"I do not want a carriage. If the distance is only a mile and a half, I
can easily walk. After leaving town is there a straight road?"
"Straight as the crow flies, when you have passed the factory, and
cemetery, and turned to the left. There is a little Branch running at
the foot of the hill, and just across it, you will see the white
palings, and the big gate with stone pillars, and two tremendous brass
dogs on top, showing their teeth and ready to spring. There's no
mistaking the place, because it is the only one left in the country
that looks like the good old times before the war; and the Yankees
would not have spared it, had it not been such comfortable bombproof
headquarters for their officers. It's our show place now, and General
Darrington keeps it up in better style, than any other estate I know."
"Thank you. I will find it."
Beryl walked away in the direction indicated, and the agent of the
railway station, leaning against the door of the baggage room, looked
with curious scrutiny after her.
"I should like to know who she is. No ordinary person, that is clear.
Such a grand figure and walk, and such a steady look in her big solemn
eyes, as if she saw straight through a person, clothes, flesh and all.
Wonder what her business can be with the old general?"
From early childhood Beryl had listened so intently to her mother's
glowing descriptions of the beauty and elegance of her old home "Elm
Bluff," that she soon began to identify the land-marks along the road,
alter passing the cemetery, where so many generations of Darringtons
slept in one corner, enclosed by a lofty iron railing; exclusive in
death as in life; jealously guarded and locked from contact with the
surrounding dwellers in "God's Acre."
The October day had begun quite cool and crisp, with a hint of frost in
its dewy sparkle, but as though vanquished Summer had suddenly faced
about, and charged furiously to cover her retreat, the south wind came
heavily laden with hot vapor from equatorial oceanic caldrons; and now
the afternoon sun, glowing in a cloudless sky, shed a yellowish glare
that burned and tingled like the breath of a furnace; while along the
horizon, a dim dull haze seemed blotting out the boundary of earth and
sky.
A portion of the primeval pine forest having been preserved, the trees
had attained gigantic height, thrusting their plumy heads heavenward,
as their lower limbs died; and year after year the mellow brown carpet
of reddish straw deepened, forming a soft safe nidus for the seeds that
sprang up and now gratefully embroidered it with masses of golden rod,
starry white asters, and tall, feathery spikes of some velvety purple
bloom, which looked royal by the side of a cluster of belated evening
primroses.
Pausing on the small but pretty rustic bridge, Beryl leaned against the
interlacing cedar boughs twisted into a balustrade, and looked down at
the winding stream, where the clear water showed amber hues, flecked
with glinting foam bubbles, as it lapped and gurgled, eddied and sang,
over its bed of yellow gravel. Unacquainted with "piney-woods'
branches," she was charmed by the novel golden brown wavelets that
frothed against the pillars of the bridge, and curled caressingly about
the broad emerald fronds of luxuriant ferns, which hung Narcissus-like
over their own graceful quivering images. Profound quiet brooded in the
warm, hazy air, burdened with balsamic odors; but once a pine burr full
of rich nutty mast crashed down through dead twigs, bruising the satin
petals of a primrose; and ever and anon the oboe notes of that shy,
deep throated hermit of ravines--the russet, speckled-breasted
lark--thrilled through the woods, like antiphonal echoes in some vast,
cool, columned cloister.
The perfect tranquillity of the scene soothed the travel-weary woman,
as though nestling so close to the great heart of nature, had stilled
the fierce throbbing, and banished the gloomy forebodings of her own;
and she walked on, through the iron gate, where the bronze mastiffs
glared warningly from their granite pedestal--on into the large
undulating park, which stretched away to meet the line of primitive
pines. There was no straight avenue, but a broad smooth carriage road
curved gently up a hillside, and on both margins of the graveled way,
ancient elm trees stood at regular intervals, throwing their boughs
across, to unite in lifting the superb groined arches, whose fine
tracery of sinuous lines were here and there concealed by clustering
mistletoe--and gray lichen masses--and ornamented with bosses of velvet
moss; while the venerable columnar trunks were now and then wreathed
with poison-oak vines, where red trumpet flowers insolently blared
defiance to the waxen pearls of encroaching mistletoe.
On the other side, the grounds were studded with native growth, as
though protective forestry statutes had crossed the ocean with the
colonists, and on this billowy sea of varied foliage Autumn had set her
illuminated autograph, in the vivid scarlet of sumach and black gum,
the delicate lemon of wild cherry--the deep ochre all sprinkled and
splashed with intense crimson, of the giant oaks--the orange glow of
ancestral hickory--and the golden glory of maples, on which the hectic
fever of the dying year kindled gleams of fiery red;--over all, a
gorgeous blazonry of riotous color, toned down by the silver gray
shadows of mossy tree-trunks, and the rich, dark, restful green of
polished magnolias.
