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THE 8UNNT SOUTH, ATLANTA, GEORGIA, DECEMBER 3,1892.
AT THE ELEVENTH HOUR.
A Story of Life in the South, and of
Adventures in New York City.
BY MAKY E. BRYAN.
CHAPTER XX.
nemo’s story.
It was the hermit of Mystic Island.
He stood there iu t he sumptuous room
—the same weird, grotesque figure she
had encountered so often in the old
woods about the lake—the impas-ive,
colorless face; the gray, shaggy hair;
the long, gray beard; the eves heavy-
lidded, dreamy; only now and then
emitting gleams like that of fire under
smouldering ashes—the tall, stooped
figure, with its rusty, black mantle—
the hat slouched over the heavy brows.
{Strange apparition to appeir in the
midst of those elegant surroundings.
“Nemo!” cried Ruth. “Is it pos
sible t ills is you—here in this far city ? ”
“All places are alike to Nemo, the
nomad,” he answered.
She starred at the sound of his voice.
She stared at him bewildered. Thar
was not Nemo’s voice—that was not
Nemo’s look—ihe half sad, half humor
mis flash in those eyes no
dreamv and heavy-lidded.
“What is this?” she stammered.
“Who are you? Who was the man
“No;” she Interposed quickly, “I me to hide it. If it is found, I will be
must hear it now; I could not rest; I. accused. Nemo ‘■aw me go into ihe
could not sleep. I would craze myself j woods, and they all know I dislike her.
with doubts of the truth of what you
have told me, unless I can hear some
thing that will clear up the mystery of
what has happened—either this—-or—
I must see Sybil. Take nie to her; let
me see her with my own eyes.”
“Not to-night. She is not well. She
is resting now under the influence of a
sedative. She w r as taken ill at the
theatre. I think something iu the play
brought Graham to her mind. She
still remembers him, in spile of ail 1
can do. Well, then let me go on with
the story, that will make everything
plain to you when it is ended. You
will think me a bad man or a mad one,
I fear, but you must try to put yourself
in the place of a man who lias been
cruelly wronged and thrust into a posi
tion where he is obliged to take under
hand means to get what is his own by
the gift of nature. The one good that
life held for me—was my child. I was
sick. My brother and I had made a
fortune in mining speculations in the
West. lie begged me to go with him
back to England, our native country.
I started with him, but when wo were
about to sail for New York, I decid 'd
otherwise. I could not leave the land
longer j that held my child. I had heard that
I my wife had married
helped to embitter me—but now I
learned by merest accident that she
was dead. I thought of my child—
tbar, left me just-now?”
*• ?T7> my worst enemy,” Nemo; orphaned ami living with people who
answered; then added will* a humor
ous sparkle in his eye: “They say a
man is his own worst enemy.”
Bha dui not understand; she con
tinued to look ixi him iu wide-eyed
bewilderment.
AS! at once his band went lip to his
head. In the twinkling of an eye the
giav bair, the gray beard were gone;
a band kerchief, wet in perfumed
water, had obliterated the lines under
the < yes and about the mouth; the
stooped figure straightened; the rusty
cloak dropped away, and instead of old
Nemo, t tie tramp, Ruth saw before her
the stalely stranger who had rescued
her from the evil house.
She dropped into a seat. She could
nor u* :er a word.
He stood looking down at her, a smile
lighting Ids fine eyes.
“ You do not wonder now that I
wore not of her blood. A feeling came
to me that she would need me in the
future. I must stay and watch over
her. It is as true as it is strange, that
the gift of foreseeing comes in a degree
to those who lead a life of solitary
thought and self-communion. Instinct
warns them as it does animals. 1 could
n»*t shake > if the foreboding about my
child. I determined to see her; to
hover about where she lived and to
possess myself of her if T could. 1 put
my money in a bank in Now York aud
disguised myself effectually. I could
do this, having been an actor. Then I
went once more to that town where 1
had had my shameful trial and convic
tion. I found that Sybil lived at lAks-
wo xl, and I went there, I saw my
daughter, she was theu foul teen—a
rose with its sweetest leaves yet Added.
