The sunny South. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1875-1907, September 11, 1880, Image 1

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Newspaper Page Text/ JW c lOWEhS COLtfCTIOV VOL. VI. J. H & W "B. SEA1.S \ editors and ° J-L. W »T. Jji -UXbAl. LuO / PROPRIETORS. ATLANTA, GA., SEPTEMBER II. 1880. Terms in Advance; {ST.E'Ki.JM “Be Ve Contented with Sueli Things as Ye Have.’' Our home is no towered mansion, on vast estate, Shut in by statued walls and iron gate. Whose apartments vie with labyrinthean numbers And rich splendor that still in Alhambra slumbers. No long line of ancestry, in frescoed halls In grim, costly portraits, scowl on us from waits; No coffer tilled witli gleanings from Pyctolus' sands Excites the foul greed of night-roving brigands— Roasts no ho.,or, but that by hard liouest labor (Not holding back wages, nor debts due his neighbor) My husband has earned, and thus hallowed for me. This shelter from the storm, where mother, and we Live together; nor wish e’en for the fruit denied. A barque, with the throng, on Fashion’stide, Where the novice, sea-sick from the coming and going, Is swamped in the whirl ’round hidden rocks flowing. We thrive most on food that wise Nature suggests That foreign to our minds of sweeter p< ace diveRts. New wine breaks old bottles, and soon is spilled. And rents become greater when with new cloth filled; Contentment with Godliness to all is great gain. The offspring of vain wishes but tantalizing pain; Have we plenty, we laborand lhank God for giving; Have we less, we toil on, and thank Him for living. In the hands of the Potter we are but the clay. The good He withholds not from children .. hurl-, All classes should work, nor envy others, For the rich and poor in life's duties are brothers— Work, the great inolliticr of all men’s woes? Must be cherished by these, nor scorned by those. Tis God’s law. Man has lived by the sweat of his brow Since Adam sinned in Eden until now. Thus peace at home, not measured by cost, Will remain when every vestige ef pomp is lost, Sarah. Little Rock, Jan. ill, ls.su. NO. 26S Ol'Tnil.^G *VBS ILKM 'i’ESj; .YOK't'Ki: K* SKA. KATHLEEN, THE SEWING GIRL. By II. V. Adair. It was a wet, dismal evening in autumn. A crowded street-car was noisily moving on its way up town. At the rear of the car sat a young girl, clad in a faded calico dress and a thin shawl. A shabby straw hat shaded her face, and in her arms she held a large bundle. She kept a close watch through the mud-stained window anil at last arose wear ily to her feet, making a vain effort to reach the boll strap. “Will you please ring the tiell for me,” she asked her nearest neighbor, a young man in a stylish fall overcoat, with a soft, dark hat pulled low over his eyes. “Certainlv,” he replied, reaching for the strap, while he took in at a glance that the petitioner was young, pretty and poor. The car stopped at the crossing and the gjA encumbered with her heavy bundle, stepped out, but the car started a moment too soon and she lost her balance. She was saved from a fall by the helping hand of the man who had stopped the ear for her but her bundle dropped into the mud. She uttered a cry of dismay. "i hope you are not hurt,” said her com panion, who hail allowed the car to move on without him. “No, oh, no, but” a choking sob ended the speech abruptly. “This is the trouble, then?’ he continued, picking up her bunule. “Perhaps there’s not so much harm done after all. Let us go to the light and see.” W hen they came into the light of a street lamp the girl wrung her hands ami .ex claimed: , , “Oh, it is ruined! it is ruined! ’ and she pointed to a large hole in the paper w rap ping through which it was evident that the contents bail made close acquaintance with the mud of the streets. “Maybe you can wash the dirt off, sug gested her companion, with the usual bril liance of the average masculine intellect in such emergencies. ... The girl shook her head despairingly. “Indeed I can’t, then. It is a white velvet opera cloak lined with pale blue silk. Am* the lailv wants it to night. Oh, dear! what shall I do?” “Whose is it?” “Miss Ida Bradford s.’ .. “Oh, then you won’t have any trouble Why, Miss Ida is a cousin of mine and 111 tell her how it happened. She can afford to buy a dozen opera cloaks if she wants to. I’ll go there with you now, and carry the un fortunate bundle." , „ , .. ... “Oh! will you? I’m so glad, she said, with the utmost simplicity, and she walked on beside him feeling that a heavy resi>onsi- bility had been lifted from her. They had still some distance to walk, and by the time they reached their destination he had won from her all her simple history^ Her name was Kathleen Sullivan: she lived with her blind grandmother and sewed from seven until six—sometimes later—at Madam Vinton’s fashionable dressmaking establish ment. She was an orphan with no relatives but this aged grandmother, whose sole sup port she was. , . , , „ “You seem very young to work so hard. “I am almost seventeen. 