and noiselessly as she had come upon them. Livingston met her on the
piazza, and, without questioning his presence there, she allowed him to
take her hand and lead her to a seat. He looked almost as pale as she,
and far more agitated, and when she turned from him, covering her face
with her hands, his self-possession deserted him entirely.
"Don't--don't cry, Valentine. He is not worth a tear, or one pang of
that dear heart of yours."
"I know his worth; but that cannot alter my feelings now. I love him."
"And I--I love you, Valentine, even as you love him."
Valentine turned and looked at Livingston.
"Then I pity you," she said, simply, but with such pathos that he
himself felt like dealing out summary punishment to Black. He did not
attempt to plead his own cause then, knowing that it would be not only
selfish but worse than useless. She had no thought for him or for
anybody or anything but her own sorrow and bitterness. "I wonder if
animals can have souls, because if they do I must have been a tigress."
She laughed tremulously, crushing up folds of her gown in her hands.
"I'd like to kill them, I would indeed!" she exclaimed, her eyes burning
through a veil of tears.
"You think so now because you are excited," Livingston said gently, as
though speaking to an angry child.
"Excited! I think I must be mad."
"You could not do them any violence, Valentine, were it really in your
power. I know your generous, noble nature better than that."
But she turned away again, with hidden face, jealous rage melting into
anguish.
Nobody could ever tell just how it happened. The most reasonable theory
was that it caught from some of those vagrant sparks flying up from the
bonfire, but deep in the darkness and silence of that night, long after
the household had all retired, a little tongue of fire shot up from the
roof, growing larger and brighter until its light shone across the woods
and fields beyond the river.
It was Valentine who, turning on her pillow to look from the window, saw
the strange illumination, and, springing up, discovered its cause. One
could hear the curl and crackle of the dry boards as the flames devoured
them, feel the heat, smell the rolling volumes of smoke. Confusion
reigned supreme as Valentine ran through the halls, waking the
slumbering people. Nobody attempted to save anything, but all fled for
their lives from the old house, which burned like so much tinder. The
great trees surrounding it were shriveled in the heat, and falling
flakes of fire set barns and stables ablaze. The low clouds caught the
lurid reflection, the river shone like a mirror, while along the horizon
the darkness was so intense, so thick and inky black, that it seemed as
if all the night had been compressed into it.
The Dugarres wept to see the old house falling to ashes before their
eyes--all but Valentine. Its walls held no loving associations, no
precious memories for her; but the force, the awful destructive fury of
the fire fascinated her.
And then, from group to group, ran a cry for Miss Lawrence. She could
not be found. Had she been left, forgotten in the terror and confusion?
Then, indeed, men and women looked at one another with blanched faces
and eyes of horror.
"It would be death to go in there now," said one man.
But, death or not, one had gone, running across the lawn, up the steps,
and into the clouds of smoke filling the piazza and wreathing the great
white columns--Valentine Dugarre. Black and Livingston would have
followed her, but were forcibly restrained. It was enough, they were
told, that two lives should be lost, without throwing their own away.
But in a few moments a joyful shout drew all to the side of the house,
where they saw Valentine at a second-story window, with Helen Lawrence
half-fainting at her side. She helped her through the window, and those
below could hear her eager words of encouragement as Helen dropped
safely down to the hands outstretched to receive her.
"Now, Valentine! quickly, dear!" cried her cousin, sharply.
"Yes, for God's sake!" Livingston cried. But it was too late. A volume
of flame seemed to burst up at her very feet, curling in the folds of
her white gown and circling about her head. Ont of that fiery nimbus her
face shone for a moment, and then, with a creaking of burning timbers
and a great flare of light, the whole building fell in.
*THE STORY OF A LILAC GOWN.*
It was my grandaunt, Euphemia D'Esterre's gown; and when my mother said
that I must wear it to the fancy-dress party, superstitious terror
thrilled through me. It lay in an old chest, under a heterogeneous
collection of D'Esterre relics, and was a peculiarly soft, sheeny lilac
silk, made in a quaint fashion, with a slender, pointed bodice, puffed
shoulders, and a full, straight skirt. Frills of fine yellow old lace
finished off the low neck and short sleeves, and a faint, exquisite
perfume lingered in its delicate, shimmering folds. A portrait of my
grandaunt--painted in that very lilac gown by some long-forgotten New
Orleans artist--hung over our sitting-room mantel, and many a time I
stood before it, brooding over the mystery enshrouding the final fate of
the original.
