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THE 8UNNY SOUTH' ATLANTA. GEORGIA' SEPTEMBER 30 1891,
5
rnoft optimistic that
^DothcoraeW^ thereat!-
, ulunuei“ n "‘ ,ebt -
a ifne. are nice,” the wnter said;
"TSy show a dainty touch;
n «nr naper can t have reaa,
But vo u t r ( ‘ much.
»' e thl ^'rnfr i/out of date;
This WPfff.tiVthing,
Xf, ; , must ftrowl at fate
8M“i,'”ro|i P all your mirth.
W ?Sne and fresh air.
indiend us iu ten dollars’ worth
AD o e jLom and dark despair.
u _.lohn Kendrick Bangs.
THKCAVEKN queen.
again.
(CONTINUED FBOM FIRST PAGE.)
she recoiled from the po3si-
Sf of encountering the Woman in
I * what if she should once-more
fill under her power! What if she
ebould meet her and fall once more
under the spell that the strange siren
had exercised over her in the
ravern! Amy shuddred at the
thought.
“I might follow her once more into
the cavern, then to live forever shut
from the light of day,” she said to her
self, “or she might lead me to follow
her over the world if she went away—
as she declared she would. Has she
goner 1 wish 1 knew. I dare not ask
lir. olcott. flow black he looked when
he knew she had the gold—the means
to get away. She was cunning to
keep the secret of the treasure we had
unearthed from him—and she so fond
of him—or pretending to be.”
Hut though Amy shrunk from visit
ing the Haunted House, it had a
strange fascination for her. It was a
fascination made up of curiosity—and
the instinctive feeling that the mys
terious Cave woman was in someway
mixed up with her fate.
one day this fascination prevailed
over the repulsion. She gave a naif
reluctant assent when Constance pro
posed that they should explore the
Haunted House.
They were on horseback, returning
from a ride rather longer than usual.
It was late in the day. The sun had
set, but the western glow bathed the
distant mountains and the nearer
ridges with the steep, wooded slopes,
in a flood of yellow splendor.
They dismounted in a pine thicket
in the rear of the house, and fastening
their horses each to a sapling, they
made their way into the yard through
an opening in the inclosure where the
rotten palings had fallen with their
burden of vines.
l’assing through the densely shaded
yard, where the unpruned limbs of ce
dar and arbor vitms stretched them
selves across the grass-grown walks
as if to forbid the step of the invader,
they came to the fire-scarred and half
destroyed old mansion. Amy hesi
tated outside; but Constance, saying,
“Come, let us see how it looks; there
is nothing to be afraid of; I have been
in this old ruin many times alone,”
stepped through the ivy-covered arch
into the hall of the ground floor. Amy
glanced quickly at the room near the
crooked stairway that contained the
secret of the house—the closet with
its inside sliding panel that gave en
trance to the cave.
The door of this room was open.
There was nothing to be seen inside
but the dingy walls and the window
hung with spider-webs.
Constance, standing in the hall,
looked up through the vista of smoke-
blackened walls to the open sky over
head. Then she turned round to Amy
and said:
“Shall we go upstairs? Cousin Hor-
tense tells me that John has had
tne stairway repaired, also the passage
above and tbe two rooms that the fire
did not destroy. I can’t imagine why
be has taken the trouble to patch up
tbe old place. He knew he could nev-
f. r S® 1 oue of his negro servants to
live here.”
“Did the house have its ghostly rep*
asked 0 W ^ en ^ ou knew it?” Amy
.. ^ Wa ? said to be haunted ever since
e tragic, end of poor Miss Rozalis,
ion. 1 ) Wss k an &ed in her room by some
awiess raiders during the war. They
tied her body, no doubt, as it was
•■ver found. When last seen she was
Ringing from a rope’s end. The
iri, ' i Were trying to make her tell
ere she had hidden her jewels,
out you have heard her story. Of
oui^eth* negroes believed that her
nnffi k as they cailed it, would walk
tit her bones were found and got
ura!. 1,6 i & l burial. The ‘sperit’ took no
*" ia ? lape those days, but now I
'range storie^ of a tall, veiled
tL f ttr ' Wltl1 trailing „ Jr robes and
n? th* 1 *!.? 1 a cor P se - You have heard
i, ''Oman in Cray?”
u ^_ es >” Amy answered.
s .'i iave y°o ever seen her?” Con-
] 0 b c f af, kod t suddenly, turning a keen
ook upon the girl. “Hester V“ me
'cat lt was 1U tbig old houge Qi the
& you r " UD<1 “ thlt " oct <> r Olcott
set!! *“ 8 in ,his house—and—I did
1 You don’t mean to
6 &w the ghost?”
say that you
“I saw the Woman in Gray.”
