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THE SUATNY SOUTH, ATLANTA. GEORGIA. OCTOBER 14 1893
WORK, TRUST, HOPE.
For Thk Sunny South.
Work;
Not for honor nor fame.
Nor to make a great name;
Bat to aid every day.
Some poor man on nis way.
Trust;
Not the false, howe’er fair;
Not the cup's deadly snare;
Bat all those who are true,
And the good which they do.
Hope;
Not for glory on earth;
Not for frivolous mirth;
But for tire beyond this,
Full of love and true bliss.
St. Louis, Mo.
—S. C. Bond.
[[TBH CAVERN QUEEN.
(continued from fikst page.)
my house tomorrow night. I will tell
you then.”
He hesitates.
“I have said I would not enter your
house again.”
She nods her head.
“I know it; but you will, all the
same. You have marked out a line of
future policy—a course you think may
atone for the past and shut the door
on those disagreeable memories. You
will be very good; you will head some
charitable movements; you will pose
as a model citizen and pattern hus
band to a Madonna-faced wife; you
will be popular and grasp for political
honors. That is your program.”
He is silent, looking at her, while
she watches him through her long
lashes—a bewitching, but it seems to
him, a basilisk look.
“You certainly have insight or a
clever imagination,” he says. “And
you will let me hear what you have to
say about my future?”
“Yes, tomorrow night. What I have
to say may surprise you.”
“I will come,” he answers.”
Later, past midnight, when the
guests are all gone, “the banquet hall
deserted,” and the flowers drooping in
the hot atmosphere, the tired mistress
of the pretty house leaves the servants
to put out the lights, and comes up.
stairs to throw off her laoe and satin
and tight-clasping French corset, and
plunge into the warm perfumed bath
her maid has ready for her. Then,
robed in a loose white dressing gown
and armed with an ivory-backed hair
brush, she glides into Amy’s room, and
finds that fair maiden just rising from
her knees beside her snowy bed. She
still keeps up her old-fashioned habit,
learned at her mother’s knee in the
old country home, of saving her pray
ers before she sleeps.
She has been kneeling for some
time tonight, and she has asked for
heavenly guidance in a matter that
means so much to a young woman. She
has asked to know her own heart, to
understand her feelings for the man
whose words and looks tonight have
troubled the depths of that pure heart.
Can she give him such loveas her mo
ther gave to he* father,such trust,such
reverent, tender devotion as made that
soldier father’s memory so sacred to
his widowed young wife that no after
love ever came to overshadow it?
Amy has been much admired to
night, but she has not looked as lovely
as she does now when she rises from
her knees, her fac* pale and calm, her
eyes shining mistily like clouded
stars. She is gowned in pure white,
her dark gold hair falling on her
shoulders.
. “How lovely I ” thinks Constance;
“too lovely lor any man.”
But she does not say so aloud, for
she has come to talk about a man, and
to sound her protegee as to her will
ingness to be given into the keeping
of that special man.
She draws a rocking chair to the
bright coal fire, and tells Amy she
has come in to toast her feet a little
while she brushes her hair. Amy sits
down by her and proceeds to brush
out her own mass of waving, gleamy
tresses that fall nearly to the floor over
the back of the easy-chair.
They talk of the events of the even
ing, the guests, the costumes, the mis
haps, and then Mrs. Whardon says:
“Amy, I was vexed to have Madame
Delorme go after you while you were
in the conservatory. I told some one
wbo asked for that little French song,
‘Elle et Lui,’ that you would sing it
when you came in, and she went at
once to get you. It was a piece of offi
ciousness.”
“Oh! I was glad she came,” Amy
ories.
“You were glad? Why !”
“Because 1 did not want to answer
something Mr. Norman asked me. I
did not know wbat to say, and she
came and saved me from the need to
say anything.”
“He had asked you to marry him
had he not?” J ’
“Yes.”
“But you must reply to him some
time-to-morrow or the next day. He
will insist on having your answer”
“I wish he would not.”
“Why do you wish so, Amy? I am
sure you like Dudley Norman. You
admire him. I have heard you say
so. You seemed to take pleasure in
his society in Paris.”
