The Pulaski citizen. [volume] (Pulaski, Tenn.) 1866-current, 1873-11-13

all sunshine and full of her husbands
praises. After a while, we faneied they
dropped a little in their CHEEKY tone,
her husbands name was more rarely
mentioned, and at last he was quite
ignored. Time after time it was ar
ranged that they should come to us, and
time after time the visit was delayed on
some paltry excuse. We had not seen
the face of our darling for year. We
could bear the separation no longer
We should go to her. When so far as
Berlin, my wife was seized violently i'll.
I wrote to Wolfstein and Emmie of our
distress-no response came to my cry
for succor.
On themorningo of the Dist of January I
bent over my wife to moisten her fevered
lips with a little wine. Edward, she
said, taking my hand in hers, "Emmie
was with me in the night" Darling,
you were dreaming, said soothingly.
"It was no dream, husband she stood
where you stand now. Her dress was
of black velvet, with lace about the
throat and wrist. She look ed sad, and
oh so cold, and down one cheek there
wos a horrid mark. Mother, she said,
you have no portrait, not even a pho
tograph, to remind your of poor En-
mie. 1 shall send you one.' And be-
fore I could speak, or lay my hands in
hers, she was gone.
From her rapid pulse I knew fever
was working in her veins, and, fearing
this was the ravingo of delirium, I sooth-
ed her as best I could. just then a ser
want entered the room she held that
in her hand we had cause to dread-a
telegram. I tore it open, and, as my
eve learned its contents, a groan burst
from my lips. "Emmie is dead, ," said
my wife, quietly. "I knew it, dear. :"
It was even so.
This blow rapidly extinguished the
Pickering life of the mother, and she,
too, quickly followed Emmie. After
this sad event, arranged to go to Wolf
STEMS chateau. He had taken no no.
tice of my various letters, but I con-
cluded that, stunned by grief, the poor
fellow was unable to attend to his ordi-
nary duties of life. In this fellowship
of sorrow together we should mingle
our tears.
On my way to the railway station 1
encountered Susan, Emmie's faithful
maid. who had been with her young
mistress, before and since her marriage.
The girl was weary and worn with
fatigue, and her once bright English
face was white and scared. She
stretched ker hands toward me. Mr..
st. John Mr.. st. John p then she fell
down in a swoon. had her conveyed
to my rooms, and after administering
restoratives she recovered, and in few
terrible words she told me of my child.
For two or three months after mar
riage all was sunshine; then the tickle
nature of the baron began to assert it
self, and he became a very devil of
causeless jealousy and malice. Every
letter Emmie wrote was read before 1t
left the chateau. She was debarrcd
from going into society-she was per-
mitted to see no one save in the pres
ence of her husband, who watched her
as a tiger watches its prey. Then he
took to drinking and playing heavily !;
but she, hoping TO win him back to her,
still compassed him round with sweet
observances, an by her gentle goodness
strove hard to exercise, the demon that
possessed his heart. But it was no
use. And then she told him how one
night Emmie's husband returned from
boar hunt, and she ran to meet him in
the hall, when he, in a fit of drunken
fury, before servants and stranger
guests, raised his riding-switch and cut
her across the face-the cowardly
hound, and from that hour she never
raised her head, but, under the cruel
indignity, she slowly dropped.
On the night she died, she mourned
with pain that she should not see father
or mother again, and they had no pic
ture even to remember her by. But
they shall have one, they shall have
one, and thus saying she died.
When the master of the chateau saw
her dead, remorse burned into his soul
and drove him mad, and he was now a
raving maniac. And at last Susan es-
capped from the chateau to tell the Sc
crets of his prison house. As Mr.. st.
John rapidly sketched these tragic out
lines great drops of anguish stood on
his forehead, aud when bade him fare
well his hand was as cold as death. In
the din and confusion of this great
shouting world lost sight of my friend,
and some years after our rencontre IN
Berlin was panied to read an intima-
ton of his death in the Times. Short
ly after this melancholy announcement
letter from the solicitors of the de-
ceased Mr.. st. John informed me that
he had bequeathed me a full-length
portrait of his only daughter.
And this is the story Of the picture OF
the lady with the pale, sad face, that
hangs in my library. But sometimes I
think only dreamt the tragic tale.