“A fairy land of flowers and fruits and sunshine
And crystal lakes and overarching forests.”
“Oh, madame, what a perfect morning! There is not the slightest cloud
in the clear blue sky, and the sheen of sunlight on the lake is
dazzling. The air is odorous with the scent of flowers, and the little
birds are almost splitting their throats with divine melody. What a
contrast to the bleakness of November in the North, or even in my own
loved Virginia, that three years ago I left in the midst of a whirling
snow-storm!” cried Cinthia Dawn, as she walked out on the long broad
gallery that surrounded her friend’s Floridian home.
A fairer scene or a sweeter home would be hard to find than the pretty
estate that the actress had opportunely inherited a year before from a
deceased great aunt.
It was situated in Marion County, on the suburbs of the pretty village
Weir Park, near the crystal Weir Lake famed as being the prettiest lake
in Florida, several miles in extent, with a magnificent expanse of
white sandy beach glittering in the golden sunlight.
Lodge Delight was the suggestive name of the white villa, surrounded
by beautiful flowers and trees, where Madame Ray had brought her
beloved young guest, and for several months they had sojourned here
almost happily but for the haunting memories that made real happiness
impossible to either, even in so Eden-like a scene.
But at least they were devoted to each other, and led an almost idyllic
life in the beautiful health-giving country so much sought in winter by
visitors from the frozen North, while Cinthia’s father still lingered
in California, though he wrote his daughter that she might expect him
now at any time.
When Cinthia and Madame Ray came out on the broad rose-wreathed gallery
of Lodge Delight, in their peerless beauty, like the perfect rose and
the unfolding bud, they added the only wanting touch to the lovely
scene--the touch of human life.
The young girl’s beautiful dark eyes beamed with fresh delight at the
fair prospect spread before them, while she cried out in rapture at the
lovely day.
Madame Ray smiled with pleasure at the girl’s enthusiasm, and answered:
“It is indeed beautiful, and I am rejoiced that you love my home so
well. It makes me grateful to my dead aunt who left me this idyllic
estate. It is quite too lovely a day to spend indoors. What shall we
do? Go walking, driving, or rowing?”
Cinthia, with her golden head one side like a bird, cogitated a moment,
then decided on a long drive into the country.
The carriage was ordered, and in a short while they were resting
luxuriously among the cushions, while a typical Florida darky handled
the reins, and sent the handsome black ponies spinning at a lively rate
along the road, past glistening orange-groves laden with golden globes
of fruit, and lovely homes where art and nature combined to make an
earthly paradise.
“Take us a new route,” Madame Ray had said to him and he had chosen
a most attractive one, keeping them keenly interested all the while,
until about three miles out, Cinthia called to him, saying:
“Let the ponies rest a minute, Uncle Rube, while you tell us about
those picturesque ruins over there.”
They had just come opposite the remains of a once palatial mansion that
had been destroyed by fire, one of the long stone wings still standing,
a melancholy, dismantled ruin through which voices of the past might
fitly echo with the raving of the night-winds. Around it were neglected
lawns and gardens, the shrubbery growing in rank luxuriance about the
broken fountains, whose tinkling waters had once laughed in the sun. An
air of neglect, desertion and dreariness hung about the place, in spite
of all the brightness of the day and scene, that sent a chill through
the hearts of the gazers.
“What a magnificent place this must once have been, and what a pity it
has not been rebuilt! Who owns it, Uncle Rube?” inquired Madame Ray,
with deep interest, and the old man said, with conscious pride:
“It b’longs to we--all--all dat’s leff ob ole marster’s fam’bly dat I
use to b’long to. Dis place used to be de country-seat ob de fam’bly,
tell three years agone, when it burned down, and de mistis moved ’way
off to Virginia to anurr gran’ place she had called Idlewhiles.”
Madame Ray and Cinthia both started violently, and looked significantly
at each other.
Then the actress recovered herself, and whispered:
“A mere coincidence. Dozens of places are called Idlewild.”
The old negro let the reins rest on the horses’ glossy backs,
flicked a fly from one of their heads with his whip, and continued,
retrospectively:
“Dis place now dey name Love’s Retreat, an’ no wonder, fer sech a place
fer courtin’ an’ sparkin’ sho’ly nebber was seen. Ole marster and
mistis had four chillun--two sons and two daughters--all four beautiful
as cud be, an’ all de young folks in de kentry used to be comin’ an’
goin’ here; an’ de sparkin’ dat went on in dem flower-gyardens an’
rose-arbors was a caution--you hear me! Umme, but dem was gay times
’fore de war! But, umme, when ’twas all ober, an’ Marse Captain Varian
comes home wid his arm gone, an’ his two sons dead on de feil o’
battle, an’ de niggers all free, an’ eb’ryt’ing gone to wrack an’ ruin,
why, ole mistis nebber hole up her head no more--she jest died, dey
say, ob a broken heart for her poor boys lost an’ gone. An’ bime-by de
oldest geerl she fell in lub wid a Yank she met up North, an’ married
him spite o’ all de ’jections ob old marse, who, naterally, hated de
Yanks, dough dey say dat Marse Fred Foster was a mighty fine gen’l’man,
all de same, _an’_ rich as we all’s folks. But Miss P’liny--de youngest
geerl, she made a missallyance, too, so her pa said--up an’ married
a poor lawyer, an’ bime-by she got divossed from him, an’ no wonder;
it was a shame de way he kerried on wid dat ward ob his, de brazen
creeter! So now, when marse captain died, five years ago, dey warn’t
no one left at Love’s Retreat but Mrs. Varian an’ her little son. Dey
travel ’bout a great deal now, so I’se ’feard dey’ll never build up dis
ole place ag’in.”