“1 did enjoy his society. I do ad
mire him; but—
‘‘Be has everything to please a wo
man. He is passionately in love with
you. He is young, handsome, agree
able, intelligent. He has a large for
tune, yet he is not idle. He stands
well in bis profession. He. is not dis
sipated. One can hear nothing against
bis morals. I don’t want to seem to
plead his cause or to urge him upon
you, my love. I would not influence
you against your own heart;, but. 1
can’t help thinking that as his wife
you would have nothing to ask for.”
Amy was silent, brushing out the
dark gold waves. At last her hand
fell to her side. She turned her face
upon Constance.
“And yet,” she said, “if my mother
sat here she would tell me not to
marry him. I know she would, for
she has spoken to my heart. She did
so tonight when I prayed.”
Constance looked at her a moment
“Dear Aimee, you are too fanciful—
too ideal. You will need to come
down from your heights, my love. We
who live in this prosaic world must be
a little practical and tread on the
earth, even though we be poets and
carry our heads in the clouds. You
will perhaps think differently of this
by and by. There is no hurry. You
have just come out. Your debut is a
success. It would not be well to have
you engaged, or known to be engaged
so soon, even though your fiance
should be Dudley Norman.”
She rose and went up to Amy, and,
stooping, kissed her fondly.
Good-uight, dear, and may your
dreams be sweet.”
But no sweet dreams came to Amy
in that night’s slumber.
Id her dreams she was back in the
cavern. She was wandering through
its endless labyrinth, seeing its fan
tastic, its horrible shapes; standing at
last on the brink of the abyss, falling
over into the black gulf hissing with
serpents, while she clung with des
perate hold to a shape that mocked
her and flung her off, and laughed de
risively as she fell down, down through
depths of blackness till she could feel
the fiery breath of the hissing ser
pents ! Then she woke with a cry and
started up bathed in the cold sweat of
terror.
“That laugh—that oruel, mocking
laugh! It was Dudley Norman’s!”
she whispers. “Oh, dreams, what ter
rifying things you are: Do you come
in warning or in mere fantasy and
mocking?”
CHAPTER XXXV.
Countess Rrma at Home.
The door of Countess Delorme’s
house swings open noiselessly as by
magic to Norman’s ring. Silently the
stately black figure that stands inside
leads the way to a door bung with
heavy tapestry, lifts the curtain, and
allows him to enter.
The room is long and lighted in
some artistic way that gives the effect
of moonlight. One hears the
tinkle and plash of a tiny
fountain somewhere among the broad
leaved plants in tubs and the tall
flowering plants in jardinieres. One
smells the voluptuous perfume of
musk roses, and hears a bird’s trill
from the foliage—a short note, plaint
ively sweet—and catches glimpses of
gaudy paroquets and Indian spar
rows drowsing behind their gilded
bars.
From the far end of the long vista
of harmonious color and grace of
draping folds and groups of living
green—a dim and rich perspective—
there oomes the sound of a stringed
instrument touched to a strain of soft,
sensuous music.
One’s eyes, grown accustomed to
the moon-like illumination, sees at
this end of the vista a living picture
against a background of silken hang
ings—a woman’s figure—a woman’s
face and eyes in a cloud of dark hair,
the gleaming white flesh of arm9 and
throat on which red jewels sparkle—
fire upon snow.
Countess Erma Delorme reclines on
the embroidered cushions of a Persian
divan idly touches the strings of a
mandolin, now and then breaking into
fragment of song. Almost opposite
her sits, or rather lolls, a young man
whose dark hair and sun-tanned skin
denotes his southern birth. A placid
looking old lady whom the countess
addressed as “My mother,” never as
maman—that would imply a want of
the respect for the diguified and im
posing chaperon of this queer estab*
lishment occupies one corner.
“My mother” is really a beautiful
old person as she sits there in her lux
urious easy-chair, dressed in black
satin and old lace, with diamonds in
her small ears and on the delicate fin
gers that are engaged in knitting-
work. Always those dainty fingers
are busy with that interminable knit
ting-work. Bui for this you would
swear “my mother” was a dummy—a
figurehead set up in the parlor of the
countess as a sort of stately soare-
crow to keep away the harpies from
picking at the fair Erma’s reputation.
