The Barnwell people-sentinel. (Barnwell, S.C.) 1925-current, January 24, 1929, Image 3
p
First Installment
Palermo is like a night blossom
which opens only with the first breath
of evening. By day, it is parched
and sleepy and stupid; by night, it is
^Uye and joyous—the place itself be
comes an al fresco paradise.
By day, those who can, sleep; by
night, they awake and don their
daintiest clothing, and Palermo.is gay.
The terrace^ of the Hotel de
1’Europe extends 'to the very verge
of the promenade, and, night by
night, is crowded with men of all
conditions and nations, who sit before
little marble tables facing the sea.
At one of these, so close * to the
promenade that the dresses of the
passers-by almost touched them, two
men were seated.
One was of an order and race easily
across the dark blue waters of the
bay, and the soft dazzling light gently
touched her hair, and gleamed in her
dark, sweet eyes. She was tall, and
clad in white flowing draperies cling
ing softly around her slim, girlish
figure, and giving to her appearance
an inexpressible daintiness, as though
they were indeed emblematic of the
spotless purity of that fair young
being. Was it the chastened light, or
was there indeed something spiritual,
something more than humanly beauti
ful in the delicate oval face—perfect
in its outline, perfect in its faint color
ing and stately poise? She was walk
ing slowly, her every moment full of
a distinctive and deliberate grace, and
her head a little upturned, as though
her thoughts were far away among the
softly burning stars, rather than con
cerned with the fashionable and pic
turesque crowd which thronged around
The Englishman looked into the eyes of the moat beautiful woman he had
to be distinguished in any quarter of
the globe—an English country gentle-^ a girl of somewhat slighter stature
.•tnd darker complexion, caused her to
lower her eyes, and in doing so they
fell upon the eager, impassioned gaze
of the young Englishman. .
Afterwards he was never ashamed
to confess that that moment brought
with it a peculiar lingering sweetness
which never altogether died away. It
was the birth of a new sensation, the
of all sensations, al
her. A remark from her companion,
man. He was tall and handvmie, and
young enough not to have outlived
enthusiasm, for he was looking out
upon the gay scene with keen interest.
His features were well cut, his eyes
were blub, and his bronze face was
•month, save for a slight, well-formed
moustache. * He wore a brown tweed
(oat and waistcoat, flannel trousers, a
straw hat tilted over his eyes, and he | most poignant
was smoking a briar pipe.
His companion was of a different
type. He was of medium height only,
and thin; his complexion was sallow,
and his eyes and hair were black.
His features, though not altogether
pleasing, were regular, and almost
classical in outline. *His clothes dis
played him to the worst possible
advantage. He wore black trousers
and a dark frock coat, tightly fitting,
which accentuated the narrowness of
his shoulders. The only relief to the
sombreness of his attire consisted in a
white flower carefully fastened in his
buttonhole.
They were only acquaintances, these
two men; chance had brought them
together for some evil purpose of her
own. They had become for a while
companions, albeit silent ones.
I The Englishman was in far too good
a humor with himself, the place, and
his surroundings, to hold his peace
for long. He exchanged his pipe for
a Havana, and commenced to talk.
“It’s very stupid of me, but, do you
know, I've quite forgotten your name
for the moment. I remember my
cousin, Cis Davenport, introducing us
at Rome, and 1 knew you again
directly I saw you. But I’m hanged
if I can think of your name 1 I
always had a precious bad memory.”
The Sicilian looked none too well
pleased at the implied request.
*T do not object to telling you my
name," he said in a low tone, sunk
almost to a whisper, ‘‘but you will
pardon me if I make a request which
may appear somewhat singular to you.
I do not wish you to address me by
it here, or to mention it. To be frank,
there are reasons for wishing my
presence in this neighborhood not to
be known. You are a gentleman, and
you will understand."
( ‘‘Oh, perfectly,” the Englishman
answered him, in a tone of blank
bewilderment. ^
‘‘My name is Leonardo di MarioniP
‘‘By Jovel of course it is!” the
Englishman exclaimed. M I should
have thought of it in a moment.”
‘‘You will not forget my request,
and if you have occasion to address
me, perhaps you will be so good as
to do so hy the name of ‘CortegiV
It is the ndme by which I am known
here, and to which I have some right.”
The Englishman nodded.
“AJf right. I'll remember. By the
bye,” he went on, “I had the pleasure
of meeting your sister in Naples, I
believe She is engaged to marry
Martin Briscoe, isn’t she?”
The Sicilian’s face darkened into a
scowl; the thin lips were tightly com
pressed, and his eyes flashed with
was not aware of it,” he
answered haughtily.
There was a brief lull in the stream
of promenaders.