1 am strong if I am little,” and she laughed a gleeful. «•’oldish laugh, that had no cause but pure I'lppiuess j at the unexpected relief from oroub.e. ) “Here we are," he said at last. “Now, you wait till l see what Miss Ida says. I’m sure It will l>e all right.” ! S > she waited in the warm, bright hall and j presently a servant came down. I “Miss Bradford says she is very sorry that her cloak is spoiled, hut that of course it was I an accident and she doesn't blame you at all.” j “Please tell her she is very good to say so, I an I she couldn't be more sorry than 1 aim” | She drew her thin shawl closer and went out again into the cold and wet. She hail not reached the corner when she hear i foot steps behind her. She quickened her pace and a voice culled out: “You are not going to run away from me are you?” “1 didn’t know it was you.” she answered, with a welcome in her tone born of the free dom of innocence. “It is growing late and l think you ought not to walk home by yourself. Will you al low me to accompany you ?” She flashed a keen glance up into his face, as they were pushing a street lamp, and some thing in his expression made her answer stiffly: “indeed there is no need of it; I am often out late.” “But you ought not to lie. It is not right for young girls to be in the streets at night, alone.” She turned squarely on him and said pointedly: “They had better be alone tbsnwith them they don’t know. You have done me a great service, sir, and I thank you for it. but there’s no call for you to Ite with me now, so good- by to you.” She walked on ahead of him, but he step ped up beside her. “Come, Kathleen” “Kathleen, indeed!” she cried angrilv, her excitement bringing out the rich Irish brogue that had hitherto been scarcely perceptible, “and when did 1 give ye leave to call me Kathleen, as if ye had known me this long time?” “But let me explain. I meant no insult.” “Perhaps not, but if I was a fine lady now, ye wouldn’t Ik? after calling me Kathleen so put.” They were just at a street crossing. She turned the corner suddenly and ere he could follow her she had darted away and was lost to sight in the darkness. The next, day as she wasgoiug home to her dinner she met him face to face. He stojiped and lifted his hat. “Miss Sullivan,” said he, courteously, “I owe you an apology and am happy to have ait opportunity to make it. May I venture to hope you have forgiven me?” “Indeed sir, it doesn’t matter at all,” she replied, blushing and quickening her pace. “Let me tell you who I am,” he said, hand ing her a card which bore the name of “Viv ian Marchmont.” “There, is not that an honorable name?” “Oh, yes,” she answered coldly. “You doubt the worthiness of its owner, do you?” he asked with a smile. “I hope some day to convince you otherwise.” He bowed and went on his way, saying to himself: “By Jove I she’s a beauty! If she only had Ida’s money.” After this he met her frequently. His man ner was always deferential, and free from familiarity, so that pretty Kathleen gradu ally lost all distrust of him, while she learned to listen for bis footstep and to blush at the ound of his voice. ; One Sunday he met herssshe was having | the Cathedral, .sin- was divssed in deep black, and looked pale and heavy-eyed Her reply' to hi- question of what was till* matter, was a burst of tears. Then she sobbed: “My grand mother Is dead, and 1 a in all alonf—all alone!” The words wen? uttered with a wailing cry. and his h ni t, was touched. “Not alone, dear Kathleen—am I not your friend?” j “There is none of mv own blood in the wide world!” -he rrird. “Yet you s’ill bave some one to b>V - von," . he said in a low, tender voice; but sh • seemed i not to hear him, and for awhile h? decide! to bide his time. ! Btr in the months that followed, tie- deso j late child learned to turn to him ns her best! friend. “You are '.corking too hard,” be said to her I once, when he had taken her to a fete at the j park. “You must quit it." “Can 1 starve?” she ask ?d bitterly. “Come with me, Katbl.-i n, and vou shall never want for anything.” ’ She looked at him wondering! v. i “Could you not be happy with me? Ah! t my little brown-eyed beauty, Hove you so. Do not refuse me, please. I will <!