It was a beautiful picture of a beautiful young woman, with radiant
blue-gray eyes, golden hair rolled high on her proudly poised head, and
lips ready to curve in happy laughter. A cluster of cream-white roses
drooped against her bosom, and a string of pearls encircled her full,
white throat, A curious sympathy seemed to exist between me and this
fair kinswoman, who had lived, loved, and passed from the earth long
before my birth. She had been a belle and beauty in the days when the
D'Esterres were rich, with plantations on Red River and a winter home in
New Orleans. She was the flower of the family, her father's favorite,
and he had promised her in marriage to one of the wealthiest planters in
Louisiana, when he discovered that she had fallen deeply in love with a
young man he had employed as overseer--a handsome, cultivated, but poor
young German. There were scenes and violent words, but Euphemia firmly
refused to give up her lover until he was proven guilty of the theft of
a large sum of money from her father. It was a terrible blow to her,
but more terrible still was an account of his death a few weeks after he
sailed away to the West Indies. He had died of yellow fever.
She fell into a state of the deepest melancholy; and, being a devout
Catholic, entreated to be allowed to enter a convent and spend the
remainder of her life in pious works; but her family refused. They
permitted her to convert the dressing-room attached to her bedroom into
an oratory, and, wisely or unwisely, left her alone for a season to
indulge her grief, to pray for the soul of her departed lover, and to
find healing for her own wounded heart. Then they sought to draw her
back into the world again; the wealthy suitor reappeared, and, wearied
by arguments and entreaties, she promised to marry him.
The wedding was to take place on the plantation, and many guests were
bidden, and a great feast prepared.
On her wedding-eve Euphemia came down clothed in the lilac gown,
cream-white roses on her breast, and the string of pearls around her
fair throat. Her family were puzzled and indignant, for that gown
somehow seemed linked with the memory of her sweetheart, who had died in
disgrace. It was a strange whim to wear it the night before her
marriage. But the evening passed merrily enough, and at eleven o'clock
the bedroom candles were lighted, and she went up the stairs to her room
with a smile on her lips, the lilac gown felling around her in soft,
shimmering folds.
It was the last time family, lover or friends ever looked upon Euphemia
D'Esterre. The next morning her room was empty. The pearls lay on the
dressing-table with the withered roses, and the lilac gown hung over the
back of a chair; but bride, bridal-gown and veil were gone. They looked
into the oratory, thinking that she had gone in there to breathe her
last virginal prayer before the simple altar, where she had knelt so
many times; but the light shining dimly through the narrow, veiled
window, revealed the sacred place silent, untenanted. They sought her
everywhere; they spent money lavishly, but to no purpose. She had
vanished forever.
Time and the fortunes of war had wrought many changes in the D'Esterre
family. My mother, a pale, melancholy young widow, and I--another
Euphemia D'Esterre--and Uncle Peter were the last of the family. And we
had drifted away from Louisiana to an old mansion on the Chattahoochee,
in Middle Georgia. Across the river lay the idle, sleepy old town of
Magnoliaville, with its shady streets, ivy-covered churches, and inn,
rarely visited by a traveler and stranger.
We had some old silver, my grandaunt's picture, the pearls, and the
lilac gown. These were all the real treasures we had gathered from the
wreck of family fortunes; and Uncle Peter was the last living link
between us and the past. He was a very old man, his black face
shriveled into a network of wrinkles, his shoulders bent, his head
white, almost, as snow. He possessed great pride and dignity. His long
life had been spent in the services of the D'Esterres, and he refused to
leave them when freedom was proclaimed.
"Tu late fo' dat now. I praise de Lawd I gwine die a free man, but I
b'long dis fambly tu long tu leave 'em now. Let all go dat feels lack
dey wanter, ole Peter gwine stay tel 'e dies; yes, tel 'e dies."
And he did stay, and was the favorite playfellow and companion of my
childhood.
"Yo's de las', Miss Phemy, honey, de las' o' dem all, and yo's nuff lack
Miss Euphemy tu 'a' been 'er twin. Lawd, but dis is er mighty strange
worl'--mighty strange," he would often say, shaking his white head. He
seemed to feel a certain responsibility and care toward me as the last
of the family.
He lived in the little cabin at the foot of the garden, provided for out
of our slender income and exempted from all labor; but he insisted on
regarding himself as our servant, weeded the garden, or sat in the wide,
bare hall, ready to meet chance visitors and usher them into the barer
parlor with old-time ceremony.