The Englishman looked into die eyes
of the most beautiful woman he had
ever seen. A flood of silver moonlight
lay upon the Marina, glancing away
singer
“Ah!”
The Englishman turned toward the
wide, open window, and gazed stead
fastly at the place in the crowd where
she had vanished.
On the brow of the Hill Fiolesse,
at a sharp angle in the white dusty
road, a man and woman stood talking.
On one side of them was a grove of
flowering magnolias, and on die other
a high, closely-trimmed hedge skirted
the grounds of the Villa Fiolesse.
There was not another soul in sight,
but, as though the place were not
secure enough from interruption, the
girl, every now and then, glanced half
fearfully around her, and more than
once paused in the middle of a sen
tence to listen. At last her fears
escajied from her lips.
‘‘Leonardo, I wish that you had not
come 1" she cried. “What is the good
of it ? I shall have no rest till I know
that you are beyond the sea again."
‘‘Beyond the seas, while my heart is
diainMf forever here, Margharita P he
answered. “Ah! I have tried, and I
know the bitterness of it. You can
not tell what exile has been like to
me. I could bear it no longer. Tell
me, child! I watched you climb this
hill together. You looked back and
saw me, and waited. Did she see me,
too? Quick! answer me! I will
know! She saw me on the Marina.
Did she know that I was following
her?”
“I think she saw you. She said
nothing when I lingered behind. It
was as though she knew."
The Sicilian clasped his hands, and
looked away over the sea. The moon
light fell upon his weary pallid face,
and glisten^] in his dark sad eyes.
He <poke more to himself than her.
“She knew! And yet she would not
wait to speak a single word to me!
Aht it is cruel! If only she could
know how night by night, * in
those far-distant countries. I have lain
on the mountain tops, and wandered
through the valleys, thinking and
tfreaming of her—always of her! It
has been an evil time with me, my
sister, a time of dreary days and sleep-
though philosophers deny and mate
rialists scofl at it. After all, there is
something more than refined sensuality | less nights. And this is the end of it 1
in love which has so sudden a dawn- My heart is faint and sick with long
ing; there is a certain innate spiritual- tng, and I hastened here before it
ity which sublimates and purifies it, should break. I must see her,
so that the flame burns softly but | Margharita! Let us hasten on to the
>rightly still through joy and grief,
mocking at satiety, surviving the sor
row of gray hairs, triumphing over
the desolation of old age, and sweet
ening the passage to the grave. He
was a headstrong, chivalrous young
man, passionate, loyal, and faithful,
among al! his faults. That first love
of his never grew cold, never lessened.
It lasted forever. For some men it
is not possible to give the better part
of themselves up to the worship of a
pure woman; selfishness forbids it.
Rut this young Englishman who sat
there spellbound, absorbed in the con
sciousness of this new and sweet emo
tion, was not one of these.
Suddenly she withdrew her eye*
with a faint, conscious blush, and a*
she did so she saw for the first time
the Sicilian. Her whole aspect swiftly
changed. A terrified shudder swept
across her features, and her lips parted
with fear.
Who is she?” the Englishman asked
abruptly.
“I fear that I do not quite under
stand you,” he said quietly, although
his voice and limbs were trembling
with passion; “to whom do you
allude?" ... *
“The gijl in white who passed just
now. You knew her! Tell me her
name!"
.“Why should I?”
“I wish to know it”
“Possibly. But that is no reason
why I should tell it to you. That lady
is a friend of mine, certainly, but it
is not the custom in my country, how
ever it may be in yours, to bandy a
lady’s name about a public place.”
At the door of the hotel the
Englishman paused for a moment, and
then, ipstead of joining the stream of
menaders, he entered and slowly
ascended the broad marble staircase
toward his room. Just as he reached
the first landing, however, he "felt a
light touch on his arm, and a guttural
voice in his ear. He turned sharply
round, and found before him one of
the waiters—the one who had served
him with his coffee outside.
“Well! what do you want?” he
asked.
The man answered in a low tone,
with his eyes glancing suspiciously
around all die time.
“The Signor was inquiring the name
of the lady who passed by,” be said
•
“I can tell it Jo the Signor/*
“Look sharp then!”
“The Signor is generous,” fie re
marked, with a cunning look. “I have
risked my place by leaving the terrace
without permission to bring him this
news, and I am poor-—very, very
poorl” he added, with a sudden drop
villa!" •
She laid her hand upon his arm.
Her eyes were soft with coming tear#.
“Leonardo, listen," she cried. “It is
lest to tell you. She will not see you.
She is quite firm. She is angry with
you for coming.”
“Angry with me! Angry because I
ore her, so that I risk my life just
to see her, to hear her speak! Ah!
xit that is cruel I Let me go in and
speak to her! Let me plead with her
in my own fashion!”