Constance looked at her incredul
ously. At last she said :
“How did she look?”
“Don’t ask me—don’t speak of her.
She might appear. I never wish to
see her again 1” cried Amy, in a
trembling voice.
“My poor child!” Constance cried,
quickly, putting her arm arojnd
Amy’s shoulders. “No doubt you
were frightened and feverish, and im
agined you saw it. There is no such
thing as a ghost, you know. We won’t
talk about it; we will get out of this
gloomy place at once.”
“No, let us go upstairs. I am not
such a coward, believe me. And I
really want to see that room I was in.
I have such a vivid recollection of
it.”
“Come, then. I will hold your
hand.”
They went up the crooked staircase
and opened the door of the room that
Amy remembered so well. All was as
she had seen it last.
Some one had rehung the old pic
ture, the falling of which had awaken
ed Hampden—the picture of the wom
an’s dimly defined shape and face
shrouded in mist or wreathing smoke,
with only one white hand held out.
There was the worm-eaten book-case,
with its torn old books, and there the
faded sofa on which Hampden had
lain, and slept that fateful sleep dur
ing which the gray specter had lured
away his ward—the young heiress of
the Chsrlton millions.
The door of the other room was fast
ened, and Constance, after pushing
against it in vain, said, as Amy had
said to her guardian :
“This must be the Bluebeard cham
ber.”
Amy wondered if Lucrezia might
not be inside. She knew this was her
upper-world boudoir where she came
to enjoy the sunshine and pure air.
“Even the key-hole is stopped up,”
Constance said, lifting her head after
an inspection of that aperture.
They went down stairs, and were on
the point of quiting the haunted house,
when a sudden impulse made Amy
say:
“Let us take a look at this room,
and she stepped inside the room into
which opened the closet (comprising
the recess under the staircase) that
contained the secret door of tbe cav
ern. She tried the door of the closet;
it was fastened. Constance had open
ed the door of a smaller closet on the
opposite side of the room in the recess
made by the big, old-fashioned chim
ney.
“What an enormous dirt-dauber
nest!” she cried. “See, Amy!”
Amy went and looked at the work
of the insect-architect, whose neat clay
houses frescoed the walls of the closet.
All at once they both started and
looked at each other. They had heard
the sound of voices issuing, as it seem
ed, from the ground beneath
them.
“What can it mean?” whispered Con
stance.
Amy knew what it meant. The
voices came from the cave. Two per
sons were standing talking near the
mouth of the underground passage.
In the stillness the muffled sound of
their voices oould be heard. Amy
thought she recognized their voices.
She felt that she must protect her
benefactor’s secret, and she caught the
arm of Constance, saying:
“Let us go.”
But Constance was disposed to find
out about the mysterious-sounding
voices. Her momentary fright had
passed off. She assumed the attitude
of intense listening. But now a shuf
fling step in the hall outside broke
upon the other sound. The step came
nearer. Hurriedly Constance pulled
Amy into the little closet beside the
chimney, and drew the door partly to
after them. The next instant they
saw through the crack in the closet
door the squat figure and black, ex
pressionless face of Doctor Olcott's
body-servant.
He carried a wallet slung across one
brawny shoulder, both ends of the
sack seeming to be well filled. He
had also a covered basket. Amy at
once understood that he was carrying
articles—perhaps provisions and fruit
—into the cavern lor Lucrezia. He
took a key from his pocket, unlocked
the door of the closet, and went in
side.
“He has been stealing something
that he is hiding in the closet, or may
be there’s a cellar,” whispered Con
stance. “And John trusts that negro
as he would ”
She did not finish the sentence. The
closet door opened suddenly, and
there stepped out—first, John Olcott
himself, and after him a woman of
slender shape and young and lovely
face—Lucrezia.
Her gray ghost garment trailed
after her, but the only disguise, the
mask and white wig, she held in her
hand wrapped about with the gray
veil. Her golden hair made a soft
frame for her fair face, in the dim,
yellow, rose-tinted light that came
through the cobwebbed panes she
looked supernaturally beautiful.