To me a halo of romance surrounded his venerable head. Such stories as
he could tell me of the past! They were highly colored and delightfully
exaggerated. My mother, absorbed in melancholy retrospection, left me
much to my own devices, and many an evening I spent in Uncle Peter's
cabin, listening to his rambling talk, and questioning him about my
ill-fated grandaunt. Nearly all that I had ever learned of her history
had been gleaned from his conversations. He would sit at the corner of
the hearth, bent forward in his chair, his wrinkled old hands folded on
the knob of his walking stick, the firelight playing in uncertain,
flickering gleams over his black face and kinky white locks. He was a
fair type of the old-fashioned plantation negro, simple, superstitious,
but shrewd and faithful to his trusts. Of Euphemia D'Esterre he always
spoke with reverential pride, but keeping a certain guard over himself
as though he possessed some knowledge he did not want to betray.
"She wus mighty proud, oh yes, honey, dey all helt dey heads high; but
she neber was hard on de black fo'ks. She al'ays had er smile, or kind
word for um, tel bimeby she got in dat trubble, en had no smiles for
ennybody. Ole marse had jes done gimme tu be Marse Albert's boy, en I
was little; but I seed en hear more'n ennybody things I does. I seed
'er comin' down de stairs dat night in dat laylock gown, en smilin' so
strange lack a chill crope down my back. De tables was done spread fo'
de weddin', de cakes backed, de silber shinin', en de fo'ks all done
come. Hit would 'a' been de bigges' weddin' eber on Red River ef Miss
Euphemy hadn't tuk en vanished as she did. Lawd, Lawd, what did become
o' 'er?"
He always came round to that hopeless question, shaking his head with a
deep sigh. Then, after a reflective pause, he would cast a glance over
his shoulder into the shadowy corners of the room, and, lower his voice
to a solemn whisper, say:
"Miss Phemy, honey, I feels lack she gwinter come back--lack she gwinter
'pear tu ole Peter 'fo' 'e dies."
I had listened to the utterance of that superstitious belief countless
times, but repetition could not rob it of its impressiveness. I ceased
to shiver and feel as though my blood was curdling, but I would cast an
awed, half-fearful glance out into the night, almost expecting to see
her come floating downward through its solemn gloom, clothed in white
raiment, radiant as the stars.
No wonder a thrill of apprehension chilled my young blood, when the
lilac gown was suggested as a suitable costume for the first fancy-dress
party I had ever known to be given in Magnoliaville.
"It is quaint, and lovely, and with the pearls will be quite charming;
and then I have heard that there are visitors--yes, actually three or
four visitors in Magnoliaville," said my mother, with a sparkle of
animation.
"But I don't want to wear that dress; indeed, I would rather stay at
home than put it on!" I faltered, ashamed, yet determined to speak out
my fears.
"Why, Phemie!" she exclaimed, in gentle scorn, "what nonsense! You are
nineteen years old, and have too few opportunities of going into the
world to give up one for a childish whim. I was married at your age,"
sighing softly; then her eyes strayed from me to the picture. "How
strangely you resemble her! It would really be a fine idea to copy the
picture as closely as possible."
"Oh, mother!" I shuddered: but she chided me gently, and I had to yield
to her wishes. She superintended my toilet that night, and I trembled
when I looked at myself in the mirror; for it was not Phemie D'Esterre,
the obscure country girl, but Euphemia D'Esterre, the Louisiana belle
and beauty, reflected before my startled eyes. The string of pearls
around my throat and a cluster of white roses completed the illusion.
Friends were coming over the river for me, and my mother hastened down
stairs to be ready to meet them, leaving me to follow more leisurely. A
light burned in the lower hall, and Uncle Peter sat in his favorite
chair dozing. Did the rustle of my gown disturb him as I stepped softly
from stair to stair? He moved uneasily, raised his head, and glancing
upward, saw me. For a moment he stared vacantly, his dim old eyes
clouded with sleep; but as I drew nearer a dull, ashy hue overspread his
face--a convulsive trembling seized him.
"Great land! ef dar ain't Miss Euphemy now, done come at las'!" he
muttered, hoarsely. "Honey, I'se been 'spectin' en lookin' fo' yo' menny
a day. Dar, dar, don't come tu nigh," raising a shaking hand
pleadingly. "I 'spect I know what yo' come fo'. Hit's 'bout dem
letters dey tuk, en de way dey treated young marse 'bout dat money dey
made lack 'e stole. I knowed dar'd be no res' fo' yo' tel yo' foun' hit
all out. Hit wusn't me, honey. I neber done yo' no harum. Hit was ole
Dan'l. Yo' 'member Dan'l, what waited on ole marse, en knowed all de
comin'-in en goin'-out o' de place? Hit wus Dan'l ole marse gin dem gold
dollars tu, tu he'p git young marse in trubble, tu spy on yo', en tu
steal de letters what yo' writ 'im. Oh, yes, yes. Peter wus mighty
young den, des big ernuff tu wait on Marse Albert; but 'e know all long
how dey wus treatin' yo'. 'E watch en listen, but 'e 'feered tu speak,
en 'e wouldn't say nuffin arterwards fo' de fambly's sake; 'e des keep
hit all tu 'isse'f."