I remember she smiled and spoke
No, it must not be found. We must
come here to-night and bury It. Claude,
will you meet me here at midnight?
You must. Promise me yon will.”
“I will come.” He gasped the words,
rather than spoke them, then he broke
away from her and flcu like a thing
pursued. She too ran off in a different
direction. 1 was left with the knowl
edge that my child was lying dead,
murdered somewhere in the woods.
I was not long in finding her. She
lay behind a large rock; she was half
covered with dead leaves. I bent down
and raised her in my arms. At first
I thought she was dead, but I found
that her heart still beat, though faint
ly. Blood was trickling from a wound
iu the back of her head. I lighted a
pocket lamp, for it was already dusk
in the forest, and examined the wound.
I had studied surgery in England be
fore I became mad about the stage. I
felt sure the skull was not fractured;
insensibility had come from concus
sion of the brain, in concussion of
the brain, the patient lies like one dead
for hours, often for days. When it is
fatal, they never arouse; they sink
insensibly into death. Iu Paris hos-
- piculs, they use the galvanic battery.
again—Unit 1 had a battery in my cabin on the
island. I determined to take Sybil
there. At last, fate-—or Providence—
had thrown my child into my arms.
1 hurried back to the Crane’s to get
my horse and the light spring wagon
i:^ which I had brought the coffin.
When I got to the house no one was
seining; the dead girl lay alone in the
front room. Silas Green was snoring
in the shed room where Samp lay ill.
lae widow was wrapped in thedeeo
sleep induced by opiates. The lighted
caudles were shedding their waxen
tears in the strong draught, at the head
and foot of the coffin. 1 looked in at the
dead girl. It struck me suddenly that
the white face bore a resemblance to
that other fuce I had left in the woods
pillowed on my old cloak. The slender
shape, the golden hair were almost
alike. Then this corpse was dressed in
Sybil's clothes; even the shoes were
the little jet-embroidered slippers she
had Drought to wear in the sick room—
she had put thorn on the dead girl
claimed old acquaintanceship, or that I kindly to me the first time we
recognized you when I saw you in the
9trrer,” he said at last.
Tin* mention of the meeting in the
street aroused her.
• “Tell me,” sh« cried eagerly, “The
a*ly—who was with you—who is she ?
—what is her name?”
“ Her name,” slowly repeated the
iWisdwiur<d i\omo, 14 her name is Sybil
Andrews.”
“Sybil Andrews? Sybil Andrews—
here—alive ? Ob, speak! ”
“Svbit Andrews—alive; here, under
tiffs roof.”
“ Alive! Nor. murdered! Oh, God,
I thunk thee!’’
Her head fell hack against the chair.
She iiad gone through strange trials
to-chy, but tins crowning, overwhelm-
iug joy was nuve than she could bear.
She had fainted.
She quickly came to herself. Nemo
was bending over her, spriukling her
face with water. She looked at him
mutely; then recollection came to her.
She sat up at once. “I am well; lam
quite well,” she said, wiping the drops
of water from her face. “ Let me hear
you say again what you told me just
now. You were not deceiving me?
I did not dream it. You said Sybil
Andrews—my cousin—was alive.”
“She is alive; she is here in this
Imus;- with me.”
“* With you ? wliat right have you
y >
“The holiest right,” he interrupted
- “that of her father”
“Father—Sybil’s father? Oh! w'hat
Is all this?”
She put her hands to her head as if
to steady her whirling braiu. “Sybil’s
father is dead; he Las been dead for
year-,” she said.
“Mo; he was reported dead, but all
men are not dead, who are reported to
be. There are many men alive to-night
whom the world believes to lie dead.
