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THE BUNNY SOUTH. ATLANTA. GEORGIA 'OCTOBER 7 1893
SUNSET.
For Thm Sunny South.
In the faint, clear bine of a winter sky,
With its pale, jrray clonds as they harry past,
Thete’e no warmth of color till night draws
nign,
Chilling the air with its angry blast.
And then when the shadows fall sombre and
low,
A thousand bright tints steal ont one by one;
And a magical splendor will come and go.
With that great sphere of light that we call
the snn.
Bat sometimes the bine tarns to ashen gray,
With no red or gold on its edges borne;
With never a glimmer and never a ray,
The son goes from ns until the dawn.
And so with oar lives. When the end has oome,
The blue of oar mid day fades slowly away.
For some is the sunset all golden. And some
Pass oat in the dask of a sky that’s gray.
Bat after the blackness of night has past
Are morning’s bright banners flang forth and
unfurled.
And after the sharpness of death, at last,
Through amethyst gates gleams a better
world.
N. Y. City.
—C. R.
THE CAVERN QUEEN.
(CONTINUED FROM FIRST PAGR.)
nor lace could give more distinction
to the adorable face, the exquisitely
graceful figure.
“Aimed” exclaims Mrs. Wharden,
and her eyes beam with satisfaction
as they take in the lovely figure from
head to foot.
Aimee 1 Can this be the little Amy
the awkward, undeveloped girl from
the backwoods of Florida?
She has changed wonderfully. The
physical change is the least important,
though that is great, for she is taller
by several inches than the lost girl
whom Doctor Olcott found in the
haunted bouse and nobody came to
claim.
Her figure, at that time narrow-
shouldered and flat-chested—the figure
of a girl scarcely past childhood—is
now fully but delicately developed.
Her hair has darkened to a rich shade
of warm brown, and the childish curls
of that day are now wavy locks simply
and picturesquely arranged. The lit
tle, heart-shaped face has taken a ful
ler and finer contour, and the Psyche
head is set with a lily-like stateliness
on the white neck.
But the change in expression—the
spiritual change, is still greater.
Travel among scenes associated with
heroic and romantic deeds, seeing
beautiful works of art, meeting cul
tured people, hearing exquisite music,
and engaging in earnest art-work—all
these uplifting influences have touch
ed Amy’s features to a nobler molding
and given a poetry to her glance and
movements.
Gifted souls develop as quickly and
wonderfully as tropic flowers when
they are given the warmth aBd light
of congenial surroundings. And the
soul develops the body.
Amy Wharton is beautiful in a rare,
exquisite, flower-like way. She is not
conscious of her supreme charm; she
is as child-like as ever, and her moods
are often touched with seriousness,
sometimes with sadness, when she re
members her loneliness as regards
kinship with any living being, her
mother’s death, her going away from
the old homestead and her aged grand
father with those two strange men,
one of them calling himself her guard
ian, ftnd the sudden, complete, and
singular way in which she beoame
separated from them, with their sil
ence afterward.
Recalling these strange experiences,
Amy would often drop her brush
when she was painting, and sink her
head upon her hand in wondering
oosjecture.
But these sad moods are only flitting
olouds. Amy is sunny-hearted; she
has the affection of a warm-hearted,
generous woman, and, her heart whis
pers, she has the love of a brilliant
man.
“Your old friends at The Ever
greens would never know you, child,
if they could see you tonight,” Con
stance says, looking at her with affec
tionate admiration.
It was the first time in two years
that she had spoken of the friends at
The Evergreens. She had never men
tioned Doctor Olcott’s name since she
left his house that morning in Octo
ber four years ago, but Amy felt sure
she had not forgotten him. Present
ly, still looking at Amy, Constance
said:
“Dudley Norman will be here this
evening.”
A quick flush mounted to Amy’s
cheek. Mrs. Warden smiled as she
saw it.
“I did not know Mr.
returned from Europe.’
last.
^. back only yesterday on
the “America.’ He called this af
ternoon while you were out. He
looked so disappointed that 1 asked
him to come this evening.”
