When I was a child I always thought a visit to Wyther Grange was a
great treat. It was a big, quiet, old-fashioned house where
Grandmother Laurance and Mrs. DeLisle, my Aunt Winnifred, lived. I was
a favourite with them, yet I could never overcome a certain awe of
them both. Grandmother was a tall, dignified old lady with keen black
eyes that seemed veritably to bore through one. She always wore
stiffly-rustling gowns of rich silk made in the fashion of her youth.
I suppose she must have changed her dress occasionally, but the
impression on my mind was always the same, as she went trailing about
the house with a big bunch of keys at her belt--keys that opened a
score of wonderful old chests and boxes and drawers. It was one of my
dearest delights to attend Grandmother in her peregrinations and watch
the unfolding and examining of all those old treasures and heirlooms
of bygone Laurances.
Of Aunt Winnifred I was less in awe, possibly because she dressed in a
modern way and so looked to my small eyes more human and natural. As
Winnifred Laurance she had been the beauty of the family and was a
handsome woman still, with brilliant dark eyes and cameo-like
features. She always looked very sad, spoke in a low sweet voice, and
was my childish ideal of all that was high-bred and graceful.
I had many beloved haunts at the Grange, but I liked the garret best.
It was a roomy old place, big enough to have comfortably housed a
family in itself, and was filled with cast-off furniture and old
trunks and boxes of discarded finery. I was never tired of playing
there, dressing up in the old-fashioned gowns and hats and practising
old-time dance steps before the high, cracked mirror that hung at one
end. That old garret was a veritable fairyland to me.
There was one old chest which I could not explore and, like all
forbidden things, it possessed a great attraction for me. It stood
away back in a dusty, cobwebbed corner, a strong, high wooden box,
painted blue. From some words which I had heard Grandmother let fall I
was sure it had a history; it was the one thing she never explored in
her periodical overhaulings. When I grew tired of playing I liked to
creep up on it and sit there, picturing out my own fancies concerning
it--of which my favourite one was that some day I should solve the
riddle and open the chest to find it full of gold and jewels with
which I might restore the fortune of the Laurances and all the
traditionary splendours of the old Grange.
I was sitting there one day when Aunt Winnifred and Grandmother
Laurance came up the narrow dark staircase, the latter jingling her
keys and peering into the dusty corners as she came along the room.
When they came to the old chest, Grandmother rapped the top smartly
with her keys.
"I wonder what is in this old chest," she said. "I believe it really
should be opened. The moths may have got into it through that crack in
the lid."
"Why don't you open it, Mother?" said Mrs. DeLisle. "I am sure that
key of Robert's would fit the lock."
"No," said Grandmother in the tone that nobody, not even Aunt
Winnifred, ever dreamed of disputing. "I will not open that chest
without Eliza's permission. She confided it to my care when she went
away, and I promised that it should never be opened until she came for
it."
"Poor Eliza," said Mrs. DeLisle thoughtfully. "I wonder what she is
like now. Very much changed, like all the rest of us, I suppose. It is
almost thirty years since she was here. How pretty she was!"
"I never approved of her," said Grandmother brusquely. "She was a
sentimental, fanciful creature. She might have married well but she
preferred to waste her life pining over the memory of a man who was
not worthy to untie the shoelace of a Laurance."
Mrs. DeLisle sighed softly and made no reply. People said that she had
had her own romance in her youth and that her mother had sternly
repressed it. I had heard that her marriage with Mr. DeLisle was
loveless on her part and proved very unhappy. But he had been dead
many years, and Aunt Winnifred never spoke of him.
"I have made up my mind what to do," said Grandmother decidedly. "I
will write to Eliza and ask her if I may open the chest to see if the
moths have got into it. If she refuses, well and good. I have no doubt
that she _will_ refuse. She will cling to her old sentimental ideas as
long as the breath is in her body."
I rather avoided the old chest after this. It took on a new
significance in my eyes and seemed to me like the tomb of
something--possibly some dead and buried romance of the past.
Later on a letter came to Grandmother; she passed it over the table to
Mrs. DeLisle.
"That is from Eliza," she said. "I would know her writing
anywhere--none of your modern sprawly, untidy hands, but a fine
lady-like script, as regular as copperplate. Read the letter,
Winnifred; I haven't my glasses and I dare say Eliza's rhapsodies
would tire me very much. You need not read them aloud--I can imagine
them all. Let me know what she says about the chest."
