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About The Battalion. (College Station, Tex.) 1893-current | View Entire Issue (March 1, 1900)
THE BATTALION. 23 a favorite cousin in the old days. The Dutart house was small, but surrounded by a large enclosure. With in this enclosure, at a considerable distance from the mansion, was a two- roomed building, in which the house servants lived. One of them, how ever, Turnus, a trustworthy old man, slept during his master’s absence in a little back room on the ground floor of the dwelling occupied by the ladies. The nearest neighbors were far enough away to make the sleep of the young women somewhat light. The darkness produced by the shadows of the oak grove and live oaks and mag nolias in the yard was intense. This night—she never knew the hour—Miriam, the lighter sleeper of the two, was roused by the sound of a distinct tapping at the door of the lower story. She slipped to the win dow, .and, softly putting aside the curtain, looked down. She could make out nothing but the form of a man. He had evidently heard no motion of her’s for he kept on rapping, though lightly, as if wishing to attract the attention only of the occupants of the house. “This is no thief or house-break er,” she said to herself. “He would break in if he were. I’ll speak to him. But not from this room; it would be a pity to wake Annie.” Throwing a shawl over her shoul ders, and slipping her feet into mocca sins which she often wore in-doors, she hurried into the next room, and, leaning from one of its front windows, called out in an undertone to the man: “What do you want? Answer quick ly, and make haste and be gone, or I shall summon the neighbors. They will come fast enough at the sound of puj* alarm bell." “Be a good girl, and don’t make any disturbance,” said the voice below, in tones which made her start, so familiar did they seem. “Don't rouse the neighborhood, Miriam. I’ve come for no harm.” “Who are you?” asked the frightened girl, already dreading to hear the an swer. “I am the husband of the lady of the house, he! he! he!” and he laughed a laugh full of malice. “You are not Mr. Westwood,” cried Miriam. “No; but I am Stephen Gastreet,” he said. “Come, Miriam, you surely have not forgotten me—you recognize your cousin Ste.” Miriam felt as if her blood would freeze in her veins. “Where do you come from?” she asked, with quiver ing lips. “Where did you put me?” he asked in reply. “But I have no time to waste, fair cousin. Go call Annie and tell her she must come to me at once. It is to her I must talk.” Miriam staggered into the room where her sleeping friend lay. She had no thought of disobeying the command of the apparition. One dismayed, ner vous touch roused the sleeper. “Annie,” she said, “he has come back—Stephen! He is at the door and says he must see you.” Annie loked at her with amazement. But it was no dream, for the sinister visitor was knocking again, impatient at her slowness in coming. This time, too, he was calling, loud enough for her to hear, even before she started to her feet: “Annie, Annie! It is I—Stephen. Open to me. I am not dead. You need not fear me. I was always so fond of you.”