Amy nervously opened and shut
her fan of white feathers. A light of
happy anticipation shone under her
dropped lids. She had met this Dud
ley Norman in Paris only a few times,
but enough to find a strong oharm in
his society. At first he had impressed
her by a resemblance to some one she
had seen before—a resemblance im
Norman had
Amy said at
-I
possible to place, that kept her cpn
stantly on the verge of a recollection
that persisted in eluding her like
quicksilver. One day he laughed sud
denly, and she started. He noticed it,
“What is the matter, Miss Whar
den?” he asked.
He called her Wharden. He thought
she was Constance’s niece. Every
one else thought the same, the names
being so much alike. Constance was
pleased to have people think her young
protege was related to her, and Amy
let the impression go uncontra
dicted.
She answered:
“When you laughed just now, it
came to me all at once who it was you
resembled. I have been puzzling my
brain to remember ever since I knew
you.”
“I hope it is some one you liked,” he
said.
“It is some one who did not like me
—who made fun of me,” Amy said
smiling.
“Don’t tell me who he is. 1 don’t
want to know any one who could have
so little sense and taste. Please for
get that I resemble him, Miss Whar
den, or I shall never laugh again.”
“Oh, you are not very much like
him,” Amy said. And in her heart
she added, “You are infinitely more
attractive.”
Indeed, Frank Dudley Norman had
changed greatly during the four years
that had passed since Amy
knew him. It was no wonder at all
that she did not recognize him. The
beardless, boyish-looking youth had
aged rapidly. He looked like a man
past thirty. His figure had broaden
ed, his hair had darkened; a thick
mustache shaded his mouth and hid
his unpleasant expression. His man
ners were softer and more winning,
his voice more finely modulated; his
expression, cynical and world-weary,
often sad, had a wonderful charm for
young girls.
Fascinating and distinguished look
ing he certainly was, but a good judge
of human nature would have noted his
restless, shifting glance, and the fur
tive look that sometimes stole out from
under his dropped lids—would have
noted them and wondered if this fa
vorite of fortune, this heir of the
Charlton millions, had not a secret
history, a hidden burden on his heart
or his oonscience.
Notwithstanding his occasional re
semblance to the young man she had
known during the summer days four
years ago, and had admired in spite of
his evident dislike of her, Amy did
not for a moment dream that Dudly
Norman was the “Mr. Frank” she had
seen in the gray, half-shabby traveling-
suit and cap, who sometimes spoke
bitterly about his poverty. She had
never known his last name Hamp
den, in compliance with Norman’s
request, had addressed him only as
Frank.
“You needn’t introduce me to your
backwoods heiress,” the young man
bad said when offering to accompany
Hampden to Florida. “Charlton
warned you not to, I am sure. He
was afraid I would gobble her for the
sake of the fortune. Weil, I don’t
want to know her, though I should
not mind seeing what she looks like.
But I don’t care to have her know I,
the disappointed heir-expectant, have
any such curiosity about her. So
don’t speak my last name before her,
please. You always call me Frank,
any way.”
Since his accession to the Charlton
fortune and his change of residence,
Norman had discarded the name of
Frank. It had unpleasant associa
tions for him, and it was not so im
posing as Dudley, which is his mid
dle name—the name of his mother’s
family.
Dudley Norman is the way he now
signs himself. He is regarded as one
of the best matrimonial catches in the
city. He Lives in elegant apartments,
drives fine horses, has an English
valet, and spends several months of
each year abroad.
He does not go often into women’s
company. When he does he is eagerly
welcome. There is something in his
manner to women—a blending of lan
guid indifference with subtile persua
siveness—that is irresistible. He rare
ly takes the trouble to he attractive to
men unless he has a purpose in win
ning them over. Yet he likes to have
them respect him.
His private vices he carefully con
ceals. No member of the high-toned
club he belongs to has ever heard a
whisper against Dudley Norman. His
reserved, coldly polished manners, his
faultless dress and equipage, and his
success with women, give him a dis
tinction in the eyes of his own sex. He
is proud of this. It pleases him
better to have men envy him than like
him.