<> every thing in the world for you if you will only come to me and lcve me.” Her breath came hard, and she set her teeth. "1—I do not understand you. Mr. Hareh- mont.” “Say ‘Vivian,’ darling. What mystery is there in asking you to love me? C >u you nor love me, Kathleen, when 1 worship you so They were sitting in the shadow, and he put his arm around her and tried to press his lips to hers; but she drew back from iiini, saying with simple, quiet dignity: “I am only a poor sewing girl. Mr. March mont with nothing but the honest name my mother left me. Does that give you any | right to trifle with me?” ' t He saw that she was not to be lightly won, and hastened to say tenderly: “Dear Kathleen, I am not trifling with you. I ask you if you love me well enough to many me.” She hid her face in her hands. “Tel 1 me, d itiing, will you lie my wife?” Sue raised her head and stretched out her bauds to him, while she cried with a ring of infinite pathos in her sweet voice, “Ah, be kind to me, please; I have no one but you—Vivian!” He wanted to have the wedding immediate ly, but she insisted that she must wait until the expiration of her year of mourning. “But that will be three long months to wait, my pretty Kathleen,” he urged and he used all his persuasive powers to overcome her determination, hut without success. Just six weeks afterwards, Kathleen was going home from work, with several other girls. She had hoped to see her lover that night, but a little note from him told her that important business would detain him, and also take him away from home'for two or three weeks. She was disappointed, but comforted her self with reading again and again the tender words that ended the dainty missive. They passed a church brilliantly lighted up for a’wedding, and at the suggestion of one of their number, turned back to see it. They had not waited long when the organ pealed forth the wedding march, and the bridal procession moved up the aisle. Kath- . ieen joined with the others in murmurs ot t a-lmiration as the bridesmaids passed them; but wh<‘.i the principal couple swept up the aisle, the half-uttered words died on ln-r white lips, as -she neat forward and st red at the handsome bridegroom. lit all the aiar Wage service she heard but the words ‘Vivian’ and “Id::.” V iperceived by her companions, she slipped to the door and waited there until the bi"l.:l party came mit. Then she pressed forward, and h r shabby dress brushed against the rich attire of the many friends who were congratulating the young couple. S c watched her opportunity, and when she cuul 1 speak to him without at'ranting n- ti •e.sh,' 11iti In r hand ok Vivi-in Marchmont 3 arm. He turned as he felt the light touch The pallor of death e irut? over his face, as he looked into the dark, fiery eyes of the girl against whom he had planned such a cruel wrong. He had a horrible feeling that she was about to make a scene-, but he was i::is- ta’rer:. Her Irish blood was too proud for that. Howev?r keenly she might feel the Mow, however deeply she might resent the ins.lit. she was strong enougti to hide her pain with a brave face. She uttered a single sentence in a tone that though so low that on ly he could hear it, was full of sting ng, scathing contempt: “Your ‘business’ was in deed important, Mr. Marchmont,” and with one scornful glance, she went out into the darkness. Kite walked mechanically home, and went up to her little atiic room. She ’hrew aside her hat and shawl, ami sat down by the I iny window, looking out at the starlit sky. As yet she had scarcely felt the keenness of the misery that had come to her, for :;l! her hot Iri-ii blood was roused to bit ter anger at the insult. .Then, too, her self- respect was wounded, and she despised her- seif while she hated her lover because of i lie cruel wrong he i ad done her. While she sat there she picked np a news paper that had been wrapped around some parcel, and inly glanced over it, without heeding wliat she read. But. at length she uttered an exclamation of surprise and inter est, and read aloud the advertisement that had caught her wandering attention: “Wanted-Inf-'mixtion of Kathleen Mc Dermott, who left her home in Dublin, Ire land, in May, 1849. Call on or address Mrs. E M. (I, No. 546 Court stre. t.” Before she went to bed,she look a few arti cles from her trunk and marie them >nto a small package. The next morning, before going to her work, she out o» her best suit, a black delaine, and a plain black straw hat. At the dinner hour, instead of going home, she walked rapidly towards Court street, and soon found the place she sought. It was a handsome brick house, standing back from the street, and the large yard was full of beautiful flowers. The silver doorplate bore the name of Conway. She rang the bell tim idly, and asked f.,r Mrs. Conway. She wait ed in the handsomely-furnished hall until a lady came down, and in answer to her ques tion, Kathleen said: “I saw this advertisement in the ‘Ava lanche,’ and ” Mrs. Conway’s Dale face flushed, and she interrupted the girl. “Come in here, please,” and she opened the door of a small library. “Now, tell me what you know of Kathleen McDermott.” “It was my mo*her’s name ma’am, and I thought she might be the one you meant. Do you think she is?” Mrs. Conway smiled at her simplicity. “Tell me something about your mother, my dear,” she said kindly. “I’ve some things here that were hers. She died when I was a wee bit of a girl, just soon alter my fa her died ” While speaking she hud opened her little parcel, and now handed Mrs. Conway a hair brooch, 01 the ha k of which was engraved the name “Nora McDermott.” Mrs. Co i way’s land shook as she examined the brood “This « is her.