Very few people have ever heard “my
mother” utter more than one or two
sentences. These are always as fine
as her laces, and they are spoken with
a smile, bland aad slightly patroniz
ing—always that same smile—always
the same rich sombre gown, the laces,
the diamonds, the knitting-work—
! certainly an admirable “sheep-dog.”
To the fact that this superbly re
spectable personage never leaves the
drawing-room when the countess holds
her court, and that she almost always
accompanies her when she goes out,
does tbe fair Erma owe ber ability to
keep a small bold upon the skirts of
society which her wealth, ber wit and
her daring has enabled her to grasp.
She—the countess—is in one of her
best moods tonight. She wears a
Greek dress, ivory silk all loops and
folds, soft as the “wrinkled skins on
scalded milk.” It is sleeveless, being
clasped at the top with some old Roman
cameos, and her arms and shoulders
are without any covering to hide their
perfect shape and polished whiteness.
She has begun to play something
more animated before Norman draws
near. When, with that vexed frown
on his brow, he has added himself to
the circle about her, she looks at him
with a smile of welcome and nods her
head in the direotion of a seat, keep
ing on with her music, which is a
Spanish melody trippingly sweet.
• „“In Spain one sees this danced by
the gypsies with the shawl accompani
ment—a fantastic dance, but bewitch
ing. Is it not so, Vincenzo?” she
says, glancing at the dark man, who
nods in reply without raising his
somber eyes.
The young journalists speaks up at
this. He has been audaciously admir
mg the exquisite feet of the countess,
incased in tiny jeweled slippers, and
resting lightly upon a cushion on the
floor.
“I have no doubt it is a witching
dance,” he says. “But if one could see
it—countess, if one could only see it
danced by you—I am sure that would
be a thrilling moment.”
She laughs.
“It is a long time since I danced it;
but if I can give you a thrilling mo
ment, I will try, if my mother pleases.
Mother, shall I dance the Zincala for
this little company?”
The stately old head with its waves
of snow-white hair nods graciously,
and its owner looks up from her knit
ting, and says:
“if you like, my dear. I see no harm
in it.”
The countess gives her mandolin to
the dark man.
“Be done with that cigarette before
get baok, and play for me,” she says,
lifts a portiere near her, kisses her
hand to her oompany, and disap
pears.
In five minutes the portiere is again
lifted and a new vision flashes into
the room. Now Elmer beholds not
only the feet but the perfect ankles in
their black silk, gold-embroidered
stockings. They are revealed by the
short skirts of black laoe embroidered
in gold and red.
She courtesies as they applaud, and
Vincenzo begins to play the Spanish
music, and she lightly lifts the pale-
tinted, gray*blue shawl,shot witn gold
and red like a cloud at sunset, and be
gins to dance.
Such a dance! One does not see
such poetry of motion on the stage,
where so much is mechanical and
coarse.
This shape of grace, with the twink
ling feet,the supple limbs, the sinuous
waist, the white-wreathing arms lift
ing, lowering, wrapping about her,
tossing aloft that cloud-like shawl—
she seems the incarnate spirit of mu
sic and motion.
“It is as though the music itself
buoys her, sways her, and dies in her
a death of languid delight,” thinks
Norman, as he watches her with
his keen sense of beauty and har
mony.
Her speaking face sets itself to the
melody. It is sparkling, passionate,
dreamy, languid, sensuous, as the mu
sic changes to express these varying
emotions.
Suddenly she stops, after a grand
pas de seul, courtesies and vanishes;
nor will she be recalled by the pro
longed applause.
When she returns she wears her
Greek gown, and smiles admirably as
a little storm of disappointed protest
greets her appearance.
“No,” she says, “I gave you the lit
tle dance as a sort of parting and ex
cusing favor, for I must ask you to
leave me with this gentleman” (indi
cating Norman). “He is my lawyer
and comes to talk business. There is
an old adage about business which I
will not repeat, as it would be unfair
to Mr. Norman, who makes even busi
ness pleasant.”