Yet Dudley Norman is not a man to
be envied.
If his male friends could but see in
to his heart! His serving-man could
have told tales of sleepless nights in
which his restless master walked the
floor of his chamber ana muttered
curses on himself.
“Must ’ave somethink on his mind,”
mused the valet, after he bad been
called out of bed with on oath, only to
be ordered back again. “Seems like
the devil is ragin’ inside of ’im. Lord,
how his eyes did glare! If the women
could see him like that!”
Amy can not imagine such a mood
in the man who had first charmed her
by the witchery of his smile, his half
tender, half-masterful manner, ana
the shade of sadness that often stole
over bis face. Afterward he won a
woman’s feeling from her in response
to the passionate admiration he be
trayed in every look and tone. It was
bard to remain unmoved by such elo
quent devotion from a man of the
world reputed to be indifferent to wo
men. . _ _ . .
His passion was not feigned. He had
at first purposed to amuse himself
with this lovely young artist with
the starry eyes and the poet’s
face. Before he knew it, he was
madly in love with her. Cold and con
trolled as he was about most things,
he was not so where his heart was
roused. He forgot everything in
his pursuit of its object. He
had never before been so mas
tered and carried away by passion.
Nothing but the fear of speaking pre
maturely and making her turn from
him prevented his avowing his love to
Amy in Paris. But though she was
drawn to him, fascinated like a
snake-charmed bird, she fluttered
from him in a sort of alarm whenever
he allowed his passion to be seen —
some strange feeling of repulsion
mixed with the attraction that drew
her to him. Sometimes it took the
form of shaddering aversion, and for
this she would bitterly condemn her
self. It was her instinct unconscious
ly recognizing the man as one who
had sought her destruction.
As for him, he had no dream that
she was Amy Wharton, the true heir
ess of the fortune he was enjoying. He
believed that Amy Wharton bad left
this world for good and all four years
ago.
He could never have realized that
this girl, with her high-bred face and
her exquisite gracefulness, was the
awkward, unformed girl from the
wilds of Florida, whom he had ridi
culed and had fiercely hated because
she had come between him and the in
heritance he coveted.
Amy had never spoken of himtoCon-
stanoe. She had never confided to her
any of the details of her early life, or
her strange experiences in the Cav
ern.
The episode of her leaving her Flor
ida home with two strange men, and
being as it seemed aoandoned by
them, was a mortlfyiog as well as a
most puzzling recollection to her.
“How ignorant I was! and how un
thinking poor old grand-father must
have been to let me go away like
that!” she often thought. Yet Mr.
kind,
tele
grams, or ever knew I had been found
Dr. Olcott believes they left the wrong
address on purpose because they want
ed to keep the money that had been
left to me. But I can’t think so. And
it was such a little money—only
enough to send me to school for a few
years. Ah! there is a mystery about
it all! I can’t understand it; audit’s
no use trying to.
Hampden seemed so honest and
I can’t believe he ever got those
CHAPTER XXXI.
AT THE BALL. AN UNWELCOME GUEST.
The three women stand in the
softly lighted parlors, commenting on
the flower decorations and wonder
ing who will be the first guest to ap
pear. At last the bell rings.
“The first arrival,” Amy says, in
stage whisper. The boy in buttons
throws open the hall door. Enter, a
lady alone—a tall, slender figure in a
graoeful, fur-trimmed wrap, a lace
hood concealing her face from the
trio at the further end of the draw
ing-room. The butler standing in
the hall bows his respectful gray
head, as with a wave of his white-
gloved hand he points her to
the trim maid waiting at the foot of
the staircase to show her to the dres
sing-room.
As she turns, her face is visible to
the ladies inside, and the general’s
widow gives a start and a frown.
“It is that Madame Delorme!” she
says. “I knew her from her pictures
in the windows and from seeing her
at the opera. How did she dare to
come here—uninvited?”,
Constance flushes.
“I invited the Countess Delorme,”
she says, a little haughtily—then adds,
with a change of voice: “I couldn’t
help it. I met her in Mr. Bailey’s
studio. He introduced her.”
