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THE BUNN V SOUTH. ATLANTA, GEORGIA OCTOBER 21 1891
AN IDEAL.
Fob Thb Sunny South.
Tby lore to me
la what the am' la to the clay,
Or what the sun la to the day,
The poize onto the heart.
To me thou art
The soul of beauty, and in *wti
Fair thing of earth, thou attereet apeech
Tuned to my aptrit a ear.
inTTmoaphere whoae air like wlae.
Or llk« a fancied kiss of thine,
Intoxication biiuga.
Thna parsing scenes
In life a gran drama page ante aeem,
O.i which 1 gaz- »•* in a cream
With care for nangbt but thee.
And through still hours
I watch tbe clou.la build gleaming piles
I,tke marbie cowers on lonely isles
Within the bine profoand;
On those f *r heights
I dwell apart with thee my lore
In ai.ycaatiea far above
(•hi* world of change and strife.
—Josephine Davidson.
THE CAVERN QUKKH.
(CONTINUED FBOM FIBST PAOB.)
“I will make them stay buried!” he
cried. “My live will against all the
ghosts vou can conjure. Well, I sub
mit. You shall show me a glimpse of
the past, if only by that 1 can be
shown what dreadful things stand
waiting for me in the future. I trust
I shall oe able to face it and conquer
it. I am pretty strong.” ,
‘•Yes, you are strong,” she said, look
ing admiringly at his nobly molded
form—his broad shoulders and mas
sive throat. “Perhaps you have nev
er borne all the burden it was your
right to have borne—and Fate means
you shall not escape.”
“You are bent on saying disagree
able things tonight. I hope to find
you in a kinder mood when I oome
again. Good-night.”
He pot the hand she he.d out to him
to his lips, and looked at her, wonder
ing what was the meaning of the balf-
wistful look that came into her eyes,
to be so quickly succeeded by a sort of
oruel flash. Then he said to himself, as
he drove slowly through the streets,
quiet in the foggy midnight:
“This woman loves me in her way,
and she is jealous and angry. How
like that other one 1 What can she
tell me? Is it possible she can fore
see anything that threatens to befall
me? What can be the evil she pre
tends to see? Is it anything connec
ted with that—No, it is not possible.
Nothing can come up abGut that.
There is no way for it to come up. The
thing is hid too well. It was never
even suspected, and five years have
gone by. No living soul knows it—
no one but myself and this wretched
weak fool, my own brain—soul—
whatever it is that will not let me
jest. But I am safe from every other
source. Safe? Yes, Out this con
stant dread—this horrible strain. I
can’t bear it much longer. 1 can’t
stand any longer to be alone; I must
have some one with me always—some
one that will be a part of myself, who
will not try to probe my secret and
betray me. It must be a wife—it
must be Aimee. 1 must marry her
without delay ; then i will leave this
country forever. With Aimee in my
arms and the skies of Italy over my
head I can have sjme hope of putting
these memories out of my mind.
What possessed that queer woman to
bring them up? One would fancy she
has really power to see into the. se
crets of a man’s life. Bat, no; it is
only her way to tantalize and mystify
me. strange being that she is.”
Meantime the strange being stood
in her beautiful half-lighted drawing
room where he had left her, a tide of
hitter-sweet recollections flooding her
heart, sweeping away for the time the
stern purpose that she held to be just
revenge. .Leaning against the man
tel-piece where he had leaned, she
looked at the hand he had just kissed.
Suddenly she pressed it against her
lips, a spasm of painful emotion quiv
ering in her face.
“Oh, I love him!’’ she cried—“I love
him still! It is my doom that I must
love him forever!”
As she uttered this desparing cry
she threw her arms up aoross the man
tel-piece and dropped her head upon
them. Leaning mere, her face hidden
in her dark, loosened hair, she gave
way to the storm of feeling that shook
her slender frame.
It was only for a moment. She
raised her head and dashed the drops
from her cheeks. Her eyes flashed
through the tears that stood in them.