I am one of them. But it Is not my
fault that I still have my life. I tried
to put an end to it. Rather than be
dragged back to Aitamont to die on
tlie ga*lows for a deed that was no
crime, but an act of justice, I shot my
self in the jail of the California town
they had tracked me to. My brother
was w ill* me in the cell; I had slipped
the pistol from his pocket—he saw me
as 1 pressed the trigger, and knocked
the weapon aside in time to save me.
There was only a flesh wound, but it
Med terribly, and the shock and the
faintmss made me swoon. My brother
cried out that I had killed myself.
The officers, who had come to take me
back were wailing outside. They rush
ed in and saw me lying unconscious
In my blood. They went away, be
lieving me dead. Aly brother’s money
and his influence did the rest. The
physician, who examined me, was his
friend; the coroner, and the jailor were
bribed. I was free from prison walls;
but I was bound forever by the need
that I should be dead to the world—to
all I had known and loved—all but my
faithful brother—I w T ent away with
him—and— But this is a long story,
Ruth—and you have had enough to
to kill you already to-night. Let it
wait until to-morrow.”
Iffy heart yearned towards her
met.
with
after I had laid the corpse in the coffin.
With the sudden sense
semblance between them,
of the re-
au idea
liie intensity of a heart that has hut flashed into my brain. I would leave
one hope in the world. 1 determined
to live ne >i her. I built the log cabin
in the is’and swamp, and for three
years I lived there—seeing my child
marly every day, watching ov*r her.
When Katharine Earle came into in r
life, I recognized Ut once that through
her w«.uld eoruo the evil I had felt was
hoveling over Sybil. Instinct was
right as it always is. One night I saved
my child’s life, which hud linen left in
the hands of a woman who hated her.
After that niglii, when I bent over
Sybil’s lw*d and brought her sweet
young life back from the gates ofdeaih,
I loved her more than ever, and 1
vowed wirii bitter resolution -to claim
her as my own. Many times I was on
the point of revealing myself to her,
but I was held back by the dread that
she would shrink from me. It mad
dened me when I found that she had
promised hersel' in marriage to Harvey
Graham—the nephew of the hard old
judge my bitter enemy, who bad pro
nounced* the sentence of death upon
me. I determined the marriage should
never take place, I would carry her off’
secretly ; l could not carry her away
openly, it would lead to suspicion,
inquiry, and an almost certain betrayal
of my secret. I had a shuddering hor
ror of being made a prisoner again.
That day—the day she disappeared—
I heard that she would be married in
three days. The news made me des-
r ?rate; I determined to kidnap her,
made up my mind to carry her off’
that night, when she would watch, as
I thought, by the corpse of Amy Crane.
But Carroll came and took her away.
He returned to the cottage to bring back
the key she had inadvertently taken
with her. I watched him out of sight,
and as he disappeared in the woods one
of those strange prescient trances came
over me; during the minute it lasted I
saw Sybil lying on the ground in the
woods bleeding and lifeless. 1 tried to
E ut the vision aside os foolish, but it
eld me with the strength of truth,
and then I suddenly remembered that
I had seen Kathariue entering the
woods when I was on my way to the
cottage with Amy Crane’s coffin. I
left the house ana followed the path
Carroll had taken. When I reached
the thick grove of oaks near the high
wood, I heard footsteps coming towards
me. I came to a stand still; screened
by a tree I waited and they came on,
and stopped dose to where I stood. A
voi'-e—broken and agitated, but I rec
ognized it as Katharine’s—said:
“It must be buried; it must not be
found here. You must help me to
bury it.”
“No, no;” he muttered shuddering,
“I can’t touch -it.”
“Coward!” she sneered. Then she
began tp plead. “Oh! Claude, don’t
shrink from me; don’t desert me.
You know I never meant to do it. I
never meant to kill her, when I fluug
her against the rock. It maddened
me when she came upon us, and said
she would tell her brother I had met
you again. I’d give my right arm to
undo it, but it can’t bo undone. Help
tiie corpse of Amy Crane in the woods
Where I had found Sybil. Katharine
would come at the hour of midnight
to bury her supposed victim; she
would be punished, as she deserved, by
remorse and fear of discovery. If the
body was ever found, &5guiU could
not be fixed upon her, and the discov
ery would confirm the impression I
wanted to make—that Sybil was dead.