She told the falsehood with such
glib and easy grace that Norman
himself could not realize for the in
stant that it was an untruth.
Her guests all acquiesced gracious
ly in their banishment except the
foreigner, who looked a shade more
saturnine; but he consoled him
self with a full glass of Burgun
dy—poured out even before the
countess had said:
“We will take the Tovingcup’ be
fore we part.”
CHAPTER XXXVL
When they were alone the countess
said, smiling archly:
“Now for our business, professional
if it?”
“Professional,” he rejoined, “but its
professional character is on your side
not mine. It is to you, as a sorceress,
that I come tonight. Yon are to tell
me of my future.”
“And your past.”
“No,” he answered, quickly. “I al
ready know what is past. I want no
looking back.”
“And do you not want to hear if I
can look baok into all the secret by
paths and turns of your past, as a test
of my power to look forward?”
She had lighted a cigarette at the
perfumed flame of a little censer-like
lamp swung by the statuette of a
priestess in bronze that stood bn the
table beside her. She leaned back
on the pile of cushions, and contem-,
plated Norman over the tiny wreath
of smoke that curled from the soented
weed- Her look was one of deliberate
scrutiny. He drew his brows together
in haughty annoyance.
“Why do you speak of my past as
having secret by-paths and turns?”
he said. “As for your occult powers,
I have no faith in them. But you bid
me come here tonight, and you would
tell me of something strange and mo
mentous that would shortly occur in
my life. I have some curiosity to hear
what you will say.”
“Some curiosity ! Is that all? It is
not very flattering or inspiring. I
decline to look into the future to
gratify your curiosity. Besides,” she
went on, smiling lazily and seeming
only interested in the smoke that
curled up from the tip of the cigar
ette she held out between her taper
fingers—“besides, I am not in the
mood for soothsaying. Something—
the champagne or the scent of these
Cape jasmines—makes me too languid
to lift veils tonight.”
He rose from his seat, his look vexed
and disappointed.
“Then your promise meant nothing
Or it was only a lure to bring me
here,” he said.
“Take it so,” she answered. “I
wanted to prove to you that with all
your boasted strength you are weak—
as weak as men usually are. After
you had resolved to become a pattern
citizen, and man of family, you vowed
to yourself never to euter the house of
an upsetting Bohemian like me.
I might taint your respectability.
Well, you have broken your resolve.
You have come under pretext to hear
about your future, though you have no
fai^h in my power to look into it.”
“I have come; and l shall go, not to
come again,” he said, taking his hat
from the table and preparing to leave
tbe room.
She made no movement to detain
him. She only looked at him fixedly
from under her long, curling lashes as
she lay among the cushions. As he
turned away she said, slowly :
“My mother may be able to tell you
something. I inherit my gift from
her, only I have a clearer insight
when the lit is on me. You might try
if my mother could give you a fore
shadowing of the fate that threateos
you.”
“Absurd!” he said, contemptuously.
“The idea is too absurd to give a
serious thought to.”
“In that case, good-night,” she an
swered, indifferently; and she held
out a sugared violet to the little span
iel, in whose loDg, silken hair her
slippered feet were buried.
Norman stood irresolute, hat in band.
Guilt makes men weak and credulou
He thought: “What if they should be
able to warn me of some peril that
hangs over me! They acknowledge
their gypsy blood. The gift of fore
telling has always been claimed by
this strange race.”
He put his hat down, and said to the
countess:
“Ask your mother. I may as well
see what is in this. Not that I be
lieve in it or that I apprehend any
thing.”
A slow, scornful smile came to
Erma’s full red lips. It said plain
ly:
“You do not deceive me. You are
not so indifferent as you pretend.”
But she nodded assent to his re
quest.
Lifting herself from her half-re
clining position, she looked toward
the stately dummy in black velvet.
Madame Xevo had been sitting all
this while in her purple-lined easy-
chair, her fingers moving in the cro
chet-work with the regularity of an
automation.