“I am as weak as a man,” she said,
with oitter scorn of herself. “[ will
f nt this miserable weakness from me.
will—1 will!” She stamped her
slippered foot on tbe floor and clinch
ed her hand in emphasis of her re
solve. “1 will orush down this foolish
love—my revenge shall trample it
down? Revenge? It is not revenge;
it is just retribution. He shall not es
cape punishment while T suffer the
tortures of the damned. He is in my
power. 1 will drag him down from
tbe height, he stands upon. I will put
~_blaok eclipse on his political ambi
tus paradise of love and mtr-
h, he shall feel what he has
eel. He shall feel what it
t out from respectability,
aloud. The
out, in his
to be branded with disgrace, to lose
love and name and friends and home
forever. He shall feel it. I will drag
him down—down—”
She uttered the words
parrot awoke and cried
harsh, mocking scream:
“It’s all right—it’s all right!”
Madame Nevo awoke, and looking
around, saw that the room no longer
held a male presence. She glanced at
the tall figure in long, regal robes
standing, white and bright-eyed, in
the middle of the room.
“Yon can go,” said the countess,
with a wave of her imperial hand, and
Madame Nevo, conrtesying respect
fully, left the room.
Erma threw herself in a seat, and,
resting her elbow on the arm of the
chair, buried her chin in the palm of
one white hand. She was thinking
how she should best briDg abjut the
retribution for the wrong she had suf
fered. She would do it in some tragic
way—this could well be predicated
from her dramatic, sensational
nature. She would waver and post
pone her revenge; yes, for she loved
the man she sought to punish. She
ljved him in her fierce, wild way. It
had been the passion of her life,
sweeping aside ail minor currents —
ambition, self-love, enthusiasm for art
—that helped to make up her strange,
contradictory nature.
Yes, sue loved tbe man, and she
would postpone her revenge for this
reason, and because in her pantherish
nature tnere was tbe cat-like instioct
to play with her victim before she de
stroyed him.
As she sat there, her brow knit in
thought, she worked out her plans.
Rising with a strange smile on her
lace, she went to her desk, unlocked a
drawer, and took from it a number of
sheets of drawing-paper. They con
tained sketches.
Two or three were portraits of a
very young girl dressed in a quaint
gown of black silk, with a pale little
face shaped like a heart.
“These must be enlarged and paint
ed at once,” she said, “i know a paint
er of stage scenes who will do it for
me. Now for my note-book! My de
tective friend has furnished me with
all that he can fiud out about the
Charlton fortune, also with the ad
dress of Mr. Barclay Hampden, the
trustee ot the money that was left to
the girl. He was her guardian
also. Chester says that the
Dachelor lawyer bad taken a strong
fancy to his young ward, and that
he was so upset by her sudden end
that he was ill for a long time after
ward. I will write to him and ask
him to pay me a professional visit.
The magio name of business will bring
him to me. Business is something
never shirked by these steady-going
Human machines fur money-making
I will write to him at once.”
She turned the drawer to get
Ha npden’s address,
‘•Wnat a bo; b I am preparing for
you, Frank Duuiey Norman!” she
said, as she tumbled among the pa
pers. ‘It will blow you to destruc
tion!’^
Her hand came in contact with a
little ivory box. As she took it up the
pringgave way and the lid flew open.
Oq toe white satin lining lay a soft
golden curl. At sight of it her face
changed from its expression of grim
triampb. Her features became con
vulsed with emotions impossible to
analyze.
She kissed the curl again and again,
tears starting from her eyes.
“My baby—my darling!” she cried,
“it is your father I am about to de
stroy I”
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
A TASSIONATB APPEAL.
The winter day was closing gray
and cheerless. Lights were begin
ning to gleam from the thousand win
dows looking out upon the snowy
streets.
The windows of the study of Nor
man’s handsome bachelor apartments
remained unlighted. The master of
tbe luxuriously furnished room sat
in his arm-chair, his head sunk upon
his breast. He had been sitting in
that position for many minutes. Sud
denly he sprung up and walked the
floor with quick strides; then, stop
ping abruptly, he wheeled and threw
out his arm with the fierce gesture of
one who strikes a pursuing enemy
from his path.
