house, and through an open window flashed the lights from negro cabins.
Then I heard footsteps on the stairs, soft laughter, and a winning voice
said:
"Good-night, Euphemia, good-night, and sweet dreams visit thee. We
shall pray to the saints for sunshine on the bride to-morrow."
The room door swung partly open.
"Thank you, Melanie," said a low, clear voice in reply, and then the
speaker entered, a young, lovely woman, clothed in shimmering lilac
silk, with creamy roses on her breast, and pearls encircling her white,
uncovered throat.
She clasped her hands with a gesture of passionate, unutterable despair
as the door closed, and in her uplifted eyes the anguish of death seemed
to be mirrored.
"Oh, I cannot go through with this mockery, this loathed marriage! Why,
why are they all so blind, so blind? Hearts cannot be bought and sold;
love is eternal. Oh, Herman, Herman, why could you not be worthy of my
love?"
She fell weeping and moaning to the floor, but quickly rose again.
"I will go to father, I will tell him that I cannot be married
to-morrow; oh, I will open all my heart to him. Surely he loves me more
than his pride."
She opened the door and glided noiselessly into the hall, I an unseen
shadow at her side. She made her way unerringly through the darkness to
the staircase, and down to the lower passage. The dining-room door
stood ajar, and in the dimly lighted interior, tables, spread for the
wedding feast, glittered. She turned from the sight with a shudder,
even when she passed softly through the room to another door, standing
also ajar. She paused before it with her hand pressed upon her heart,
looking into the room beyond. A handsome, haughty old man sat by a
table with a small box of papers open under his hand, while on the other
side of the table, stood a tall negro, black as ebony. The old man took
a handful of gold from his pocket, and pushed it across to the servant,
saying:
"Here, Daniel, I make you a present of this for your faithfulness. Are
the papers all here? Yes, I see. Herman Vandala has an unpleasant way
of haunting my thoughts to-night; but I will not regret what has been
done--I will not. It was the only sure way to separate them, cruel as
it might seem to brand an innocent man with dishonor. Pshaw! it served
his presumption right, and some day, when Euphemia is a happy wife, I
will make restitution. To-morrow will see the triumph of my hopes and
plans," he said, as though to himself, He leaned back in his chair, his
fine, proud face softening; but the listener shivered, and trembled like
a leaf, her beautiful face ghastly pale. She turned and groped her way
across the room, and up-stairs again, and I--I, who felt the agony
rending her, could only walk at her side in spirit, not in flesh.
"So they plotted--they deliberately wronged him, and sent him to his
death. My God! and I believed him guilty!"
She was calm, but madness shone in her eyes.
"To-morrow," she laughed low and strangely--"to-morrow I'll be the bride
of death. Oh, I'll cheat them of their triumph! Black Pond will hide
the secret of my disappearance, for not even my father cares to go
there, so many superstitions and dark traditions surround it."
She opened a door, and entered an oratory. Wax lights burned on a small
altar; the incense of flowers filled the air. A white cross gleamed in
the dim light, and the pictured faces of saints looked down from the
walls. The influence of the place seemed to soften her.
"Mother of Christ, forgive them, and receive my poor broken spirit.
Intercede for me," she prayed, falling to her knees on the cushion
before the altar, with clasped hands and head bowed low. "I am
friendless--friendless here on earth: death alone can save me. Pitying
Christ, have mercy. Thou dost understand."
The light fell around her like a halo. It touched the gold of her hair
to luminous brightness, shone on one fair cheek, round uncovered arm and
graceful shoulder, and swept downward to the floor, where violet shadows
lay in the rich soft folds of her gown. What incomparable loveliness to
be given to death, and such a hideous death! but no shrinking, no regret
moved her. The knowledge of her father's treachery had decided her.
She rose, reverently kissed the crucifix, and, returning to her room,
began to make her preparations. She caressed the lilac gown, as she
unlaced it to exchange it for the white satin and wedding veil. They
should be her shroud, instead of her bridal garments.
"Who knows but some happier, more fortunate Euphemia D'Esterre, may wear
this beloved gown? If so, I pray that it may bless her with all that
has been denied me."