- too,” contiti ued the girl. opening a praye '-book, on t; j- fly-leaf of wnieli was written. i “Kathleen McDermott, from her mother.” I “And here i- my mother’s picture rna’am.” Mrs. < -on way. too much agitated to speak, I took ri:e miniature, ami as her eyes fell oil the fair, girlish face of the portrait, she sud- j deni v hurst into a storm of weeping. ! “Dead! dead!” she sobbed, “oh, my sister, j my sister.” i Then raising her head, she dashed away i her tears, and embracing the half frightened i Kathleen, she sail: j “Your mother was my only sister, child, j and I haw been seeking her for years.” j In answer to Mis. Conway’s eager ques tions, Kathleen told what she knew of her ; mothers history; for Kathleen McDermott’s ! kindred had heard nothing of her since she had left home and friends for the sake of j handsome, penniless Harry Sullivan, nine teen veal's before. The young husband and wife hi-fi died within a few months of each other, leaving their baby girl dependent on Harry’s mother. The old Indy, though poor, was well educated, and while she worked hard to feed and clothe the little one, she taught her to read and sew, and oared for her in every»way until old age and blindness shifted the burden of support from the brave, tired old shoulders to the strong, fresh young ones. A11 the story of her single life, Kathleen told, except one chapter, the one that bad given light and shadow to it all. Then Mrs. Conway told how, ever since her own marriage, she had sought her truant sister. “And now, my dear child,” she concluded, “1 have found a beloved daughter, aod you have found one who will be a loving mother to you; and I know my husband will give you a daughter’s place in liis heart." ******* At twenty, Mrs. Conway’s niece was the belle of Memphis. Hhe had been pretty, very pretty, in her overworked girlhood, despite her pale eherks and eoar-e garments: now, with tile glow of health mantling her cheeks, and the brilliance of intellectual cul ture shining from her splendid eyes, with the shimmer of silk, the mist of lace, and the gleam of jewels to enhance her loveliness, she was superb, she was dazzling in her beauty. A year of triumph in society failed to mar her delicate bloom, and she was still the most beautiful woman in the Bluff City. All this time she had seen nothing of Vivian Mavcb- mont. She heard incidentally that he was abroad with his wife whose health was very precarious. One snowy winter morning, Kathleen came to her aunt, and nestling down on a cushion it her feet, said: “Auntie, dear, I want to tell you some thing.” A quiver in her voice and a shy color in the delicate, highbred face told Mrs. Conway what was coming. “I have promised to marry Col. Ives.” “Colonel Ives!” repeated Mrs. Conway. “Why, Kathleen! How can you?” “YYhy not?” asked the girl, with a little ring of defiance in her voice. “Is he not a ' noble, cultivated, honorable gentleman?” “Yes, rejoined her aunt, dubiously. ‘’Cer tainly he is all thar, and old enough to lie your father. He must Ite twenty-five venrs your senior, at leas'.” j Twenty-six,” corrected Kathleen, laugh I mg. ! “The antiquated old fossil!” ejaculated j Mrs. Conway. “Now Auntie. T know yon like the Colonel ever so much, don’t yon? and you didn’t think him a hit fossilife**ous until now. r “No,” admitted her aunt. “Colonel Ives ; is a warm-hearted, honest man, and would Io\e his wife <lcvofe<lly. If it- wore any one ! but you, my little girl' I should say his wife l was indeed ;i happy woman.” i And why shouid no f l possess the treas- j ure ot g () )f j man ’ s love? n j Kathleen’s voice quivered, and her eyes ; grew dark with unshed tears. Her aunt stooped and kissed her forehead. “My dear, 1 will not say another word. I Better Ite an old man’s darling than a young Hum’s slave,” she added, lightly, j A bitter smile flitted across the girl’s proud, 1 sweet mouth. “Or a you eg man’s dupe,” she thought, ! with a 'brill of pain at the dark memory of ; that terrible precipice over which her un wary feet had so nearly slipped in the long | ago. Six years had not dulled the agony' of j self-scorn that had convulsed her then, nor I had she regained her faith in lover’s words. I Bhe had lieen loved, and loved truly’ too, in j her brilliant beilehood, but she had trusted , none, until this gray haired man had asked I her, in his simple, Straightforward fashion j to be his wife. He told her that he did not, ' could not, expect, her to love him yet, but if she would trust herself to him, he would try patiently to win her heart in the years when she should be his wife. “That is,” he said, a littie anxiously, “if you do not already care for some other man. Do you? Be true with me, Kathleen!” “No,” she answered slowly, and shivered a little at the memory of her early love- tiream. “No, I love no one else.” Something in her tone, or was it the shadow in her eyes?