It was an invisible foe he was strik
ing at—the demon he had been fight
ing for years. It bad upstarted with
new power to torture him since his
last interview with tbe Countess
Delorme. To remorse was now added
to a dread lest his crime should be
brought to light. He cursed this fear
as oowardly and groundless. It could
have no ground in reason. Never in
the history of crime had a deed of
darkness been so utterly covered up
and secured from detection. It had
been done where the light of day
could not penetrate—a spot unknown
to any living soul but himself. It
had been shut in a tomb within a
tomb. It was sealed up there forever.
one but be could possibly know of it.
There had been no eye to see tbe
deed, no ear to bear the cry.
That cry—that wild, imploring ap
peal: “Save me! save me*” it was
ringing through his brain tonight as
it had rung five years ago.
Always it had seemed to mingle
with another cry—the frenzied fare
well uttered by the woman be had
wronged, after she had stabbed him to
death, as she thought, then kissed
him, sobbing, and rushed away, bent
on destroying herself.
He had put aside all remorse for
this deed. Remorse he held to he the
weakness of shallow-brained men
He had believed he could put these
dark memories out of his mind by an
effort of his will; yet here they were
rising persistently before him,driving
sleep and cheerful thoughts far from
him, and making him—the envied of
all the city’s golden youth—a miser
able, haunted man.
“At this rate I shall soon be in i
mad-house!” he burst out at last.
“That cursed woman! She it is that
has set my bead in this whirl. Her
prediction of something terrible that
will overtake me—her implied knowl
edge of some black secret in my past
life—they mean nothing, in all likeli
hood, but a woman’s fertile imagin
ings; or it may be that she is one of
those latter-day witches—a mind-
reader. What can she prove by this?
Pshaw! my fears are idle. To the
winds with them! I defy Madame De
lorme! She shall not make a weakling
of me. I will marry Aimee Wharton.
I will enjoy my fortune, though she
swears it will pass from * me. I _ will
use it as a stepping-stone to political
power. My little girl can help me
there. She is so lovable she will win
friends for me. She shall be my wife
in a month. She shall promise it this
night. She does not love me. Mo
matter. I will draw her to my arms
by the power of tbe stronger will. I
His hand had literally rolled the stone
must! I can never fight my demon by
myself. I can’t bear to be alone. 1
lose courage. Yes, yes; tonight it
must be decided—tonight she mu3t
promise to marry me at once!”
He touched a bell that summoned &
servant.
“Light the lamps and order dinner,”
he said
His whole manner had changed.
When he drove through the blinding
snow storm an hour later he faced the
icy wind with grim determination iu
his eyes and in the lines about his
handsome mouth.
He was ushered into the cheerful
sitting-room of Mrs. Wharden. What
a change from the cold and dreariness
outside. A clear fire glowed in the
chimney-place. Its cheerful illumi
nation shone over the figures grouped
at the end of the room—Mrs. Wharden
in a gown of old rose, tbe loose sleeves
showing her plump arms as she pour
ed a cupful of tea from the steaming
silver kettle before her and handed it
across the table to a rosy-faoed, white-
haired old gentleman—a well-known
poet—who bowed gallantly as he took
the cup, and repeated Johnson’s im
promptu rhyme addressed to Mrs.
Thrale:
“ ‘I pray you give to me,
Witn cream and sugar sweetened well,
Another cup of tea.
And hear, I beg, this simple truth,
And hear without a frown I
Thou canst not pour it out so fast
As I can gnlp-it down.’
was,
What a pig tbe grand old doctor
to be sure!” he added.
His pretty daughter, seated at the
piano, playing something soft and
sweet, turned round and nodded, smil
ing.
“Take care, papa; it is a case of
glass house with you where tea is con
cerned,” she said, playfully.
But the figure that drew Norman’s
eyes was Amy sitting in a low chair,
the full skirts of her girlish gown of
soft white wool falling about her. A
half-dressed doll lay on her lap,
another, fully dressed, lay on the
little table by her, that held also
Amy’s pretty sewing-basket lined with
blue.
She was dressing dolls for the Christ
mas-tree of an orphan’s home, she told
Norman when he took the seat near
her.
He watched her little fingers glanc
ing among the bits of bright ribbon
and dainty lace. Anything prettier
than the little gold thimble perched
on the top of one of these rose-tinted
fingers he thought he had never seen.