Theu she would not be burned for and
traced out. Then I could feel she was
mine securely. \
The thought seemed to me an inspi
ration ; I aeted on it at once. I lifted
the light form from the casket and
bore it out to the wagon. I put iu its
place in the coffin—what think you ?
The two sacks of flour I took from my
wagon. Then I screwed down the cot-
fin lid. 1 would come back before day
and fasten it down more firmly, it
would not be opened at the grave; fear
of contagion would rejiel the most
curious.
I drove back through the deepening
dusk to the place where I had left
Sybil. As I lifted the corpse out, a
strange thing happened. Iu my haste
and excitement, I caught my foot iu
the wheel and fell forward with all my
weight—the corpse in my arms. Toe
head struck the sharp edge of the rock
with terrible force. I felt sure that the
skull was fractured. I shuddered re
morsefully, as if the fair, dead thing
could feel the blow, and I thought,.“if
the body is ever found, the coroner
will decide that death came from a
murderous blow on the head.”
I laid the corpse down close beside
the living girl, and put on it, the little
silken, blood-stained hood I took from
Sybil’s head. I felt sure that tho-e who
came to bury the body, to-night by a
clouded moon, would never push back
the hood to look at the dead face in
side.
When I gently lifted my child to put
her in the wagon, I caught the gleam
of a diamond upon her hand—Gra
ham’s ring—the seal of a betrothal that
was hateful to me. I drew of! the ring
and put it upon the finger of the corpse.
It would identify the body, if it was
found, yet more fully with that of
Sybil. I covered the dead girl with
the brown autumn leaves, and drove
slowly until I was out of the woods;
then seating myself in the wagon I
held my darling tenderly in my arms,
while my trusty horse went home of
his own accord, easily fording the lake
at the shallow part which he knew as
well as I.
When we reached my cabin In the
swamp, I felt almost secure from dis
covery. Exultantly, I bore mv treas
ure into the back room and laid her
upon the bed. I tried various restora
tives ; at last the battery. When the
electric fluid passed through her frame,
she started, opened her eyes, spoke a
few words, then relapsed into uncon
sciousness. But not so deep as before;
her heart-beat was much stronger, and
I hoped for the best.
She lay two days in the coma which
follows concussion of the brain. On
the third day, she roused from it par
tially, and this condition was accom
panied by inflammation of the brain,
aud fever. Night and day l hung over
her, trying nature’s remedies which I
had learned from the Indians of the
Pacific coast. These and her splendid
vitality brought a cure, far more quick
ly thaii I had dared to hoj»e for. When
she was strong enough, I told her all
that had happened. No; not alb 1
did not tell her how wofully Graham
had been stricken bv her loss, and how
desperately he had sought, and was
still searching for her. I slipped ofl’ my
disguise, and revealed my secret to her;
rather, she knew it before I spoke.
She had seen me last when she was
eight years oid, but she remembered
me when I s oiled; I was inwardly
trembling with apprehension, but her
joy,her passionate sympathy more than
reassured me. Her young heart took
on its filial allegiance with intense de
votion. She willingly consented to go
away with me—secretly; only begging,
that when we w ere at a safe distance,
she might write to her betrothed, and
tell him in part the secret of h^r flight,
and give him leave to follow her and
go with us to England. I consented
to this, fearing to wound her and injure
her health if I refused.
We went away at midnight one
balmy, moon-lighted night; driving
along the quiet road through the woods
and meeting no one, we passed your
home: All was still; the scent of the
roses and honeysuckles was heavy on
the air. When we had gone past it a
little way, Sybil, who was crying soft
ly, beggi*d me to let her get out and
gather some of the flowers to keep for
old friendship’s sake. I waited at the
foot of the hill vvbi'e she ran back.