—made him look at her keenly. “I love no one else!” she repeated, with sudden passion, “do you not believe me?” “As I believe in truth itself,” he answered solemnly. “I was afraid that a younger man might have already won your heart." She stood beside him, ami clasping her hands, she looked straight into his eyes, and said in a voice of infinite pathos. you are better to me than any did not, nor did she tell him that sorrowfm chapter of her early life. Shesaidto herself: •'ll would only make room fur suspicion. It is all over now; let it go.” And so siie held her peace. Ah! if she had only told him then! When the spring violet’s bloomed, there was a quiet wedding at Hi Paul's church. And two blocks away, Vivian Marchmont’s wife lay dying. Colonel Ives and his wife spent a yepr or | more in travel, and then came back to their i beautiful home in Memphis. It had been the brightest year of Kathleen's life. The evil I memory that had haunted her seemed exor- ' cised at last, and she rested secure in her husband’s love. I Tnere were numerous receptions and enter tainments after their return, and upon one of these occasions she met Vivian March mont. How he paled as he first looked into her splendid, scornful eyes! He had l>eeii passionately in love with her when she was only a pretty sewing girl, but with this roy al looking woman he became madly infatuat ed. Her coldness, so marked as to amount to positive rudeness, only rendered him more determined in his attentions. ; One afternoon she was making some calls, 1 and as she was about to step into iier carriage ; to return home, Mr. Marchmont came up. “Aillow me to assi-t you,* he said, and when she was seated, he came and took the vacant place beside her. The carriage moved off before sh,* had time to recover from her speechless amazement at his audacity. “I have so wanted to speak with voualone, my dear Mrs. Ives,” he began, “and I can never succeed in doing so. Why so cruel ? Is the gallant Colonel so chary of your smiles ?” “Mr. Marchmont,” she exclaimed at last, “you shall account to my husband for this insult. Will you have the goodness to leave my carriage immediately ?” “No, no,” lie answered coolly. “Please.do not tell the Colonel. It might lead to the disclosure of a romantic little episode that you would not care to tell.” “I have no cause to be ashamed of any thing,” she answered proudly. “Does your husband know that yon were engaged to me ?” Her lips moved but no sound catne from them. Ah 1 why had she not given that fatal secret into her husband’s keeping long ago ? “I knew that he did not,” he exclaimed, triumphantly. “And you cannot prove, can you, that the ‘mock marriage’ never took place between us t Stop, do not call your driver now and make a scene in the street! I tell you, Kathleen. I had no other way of speaking to yon. You have heaped scorn upon me; you have driven me mad by your coldness. Forget that you are a wife ? no! I do not forget it; bat I love you—love you so that I would risk my worthless soul to win you. And you loved me too. Kathleen, in the oltl days. You shall love nie again—I swear it by high Heaven. I do not believe that you care for the old dotard you have married ” “Hush!” she interrupted, white with pas sion. “Not one word shall you utter against my husband! He is as far above you as the heavens are above the earth, and I love him —yes, love him, Vivian Marchmont,as I nev er did love you!” “Quite dramatic, my dear Mrs. Ives!” His thin lips curled in a sardonic, smile, but his black eyes were burning like coals of fire. “And since you adore this venerable speci men—don’t clench your pretty fingers, you might tear those dainty gloves—no doubt you prize his affection for you ? Ah! I have touched the chord that thrills! Well, you know he is proud—do you think his love is stronger than his pride ? Do you think he would love and cherish his lovely young wife if there were a stain on her fair fame ?” Then, suddenly changing his tone, he ex claimed: “Don’t drive me mad! You think you can cast me off as you would a creeping insect, but I warn you not to trifle with me. I can blast your fair name if 1 choose. Love me, Kathleen, or ” “Or what ? Do you think yourself worth a pussing thought—much less a woman’s [CONCLUDED ON EIGHTH PAGE.]

Georgia Historic Newspapers

The sunny South. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1875-1907, September 11, 1880, Image 1