Half a dozen fine Cotswold ewes browsed on the grass, and the small
bell worn by a staid dowager tinkled musically, as she threw up her
head and watched suspiciously the figure moving under the elm arches.
Beneath the far reaching branches of a patriarchal cedar, a small herd
of Jersey calves had grouped themselves, as if posing for Landseer or
Rosa Bonheur; and one pretty fawn-colored weanling ran across the sward
to meet the stranger, bleating a welcome and looking up, with
unmistakable curiosity in its velvety, long-lashed eyes.
As the avenue gradually climbed the ascent, the outlines of the house
became visible; a stately, typical southern mansion, like hundreds,
which formerly opened hospitably their broad mahogany doors, and which,
alas! are becoming traditional to this generation--obsolete as the
brave chivalric, warm-hearted, open-handed, noble-souled, refined
southern gentlemen who built and owned them. No Mansard roof here, no
pseudo "Queen Anne" hybrid, with lowering, top-heavy projections like
scowling eyebrows over squinting eyes; neither mongrel Renaissance, nor
feeble, sickly, imitation Elizabethan facades, and Tudor towers; none
of the queer, composite, freakish impertinences of architectural style,
which now-a-day do duty as the adventurous vanguard, the aesthetic
vedettes "making straight the way," for the coming cohorts of Culture.
The house at "Elm Bluff" was built of brick, overcast with stucco
painted in imitation of gray granite, and its foundation was only four
feet high, resting upon a broad terrace of brickwork; the latter
bounded by a graceful wooden balustrade, with pedestals for vases, on
either side of the two stone steps leading down from the terrace to the
carriage drive. The central halls, in both stories, divided the space
equally into four rooms on each side, and along the wide front, ran a
lofty piazza supporting the roof, with white smooth round pillars;
while the upper broad square windows, cedar-framed, and deeply
embrasured, looked down on the floor of the piazza, where so many
generations of Darringtons had trundled hoops in childhood--and
promenaded as lovers in the silvery moonlight, listening to the ring
doves cooing above them, from the columbary of the stucco capitals.
This spacious colonnade extended around the northern and eastern side
of the house, but the western end had formerly been enclosed as a
conservatory--which having been abolished, was finally succeeded by a
comparatively modern iron veranda, with steps leading down to the
terrace. In front of the building, between the elm avenue and the
flower-bordered terrace, stood a row of very old poplar trees, tall as
their forefathers in Lombardy, and to an iron staple driven into one of
these, a handsome black horse was now fastened.
Standing with one foot on the terrace step, close to the marble vases
where heliotropes swung their dainty lilac chalices against her
shoulder, and the scarlet geraniums stared unabashed, Beryl's gaze
wandered from the lovely park and ancient trees, to the unbroken facade
of the gray old house; and as, in painful contrast she recalled the
bare bleak garret room, where a beloved invalid held want and death at
bay, a sudden mist clouded her vision, and almost audibly she murmured:
"My poor mother! Now, I can realize the bitterness of your suffering;
now I understand the intensity of your yearning to come back; the
terrible home-sickness, which only Heaven can cure."
What is presentiment? The swaying of the veil of futurity, under the
straining hands of our guardian angels? Is it the faint shadow, the
solemn rustle of their hovering wings, as like mother birds they spread
protecting plumes between blind fledglings, and descending ruin? Will
theosophy ever explain and augment prescience?
"It may be--
The thoughts that visit us, we know not whence,
Sudden as inspiration, are the whispers
Of disembodied spirits, speaking to us
As friends, who wait outside a prison wall,
Through the barred windows speak to those within."
With difficulty Beryl resisted an inexplicable impulse to turn and
flee; but the drawn sword of duty pointed ahead.
Striking her hands together, as if thereby crushing her reluctance to
enter, she waited a moment, with closed eyes, while her lips moved in
silent prayer; then ascending the terrace, she crossed the stone
pavement, walked up the stops and slowly advanced to the threshold. The
dark mahogany door was so glossy, that she dimly saw her own image on
its polished panels, as she lifted and let fall the heavy silver
knocker, in the middle of an oval silver plate, around the edges of
which were raised the square letters of the name "Darrington." The
clanging sound startled a peacock, strutting among the verbena beds,
and his shrill scream was answered by the deep hoarse bark of some
invisible dog; then the heavy door swung open, and a gray-headed negro
man, who wore a white linen apron over his black clothes, and held a
waiter in one hand, stood before her.