Then the way she brought order and
prettiness out of that chaos of scraps.
Presently she held up the doll, ex
quisitely dressed, and laid it on the
table beside its mate.
Then she had a cup of tea with him,
and she admired his gift of hyacinths,
fresh and cool and purely white as
though they had been oarved of the
new-fallen snow outside.
They all chatted together about the
fire, examining some sketches of
ragged street arabs, old apple-women
witn shawls over their heads, and
Italian image-venders which Amy had
been making.
The rosy old poet and his charming
daughter presently took their leave,
and soon afterward Mrs. Wharden
went out upon some pretext, and Nor
man was left alone with the girl he
bad determined to bind to him in the
hope that she could save him from the
madness that threatened to wreck his
to the mouth of the sepulcher. No 1 brain. The sleepless damoa of
re
morse would not dare assail him with
that whito-souled one in his arms.
They were alone; he looked at her
in her simple white gown with her
delicate face and frank, sweet eyes
under her broad brow.
He drew nearer to her, and he saw
her draw a little further off—an in
voluntary shrinking away tnat would
not have been noticed except by his
jealous eyes.
He drew his lips together in a grim
smile. This fluttering away of his
white dove made him intensely eager
to capture her. He leaned nearer, and
he pressed his suit in warm, eloquent
words. . . .
She listened, carried away by his
passion. When he stopped she was
pale, and she seemed trying to nerv*
herself to say what would end his
hopes. She faltered after the first
word, and he spoke again. This time
he took a different tack. He knew in
stinctively that the woman he had to
deal with was one of that type of
women whose characters are ground
ed upon sympathy and self-sacrifice
It was to those he appealed.
“I know i am not worthy of. you,”
he said. “I am not good. There are
things in my past life £ dare not tell
you; but I want to put that tainted
past behind me, and to live nobly and
usefully in the future. I need you to
help me do this. Without your love,
your companionship, I shall fall, i
need you more than any other mortal
man can ever need you. 1 am unhap-
py—more unhappy than you can
know. Help me to b« happy, to be of
use to the world. Without you my
gifts of brain, my money, will only be
a curse to me, and of little use to oth
ers. With you, they will be a bless
ing. Aimee, dearest, you are so full
of sweet charity. You give alms to
the lowest beggar. There is no beg
gar more needy than I am. Do not
refuse my starving heart, my wasting
life, the alms I crave—your love, your
sympathy, yourself. Aimee, you can
not, you will not be cruel.”
He leaned near her; his eyes held
her wifch their strong, their irresisti
ble appeal. Tbe terrible earnestness
of the man made itself felt. And still
she did not speak. She trembled in
all her frame; her whole body seemed
to relax under the spell of his look
and his voice.
*•1—do not wish to be cruel,” she fal
tered at last. “I—”
“I knew you would not, you could
not be cruel—my love, my good
angel!” be interrupted, and before
she could breathe his arms were
around her, he was kissing her brow,
her lips, and murmuring rapturously,
“Mine, mine—you are mine!”
He dropped on his knee and laid bis
head on her hands that he held in his
clasp.
I thank yon, my love,” he said,
fervently. “You have given me hope,
you have given me life; you have
saved me, my Aimee!”
She sat palA as tbe white hyacinths
she wore; dazed as if she had drunk
strong wine. She was speechless
even when he seated himself by her
once more and drew her close to him,
whispering, as he caressed her cheek,
her hair:
“Mine—mine! Nothing shall part
us! ”
His arm was around her when Mrs.
Wharden came into the room. She
stopped short, surprised, but not dis
pleased at what she saw.
“You have stolen a march on me, I
see,” she said.
“But we march under your colors,
do we not, dear Mrs. Wharden?” he
answered, rising and bending before
ber with that persuasive grace he
could assume when he pleased.
She smiled, and detaching a pink
rose from the cluster she wore in her
belt, she gave it to him, saying:
“I suppose it must be so.”
She loosed at Amy, and her smile
faded a little as she noted the girl’s
white face.
“lam giving you the pearl of women
when I give yon Aimee; but I hope—
believe you are worthy of her.”