Now and then she looked up from
her interminable loops, and bestowed
Phrase, “All right,” at which h
tress would nod encouragfinjjiv
‘•Yes, P 0ll; iti8 aU ®“mnfl
My mother,” said the
this gentleman—Mr. Norman nte *
like the aid of your skill in enah? Qi
bun to see a little way into his fn^
Will you gratify him?”
Fur an instant there wa*
The clock-work motion 0 { v?*
Nevo’s fingers was disturbed ?
hand twitched, she dropped ,
Plscii
a contraction passed over hf> r
brow.
a glance on her daughter, or on her
hideous red-and-yellow parrot, who
had waked and was hopping restless
ly on his perch, now and then giving
harsh utterance to tbe hackneyed
It is getting late,” she said
The countess drew her brow,
gether, and looked steadily Zt ?
mother. J be
“Will you come here and trv rw
cards, ma mere?” *
It was a kindly worded retiue^ k
in the silvery accents the?. J*
sharp undertone of command ‘
The parrot caught it.
“All right!” he squeaked.
Madame Nevo rose at once
walked up to the table beside wh,!
her daughter was sitting. SheaS
there, a stiff but imposing figure 12
ber trailing black velvet robe*’ h!
snow-white hair, her white patrician
hands, encircled by frills of tine hr!
clasped before ber. *
She looked at her daughter. ToX or
man that look seemed one of deprec*
tion—almost appeal. If it were so -
did not move the countess. Her ’ sn
swering look was intent and firm.
She pulled out a drawer in the table
and took from it a small inlaid box.
Opening this, she scattered its com.
tents before her. They were tin?
playing-cards of ivory, with the differ,
ent devices exquisitely wrought upon
them in enamel. Sweeping her right
hand over the table, she gathered up
the cards into the palm of her left.
Then she shuffled them, looking not at
the cards, but at her mother, who
seemed to stiffen and grow more like
a work of art—a figure done in pale
yellow wax, with eyes cut of jet.
“Now they are rightly shuffled,
Give them to him to cut,” said tbe
countess; and she put the card* into
her mother’s hand
Madame Nevo took them mechani
cally, it seemed, for her eyes did not
move. She held out the pack of mina
ture cards to Norman.
“Cut three times,” she said.
Her voice had a hard,metallic sound,
and her fingers, as Norman tuucbei
them, felt cold and rigid.
He cut the cards as she direct*
and, once more putting them together]
she began to lay them one by oneupoi
the table, till all were tuere arrange!
in groups. Then she seemed to stud]
them intently. It was full five mil
utes before she spoke.
“I see a marriage,” she said. “It i]
near at hand. You are standing
the bride. She is a fair woman wli
yellow hair.”
Unconsciously Norman nodded as
sent.
“It is Aimee,” he thought.
Then he met the keen, mockini
glance of the countess. Lying bi
among her cushions, she was watcni
him. He colored, and said, hastily:
‘ Go on!”
“The bride is fair, and yelloi
haired, and tall,” went on the metall
voice.
“Tall!”
The exclamation was involnntai
“She is tall,” her voice return*
“almost as tall as you are. She wi
not a white bridal gown; her dress
black ”
Norman knit his brow. Ermapli!
ed with the silky spaniel at her ft
rolling him over with the tip of
jeweled slipper.
“Go on!” Norman said again.
“I see gold—heaps of gold—a gi
fortune. It is in your grasp.”
“That is well,” be said, smiling,
bride aad gold! But tail? Therep
must not see rightly, madame.”
“The bride holds your hand fast
the gold—it is slipping from you. Ti
have lost it. Ah—”
“Go on!” cried Norman, as she bri
off suddenly with an exclamation
horror. “What is it you see?,’
“There is something—a great cal:
ity! It hangs over you. It i* -1
is—”
“What?” demanded Norman, stron,
ly excited. But Madame Xevo
not reply. A change had come 511
denly over her. Her face relax
from its rigidity; her eyes lost tbe
fixed stare; she drew a deep, ^gbi
breath.
“Why do you not go on?” be* 3 *'
impatiently, “Tell ine what n 1
horrible calamity that is h 30 ^ 1
over me.”
[Continued on Seventh J ’age..
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