"I wish to see Mr. Darrington."
"I reckon you mean Gin'l Darrington, don't you? Mr. Darrington, Marse
Prince Darrington, is in Yurope."
"I mean Mr. Luke Darrington, the owner of this place."
"Jess so; Gin'l Luke Darrington. Well, you can't see him."
"Why not? I must see him, and I shall stay here until I do."
"'Cause he is busy with his lie-yer, fixin' of some papers; and when he
tells me not to let nobody else in I'de ruther set down in a yaller
jacket's nest than to turn the door knob, after he done shut it. Better
leave your name and call ag'in."
"No, I will wait until he is at leisure. I presume my sitting on the
steps here will not be a violation of your orders."
"To be shore not. But them steps are harder than the stool of
repentance, and you had better walk in the drawing-room, and rest
yourself. There's pictures, and lots and piles of things there, you can
pass away the time looking at."
He waved his waiter toward a long, dim apartment, on the left side of
the hall.
"Thank you, I prefer to sit here."
She seated herself on the top of the stone steps, and taking off her
straw hat, fanned her heated brow, where the rich waving hair clung in
damp masses.
"What name, miss, must I give, when the lie-yer finishes his bizness?"
"Say that a stranger wishes to see him about an important matter."
"Its mighty uncertain how long he will tarry; for lie-yers live by
talking; turning of words upside down, and wrong side outards, and
reading words backards, and whitewashing black things, and smutting of
white ones. Marse Lennox Dunbar (he is our lie-yer now, since his pa
took paralsis) he is a powerful wrastler with justice. They do say down
yonder, at the court house, that when he gets done with a witness, and
turns him aloose, the poor creetur is so flustrated in his mind, that
he don't know his own name, on when he was born, or where he was born,
or whether he was ever born at all."
Curiosity to discover the nature of the stranger's errand had
stimulated the old man's garrulity, but receiving no reply, he finally
retreated, leaving the front door open. By the aid of a disfiguring
scar on his furrowed cheek, Beryl recognized him as the brave,
faithful, family coachman, Abednego, (abbreviated to "Bedney")--who had
once saved his mother's life at the risk of his own. Mrs. Brentano had
often related to her children, an episode in her childhood, when having
gone to play with her dolls in the loft of the stable, she fell asleep
on the hay; and two hours later, Bedney remembering that he had heard
her singing there to her dolls, rushed into the burning building,
groped through the stifling smoke of the loft, and seizing the sleeping
child, threw her out upon a pile of straw. When he attempted to jump
after her, a falling rafter struck him to the earth, and left an
honorable scar in attestation of his heroism.
Had she yielded to the promptings of her heart, the stranger would
gladly have shaken hands with him, and thanked him, in the name of
those early years, when her mother's childish feet made music on the
wide mahogany railed stairs, that wound from the lower hall to the one
above; but the fear of being denied an audience, deterred her from
disclosing her name.
Educated in the belief that the utterance of the abhorred name of
Brentano, within the precincts of "Elm Bluff," would produce an effect
very similar to the ringing of some Tamil Pariah's bell, before the
door of a Brahman temple, Beryl wisely kept silent; and soon forgot her
forebodings, in the contemplation of the supreme loveliness of the
prospect before her.
The elevation was sufficient to command an extended view of the
surrounding country, and of the river, which crossed by the railroad
bridge north of the town, curved sharply to the east, whence she could
trace its course as it gradually wound southward, and disappeared
behind the house; where at the foot of a steep bluff, a pretty boat and
bath house nestled under ancient willow trees. At her feet the foliage
of the park stretched like some brilliant carpet, before whose gorgeous
tints, ustads of Karman would have stood in despair; and beyond the
sea-green, undulating line of pine forest she saw the steeple of a
church, with its gilt vane burning in the sunshine, and the red brick
dome of the ante bellum court house.
Time seemed to have fallen asleep on that hot, still afternoon, and
Beryl was roused from her reverie by the sound of hearty laughter in
the apartment opposite the drawing-room--followed by the tones of a
man's voice.
"Thank you, General. That is my destination this afternoon, and I shall
certainly expect you to dance at my wedding."
Quick, firm steps rang on the oil-cloth-covered floor of the hall, and
Beryl rose and turned toward the door.