Amy made a movement as though
she would step out from her conceal
ment; but Constance seized her arm
and held it with a vise-like grasp.
“I must leave you,” Doctor Olcott
was saying to the fair vision.
“Can’t you go with me up to my
room,” pleaded the silver-sweet voice
that sent a thrill through Amy’s
nerves. “I am so lonely. You stay
with me such a little bit now. It is
because she is at your house. You
hurry away from me to be with her.
You used to love her. You love her
still. You will marry her now that
“Hush!” he interrupted, almost
harshly. “What nonsense you talk!
Love and marriage are not for me
You know that well. I have accepted
my fate.”
“But you are unhappy under it
And it is all my doing. It is because
of your pledge to me that you can not
marry and be happy. You feel that
your duty is to me. I am the burden
you must bear—by yourself. John,
am not worth it! Fling me off! Let
me go away,or let me die!” she cried
passionately, tnrowing her arms
around him, and dropping her head on
his breast.
He soothed her with touches upon
her hair and her forehead, as Amy
had seen him quiet her hysterical out
breaks in the cavern. He bent down
and kissed her.
“Calm yourself,” he said, gently, as
if he were speaking to a grieved child
“Don’t blame yourself about anything
that concerns me. I am doing very
well, only it distresses me to see you
unhappy and to hear you talk of go
ing away.”
“But it is so dreary here!” she said
lifting her head from his breast. It
is so dreary. It is death in life!”
“I know it. I have done all I could
to make it endurable, but it is dreary
to you, I know. But suppose you
went away—what then? Something
might befall you—you well know
what. You would forget to be guard
ed. You would not be prudent, f
could not trust you!”
“You could not trust me?” she said
reproachfully. “Ah! you don’t know
how cunning and guarded I can be.”
“You would not keep it up. I know
you. You would betray yourself, or
you would do some other thing as bad
as—”
“You shall not abuse me so,” she
cried, half in passion, half in child
like petulance, as she put her hand
over his mouth. “Yes, yes, there is
truth in what you say. 1 cant answer
for myself. I will stay, for your sake
my dearest. Only I am afraid you are
tired with bothering about me. And
I am so lonely. I see you so little, and I
have no one else,—no one in all the
world.”
“I know it, poor child,” he said, and
kissed her again. “I will come to
night for a tittle while. Wait for me
in the room above.”
With his arm around her, he walked
beside her out of the room. Then they
heard a woman’s light step and rus
tling garments ascending tbe stairs
and a man’s firm tread on the ground
outside the house.
Constance drew a deep- quivering
breath. She stood still, as it she were
transfixed. Amy took her hand and
led her out of the closet, out of the
haunted house, along tbe walks out
stretched with interlacing tree bran
ches to the pine thicket where their
horses were contentedly waiting for
them, cropping meantime such leaves
and weeds as they could reach.
Constance spoke for the first time
since receiving the shock.
“Sit down on this rock by me for a
minute, Amy; I am not equal to riding
home yet.”
They sat down on the gray bowlder.
“So this is John’s secret?” Constance
said, her voice unnaturally calm and
hard.
“We had no right to spy upon him !
Amy cried, remorsefully. “Why did I
insist upon going into that room?”
“It was fate,” her friend answered.
“It was meant that I should see and
hear what I have seen and heard—
that 1 should know what it was had
changed him so. So this is the ghost
of the haunted house! Upon my word
I admire the ingenuity of this device
on the part of my highly respectable
cousin to cover up his intrigue!”
She laughed a hard, bitter laugh.
Then suddenly she flung her arms
around Amy and broke into passion
ate weeping.
It did not last long. She soon gained
control over herself.
CHAPTER XXIX.
A BARGAIN SEALED WITH A KISS.
“Dear child, forgive me,” she said,
raising her head and drying her eyes.
How cruelly thoughtless 1 am to sub
ject you to this. You have care enough
of your own.”
“I would be glad to share your grief
if it would lighten it for you,” Amy
said, speaking out of her full, warm
heart.
“I believe it, dear,
strength to bear this
and to put it behind me out of my life.
The hardest thing is to feel that I
have been deceived in a man on whose
truth and nobleness I would have
staked my life! To find him a hypo
crite—a—”
“Don’t think so hard of him, dear
Mrs. Wharden! He looked so sad—he
talked so kindly to that unhappy
woman. He can’t be bad. We don’t
know all the circumstances.”