It was like Fred Bailey’s impu
dence.”
“I found her very entertaining;
then, as I was coming down the steps
to the street, my foot slipped and I
would have gone to the bottom if
she had not caught me on her
arm and held me. How strong
she is! I had quite a fright, and I felt
so weak afterward that she insisted on
driving me home. I had sent the car
riage away, the afternoon was so flue.
She has the loveliest horses—deep
oream, with black mane and tail, and
as trim and fleet as deer. I asked her
to come this evening. I couldn’t do
less, when she had been so obliging.
After all, what is there against her,
only that she is eccentric and inde
pendent in her ways? What young
woman with as much money as she
has wouldn't be independent in her
ways? She lives with her mother.”
“The mother is a fat, simpering
nonenity. And the money, people say
she makes it gambling in stocks. And
the title, who vouches for it,my dear?
and who vouches for the so-called
countess herself? She bewitched
Howe McNallister into introducing
her into society and making nis wife
visit her. If she isn’t an adven
turess she is a sensational, uncertain
sort of person. They say she is a
Buddhist, and affiliated with Madame
Blavatsky abroad, and that she pro
fesses to have queer kind of powers
herself.”
“Oh, she must be a most entertain
ing person! I am glad she came,
do like people that are a little bit orig
inal and out of the common!” cries
Amy. .
“Well, I do not,” says the general’s
widow, with an emphatic toss of her
fan. “They are never safe people to
know. They are apt to turn out to be
cranks—if not worse. as tor the
countess, here she comes alone, and
no doubt she will be dressed in some
flashy, conspicuous way, and—”
“Hush!” whispers Constance, as the
half-shut door of the long drawing
room is thrown open by the batler,
and that functionary pompously
announces:
‘The Countess Delorme.’
Summoning a pleasant hostess smile,
Constance steps forward to receive
her guest.
“Thank Heaven! she is not dressed
outlandishly, and has not got short
hair,” she says to herself.
Amy, from her corner, gazes with
intense surprise at the beautiful but
startling-looking woman. Her tall,
little figure is draped in black gauze
with a gleam of gold here and there
among its folds. Out of the black,
gold-starred bodice rises her neck, its
splendid white curves unadorned, and
her queenly head crowned with black,
high-piled tresses that are held in
place by a jeweled circlet like a dia
dem.
What is most startling about the
countess is the contrast between her
jet-black hair and eyebrows and the
marble whiteness of her skin. Are
her eyes, too, as dark as the brows
that overarcn them? They look so
under the thick, jetty lashes, but they
flash with such almost dazzling
brightness when she talks that it is
hard to tell; when she is silent the
white lids are dropped over the eyes
and hide their depths from friend and
foa.
Her voice is wonderfully sweet and
silvery, with a slight foreign accent.
She speaks in low tones that thrill
some chord in Amy’s being and make
her look at the fair stranger and listen
to her intently.
“I have seen that face somewhere
before,” she says to herself; “some
where in Paris, it must have been.”
Amy, at a sign from Constance, re
mains standing in one of the embow
ered corners of the room. Mrs. Whar
den does not care to have her youog
protegee make the acquaintance of the
countess, charming though that per
sonage may be.
But when the gray-haired major-
domo announces another batch of
guests, and the hostess moves forward
to receive them, the little lady in
black and gold comes quickly to
Amy’s side, and giVes her a radiant
smile.
“1 am sure you must be the young
niece Mrs. Wharden spoke about. She
said you painted pictures, and Mr.
Bailey—we were in his stndio—added
that they were beautiful piotures, too.
I wish you would show me some of
them. Are there any about the
room?”
‘ Only those two little landscapes,”
Amy said, coloring prettily and
pointing to two small sketches of Ital
ian scenery.
One, the ivy-covered ruins of a mar
ble tomb with a temple among musty
blue-green olive-trees in the distance,
the other a water-fall leaping in white
foam and spray from a precipice over
hung by ilex-tregs, and losing itself
in the rocky depths below; overhead,
on the close beside the hurrying
stream, stands a bearded goat looking
down at the water-fall.