While she spoke she tried to read
his eyes, but they were lowered as he
bent and lifted her hand to his lips.
“No man is worthy of her,” he said;
“but I will try hard to deserve her.”
He meant what he said. He fully
resolved co lead a better life.
It was arranged that evening that
the marriage should take place in two
months. Norman pressed for an
earlier date, but Mrs. Wharden shook
her head, and he had gained so much
to-night that he did not like to insist
on more.
Keen exultation thrilled through
his veins.
“I have won—I have won
to himself, as his horses whirled RU
home along the snow-covered street
Then a mood of more grave earne-r
ness came over him. He would trv t
make her happy; he would try n L\ r
co let her feel the presence of th
demon that haunted him. He W0I1 ,®
live so that this evil spirit would cease
to torture him; he would aspire
high things; he would make
honor as well as envy him.
to
men
. , envy him. i n the
light of her sweet eyes he might even
grow to feel and live nobly, aud
“Like the stained web that whitens in
thesun,
Grow pure by being purely
upon.”
shone
CHAPTER XXXIX
COUNTESS ERMA AT HOME.
Countess Erma Delorme was alone
nonight walking up and down her
long drawing room—that room which
cbe rich foliage of palms and fern?,
the green, fantastic shapes of cacti,
the tinkle of falling water, and the
mellow glow of shaded lamps made to
seem so like a moonlit jungle of the
tropics.
The dress of the darkly beautiful
woman carried out the suggestion of
the jungle. She wore a long robe of a
thick hut soft and clinging fabric from
the looms of India. It’s color was a
yellowish brown shading into black—
the color of the panther of (he jungle.
It was of that beautiful dangerous
wild beast she made you think as she
moved restlessly about the room with
her light tread, her round, supple body
and limbs defined by the cliugtng,
dully shining robe of yellow brown.
Her eyes bore out the resemblance.
There was a slumberous fire in their
depths that glowed out now and then
when she threw back her haif-beut
head, seeming to listen for tbe ap
proach of her prey.
It was the night she bad appointed
to reveal to Norman the rest of his
half-told fortune, and to show him
that glimpse into the most hidden part
his past which should prove her oc
cult power.
She knew what had taken place
during the week; she knew that Nor
man had been successful in his pursuit
of Amy Wharton—that he would be
married to her in two months. She
knew this through the paid spy she
had in the Wharden household in tbe
person of Felise, Amy’s French maid.
The engagement was to be kept a pro
found secret. This had been decided
upon at the time it was made, but
what secret is safe from a Paris-bred
servant with her knowledge of the
efficacy there is in key-holes?
Erma, pacing to and fro in her dim,
bowery room, had her thoughts oc
cupied with this prospective marriage
and her plan to thwart it.
“In two months he will be her hus
band. When this takes place he will
pass out of my power. The fortune
will be securely his; the crime he at
tempted will notadmitof punishment.
His wife would not appear against
him. He will have all the good gifts
of life—money, honors, the love of a
beautiful wife—while 1—”
She stopped suddenly in her swift
walk; her eyes blazed with savage
fire, her haud clinched.
“Wife!” she uttered, in the deep
tones of concentrated passion. “She
shall never be his wife—never!”
As her hand fell to her side, some
one lifted the heavy silken curtain
that divided the upper and entrance
end of the long parlor from the main
part of the room. It was the autome-
ton “mother”—as handsomely dressed,
as stately, as like a wax-and-wooden
figure as ever.
“There is a man in the hall,” she
said. “It is not Norman. I did not
know whether you would see any ott
er man to-nigho.”
“Yes—there is one other,” she an
swered. “Let me see the card.”
She glanced at the name on the card,
and her eyeB sparkled.
“Hampden. Yes, L know him. I am
expecting him. Admit him at once.”
‘ Will you need my presence to
night?”
“No—not here; but I will need your
help in another room.”
The person who entered an instant
later was a man whose appearauce
accorded little with the languid, lux
urious atmosphere of the roum. A
mao of average height, but witn
broad, square shoulders; a large head
Ccntiziucd on feunb page.
Highest of all in Leavening Power.—Latest U. S. Gov’t Report
ABSOUSTEIX PURE