So there had been fraud and dishonor on the part of my family, and Uncle
Peter had kept the secret through all his long life. I was too confused
and agitated by the mistake he had made in my identity to fully
comprehend all his words at the moment, but later they returned clearly
to me.
"Uncle Peter," I cried, "don't you know me?"
"Yes, yes, honey, ain't I been tellin' yo' hit wus Dan'l he'ped ole
marse break yo' po' heart, en fix dat money tel fo'ks b'lieve young
marse stole hit. When dar wus no weddin', kase yo' done gone whar no
man could fine yo', Dan'l 'e 'pented o' 'is sin; 'e fine no res' fo' 'is
soul; 'e take de money what had been gin tu 'im, in tu ole marse, en lay
hit down 'fo' 'im, en sez:
"'I can't keep hit, Marse, hit des burn my hands, des burn my soul. I'm
gittin' ole, I gwine die 'fo' menny year, sah, en I can't go tu de
jedgment long o' dat money; en den Miss Euphemy she des 'pear tu me, en
she say: "Dan'l, Dan'l, what yo' been doin'? 'Pent, Dan'l, 'pent 'fo'
de Lawd's wrath be turned ag'in' yo'!" I sees 'er in eber' shadder,
hears 'er in eber' win' dat blows. She come in de night-time, en she
come in de daytime. Oh, Marse, take hit back, fo' de lub o' Gawd, en
let me be de hardes' wuked man on de place, so ez I git ease o' my
trubble.'
"En Dan'l, 'e des brake down, en cry out loud, de tears a-rollin' frum
'is eyes, en ole marse groan, en sez:
"'She done gone, Dan'l--she done gone, en all de 'pentin' in de worl'
ain't gwine bring 'er back, en dar ain't nuffin' 'ud ease my trubble. De
Lawd's wrath be on me, Dan'l--de Lawd's wrath be on me. Go, ef wuk
gwine do enny good, but don't come nigh me 'g'in. I ain't blamin' yo',
Dan'l, but 'pear lack de sight o' yo' make me feel wus.'
"En Dan'l, 'e tuk en go out, en neber look on ole marse' face agin.
Dan'l 'e 'pented o' 'is sin. 'E live by 'isse'f; 'e see ha'nts, en 'e
hear sperits talkin', en 'e wuk all de days o' 'is life. En ole marse 'e
mus 'a' seed ha'nts tu, fo' 'e fine no res' tel 'e die."
He sunk to his knees before me, his white head bowed to the floor.
"Trufe what I been tellin' yo', Miss Euphemy, all trufe. Now go 'way,
honey, go 'way, en don't ax ole Peter to tell enny more tel 'e come to
die."
I have no words in which to describe the effect of his confession on my
excited mind, and how I pitied his fear. I tried to draw near to him,
to convince him of my identity; but he rose, and retreated before me.
"Honey, I knows yo', I 'member how yo' come down de stairs dat odder
night in dat laylock gown."
You can easily fancy that I was in no mood for the party. My friends
were charmed with my costume.
"And I have a special reason for desiring you to look your loveliest
to-night," said Mrs. Landsdell, as we made our way down to the ferry.
"We have a stranger with us."
"A stranger!" I echoed, my thoughts still running on Uncle Peter and his
strange hallucination.
"Yes; Mr. Herman Vandala, from New Orleans. He arrived only yesterday,
to look after some land an agent had bought for him. My dear, he is a
splendid fellow, rich, and a pet of society, but not in the least
spoiled. He came across the river with us."
We were at the ferry, and in the light of the boatman's lantern I could
see the stranger leaning on the railing guarding the water's edge. He
was slender, and not above medium height, and when he threw his cigar
into the water, and turned toward us, a curious sensation, conviction--I
know not which--came over me, that I had met him before; that his dark,
handsome face, and clear, winning eyes were familiar to me, I stammered
when introduced, and stumbled so awkwardly when he held out his hand to
assist me into the boat, that my cloak dropped to the ground. It was
his turn to lose composure. He grew very pale, and stared at me as
though I embodied a ghost.
"I beg your pardon," he murmured; my wraps were restored, and I sank
tremblingly to the seat.