“Amy, you are right; and I won’t
But I shall get
disappointment
be bard. I will not give away to weak
woman’s passion—jealousy. This was
forced on him by circumstances—by
his mother’s exactions. She would not
let him marry, and a man must have
love. Once he loved me. A man can
not be faithful as a woman can. It is
not his nature. I have loved him
since we were children together. Then
I became his promised wife. His
mother separated us. She did not
want him to marry any one.
A wife would take him away
from her. She wanted all his love
—all his attentions. She had been
stricken down in her pride and her
beauty by the blow that she had mar
ried an adventurer—an associate of
criminals. He had no right to the
name and title of a French count un
der which he had married her. He
had been fined in a French court for
counterfeiting, and narrowly escaped
the galleys, the verdict being ‘not
proven.’ It was said that be bad a
wife in Paris, and that his marriage
to John's mother was not a lawful
one. The shame of having all this
published and gossiped about nearly
killed tbe proud woman. Her son
was all her comfort. She leaned on
him heavily. He gave up all business
and devoted himself to her. He gave
up society and his friends; then she
wanted him to give up me. She did
all she could to break up tbe engage
ment. At last she succeeded. I could
not bear her bitter words, her jealous
interference. I told John our engage
ment was at an end. I think he did
not blame me. He wrote begging me
not to look on this as a final severance
of the tie between us. His mother
was not herself; he must be indulgent
with her; and I—would I not be pa
tient and wait? I did wait; but mat
ters grew worse with poor Hortense
Then came this last blow. You have
neard about her daughter?”
“I have heard something. She took
her own life.”
“Yes; she was flighty and unrelia
ble like her father. They put her in
a convent near Versailles. She did
something there that caused the nuns
to reprimand her and lock her in her
room. She got cut and • ran away
from the convent. Nothing more was
heard of her until her body was found
in the Seine. All this got to be pub
lic—those dreadful newspapers, they
have no mercy. The mother was
crushed. Mina and body both gave
way. She leaned stil more upon John
and became more exacting and morbid
Sli^ would not see me when 1 came.
He too, seemed cold and inhospitable.
1 have thought since that it was due
to the load of care he had on his mind.
But my pride was strong. On the im
pulse of that hurt, resentful feeling I
married a man who had long been a
suitor for my hand—a man I es
teemed, but did not love. He was
much older than I; be had been my
father’s friend. He lived only a year.
I am glad he never knew how little he
filled my heart. He left me young
and rich. I had reason to believe that
society would open its arms to me
but i could only think of John. I knew
he was not happy. I believed he still
cared for me, and I came here to find
out if he still wanted to make me his
wife. I hoped he would see the wis
dom of putting his will against his
mother’s morbid feeling, and that he
would get her to leave this place and
go abroad with us. I found that time
had made her more reasonable. I
won her over to my side the first
night I came. But there was a change
in John. 1 saw it from the first. I
could not understand it. Now I know
the meaning of that something which
seemed to hold him back. It was his
relations with that girl. You heard
her tell him that it was she who stood
between him and love and happiness.
He has hidden her there, She is—
she must be—his— No, I won't speak
of such as she is to you, my child. Oh,
John! who would have believed it of
you? You, a hypocrite—a— No, I
won’t call him that black name—the
man I have loved and honored! l‘oor
John, he must despise himself! How
sad he looked ! Amy, do you think he
loves that woman?”
No; I do not—not as he loves you.
He seemed to pity her, and to want to
be tender with her.”
“She forced herself on him, perhaps.
Her words were very mysterious, so
were his. But he is lost to me all the
same. I will never see his face after
to-morrow. I will leave here to-mor
row. I will go abroad. I must see
new lands, new faces. 1 must have
something to help me forget. Amy,
will you go with me?”
1? Mrs. Wharden, do you mean it?”
1 mean it with all my heart. I want
you. I need you. I want
something—some human being to in
terest myself in. Already I am inter
ested in you. I shall enjoy watching
your development—gifted child that
you are. You will go with me, Amy?”
“Mrs. Wharden. lean not—l would
not feel right to be dependent on you.”
“Ob, you shall earn your keep, you
proud one! Y'ou shall read to me,
talk to me, write my letters. In Paris
you shall learn something to fit you to
be independent. Y'ou shall cultivate
your flue voice, or you shall learn to
paint or to write. Y'ou shall study
some way that shall give expression
to those big bumps of imagination you
world; so am I. Y'ou shall be my
little sister. Our names are almost
the same. Is it a bargain, Amy—be
loved?”