When she returned trembling and
breathless, she told me that she had
seen you; she stole through the win
dow of your room and kissed you as
you slept, and she laid a curl of her
hair upon your pillow.
We took a north bound train at a
station a few miles abow Altairont.
When we reached New York Sybil
wrote at onco to Graham and to you.
Those long, loving letters never
reached their destination. They were
intrusted to me to mail and I
destroy! d them. I f it that to send
them was too great a ri-.k. 8 :c had
not betrayed my secret, but t-ne clew
she unconsciously gave, was one that
could ’ne followed up, if the letter was
read by a hhsvwd eye. Then I had do
term!nod to break off’ Sybil’s engage
ment to Graham. lie wa* no match
for her, with her beauty and her for
tune-—for she was my brother’s heir
ms well as mine—she could marry the
proudest in England.
But I felt for her £3 I saw how
eagerly she waited for the reply to her
letters, and how depressed she was
j when none came. She wrote again—
| this time to you alone. That letter
j shared the fate ot the others. The
‘ weeks went by and at last, she grew
hopeless, and said she was willing to
go with me to England. I took her to
the beautiful home of our ancestors that
my brother had bought back. Find
ing that she still drooped, I took her
to the Continent, staying for months
in the gay cities of Vienna and Paris.
She enjoyed it ail in a measure, but
her color and her buoyant spirits did
nut come back, and one day when 1
fcuud her crying forlornly, she con
fessed to me that she still loved Gra
ham, and that his faithlessness had
half broken her heart. Then I real
ized there was only one thing for me
to do. My child’s happiness was
dearer to me than 'my own life or my
own freedom. I would take her back
to America, summon Graham to New
York and tell him all.
I have brought her baek—we arrived
here four days ago, but I have not com
municated with Graham. I was
puzzled how to do this. I could not
tell Sybil my plan, and I did not wish
to write to hint myself. When I saw
you on the street to-night, I thought,
“Here is a solution of the problem. I
will tell everything to Ruth Ashton,
whom I can trust; I will get her to
write to Graham telling him to come
to heron a matter of importance. Then,
if he still loves Sybil, I will put my
own feelings aside and consent to their
marriage. They would go hack with
me to England; you would go w’ith
us—at any rate you could keep my
secret, aud no one need ever know
what became of Sybil.”
“No one need kuow!” cried Ruth,
interrupting for the first time this long,
strange story. “No one need know
what became of Sybil ? Oh ! is it pos
sible von do not know—you have not
heard what has happened ? ”
“ I have beard nothing of what has
happened at Lakewood since I left
America. The place held no interest
for me, after I had taken my child
away from it.”
“ But it must have an interest for
you now,” cried Ruth, eagerly. “ The
people must know that Sybil is alive.
She must go back and let herself be
seen, for Charles Carroll lies in a prison
cell to-night, convicted of having mur
dered her.”
“What?” cried Andrews, starting
violently. “My God! is it possible?
In that jail where ”
“Yes; in that jail that once held
you, as a condemned prisoner. Yon
can feel for him.”
“ How could he t cen convicted
—what evidence—-— i ” _
“The most convincing. He was
with her the last time sbe was seen;
he would i»e benefited by her death;
the body was found and fully identi
fied, and there was also found in the
hollow of the live Sybil’s comb,
wrapped in a blood-stained handker
chief with Charles Carroll’s name upon
it. He was convicted of murder in the
first degree. He would have been
sentenced and hung if bis counsel lmd
not, by bard efforts, secured another
trial lor him on the ground that a wit
ness—Nemo—you—as it seems—was
absent. 'That new trial comes up
the day aftir tomorrow. There was
not the slightest hope that the decis
ion would be revoked. He would
condemned to die on the gallows. Oh !
it was God\s hand that forced you to
come back to America; it was his hand
that led me here. 1 had f und Kath
arine. She was here with Claude, but
net even the confession she promised
to write would have established Char
ley's innocence, though it might have
saved ids life. But when they see
Sybil alive—once more—they will
j believe, and that poor sufferer will
! have the chains struck off from his
J limbs; the load lifted from his heart! ”
J Her bauds were clasped; tears of joy
and tlmnkMiluess were welling from
her eyes. For the moment she did not
realize the struggle that was going on
in the breast of the man before her.