The remarks addressed to me, while crossing the river, were answered
only in monosyllables. A kind of breathless expectation had seized upon
me. What would happen next, I wondered? As often as I encountered Mr.
Vandala's eyes, I felt the blood rush afresh to my face. When we
landed, to my relief, Mrs. Landsdell claimed the stranger as her escort,
leaving me to the care of her husband. But the moment an opportunity
presented itself, after we entered the ballroom, Mr. Vandala came to me.
"Miss D'Esterre, will you promenade with me?"
I accepted his offered arm, and we passed into the parlor.
"I am anxious to explain my strange behavior when you dropped your cloak
at the river," he said, in a low tone, his manner full of repressed
excitement. "You are the perfect image of an old miniature in my
possession, even to every detail of your dress, and I felt startled at
the sight of you."
I trembled, yet did not feel greatly surprised.
"If I could only see the miniature," I murmured, hesitatingly.
From an inner breast-pocket he instantly drew a small faded case, and
opened it.
"It is painted on ivory, and belongs to a past generation; but you--I
can hardly believe that you did not sit for it."
I bent eagerly over it, and saw an exquisitely painted portrait of my
grandaunt, evidently copied from the picture in our possession. The
blue-gray eyes smiled into mine, the sweet, curved lips seemed ready to
unclose in speech.
"Where did you get this picture?" I exclaimed, eagerly.
"It was found among the private papers of an old man, who died in the
West Indies, many years ago," Mr. Vandala quietly replied. "He was
overseer on one of her father's plantations--accepted the situation
until something better should present itself--for he was a stranger in a
strange land. He dared to love her, but her family violently opposed
their marriage, and succeeded in separating them. In bitterness of
spirit, he left the country with the stigma of dishonor upon him."
"Unmerited, unmerited," I said, in a stifled tone.
"Even the girl he loved believed in his guilt, and in a year or two
accepted the suitor her family approved of."
"Believing him dead," I said quietly.
"But on the eve of her wedding-day disappeared," Mr. Vandala continued,
apparently not heeding my interruptions. "It was a mystery relatives
and friends were unable to solve, for with the picture I found a pile of
old newspapers, filled with accounts of her disappearance and the
hopeless efforts made to find her. That portrait has been my companion
since the days of primary schools and round jackets, going with me
through college and over Europe. Can you wonder at my agitation when
the original seemed to stand before me?"
He paused a moment, but I could find no words in which to answer him.
That odd feeling of a former acquaintance with him seemed to be growing
upon me.
"It would be interesting to solve the mystery of her disappearance, even
now."
"She died that night," I said firmly.
"Pardon me, how do you know? Could she not have entered a convent, or
fled to some large city?"
"She died that night," I repeated; "but where and how I cannot tell
you."
"You seem familiar with her story," bending to look keenly into my face.
"She was my grandaunt, Euphemia D'Esterre," returning his glance.
"And he was my uncle, Herman Vandala."
Euphemia D'Esterre, Herman Vandala! What strange trick of fate had
brought those two names together again, and under such changed
circumstances? I, the last representative of the D'Esterres, dwelt in
humble obscurity, apart from the world, while he had wealth,
position--everything.
"I will sit down," I murmured, faintly.
My hand was quickly drawn to his arm again, and held closely as he led
me to a seat, while in a kind of dream I heard him say: "Forgive me. I
knew you must be a descendant of that family the moment I saw you--heard
your name."
If I am minute in recording all the occurrences of that evening, it is
because every incident was so vividly impressed upon my memory; it was,
in reality, the beginning of life for me. I felt that I had simply
existed before. I danced and talked, but mechanically. A spell seemed
to be upon me, wrought by the lilac gown. At last I slipped away from
the crowd to the white-columned piazza. A few people were walking up and
down its ample length, and some lovers were sitting in a remote corner,
talking softly. Dewy roses brushed my gown as I descended the steps and
strolled idly to the shadow of a large mimosa tree. A chair had been
placed under it, and I sank down upon it. How calm, how cool the night!
A mocking bird trilled drowsily in the tree above me, the river flowed
between its low banks with gentle murmur, the stars shone afar in the
depths of the sky. In the midst of the silence I heard a clock strike.
I counted eleven strokes; and then, without warning, the scene suddenly
changed from the starlit lawn to a sleeping-room altogether unfamiliar
to me. It was luxurious, but curiously old-fashioned, with delicate
blue and white hangings and quaint furniture. On a low couch lay a
white satin gown, with a wedding veil thrown over it. An empty jewel
case stood carelessly open, and some costly gifts were scattered about.
Candles, set in slender silver candlesticks, burned on the
dressing-table.