H 3Buneb Morroc.
'N THAT part of the island-cur
tained town of Brunswick, on
the coast of Georgia, which is built
out towards what is called the Back
Landing—the very spot where Sidney
Lanier stood to breathe in the inspira
tion of “The Marshes of Glynn’’—
there has long stood an odd, old-fash
ioned house. It occupies one-half of a
square with its yards and outbuild
ings. On the other half is a large
grove of live oaks.
In this lonely house ftved, almost
alone, a lady singularly fated to re
ceive thrusts from fortune, as you will
soon admit after hearing my tale.
Though she had been twice married,
her home had always been the Dutart
mansion.
She was still young and beautiful, a
soft, fair girl, with a quick smile and
dimpling cheek. Her first marriage,
which had taken place three years be
fore, had been of short duration. Its
only fruit had been a legacy of shame.
She was a mere girl when she gave
her hand to Stephen Gastreet. The
match at the time was thought suita
ble, though the young man was known
to be lavish in expenditure far beyond
what his slender inheritance would
authorize. But he was a promising
lawyer, a brilliant member of society,
shining from time to time with mete
oric splendor in the neighboring cities
of Savannah and Charleston, lucky on
the race course and at card parties,
and believed to be the undoubted heir
of his aunt. She was an elderly widow,
who owned in her own right a large
and valuable rice plantation on the Al-
tamaha.
One dark and stormy night the
brief happiness of the young bride was
quenched in blood mire, and infamy.
Her father, who was then living, but
had been abroad since the first month
of her wedded life, had landed a few
hours before day, when the storm was
spent, at his own place on the Alta-
maha, thirteen miles away, and had
ridden furiously through the night to
rouse the miserable wife at day-dawn,
and break to her the shocking news
that her husband was a forger.
He had expected to drive the guilty
man from the house and take his’ un
happy daughter under his own protec
tion, hoping to separate them before
the flight of the forger should by pos
sibility involve the wife in his desti
nies. The father’s great dread was
that his darling Annie might go with
the criminal in his exile. For he knew
that the marriage was still a happy
one, and he naturally feared that she
would cling to her husband unless un
deceived in time as to the character
of the deed which made him an out
law.
But, as he burst through the little
garden gate, the sight that met his eye
at the door of the trellised arbor on
his right, brought him to a sudden
pause. There, in the mud, his gar
ments sodden with rain and grimy
sand, lay the form of the wretch who
had forfeited his honor. The old man
rushed to the spot, and, with loathing,
turned the body over.
The face had been blown away by
one or more pistol shots so as to be
wholly unrecognizable. The revolver
lay close by; and Judge Dutart, pick
ing it up, read the name of Stephen
Gastreet inscribed on the plate. He
felt no doubt about the matter; his
unworthy son-in-law, unable to face