His head was help down; his eyes
rested ou the floor; his face was pale
and troubled. But when he raised his
head a moment later, his mouth was
sternly fixed aud his eyes resolute.
“There is nothing, then, but for my
miserable secret to come out—at last,”
he said. “It had to be. I have felt’it
ail along. I could not let my daughter
go back alone with the truth about her
flight unexplained. I could not have
her. good name tainted by even a
doubt. No, it must he known that she
went away with her father. I must
“Stop,” cried Ruth. “Listen tome.
There is no need of your going with
her; no need of yourVeret being dis
closed. Your brother is here with
you ?”
“lie came with us from England.
He went to Philadelphia on business;
he wifi ixj here to-morrow.”
‘ Ttien your brother, who is devoted
to you, will take your place in this.
He will go South with Sybil. Tney
will start to-morrow. He can prove
thar he is her uncle byoiedeiitiala from
a is bankers and business men. He
will take the responsibility of her
flight on himself, lie wifl any that he
carried bis niece aud hcirt&s off with
him to England on the* eve of her mar
riage because he was strongly averse
to that marriage.”
“How will you account for the body
that was found in the woods?”
“Iso not'd to tell the whole truth
about the burled body,” site said, after
a moment*!* thought. ‘ N> ueed to
criminate that wretched woman. She
has been punished—if you could see
her—wreck that she i*, aud poor
Claude is ill in a hospital. No, the
mystery of the body buried under the
oak tree can be explained by telliug
part of the truth. It was put there by
Nemo—the old hermit, known to be
eccentric if not wrong in his head. Jt
must be said that he was Ihe confed
erate of Sybil’s uncle in his plan to
carry her away, and that he,of Disown
accord, devised and carried out the
idea of burying the body of Amy
Crane where, if round, it would scent
to be the remains of the missing Sybil.
A written and sworn to statement eats
be secured from Nemo—that he d:<l
this—iu order to confirm the idea that
Sybil was dead and forestall her being
hunted out and found. No or e need
know the truth except Graham. Hi
deserves to know it. He has mourned
for Sybil aud sought for her devotedly
all these months, and it is due to his
releutless vengeance that poor Charley
is now in chain?. Your prejudice* must
vanish before his devotion to your
daughter.”
Shirley Andrews was silent,standing,
os he had done through most of this
interview*, with his arm haningon tho
mantel piece. At length he raised his
eyes aud looked at her. A sudden
smile lighted his sombre face; he rut
out his hand and laid it on Ruth’s
brown hair.
“Wlmt a head this is!” he exclaim
ed. “What a genius is in here for tin-
tying knotty problems. What a
lawyer you would make, little niece.
You were hard though, upon poor old
Nemo. Wrong in his head? Well,
maybe he is; he has gone through
enough to craze him. But this little
head is a strong or.e. I’ll swear it is.
There is not another so young and in
experienced, that would’nt have given
way under the strain and excitement
of this night’s experience.”
“Don’t praise my head,” she said,
smiling through her tears. “It is turn
ing round now like a weather vane in
a whirl-wind. It has bad aiiille moro
to stand than you know of. It was
only to-day that I found Claude and
Katharine, after my long search for
them. I had rested my hopes for Char
ley on her confession or Claude’s. But
this is better—oh how much belter!”
“He will owe everything to you.
You arc as loyal as you arc brave,* my
child. You little women have a!wavs
astonished me. You havo the pluck
and endurance of heroes. But you
must go to rest now. You shall have
your way. All shall be done as vou
wish, Sybil, and my brother St. Clair,