She shook her head.
“Leonardo, the truth is best," she
said softly. “Adrienne does not love
you. She is quite determined not to
sec you again. Even I, pleading with
tears in my eyes, could not persuade
her. She has locked hersclt in her
om while she prepares for the con
cert. You could not see her unless
you forced yourself upon her, and that
would not do."
“No, I would not do that," he
answered wearilv. “Margharita, there
is a question; 1 must ask it, though
the answer kill me. Is there—any
one else?"
She shookjicr head.
“There is no one else, Leonardo, yet.
But what matter is that, since it can
not be you? Some day it will come.
All that a sister could do 1 have done.
She pities you, Leonardo, but she does
not love you. She never will!”
He moved from the open space,
where the moonlight fell upon his
marble face, to the shadow of the
magnolia grove. l\t stood there quite
silent for a moment. Then he spoke
in a strained, hard voice, which she
scarcely recognized.
“Margharita, you have done yogr
best for me. You do not know what
a man’s love is, or you would not
wonder that I suffer so much. Yet,
if k must be, it must. 1 will give her
up. f will go back to my exile and
forget her. Yet since I am here, grant
me a last favor. Let me see her to
say farewell.”
She looked up at him in distress.
“Leonardo, how can I? She has
given orders that under no circum
stances whatever are you to be
admitted.” *
“But to say farewell!” *
“She would not believe it It has
been so before, Leonardo, and then
you have been passionate, and pleaded
your cause all over again. I have
promised thpt I will never ask her to
seeyou again.” i
“Then let me see her without ask
ing. You can find an opportunity, if
you will. For my sake, Margharita!”
Continued Next Week
9
“THE DESPERATE LOVER” by E. P. Oppen-
heim, our new serial story commences in
this issue. Don’t fail to read it each week.
"... Sale in Your Hands
A MARK OF CONFIDENCE—a
responsibility cheerfully assumed
by the Southern trainman when an aged
person or young child is entrusted to bis
cars for the journey.
For the Southern train crew is part of
a friendly and familiar institution—the
railroad that serves the town, the railroad
that lor decades has served the South.
An institution whose activities cover
such a wide ares, and which has suc
ceeded in inspiring confidence in all parts
of it, must have served well through Its
history.
The Southern is proud of this confi
dence and of the good will which the
Southern people hold for the Southern—
their railroed
OUT
RAILWAY
E RN
SYSTEM
From lh« North#rn Gateway* •«
Washington, Cincinnati and
LoaiaviUa ... from tbs Was tarn
Oataway* at St. Louis and Mam-
phis ... to tha Ocaan Porta of
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Brunswick and Jacksonvilla . . •
and tha Outf Ports of Mobil# and
Maana ... tha Boutham
tha Sooth.
TM ••ITTMEMN BBBVBS Tl
‘ /.
Kbout your
Health
Things You Should Know
H»ir-Cr««*h.
Hercules, January 22.—A surprise
marriage of cordial interest to their
many friends wms that of Miss Lula
Hair and C. F. Creech, the ceremony
being performed by Probate Judge
John K. Snelling at hia home in Barn
well. The bride ia a daughter of Mn
and Mrs. H. L. Hair, of the Double
Ponds section, and the groom is s
son of C. S. Creech, of this section.
Their friends wish for them a long
life of happiness and prosperity.
ibf John Joseph Caines, M. D#
Hints On Cooking
The lower animals in natural state,
live on food that is un-cooked, and do
so, unless they become domesticated.
With highly organized man, it is dif
ferent; for the most part, his nourish
ment is more perfect with cooked
foods.
Cooking serves two principal pur
poses; tough fibers are made tender—
and, heat sterilizes. In these days of
many microbes, the latter is a very
important item. Infected food is one
of the most common causes of disease.
A very common fault is in the over
cooking of vegetables; die humble
turnip and the plebeian cabbage are
frequently blamed for causing digestive
disturbances, when the fault is entirely
in their being over-cooked. Both of
these useful vegetables contain vit
amins that are destroyed if kept too
long in the kettle ; neither should be
cooked over fifteen minutes. Old or
tough specimens, that will not > sur
render in less than an hour’s boiling,
are unfit for use—just so much bulk,
of no nutritive value.
Cabbage and turnips should be
steamed. Enough water in your
kettle to almost cover the vegetable
and seasoning, should make enough
steam to thoroughly tender them in
the quarter of an hour devoted to that
purpose.
Frying is a make-shift, a time-saver.
Fried foods are at the other extreme—
they are cooked too fast; the vital
principles are driven out by the fierce
heat, the hard and indigestible parts
bring left Meats should be cooked
in a vessel nearly air-tight and in
their own juices. A “Dutch oven” is
admirable for the purpose.
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