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2 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,