Aunt Winnifred opened and read the letter and laid it down with a
brief sigh.
"This is all she says about the chest. 'If it were not for one thing
that is in it, I would ask you to open the chest and burn all its
contents. But I cannot bear that anyone but myself should see or touch
that one thing. So please leave the chest as it is, dear Aunt. It is
no matter if the moths do get in.' That is all," continued Mrs.
DeLisle, "and I must confess that I am disappointed. I have always had
an almost childish curiosity about that old chest, but I seem fated
not to have it gratified. That 'one thing' must be her wedding dress.
I have always thought that she locked it away there."
"Her answer is just what I expected of her," said Grandmother
impatiently. "Evidently the years have not made her more sensible.
Well, I wash my hands of her belongings, moths or no moths."
It was not until ten years afterwards that I heard anything more of
the old chest. Grandmother Laurance had died, but Aunt Winnifred still
lived at the Grange. She was very lonely, and the winter after
Grandmother's death she sent me an invitation to make her a long
visit.
When I revisited the garret and saw the old blue chest in the same
dusty corner, my childish curiosity revived and I begged Aunt
Winnifred to tell me its history.
"I am glad you have reminded me of it," said Mrs. DeLisle. "I have
intended to open the chest ever since Mother's death but I kept
putting it off. You know, Amy, poor Eliza Laurance died five years
ago, but even then Mother would not have the chest opened. There is no
reason why it should not be examined now. If you like, we will go and
open it at once and afterwards I will tell you the story."
We went eagerly up the garret stairs. Aunt knelt down before the old
chest and selected a key from the bunch at her belt.
"Would it not be too provoking, Amy, if this key should not fit after
all? Well, I do not believe you would be any more disappointed than
I."
She turned the key and lifted the heavy lid. I bent forward eagerly. A
layer of tissue paper revealed itself, with a fine tracing of sifted
dust in its crinkles.
"Lift it up, child," said my aunt gently. "There are no ghosts for
you, at least, in this old chest."
I lifted the paper up and saw that the chest was divided into two
compartments. Lying on the top of one was a small, square, inlaid box.
This Mrs. DeLisle took up and carried to the window. Lifting up the
cover she laid it in my lap.
"There, Amy, look through it and let us see what old treasures have
lain hidden there these forty years."
The first thing I took out was a small square case covered with dark
purple velvet. The tiny clasp was almost rusted away and yielded
easily. I gave a little cry of admiration. Aunt Winnifred bent over my
shoulder.
"That is Eliza's portrait at the age of twenty, and that is Willis
Starr's. Was she not lovely, Amy?"
Lovely indeed was the face looking out at me from its border of
tarnished gilt. It was the face of a young girl, in shape a perfect
oval, with delicate features and large dark-blue eyes. Her hair,
caught high on the crown and falling on her neck in the long curls of
a bygone fashion, was a warm auburn, and the curves of her bare neck
and shoulders were exquisite.
"The other picture is that of the man to whom she was betrothed. Tell
me, Amy, do you think him handsome?"
I looked at the other portrait critically. It was that of a young man
of about twenty-five; he was undeniably handsome, but there was
something I did not like in his face and I said so.
Aunt Winnifred made no reply--she was taking out the remaining
contents of the box. There was a white silk fan with delicately carved
ivory sticks, a packet of old letters and a folded paper containing
some dried and crumpled flowers. Aunt laid the box aside and unpacked
the chest in silence. First came a ball dress of pale-yellow satin
brocade, made with the trained skirt, "baby" waist and full puffed
sleeves of a former generation. Beneath it was a case containing a
necklace of small but perfect pearls and a pair of tiny satin
slippers. The rest of the compartment was filled with household linen,
fine and costly but yellowed with age--damask table linen and webs of
the uncut fabric.
In the second compartment lay a dress. Aunt Winnifred lifted it out
reverently. It was a gown of rich silk that had once been white, but
now, like the linen, it was yellow with age. It was simply made and
trimmed with cobwebby old lace. Wrapped around it was a long white
bridal veil, redolent with some strange, old-time perfume that had
kept its sweetness all through the years.
"Well, Amy, this is all," said Aunt Winnifred with a quiver in her
voice. "And now for the story. Where shall I begin?"
"At the very beginning, Aunty. You see I know nothing at all except
her name. Tell me who she was and why she put her wedding dress away
here."