She held her firm, white expressive
hand. Amy laid hers in its palm and
looked up through wet lashes into
the frank, kind eyes that smiled on
her through their tears.
“If I can bring any good to you,take
me—I am yours,” she said.
The firm white hand clasped her
slender one, and the lady said :
“A kiss to seal the bargain. And
now let us get upon our horses; it is
growing dark. This will be our last
night at The Evergreens, and he has
promised to spend it with her,” she
added below her breath.
They rode home rapidly through
the crisp twiligbted air. John came to
meet them. He looked pale and dis
traught. Constance seemed in excel
lent spirits. She ran lightly upstairs
to take off her habit. When she came
down a few minutes later she bad a
heightened color and very brilliant
eyes. She wore a gown of gray gauze
silk over scarlet. Fire smoldering un
der ashes was what it suggested. She
had never in her life been so lovable
as she was to-night—the last night
she would be under the eyes of tbe
min she loved.
He went away soon after tea. She
grew a little paler as she bent ber
head and murmured, “Certainly,” in
response to his request that she would
excuse his absenting himself for a lit
tle while. Her lips curled scornfully
when his mother said something about
poor John being a perfect slave to his
patients.
He came back in an hour. Constance
was sitting at the piano. She played
and sung with spirit and feeling, but
tonight there was no breaking of her
voice when she came to well re
membered* passages in old songs
they had sung together. She was
holding herself in with too firm
a hand. She had never sung so
well—never talked more entertamgly.
When the clock struck eleven every
body started in surprise. The hours
bad slipped by in silken sandals.
Not till now did Constance speak of
her intended departure on the mor
row. She rose after the last stroke of
the clock, saying:
“What am 1 thinking about? I
ought to have been in bed two hours
ago One needs a good night's sleep
before starting to travels Cousin Hor
tense, i have not told you that I am
going to relieve you of my company
tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow! You are surely not
going away tomorrow?” Mrs. Olcott
cried.
Doctor Olcott said nothing. He bad
a look like one suddenly stricken—a
pale, dismayed look.
Yes, I must go in the morning. I
think the train leaves at ten. It will
be a long time, I fear, before we three
shall meet again. I go from here to
New York; there I take the steamer
for Europe.”
“Y'ou are going to Europe—going
alone?” asked Mrs. Olcott, surprise and
displeasure in her voice.
Not going alone,CousinHortense. I
shall have a delightful companion.”
Who is he?” asked John Olcott,
sharply, a jealous, suspicious flash
showing In his eyes.
He? It is not he! Behold my
traveling companion,” drawing Amy
to her side. “Amy has consented to
go with me- to be my little sister. So
i shall not be all alone in the world.”
She spoke lightly, but there was an
undertone of sadness in ber voice;
ber bright glance darkened involun
tarily as it rested on the pale and
troubled face of Doctor Olcott. His
eyes were cast down; a spasm as if
some strong, internal struggle passed
over his features. When he raised
his. eyes there was a look iu them of
sudden resolve mixed with appealing
passion. Constance saw it. She knew
by her quick intuition what he had re
solved to say, and she determined to
forestall it.
* Constance,” he began, “if you are
really going to leave us to-morrow, I
—1—”
“You would suggest that I ought to
hurry off to bed. I know it, and I
will say good-night at once,” she in
terrupted quickly.
Before he could speak again she had
kissed Mrs. Olcott’s cheek in good
night, and making a gay little courte
sy to him, she flung him a kiss from
the tips of her fingers, and glided
from the room.
He had determined to ask to see her
alone for tbe purpose of telling her he
still loved her.- Her woman’s instinct
told her this. A few hours ago it
would have set her pulses to beating
with exultant joy; but now she had
seen the yellow head of another wo
man lying on his breast—had seen him
kiss her lips, had felt
‘Congealing pang that seizes
Tne trusting bosom when deceived.”
She would not listen to him now.
She would keep his shameful secret.
She would not reproach him, for the
sake of the old love; she was sorry
for him; she made excuses for him in
her heart; but her idol had fallen. He
could be nothing to her, and words of
love from him would grate on her ear.
He should not have an opportunity to
speak those words that yesterday she
are blessed with. I will watch your j would have given all her money to
unfolding, and glory in it. You have hear from his lip
no kindred. Y'ou are alone in the I [continued on twelfth page.J