to this sub- pense. They are going away next week; this is my only ohanoe. Yes, I must make a clean breast of it’ He threw himself in a chair at his writing- desk, selected a sheet of note-paper, and wrote a brief message thereon. ‘Miss Carlisle:—I can no longer refrain from telling you that which I have hitherto feared to confess. I love you with my whole heart and soul—can you love me in return? Please take time to study yourself before answering: only let me have your answer before you return home. N. Ellison.’ He attached the note to a pretty bouquet of oleanders and clematis, and placed the whole in a conspicuous place in Sybil’s room, at a mo ment when she was below stairs. So the deed was done. That evening, when the lamps were lit, Nat sauntered into the parlor as usual, hut was sur prised to find neither Sybil nor Clarke '■in- cent there. His father and mother, and Judge Carlisle were there, and with an assumption of unconcern that would have baffled keener eyes than theirs, he threw himself in a lazy pos ture on a sociable, close to one of the curtained windows that opened on the piazza. Scarcely had he done so, when a low voice close to his head - a voice that was ineffably ten der, he tnought—very distinctly remarked. ‘Are you sure of yourself, Sybil ?’ Then another low voice, tremulous and sweet, answered: ‘Y’es, Clarke, lam quite sure.’ They were on the piazza just outside the win dow. Nothing but the thin curtain separated them from Nat; and although they spoke al most in whispers, every word was audible to him. At another time he would have quietly changed his position, but just now he was burn ing up with jealonsy. He lay quite still, and listened to a conversation not intended for his Yon haven’t the slightest doubt that this ia ! genuine love, Sybil?’ ‘Not the slightest. Am I a child that I should doubt myself? It is love, Clarke—true, pure and holy. Believe me, I can never love another.’ ‘But this other fellow ?’ ‘Nonsense! Do you suppose I cared for him?’ ‘I was afraid you might, and—’ ‘You dear old goose! Why, I fairly detest him! He had no right, I am sure, to think otherwise—’ Nat waited to hear no more. He had heard ' quite enough. He rose quietly and left the parlor, before its occupants had observed the J! .tUlilj ptiilVJI A if iio itsot. I3r» • ‘-„x his room, and locked himself in, nor cam.e down again that night. When sent for by his anxious mother, he pleaded indisposition, and firth ly refused to show himself. But he wrote another note, and placed it on Miss Carlisle’s table, so that she could not fail to see it when she came to retire. And it was couched in these words: ‘Miss Carlisle:—I see now what a poor fool I have beeD, and will not trouble yon for an an swer to my first note. If you think you have played a fair game this summer, and can find it in yonr soul to feel proud of yonr victory, I have no more to say, except that I wish you joy of your heartless triumph. N. E. There were sleepless eyes in Ellison farm house that night, Nat’s white, haggard face, on which had settled an expression of weary, hope less woe, testified to that fact, as he rose on the following morning and went out into the open air. It was a bright, lovely morning, after the storm of the preceding day, hut it was dull and wretched enough as Nat viewed it. lit saw no smile on the face of nature. To him all was a cold, weary wilderness. He went down to the river-side, and leaning against the trunk of a tree, gazed moodily down into the water. •What a precious fool I have been !’ he mut tered, angrily. ‘I might have known—’ He stopped suddenly at the sound of a light footsteps, and the rustle of feminine garments. He turned, and beheld Sybil Caililse coming toward him. His first impulse was to retreat, but in an instant he saw that her purpose was to speak with him, and he stood his ground. He observed that she was as pale as the snowy wrapper she wore, and that an ominous expres sion lurked in the turquoise eyes. Dumb with amazement, he conld only stand and stare at her as she approached. ‘She was quite calm, in spite of her pallor. ‘Mr. Ellison,’she began, confronting him with the air of an insulted queen, ‘did you write this?’ She held something toward him. A glance showed him that it was his note—the second one he had written. ‘Yes,’ he replied, with all the composure he could command. ‘I wrote it.’ ‘And this, too?’ She produced another one, and he saw that it was also his; the one containing a confession of his love. He replied again in the affirmative. ■Then, sir,’ she exclaimed, her eyes flashing with proud wrath, ‘may I ask an explanation of this insult? Will you tell me what you mean by two such notes on the same day?’ Nat was cold as an icicle in an instant. ‘I am not disposed to deny you the explana tion you ask,’ he said with freezing politeness, ‘I need only say that I have been betrayed into the worst sort of folly by your beauty and art fulness. I have permitted myself to enjoy this summer vacation; have been ungnarded enongh to fall desperately in love with with you. But that is all over now.’ ‘Is this all you have to say ?’ ‘Not quite. I may add that I was ignorant of your utter heartlessness until last night.’ ‘Whatdo you mean, sir?’ ‘That I happened to he close to the parlor window when you and Mr. Vincent were talking on the piazza. Have you forgotten yonr con versation ?’ She was standing now with tightly-clenched hands, gazing at him in a blank, wondering way. ‘You heard our conversation!’ she said, slowly, as it trying to comprehend. All her anger, all her dignity, had vanished, leaving only that dazed look on her set faee. ‘Yes,’ replied Nat, as coldly as before; ‘I heard you tell your lover how you detested me—’ ‘My lover!’ [Continued on 8th page.)