Waterbury evening Democrat., 1889-12-03

&anemitted to you ono drop of the ae. cursed blood which flowed in her yetns-"
 ..Your hatred was satisfied, replied Cora bitterly. ''You sold her. The par hhase-money which you received for hor perhaps served to pay for the costly yhe diamonds which have glittered upon my neck and arms were perhaps bought with the price of my mothers blood!'
 "Huve n care, Cora! Beware how you goad me to desperation. l have tried to forget-nay, have forgotten that that blood was your own! Do not force me to remember!'
 And what if do remind you what would you do with mel" asked Cora. 'Would you send me to your plantation to labor beneath the burning sun, and die before my time, worn out with super human toll? No! sell me rather You may thus repair your ruined fortunes. Are you aware that one of your creditors, Augustus Horton. offered, not an hour ago. the fifty thousand dollars that you owe him at the price of your daughters honor?"
 "Oh, Heaven P exclaimed Gerald Les | lie 'all this is too terrible v and flinging himself upon his knees at Cora's feet he clasped her hands passionately in his own. 'Cora. Cora, have pity upon me! What would you ask of me? What would you have me to do? My crime is | the crime of all. Is the punishment to | fall upon me alone? Am alone to suf- fer? I. who have sacrificed my honor l yes, Cora, my honor as colonist-to the claim of paternal love? Do you know | that every citizen in New Orleans would | blame and ridicule me for my devotion to tyou? Do you know that I am even | amenable to the laws of Louisiana for | having dared to educate your mind and enlighten your understanding? See, l l am on my knees at your feet. l. your l father. humiliate myself to the very dust l Do not accuse me; in mercy, do not ac- l cuse mel"
 1 Cora's beautiful face was pale as ashes, her large dark eyes dis,ended, but tear less.
 "Upon my knees, beside my mothers grave" she said, solemnly, II will ask l her spirit if I can forgive you." She released herseN from her fathers grasp, and hurried into the house before l he could arrest her. The planter rose | from the ground and looked 1nournfully after his daughter, but he did not at- tempt to follow her.
 Later in the evening Gerald Leslie re- l turned to New Orleans. and spent the long hours of the night alone in his soli- tary office face 10 face with ruin and | despair.
 The one crime of his youth had risen to torture his remorseful soul--ghastly | and horrible shadow, it pursued the sin ner in every place; it appeared nt every moment. Repentance only could lay the phantom at rest, and he was now only | learning to repent.
 He had never before looked upon his conduct to the beautiful quadroon, Fran cilia, in the light of crime. What had he done which was not done every day l by others? What was she, lovely and | innocent being as she was, but u slave his property-bought with his so.did gold-his to destroy as he pleased? Her melancholy death he ooked upon Cs an unhappy accident, for which he himself was in no way responsible. That crime rested upon Slas Craigs over burdened soul.
 Gerald Leslie utterly forgot that had he not been heartless enough t. si! ;,:,, mother of his only child, this cruel late would never have been hers.
 But now the conseQunnceS of his crime had oyertaken him in Q mannH: le had never dreamed of; Cora, ti~ .n,- loved, his idolized cElld, accasc> a;!,i cursed him as the murderer of her mother.
 l It was too horrible.
 | He dared not remain at the summon pavilion. He dared not meet the re- proachful glances of those eyes which appeared to him as the ghostly orbs of the late Francilia. No, alone in his Of flee, surrounded only by the evidences of commerce, and the intricate ca!cula- tions of trade, he endeavorcl 70 forgot that he had a daughter, and 8 daughter who no longer loved him.
 |
 And where all this time was Cora
 With the Venetian shutters of Eer apart
 meRt closed with the light Of day ex
 cluded from her luxurious apartment,
 she lay with her head buried in the
 satin cushions of her couch, weeping fol
 the mother whose mourGful lace she
 could scarcely recall-weeping for the
 father whoso youthful sins she so lately
 learned.
 Bitter, bitter were tho thoughts of ths | young girl, whose life had herctofor,
 been one long summer sunshine.
 She, the courted, the caressed, tn;
 admired beauty of a London season-
 shc was a slave-an Octoroon-a fev drops only of the African race wore enough to taint her nature and chang, the whole current of her life.
 Her father loved her, but he darcG
 only love her in secret. The proud col onists would have laughed aloud at til, , planters affection for his half-caste , daughter. And he, too, Gilbert Mar grave, the poet painter; he, whose ever,
 glance and every word had breathed O. admiration, almost touching upon tn borders of love he would doubtless CT,
 long know all: and he, too, oh, bitte | misery, would despise and loathe her!