"Poor Eliza!" said Aunt dreamily. "It is a sorrowful story, Amy, and
it seems so long ago now. I must be an old woman. Forty years ago--and
I was only twenty then. Eliza Laurance was my cousin, the only
daughter of Uncle Henry Laurance. My father--your grandfather, Amy,
you don't remember him--had two brothers, each of whom had an only
daughter. Both these girls were called Eliza after your
great-grandmother. I never saw Uncle George's Eliza but once. He was a
rich man and his daughter was much sought after, but she was no
beauty, I promise you that, and proud and vain to the last degree.
Her home was in a distant city and she never came to Wyther Grange.
"The other Eliza Laurance was a poor man's daughter. She and I were of
the same age and did not look unlike each other, although I was not so
pretty by half. You can see by the portrait how beautiful she was, and
it does her scant justice, for half her charm lay in her arch
expression and her vivacious ways. She had her little faults, of
course, and was rather over much given to romance and sentiment. This
did not seem much of a defect to me then, Amy, for I was young and
romantic too. Mother never cared much for Eliza, I think, but everyone
else liked her. One winter Eliza came to Wyther Grange for a long
visit. The Grange was a very lively place then, Amy. Eliza kept the
old house ringing with merriment. We went out a great deal and she was
always the belle of any festivity we attended. Yet she wore her
honours easily; all the flattery and homage she received did not turn
her head.
"That winter we first met Willis Starr. He was a newcomer, and nobody
knew much about him, but one or two of the best families took him up,
and his own fascinations did the rest. He became what you would call
the rage. He was considered very handsome, his manners were polished
and easy, and people said he was rich.
"I don't think, Amy, that I ever trusted Willis Starr. But like all
the rest, I was blinded by his charm. Mother was almost the only one
who did not worship at his shrine, and very often she dropped hints
about penniless adventurers that made Eliza very indignant.
"From the first he had paid Eliza marked attention and seemed utterly
bewitched by her. Well, his was an easy winning. Eliza loved him with
her whole impulsive, girlish heart and made no attempt to hide it.
"I shall never forget the night they were first engaged. It was
Eliza's birthday, and we were invited to a ball that evening. This
yellow gown is the very one she wore. I suppose that is why she put it
away here--the gown she wore on the happiest night of her life. I had
never seen her look more beautiful--her neck and arms were bare, and
she wore this string of pearls and carried a bouquet of her favourite
white roses.
"When we reached home after the dance, Eliza had her happy secret to
tell us. She was engaged to Willis Starr, and they were to be married
in early spring.
"Willis Starr certainly seemed to be an ideal lover, and Eliza was so
perfectly happy that she seemed to grow more beautiful and radiant
every day.
"Well, Amy, the wedding day was set. Eliza was to be married from the
Grange, as her own mother was dead, and I was to be bridesmaid. We
made her wedding dress together, she and I. Girls were not above
making their own gowns then, and not a stitch was set in Eliza's save
those put there by loving fingers and blessed by loving wishes. It was
I who draped the veil over her sunny curls--see how yellow and creased
it is now, but it was as white as snow that day.
"A week before the wedding, Willis Starr was spending the evening at
the Grange. We were all chattering gaily about the coming event, and
in speaking of the invited guests Eliza said something about the
other Eliza Laurance, the great heiress, looking archly at Willis over
her shoulder as she spoke. It was some merry badinage about the cousin
whose namesake she was but whom she so little resembled.
"We all laughed, but I shall never forget the look that came over
Willis Starr's face. It passed quickly, but the chill fear that it
gave me remained. A few minutes later I left the room on some trifling
errand, and as I returned through the dim hall I was met by Willis
Starr. He laid his hand on my arm and bent his evil face--for it _was_
evil then, Amy--close to mine.
"'Tell me,' he said in a low but rude tone, 'is there another Eliza
Laurance who is an heiress?'
"'Certainly there is,' I said sharply. 'She is our cousin and the
daughter of our Uncle George. Our Eliza is not an heiress. You surely
did not suppose she was!'
"Willis stepped aside with a mocking smile.
"'I did--what wonder? I had heard much about the great heiress, Eliza
Laurance, and the great beauty, Eliza Laurance. I supposed they were
one and the same. You have all been careful not to undeceive me.'
"'You forget yourself, Mr. Starr, when you speak so to me,' I retorted
coldly. 'You have deceived yourself. We have never dreamed of allowing
anyone to think that Eliza was an heiress. She is sweet and lovely
enough to be loved for her own sake.'
"I went back to the parlour full of dismay. Willis Starr remained
gloomy and taciturn all the rest of the evening, but nobody seemed to
notice it but myself.