With a cigar in one hand, hat and riding-whip in the other, the
attorney stepped out on the colonnade, and pausing involuntarily, at
sight of the stranger, they looked at each other. A man, perhaps, more,
certainly not less than thirty years old, of powerful and impressive
physique; very tall, athletic, sinewy, without an ounce of superfluous
flesh to encumber his movements, in the professional palaestra; with a
large finely modeled head, whose crisp black hair closely cut, was
(contrary to the prevailing fashion) parted neither in the middle, nor
yet on the side, but brushed straight back from the square forehead,
thereby enhancing the massiveness of its appearance.
Something in this swart, beardless face, with its brilliant
inquisitorial dark blue eyes, handsome secretive mouth veiled by no
mustache--and boldly assertive chin deeply cleft in the
centre--affected Beryl very unpleasantly, as a perplexing disagreeable
memory; an uncanny resemblance hovering just beyond the grasp of
identification. A feeling of unaccountable repulsion made her shiver,
and she breathed more freely, when he hewed slightly, and walked on
toward his horse. Upon the attorney her extraordinary appearance
produced a profound impression, and in his brief scrutiny, no detail of
her face, figure, or apparel escaped his keen probing gaze.
Glancing back as he untied his bridle rein, his unspoken comment was:
"Superb woman; I wonder what brings her here? Evidently a
stranger--with a purpose."
He sprang into the saddle, stooped his head to avoid the yellow poplar
branches, and disappeared under the elm arches.
"Gin'l Darrington's compliments; and if your bizness is pressin' you
will have to see him in his bedcharmber, as he feels poorly to-day, and
the Doctor won't let him out. Follow me. You see, ole Marster remembers
the war by the game leg he got at Sharpshurg, and sometimes it lays him
up."
The old servant led Beryl through a long room, fitted up as a library
and armory, and pausing before an open door, waved her into the
adjoining apartment. One swift glance showed her the heavy canopied
bedstead in one corner, the arch-shaped glass door leading out upon the
iron veranda; and at an oblong table in the middle of the floor, the
figure of a man, who rose, taller and taller, until he seemed a giant,
drawn to his full height, and resting for support on the hand that was
rested upon the table. Intensity of emotion arrested her breath, as she
gazed at the silvered head, piercing black eyes, and spare wasted framp
of the handsome man, who had always reigned as a brutal ogre in her
imagination. The fire in his somewhat sunken eyes, seemed to bid
defiance to the whiteness of the abundant hair, and of the heavy
mustache which drooped over his lips; and every feature in his
patrician face revealed not only a long line of blue-blooded ancestors,
but the proud haughtiness which had been considered always as
distinctively characteristic of the Darringtons as their finely cut
lips, thin nostrils, small feet and unusual height.
Unprepared for the apparition that confronted him, Luke Darrington
bowed low, surveyed her intently, then pointed to a chair opposite his
own.
"Walk in, Madam; or perhaps it may be Miss? Will you take a seat, and
excuse the feebleness that forces me to receive visits in my bed-room?"
As he reseated himself, Beryl advanced and stood beside him, but for a
moment she found it impossible to utter the words, rehearsed so
frequently during her journey; and while she hesitated, he curiously
inspected her face and form.
Her plain, but perfectly fitting bunting dress, was of the color,
popularly dominated "navy-blue," and the linen collar and cuffs were
scarcely whiter than the round throat and wrists they encircled. The
burnished auburn hair clinging in soft waves to her brow, was twisted
into a heavy coil, which the long walk had shaken down till it rested
almost on her neck; and though her heart beat furiously, the pale calm
face might have been marble, save for the scarlet lines of her
beautiful mouth, and the steady glow of the dilated pupils in her great
gray eyes.
"Pray be seated; and tell me to whom I am indebted for the pleasure of
this visit?"
"I am merely the bearer of a letter which will explain itself, and my
presence, in your house."
Mechanically he took the preferred letter, and with his eyes still
lingering in admiration upon the classic outlines of her face and form,
leaned back comfortably against the velvet lining of his armchair.
"Are you some exiled goddess travelling incognito? If we lived in the
'piping days of Pan' I should flatter myself that 'Ox-eyed Juno' had
honored me with a call, as a reward for my care of her favorite bird."
Receiving no reply he glanced at the envelope in his hand, and as he
read the address--"To my dear father, Gen'l Luke Darrington"--the smile
on his face changed to a dark scowl and he tossed the letter to the
floor, as if it were a red-hot coal.
"Only one living being has the right to call me father--my son, Prince
Darrington. I have repeatedly refused to hold any communication with
the person who wrote that letter."
Beryl stooped to pick it up, and with a caressing touch, as though it
were sentient, held it against her heart.
"Your daughter is dying; and this is her last appeal."