“Pan, the goat-god, and the scared
water nymph who fled from his em
braces,” says the countess. “Is that
the interpretation of yonr picture?”
“It has no symbolic meaning; it was
drawn from life,” answers Amy.
“There is so much beauty in Italy one
longs to bring away some of it.”
“Ah, you have felt that too,” the
countess answers; and at once they
are launched into a conversation so in-
some
terestfngto Amy that she
Mrs. Wharden beckoning *■ . t
notice the frown on the f, het
general’s widow, until a 22
proaches and says: erv hi
“If you please,miss, your .i
you to go to her at once.” &Unt ^
She finds the room j g
with people, and Constance I ,i
gently for not being at ^
help receive them.
Again and again duringth Q I
that the eyes of the counted.!
her. Ooce, while sh« j s
Dudley Norman, she feels tb»r J
being intently looked at, and *’
ing across the room, sees thV
those strange eyes of he/rj
quaintance that are furtively j
ing her from their corners
talks to the group of men who *
around her as bees about
liant tropical flower.
Norman’s eyes follow her 0Wl i
sees the countess for the firjtU
She bows, smiling, and he returnl
bow with a little constrained 3
the head. At the same times#
passes over his fare, and he j ln i
“I was not aware that Mrs.^h
knew that woman.”
“You do not like her?” Amv
“I can’t make her
body can. She is a sort ofmJ
and mysteries are not always
ant to know. I am a little sum
at your aunt’s inviting her.”
“I think the invitation wasasa
accident. But is she so obje
able? Have you ever been to]
house?”
Y-e-s,” he admitted. “She ini
me particularly. She seems interi
in me for some reason, it is not]
cause she likes me.”
“Why do you think she doesn’t!
you.”
“I can’t tell; Lean only feel it, l|
her eyes upon me this minute
they were two points of electricfi
burning me. I can’t bear for
look at me, and yet I go to see
when she writes and asks me to
She has a beautiful house.”
“I have heard about it. They -&J
is furnished like some Oriental pti|
* should like to see it.”
“Don’t go there, I beg you,” ]fl
man said, hastily. “It would not!
prudent; you are too young,aml-|
He stopped suddenly and
across the room.
He saw a white warning finger!
out at him. Those around thoujj
the countess was only showingtha
curious old Arabic ring, but Nod
felt as though that finger hadtoncj
him with its flame.
He rose abruptly.
“I think you promised to let me I
the orchids in the conservatory,!
said. “I brought a beautiful pl|
from London, which I hope you
let me give you. It is the Espitj
Santa, or White Dove variety, ltif
fit emblem of you, and I am b
will bloom plentifully for you.”
CHAPTER XXMil.
COUNTESS DELORME.
Every eye turns upon Amyand|
escort as they move through the i
on their way to the conservatory.
Part of the admiring notice is |
to the grace and rare loveliness o!|
girl; but much of it—particu
that which beams from the eyes ol
women—is bestowed upon Normal
Amy feels this. She is consci
too, as she glances at his image u
tall mirrors they are passing tha
other man in the room has Norn
air of distinction; no man has|
charm of blended manliness and
finement expressed in his broad st
ders and strong throat, in his fasfl
ious face and high-bred, half-cynij
glance.
An added charm, in Amy’s eyes
his seeming unconsciousness of adj
ration—his exquisitely polished, poll
indifference to women—to all woof
but her. To her his proud bead ben
in absorbed attention. On her nis ejj
beam with tender homage.
Her ideal purity draws him to
He feasts his eyes on the delicate i
lines, the child-like sweetness ot
face. Her social position, her be&°
her reputed wealth make her aesu
ble as a wife, and his wife he n>ei
she shall be. He will triumph o
that shrinking repulsion whicu
perceives in her. It only inflim 83
heart and strengthens his desire
(^Continued on Fourth pag®-
Highest of all in Leavening Power.—Latest U. S. Gov’t Rep 0 ^
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