"The next day we were all so busy that I almost forgot the incident
of the previous evening. We girls were up in the sewing room putting
the last touches to the wedding gown. Eliza tried it and her veil on
and was standing so, in all her silken splendour, when a letter was
brought in. I guessed by her blush who was the writer. I laughed and
ran downstairs, leaving her to read it.
"When I returned she was still standing just where I had left her in
the middle of the room, holding the letter in her hand. Her face was
as white as her veil, and her wide-open eyes had a dazed, agonized
look as of someone who had been stricken a mortal blow. All the soft
happiness and sweetness had gone out of them. They were the eyes of an
old woman, Amy.
"'Eliza, what is the matter?' I said. 'Has anything happened to
Willis?'
"She made no answer, but walked to the fireplace, dropped the letter
in a bed of writhing blue flame and watched it burn to white ashes.
Then she turned to me.
"'Help me take off this gown, Winnie,' she said dully. 'I shall never
wear it again. There will be no wedding. Willis is gone.'
"'Gone!' I echoed stupidly.
"'Yes. I am not the heiress, Winnie. It was the fortune, not the girl,
he loved. He says he is too poor for us to dream of marrying when I
have nothing. Oh, such a cruel, heartless letter! Why did he not kill
me? It would have been so much more merciful! I loved him so--I
trusted him so! Oh, Winnie, Winnie, what am I to do!'
"There was something terrible in the contrast between her passionate
words and her calm face and lifeless voice. I wanted to call Mother,
but she would not let me. She went away to her own room, trailing
along the dark hall in her dress and veil, and locked herself in.
"Well, I told it all to the others in some fashion. You can imagine
their anger and dismay. Your father, Amy--he was a hot-blooded,
impetuous, young fellow then--went at once to seek Willis Starr. But
he was gone, no one knew where, and the whole country rang with the
gossip and scandal of the affair. Eliza knew nothing of this, for she
was ill and unconscious for many a day. In a novel or story she would
have died, I suppose, and that would have been the end of it. But this
was in real life, and Eliza did not die, although many times we
thought she would.
"When she did recover, how frightfully changed she was! It almost
broke my heart to see her. Her very nature seemed to have changed
too--all her joyousness and light-heartedness were dead. From that
time she was a faded, dispirited creature, no more like the Eliza we
had known than the merest stranger. And then after a while came other
news--Willis Starr was married to the other Eliza Laurance, the true
heiress. He had made no second mistake. We tried to keep it from Eliza
but she found it out at last. That was the day she came up here alone
and packed this old chest. Nobody ever knew just what she put into it.
But you and I see now, Amy--her ball dress, her wedding gown, her love
letters and, more than all else, her youth and happiness--this old
chest was the tomb of it all. Eliza Laurance was really buried here.
"She went home soon after. Before she went she exacted a promise from
Mother that the old chest should be left at the Grange unopened until
she came for it herself. But she never came back, and I do not think
she ever intended to, and I never saw her again.
"That is the story of the old chest. It was all over so long ago--the
heartbreak and the misery--but it all seems to come back to me now.
Poor Eliza!"
My own eyes were full of tears as Aunt Winnifred went down the stairs,
leaving me sitting dreamily there in the sunset light, with the old
yellowed bridal veil across my lap and the portrait of Eliza Laurance
in my hand. Around me were the relics of her pitiful story--the old,
oft-repeated story of a faithless love and a woman's broken heart--the
gown she had worn, the slippers in which she had danced
light-heartedly at her betrothal ball, her fan, her pearls, her
gloves--and it somehow seemed to me as if I were living in those old
years myself, as if the love and happiness, the betrayal and pain were
part of my own life. Presently Aunt Winnifred came back through the
twilight shadows.
"Let us put all these things back in their grave, Amy," she said.
"They are of no use to anyone now. The linen might be bleached and
used, I dare say--but it would seem like a sacrilege. It was Mother's
wedding present to Eliza. And the pearls--would you care to have them,
Amy?"
"Oh, no, no," I said with a little shiver. "I would never wear them,
Aunt Winnifred. I should feel like a ghost if I did. Put everything
back just as we found it--only her portrait. I would like to keep
that."
Reverently we put gowns and letters and trinkets back into the old
blue chest. Aunt Winnifred closed the lid and turned the key softly.
She bowed her head over it for a minute and then we went together in
silence down the shadowy garret stairs of Wyther Grange.