"I have no daughter. Twenty-three years ago my daughter buried herself
in hopeless disgrace, and for her there can be no resurrection here. If
she dreams that I am in my dotage, and may relent, she strangely
forgets the nature of the blood she saw fit to cross with that of a
beggarly foreign scrub. Go back and tell her, the old man is not yet
senile and imbecile; and that the years have only hardened his heart.
Tell her, I have almost learned to forget even how she looked."
His eyes showed a dull reddish fire, like those of some drowsy caged
tiger, suddenly stirred into wrath, and a grayish pallor--the white
heat of the Darringtons--settled on his face.
Twice Beryl walked the length of the room, but each time the
recollection of her mother's tearful, suffering countenance, and the
extremity of her need, drove her back to the chair.
"If you knew that your daughter's life hung by a thread, would you
deliberately take a pair of shears and cut it?"
He glared at her in silence, and leaning forward on the table, pushed
roughly aside a salver, on which stood a decanter and two wine glasses.
"I am here to tell you a solemn truth; then my responsibility ends.
Your daughter's life rests literally in your hands; for unless you
consent to furnish the money to pay for a surgical operation, which may
restore her health, she will certainly die. I am indulging in no
exaggeration to extort alms. In this letter is the certificate of a
distinguished physician, corroborating my statement. If you, the author
of her being, prefer to hasten her death, then your choice of an awful
revenge must be settled between your hardened conscience and your God."
"You are bold indeed, to beard me in my own house, and tell me to my
face what no man would dare to utter."
His voice was an angry pant, and he struck his clenched hand on the
table with a force that made the glasses jingle, and the sherry dance
in the decanter.
"Yes, you scarcely realize how much bravery this painful errand
demands; but the tender love in a woman's heart nerves her to bear
fiery ordeals, that vanquish a man's courage."
"Then you find that age has not drawn the fangs from the old crippled
Darrington lion, nor clipped his claws?"
The sneer curved his white mustache, until she saw the outline of the
narrow, bloodless underlip.
"That king of beasts scorns to redden his fangs, or flesh his claws, in
the quivering body of his own offspring. Your metaphor is an insult to
natural instincts."
She laid the letter once more before him, and looked down on him, with
ill-concealed aversion.
"Who are you? By what right dare you intrude upon me?"
"I am merely a sorrowful, anxious, poverty-stricken woman, whose heart
aches over her mother's sufferings and vho would never have endured the
humiliation of this interview, except to deliver a letter in the hope
of prolonging my mother's life."
"You do not mean that you are--my--"
"I am nothing to you, sir, but the bearer of a letter from your dying
daughter."
"You cannot be the child of--of Ellice?"
After the long limbo of twenty-three years, the name burst from him,
and with what a host of memories its echo peopled the room, where that
erring daughter had formerly reigned queen of his heart.
"Yes, Ellice is my dear mother's name."
He stared at the majestic form, and at the faultless face looking so
proudly down upon him, as from an inaccessible height; and she heard
him draw his breath, with a labored hissing sound.
"But--I thought her child was a boy?"
"I am the youngest of two children."
"It is impossible that you are the daughter of that infernal, low-born,
fiddling foreign vagabond who--"
"Hush! The dead are sacred!"
She threw up her hand, with an imperious gesture, not of deprecation,
but of interdict; and all the stony calm in her pale face seemed
shivered by a passionate gust, that made her eyes gleam like steel
under an electric flash.
"I am the daughter of Ignace Brentano, and I love, and honor his
memory, and his name. No drop of your Darrington blood runs in my
veins; I love my dear mother--but I am my father's daughter--and I want
no nobler heritage than his name. Upon you I have no shadow of claim,
but I am here from dire necessity, at your mercy--a helpless,
defenseless pleader in my mother's behalf--and as such, I appeal to the
boasted southern chivalry, upon which you pride yourself, for immunity
from insult while I am under your roof. Since I stood no taller than
your knee, my mother has striven to inculcate a belief in the nobility,
refinement, and chivalric deference to womanhood, inherent in southern
gentlemen; and if it be not all a myth, I invoke its protection against
abuse of my father. A stranger, but a lady, every inch, I demand the
respect due from a gentleman."
For a moment they eyed each other, as gladiators awaiting the signal,
then General Darrington sprang to his feet, and with a bow, stately and
profound as if made to a duchess, replied:
"And in the name of southern chivalry, I swear you shall receive it."
"Read your daughter's letter; give me your answer, and let us cut short
an interview--which, if disagreeable to you, is almost unendurable to
me."
Turning away, she began to walk slowly up and down the floor; and
smothering an oath under his heavy mustache, the old man sank back in
his chair, and opened the letter.