It rustled softly, fell away from her to the floor in a shimmering heap,
and--
When my friends found me I lay in the rustic chair unconscious, with the
dew-wet mimosa drooping over me; but when I regained the power of
rational thought and speech, it was after a week of delirious illness.
The Magnoliaville physician said that it had been, coming on for some
time, and was the result of overwrought nerves, aggravated by my
exposure on the lawn that night, and his explanation was readily
accepted, while my story of the lilac gown and Euphemia D'Esterre's sad
death was set aside as a dream, or the ravings of fever. Perhaps it was
a dream, but I shall always have doubts, and I shall always believe that
old gown imparted to me the secret of her death, and brought back
prosperity to the D'Esterres.
I wondered what had become of that box of papers--if it had been
destroyed, or if Uncle Peter could have it in his possession. That did
not seem probable, still I determined to make sure, and one evening,
when my mother left me alone in the sitting-room, I stole away through
the garden to Uncle Peter's cabin. My sudden appearance startled him,
and without giving him time to recover, I sternly said:
"Uncle Peter, where is that box of papers?"
A cunning gleam shot into his eyes.
"What yo' talkin' 'bout, honey?"
"The papers Euphemia's father left."
"What yo' know 'bout dem, Miss Phemy? Did--did yo' see 'er too?" The
thought sending an ashen hue to his face.
"Yes, I saw her," I said, solemnly.
He groaned.
"Honey, hit wus fo' Marse Albert's sake. I tuk en kep' 'em so ez 'e
couldn't fine 'em when 'is pa died." He looked at me imploringly. "Let
'em be, honey--let 'em be."
"Give them to me, Uncle Peter," I said gently, but firmly.
Tremblingly he lifted a loose stone from the hearth, and brought up a
small black box, the same that I had seen under the hands of old Gaston
D'Esterre, in that midnight vision. I did not heed Uncle Peter's moans
and ejaculations, but, getting down on my knees, turned the key in the
rusty lock. For half a century and more this faithful servant had
hidden the evidence of his old master's wrong-doing. But I ruthlessly
poured out letters and papers, some of them with seals unbroken--letters
written by Euphemia and her lover, and intercepted by the crafty
Daniel--papers bearing false witness to Herman Vandala's guilt, and last
of all, a brief, remorseful confession from Gaston D'Esterre. They were
all yellow and musty, and rustled in my shaking fingers, as I turned
them over in the light of the pine-knot fire blazing on the hearth.
"Where did you get these, Uncle Peter?" I asked at last.
"De Lawd forgive me, chile, I _stole_ 'em, en tuk en hid 'em while ole
marse lay a-dyin' en a-tellin' Marse Albert whar to fine 'em. I 'feered
to burn 'em, but I kep' 'em, kase dey might fall inter de wrong han's."
There were footsteps on the garden walk, the doorway framed my mother's
black-draped figure and pale, frightened face.
"Phemie, child, what are you doing?"
"Unearthing old secrets," I said.
Beyond her I saw Herman Vandala, and, sweeping the papers together in my
hands, rose up. I held them out to him, trembling, burning with shame,
yet determined to right that old wrong at any cost.
"Proofs of your uncle's innocence that I have just discovered--I--"
He took them, and, with scarcely a glance, threw them over my shoulder
into the fire. They caught like tinder, and for a moment the small room
was brilliantly illuminated, then only a charred, blackened heap of
ashes remained to tell us of that old romance. I covered my face with
my hands, but he drew them away.
"We will not intermeddle with the past. Restitution cannot be made in
this world, unless--is it generous to say?--unless you will be my wife.
Let this Herman Vandala have the happiness his kinsman was cheated out
of. I love you. I have been loving you faithfully for years. Your
mother knows and consents. Come to me, Phemie, dearest, come."
My mother smiled tearfully upon us; but Uncle Peter stared at the
charred remnants of the secret he had kept so long, muttering:
"Bress de Lawd, dey's gone! Dey weighed heavy on my soul--heavy. I
knowed sumfin 'ud happen when I seed Miss Euphemy t'other night steppin'
soft on de stairs, en in dat laylock gown; yes, dat same laylock gown."